May Writing Competition Winner: The Crab King and the Girl Who Would Not Kneel – Tarien van Tonder

Each month, SAIAA members are encouraged to partake in our Short Story Competition. April’s runner-up winner was Johann van Molendorff, a fantasy author from Gauteng. If writing short stories and connecting with other writers sounds like something you’d love to do, but you’re not a member of SAIAA, consider joining one of our Writing Room Chapters. It’s a space for all kinds of writers, whether you’re a poet, a journaler or simply someone who enjoys putting words on the page, this space is for you. It’s free to join!

 Every year, when the moon swelled fat over the village of

Muiren’s Mouth, the sea gave way. At dusk, the crabs came. They poured from the tide pools in hundreds, then thousands, their shells clicking against stone like tiny, little bones. Red crabs, ghost crabs, blue-shelled crabs with eyes like black pearls. They covered the beach until the sand seemed alive, the sound like silent cries, as though the shore itself wished to escape. The villagers lit their lanterns like they did each year. Bringing their unmarried girls to the shore’s edge. The sea would then split open. That was how the old women told it, at least. Liora did not believe old women, lanterns, kings, or the sea. She believed in patched roofs, gutting fish, fixing nets, and never owing anyone anything. So when her aunt Mira slapped a white dress onto the table and said, “You’ll wear this tonight,” Liora laughed. “No. I will not.” Mira’s mouth tightened. “You are nineteen.”

“I noticed,” She replies without taking her eyes off the needle and thread. “Unwed!” She fumes. “I noticed that too.” In and out, Loira weaves and mends. “And poor.” Liora looked around the cottage, at the roof that still leaked in three places and the hearth that smoked when the wind turned. “That is indeed something I can’t miss.” Mira pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please, don’t be difficult tonight.”

“I make no promises.” She mumbles under her breath. “This is not a joke! The Crab King comes only once a year.” She exclaims. “He comes once a year to ignore every girl in the village. Very efficient of him.” Mira leaned forward. “For five hundred years, he has searched. Think of how lonely that must be.”

“For a bride,” Liora said flatly. “Just because the sea stole his wife and now every girl must polish her hair and flutter her eyelashes for a grieving crab.”

“A king,” Mira corrected. “A crab.” She eyes her, her tone flat. “A cursed king.” Mira tries again. “A cursed crab,” Loira drawls, getting back to her net. Mira shoved the dress closer. “Damn it, Loira, wear the damn thing. You won’t be chosen, but the villagers are talking.” She holds her tongue; Mira knows how she feels about what the others think. “Liora!”

“No. For I am as cursed as that crab, doomed to live poor and alone. Oh, how ever will I survive?” She mocks, and her aunt stormed out. That night, Liora wore her brown work skirt, boots crusted with salt, and a shawl with one corner burnt from a cooking accident. While the other girls walked down to the shore, crowned in flowers and mother-of-pearl combs, Liora only went because Mira dragged her by the wrist. The whole village had gathered. Lanterns glowed along the cliff path. Drums sounded low and steady. The old priestess stood near the water with a bowl of milk, honey, and crushed shells. Around her, the girls waited in pale dresses like offerings. The crabs were an unsettling sight as they moved like a live wave on the shore. Liora folded her arms. “This is embarrassing,” she muttered. A girl beside her gasped. “You should not say that.”

“Why? Will he pinch me?” The girl moved away. The tide pulled back. Every lantern flame bent toward the sea. The crabs stopped moving. Then the water rose in a black wall. From it emerged something enormous. At first, Liora saw claws. Great bronze claws, wet and gleaming. Then legs, jointed and sharp, lifting a monstrous crab body from the surf. Its shell was ridged like an ancient shield, covered in barnacles, pearls, and scraps of sunken gold. Its eyes burned deep green. The village dropped to its knees. Liora did not. Not because she was brave but because she forgot. The creature was terrible as well as beautiful, in the way storms were beautiful before they destroyed roofs and boats and fathers. Leaving behind grieving mothers. The crab lowered itself to the sand. Foam curled around its legs. Its shell cracked, not breaking, but opening like a door. Light spilled out. And from the shell stepped a man. The shore fell silent. He was tall, dark-haired, and barefoot, wearing a cloak woven from seaweed, silver thread, and tiny living crabs that clung to the hem like jewels. His skin held a faint bronze sheen, as if moonlight had touched him and stayed. Around his throat hung a broken shell pendant. The Crab King. The girls bowed lower. The king looked over them with eyes the colour of deep water. Empty eyes. He moved through the rows slowly. Each girl lifted her face when he passed, smiling, trembling, hoping he would choose them. He did not stop. Not for Maren with the golden hair. Not for Sella, who sang like a seabird. Not for Dovie, whose father owned six fishing boats and one painted house. Then he came to Liora. She was standing with her arms crossed, mud on her hem and suspicion on her face. The Crab King stopped, watching her, as she scowled at him. The priestess inhaled sharply. Liora stared back, unafraid. “You are not kneeling,” he said. His voice sounded like seafoam spilling over stones. “I have bad knees,” Liora lied. A few villagers choked. Her aunt went pale. The king tilted his head. “You mock me.”

