by Mark Teppo
After that, it’s Harrie they find on Cobble Quay, sagging and drained as a can of Klense. A discarded scarf. We dance hard that night, flinging empty pixel-bottles of percolated brandy and at*mSauce. FastRQ soothes, mellows, and our steps slow as we remember the sun.
Then Layalle descends to the floor, hedgehog spines streaming song and fire, and the dance returns, spinning forever around the balmy island night.
Letters to a Body on the Cusp of Drowning
— A.C. Wise
The Narrator’s Tale
Every tale must have a beginning. So what harm in starting here?
Once upon a time, a young girl ran away to sea with dreams of becoming a sailor. She bound her breasts and cut off her hair; she learned to lower her voice and swear like a man. Her hands were never a problem, she already chewed her nails ragged, much to her mother’s consternation, and she had palms made for callusing.
By the time she signed to a crew, she could already drink most men under the table. Those she couldn’t, who were spoiling for a fight, always calmed at her offer to buy the next round and share a filthy new drinking song. No, it wasn’t her body that betrayed her–she could haul line and climb rigging with the best—it was her heart.
Seven days out from their latest port, the Bonny Anne came across a wreck with a lone survivor. Once pulled from the waves, the men saw the survivor was a woman, and most were for throwing her back overboard—women and ships, after all. Only the young girl, Kit by name, was silent when the vote was called. She’d been heart-struck in an instant at the scent of saltwater drying on the woman’s hair and skin, enchanted by the sea-green of her eyes, lulled by her voice, stitching the faintest threads of a storm inside the sweetness of her tone.
The men were right to fear her, but it would go worse if they cast her overboard, Kit was sure. They voted to let her stay, and that was how Kit knew she’d guessed right. The woman was a witch, and it seemed more than likely vote and shipwreck both were her doing.
The next night found the Bonny Anne becalmed. Kit, unable to sleep, walked the deck. Everything was still—not a breath of wind, and the water smooth as a mirror. Kit traced the path the moon made from deck to horizon; in all that stillness, it seemed a bridge solid enough to walk upon.
"What do you think is over there?" the woman asked, startling Kit, who had thought herself alone.
"On the far shore?" Kit remembered to drop her voice, but unable to keep it from breaking.
"No, beyond the horizon." The woman considered Kit, not the line dividing sky from water.
"I’m sure I don’t know." Kit gripped the rail, trying to still her hands from trembling.
"More water." The witch put her lips very close to Kit’s ear, so Kit could feel the warmth of breath behind them, along with the shape of the woman’s smile.
"Tell me," the woman continued, "when you look in the water, what do you see?"
Kit looked down, startled by the brilliance of her reflection and that of the woman beside her. The smell of saltwater had sharpened, even though the woman was a full day out of the sea. Her eyes, reflected in the water’s glass, shone as luminous as things risen from the deep.
"The ocean is a trickster," the witch said. "It is both false and true. But on nights like this, when everything is still and the moon is clear, it shows us our true selves, and it cannot lie. Except when it does."
"What do you . . . ."Kit started to turn, but the woman pointed.
"Look."
Kit, pulse wild with nerves, leaned out over the rail. In the moonlight, it almost seemed a few days growth of stubble shadowed her jaw; her shoulders looked broader, her fingers thicker. Kit gasped.
"Is that what you wish?" The witch withdrew, giving Kit space and leaving her cold; Kit shivered.
She faced the woman, putting the rail at her back, feeling the immense danger of both woman and sea. The curl of a smile remained on the witch’s lips, a wisp of rising smoke, and the light in her eyes brightened.
"You know what I am?" The words came out before Kit could stop them.
"Do you?" The witch raised an eyebrow.
Kit shook her head, sick suddenly; her eyes ached and stung, but no tears fell. She loved the sea, the deck beneath her feet, the ship’s song, creaking in the wind. But she missed her sisters’ voices, and the way her mother would brush out their hair all together—fifty strokes for each of them until their locks shone.
"What if you could have it both ways?" the witch asked.
"At what price?" Kit’s heart thumped.
