Crashing Tides

by Gwendolyn Marie

  CRASHING TIDES

  ——————

  CRASHING TIDES

  By Gwendolyn Marie

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Independently Published

  Cover design by Cristina Tănase

  Copyright © 2019 Gwendolyn Marie Walker

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781674905891

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  For Nicholas

  Crashing Tides

  “When beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.”

  —Herman Melville, ‘Moby Dick’.

  “Yet on through moors and tree-clad mountainsides, over crags and cliffs and trackless wastes I ran. The sun was at our backs: I saw in front—or it was fear that saw—a giant shadow. For sure I heard his frightful footfalls, fled his panting breath upon my braided hair.”

  —Ovid, ‘Metamorphoses’. On the Nymph Arethusa.

  Prologue

  She lived behind walls all of her life. Caged like a wild animal, regarded as such. Yet fortune came and she escaped her prison. But where did this bring her, she wondered, as she looked down to the stranger transforming in her arms, and then up to the madman staring at them both.

  “What did you do?” she said to the madman named Triton. She tried to help the stranger, pushing him to his side to make sure he did not suffocate on his own blood. Triton had referred to him as the Pathfinder, though she knew nothing else about him. No matter how she tried to save him, she knew it was too late. She felt tremors in his body. Blood dripped as tears from his eyes and in those eyes she saw chaos. He tried to reach towards her, though not in reflex nor in desiring help, but in a blind struggle to retain his hold on life.

  His arms seemed paralyzed though, preventing his intent to grab and claw at her. She knew that if she kept trying to rescue him, she would be trapped and both would be damned. And so she stepped away and took one last look pass the stranger and at Triton.

  He did not move to stop her. Did not start a chase. Just watched and let the scene play out as if for his amusement.

  She ran. Through the hallways, through the doors, she ran until one finally opened to the outside. However, neither grass nor concrete met her bare feet. Forests and cities did not come to view. Only steel under her stance. Only the ocean came to her sight.

  Snow fell in the night sky. Water rose in waves, crashing against the hull of the ship. The wind tore against her skin as if to stop her, but still she ran. She spared one more glance behind her. Everything was shades of grey in the nightscape, but she saw the outlines of her captors. Their shadows were visible through the snowfall.

  Triton. Several other forms flanked him.

  Terror surged from the sight, but still she would not be subdued. Yet deep inside she knew the ship trapped her and deemed any escape pointless before she even had the chance.

  All her life she wanted to get away. All her life she desired to escape, to fight, and then to live. And now she was faced with that life-long wish. She could jump and find freedom. The problem was that she would die as well, the cold sea swallowing her whole.

  One wish came true: her escape. Perhaps if she tried for another.

  To wish upon a star.

  When did humankind find the belief that its troubles, hopes, and dreams can all be fulfilled by looking up above. By picking out that one shimmer of shining light and whispering the words that we can tell no other.

  Did anyone truly presume that their dreams would be answered, she wondered. That their fears would be torn apart by starlight, leaving only our desires that could come true.

  Still she looked to a star in the snowy night sky.

  And even though the stars were hidden by the clouds, she murmured the words of longings that went unanswered for so long before.

  Unlike all the other wishes she once made, this wish was different. This wish she had the sky above to wish upon rather than a ceiling. She needed it to come true, and with all her soul she had to believe that her voice would be heard in the cosmos above. That the star would answer, that her words did not fall upon deaf ears.

  “Free me.”

  Free from all, a slave to eternity.

  A gloved hand came from behind to restrain her. One of her captors pushed her down and she fell on the steel deck as he put his weight on her. She tried to fight back, but he folded her arms behind her in restraint, pressing his knee into the small of her back.

  She would not plead, nor beg for his mercy. Instead as he pulled her to face him, she thrusted her knee between his legs. As he leaned over, racked in pain, she shoved her forehead into his.

  Blood.

  Hers. Not his. She had not met flesh when she had struck him in the head, but instead a mask and respirator. She grasped to stay conscious. Darkness descended upon her vision and soon she could not tell the dark of night from the dark of her subconscious.

  One thing remained. The star she had wished upon, the light fading in and out amidst the overcast winter skies. She had to focus on it, to ward off unconsciousness, if she wanted to end this nightmare.

  Though it did not wound him as expected, the guard loosened his grip. She was able to get out from under him and started away. She could only crawl as blood fell from her head in drops below. The red mixing with the white.

  Something encircled her leg. She pulled, imagining instead she had found forest and the roots of the trees had come to life, granting her a repose as they pulled her beneath the dirt. But she knew this was not true. The grip tightened and another hold came upon her upper thigh. It was Triton. His hands grasped her.

  He pulled her away. He pulled her back to hell.

  Chapter One

  Wild is the wind. Free is the spirit.

  The wanderer walked, without a past, without knowledge of the future, toward a destination yet seen or known.

