🎧 Press play above to listen as I read Chapter 3 to you!
MAY WE PLEASE THE SEA is a dystopian sci-fi about a girl on the flooded world’s only surviving island, sent out past the atoll into the forbidden ocean to find the sea gods to save her starving village. What she finds instead is an underwater research station full of other humans — and they have their own plans for survival.
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🛑 First time here? Start at the beginning: Chapter One
🌊 Previously in MAY WE PLEASE THE SEA: Easla saved Elly from a deadly fall, but answered her sister’s cries for their mother with Ocean Law instead of comfort. Then the boy the village prayed for was born a girl. The Holy Crone, Easla’s grandmother, declared that the gods would accept a girl instead, meaning any baby girl born since last Offering could be chosen, even Relfy’s daughter. But for one breath, Easla saw fear on the Holy Crone’s face…
Chapter 3
And with her Chosen People safe, the Holy Crone paddled once more.
Upon the Atoll, the Gods gave her our laws: Man is the Atoll. Woman is the Lagoon.
As the Atoll shields the Lagoon from the Unholy Waters, so does Man shield Woman from Sin.
When we Offer a son, we Offer our Atoll,
placing our trust in the Gods to protect us.
— Ocean Law
No one speaks. The only sounds are the splash of our strokes and the crying of baby girls. Every canoe in the village follows in my wake, our stilt-huts shrinking behind us into the mangroves and the haze.
At the docks, the villagers cheered as they piled into the canoes. I joined in, loud enough to be heard, but I couldn’t stop picturing the Holy Crone’s face from the Gathering Place, that one breath of fear flashing across it. Then we entered the lagoon, and voices faded into whispered prayer, and I no longer had to pretend.
The Holy Crone sits on the bench in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch her gray braid.
Once per harvest, we make this crossing—a reversal of our ancestors’ journey. From the atoll, the first Holy Crone swam across the lagoon and found our village waiting at its center. So from the village, we paddle back, out to the atoll to pay our respects.
As we go, we’re meant to focus on the gods and our gratitude.
I try. I thank them for the harvest of red algae that will soon rise, and I beg them to carry me through tomorrow’s apprenticeship race the way they carried the first Holy Crone.
But every stroke tears at my palms, rubbed raw from climbing down the palm tree with Elly on my back, and the sting scatters my prayers. My mind wanders to more dangerous thoughts.
What will happen with this Offering? The Ocean Law demands a boy, and we have no boys to give. The gods told the Holy Crone at the Gathering Place that this will be a celebration of girls, and I believe them, I do. Who wouldn’t believe the gods?
But the Holy Crone isn’t behaving as she should. We’re meant to keep our hearts with the gods and our eyes on the atoll. Her moves are subtle, but her braid betrays her. Its gray strands—frizzing like an old, worn rope—sway out of sync with our canoe’s rhythm, hinting at small turns of her head.
She must be peering into the lagoon, looking down and around like she’s…waiting for something? Is she still afraid?
No, this is what the gods want. They told her so. I should hold no doubt in my heart. The gods save the pious, and we’re about to please the sea.
My paddle catches, and I double-stroke to maintain my speed at the front of our procession, where the Holy Crone is expected to be.
Her apprentice should be the one paddling her, the only matron who takes up a paddle, as the first Holy Crone once did. But she has none, not yet. At the docks, while girls dragged out the extra canoes, and matrons handed down their babies, and primes waited for their girls, I ran straight to her and asked for the honor.
Two others my age reached her a breath behind me. The Holy Crone didn’t look at any of us. She just stepped into my canoe and settled onto my empty second bench, where Relfy once sat.
Now it holds the Holy Crone. I drive my next stroke deep, and our canoe surges forward. I’ll show her what kind of apprentice I’ll be. Attentive. Precise. I’ll hold our place at the front. I’ll stop us at the right distance from the atoll. I’ll keep the chant without missing a word. And tonight, I won’t wince when I am inked with my given-to mark.
Tomorrow, on the one sun besides the Offering that a matron may enter the water, I’ll win the race to claim the title of the Holy Crone’s apprentice, and this seat will be mine for good.
I can already feel the difference. When I untied my canoe, matrons watched, but for once their eyes slid past me, settling on the Holy Crone, not searching me for sins.
And when I guided us out through the mangrove tunnel, the whole village followed. I wasn’t shunned. I led.
This is what piety earns. Isn’t it?
The Ocean Law makes it sound simple, a clean white atoll separating the Sinners from the Chosen People. They died, and we lived. Because we were good, and they were not.
But since last Offering, I’ve had this nagging thought, a tiny splinter stuck inside me. The Sinners poisoned the gods’ air and sea, so the gods drowned them. But Relfy’s kiss didn’t poison the air. My mother’s laughter didn’t poison the sea.
