Màiri of the Hollow Bay

They say the sea between worlds has no tide and no shore. The sailors call it the In-Between, the place where the living and the dead exchange their dreams. Five hundred years ago, a girl named Màiri of the Hollow Bay set her small coracle upon those still waters.

Màiri was no fisher, no witch. She was a listener. It was said that she could hear the sea speak—not the roar of waves, but the words inside them. Villagers would come to her door at dusk, asking what the water said of their missing ones. Sometimes she brought comfort; sometimes only silence. One autumn, a storm rose without wind. The waves lay flat as glass, yet voices called from beneath. Màiri heard her mother’s voice, long dead, whispering:

Come find me where the tide stands still

So she built her coracle of willow and kelp, and set out upon the mirror-sea. They saw her lantern drift into the fog and fade, though the sea never moved. She never returned.

The next spring, the fishermen began to dream of her. In sleep they heard her voice under the waves, counting the names of the drowned. Boats found their nets tangled with strands of her hair—pale as moonlight, smelling of salt and sorrow. When they cut them loose, the sea bled silver. Mothers began to whisper to their children:

Do not listen to the still water, or Màiri will call you down

Some said she became a guardian of the lost, ferrying souls caught between death and the deep. Others swore she cursed the greedy, pulling them beneath when they lied to the sea.

Now, when the fog settles heavy and the sea goes quiet, people leave a candle on the shore.
They say if it flickers once, Màiri is near—watching, remembering. Sailors still make the sign of the circle before setting sail, murmuring:

For the girl who listens, for the sea that keeps her

Because the In-Between still waits. And sometimes, in the hush before dawn, if you lean too close to the water, you can hear her voice counting— soft, patient, eternal— the names of all who forgot to come home.