Noura and the Gates of the Enchanted Sea
A short story – Narrative Mythology
by Mahmoud Menaysy
In Noura’s house, there was a strange wall that seemed to hide secrets. Under the large table leaning against the living‑room wall, there was a rectangular space no one ever noticed. Its shadow stayed hidden behind the long tablecloth. But only Noura knew its secret. When she slipped under the table, no one could see her. In that small corner separated from the world, she sailed across the seas of dreams without leaving her place.
One day, she drew an enchanted sea on the wall with a blue pencil. A sea unlike any other. A sea whose waves shone like silver, whose shells were gold, whose starfish were emerald, and whose pearls were larger than the fists of kings. In its depths rose a hidden kingdom, with streets of light and gardens of coral. Its treasures were not only made of gold, but also of hearts. Diamond hearts. Emerald hearts. Hearts of pure white pearls. And Noura held the keys to this entire kingdom.
Every time she drew a new blue wave on the wall, the sea opened slightly and revealed a path to a world only she could enter. There, the fish spoke the language of poetry. Ancient turtles, covered in pearls, guarded the secrets of the stars. Whales sang songs older than time itself. Beautiful ideas grew on trees like fruit. And gentleness, creativity, and wonder walked through the streets like ordinary people. That was why Noura loved to draw. She wasn’t creating a new world; she was opening the door to the one that already existed.
At the edge of this enchanted sea, where the waves touched the limits of the wall, there was a strange inscription Noura had written in uneven, childlike handwriting. No one knew its meaning except the one who had taught her the first letters of the alphabet. Even Noura never explained its secret. She rewrote it every time she felt the distant kingdom drifting away from her. And every morning, before opening the gates of the sea, she whispered:
Uno… Due… Tre… Quattro…
Cinque… Sei… Sette…
Otto… Nove… Dieci…
At the last word, the water trembled slightly, as if touched by a spell as ancient as the first human being. The waves moved aside. And in the depths appeared a blue path of light. A path only she could see. She followed it, laughing, toward her hidden kingdom behind the wall.
Noura walked on earth like a small gift sent from a distant light. A child who, when she opened her arms to hug you, made it feel as if the whole universe had taken a step toward peace, as if spring itself passed quietly among people without being noticed. Her laughter… my God, her laughter. It echoed on the horizon like a tiny bell of joy. The stars seemed brighter. The days felt less cruel. When she raised her small fingers toward the sky, the stars drew closer to her as if they had always known her.
And she loved colors. She loved them so much that she believed walls — not paper — had been created to hold dreams. So she covered them with stars, birds, little suns, and blue seas, as if trying to make the world resemble her heart overflowing with life. When she walked down to the shore, the sea became bluer between her tiny fingers. The waves calmed, and the deep‑sea grasses began to glow, lighting a path for her. The pearls awakened. And the fish circled around her in wide loops, as if celebrating the arrival of the princess of the seas.
When she slept, her small palm under her cheek, storms quieted, winds softened, and the whole world turned into a gentle whisper guarding her dreams. Noura was a child. And she was a message. A message saying that gentleness is a strength. That beauty does not need to be loud to be seen. And that the world, despite all its harshness, always softens before a small heart capable of loving without conditions.
▪ When the light went out
On a morning that seemed ordinary, Noura stood before the great wall of her house. She held her colored pencils and was about to draw a new star, chosen from the millions she had seen in her dream the night before. Then suddenly, a grey creature appeared. It had no shadow. Its silhouette was feminine, neither young nor old. Its face showed neither anger nor compassion. Its pale features looked as if drawn with a grey marker. It seemed to have stepped out of an ancient crack separating the world of sunlight from the realm of Hades, son of Cronos and Rhea.
She stood between Noura and the wall. Then slowly raised her hand. She erased the first star. Then the second. Then the birds. Then the hearts. Then the sea with all its waves. And she said in a low voice that seemed to come from very far away: “It is forbidden to draw here.”
Noura looked at her first with surprise. Then with fear. Then with a feeling she did not know the name of. She rushed toward the drawings she loved and held tightly the big star she had drawn the day before, as if trying to stop anyone from taking it away. She said in a trembling voice: “It’s mine…”
But the grey creature did not get angry. She did not shout. She did not explain anything. She simply continued erasing the colors. A star. Then a bird. Then a sun. Then a blue sea whose waves were still dancing.
Then Noura screamed. A small scream at first. Then louder. Then louder still. A scream that would have shattered the walls of silence if they had existed. The birds heard it and stopped singing. The waves heard it and stepped back. The distant stars heard it and dimmed their light in sadness. But the grey woman remained silent.
When the last color disappeared, a grey hole opened before Noura. It was not completely black. It was grey. Dull. Like a crystal that had lost its color. And the darkness did not swallow her all at once. It took her slowly, as if tearing spring from a tree, leaf by leaf. And the echo of her scream hung in the air long after she was gone.
▪ The years of wandering
Noura grew up inside the grey hole, just as Persephone had grown up in the underworld of Hades. Half a soul. Half a life. Half a warmth. Without the wall of childhood memories and without her colored pencils. But Noura’s world was not exactly Persephone’s. It was wider. Colder. More silent.
She walked on a grey land that had no beginning and no end. Mountains of fog. Rivers of heavy air. And creatures half‑human, half‑pale ash, without faces, watching her from afar without ever approaching. She tried to draw the features they lacked, but she could no longer find her colored pencils.
Sometimes she heard sounds that resembled those of the past. A distant laugh. A forgotten song. The rumble of the sea. A strange feeling of safety. But these voices faded before reaching her.
She searched for a way out. Yet the paths always turned back on themselves. The doors would not open. And time remained still. Noura became a woman carrying in her heart an emptiness she did not understand. An emptiness like a room whose lights had suddenly gone out before everyone abandoned it. And yet, her light never went out completely. A small spark remained deep inside her. A spark that refused to die.
▪ The return of the new legend
On a moonless night, the grey land trembled beneath her feet, as if someone were knocking on a door closed for centuries. From the cracks emerged a golden sprout growing among the ashes. It was neither a flower nor a light, but something else. Something that looked like life trying to be born again.
The sprout opened. And a little girl came out. She looked like Noura. She was Noura. And yet she was not complete. She was only half a smile. Half a warmth. Half a wing. She looked at her and said: “I am the part of you that hid when you broke. The part you wanted to protect. And the part without which you will never return.”
Then she began walking around her. With each step, the grey lands turned into violet flowers. And colors slowly returned to the forgotten earth. The little girl stopped before her. She did not reach out her hand. She merged into her. As if giving her back her lost heart.
▪ When a woman walks with one wing, it is enough
Noura left the world of ashes. She was no longer the child she had been. And she was not the woman she thought she would become. She had become something else. A woman who carried her inner child like an invisible wing. No one could see it. But she felt it with every step.
She walked. And each step awakened a flower. Or made a star shimmer. Or calmed a wind. No one ever knew whether she would return one day to the grey hole, like Persephone returning each year to Hades, or whether she had broken the old legend to write her own — the legend of a woman who learned to carry her missing piece without breaking.
The birds began to sing again. But they sang with caution. The sea became blue again. But its blue kept a faint shadow of the old grey. As for Noura, she walked through the world like a new legend whose ending had not yet been written. As if spring itself had learned from her how to return, even after the longest winter.
And some nights, when the world grew quiet and everyone slept, she thought she heard the distant voice of a little girl whispering:
Uno… Due… Tre… Quattro… Cinque… Sei… Sette… Otto… Nove… Dieci…
End
Mahmoud Menaysy Art 