Ophelia's Remembrance, By Tahlia Merrill

My grandmother once told me how, when one of our people die, they dissolve into frothy sea foam, but the humans have a part of them that can never be destroyed—an immortal soul. After staring up at the first human I had ever seen, I knew she had spoken truth. Aloft in a ship’s rigging with the sky ripping and churning around him, his eyes had shined with a glow of eternal defiance.

All efforts to forget this forbidden young man only imprinted his memory more deeply into my mind. I would sneak up to the surface, watching the shore for a glimpse of him chasing his friends across the beach, laughing with abandon. At first, the sunlight hurt my eyes and I found the warmer water uncomfortable, but I soon developed a craving for the colors and cleanness of sound.

I wished I was male. Mar men could change between their natural form and a human body. This was once true for the women, because all our people came from a union between the Sea goddess and the Earth Father. But some of those first Mar women were wicked, and thought it a game to use their irresistible voices to lure human men to their deaths. Furious, the Earth Father cursed every Mar female with confinement to the sea, but to this day, our men still live on land, disguised as experts in the nautical sciences. My own father spent much of his time in the human world.

I sought out the Mar high priestess, famous for summoning fire underwater and seeing into the future. I begged her for help and she told me she could make me human.

“To earn an immortal soul,” she said. “You must win the heart of a man. I’ve been watching you pine for that fine fellow—the prince of Denmark, no less. I doubt it will take long for you to captivate him, even without your voice.”

“Without my voice?”

“We must not risk angering the father of earth,” she explained. “To prevent you from using your bewitching Mar maiden voice to steal the will of a man, I will cut out your tongue.”

My neck gills fluttered with a tiny scream. Reflexively, my hand flew over my mouth.

“It will ensure his love is true and pure,” she soothed. “Human men do not fall in love with words, child. They fall in love with beauty and sweetness. My draught will make you the most graceful maiden the world has ever seen. Without your voice to distract him, he will hear the call of your heart.”

I faltered. “Do any other dreadful things await me?”

“Yes, one other thing. You will dance as light as sunbeams, but until you are married, every step will feel like sharp knives driven into your feet.” With a look of pity in her eyes, she added gently, “To ease your way, I can promise that your prince will find you when you arrive.”

The tears flowed from my eyes, but in the ocean, crying has very little effect. Trying to keep
my breathing steady, I squeezed my eyes shut. Bringing to mind the image of the prince’s face, I pulled myself away from my trembling body and into a future when those eyes would see me and love me. I tilted my chin upward. “For the promise of eternal happiness, I will gladly bear temporary physical discomfort.”

“Then my knife is sharp and ready to exact the price from you.”

Imagination did not block the pain of the blade, nor quench the writhing fire in my legs when I drank the potion. Speech may have been taken from me, but the power of noise still ripped out of my throat in unintelligible screams until I fainted. But even in my unconscious state, I saw my father clawing at me with the spikes of a triton.

Face down on the bumpy pebbles of the beach like limp seaweed, aware of gulls’ cries and water lapping over my lower half, I heard footsteps approaching. To my amazement, the priestess had spoken truth—I found myself gazing into the face I had longed to see again.

“How now, sweet lady?” he asked, putting an arm around my shoulders to help me sit. “How came you to be washed upon this shore?” When I did not speak, he put a flask to my lips, murmuring to himself, “How can any creature come through such an ordeal and manage to look so perfectly lovely?” He raised a hand to brush away some wet hair sticking to my cheek, but drew it back with a sheepish smile. “Forgive me.” He draped his cloak over me. “Perhaps we might continue our discussion elsewhere, if you are fit to walk.”

I took the hand he offered me, reveling in the warmth of it.

Exquisite is the only word I can use to describe the pain of that first step. The sea witch had been mistaken—it was not like stepping on knives. It was more like barbed jellyfish tentacles coiled around my muscles, pumping acid into my limbs, blazing up as far as my throat. A pitiful whimper escaped me before I pressed my lips together, vowing to never again betray my suffering. Despite the agony, my legs would not allow me to stumble or limp. My first moments of walking appeared as effortless as a rose petal floating down a river.


