They call him Ishmael, and so too that is what I call him, though I would prefer to call him mine. However long I have watched him, from my place beneath the waves and crashing surf, is of no matter to me or him. One of many restless souls that drift toward ships and open seas, his cycles with winter skies and chilled rain. That is the only pattern I have gathered, along with a deep scowl on his face that lessons with each step closer to his ship. A man with little need for material things, he ignores the gold and silver coins I toss up behind his feet, the small thuds of their landing swallowed by his heavy steps.
I dive deeper below the surface, releasing the song clawing its way from my aching throat. Delighted that he will belong to my domain once more, I swim fast towards home to alert my sisters that I will be gone for a long while. A coral palace no more welcoming to me than the land itself, my sisters swim about with their long lines of human souls in tow, floating through the water like a necklace of white-spotted jellyfish. My sisters ask why I can’t choose from the humans nearby, always willing to fall beneath the waves for our songs. The soul of Ishmael, I tell them, is dark and vast as the sea. A melody of gnashing teeth and spirited cheers carries me back to his ship.