Sea Foam and Silence Read online

  And we shall be sailing on the day they found me.

  Yes, that is fitting. ^_^

  Normally, my prince and I simply sit.

  Normally, he tells me about his day

  And I do my best to soothe him when it was rough

  Or cheer him up when it was sad

  Or laugh with him when it was hilarious.

  It is not often hilarious.

  I have learned much about ruling.

  Well. Perhaps not that much. :/

  But I have learned enough.

  I know how rare it is for any noble

  To have someone they can trust.

  My heart flutters at the thought

  Of being trusted.

  It makes me happy

  To think my prince is truly himself with me.

  Is that love?

  I have not dared to ask.

  I do not dare ask now.

  Besides, I am too busy spinning

  And watching the sun above me

  Turn and turn and turn and turn

  Until my prince catches me,

  Laughing,

  In his arms because I have stumbled.

  We settle back onto the bench,

  Stone-cold and body-warmed,

  And he takes a foot into his hands.

  He still worries, my prince,

  And he cleans the wounds carefully.

  There is nothing in them.

  There is never anything in them,

  Not after he had the garden paths paved.

  They were stone before, but tiny ones.

  A kind that stings and pinches

  And digs into your feet

  And deepens wounds and it hurts oh it hurts

  And you cannot get them out and you will go mad

  Not being allowed to walk for fear of them.

  I hug myself at the memory of those days,

  With the royal physician threatening

  To tie me to my bed if I dared walk

  On those tattered feet

  And my prince then arguing then acquiescing

  And me, trapped in a cloud of silk and satin,

  Crying tears no one could hear because

  I had not yet learned to speak well with anything

  And I thought I would die if I did not move.

  My prince does not notice,

  So intent is he on my feet.

  He cleans them and binds them.

  They will heal soon enough,

  But for now they will sting and bleed.

  “Are you all right?” he asks,

  The words the start of a familiar ritual.

  I nod. I am always all right. ^_^

  “I’m glad.” He kisses my brow.

  The sigh means he will leave now.

  “I have a lot to prepare,” he says.

  I smile at him, swing my feet

  And the toes brush the ground.

  “Be careful.”

  I always am.

  Though my prince has left, I linger.

  I like the gardens.

  I like the walls and layers of height.

  I do not remember much of the voyage.

  They pulled me onto the boat, shivering,

  And kept me confined to a cabin.

  I would not have been able to walk anyway.

  All I remember is feeling sick,

  My lower body tearing and throbbing,

  And a greasy, burning rot in my throat.

  I do remember the journey to the castle.

  We arrived in a port with too many people,

  Too many noises, too many smells,

  Too much of everything.

  But I liked the feel of the city

  With its narrow streets and leaning buildings.

  They reminded me of rocks.

  I was not so fond of the countryside.

  It was too flat, too empty.

  I did not mind the open sky,

  But oh how still it was. How strange.

  And I could not move up,

  Still cannot move up.

  Only sideways and forwards and backwards.

  I can climb. ^_^

  But it is not the same.

  I am not so fond of climbing either.

  I think I like the forests best.

  Even if I cannot go up unless I climb.

  Even if they hurt my feet the most.

  They are dark and deep and hidden.

  There are rocks and moss and trees

  And caves. Oh, yes, caves.

  I like them best at night

  When they remind me most of the sea.

  Have I missed the water?

  I guess I have.

  I was too sick to miss it at first,

  Then I was too busy.

  And now I am confused. :/

  I do not know how long it will take

  To organise a trip to the ocean.

  ‘A week’ my prince said.

  I wonder whether I will see my sisters again.

  The Witch said I would not, never more,

  But even Witches can be wrong. Can’t they?

  I have not missed my sisters.

  No… That is a lie. I have.

  I have missed my sisters dearly,

  But I have filled my life with others

  And assigned them places beside my sisters.

  There is my prince, of course,

  The first one I met. He is like… none of my sisters.

  I think, perhaps, he is most like the Witch.

  There is the royal physician,

  As fussy as my next-oldest sister.

  When he is not exasperated at my need to move.

  There is the coachman,

  As stern as my third-eldest sister.

  Never let him hear he is soft as jelly.

  He tries so much to be tough and fierce.

  There is my companion,

  As gentle as a summer’s breeze.

  She is a maid and helps me with my clothes.

  She was the one who taught me to speak.

  Who else? Oh, there are many.

  There’s the little baker’s boy.

  I see him on market day

  And he always saves a bit of bread for me.

  Warm and crunchy,

  I have come to relish the taste of fresh bread.