"Clever girl." The witch stepped close again, fingered a lock of Kit’s hair. "I think this is getting a bit long. You need someone to cut it."
Dazed, Kit followed the woman to the small cabin she’d been given. The witch had made a makeshift dressing table from a plank of wood and several empty crates. The table was laid with three silver objects—a hand mirror, a pair of scissors, and a comb—even though the woman had nothing when she was hauled aboard.
With the gentle pressure of fingertips on shoulders, the woman pushed Kit onto an upturned crate acting as a chair. Picking up the comb, she began to work salt-matted knots from Kit’s hair.
"It’s easy," the witch said, catching the thread of a conversation Kit barely followed. "You can change, but every time you do, it will stitch a ghost under your skin. You can become a man, and as easily become a woman again, but each time you do, you will remember an entire life not your own. Or perhaps it is very much your own, only from another time, and there will always be the risk of losing yourself beneath the layers. That is the price."
Kit’s hair lay smooth by the work of the witch’s comb, the edges curling to tickle her ears and the back of her neck where it had indeed grown too long. As the witch lifted the scissors, Kit twisted to look at her.
"How do you know all this?"
"Oh." Light slid through the witch’s eyes, a crescent moon, wicked-sharp as a smile. "I’ve had occasion to borrow a ghost or two in my time."
The witch set the scissors down, and in a smooth motion, undid the buttons of her borrowed shirt. Kit’s breath caught, pulse snagging at the sight of the witch’s breasts, full round and visible for only an instant before the witch wound the shirt around them, binding them as Kit bound hers. As the cloth went round the witch’s chest more than flattened, it broadened; the texture of her skin became rougher and hairier. The witch took Kit’s hand, and pressed it to her throat; Kit was shocked to feel an Adam’s apple.
"You see?" The witch’s voice was deep, rough like a stone not yet worn by the sea. Only the eyes remained the same—green as tide and weed.
"Teach me." Kit exhaled.
The man turned Kit toward the wall again, wielding the scissors. As each scrap fell, Kit felt the subtle shift as bones arranged themselves to a new form.
"And when I want to change back?" Kit asked, voice caught between male and female, both and neither.
"Like this." The witch brushed out Kit’s hair, making the strokes long as though tresses fell halfway down Kit’s back; soon enough, they did.
"And here." The witch produced sweet-smelling powder, dusting it onto Kit’s cheeks with his rough palms so she felt the cheekbones shift again, her face narrow. "We all wear masks, it’s just a matter of choosing to make them more than skin deep."
The witch handed Kit the mirror, and Kit met her startled reflection—the girl who had run away from home, not the sailor boy she’d become.
"It’s that simple?" Kit set the mirror down.
"Nothing is ever simple." The man sighed, running his hands through his hair, lengthening it where Kit had barely noticed it shortened. She unbound her breasts, and Kit’s cheeks warmed before the witch re-buttoned her shirt.
In place of slivered-moon mischief, a well of sadness filled the witch’s eyes.
"Why?" Kit asked.
The witch shrugged, tone husked slightly. "Perhaps I’m lonely."
Kit studied her, the turn of her shoulder and the weight visib
ly bearing it down. She understood in her bones: the witch offered both blessing and curse, all rolled into one.
But Kit had been heart-struck the moment the half-drowned witch had been pulled aboard. She touched the witch’s shoulder lightly.
"Yes." Kit leaned forward, but her voice was barely a whisper. Teeth caught lip, uncertain, but she made herself look into the witch’s eyes.
She could feel the witch’s pulse, the warmth of her, the steady beat of her heart. The witch shifted stance, an agreement and an invitation—a shared moment of sorrow and joy.
"How . . ."Kit faltered, throat dry. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the witch’s face if she guessed wrong. "How do you want me?"
The witch’s fingertips brushed the edge of Kit’s shirt, loosed the first few buttons, and traced the edge of the bandage still binding Kit’s breasts.
"However you choose."
Every word of this is true. Every word is a lie. So it is with witches and things brought up from the sea.
