The old beachcomber shuffled leisurely along the shoreline. The water here was barely deep enough to cover his ankles. The perfect depth, he felt. For though the ocean tides were freezing cold on their way in, by the time they made their return trip, the sun-baked sand of the beach—by this time of day hot enough on which to fry an egg—had rapidly heated the water to a rather pleasant temperature. The alternating coolness and warmth made for an altogether soothing sensation, perfect for keeping the mind focused and contemplative.
Ah, she was here again today. Further down the beach, a young woman also waded into the water, as she had done every day previous about this time. Or, at the very least, she had been here every time the old man had been around to observe her. He did not come out on stormy days, yet he wondered that he might still find her here if he had.
He knew not the identity of the woman, but he quickly became enamoured with her; as much by her mystery as her beauty. Every day she appeared out of the woods at the end of the beach, and made her way to the water with such a stride that she almost seemed to drift across the shore. He wondered that, barefoot as she was, she nevertheless looked to be unbothered by the desert-like heat of the sand. She would then proceed into the ocean, stopping just at the point where the waves might kiss the hem of her sundress. The straw hat upon her head was wholly insufficient to guard her pale skin from the intense sunlight, yet she remained curiously resistant to tanning.
On more than one occasion the old man thought to call out to the woman, to speak with her, and learn what it was that drew her to this very place day after day. And yet, he did not. He could not say what stayed him; it was as though some mysterious force compelled him not to approach her. But he was not of a mind to question it, and simply contented himself with watching her from a distance. And she, for her part, was ostensibly oblivious to the other’s presence, as she stared melancholic out at the horizon.
Precisely how many minutes did the pair pass in this manner, the old man was uncertain. It felt like not so many, yet also not so few. Regardless, the moment would inevitably arrive when the woman would turn and, eyes downcast, make her way back to the woods, where she would almost appear to melt away among the trees.
Now alone, the old man resumed his walk. Before long, he reached the point where he imagined the young woman must have entered the water. It was difficult to ascertain the exact location, as whatever footprints she may have left behind had somehow already vanished.
He peered toward the woods. By now the woman was long gone. And yet...
He placed the sandals he had been carrying back upon his feet, and made his way over to the treeline. After a moment’s pacing, he finally noticed the remnants of what had once been a footpath. How long ago had it fallen out of use, that the flora should almost entirely reclaim it? Yet, despite all appearances of abandonment, this must be the route by which the woman had come to the beach.
Though his curiosity had been piqued, the old man quickly concluded that whatever path remained, he would be unable to follow. The proper passage through this section of the woods was now known only to those who had come this way before, and an unguided newcomer such as he would surely lose their way in no time.
A lamentable outcome, but perhaps for the best. No doubt a young woman such as her would find it uncomfortable to discover herself being followed by an unknown old man as he.
Upon his return to the water, a piece of driftwood floating further out caught the old man’s eye. Curious, he thought, that he should not have noticed it sooner. He waded out toward it. The piece was rather large, and looked to have words painted upon it.
“Siren’s Quest”.
Was this, by chance, the name of a sailing ship? Did he now hold in his hand a piece of some unfortunate vessel? And did anyone even still construct boats out of wood these days? Just how long had this plank been adrift?
A truly fascinating find, which would no doubt be of great interest to the right historian.
So why, then, did he hesitate to bring it home with him?
The old man carried the recovered wood up the beach, and carefully laid it among other wayward logs near the treeline. He made sure the words painted on it were visible from wood-side.
Feeling, curiously, that his duty in this matter was now complete, the old beachcomber continued on his way.
The old man never saw the woman again after that day. He tried altering the timing of his seaside excursions, presuming she had done the same, and lingered each day at the spot where lain the memory of the Siren’s Quest. But not once more did he happen to catch even a glimpse of the beautiful young woman who had so possessed his curiosity.
He felt a twinge of remorse that he should never learn who she was, and what had brought her to this lonely place.
And yet, for some unknown reason, he felt... comforted.