“Not only you.” His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “What is your name?” He asked. “Liora. What’s yours?”

“Daughter of?” He ignores her question. “No one living.” No emotion, it was simple fact. Something moved behind his eyes. The sea became turbulent. “You do not wish to be chosen?”

“I do not wish to be inspected like a market fish.” The priestess hissed, “Child, silence! You speak to a king.” But the king was still looking at Liora. “For five hundred years,” he said, “your people have brought their daughters to me.”

“That sounds like the people’s problem. Not mine.” This time, he

did smile. It was small and dangerous. “You fear nothing?”

“Oh, I fear plenty. Hunger. Fever. Bad weather. Men who think loneliness makes them holy.” The crabs began to click. All along the beach, thousands of shells tapped together. The Crab King looked toward the sea. Then back at her. “Walk with me.”

“No.” Mira made a strangled sound behind her. The king blinked. “No?”

“I have chores in the morning.” She shrugs. “You refuse your king?” he raises an eyebrow. “You are not my king.” She emphasised as she watched him. The sea surged forward. Lanterns blew out one by one as the wind picked up. The villagers gasped and gawked at the spectacle she was making of him, of herself. Still, Liora did not move. The king stepped closer. “Then what am I?” She looked at his cloak, his Crown of Coral, and finally his haunted eyes. “A widower,” she said. The sea went still. His smile vanished. For one breath, Liora thought he might strike her down. Instead, he turned and walked away. The villagers exhaled as if released from a spell. And Liora, because she had always had more temper than wisdom, followed him. He walked past the lanterns, past the tide pools, to a black rock where the crabs parted for his feet. “Look what you’ve done, child! Now he will leave without seeing all the girls.” The priestess berated. Liora ignored her and climbed after him, slipping twice and pretending she had not. “You are rude,” he said. “You are a bit dramatic.” She launches back. “You speak to me as though I am ordinary.”

“You stand like someone waiting to be worshipped.”

“I am worshipped, I was before your grandmother’s grandmother was ever born.”

“That must have been exhausting.” He looked down at her again.

The moon showed the tiredness in his face. The tiredness of centuries. “My wife’s name was Elian,” he said. Liora said nothing. “She was human. Stubborn. Unimpressed by crowns.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke of her. “As you are.” Loira wanted to answer that his wife sounded sensible, but he continued. “She loved the sea. But it did not love her.”

“Then the stories are true? The tide took her?” His jaw tightened. “The sea does not tolerate what it cannot possess.” Below them, waves struck the rocks. “She came to me willingly,” he said. “My people warned me. Hers cursed me. But she came. For seven years, we were happy.”

“What happened?” His hand closed around the broken shell at his throat. “One morning, she walked into the water to gather shells for our child.” Liora’s breath caught. “Our daughter was not yet born,” he said softly. “The tide rose without wind, without storm. It wrapped around Elian like hands. I heard her call my name once.” The waves below curled white and sharp. “I searched every trench. Every reef. Every drowned kingdom. I found her comb. One shoe. Half of this shell.”

“And now you look for someone to replace her.” His eyes flashed. “No.”

“That is what the village thinks.”

“The village thinks what comforts it.” He shrugs. “Then why come at all?”

“Because of a bargain.” Liora frowned. “The sea took my wife,” he said. “I demanded her return. The sea laughed. So I struck it’s bed with my claws and split the reef from east to west.”

“That was you?” Loira could feel fear for him creeping in. “You know the Scar Reef?”

“Every boatman knows it, it’s treacherous.” She thought of her father, but quickly looked away, letting the wind dry her watery eyes. “I made it in grief. The sea bled storms for three years. Villages drowned. Ships vanished. Children were born with salt in their lungs.” Liora shivered. “So the moon intervened,” he continued. “She bound us. Once a year, I may walk as a man until dawn. If I find one woman who chooses me freely, not for power, wealth, fear, or legend, the sea must release what it took.”

“Your wife?” His face changed. “No,” he said. “My daughter.” Liora went cold. “She lived?”

“In the deep. Half-human, half-mermaid. The sea kept her because she was born beneath its curse.” For once, Liora had no sharp reply.

The king looked down at the crabs moving over the sand. “Five hundred years,” he said. “Girls kneel. Families scheme. Mothers weep. Fathers bargain. They want crowns, protection, and gold from wrecks. None have come for me. None have come for the child.” Liora swallowed. “Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“That is stupid.” He stared at her. She stared back. “How can anyone choose freely if they don’t know what they’re choosing?”

“Because truth becomes another net,” he said. “Pity is not love.”

“No, but secrets are not honesty.” He went silent. Far out at sea, something sang. It was not beautiful. It was lonely in its call. Liora looked toward the sound. “Is that her?” The king closed his eyes. “My daughter sings every year when I come ashore.” 

“What is her name?”

