Why the Sea Moans

Why the Sea Moans

Long ago, on the very shore of a warm sea, stood a white palace with wide terraces. Princess Dionysia lived there.

She had everything people usually call a life of luxury: grand rooms, a garden full of sweet fruit, fine dresses, books, and musicians. But more than the palace, Dionysia loved the sea.

Every morning she went down to the water. She sat on a smooth rock, listened to the waves rolling shells across the shore, and told the sea whatever was in her heart.

One day, when she was all alone, Dionysia heard a strange sound.

“Di-o-ny-si-a-a-a…”

The princess looked around. “Who is calling me?”

A wave washed up the shore and slipped back. Then a great sea serpent rose from the water, its scales shining green and blue. Dionysia was frightened for only a moment, for the stranger’s eyes were kind.

“Do not be afraid,” said the serpent. “My name is Labismena. I am no ordinary creature of the sea. A spell has been laid upon me, and that is why I live in this form. I have watched you come here alone for a long time, and I thought we could both use a friend.”

Dionysia smiled. “Then come closer. Though I don’t know whether sea serpents can sit.”

Labismena laughed, and the water around her chimed like tiny bells.

From then on, they met almost every day. Dionysia brought news from the palace, while Labismena told her about underwater caves, coral gardens, silvery schools of fish, and faraway islands where the sand turned pink at sunset.

Years passed. Dionysia grew up, but her friendship with Labismena remained a secret.

One evening, her sea friend said, “I will not be able to visit as often. The spell is calling me far from this shore. But if you are ever in real trouble, stand by the water and call my name three times: ‘Labismena.’ I will hear you.”

“I promise,” said Dionysia. “And you call for me, too, if you need me.”

Before long, messengers arrived at the palace from a neighboring kingdom. Their king had been a widower for many years, and at his court they kept an old ring that had belonged to his late wife. According to an ancient custom, his advisers decided to look for a new queen among the young women whose fingers the ring would fit.

Dionysia did not like this plan at all.

“A ring may fit someone’s finger,” she told her father, “but that does not mean two people are right for each other.”

But the adults spoke of an alliance between kingdoms, old rules, and what would be useful. They tried the ring on many girls, and at last it slipped easily onto Dionysia’s finger.

Everyone in the hall rejoiced.

Everyone except Dionysia.

That evening, the princess hurried to the sea.

“Labismena! Labismena! Labismena!”

The water swirled, and her friend’s familiar head appeared among the waves.

“I hear you. Tell me what happened.”

Dionysia told her everything.

Labismena was silent for a long time. Then she said, “If they are trying to hurry you, ask them for time. Say that before making any decision, you want three dresses no one has ever seen. The first must be the color of all the fields and flowers on earth.”

The next day, Dionysia made her request.

The kingdom had the finest weavers and embroiderers. Some time later they brought her a dress as green as young meadows, decorated with poppies, cornflowers, roses, and golden heads of grain. Wherever Dionysia stepped, it seemed a whole summer garden followed her.

She called for Labismena again.

“Now ask for a dress the color of the sea and all its creatures,” Labismena advised.

The second dress was blue, turquoise, and silver. Little fish, starfish, shells, and waves shimmered across it. When the fabric moved, it seemed the sea itself was breathing.

“And for the last one,” Labismena said when Dionysia came to her a third time, “ask for a dress the color of the sky, with the moon and stars.”

So the third dress was made. By day it was pale blue; in the shade it turned deep blue. Tiny stars glittered on it, and a slender silver moon shone near the shoulder.

“You have won yourself some time,” said Labismena. “Now you must decide for yourself. If you do not want this marriage, I will help you go somewhere no one knows about the ring.”

“I want to choose my own life,” Dionysia replied.

That night, a little ship with white sails appeared by the shore. No one steered it, yet it followed the waves as if the sea itself held the rudder.

Dionysia took the three dresses, a little food, and a few things she needed. She left her father a letter: “I love you, but I cannot let others decide my future for me. Do not search for me by force. When I am ready, I will let you know that I am safe.”

The ship sailed away before dawn.

It traveled across the sea for a long time, until a green island appeared before Dionysia. A palace stood on a hill in another kingdom.

The princess did not want to give her name, so she asked for work. The palace was looking for someone to care for the hens and gather their eggs.

“I will try,” said Dionysia.

At first she did not know how to get a hen into the coop, and one day she spent half the morning chasing an angry rooster. But soon she learned. She rose at dawn, scattered grain, changed the water, mended the woven fence, and laughed when the smallest chicks trotted after her.

She liked being valued here not for a title or a ring, but for doing her work well.

Several months passed. The kingdom announced a three-day festival. Musicians would play in the palace garden, and there would be dancing and feasting in the square.

On the first evening, Dionysia put on the dress of fields and flowers. She came to the garden, and everyone turned to look: it seemed that spring itself had walked among the lanterns.

The young prince, the palace owner’s son, asked the stranger to dance.

“I have never seen you before,” he said.

“Perhaps you were looking the other way,” Dionysia smiled.

She left before the festival ended. The next morning, she fed the hens again as if nothing had happened.

On the second evening, she wore the dress of the sea. Silver fish shimmered on the fabric, and the prince recognized the mysterious guest’s voice at once.

“You again.”

“Me again.”

“And you still won’t tell me who you are?”

“I will, when I know I can trust you.”

The prince did not press her.

On the third evening, Dionysia came in her starry dress. It shone so softly and beautifully that the musicians missed a beat.

After their dance, the prince said, “Whoever you are, I enjoy talking with you more than solving your mystery. So I will wait.”

Dionysia remembered those words.

The next morning, the prince caught a chill after the cool night air. The cooks were making him a light broth, and Dionysia helped carry in the tray. As she leaned forward, a tiny bead from her starry dress fell out of her apron pocket and chimed against the bowl.

The prince recognized it.

“So it was you?”

Dionysia was quiet for a moment. “Yes. And if you want to know the rest, I will tell you. But not as a story about a mysterious princess—as the story of someone who did not want other people to choose her life for her.”

She told him about her father’s palace, the ring, the three dresses, her escape, and Labismena.

The prince listened until she had finished.

“I am glad you came here,” he said. “But I am even happier that you chose to come here yourself.”

They became friends. They walked in the garden together, argued about books, fed the hens, and sometimes talked about their first dance. Many months later, when they were both certain of their choice, they announced that they wished to marry.

On the eve of the wedding, Dionysia remembered Labismena’s words. Once, her sea friend had told her one more secret:

“My spell will be broken if, in the happiest moment of your life, you call my name three times. Then I will become who I was before the magic.”

“I will not forget,” Dionysia had promised.

But on her wedding day there was so much music, so many flowers, hugs, and laughter, that the promise slipped from her mind amid all the joy.

Only in the evening, after the guests had gone, did Dionysia hear the distant sound of the sea outside her window.

And in that sound came a call:

“Di-o-ny-si-a-a-a…”

She froze.

“Labismena!”

Dionysia ran to the shore.

“Labismena! Labismena! Labismena!”

But the enchanted moment had already passed. The waves only washed over the sand and slipped away.

Dionysia stood beside the water for a long time.

“Forgive me, my friend,” she whispered. “I remember everything you did for me.”

They say that from then on, the sea sometimes makes a sound unlike any other. It seems to call someone’s name in a long, mournful voice:

“Di-o-ny-si-a-a-a…”

And the old storytellers say to children:

“Listen carefully. The sea reminds us that even on the happiest day, we should remember those who reached out to us when we needed them most.”

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