  He’ll make a fine baker when he is older,

  I am sure of it.

  Should I name them all?

  I have never mentioned all of my sisters.

  It seems unfair.

  My sisters have names,

  But this speech cannot render them.

  Not with body nor with words.

  I think of my sisters as I walk to my room.

  It stings, but I am used to the pain now.

  Tonight the physician will come

  And scold me for walking.

  He always does.

  My sisters are not all my sisters.

  Not as tall-crabs understand it.

  It is… difficult to express our lives,

  But I will try.

  My sisters are a family,

  A group bound by birth and blood.

  We can taste it on the water.

  Some are… mother and daughter.

  In the mating time some are father.

  Not everyone is.

  I was never.

  My second-eldest sister has never felt the mating.

  She would look after the youngest,

  Those of us not yet matured.

  I miss my sisters now.

  There must be new sisters,

  Young ones.

  I could be watching them

  With my second-eldest sister,

  Neither of us feeling the mating.

  We could be playing with them,

  Tossing bits of fish and bone and coral

  In all directions,

  Teaching the little ones to swim fast as a blink,

  Quicker than an eel.

  My eldest
sister would scold me for daydreaming.

  My no-longer-youngest would be impatient

  For the hunt.

  I cannot imagine hunting tall-crabs now.

  But oh it would be good to swim with my sisters

  Once again.

  Do they miss me? My sisters?

  Perhaps they have forgotten me.

  I have been gone so long.

  Perhaps another has taken my place.

  I stumble at the thought.

  Flail.

  Catch my balance on a tree.

  The gardeners will be angry.

  Will claim to be angry.

  But the blood should be dry before they see it.

  I think. It is never there for long.

  Do my sisters miss me?

  Would they listen to me?

  Oh, but I do not know.

  I do not know.

  They have never wanted to hear my thoughts

  On tall-crabs before. :( So why now?

  Would they even believe me?

  I will never know.

  I cannot help myself. T_T

  I slide down onto the grass and

  I begin to cry.

  I never knew how much water

  A tall-crab could shed.

  Not until I became one.

  Not until I cried and sweated.

  I am not prone to crying.

  This week appears to be an exception.

  I cry every time I say goodbye.

  I cry every time I say hello

  Because I saw someone again anyway.

  It takes me a while to understand why.

  I am torn. I don’t want to leave this life.

  I want to stay in these gardens,

  Visit the market once a week

  And eat warm bread with the baker’s boy. ^_^

  I want to run in the forests

  And have the physician grumble at me

  Because I am such an intricate puzzle.

  I like being a puzzle.

  It makes people laugh.

  But.

  I want to see my sisters again.

  I want to swim in the sea

  And chase fish and eat them raw.

  I am not allowed to eat fish raw here.

  I want to talk to my sisters,

  To someone who will understand

  My love of the sea, what I know of its creatures.

  Oh, but could I share it with the fishermen?

  Would any be willing to learn my speech

  And let me show them how

  To find the best spots to fish?

  But they would not share

  My enthusiasm for tall-crabs. :(

  My sisters might not either,

  But there could be some.

  If I were with my sisters,

  We could play with bubbles!

  Tall-crabs have things like bubbles,

  But they’re hard and… lumpy.

  No, not lumpy.

  I do not know how to describe them,

  But they are not bubbles and I do not like them.

  And to move without hurting again…

  I cannot even imagine what that would feel like.

  But I would have to give up dancing.

  Dancing brings me joy,

  Even as it brings me pain.

  I first saw dancing at court,

  When they held a feast to celebrate

  My prince’s safe return

  And my good recovery from the cold water.

  I was fascinated by the patterns,

  The way hands touch and change

  And the circles around one another.

  It was, almost, like watching my sisters,

  But with more purpose and less playfulness.

  I did not dance, then,

  For I did not know the steps.

  I watched, rapt, and copied what I could.

  Everything was still too new to me

  And I listened when

  I was not allowed to walk.

  So I moved my hands

  The way that the dancers had

  And little else.

  Not at the feast itself, though.

  I was quickly told to behave myself,

  But after. When I was alone,

  Sinking into thick cushions.

  I wanted to learn, so badly,

  And needed to learn, so much.

  I studied.

  When no one was watching me,

  I put my feet down.

  I did not get far, at first,

  Before the pain would drive me to my knees.

  But I walked. I clung to the bed,

  To the curtains, to the walls,

  To anything I could grasp.

  And I walked and I stumbled and I bled

  And those in my attendance despaired

  And begged me not to continue.

  I did not listen.

