A rhyme passed between schoolchildren:

Tell Maerla your secrets
then bury them deep,
under nettle and clam-shell
where day cannot creep.

But if she returns them
with sea-smelling breath
you’d best take her warning--
she’s dreaming of death.

The Linnet's Wings

Maerla of the Shell-House

They say Maerla came from the reeds, not born but sung into being--her lullaby carried on the voices of widows and fishermen’s daughters. Older than the lake, perhaps, or simply older than the memory of it. When the fog curls just right along the shore, you can see the outline of her cottage, built of lake stones and limpet shells, far off near the bend that no map dares draw.

Once, she loved a man of the waters. Bran, a fisherman with wind-scoured hands and a voice that carried psalms even when he wasn’t speaking. They met when Maerla found his net tangled in the rushes and unwove it without cutting a thread. She didn't speak aloud--never did--but he heard her nonetheless.

Their courtship was quiet. She’d leave knotted garlands on the oarlocks of his boat; he’d leave bits of tin and polished driftwood on her windowsill. Candlemas approached, and Bran, eager to provide, set out before first light to gather a full catch. The lake was still that morning--unnaturally so-- and the mist had no scent. He never returned.

The village claimed she’d lured him. That her longing was a snare, her silence a spell. Others believed a truer sorrow: that she had warned him, and he hadn’t listened. That her grief called the fog, and the fog called him away.

Ever since, Maerla has read the shells. They wash up at her feet in patterns--spirals, broken edges, barnacled whispers. She arranges them along her sill and murmurs the names they once held: hope, mercy, Bran.

She does not age. Or perhaps she ages the way stones do--slowly, quietly, under the weight of water. Children who stray too close to the lake’s far edge return home with pockets full of wet shells and no memory of how they got there. They say they saw a woman watching the water, lips moving, hands full of silver sand.

No one knows what she’s waiting for. Some say she’s gathering enough names to trade for Bran’s return. Others believe she’s crafting a map--not of the lake, but of what lies beneath it.

And in the hush before Candlemas Eve, the villagers light two candles on their sills: one for the souls that left too soon, and one for the ones who stayed behind.

July Satyrday Shell Readings

--From the Kelp Oracle Beneath Lough Owel '
(As whispered through moss, translated by Orla Merrin)

Today’s Shell Cast:
A limp cockleshell cracked down the centre, two barnacle buttons, and one iridescent shard from the lip of a moon snail. The Oracle arranged them in the shape of a slipper, then giggled.

Utterance from the Oracle:
“Something that doesn’t fit is about to be worn.
Walk gently. It may be your grief,
or someone else’s secret trying you on for size.!

Witchy Warnings & Lakelore Alerts:
If you find a button on your path, don’t pick it up. It belongs to the past and it’s holding something closed.
Keep all spoons upright today. A tilted spoon is an open door.
Speak no wishes aloud before your tea has cooled. Wishes brewed too hot tend to scorch the thing they seek.

Found this morning near the stepping stones:
- One child’s leather shoe filled with dried thyme and blackberries
- A folded note written in water, still damp and readable only by moonlight
- A fragment of mirror backed with lakeweed--reflects only who you were when you lost something

Orla’s Margin Note (written sideways in blue chalk):
“The black swan came early. It’s walking backwards in the shallows. That means the story is starting from the end this time."

Seal of the Hollow Spoon
Be careful what you carry in your pocket today. Some things are better left unfound.

Whim Wharf

This Satyrday, the Oracle left her message in the undercurrent near Widow Leelee’s jetty, carved into a whorl of mother-of-pearl and wrapped in a trout’s last breath.

The Shell of Echo -- What stirs beneath...
You’ve been hearing things. Not voices, exactly--more like memories in disguise. Follow them, but don’t invite them in for tea just yet. The past is clever and wants a place to sleep.

The Shell of Bristle -- What bristles at your edge...
A test is coming. Nothing grand, just a small moment when someone will ask too much or too little. Choose carefully which silence to break.

The Shell of Murk -- What rises from the deep...
A hidden gift, though it comes in odd wrappings. Someone once dismissed you. Their shadow shows up again, this time asking for warmth. Offer a candle--not a fire.

Rune Pulled: THURISAZ upright
The thorn, the hammer, the boundary stone. Protect what matters. Don’t leap at shadows, but do keep salt in your pocket. Speak plainly, and sleep with lavender at your window.

Messages from the Oracle are tide-bound and not legally binding. Interpret at your own risk.