I stare out at the ocean from the ever-shadowed docks, close to the mountain that we call Othume. Out on the ocean waves, an elegant shape propels itself out of the water, arching gracefully against the copper sunset. A splash. The sparkle of spray. Then another silhouette streaks against the sky, and another, and another. Dolphins—the only large sea creatures in the area around these dark docks. Dolphins, who dive deeper and deeper for the dusk pearls that ensure our death. To us, they are the creature most dear, and most dangerous. They are dear to us because of the pearls they gift; dangerous because of their cunning.
Dusk pearls are the lifeblood of Karralong, the only thing keeping the seaside nation alive. Their dull, dark luster promises that the wearer will not die of the supernatural.
They also serve as a guarantee that the recently deceased does not rise from the grave.
In Karralong, a dearth of death is what happens when no one dies; when their minds and bodies are twisted instead, and become unnatural, inhuman. It is when the living flesh becomes dead flesh and the mind does not follow the way of the body, and lingers far beyond its destined time.
The Bane, we call it. Since before living memory, this strange scourge has blighted the land, twisting, contorting, corrupting the natural order of things. Its victims are many, and each perversion of nature that arises from the deathbed or the grave is ready to claim more of us as its unhallowed kindred. Those felled by the corrupted gain also their taint, and rise to walk again, regardless of pearls.
We are too quick, I think, to believe that the dolphin’s pearls are a cure for all ailments. They serve only as a protection against magic, which precious few of us have, and a prevention from rising in unlife, when taken by a natural death. It does not prevent the wasting sickness, nor does it alleviate the suffering that it brings. It cannot influence those rerisen, or those taken by the Bane. It cannot cure the numberless sickness and fevers that run rampant in the sultry heat. It does not save us from having a dearth of death. People have tried to make it do all of these things, and many more, but to no avail.
I look out again, at the glittering sea. The sun is nearly set, and will be completely gone in a couple of minutes. I hear a dolphin’s whistle in the distance, I think, a shrill sound, piercing and somehow glad. Perhaps they have snagged another pearl to give to a lucky fisherman. I touch the cool surface of my own pearl, hung on a cord that goes around my neck, concealed beneath my shirt. It is unexpectedly cold, as always, and when I pull it out to look at it in the swiftly fading sunlight, it gleams black, with a tint of orange-gold. I tuck it back under my shirt, taking care not to leave any of the twine it hangs on outside the collar of my shirt.
I let out a sigh. It’s lonely out here, on the docks. Darkness is now complete, and I despair for the day, though not for the light it brings. These docks are always shrouded in shadow, courtesy of the cave in which they lie. In the water, dolphins play, making the waves glow with bioluminescent algae. A single star peaks its way over the horizon. It is Aluenhos, the lone star. It is always the first to rise and the last to set, and floats across the aethers like no other star; its path is its own. It is the brightest star in the sky, shining a marvelous blue white, its glow second only to the radiance of the moon.
No one is around. That is hardly surprising, as few ever come to these docks unless they need a dusk pearl. This is the only place where dolphins will give pearls, but not the only dock. The others are used for shipping and commerce, businesses not found here at all. There’s a reason I come here, time and time again. It’s quiet, a good place to think. A refuge from the endless worries and arguments of society, a place to be free. Free as the dolphins dancing on the waves, free as the mighty dragons that whirl and twirl and spiral through the sky at sunset, in celebration of the oncoming dark. It is a place of hidden beauty, this grotto, both dark and yet somehow luminiferous, illuminated by an eternal glow that ever so faintly lights the walls of the cave. Some say that this is an echo of the millions of candles that had been set adrift, the little boat-lanterns that were launched out to sea every season, one for every person in the village. In some places, not near the coast, they used paper lanterns that floated into the air, rather than the lantern boats that went out with the tide. Still, this custom was practiced in every town and village, from the meanest hovel to the grandest of cities. Like the sacrifices burnt at the birth of a child, and the cremation of the ones who died, this was a ritual that had been passed down for generations, ever since the dawn of time. Even though our race is dying out, we have not learned from the failures of our forefathers. Our world is founded upon hubris.
