Dissolve
By Sailor Kensrue
Low tide.
During the day, the sea’s tender song is drowned out by the cry of gulls, the buzz of insects, the burning necessity of momentum beneath the white sun. But at night, the land falls still, the mist settles over the black sea, and the hidden ones may once again steal a taste of the sky.
Barefoot, hands full, Clay dances slowly among the muscles, barnacles, and clams as they sing. It is a hundred-part harmony, each animal—small and large, shelled or slimy or made of tough arms reaching out—quietly clacking, spurting, and splashing. They whisper secrets which Clay does not pretend to understand.
The sea sings tirelessly in return, the soft shhh of a mother rocking her children to sleep. Each gentle wave lapping at the rocks is a hand beckoning them home.
In her hands, Clay bears a gift, just as she does every night. Wading through the thick fog lit only by the moon’s slender smile, her feet trace a familiar path through clusters of barnacles chattering noisily amongst themselves, tidepools of small fish darting wildly about, rotting logs inhabited by enterprising families of crabs. Each step is chosen with care, ever-aware of the innocent souls held at the mercy of her heel.
The soles of Clay’s feet ache dully as she chooses to cross a stretch of jagged rock rather than risk crushing the many sand dollars dwelling peacefully on the sand. She sucks in sharp breaths to match the pain. Still, her thick calluses stubbornly hold her skin together, until—
A gasp is torn from Clay’s lips as a broken scallop shell pierces the soft part of her sole. She gently lifts her foot, breathes deep, and returns it once more to the rocks beneath. The blood runs hot on her skin and the stone.
Clay is not fully welcome here—this sacred stretch of beach, only visible at low tide, is a fragile bridge between worlds. She is merely passing through. The broken rocks and shells remind her of this, as does the mist falling like a veil before her eyes. There are secrets the sea wishes to keep from her. The tides come and go, and with them, so must she.
But in this moment, she is allowed to stay—and what a beautiful gift it is.
Clay only knows she has reached the sea’s edge when her aching feet are suddenly enveloped by cold—no longer mist, but salt and breath condensed. The cold seeps deep into her flesh, then bone, then marrow, sending bolts of electricity up her legs. The new pain, like darkness squeezing her calves between icy hands, is startling. Clay smiles, eyes closed, feeling so very alive.
There is no horizon here; dark fog and dark sea become one under the gentle gaze of the moon. In a way, Clay finds that this is where the world is most honest—the lines we draw blurring, dissolving in the water between us, around us, within us.
As her blood enters the water, it recognizes itself. Red brine dissolves in black brine, rust into water. Two seas collide and lick each others’ wounds. It stings because it’s healing—a sacred exchange.
Clay’s real gift, though, is still clutched in her hands. She kneels down in the wet sand, waves lapping at her knees, and offers out with both hands a single braid of grass. Tightly woven, the two ends of the plait are tied to complete a circle. Dozens of glossy green strands separated into three distinct parts, all twining together into one inextricable whole. She lowers the soft crown into the water and lets go, watching the clear, ebbing tide carry it slowly into the fog.
In ten breaths, it is gone.
Each night, she leaves a gift like this for the sea, foolishly hoping that someone, somehow, will find it. Will find her. She knows its hopeless, a waste of her time. Yet tonight, staring out at that impenetrable gray curtain of sky and sea, Clay swears she feels…something. Someone. Watching her with…affection?
It’s impossible, of course; there is no mysterious person drifting out beyond the surf, looking in at the lonely girl on an island long-forgotten. Clay is alone with the mist and the sea, the gulls and the crabs, the bees and the barnacles. And it’s enough.
It has to be.
—
High tide.
Abalone, arms outstretched, weaves through the bones of the ancient beast, rusted ribs jutting out from the seafloor like forgotten monuments. Her tail beats rhythmically against the dark water, driving her deeper into the labyrinth of rotting wood and metal. Searching for something.
Twisting through these broken hallways built by hands devoid of webbing, the cool embrace of the sea feels almost suffocating. The ocean weighs heavy on Abalone’s shoulders, her tail, her head. The pressure causes her kelp-wrapped chest to tighten, squeezing the last remnants of sky from her disused lungs and sending bubbles trailing from her lips to rejoin the air above.
