Perched on my rock, slippery and smooth beneath me, I can see them coming. A hazy mirage, blurry but massive, turned real in the distance. I call the sound first from deep within my belly and let it reverberate up my spine, navigate the curves of my ribs, and trill its way through the dark labyrinth of my esophagus until it scales the length of my throat and climbs into the reddest part of my mouth. Then I curl the notes up in my tongue before releasing my power. It’s ticklish and pleasurable and this is part of why I wait and hold it there, feeling the next one build like a wave deep inside my center again. I do this all with utmost sincerity. I don’t wield my ability with any kind of boastful or cocky strut. I couldn’t strut even if I wanted to. It’s time.
I unfurl the song from its wet prison, unrolling my tongue like a dollar bill, straight enough to pass the vending machine test, and the men on the approaching ship hear my music call to them for the first time. It blankets the sky above and ripples over the sea below, stretching tighter and tighter, and I’m all they can see and all they can hear. They’ve no complaints. My voice is a thing of beauty, my wordless charm arresting and mesmerizing. They’ll crash like the rest before them and descend into their new watery home and I will fill the cold, vast quiet with a melody that will make them love me even as they sleep an endless night. My lullaby soothes and then silence bathes us all. They’ll hear me for eternity and know they are happy.
I don’t sing because I am dangerous. I am dangerous because I sing.