The Salted Hymn of St. Dymphna

The town of Marrowport clung to the Atlantic like a barnacle, its weathered houses painted in peeling shades of salt-washed blue and grey. The main road, a single ribbon of cracked asphalt, ran from the old fish cannery at the north end to the steepled church of St. Dymphna at the south, where the graveyard sloped down to a rocky beach. My family had moved there when I was twelve, my father taking a position at the cannery, and for a while, it felt like a slow, sleepy dream. The air tasted of brine and diesel, and the constant cry of gulls was the town’s heartbeat.

Our house was a narrow two-story perched on a bluff overlooking the harbor. From my window, I could see the lighthouse that had been decommissioned years ago, its lamp dark, its paint flaking, and beyond it, the dark smudge of Gull Island where the colony of terns nested. The locals, mostly descendants of Portuguese whalers and Irish fishermen, kept to themselves, but they were polite, tipping their caps and offering gruff hellos. Their names were a litany of the sea: Almeida, Correia, Sullivan, O’Malley. The church, a granite edifice with a rose window depicting the saint herself holding a lantern, was the social anchor, hosting weekly bingo nights and fish fries.

I soon fell in with a group of other teens, the sons and daughters of trawlermen and cannery workers. We’d spend our days swimming in the cold, gray water or exploring the tide pools, and our evenings on the pier, smoking stolen cigarettes and telling stories. The stories were always the same: about the ‘Drowned Choir,’ a legendary group of fishermen who had gone out on a stormy night in 1924 and never returned, their boat found capsized but the crew’s bodies never recovered. The old-timers claimed that on certain nights, when the fog rolled in thick, you could hear their drowned voices singing hymns from beneath the waves.

One night, after a rowdy bonfire on the beach, a friend, a boy named Danny, dared me to walk out to the end of the old stone jetty alone. The fog had come in fast, swallowing the town lights, and the only sound was the slap of water against the rocks. I was halfway out when I heard it: a faint, raspy hum, like a tune being hummed under water. It grew clearer, and I could make out words: ‘Domine, Deus, Rex caelestis…’ It was a Latin hymn, the one they sang at church, but sung in a slow, unhurried tempo, as if by men who had all the time in the world. A chill ran down my spine, but I couldn’t pull myself away. The sound seemed to wrap around me, pulling me towards the edge.

Then something brushed against my ankle. It felt like a cold, kelp-covered rope, but when I looked down, I saw a pale hand, its fingers splayed, rising from the water. A face emerged, a man’s face, his skin bleached white and wrinkled, his eyes milky. He was singing, his mouth opening wide to reveal a black hole, but the hymn continued, joined by other voices. I stumbled back, breaking into a run, and didn’t stop until I was back in my room, locked and shivering. I didn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the sea itself was watching me.

After that, the town began to feel different. The kindness of the locals seemed to have an undertow of something dark. I noticed that the church service on Sundays had an unusual addition: a hymn I’d never heard before, but the words were the same as those I’d heard from the jetty. The congregation would sing it with a fervor that bordered on desperation, their eyes fixed on the altar where a statue of the saint stood, her lantern flickering with an unearthly blue flame. My friend Maria, who was a devout Catholic, confided in me that the hymn was called ‘The Salted Hymn of St. Dymphna,’ and it was always sung before a funeral. I laughed, but she was serious. She told me that whenever someone died at sea, the hymn was sung to guide the soul home.

Then the drownings began. The first was old Mr. Correia, a retired fisherman who always sat on the porch. One morning, he didn’t show up for his breakfast at the diner. They found his slippers on the beach, but his body wasn’t recovered for a week, and when it was, his throat was clogged with seaweed and his eyes were wide, as if he’d seen something terrible. The next was a young woman, the daughter of the cannery foreman, who was known for her fear of water. She was found floating in the harbor, a serene smile on her face, her hands clasped as if in prayer. The town was in mourning, but the services were strangely orderly, with the Salted Hymn sung with a terrifying joy.

I started having nightmares. In them, I was in a flooded church, the pews underwater, and the congregation were all bloated, drowned figures, their mouths open in song. The priest at the altar was the man from the jetty, his hands raised, blessesing me. I’d wake up gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat. My father noticed my distress and tried to reassure me, saying that these tragedies were just the sea’s cruel nature, but I could see the fear in his eyes too. He’d started drinking more, and at night, I’d hear him on the phone, his voice low, arguing with someone about ‘the bargain.’

One evening, I followed him to the church. He met the priest in the sacristy, and they spoke in hushed tones. I pressed my ear to the door and heard the priest say, ‘The saint demands her due. The drowned must be replenished.’ My father’s voice was trembling. ‘But my son, he’s only a boy. He’s never even been on a boat.’ The priest’s reply chilled me to the bone: ‘The sea always takes what it needs. And St. Dymphna will have her choir.’

Terrified, I ran back home and packed a bag. I couldn’t stay in Marrowport. I was about to slip out the back door when I saw my father standing in the kitchen, his face pale. ‘I know what you’ve been doing,’ he said, but his voice was gentle. ‘You can’t run. The saint’s mark is on you now. You sang her hymn, even if you didn’t know it. You became part of the choir.’ I hadn’t realized that I had been humming it unconsciously. He told me that the town had made a pact generations ago with the saint, who was not the saint of the Catholic Church, but an older, darker spirit that had inhabited the waters before the sailors came. In exchange for safe passage and bountiful catches, they would offer her souls, usually the old, the sick, or the unlucky. But sometimes, she chose someone young, someone with a promise, to keep her choir eternal.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the crash of waves, and I felt a pull, a longing to go to the water. I resisted, but it grew stronger. The next morning, I found my father on the beach, his face ashen. The ocean had given up another body: a young man I knew from the fish market, his body contorted, his hands wrapped around his own throat as if trying to stop himself from singing. The town gathered, and the priest began the Salted Hymn. As the first notes rose, I felt something stir inside me, a resonance with the melody. My throat tightened, and I felt a cold pressure at my back, as if invisible hands were pushing me toward the water. I dug my heels into the sand, but the song grew louder, and I realized I was mouthing the words.

I knew I had to leave, but the bonds of the town were strong. I saw the faces of my friends, their eyes glazed over, singing with all their hearts. I saw the priest, his arms outstretched, his eyes fixed on me. And I saw the statue of St. Dymphna, her lantern now burning a steady blue, a smile on her stone lips. I made a decision. I ran to the church, and as the hymn reached its crescendo, I grabbed a candle from the altar and threw it into the dry wooden pews. The fire caught quickly, the old wood and tapestries fueling the blaze. The smoke billowed, and the congregation broke apart, screaming. I didn’t look back. I ran to the harbor, untied a small skiff, and rowed out into the fog.

The flames from the church were a beacon behind me, but the hymn continued, coming from the water all around. I rowed until my arms burned, until the fog became so thick I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. Then, a calm. The sea grew flat as glass, and despite the Salted Hymn echoing from the depths, a strange peace settled over me. I think I’ve been rowing for a long time. The stars never seem to move. I’ve seen the ghosts of Mr. Correia and the young woman, swimming alongside my boat, their expressions almost kind. They try to sing with me, but I keep my mouth shut. I am still trying to escape, but the ocean is vast, and I am just one person in a small boat. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope that I might reach another shore, a place where the church has a different name, and the sea is just the sea.