Her mother-of-pearl eyes are wide in the ocean’s twilight, straining to make out the sharp shadows of shipwreck. It’s useless; the water is thick and the darkness thicker.
So Abalone begins to sing.
As water filters through the fine gill slits in the sides of her neck, a low hum reverberates out from her, sending tiny ripples through the darkness. Soon, those ripples begin to fluoresce; clouds of plankton suspended in the water revel in the vibrations, blooming a deep cornflower blue. The depths of the wreck are illuminated, each of the rotting walls painted the color of Abalone’s song.
Each siren’s song is unique, a complex series of vibrations that might be mistaken, by ignorant human ears, for the hum of a lonely whale. To sea life, though, each siren’s song holds a life story in its subtle melody; it is an intangible vessel which carries the weight of their grief and joy and longing, sending it rippling out to distant shores. Abalone’s mother’s song is a fiery orange, like the setting sun filtering down through the shallows. Her father’s is a proud violet, the same shade as his favorite corals that grow in the deep Pacific waters of his homeseas.
Abalone’s chest tightens painfully, seeing the walls cast in that lonely blue glow. Three long years later, and she still can’t shake the sharp ache of homesickness, of loss. She reminds herself firmly that she chose this life of exile, and would choose it again if given the chance.
It still hurts.
As if summoned by the grief bleeding into Abalone’s song, a blur of gray and white fur rushes out of the darkness. Spot, an empathetic sea lion and one of Abalone’s closest friends, nuzzles affectionately against her neck and cheek. She smiles sadly, wrapping her arms around the creature and scratching the eponymous black spot between her eyes. The sea lion grunts happily, performing comedically slow barrel rolls in Abalone’s embrace. Her smile widens, and she gives the sea lion a final squeeze of gratitude.
Spot swishes away and begins twirling along aimlessly through the cavernous wreck, blissfully ignorant to the siren’s purpose in coming here.
Abalone’s eyes dutifully resume roving the sea floor, hands brushing away silt and sand. A gift. She needs a—
A fragment of reflected light in the darkness ahead suddenly catches her eye, and she deftly swishes her tail to change directions, darting through the narrow passages toward the subtle gleam. Her song illuminates the hollow belly of the wreck, and soon the source of light becomes clear; a half-shattered handmirror, nearly buried in the silt. Abalone pulls it from the seafloor, the glass glinting with promise.
Growing excited, she runs her hand across the unbroken half, trying to clean off the mud. Too fast. She yelps as a shard leaves a small gash in her palm. A cloud of red seeps out from her hand, dissolving into deep blue water—like recognizing like. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to remember: it stings because it’s healing.
Spot drifts over and nuzzles unhelpfully at her wounded hand, and Abalone shoves her away playfully. The sea lion happily begins chasing her own tail instead.
In the looking glass, Abalone sees herself cast in the lingering blue of her song: gill slits, white hair blooming around her, iridescent eyes, delicate nose, and a perfectly braided crown of land-grass woven into her hair.
Abalone runs her fingers reverently along the tight braids of the crown, imagining the precision and care it would have taken to make it. She was growing more skilled, this girl of the mists, more intentional with the gifts she left for the tides to take. How many times did she start the braid over to ensure it was perfect? Who was she making it for?
Abalone selfishly hopes that she’s starting to suspect. Or to remember.
For Abalone, it’s impossible to forget the night she first met Clay—scarlet seeping into saltwater from the wound on her head. Above, fire burned and men screamed, but beneath the waves all was quiet. The dying sank in slow-motion, wood and steel and bodies.
Clay sank with them.
Young sirens were taught that hubris was humanity’s fatal flaw. Foolish men often believed that they could tame the tides to which they did not belong. They took and took and took, only repaying the sea with the oil and blood they spilled into her waters. It was only right that in the end, they should be claimed by her—a final settling of their debts. The ocean’s only law for sirens was to never interfere.
But Clay was different. She fell limply through the water, hands bound, body bruised, dress worn and ragged. Abalone knew, with heart-wrenching clarity, that she had not chosen this life—and most certainly did not deserve this death.