And I sinned as much as either of them. I kissed Relfy. I listened to my mother’s songs, let her unbraid my hair, answered to the name Lug. Yet I wasn’t touched. So which side of the atoll am I on?
My canoe drifts off course, and I adjust it back, heading in the opposite direction of the setting sun. We can’t see the atoll yet, not with the haze. But like the gods, it’s always there, protecting us from sin. Surrounding our lagoon in a perfect circle and protecting us from the unholy waters beyond.
My thoughts may wander impiously for the gods to hear, but it’s my actions that matter. I distanced myself from Relfy. I held strong against Elly’s sinful demands. This is how I show my dedication to the gods. And tomorrow, I’ll show it in the water.
I pull another stroke, and the atoll appears—a low wall of dead, sun-bleached coral breaking the surface, curving toward me in both directions.
I haven’t come this close since we left my mother here. Every sun, alone in my canoe, I could have broken the law and come looking. No one would have known. But I never did. I know she’s gone. Still, I search its length for her shape. Nothing.
Beyond it, red-gray waves batter the white ring, clawing to get into our calm blue lagoon. Only the gods’ grace keeps it standing.
The unholy waters’ stench rolls toward us in a blast of rotten fish and decaying seaweed.
My nose itches, and my eyes water. I think this is the right distance. I plunge my paddle in and hold it against the water, whirling our canoe to a stop.
The Holy Crone doesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t correct me, either.
The others dip their paddles, canoe after canoe halting where I decided we should. I straighten on my bench, squaring my shoulders the way the Holy Crone does.
The villagers fan out from my mark. Matrons uncover bowls of powdered blue coral, the gods’ gift for prayer, and pass them hand to hand across the gaps between canoes.
The bowls go first to the primes, who lounge on their benches, capes spread wide despite the heat. Rows of shells along the hems glint in the low sun.
Nearest me, my father the Cowrie Prime waits for a matron to stretch across the gap with his bowl. His hand rests on his belly, and the string of cowries at his throat rises and falls with his labored breath, as Elly and Dams paddle to keep him in place.
Primes take first in everything. When the red algae rises, we’ll haul it into the Harvest Hut and the primes will measure it out each moon: how much for each hut, which matrons eat well and which go thin. By tonight’s feast, I’ll know which of them will determine my shares for the rest of my suns.
It’s easy to see whose hut eats best. In the Oyster Prime’s canoe sits the youngest son in the village, already two harvests old, wrapped in barkcloth and propped in his mother’s lap. Her plump hand never leaves his shoulder. Her cheeks are round as a pufferfish.
When the bowl reaches them, the Oyster Prime takes his share, and then his son’s mother takes hers, before any other matron can reach.
The two girls who also approached the Holy Crone at the docks bring their canoe in beside the Whelk Prime’s and stop without a splash, a perfect display of strong arms and controlled strokes. They know as well as I do that he measures his matrons’ shares evenly.
Whoever he chooses of us, I’ll have no say in it. But tomorrow, these two will race me for the apprenticeship, and they’re the ones to beat. The older matrons haven’t swum since they were given. These girls have spent every sun on the water, same as me.
I roll my shoulders and stretch my fingers. The sea salt will find every split in my palms, the raw spot where the tree bark tore into my heel, but I’ll swim through it. I have to.
I keep scanning the circle, finding Relfy before I can stop myself. She sits between two Whelk matrons who keep their backs half-turned to her and cradles her baby girl. When the bowl comes to her, she takes her fingertip’s worth last.
A smudge marks the baby’s cheek, which is unusual. With no matron friends, Relfy often sits alone by the Gathering Place’s freshwater spring, washing her baby over and over. Relfy’s baby is never dirty.
The sea could choose any of tonight’s baby girls, and there is no greater honor the gods can give a matron. I should want it for Relfy. But that baby is the only one who sits with her at the spring. If the sea takes her, Relfy will sit there alone, and I can’t go to her.
The closest bowl is nearly to us. In front of me, the Holy Crone draws a long breath and lets it out slowly, the way I do before a deep dive. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the canoe, and her head turns, peering into the water again.
A splash draws my attention. Elly’s paddle has slipped into the water, and she fumbles after it, her eyes never leaving the atoll, grief etched across her face. Behind her, our father doesn’t stir.
Dams braces her own paddle to hold them steady and stretches past him to fish Elly’s out, her face tipped to the open water like she’s drinking it in.
I promised Elly a seat in my canoe, facing the village, so she wouldn’t have to look at the atoll. Then I saw the Holy Crone at the docks and ran to her instead. It was the right choice. The apprenticeship will keep us both safe.
Elly’s eyes catch mine, and she turns away.
That earlier frustration floats free from where I buried it. I flex and unflex my aching hands. I saved Elly’s life. Every choice I make is for her. But because I didn’t sing, didn’t sin, didn’t act as our mother would—
A bowl is pressed into my hands. The powdered blue coral, held by the Holy Crone. I didn’t see her eat her serving, but her jaw moves, and with a sigh, her gaze softens.