Kit finds the letter atop the crisply made bed five hours after the cruise ship sets sail. The paper is wrinkled with the memory of damp fingerprints and smells faintly of the sea. At the right angle, the ink shines with a green reminiscent of lightless places, and for a moment it reminds him of something, someone. The letter is addressed: To a Body on the Cusp of Drowning.
His pulse stutters. As long as he can remember, Kit has been terrified of water, especially the sea. His first memory, one his family and countless doctors have told him can’t possibly be real, is drowning.
A trick by the service crew? No, they mostly work on tips. Another passenger? How would they gain access to the cabin? With shaking hands, Kit slips the letter from its envelope and reads.
You will drown. We saw it in your eyes as we swam below you, just under the glitter of light on the waves. Your eyes searched the water, and they were hungry. You did not see us, but we saw you. We know you. There are ghosts beneath your skin, and every one of them, every one of you, is made to drown.
But before you do, let us tell you of the sea.
Kit drops the page as if burned, and presses her fingers to the aching space between her brows. Something has changed; something is wrong. A moment ago she was someone else, and what is she doing here? On a . . . boat? That can’t be right. Kit is terrified of water. No, now she remembers. The doctor said it would be good for her, contact therapy.
Yes, Kit remembers lying in the netting around the ship’s bowsprit, stretched like a hammock over the waves, fighting stomach-cramping fear. She’d forced herself not to look away. That was when she’d seen the flash, there and just as quickly gone.
Dizzy, Kit lowers herself to the bed, trying to catch her breath. It had been a trick of the light. After so long staring at the ship’s carved figurehead—the woman with arms spread as though to gather the sea, and in place of legs or a tail, the ship itself flowing behind her—Kit had merely imagined seeing something impossible beneath the waves.
Kit glances at the letter again.
Every one of you is made to drown.
At night, with the cabin’s porthole cocked open to the breeze, Kit listens to the timbers creak, the sailcloth flutter, the waves slap the hull. The sounds should be soothing, but Kit gathers the sheets in clenched fingers until his knuckles turn white. The ship is only a recreation of a grand clipper from the golden age of sail, but the roll of the deck feels hauntingly familiar. How is it that lying under soft sheets, Kit’s body remembers the sharp cut of hammock rope, being suspended among other sailors, listening to them breathe? Phantom calluses harden Kit’s palms; bare feet itch to scale the rigging. Kit’s arms, roped with invisible muscles, long to swing into the crow’s nest so salt-chapped lips can taste the air.
She releases a breath. If she fails to concentrate she slips—memories, nightmares, dreams. Ghosts. Kit’s body tumbles from a high cliff and shatters on salt-washed rocks far below. Kit walks into the waves, pockets full of stones. Kit lets go of a ship’s splintery rail, relinquishing control to a storm.
How can these memories be hers? Kit is lost, some elusive truth constantly slipping just beyond his reach, falling through his hands. Something about the sea; there is something about the sea.
Tired of sleep eluding her, Kit paces the small cabin. The roll of the ship rises to meet her bare soles, bringing a sudden, sharp awareness of her body. It feels wrong; it does not belong to her.
These are Kit’s hands: fingers blunt, nails short—strong hands, nimble, but the skin is neither calloused-rough nor silken-smooth. This is Kit’s hair: cropped short, but not salt-tousled or finely coiffed. And Kit’s frame: short, muscular, but beneath the skin, the bones are too fine for a sailor’s bones and not delicate enough for a noble’s. None of the pieces fit except Kit’s eyes. They are the grey-green of the sea.
The second letter appears as the first, the paper damp and smelling of current-stirred weeds. Kit resists the urge to put paper to tongue and taste squid ink, shells crushed to particulate dust, and black, volcanic sand. What if the paper tastes of nothing?
Kit reads.
There are myths about the sea. It is hungry, greedy. It takes everything, and gives nothing in return. It cannot be reasoned with, or prayed to; it cannot be bribed. What it is owed, it will claim. What it is not owed, it will take anyway.
The sea is contradictory. It is generous. It is a lover, a mother with boundless children. It is a bridge that will carry you beyond the horizon. Its depths hold wonder and terror in equal parts. It is a song, a harmony for many voices. Listen.
