DOCTOR SAYS THE INCISIONS WILL ONLY HEAL IF I HOLD WARM SALTWATER IN MY MOUTH. SO THERE IS A WOUND INSIDE ME AND I AM BATHING IT IN OCEANS OF SORROW IN ORDER TO MOVE FORWARD. REPEAT AFTER ME: SOMEWHERE THE MOON RISES OUT OF THE RAIN. SOMEWHERE ICARUS CRAWLS OUT OF THE SEA, UNBURNED AND ALIVE.
The waves crash mightily against the shore and nearby cliffs; the roar is repetitive, nearly soothing, if not for the ominous clouds overhead and the way snow has begun to fall in lethargic, spiralling flakes. There is a straining within the sea and the sky, an aching just within the realm of wordlessness, where something contends beneath the dark surface of the ocean and the clouds. All reason suggests one should not be out much longer in the evening, as the sun wanes on the distant horizon behind the blanket of winter clouds.
But a white figure walks the rocky beach beneath the cliffs, an ear cocked curiously toward the clamouring waves. More often than not, his vermillion eyes are turned toward the sand, and he watches with pragmatic fascination as the snow begins to settle against the earth and the sea rushes in to wash it away.
Lyr is there for a reason, however. He looks out toward the sea in earnest, both ears erect and pointed forward. It is a perfect evening to see them…
When he was a boy, his mother had told him stories of Terrastella. It had been her homeland. There is a nuance one feels in regard of the place they were raised she would whisper to him as he fell asleep to stories of cliffs and swaying fields, a hospital and a citadel. Then she would sing to him songs of the sea. Lyr thinks of it now; the endless prairie which, at times, undulates like the ocean itself. The dark cliffs stretch above him, a natural fortification to whatever darkness lay below. His trek to the beach beneath them had been treacherous and unsteady; the pathway that cut its way down winding, narrow, and often unstable.
Lyr had thought he would never live here.
He had thought a lot of things would never happen.
But they did.
And in their own way, these occurrences—fate, chance, whatever they may be—had led him to the bottom of the cliffs that evening. He stands there attentively—nearly at attention—and listens for something beyond the sound of waves. He listens to that realm of wordlessness, straining to become a language eligible to men. Lyr scans the water for a sight of the legendary Gealach, wondering if his ancestors would recognise him as their own blood, or view him as prey.
There is a part of him that has grown comfortable to city-life again. It has been many years since he ventured North; and there is a bit of arrogance in his search for the monstrous that evening. He nearly gives up the hunt, when down the beach five of the legendary horses surface from the sea. Their arrival is magical, flourishing. They come running from a spiral of white-water as the wave breaks, collapsing in on itself.
There is nothing plain about them. They stand painfully still as they assess Lyr, as if slightly surprised by his presence on the beach. They come in an array of colours but the scent that wafts toward Lyr is alien and frightening; dead fish, rot, and salt. Their long manes tangle about their legs and drag against the sand, interwoven with bits of bone and kelp. Lyr is momentarily dazzled by their fierce beauty; then one steps forward, and another, and they are running. Lyr realises he has outstayed his welcome and with deft and nearly panicked swiftness, he begins to ascend the same treacherous path he had ventured down on.
His second mistake: Lyr underestimates their swiftness. In an increasing flurry of snow and darkening of the sky, two of the Gealach are at his heels before he can make the ascent.
He wheels on them with a snarl, clipping the air with his blunt teeth. One of the Gealach laughs; the sound is as musical, sharp, and crystalline as breaking glass in silence. It cuts Lyr to the quick.
The moon is sacred to them, his mother had said. They run beneath it and hunt for horses to turn or eat. It is dark now, and they make sharp and striking silhouettes.
Lyr realises, as they surround him, that the stories had been more romantic than their actuality. He begins to speak, but stops, pinning his ears. He doubts it would do much to confess they are his relatives, in their own way. They make a game of toying with him as a pack; one may lunge at his hock as another snaps at his long hair, as Lyr scrambles to face each in turn.
Yet, a strange and strategic calm comes over him. There is a certain light that enters his eye as he assesses various escape routes; there is a firm resolution within him that he will not die today, and as he thinks it he lunges to the nearest water-horse, nearly ripping an ear off. The Gealach back-peddles, snarling, and then resumes the circling pack.
They are edging him further from the cliffside and closer to the sea. Lyr knows it, and begins to wonder in a detached sort of light if this is the way he will die.
SOMEWHERE WE ARE POLISHING THE WORD ABSENCE WITH OUR TONGUES AND LEARNING NOT TO BE TERRIFIED OF ALL WE LACK. ACHE FIRST, YES, BUT THEN LET THE CUTS CLOSE. SPIT OUT THE BLOOD. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, IN SPITE OF THE LOST WINGS, THE STOLEN BONES, THE HALTED SONGS. WATCH YOUR BODY PULL ITSELF BACK TOGETHER, THEN LET YOUR SOUL DO THE SAME.
