Rapture.

She stands alone. It was here, or at least somewhere along here, along this unforgiving coast, along this darkened beach. Or so they told her. Twenty-one years ago, they say, she was washed from the womb, massaged by the rough hands of the waves, pushed from one dark ocean into another. A miracle baby, a mermaid, a siren. It was here her mother fed her, her life. Not from the breast but from the cord. It was not warm, rich milk that nourished her but blood and desperation that pumped into her veins. It was not warm kind hands that held her high but cold wet fingers of sea that rolled her to their tips, that forced her first breath as her mother breathed her last. It was along this coast, on this beach that she survived. A miracle baby, a mermaid, a siren.

How long had she imagined this story? How long had she waited for the tale-tale signs of hardening scales and fleshy fins? How long had she held her breath underwater, in her bath, until the implosion of hot soapy water forced the agonising return to the world of air in explosive coughs and gasps and vomit? She had tried, really tried, but she could not find the way back to her world. Only her tears, salty like the sea gave her comfort. She still held the ocean somewhere inside, it leaked from her in sorrow and she knew in time she would find its source.

The wind was wildly tossing her hair. She looked towards the horizon and saw the grey curtain of rain sliding closer. Grey, touching grey. No space between air and sea. This was her world. No space. The air rose from her lungs and a sound caught in her throat. It was a note, a seed of song. As it lifted from her, it swelled and swirled into the wind, like vapour. A sound, a tune, a pitch so fine a dog roaming a mile away, lifted its head and sniffed the air before lying down and closing its’ eyes, gently died. She lifted her face to the sky and opened her mouth. Silent sound roaring into the sea, calling to the sea. The caps of the waves foamed and bubbled, lifting upwards and forwards towards her, towards her call. Galloping, racing, crashing in panting breath to roll towards her feet and rest a second, before withdrawing for another in line to pay her homage. Wave upon wave anoint her feet.

And then the fish arrive.

A tremendous wave, a wall, rolling from the depths along the gentle incline of the shore, gathering gifts and power to bestow on her. She did not breath, she did not falter, she had twenty-one years of air to expel and it rolled across the broken sea like dark, thick fog, flicking off rocks and consuming space. The wave broke above her, around her, through her, showering her in flickers of silver as the fish rained down. Hundreds, no thousands of them, like falling stars in a meteor shower. She did not falter but lifted herself higher, the macabre dance of drowning fish covering the beach, a carpet of shimmering sequin in the wind. Above the ear of normal man, the voice of whales and dolphins sang back. Skipping on the saddles of cresting waves the sea boiled in a frenzy of flipping flesh and flashing fins. Rolling in and pulling back. They will not beach. They are the jubilant. They are the servants that will welcome her return and drag the carriage of a their newly crowned queen. The wind roars, the beach dances, the sound deafens.

And then the boats arrive.

It starts with a small trawler, a speck in the fog, a pinpoint of light. It moves on the tide and rides the waves, abandoned nets dragging behind like trains of some elaborate wedding dress. Seven men on board. Five of them husbands, four of them fathers, all of them sons. They stare, stone stares towards the rolling coast, towards the call. Wind and spray lashing at cracked faces, eyes glazed in awe, feet firm on splintered deck, rolling with the swell in a dance of trance. They stand and they stare, stone stares. They are the pillars of dying flesh, the vessels of emptying souls. They lead a procession to come. They are the pilgrims. They are blind to their fate. They lead the way towards the rapture and the rocks that wait to receive them.

And then another and another. Fairy lights afloat, adrift, stringing the horizon, undulating like an erratic pulse. From the deep, from bays and wakened holidays, the boats arrive. Pushing forward, tight white knuckles grip wheels and rudders towards the call. Faces set, minds free, hearts open to the welcome. Many husbands, many fathers, many sons. Many pillars of dying flesh, vessels of emptying souls, they come to her call. Dolphins dance before them, leading the hulks of wood and steel behind them, towards the rapture and the rocks that wait to receive them.

Far, far out, beyond the line of sight, beyond the round of the earth, a liner gently curves from course. Diners in luxurious suspended space feel nothing but sense something. Their minds light, as if the bubbles in their glasses had filled their heads. Smiles for no reasons covered usually reserved faces and laughter cut the stiff silence of airs and graces of forgotten expectations. Suddenly it seemed as if everything made sense. All those corporate takeovers, business lunches and expensive mistresses. The third world workshops, secret deals and secret bank accounts. This is where it leads, this is what it becomes. Fat cats in tight suits and young wives in diamonds all smile and laugh. Something great is happening and this is as good as it gets.

And follow the tankers, filled with liquid black gold. And the pirate ships filled with stolen gold. And the warships filled with the means and the men to destroy the world. And the ships piled high with cheap wooden furniture, plastic toys and sweat shop fashion. And luxury yachts and simple sail boats. All turn towards the call. All come to follow the call. Towards the rapture, towards the rocks that welcome them.

And then the bodies arrive.

The sea carries them gently in reverence, calmed by sacrifice and satisfaction. A funeral procession of rolling limbs and swirling hair and rent cloth pushed in slow methodical rhythm. A liquid broom sweeping the surface of the sea to the carpet of sand. They float and bob and roll, beaching like tiny whales, white fleshed, washed clean. Crushed bones and battered bodies. Violence made still. Violence made peaceful. No longer just fathers, husbands and sons but mothers, wives and daughters have joined the fold. Entwined, embraced, intimate. A raft of quite death, of endless sleep swooping and swaying in the gentle arms of a calmed and sated sea. They join the fish, and the wreckage, another triumphant layer to the mosaic of destruction that greets a conquering queen.

And then it stops.

The world stands still in that second. The song has ended, and the audience lay suspended, stunned by the magnitude of the vision. She is awe. She has awed. Silence, stillness is her applaud. She stands surrounded by the art of her destruction and she is great. And the ocean inside her rises. It leaks from her eye, just a tear, just a drop. It rolls down her cheek and kisses the corner of her mouth and drops from her chin to the sea. And the ocean inside her swells, it trickles from her eyes down her cheek and kisses the corner of her mouth and pours from off her chin and joins the sea. And the ocean inside her explodes, pouring from her eyes, pouring down her cheeks, smothering her mouth and cascading from her chin. And the ocean inside connects to the ocean outside and the cord is united, and the life is ignited. And does the ocean run from her or to her, or through her? Her feet erode, she drops to her knees. And her knees errode and she sinks to her waist. And she starts to dissolve and fade, her chest heavy to the sand, her mouth sucking at the sea, breathing it into her air. She is free from exile; she has found passage from penance. Her time has come. Born of the sea, a miracle baby, a mermaid, a siren. The flash of silver skims a wave. The queen has returned.