Once upon a time, Kit was short for Katherine, and she ran away from home. The ship she crewed on was caught in a terrible storm; everyone on board drowned. Once upon a time, Kit was the nickname of Jonathan Kitterage, first mate on a crew seeking passage to India. The ship was beset by pirates, and finding it empty of valuables, they scuttled it, sinking it with all hands aboard. Once upon a many times, Kit was only Kit—a child who could breathe underwater, a drowned man risen up from the waves, a woman standing behind lighthouse rails overlooking the sea.
All of these things are a lie. Every one of them is true.
One night, when Kit couldn’t bear the lives crowded inside his skin, he took a knife to the invisible stitches binding them within and tried to set them free. So now she is here, her suitcase packed with pill bottles, taking a journey the doctors promised will liberate her. If only he can learn to face his fears.
But Kit is more fearful than ever, knowing deep in his bones that the only thing the journey will teach her is how to drown.
The third letter is an envelope thick with water-swollen pages. This one smells of blood—an iron tang, washed by the waves. Kit considers throwing it overboard, refusing to read, but in the end, her curiosity is too strong. She returns to the netting around the bowsprit, stretching out under the watchful eyes of the ship-woman. The carved wooden face reminds him of someone—that quirk of the mouth, the sadness in her eyes, her arms spread as if to gather him in. If only he could remember. With a sigh, Kit turns her attention to the pages, and reads.
The Mermaid’s Tale
The sea is a patient lover, compared to the land. It would have loved me as I was, asking nothing in return. But I could not love the sea as my sisters do. Only half my heart was saltwater; the rest was made of longing.
My eldest sister loved the hot currents best. There is a place where a fissure splits the rock and curls of warm water rise from the ocean floor. My sister’s tail would flicker, tongue-light, over this cleft, teasing forth ribbons of heat to twine around her from skin to scales. Oh, her song.
My second eldest sister prefers dead men’s bones, ocean-stripped and pearlescent, cradled in the wrecks of sea-warped ships. Once their flesh has fed the fish who feed us, they are ready for her. Her long fingers caress empty eyeholes, gathering the memory of dreams and sucking it down like caviar. She traces the curve of cheek, spine, rib, and hip. Only her hands move as she drift
s near motionless, her tail stilled until the end when she bares sharp teeth to sing. And oh, her song!
My third eldest sister loves lightless things. Her play is secret, but she comes home with eyes wide and light-starved. She slips after blind eels and fish, playing games of touch and taste. She does not see her lovers, and they do not see her. They know each other as frond brushes scale, tentacle caresses skin, and tongue traces a shell’s whorling curves. Oh, her song!
But I do not love as my sisters do. All that they are is in the waves, as if they belonged only in one world. They think with the hunger below their waists, as if love was small enough to encompass only either or and never both.
Oh, my song! It is vast and wide. It contains multitudes—fish and deep, green things, yes, but sand and the sharp cry of birds; ships, un-drowned and creatures who sip life straight from unfiltered sunlight and bright air.
My sisters begged me to stay. It sorrowed me to leave, but I could not live as they do. My tail thrust hard against the waves, my head broke the surface, and I breathed dry air.
At first, it was like drowning—what I imagine humans feel in the moments before they become fit for my second sister’s tender ministrations. I forced myself to stay until black stars burst before my eyes and I had to plunge once more beneath the waves and let the current smooth away what was not quite pain. Returning, the water’s touch was sharper against my newly roused skin. This was the sensation I had been missing, tracing my length from crown to tail. Oh, how I sang.
While my sisters left the grotto to seek their pleasures, I dove again and again for the surface. I learned to breathe, longer each time. I delayed gratification, prolonged ecstasy, but still, I hungered for more. I needed to taste the sand with the soles of feet I did not have, but could feel like phantoms beneath my scales.
At first, I despaired of being trapped inside the ocean’s skin, only half alive, subsisting on stolen pleasures, fleeting as the life of krill before a whale. I sang my sorrow to the waves, soft and low. But oh, my song! It came back to me, and I learned I was not alone. There were others who loved as I did and knew how to change.