  Why would I listen?

  Tall-crabs walk.

  They do not get carried everywhere.

  I wanted to walk.

  I wanted to dance.

  So I kept trying,

  Again and again,

  Until they gave up.

  Some helped me. ^_^

  They taught me how to place my feet,

  How to balance my body.

  But they did not teach me to dance.

  How could they when

  I had no way to ask?

  No, dancing came later.

  Dancing came when I went into town for market day

  And saw a group of people in the square.

  I did not know they were dancing at first.

  They sprang and jumped

  And twirled and threw out their limbs.

  I liked the look of it.

  Oh, but I liked the look of it.

  By then I had learned to speak with my hands.

  I could not yet say very much,

  But I could ask simple things.

  And, anyway, you do not need to ask

  Anything to be able to mimic.

  The dancers were pulling people into their midst

  And everyone was laughing,

  So one lone girl, imitating easier gestures,

  Did not stand out much.

  But one of them noticed me.

  Sunset-hair bright in the afternoon,

  She took my hand and pulled me into their midst,

  And taught me to listen, to feel, to dance.

  I danced all the way to the castle

  And did not care one bit

  That I had danced my feet to tatters

  Or that I terrified the poor physician

  In charge of my health.

  I never wanted to do anything else again.

  In the sea, my sisters and I do not dance.

  I would not know how to explain it to them.

  Perhaps with the rhythm of the hunt.

  In the sea, I would never have learned

  That there was something to be missed.

  Perhaps this is what I was searching for.

  In the sea, it is impossible to move

  As tall-crabs do on their land.

  Perhaps that is why they fascinated me so.

  No, no, that cannot be.

  I liked tall-crabs for the intelligence in their eyes.

  I liked them for the patterns in their behaviour,

  For the exceptions that suggested sentience

  Beyond that of simple prey to be eaten.

  My sisters make no tools to aid them.

  Oh, what could we but do with tools!

  We travel upon the tides and the currents,

  How would we take tools with us.

  But with them, could we stay in one place?

  We could build pens and farm fish! ^_^

  We could hunt the tall-crabs with tools.

  Perhaps it is a good thing we do not have them. :/

  Tall-crabs are more fascinating

  Than I could have imagined.

  But ever
ything I learn about them

  Pales when I think of dancing.

  I love the feel of the air

  When I sway this way or that.

  It reminds me of the currents

  And I feel so light I could float.

  I can drown in the music

  And forget the blood on my soles.

  Just for a moment, there is nothing else.

  Only me, the music, and… the current.

  It is the way your body is drawn into movement.

  When my prince saw how

  I would not give up dancing

  He hired me tutors

  Who tell me about ‘choreography’.

  But I think it is inefficient. Untrue.

  Incomplete.

  There is a sway to dancing,

  A natural way for your body to capture what it hears

  And turn it into a story told

  With every fibre of your being.

  A kick of the leg can mean defiance,

  Violence, determination, anger, fierce joy.

  A twirl can mean fierce joy as well,

  It can mean delight, or confusion or fright.

  When I dance, I can tell stories of my sisters.

  When I dance, I am reminded of the sea.

  Whenever I am homesick for the ocean,

  I dance until I am dizzied with exhaustion.

  And it is no longer enough.

  I need to see the sea again.

  I want to see my sisters again.

  I want to know that accepting

  The Witch’s offer was right.

  Am I a mermaid with the shape of a tall-crab?

  Am I a tall-crab born a mermaid?

  Am I neither? Am I both?

  I do not know the truth any more.

  I dance all the way to my chambers,

  But it does not settle my mind or my heart.

  Can I be both?

  It is time to leave.

  I will see the ocean.

  It does not occur to me,

  Not until we are travelling,

  That I may turn to sea foam.

  I do not want to become sea foam. T_T

  I do not.

  It is a long trip, as such go,

  Our journey to the port.

  I have started to count the days.

  When the prince promised to take me to the sea,

  I had a month before my year was done.

  Two weeks, not one, for him to arrange it all.

  One week to travel to port.

  A month to arrive in a foreign land.

  I may be sea foam by then. T_T

  No. I must not think like that.

  I have two more weeks to find love.

  I will not become sea foam.

  Love is when two people marry.

  I remember that from the stories.

  Tall-crabs are always telling stories about love.

  But love cannot be so easy to find.

  I think if love was only people together

  Then I would have had it already.

  I have always lived with my sisters.

  I have laughed with my sisters,

  Shared meals with them, been taught by them.

  But they say this is not love.

  This is family and, true, it is a kind of love,