“Maris.” The name trembled in the air. The sea responded with crashing waves. Below, one small crab climbed onto Liora’s boot. It carried a shell too large for its body and dragged it stubbornly over the leather. Liora bent and picked it up. “Careful,” the king said. “It’s only a crab.” She rolled her eyes. “It remembers every secret whispered to the ocean.” Liora paused. The crab’s eyes blinked at her. “Well,” she told it, “that sounds like a miserable hobby.” The crab clicked once. The king laughed. Not loudly. But enough that the sea recoiled from the shore. Liora looked at him. “When does the bargain end?” She understood he would need to return soon. “At dawn.” The sun had not yet peaked up over the horizon. “And if no one chooses?” She asks. “I return below. Maris remains lost. The village repeats its ceremony next year.”

“That is a terrible system.” She never understood the people who were her neighbours. She hated the ones who had left her father to drown. Even more, the supposed holy people who said he deserved it. “You’ve had five hundred years to improve it, so why haven’t you?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “I have had five hundred years to grieve.” That silenced her. Liora knew grief. She knew the shape of it in an empty chair, in her aunt’s tired hands, in the sea that had taken her father’s boat and returned only rope. The grief that ate her mother alive. She sat on the rock beside him. “I don’t believe women need men,” she said. “I do not believe men need worship.”

“Good.” She was not sure what else to say. She looked out and found the villagers were still watching. They are both quiet when suddenly he sits down, looking up at Loira. “I do not want a bride who kneels.” She feels unease at his words. But decides to join him on the black rocks. “I do not know how to be anything but what grief made me.” Liora looked at him then. Really looked. Not at the crown. Not at the myth. At the man inside the monster. “That,” she said, “is the first honest

thing you’ve said.” The horizon paled, how had time already passed by so fast? Loira felt like it had only been a few minutes. The crabs began moving toward the water. The king stood. “My time ends.” Liora stood too. “What happens if someone chooses you?”

“The sea opens a path, and they walk with me below.” The king looked out into the distance, saddened that he would condemn another to his fate. “Forever?” She exclaimed at the preposterous idea. “Forever.” The village waited behind them, breathless. Mira’s face was pale with terror. The priestess clutched her old pearls. The unmarried girls stared at Liora as though she had either doomed them or saved them, and no one could yet tell which. The Crab King stepped into the surf. His cloak darkened. His skin began to crack with bronze light. The monster beneath was returning. He looked back once. Not pleading, just looking. Liora thought of Maris singing under the waves for five hundred years. She thought of Elian, stolen by a jealous sea. She thought of every girl told to kneel before a story no one had bothered to explain. Then she walked into the water. Mira cried out. The village erupted. The king froze. Liora stopped knee-deep in the tide. “I am not marrying you.” His expression was unreadable. “I am not wearing white. I am not being paraded. I am not becoming a prize for a curse.” The sea churned around her legs. “But I will come for the girl, I choose her.” The king’s breath caught. Liora lifted her chin. “Not because I love you. Not because you are a king. Not because I believe the village’s nonsense. I will come because no child should be kept by something that only knows how to take.” The tide pulled hard at her skirt. The king stepped toward her. “The sea may not let you return.”

“Then it can argue with me itself.” For the first time in five hundred years, the Crab King knelt. Not to the sea. Not to the moon. To Liora. Something beneath the waves erupted. A trench opened in the surf, black and shining, with steps made

of moonlight and shell. From below came the song again. Closer now. Younger than Liora had expected. Afraid. Liora looked at the king. “Well?” He rose slowly, wonder breaking his face. Together, they descended. The sea closed above them. For three days, Muiren’s Mouth did not sleep. On the first day, the crabs covered the village paths and would not let anyone reach the beach. On the second, every secret ever whispered to the ocean washed ashore in shells. Lies. Confessions. Names of drowned ships. Promises broken. Promises kept. On the third morning, Liora returned. She came walking out of the tide with seaweed in her hair, a cut on her cheek, and a young girl beside her with silver eyes and trembling hands. Behind them rose the Crab King in his monstrous form, vast and gleaming beneath the dawn. The villagers fell to their knees. Liora rolled her eyes. Maris looked at the kneeling crowd, then at Liora. “Are they always like this?”

“Unfortunately.” The Crab King lowered his great shell toward them. From that day on, he no longer came to choose a bride. He came to visit his daughter. The village changed the festival, though not quickly, and not without argument from mothers who had already bought expensive ribbons. Girls no longer knelt in rows. Instead, they brought lanterns for the lost, bread for the hungry, and stories for the crabs. And Liora? She never married the Crab King. This disappointed almost everyone. She did, however, build a cottage at the edge of the tide pools, where Maris came often to learn human things like tea, sarcasm, and how to mend socks. Sometimes, when the moon was full, a man with deep-water eyes sat on Liora’s porch while she repaired nets. “You could be queen,” he told her once. “I could also be eaten by gulls. Many things are possible.” He smiled, enjoying her company and friendship. The small crab with the oversized shell lived beneath her steps. Liora named it Sir Sebastian because Maris insisted all sacred creatures deserved names. And when villagers asked why

crabs walked sideways, the old women began telling a new story. They said crabs did not walk straight because the sea was always trying to pull them back. So they learned another way forward.