Harp Sea Serpent

⏱ ~5 min reading

At the deepest bottom of the sea, where even the sun's rays become as thin as spider webs, there lived a sea serpent. His name was Harphius.

He was very long, his body twisted like a silver-green ribbon, and his eyes were large, dark, and sad. He looked truly terrifying. When he swam past the reef, small fish fled in flocks, shells slammed shut, and crabs hurriedly hid under rocks. Everyone thought: he's so big, he'll probably eat us.

And Harpy didn't eat anyone. And he didn't even want to. He was a quiet, gentle snake with a kind heart.

In a hollow between two coral bushes he made himself a harp. Himself. From long, flexible seaweed that grew in his cozy corner. He stretched them over a fragment of an old shell, checked each one with his finger to see if it rang or responded. And when everything was ready, he carefully touched the strings.

The doorbell rang.

Quietly, subtly, like a drop falling into a deep glass. Harfius closed his eyes. He played.

His music was special. Not loud, not fast. Thin, careful, gentle. As if someone was stroking the water with their finger and asking it: "How are you, honey?"«

Every morning, Harpius sat down at his seaweed harp and played. He played waltzes for the silence. He played lullabies for the sea sand. He played wedding melodies for the fish who had never heard him—because they had run away before they had listened.

"Well," he sighed in the evening, as he hid the harp under the coral. "Nobody again. Maybe I'm really scary?"

And in the mirror of the water surface he saw his big dark eyes and thought: "Of course, scary. Who would want to listen to such a thing?"«

Thus day after day passed. The harp grew quieter. He played only for himself.

Then one morning, as he had just played his first waltz, something soft touched the water beside him. He opened his eyes and froze.

On the surface of the water sat a small dragonfly. Thin, thin, with transparent wings that reflected the sun in seven colors. It did not run away. It looked at Harfi with its tiny eyes and listened.

“You… aren’t you scared?” he whispered, afraid to move for fear she would fly away.

"No," the old woman answered quietly. "I heard music. Such music cannot be heard by evil people.".

Harpius was silent for a long time. Something trembled in his throat, like a small string that no one had played for a long time.

"Play," the grandmother asked. "I'll listen.".

And he played. At first timidly, subtly. Then more broadly - in full swing. He played the waltz that he had kept in his heart the longest. The dragonfly closed its transparent eyes and swayed on the water to the beat.

When Arfiy finished, the grandmother said quietly:

— Can I bring my friends?

"Friends?" Arfiy was surprised. "To me?"

"Well," she smiled. "This kind of music is for everyone.".

And flew away.

The harpist sat in disbelief. He softly touched the string—it rang. Then again. Then he carefully began a new melody to tune in.

Within an hour, a whole concert had gathered near his coral. First a small school of silvery fish swam up, cautiously peeking out from behind a rock, one by one. Then two striped shells rolled up, opened their flaps, and froze. Then a seahorse swam up, pretty, orange, with a curled tail. Then a tiny crab peeked out from under its rock and stayed there too. Then more, and more, and more.

Everyone sat very quietly.

And the dragonfly perched right above Arfi's head, like a little conductor.

Harpius filled his chest with salt water and played. This time, not for himself. For them.

The music rolled across the reef like a warm current. It swayed the seaweed. It tickled the fish under their scales. It rocked the seahorse so gently that it closed its eyes. The crab moved its claws in time. The shells clinked softly against each other.

When Arfiy played the last note, there was a great, soft silence in the water. The kind that happens after the best words.

And then the water got choppy—everyone clapped as hard as they could. The fish flapped their tails. The shells clicked their flaps. The crab happily shuffled its claws across the sand. The seahorse jumped up and down. The dragonfly flapped its transparent wings.

Arfiy looked at them, and two warm tears rolled down from his large dark eyes. No one noticed them in the salty sea. But it seemed to him that the sea had become a little warmer.

“I thought I would always be alone,” he whispered. “Because of my appearance.”.

The dragonfly flew right up to his nose.

"We don't look at your appearance anymore," she said. "We hear you.".

From that day on, Harpius no longer hid his harp under the coral. Every morning he sat down and played—for all who came to listen. And new ones came every day: a small jellyfish with delicate frills; a school of transparent shrimp; even an old turtle, who used to think that nothing was surprising at her age. Everyone found a place. There was enough music for everyone.

And in the evening, when the water darkened and turned blue-violet, Harpius would quietly play a lullaby. And all his friends would fall asleep nearby - in the hollow between two coral bushes, where it had once been so lonely.

Because when you have a gift, you shouldn't hide it under a rock. Bring it out into the light. Play. Ring. Shine. Someone will definitely hear. And these will be the most loyal friends - those who loved you not for your appearance, but for that quiet music that you kept in your heart.

And this is true friendship. Deep as the sea. And just as quiet.