Forget Elly’s tantrums. I’d like the bliss of the promised afterlife, too. I lick a finger and press it into the bowl, my gaze drifting back to my little sister’s canoe. She holds out a bowl of blue coral to our father. He scoops a double handful and licks his palm clean, then dips again before she can pull the bowl away.
That’s a sin, but no one tells a prime to stop.
I tap the correct amount—a fingertip’s—to my tongue.
It dissolves, and my muscles relax. My thoughts do too. The sting in my palms fades, then the throb in my heel, until I can’t remember why they ever hurt.
Schooling fish shimmer beneath us, their silver sparkles catching the sunlight—a gods-gifted glimpse into the blessed afterlife.
In neighboring canoes, villagers join me in the experience. Elly’s grieving scowl becomes a smile. Relfy grins at her dirt-smudged baby, and one of the Whelk matrons who turned her back before rests a hand on Relfy’s shoulder. My father sways on his bench, eyes glassy, lips moving as if he hears something the rest of us can’t.
My jaw unclenches. I can’t think why I could’ve possibly been worried.
The Holy Crone stands and holds her hands out in prayer, palms up, fingers tipped downward. “When we come to the water…”
In every canoe, villagers rise. Our waves ripple inward, awakening the water’s still surface. I join the call-and-response, my heart quickening, my smile widening. This is how we show the gods our love. “The Offering begins.”
The Holy Crone looks around the circle, her yellowing eyes staring into our souls. “We stand together…”
“To wash away sins.” With my words, I can feel my burdens lighten. I was wrong to doubt earlier. I have no doubts. I may think impious thoughts, but with prayer, the gods forgive me.
“Those who are pious…”
“Will offer their son—” The words roll from every canoe at once, the way they have every Offering of my life. Our voices catch together. Earlier, saying son with no son to give would’ve struck like a spear. Now we look at each other and laugh at the slip, a shared moment of ease. “Will offer their daughter,” we finish together. This is a special celebration. We don’t need a son.
Out of the corner of my eye, Relfy kisses her baby girl’s forehead, brushing the tiny born-to Whelk mark there. She settles the baby into a basket. There’s something else inside. Something white.
“To give to the sea…” The Holy Crone nudges me.
I look away from Relfy as she pushes the basket out onto the water. “And the sea will choose one.”
Other baskets float toward Relfy’s. The other baby girls. The Offerings.
“Follow these rules…” The Holy Crone leans forward, tilting our canoe. Studying the beautiful lagoon.
“And the red algae grows.” I balance her weight, soaking up the sun’s heat. My cheeks ache from smiling. I can already taste the red algae’s salty, bitter flavor. Soon, it will rise.
“Break even one…”
“And the sea always knows.” Our voices fade as the baskets drift in the flat lagoon. As we wait for the Holy Crone to hear the gods’ choice, and for the sea to show it to the rest of us.
Relfy’s baby gurgles in her basket.
The Holy Crone repositions her feet, and our canoe wobbles.
Nearby, the basket with Relfy’s baby dips in the tiny wave.
With a satisfied gasp, the Holy Crone thrusts a gnarled finger. “The gods have accepted our Offering of a girl.”
Heads nod in the surrounding canoes. Of course the gods did. They told the Holy Crone they would. Paddles stretch out, retrieving the unchosen babies.
The basket with Relfy’s baby is left floating in the lagoon.
Wood groans. I look down. My knuckles have gone white around the handle of my paddle, and blood smears the wood beneath my palms. Mine. I don’t feel it. I don’t remember how they were hurt. I’m smiling—this is good, this is what the gods want—but my hands won’t loosen.
Water trickles into her baby’s basket, and Relfy watches on with a smile. Something nags at me, an itch I can’t reach, but the blue coral makes me giddy, and a laugh bubbles out of me. Soon, the harvest will rise. The red algae the gods promise. We’ll haul it in until our canoes ride low, enough to fill the Harvest Hut until next Offering.
We watch the water, waiting.
There’s a faint rumbling, a sound I’ve never heard before, so quiet I might be imagining it. Steady but muffled, like it’s deep underwater. Through the hazy bliss of the blue coral, the sound sharpens in my ears—cracking and snapping, the sound of a child stomping coral.
The hairs on my arms rise.
Ripples chase across the water, coming from the direction of the atoll.
I’m staring, we’re all staring, but what we see can’t be real. Our gods-given atoll sinks into the sea, the whole white ring dropping at once, as far as the haze lets me see. Coral shears and splinters, chunks spinning off into the foam.
Then, like a great flood of blood, the unholy waters rush in.
🎥 Next Up: The Chapter 3 Director’s Cut
The Chapter 3 Director’s Cut drops Tuesday, October 6th!
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Chapter 4 drops next Saturday, October 10th!
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