We Who Watch the Shore by Maddison Scott

Every evening, the woman waited on the same cliff’s edge, dreading her midnight appointment. She could feel them now—before death had even arrived—cold, perennial fingers gripping her lower back. Mildew filling her nostrils. Before the clock struck the unfortunate hour, her only companion was the rhythmic flicker of a lighthouse in the distance; her last friend, her only confidant, her constant hope. Where the waves made her heart howl, the light was a balm.

One, two, light, one, two, light.

He arrived on time. Davy Jones. Always dripping seawater, always flashing gold teeth, always with a knotted beard and waxen face. Sometimes he spoke riddles, sometimes he simply took her hand and whirled her around in a dance that could only be described as a macabre waltz. She lost sight of the water, the cliffs, the possibility of a mast on the horizon and saw only the streaks of her friend; one, two, light, one, two, light. When the dance was done, Davy would gently kiss her hand—from which she always drew back—and trudge along the rocky cliffs until he was swallowed by the fog that invariably accompanied him.

Month after month, the dance was the same. Davy Jones in his long canvas coat with bulging onyx buttons, black tricorne and squelching boots. Davy Jones; purveying death, gleaning souls from shipwrecks, scooping sailors from the swells and dragging them to the bottom of the sea.

In the daylight, the woman was on automation, her prosaic life lived in anticipation of the next sunset. Some evenings, other women from town gathered on the cliffs, staring over the crests for the telltale silhouette of a ship. They were dots in her periphery, there and not, strong and weak, consistent and capricious. They were bored, resentful, sad and whatever the opposite of homesick is. Sometimes they bit their nails over their men, other times they moaned over their featherbrained affections. Why had love stuck them with the sea? Why marry or flirt with or make love to a sailor when there are perfectly good carpenters and farmers and shopkeepers to be bound?

The woman didn’t think like that. Her choice was made two years before when mother nature’s hand swirled the sea into a tempest and held her to the rocky seabed like it was her rightful place to slumber. A handsome stranger swam down to her, carried her up and up and up and tenderly wiped hair from her face. They lay upon the broken skeleton of their once-ship, waiting for daylight, for salvation, for the undulating cries to satisfy Poseidon. At dawn, on the deck of their rescue ship, the man didn’t care about the ugliness the sea had wrought to her legs. Your beauty goes beyond the surface, just like the ocean. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and whispered—awed—into the shell of her ear; you have crossed paths with Davy Jones and spurned his grave advances.

One, two, light, one, two, light.

If only her sailor knew the truth.

One, two, light, one, two, light.

If only he knew that she’d forsaken the soul he was so ready to entangle. The night their ship hit those wretched rocks, the sea lord appeared to her like a ghostly beacon in the turbid water. Offering promises: take my hand and I’ll save your legs, say my name and I’ll change the currents for your rescue ships, dance with me nightly and I’ll keep your loved ones safe from my wrath. So she kept to the deal and danced the dance; constantly watching the lighthouse, constantly searching for her love’s masts, constantly twirling the simple ring on her finger.

It was not uncommon to wait weeks or months beyond a ship’s expected arrival. One night, in the midst of a twirl, the woman asked Davy Jones if her love would return soon. His ship will arrive before the next full moon. When the fog descended and he took her hand for a kiss, she didn't pull away. Compelled by happiness, she bid him farewell with a sincere smile. The next night, when midnight struck, she sang a hymn about love and journeys and hope. What is that song? Davy asked. She told him its name, ‘We Who Watch the Shore,’ and sang it as they danced—their steps matching the lilting melody.

O’er the sea you venture and toil,
Let my love be your sun as you roam,
‘Til your arms find me again upon the soil,
And your heart follows the stars home.

Waiting became less of a burden, dancing became a tolerable engagement. On the morning of the full moon, the sky was red. Despite this, the woman raced to the cliffs at sunrise to keep vigil. The sea convulsed against the rocky escarpment, throwing foaming masses of water into a violent melee that was both pretty and precarious. The quartermaster’s wife brought her bread and tea but didn't stay. She was an old hand at patience. I used to come ’ere and wait, she explained, but standin’ ’round don’t cook ma family dinner.

That night, the promised schooner did appear and everyone in town converged on the cliffs like ants to honey.

One, two, light, one, two, light.

It took hours for the vessel to draw near, hours to see the men waving their arms, hours to learn the news. The ship was back but her love was not. Lost in a storm at sea, the captain said. He explained the funerary ritual they bestowed upon their fallen crewmate and handed her a sack with her dead fiance’s belongings.

Everyone embraced their own sailors, bid their condolences and went home.

The lone woman lingered on the cliffs, staring into the oblivion, her song turned sorrowful. She stood for so long, she felt the water in her lungs, the thrashing pressure, the spinning moonlight. The sea churned until the clock struck and when the fog came, the woman felt her anger surge. Her grief swelled into a maelstrom. She pounded on Davy Jones’s chest but nothing came of her strikes except for the wet thudding of his coat against his ghoulish skin. Liar! She cried and screamed and wallowed and collapsed. I love you, was his reply. It is I you dance with, I you sing to, I who would never leave you.

Conjuring whatever strength her damaged, aching legs would allow, the woman rose to her feet and faced her devil. His eyes reflected the hope he must’ve seen in her night after night. It sickened her. Lurching forward, she shoved him with her full torrent. He stumbled back, his rough boots catching the loose rocks on the edge of the cliff. Slowly—like he was licking her hatred from each finger—Davy Jones plunged into the water and disappeared under the preternaturally calm surface.

One, two, light, one, two, light.

This time when her heart howled, the light was no longer a balm.

In town, everyone had their own speculations as to why the woman was never seen again. Some say she too went over the cliff that night—death by heartbreak—reunited with her dearest. The more optimistic folk believed that she moved away, forging a new life far from any ocean. Others say she’s the ghostly mistress of the lighthouse, ensuring it remains lit so her love might find his way home. Even today, parents warn their children not to sing ‘We Who Watch the Shore.’

But sometimes, on a dare, they do.