The air was crisp that early spring morning, but the sun was shining brightly and heralding a fine day for riding. The promise of clear skies made it easier to don the leathers and head out with no particular destination in mind. I chose the life of the nomad years ago, so an-other day in the saddle without a destination wasn’t a foreign. It was another one of those rides where you don’t know where you’re going until you get there.
Since I had camped the night before, not too far outside Atlanta, I knew that thirty minutes in one direction would mean freeways and traffic congestion, whereas just a few minutes in the other direction would mean rolling hills, rivers and streams, and open roads. I opted for the “open road” direction on this fine morning and soon found myself riding across farmland with nary another vehicle in sight.
The pavement gave way to gravel about half-a-mile down the road. I spent the next couple of miles skip-ping and bouncing along a gravel road. The dense for-est on each side visually made the road narrower with each revolution of my 17-inch front wheel. I burst forth from the thickening forest and found myself in a small parking area surrounded on three sides by forest and overlooking the cliffs of a small mountain lake. A lone pickup truck sat in the parking lot. I shut my Harley down and quiet immediately filled the air. Just bugs and critters broke the silence.
I peeled off my gloves then unfastened and removed my helmet. I couldn’t help but notice a sense of feeling drawn to this place. Maybe I liked the serenity, the quiet, the forest green, and sparkling waters. Or maybe it was just my attempt to escape from life in general, but I found something intriguing about this particular place. It was almost a primal urge to explore the area in more detail.
I dragged my tired, old leg across the saddle, leaned against the bike, and lit up a smoke. After a couple of pulls, uneasiness settled into my being. Just like a few minutes before, I couldn’t place the source of my con-cern, but I had that feeling that said, “Move on or you’ll regret it.” As usual, I decided to ignore my inner voice. Instead, I felt compelled to take a stroll along the lake-shore to see what else this mystical place offered.
As I walked among the rocks and trees, I spotted life in the form of a beautiful woman stretched out on a boul-der overlooking the lake. Had I died and gone to heaven? Soaking up the morning sun, I followed the curve of her legs up to her short/short cutoff jeans and then spotted the words Harley-Davidson stitched onto the back of her shirt. I don’t know if it was fate or dumb luck, but either way, my average day suddenly ex-ploded with intrigue.
I turned and began to walk toward her. I made a point of making noise, as I approached, to give her a heads up. Other than a quick glance in my general direction, she went about her business with little or no regard for me. I felt that uneasiness deep down, but this to fuckin’ good to pass up. Just the milky curve of her breast, like a soft mound of cocaine, pulled my like drug addict.
“Hello” I said, once I was within earshot.
“Hello to you” she replied. Her smile was suddenly con-tagious, and I’m sure a shit-eating grin spread across my sunburned face, like the grill on a ’50 Cadillac. There was something about her pulling me in, like a starving mosquito to her pearly white flesh. I couldn’t stop.
I stammered something about it being a nice day and she politely replied. I wasn’t sure where the conversa-tion was headed, but in my book, an awkward conver-sation with a beautiful, half-naked, voluptuous woman was better than wandering around the woods by myself. I leaned against a tree and fired up another smoke.
“So, what brings you way out here?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure,” was my response. In reality, I still wasn’t sure what had drawn me to this place. There was definitely something beyond my comprehension floating in the air. I’ve passed hundreds of signs like the Lake marker and never felt compelled to turn around and go back, yet this time I did. I’ve escaped old, gravel roads in much better shape than this one.
She smiled again and said, “I think I know what brought you here.”
“You think so. What would that be?” My inquiring mind wanted to know.
“I’m a Siren,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah” I replied with a bit of a smirk. “But, I thought Si-rens were only a part of Greek mythology. Besides, I don’t hear any singing. Shouldn’t you be on some rocky shore of the ocean drawing in mariners to their deaths? I didn’t realize Sirens worked the banks of mountain lakes.”
“Oh, there are lots of things you don’t know about Si-rens,” she said. ” But one thing is an absolute. Anyone who comes in contact with a Siren meets an untimely death.” With that comment, her smile seemed to fade ever so slightly.
I snickered and said, “Well, I guess I better be on my guard then, huh?”
Just as quickly as it faded, the smile returned in full beam and I was drawn in further. She reached out and took my hand and led me closer to the cliff some fifty feet above the water’s edge. She slipped my hand un-der the pocket of the Harley-Davidson shirt she was wearing and placed it on the upper part of her left breast. The skin was cold to the touch, and I didn’t feel a heartbeat. I knew something strange was happening, but I couldn’t make myself leave. There were feelings of ecstasy and doom mixed in my soul.
She removed the Harley shirt to reveal an exquisite body. I knew it. There was nothing I could do to resist her wiles. She leaned in and laid a gentle kiss on my lips. The last words I heard were, “Silly boy.”
I don’t know for sure what happened next except that I felt weightless as I plummeted over the cliff, bouncing off the jagged rocks along the edge. I could see my lovely Siren staring down from the cliff’s edge; her smile radiating like the sun. She began to fade as my body sank to the lake’s bottom. My last glimpse of her as she took the form of a bird and flew away.
In Greek mythology, the Sirens (Greek singular: Se???? Seiren; Greek plural: Se????e? Seirenes) were danger-ous creatures, portrayed as seductresses who lured nearby sailors with their enchanting music and voices to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island. Roman poets placed them on an island called Sirenum scopuli. In some later, rationalized traditions, the literal geogra-phy of the “flowery” island of Anthemoessa, or Anthe-musa, is fixed: sometimes on Cape Pelorum and at others in the islands known as the Sirenuse, near Paes-tum, or in Capreae. All such locations were surrounded by cliffs and rocks.
