Curse of the Maryanne
By Laura Rodley​

Clarissa drew her red wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was with dyes that she  rendered from rue, woad, beetroot, yarrow and onion skins to dye wool that she had helped Joshua make their living, especially in the winter months when fishing was lean. But he was gone now, in a dense fog one month past, died in his brother’s boat, the Maryanne, along with his brother Mark.​All fishermen, their wives, their families, knew “the drink” could take them, it was their lot. But some villagers, who hadn’t ventured off shore that ugly day, had heard the brothers’ voices echo in the fog, watch out Joshua, veer left, left, Joshua. ​A bolt’s come loose, yelled Joshua, I’ve lost the oar, then the smash-up, amplified by the fog’s white wool, half a mile from shore. I’ve got you, yelled Mark, I can’t swim, from Joshua, then the gurgling crunch of the boat sinking.  ​Whenever the men saw her, the curse of the Maryanne is upon us, they said, as their hauls grew lean.
Clarissa knew it was because it was October, hauls always lean then, but she couldn’t fight their superstition, only breathe in the salt air. ​She heard whispers of how peculiar it was that she still had her husband’s boat, The Sandpiper, but her sister-in-law not only no longer had a husband, but no boat either. ​Even her sister-in-law shunned her. This she could not understand. They had never been close, but surely they could be united in their grief. Yet, her sister-in-law, Maryanne, turned away from her.  Why should Clarissa still have a boat when she had no husband, and no boat, a litany that rang in her ears, even during the joint funeral.​Clarissa awaited a reply from her brother in Canada, to come join her, live in Wellfleet, and fish for a living. Meanwhile the mandatory meeting for fishing rights was tonight. She lit an old candle, one she had made of beeswax, inside the carved-out turnip. She held her hand to her stomach, and knew what she must do: keep Joshua’s memory alive and break the curse of the Maryanne.
​​​​​​​​​​​​​She blew on her fingers to warm them, careful not to blow out the candle’s flame, and walked to the town hall. “As you love me, Joshua, help me tonight, make me strong. You promised you’d love me till death do us part, but I am here, still alive; I need you to help me, guide me to say the right words.”​She received no answer, no swirling dervish swish of wind, and arrived at the town hall, opened the heavy log door, and entered. The room was full of angry men, no women, jockeying to keep their fishing rights. ​“No women allowed, go home,” ordered Gus, someone she wished would support her.  ​“I am here to pay my fee for my boat,” she held out two shillings. ​“By the king’s head, it’s the curse of the Maryanne, wishing to curse us all.”​“No, indeed not. I am paying my annual fee, so I can earn a living, just like you.” ​“You don’t have anyone to haul up fish, no one to steer your boat.”​“I do. I will haul up the fish, and I know how to steer a boat. It was my father’s to begin with,  brought with me as part of my dowry. I helped my father hew some of its boards, and shape them. I fished with him as a girl.” ​ “So what, you don’t have any fishing rights.”​“I do. They were given to my father, then half to my husband Joshua when we married. You all know that. You celebrated that fact when he was alive, and a new groom. I’m here to pay my annual fee, just like you, and go on my way. Who will take my coins. You, Gus?”​“I’ll take your coins, but you’re a fool. No one will help you bring in a catch, no one will help you if you are caught in a storm. You’re cursed,” sneered Gus. ​“No, you are cursed, cursed with storms of the sea, all manner of behemoths that swim in her deep. I, Clarissa Shepherd, will sail with your help or without. And I curse you if you chose to withdraw the law of the sea, to help all who sail upon her, male or female. You speak of the curse of the Maryanne. Just you wait!” Clarissa clattered coins on the table, spun around without seeing their shocked, frightened faces.  ​Walking home in the dark, she wondered, What have I done? What kind of fool am I?                                     ​The next dawn, she dressed in many layers, padded her belly to protect her growing baby, packed a basket of tea, bread, and chopped sausage pieces that Joshua swore by as bait. She set her boat The Sandpiper into the sea, choppy as it was, checked her nets. ​Leaning over to drop one down, a head and shoulders bobbed below. In the darkness, she ignored it as a seal, then saw the shining white skin. She pulled the unknown fisherman up, set him down, pounded his back, observed the large bump and gash on his head. Water gushed out of his mouth, then he said, “Thank you, you’re an angel. You’ve saved me. I never thought I’d see shore again.” ​“Wasn’t planning on seeing shore so soon myself, but you must get warmed up. I’ll turn around.  Make sure you tell the others about the angel part; I think we’ve saved each other. Your name wouldn’t be Gabriel, would it?”​“No, it’s Roger.”​Clarissa said, “That’ll do.”