Run Time: Approx. 13 minutes

“Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d,
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.”

–William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Leah Bardugo’s short story When Water Sang Fire tells the story of Ulla, a mermaid from the invented northern kingdom Fjerde. For anyone familiar with Bardugo’s popular “Grishaverse”, particularly the Shadow and Bone series (also a major Netflix show), Ulla is the sister of the Darkling. But that’s not important for this story.

Bardugo’s mermaids possess magical powers derived from their singing. Their songs act like spells, capable of conjuring storms, creating objects, or even transforming the mermaids into humans.

Ulla doesn’t look like the other mermaids—her skin is gray and dull, and she’s treated as an outcast. But Ulla is powerful, and when she is paired with Sygny, a beautiful and popular girl, in spell practice, their combined talents prove to be extremely potent. The girls form an unexpected bond and become best friends.

Together, Ulla and Signy demonstrate their abilities to the court by conjuring flowers—a highly advanced magic since it involves creating life. But the song that brings forth such a powerful magic is odd, unlike anything the others have heard before. They are impressed, but also afraid.

Following their performance, the prince invites them to travel to the human lands with him, but it turns out he wants to use their powers to become the next king. Ulla is ultimately betrayed by a love-struck Sygny, who is enticed by the prince’s promise of marriage. Enraged by her friend, she conjures a great storm, destroying much of the land. When she finally recedes back to the sea, she dwells in dark caves, trapped in her rage.

This is where our musical tale begins. In the depths of the ocean, Ulla storms, waiting for “the lonely, the ambitious, the clever, the frail, for all those willing to strike a bargain. She never waits long.”

Reinkemeyer’s piece is less like a narrative and more like a painting, offering a portrait of the scorned sea witch—her anger and her pain.

Like Ulla and Sygny’s song, the sounds Reinkemeyer renders from the orchestra are odd. The music slides and creaks, grotesque and eerie, like the odd creatures at the bottom of the ocean. Restlessly, Ulla paces around her cave, unable to let go of her anger.

Neither Bardugo or Reinkemeyer offer any hint at possible redemption for Ulla; only empathy for the path that led to her circumstances. The piece is dedicated “with hope and gratitude for women who sing truth, though the world rains fire upon them.”