For three months I stayed with my prince at his Academy, sleeping in a pocket-sized room adjoining his own quarters. He took special delight in showering me with expensive dresses, hair combs, and any bauble that struck his fancy. Sometimes I would pick wildflowers or abalone sea shells for him, but he never wanted my gifts. For some reason, he liked giving, but not receiving. Feathers became a recurring present because he often compared me to a swan, dove, or nightingale depending on his mood. I never understood how I had anything in common with those creatures who sang such heartbreaking melodies when I could not make a sound. But they were the only names I was ever given.

Then news of the death of Denmark’s king arrived. With the speed of a rolling wave, my prince set out for home, taking me with him. The first night, he avoided me, drifting away every time I approached him. I didn’t understand the details, but I knew he was angry about his uncle taking the throne. It saddened me to see him unresponsive when I slipped my hand into his. However, the next day, when I made the same gesture, he spun around to crush me in an embrace. The scent of cedar from the chest containing his clothes still clung to his shirt. I closed my eyes as his fingers tangled in my hair and he kissed me—kissed me for the first time with an intensity both frightening and exciting. A moment later, he broke away, his grip slackening, breathing hard. Wanting him to know how much his love meant to me, I put my hand on my heart and then over his. His eyes were focused on the horizon of the sea, though. He spoke, more to himself than to me: “Despite having the harsh North Sea on one side and the unforgiving Baltic on the other, Denmark has always been solid and strong. Without a leader to look to, I fear it will be easy prey.”

It snowed the day we arrived in deep green Denmark. My prince lifted me onto his horse as if I were a soap bubble in danger of bursting. The swirling feathers of snow blew us through the frowning arches of Elsinore castle into the royal court where we were presented to the new king and queen. The monarchs only briefly held my attention, for as soon as I stepped from behind my prince, I heard my father’s voice shout:

“Ophelia!”

Before I could gather my wits about me, not only my father, but my elder brother emerged from the crowd to inspect my substance.

“Ophelia?” My prince’s face creased with puzzlement. “Is that your name?”

I nodded, but couldn’t smile. After so long, the sound was foreign even to my ears.

“This will ruin everything!” My father exploded when we were alone. “Ophelia, you are a curse on your family and a dishonor to your people. Do you have any idea how near we are to our goal?”

Laertes put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Ophelia, the kings of Denmark have long neglected a treaty with the Mar that requires them to pay us for the fish harvested from our waters. For generations, they either outright refused our requests or placated us with assurances. Father hoped to avoid war by working inside the palace as an advisor, but humans are determined to see the Mar as inferior.”

“Claudius believes I helped him kill the previous king out of loyalty,” my father scoffed. “But it won’t be long until I wear the crown. Then at last there will be unity between our worlds.”

Perhaps if there had been a war in my lifetime, I would find my father killing a king less shocking. Then the new horror dawned on me. If my dear prince discovered the plot, would he reject me—reject me and execute Father and Laertes? Consumed by this whirlpool of thoughts, I paced across the floor, for once, unconscious of my painful feet.

As if knowing my thoughts, Laertes placed his hands on my shoulders and took me aside.

“Dearest Ophelia,” he said, searching my face. “What strange power does the Lord Hamlet hold over you?”

My tears betrayed me more than words ever could. Laertes let out a moan. “Oh, sister, avoid the prince at all costs, for if he proves an obstacle, your tears will fall on his grave.”

“Laertes, why can she not speak?”

But my brother, once again, smelled the truth like a setter on the scent of a fox. (I had learned much about the animals and birds of the human world, and the expressions they inspired.)

“I’ll wager it was the same priestess who gave us the poison.” He looked at me for confirmation. I knew nothing of the poison he spoke of, but there was no avoiding the truth of my dealings with her, so I nodded. Laertes swore and gripped the handle of his sword. “That vile devil!”