Abalone knew the consequences; knew that, for the rest of her long life, she would never again be welcome with her own kind. She might live for centuries in exile, alone with her song sewn of cornflower blue.
Abalone reached for Clay’s hand. That would have to be enough.
She wandered for hours to find an island she finally deemed suitable for the girl. It wasn’t too rocky or barren; there were plants to forage and plentiful fish darting through the shallows. An old stone structure on its shore was built long ago by human hands. Good. If others had survived here, so could Clay.
After dragging herself and the unconscious girl onto the cold sand, waves lapping gently at her tail, Abalone finally opened her lungs to fresh air. It had been months since she’d had a taste of the sky, and tonight its taste was crisp and sweet. She anxiously watched Clay’s chest rise and fall—still alive, at least.
Abalone tore through the ropes binding Clay’s hands with her own teeth, spitting out the bitter fibers and gently rubbing saltwater into the burns along her slender wrists. Abalone was surprised to find saltwater leaking from her own eyes as she cradled Clay’s head in her lap. It was just…how could men be so cruel? This girl deserved gentle touches and soft words—more kindness than the world could give.
Abalone wanted to try anyway. She brushed the short, wet hair from Clay’s eyes, and did her best to bandage the wound on her forehead with long bands of kelp. Then, thinking her safe enough for now, she retreated into the surf and circumnavigated the island until she found the mouth of a small river. She took a large clam shell from the beach and carried it upstream until the brine had all but faded from the riverwater. She filled the shell to brimming and then slowly, carefully, swam back to the beach with the water held high above.
It was enough for Clay to take three small mouthfulls. Abalone was quietly grateful that, even unconscious, her body remembered how to drink. She made the journey to the river many times until Clay would take no more.
After, Abalone chased down a salmon and killed it quickly, thanking it for its gift of life before returning to the beach. She dragged herself onto the sand once more and set out the salmon on a length of driftwood, already cleaned and deboned. Exhausted, Abalone lay near the girl, letting her hand lightly rest against Clay’s.
Clay stirred. Abalone sat up quickly, watching the girl roll over, cough weakly, and blink blearily awake. Their eyes met, both widening with awe.
Then, Clay slumped, falling once again into unconsciousness.
It was high tide: the sea was loud and the sun just beginning to puncture the dense veil of mist. It was already growing too bright for Abalone’s pale eyes, and her heart began to sink with the knowledge of what she had to do:
Leave. Leave, and never look back.
Clay had to believe that her survival was a simple stroke of luck. Abalone had already broken the ocean’s law, but to continue seeing the girl, to betray the sea’s secrets to an outsider? That was unthinkable.
So Abalone floated out on the cool morning surf, turning to steal one more look at the beautiful stranger for which she had sacrificed everything.
In ten breaths, she was gone.
Abalone’s world snaps back into focus, the handmirror grasped tightly in one hand, the fingers of the other still sliding over the grass crown woven into her hair. Her song has faded almost completely, the ocean’s darkness pressing in on her again. It makes her angry.
These last three years have changed her, even if the looking glass doesn’t agree. No, she doesn’t regret her choice; the world is a kinder place with Clay in it. But she does regret the three years she’s wasted watching silently from the mist.
Abalone sets her jaw, clutching the handmirror to her chest. Ocean be damned—she’s known enough loneliness for a lifetime.
—
Low tide.
The sun’s slender fingers tug at the thick curtain of ocean mist, slowly unveiling a world born anew. As if to say goodbye, the last remnants of mist creep in through the shattered window of Clay’s lighthouse, dewy tendrils kissing her awake as warm sunlight filters through her eyelids.
Clay rises slowly, dressing in a freshly washed dress which she had sewn for herself out of old sailcloth. She takes a long sip from the cup of pine leaf tea she left to steep on the windowsill overnight. It’s cold and faintly bitter, but familiar. She trails down the spiral steps at the heart of the tower with the grace of a dancer, as if this place, this island, has always been her home. In a way, it has; what other place could she belong, when all memories of her life before have been claimed by the sea?
Clay doesn’t mourn the life she’s forgotten, not anymore. She only wishes, in the quiet mornings or the moonless nights, that her new life didn’t have to be so…lonely.
