WE RETURN TO EACH OTHER IN WAVES
THIS IS HOW WATER LOVES
The beach is black and naked; no other words depict the stark scene. Not desolate, or abysmal, or abandoned. Naked, in an unexpectedly vulnerable way. Naked in that there is nothing on the shore save for sand; and beneath the tall black cliffs the beach stretches even darker. It is daytime but dark, overcast. The sun never shines on this beach even when it escapes the confines of the winter clouds. Rain falls, sometimes, as you walk; and it buffets the face hard enough to sting, to feel like salt instead of water. Perhaps it is the sand, getting whipped up by the wind, striking you—but no, you know it is the water from the sky and then as you step imploringly closer to the surf you realise it is coming from the sea. The wind is whipping it from the edges of the white, curling surf; it strikes you not only in actuality but in contrast, in the way there is such a clear divide between sea and shore. You don’t understand. You feel as if you are staring at a lover’s quarrel; the man is striking his chest, shaking his head, restraining himself from touching the woman. And the woman stands crossed-armed and turned away, flushed and furious, tears shining diamond-bright in her eyes. Yes. That is the sea and the shore and staring at it you understand some irrevocable damage has been done, some inhumane comment has been made, something irreparable.
You are consumed by the sensation there is something you not only can do, but must do. And so you begin to move more rapidly toward the line of sea and shore; surf and sand; only to discover there is no crashing sound, nothing save a nearly silent shush shush shush. Although you are running now, slow and leaden, you cannot grow nearer; the sand stretches limitless between you and the sea you try to reach, sickeningly slow. At last you stop and turn back toward the right. Breathing heavily now and thoroughly distressed, you begin to trot the narrow line you had before, between the towering cliffs and the ocean. The sand shifts underfoot and the wind whips up with more ferocity; underfoot the beach if shifting, exposing more and more sea-smoothed rocks. You begin to notice pieces of white; when you pause to admire them you realise they are shards of bones. Some are small and indiscriminate, fishes and birds. Others are larger and you do not stare at those for as long.
Endlessly, it seems, you walk. You walk long enough you forget where you are walking. In fact, you are at the end of the beach, where it meets the jutting, unforgiving rocks that rise from the sea and become cliffs. You do not know how you got there, or why it happened so suddenly. You do not know why you were walking or why suddenly your feet are in the surf and you are turning to look out at a horizon—
covered in ghosts.
Ghosts of every colour. Atmospheric, they billow with mist, more coloured clouds than bodies. They fill you with ghastly horror and what becomes even more horrific is the metallic paint covering them. It drips into the sea and from their faces; it covers their bodies in arcane, nature-inspired symbols. Silver, and gold, and copper drips into the sea and your stomach churns with something unnamable. They are staring at you, through you and it is only now you realise you are also a ghost carrying chains and dripping metallic paint. It burns, hot and dripping.
They are chestnut clouds, grey and black, a white so brilliant it blinds you; roan, grullo, and more. One is stepping forward and you do not know why she looks different, why she is the only one with spiralling horns and a tiger’s tail; why she wears tiger’s stripes and bold markings uncharacteristic for the rest. She is speaking to you and the words come through disjointed, bewildering.
“Why—
did you leave?
you were supposed to…
protect—
—they took us all and….
—our Souls?—
what about… our
souls?”
You are reeling. She is stepping out of the sea, dripping water and shapeless, lips drawn back into a ghastly smile with shark’s teeth. You are afraid and begin to press back, against the sea. The other ghostly figures press upon the shore, bringing with them the tide, and you are now chest-deep in the water—
“your name—“
they say it again and again
“your name—?”
and you say, “Orestes.”
They begin to laugh. They sound like hyenas.
"That's the wrong name."
It doesn't make sense as they crowd you.
------
The Sovereign sleeps fitfully in his study, his face pressed against the map of Novus he had been studying. A candle burns out, dripping wax into a small dish. It is dark, but the moonlight seeps in to colour the room silver; and just beyond the window the sea gleams, shush shush shushing against the shore. Orestes continues to dream.
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