“Go to her, my son. Do not betray your anger, but instead, bargain to reverse this curse. We will tell the king you mean to travel to France.”

Over the next few weeks, the moon shrank from bright fullness to a tight lipped leer and my chances of a soul waned alongside it. During meals, my prince alternated between muttering “Denmark is a prison” at his plate, and spearing even the puddings with his fork. At social occasions, he defiantly displayed me on his arm and refused to dance with anyone else, but on ordinary days, I found myself alone. Often his speech digressed into nonsense or brays of laughter at inappropriate moments. Rumors whispered he was going mad.

One night, I was woken by shouting soldiers with torches bursting into my bedroom.

“Is he here?” The captain demanded. When I said nothing, he spat in disgust and pointed at me. “Bring her to the hall; the king will want to tell her.”

In my nightdress, they escorted me to the king who had Hamlet pinned against a wall, roaring to rival thunder, “WHERE IS POLONIUS?”

“In heaven; send hither to see,” Hamlet replied, expression blank except for a twitching mirthless smile. “But indeed, if you find him not within this month…” he shuddered when he saw me staring at his blood-stained tunic. “Go up the stairs into the lobby.”

“For that which thou hast done,” the king said darkly. “We will send you hence to England. Prepare yourself.”

The soldiers carried a lifeless body past me. The face of my father was attached to it.

From then on, I knew nothing of time beyond whether the sky was grey with clouds or completely black. No matter how near I sat to a hearth, I could not stop shivering. He had left for England without a word of parting, abandoning me in a predatory land with no one to cling to in my grief. Unable to write, I leaked black ink across white paper to form rosemary, pansies, and columbine. Remembrance, thoughts, and insincerity. I once sliced my finger tossing a sheet of paper away. The faint throbbing drew the pain from my core and concentrated it at a more distant part of my body. I grew less careful, in subconscious hope that every time I handled a piece, it would cut me. They locked my door when smears of blood appeared on the pictures. Without the watchful eyes of visitors, my experiments became more intentional.

“What are you doing?” Laertes cried when he returned. “It’s as if a tiger clawed your arms!” He fumbled in his pack and handed me a carved wooden box. “Look, I have an answer.” Inside was the same blade that had sliced through my tongue. “You can only break the enchantment if you drive this into the heart of a human man. When his blood flows over your feet, they will merge into a tail and you can rejoin our people.”

I imagined myself diving into the sea, back home to the supportive water that held me like a cradle. Then I imagined the sensation of steel going into a man’s chest. With a gasp of revulsion, I flung the box away and broke down in sobs. Seeing how deliberately I wiped my salty tears with my raw hands to take advantage of the sting, his eyes lit with rage. “Stop that!” He seized my wrists. “I can do the killing, do you hear me? I will even do it tonight!”

I nodded, but the moment he left me alone to get bandages, I crawled to the box. It smelled tangy and salty like the ocean.

My brother would kill a man so I could live. He would kill a man to let me go back home.

I lifted the lid and ran a fingertip down the spine of the knife.

But I had disobeyed the sea goddess and my curse would follow me home. To escape it, I needed to leave this world, not go back.

Out of my window, I traced the river outside the castle grounds coursing to the horizon line of the sea. The white foam from the rapids told me it was deep and fierce.

I would not carry my curse back to my tribe.


“And down she fell into the weeping brook, her clothes spread wide.
Mermaid-like, they bore her up
Like a creature native and indued
Unto that element. But her garments,
Heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.”
--Hamlet Act 4 Scene 7 (paraphrased)

Tahlia Merrill is another frequent contributor at EC. We first came across her work when she won a writing contest for our sister site, DiamondsandToads.com. Her work has appeared in Issue One with "Putting A New Spin On It."  Her work in Issue Two was called, "Beauty and the Book Reviews." Tahlia is a college student. Do check her other work out.