I sit there, thinking, for a long time. I like solitude, sometimes, to be alone. To be able to contemplate. To slow down. We are tired and world-weary, waiting for the next miracle to wake us from our stupor. I am, too. I feel the weight of it. The crushing weight of depression, of loss, of generational trauma. The Bane has taken so much from us. Our friends, our family, our customs. We suffer from a loss of identity, I think. We do not know who we are. We are reduced to what we are. A little village by the sea. We worship the dolphins, and their pearls. There is a fatalism, a nihilism, that in the end, all our accomplishments will be futile. Why should we try anymore, if the world has already ended? We are fading. Soon, we will be no more. I will be no more. Even now, I feel the symptoms of the wasting sickness. It will kill me, slowly, painfully, or I will be euthanised. Euthanasia seems like the easier way to go. I am not afraid of death, only suffering. I think we are all too caught up in death. We never move on; we cling to our sorrow, to our grief. We fear what will happen when we die, when those around us die.
A scrap of doggerel comes to my mind. It’s from one of the few poems we have left, after the Scattering. The Andhariad, a tragic epic, bittersweet, steeped in loss and in mourning. It resonates with us more than anything else that has survived.
We’re terrified
Of the dark
Inside
Our walls.
I’ve always wondered what that stanza meant. Now I think I know.
It is part of the song Andharos’s son, Irehi, sings to his lover, Ishel, before they jump into the sea together and drown. The boys, who were denied togetherness in life, found it in death. While others may find it grim, or tragic, I think there is a beauty in that. Rather than be separated, they gave their lives for each other.
I take a moment, just a moment, to admire the sea. Midnight is near. Soon today will end. It is fitting, somehow. Our civilization is so close to its end, too. So am I. In a week at most I will drink the dark syrup made from the vesperanth blooms of deepest violet, now a vestigial vision of their vivid vibrancy. The same syrup that helps me sleep at night, but thicker, darker, stronger. It is the sweetest poison, one that gently guides the body to sleep. It soothes the body, soothes the mind. It alleviates pain, brings dreamless sleep. It is a merciful death, I think.
Soon, my family, what remains of it, will take a catamaran out from these shores. They will go alone. No one else is permitted to accompany them. They will scatter my ashes at sunset, as the last rays of day sparkle on the water. I will be free to depart. Free as the dolphins and the waves. Free from distress, from grief, from pain.
Do I want to go? To be free? I wonder what is next. When I depart from my body, in fire; from the world when my ashes sink into the sea. Flames and water, water and flames. We are a people forged by water and fire. We are the children of water and fire; a people of sea and flame. Our fire will burn out, in the end, but we can pass the flame to those who remain. Our torches have lit the darkness before. Our tales and stories say it is so. There is more to us than our sundered unity, more to us than the lack of identity that our forefathers left behind. We are bronzed, brazen warriors who fight against the sea. Even though some fall, even as I will, a fallen warrior is a warrior no less. We defy the tide, we challenge the Bane, and even though we’re terrified of the dark inside our walls, we face it nevertheless. I may not live to see the end of it, but I see beginnings. Maybe in some life—as a dolphin, maybe—I will see the changes wrought with the passing of time. For the first time in a while, I feel the spark of a warm emotion. Hope.
⁂
I wake to the sunrise. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m still at the docks. The memory of the night before comes back to me. Dolphins playing in the water, seabirds dancing on the breeze. The ineffable texture of the water against my shriveling skin. I look at the swirling tattoos on my arms. Curliques that mimic the ocean waves, curves indicative of rolling flames. Fire and water, somehow emulsified into one. I feel better now, for all my stiffness from sleeping on the hard wooden boards. Someone is most likely missing me at the village, but they know I like to hang out here. Besides, I want to stay here for just a little longer.
There’s a saying, or a phrase, in some ancient tongue that keeps coming back to me. Carpe diem. Seize the day, it means, or something adjacent. Make the most of your life, almost. My days are now numbered. I stand up. Since I’m going to die anyways, I might as well make the most of my time here. Carpe diem, I whisper. I seize the day.
JOSIAH LIN
- JOSIAH LIN