  What was ahead mattered little as she walked along the coasts, spiraling beside the sea. And what lay behind her was forgotten. Yet she did not question why she was there, why she walked, why her past was gone. The answers were beneath a depth greater than the ocean floor, her memories being a blackened thought in her mind. From her perspective she always walked along the shore, always strode alone—without possession or care. Untethered to even the most simple things, she walked nude without as much as a name. But being stripped of all possessions exposed her to a primal freedom. It felt right and for the first time within even a forgotten life she was free.

  She could only guess why she started this journey, or why along the way her memories perished as the sun was now to the midnight skies. But does it matter that the waves break with such tenacity to shred shells into sand or that each droplet of water may not succeed to find the ocean again. Does it matter why she walked?

  Nature need not be questioned; the aberrant exists even without a place. And she would not search for why she was here, for what was important was neither the past nor future. What holds significance is life, and that is singularly defined by the moment itself. So she walked with each step harmonious with the lawless rumblings of the sea. Her sole companion was that of the animalistic—impromptu and irresistible—rage of nature.

  Nothing lasts. Sandy beaches changed to rocky shores. Glistening in the moonlight, a dorsal fin peaked between the waves, indicating she was not alone. A peregrine falcon cried above, interrupting th
e melody of insentience. And then beyond a doubt, her solitude broke.

  Steps, once unbound, faltered as a figure came to her sight. A man, but was he real or imagined?

  Her hair, caught in the wind’s dance, lashed against her back as if urging her forward. She succumbed and walked closer. The form became clear. He was dressed in a faded shirt and cargo pants rolled up to his thighs. He held a makeshift spear in one hand, composed of a knife tied to a stick. A net was in his other. Still a figment, she wondered, or did clarity come hand in hand with reality.

  The man stepped into the waters. An unusual air clung to the enigma before her. Though she was sure that by now he noticed her presence, he did not grant a passing glance. Instead, his gaze remained on the sea. She looked over him, believing him to be one from tales long forgotten: a Fisherman. Even with her memory lost, she remembered the word as she knew the boundless pool of water before her was called an ocean and the fire of the sun, now hidden, would come again.

  The waves burst upon the shore in spray as she walked to him. Coming closer, she then stopped at the cusp between the water and the rocks as she heard him speak.

  “It is wonderful out here,” he said, addressing her with his voice but not with his eyes. The words rang true to her, for no place other than here did she wish to be, no place as wonderful.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, not in unkindness but in curiosity. It felt odd to her, for in his presence her spirit no longer soared, but was bound to adhere to the principles of conversation. However, the Fisherman said nothing, breaking her preconceptions. And though silence was his response, she accepted it in answer. The principles did not apply here, it was just the two of them. And so she spoke again, as the Fisherman waded out further, tracking what lay below the surface.

  “Predators feed at night beneath the sea,” she said, remembering the dorsal fin she had seen moments before. It evoked in her an image of the fin’s possessor, though something told her upon sight of the Fisherman that he would accept confrontation without indecision. He would not flee the water as any sane person would do.

  That belief was why she did not leave, why she stood still, intrigued.

  “And I am one,” he responded.

  One of the predators. He spoke with such nonchalance that his words hypnotized her, not of meaning but rather of tone. He seemed not to care for anything but confronting one challenge after another; that was what she felt from the self-proclaimed predator.

  Her stare danced toward the sea, visually chasing the fish as they darted to and fro between the Fisherman’s legs. The shadows were difficult to discern in the night, but the movements were clear as they rippled the water.

  Not invited to stay, but still not moving to go, she waited to see if he would succeed in the capture of his dinner. Hunger welled at the sight of him, the net, and his spear.

  “Is fishing a challenge, when you have a clear advantage over the fish?” she asked, taking a step closer to the Fisherman. The spear set him above the instinctual fish, she believed, as well as human prowess set by evolution. Hunting had once been an everyday affair in the lives of their ancestors. Not an honored occasion, but rather habitual. Not of challenge, but of survival.

  No reply again. An uncomfortable shift arose in the resolution of the Fisherman. Perhaps he did not want her to stay, she thought.

  Minutes grew long as the hunt went on. She waited, knowing that it was too late to continue her path. Not in the sense of time, but rather she could not imagine herself turning away from the Fisherman. He threw the spear into the scales, in calculation to bring death and an end to his hunger. She desired to learn the same to satisfy her own hunger. Hunger that grew and grew as her sight lingered on the scene.

  Without warning, the Fisherman stopped his hunt and turned to her. He spoke, his words as gutting as she imagined the knife would be. “In the bogs of Maine, surrounding these island shores and outward, life is driven by death and madness. Despite these horrors, there stands one thing. A trace of hope withstands the environment that destroys all else. The orchid Arethusa grows in the devastation and even flourishes in these impenetrable swamps. It is a piece of lasting dignity where no other can be found.”