A squawk at the open window startles her, and she grins playfully at Pebble. The proud raven perches indignantly on the sill, as if reading her thoughts.
Okay, perhaps lonely was a bit unfair.
“Good morning, friend,” Clay calls, voice rough from sleep and disuse. She often goes many days without saying a word, only breaking her silence for the occasional greeting to other residents of the island—Deer, Rabbit, Gull.
Pebble, however, stubbornly demands her voice.
“Morning,” Pebble caws impatiently. “Food?”
Ah, yes. He also demands her food.
She sets out a small clay bowl full of berries, which she had collected just for him. Pebble nods approvingly, then flits out the window and returns with a shard of smooth, reflective glass. Like a sliver of the moon. Clay takes it carefully in two hands, spinning it around with curiosity. In the meantime, Pebble happily enjoys his bowl of berries.
“Where did you get this?” Clay asks softly. “Show me?”
After they’ve both eaten, the raven leads Clay out to the beach. The sole of her foot still aches dully, the wound wrapped tightly in clean sailcloth, so she’s grateful when the raven lands on the cool sand rather than the barnacle-encrusted rocks. He squawks proudly, bobbing his head toward a shiny something half-buried in sand. Clay scratches beneath his beak in appreciation, and Pebble flutters off, content for the time being.
Clay kneels beside the sea’s gift, fingers closing around a handle of…gold? Carefully, she unearths a shining handmirror, its glass face half-shattered. She gazes into it with a mixture of fear and awe, and sees…herself.
Are those stormy gray eyes really her own? It’s been so long that she’s forgotten her own features: tawny skin, long brown hair kept braided down her back, sharp nose, full lips curved like a bow. There’s an unfamiliar scar above her eyebrow—the ghost of the injury that stole her memories.
It’s bittersweet, the sight of herself. Her face has aged in the past three years; her jaw is sharper, cheeks less full, eyes holding a wisdom colored by grief. Clay is no longer a child; she hasn’t been for some time now.
A few drops of sea fall from the corners of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispers to the sea, cradling the mirror to her chest.
Clay stares out at the horizon, visible now that the sun has chased away most of the fog. The water is mirror-smooth to match the sky’s deep cornflower blue. A color Clay has always loved.
Subtle ripples betray movement near the shore. A seal, perhaps? No, that’s…
A girl.
A girl.
For a moment, Clay’s world is held in the breath separating reality from dream. This isn’t possible. Clay is alone here on this island, surrounded by a sea to which she does not belong. And it’s enough. It has to be.
Doesn’t it?
Abalone drifts in the shallows, only her face breaking the surface of the crystal-clear water. Clay meets her captivating mother-of-pearl stare, like recognizing like, and in that moment she is known—wholly and completely. Strangely, she feels as though she knows Abalone, too. A faint memory nags at her, whispering that this is not the first time they’ve met.
Abalone’s bone-white hair billows out around her in an ethereal cloud, and woven into it is a glossy green crown.
Clay’s gift.
The breath she’s been holding rushes out in a laugh of pure astonishment, and suddenly, the mirror falls to the sand and she is running—across sand, rocks, barnacles. She leaps over driftwood, dodges tidepools, skirts around crabs and stars and sand dollars but she is running, running towards someone. After all this time.
The water’s edge rushes up to meet her and she skids to a stop, bare feet bleeding in the sand. Abalone is staring up at her, eyes wide and startlingly pale, the rest of her body—half woman, half fish—visible now through the clear surf.
She is beautiful, and achingly real.
“It’s you,” Clay says breathlessly. “All this time, it was you.”
Face alight with joy and wonder, the siren smiles, and the sun seems to shine more gently. Even with her lips pulled back to expose shark-like teeth, Clay can’t bring herself to be the slightest bit afraid. She takes a step forward, feeling the sting of saltwater on her bleeding soles, but Abalone doesn’t turn to flee.
Another step, then another.
Clay is knee-deep in the shallows now, dress blossoming around her, the cold clawing at her skin. Abalone watches wordlessly. They are close enough to touch.
For once, the waking world seems to fall silent, the gulls ceasing their cries and the waves falling placid and still.
Two hands meet, and the line between land and sea dissolves as if it were nothing more than mist.