Isadora: The Snake of the Sea
September 10, 2025
Isadora
The Storm
’Twas a night black as sin when the sea spat out the men.
A night where the waves stood as tall as giants, and the sea bitterer than the stalest vinegar; what chance could a ship stand?
Bobbed and tossed by the waters, slammed against the waves, the heaves of men unable to steer her clear — she soon turned to splinters blown about by the foul winds.
The crew, about forty or so, felt the wrath of the storm. The clouds blackened further above them while the winds howled even stronger, the sea now aboil. Terror showed on their faces as they fought for their lives, the shore a speck in the distance.
Whispered prayers were swept to the heavens by the wind, their words morphed beyond understanding by this thunderless storm. The sea tugged at their ankles, dragging them to the depths at random — one less scream piercing the night.
Some grabbed at the barrels they had chucked out in a futile bid to lighten the ship, the water-soaked wood slippery now fought them, random nails slicing their palms.
It was a queer storm, one which had snuck up on them. A single dark cloud it had seemed. Too little for caution, the captain had declared. The wind barely a breeze, we’ve ridden through drearier seas.
But then the winds blew harder. Rain fell. The sea rose. And rose. Until the sky seemed an arm’s length away.
Now ten heads bobbed in the waters, tossed like rag dolls, their screams academic at this point. Then a wave tall as can be swept them toward the distant shore.
The Survivors
They awoke to vultures circling above them, each a mile from each other with sand in their ears. Three more had been claimed by the cruel sea.
It took half a day before the seven found one another. We have no Captain now. For he too has been claimed by this whore storm. Equals we now stand, together till the end.
The sun overhead, they explored the beach. A sliver of land really — barely wider than the largest of ships, though long and jagged.
They thirsted, their throats aflame. One, Thomas, cried out: I’d rather die than drink my own urine! and rushed into the sea. But saltwater is death, and by nightfall Thomas lay lifeless in the sand.
Their arms too weak to dig, they clawed a pitiful grave with blistered fingers. Clemenza, the singer, led them in a dirge:
from mother you crawled, plump and bare
from father you watched, eagerness in your eye
from life you grew, and sorrow you knew
now in death may peace be your bed
The Barrel
In the moonlight, they spotted a barrel bobbing. They rushed into the waves, snatched it from the sea, smashed it open, and found fresh water.
They drank, they slept, they guarded it as treasure.
Dawn came. Gold rays fell from heaven. Hunger set in, but fish roasted over fire soon filled their bellies.
And then — a plan. We must build a boat.
The Cedar
They chose a mighty cedar. Vines pulled it down with a thunderous crash. From timber they began to shape a hull.
Night fell. The barrel was half-full. Their throats burned. They swore to save the water. Yet Maximus and Woden’s thirst whispered louder.
When the others slept, they crept back to the barrel. But the rest caught them.
Gabriel’s rage was fire. Maximus begged for mercy. A rock silenced him. Woden refused to beg, declaring: I am owed more. I bled for this barrel. I am Woden the one-eyed, and I collect what is mine.
Then the men fell upon him, stones and teeth. They drank his blood.
The Aftermath
At dawn, they awoke in silence. Corpses by their feet, guilt clinging to their skin. It must have been a dream, they told themselves. Yet the blood on their beards said otherwise.
They finished the boat. At dusk, they rowed. Clemenza sang, but the sea spat back their effort.
Zeffa cried: The sea remembers the night. It punishes us for our sin, for our hardened hearts.
Gabriel raged. Stop your childish songs! The sea knows nothing!
But the sea did know.
Isadora
The waves rose. Thunder tore the night. The clouds gathered.
They had all heard of Isadora —
the whore cast out of heaven,
the snake in the sea,
sojourner of the deep,
a god in hunger, a serpent in form.
She who coils round ships until they are no more.
She who craves justice.
She who drinks the blood of the damned.
And so the sea cried out to her:
Isadora, snake of the world, sojourner of the sea,
feel the blood in my waters and the sin in their flesh.
Did they not quench their thirst with blood?
Did they not sharpen their anger with death?
Then Isadora answered.
And swept them all away.
Author’s Note
Isadora was written in the spirit of myth — a tale where survival and morality collide, and where the sea itself becomes judge, jury, and executioner.
I wanted to explore how desperation can strip away oaths and brotherhood, leaving men vulnerable not only to the elements but to their own hunger and greed.
Isadora is not just a monster of the sea — she is consequence, memory, and myth embodied. A warning that the ocean does not forget.