  She barely understood what he said. Did the Fisherman even speak to her? Instead, it was as if he said it to the waves, breaking in white chariots, driving their pearl hooves into the shores. She even mused that he was not the one who spoke; rather, the rumblings from the sea itself formed the words. Whatever the origins of the allegorical voice, she listened as if said for her alone as he continued, the waves a crashing chorus to his questions. “Are you the Arethusa? Are you the last shred of hope within humanity, carved from the dragon’s mouth to devastate ... but instead you bloom unexpectedly?”

  A whimsical smile graced her lips. She did not know what to make of his view of life, entombed by darkness and gloom. All she could do was to interpret his words as a fancy of storytelling threads woven in her mind to create tales to delight in.

  “Am I?” she questioned. “You ask, but I do not know. I only know that my stomach growls watching you.”

  She stepped closer on the rocks to him. Did she see fear pass in him?

  “Teach me to fish,” she continued, “please Fisherman.”

  Half of her expected no response, but he nodded in a voiceless tolerance. Without the charisma of a gentleman, the Fisherman stripped himself of his shirt and threw it to her. Still he remained silent as to why she was nude, not that she could explain if asked. She caught the shirt and pulled it over her head, unsure if gratitude or resentment came in wearing it.

  It smelled of salt and fish, sweat and him. The shirt fit her as a dress, offering modesty in replace of the wind against her skin. Though even with her confinement in his shirt, she was enticed to begin tutelage under him. His teachings began not of speech, but for her to watch and learn.

  She stepped into the water to join him. She delighted in the chill of the waves; they pounded against her as if to bulldoze any infringement standing in their path. Given time, they would have. Now, however, they only offered serenity.

  The Fisherman sunk his blade into a fish. Red replaced the translucent blue. Was this the poet of only moments ago, she asked herself. Figurative speeches about orchids now replaced by the unembellished hunt.

  As the sign of his kill diluted, she met his gaze. He acknowledged her with a sternness in his face. An inadvertent rejection of her presence dwindled in the stare between them. Why did she sense these emotions—why had she seen fear, she wondered. But instead of focus on this, she chose to see what was beyond his disapproval, a sense of familiarity and perhaps hope.

  Or perhaps what she saw was just the moon aglow in his eyes.

  “The fish view you as a presence outside their own world,” he said, tearing the small fish off of the knife and throwing it into the water. She almost reached in to grab it, wondering for what reason the Fisherman would waste a prospective meal. But watching the body, watching its death soak within the waters, she understood as other, larger fish began to swarm near. He then handed her his spear. “In order to kill them, you must first make them accept your presence. To view you not as an intruder, but as something that was always there to begin with.”

  She stood still, though at first the fish rushed away. But it was more than the physical stillness she realized she had to obtain, it was from within that she had to focus upon. Lure the rippling of her soul to peace, to calm the creatures into a false hope. She thought of the deep sea predators, the dragonfish in particular considering the shared namesake of the dragon’s mouth orchid, the arethusa, the Fisherman had mentioned. She mused that she could draw upon the starlight behind her, having it act as her own photophore, deceiving the prey. Or perhaps she could be fast enough to grab their bodies from below without them slipping through her fingers with ease. However, she suppressed trying to catch them bare handed. She was not the Fisherman. In order to learn one forgoes their instincts and listens to the wis
er, at least at first. That was the foundation of civilization after all, to learn and build on the knowledge of others.

  Then you can deviate. Then you can create the new.

  Each fish scampered between her legs, even becoming brave enough to nibble on her skin with their beaks of fleshy scales. Painless though ticklish, their pecks and hesitant ventures turned more audacious as they became to view her as a humble co-inhabitant.

  “It is not enough to be accepted. For one moment out of the ordinary will send them scattering back to the depths, allowing their instincts to overrule,” the Fisherman said. “Instead watch them. Predict their movements. Though it seems erratic, even in chaos lies an underlying order. You will find reason within the rhyme.”

  Understand them, feel them, and see their movements yet to come. As a fish slid pass, she struck out and embedded the spear into the scales. Pulling upward, she smiled. The fish squirmed on the blade’s end, her soon to be dinner. The body twitched in a last finality signaling the swimmer’s end. The kill reflected in her eyes with a ravenous triumph; soon it would become meat so delicious that it would melt upon her tongue in feast.

  Would thoughts of such bring her under the flag of evil—of one whose motto is within destruction? To kill something to appease your hunger: that was not evil, she reasoned, as long as that ‘something’ was not your own species. But why think of morality now, she wondered.

  What would the Fisherman believe, for surely he, more than anyone, would understand the saying: death for life.

  “Is it wrong to feel such good spirits in the wake of another’s death?” she asked the Fisherman, looking to him for the answers.

  In response to her question, the Fisherman opened his mouth as if to say something of grave importance. But nothing came, no words of wisdom or fanciful anecdotes. Instead he shook his head and turned. He had been there too long and had already offered her the only guidance he could. And so he left. He left her standing in the tides, and he walked to the shore and beyond, into the shadows of the night.