Talia and the Sea

Talia preferred documentaries to fiction. Once she’d been alerted to the idea that there are only two types of stories, “a person goes on a journey” and “a stranger comes to town,” she couldn’t help but distill every narrative she encountered down to its most fundamental interpretation. The caveat was that while imagined tales tended to have neatly wrapped up conclusions, true stories rarely offered such satisfaction. Arriving back in East Haven after three decades away, having had no contact with anyone from the town she had fled, she wondered what form her story would take. She knew the locals were angry with her, and had been since the day she’d fled down the coast in a stolen skiff with her diaphanous white gown billowing out behind her.

She had not returned alone. Upon arriving in town after so many years, she had taken her fiancé, Erik Redbjörn, by the hand and led him first to The Kraken’s Maw, East Haven’s only pub, which functioned as a meeting place and community center. At one time it had been a church, and before that a place sacred to the locals. Google called the spot on the adjoining hillside “an Indian burial ground” with a 1.3 star rating, but townies just called it “The Cemetery.” “No Trespassing” signs were posted to keep out the curious, but most would-be lookie-loos were discouraged by reviews that spoke of “unfriendly locals,” “a threatening atmosphere,” and “like Oniontown, but without the charm.”

As she’d entered the pub, Talia had been met with the same dour glances that had welcomed prodigal children since time immemorial. Truth be told, she was not quite sure what to expect, it having been so long since she had fled up the steps in her ceremonial dress, shirking her responsibilities and spitting in the eye of local tradition. It was an opportunity that every East Haven child grew up dreaming of, and she had cast it aside at the last moment, but for what? To live among The Newcomers, as the locals called outsiders? To give them pills and wipe their asses? There was a sacrifice to staying, to be sure, and she had often wrestled with regret, but what was this return home other than an attempt to make amends?

Looking at the faces of the people at the pub, who collectively paused in their drinking and conversation to stare at her, Talia was afraid that they might grab her and drag her to the water’s edge to pay for her crime. However, before anyone could say anything, she drew Erik into the room. His hulking frame, pale, porcelain skin and shock of red hair stood out among the townsfolk, whose mingled blood was that of indigenous tribes, Portuguese settlers, and, it was said, a pint of seawater. A few of the pubgoers sniffed the air, softened their countenances, and began speaking to each other in hushed tones.

Sitting at a booth in the back, Talia caught sight of her mother’s husband, Paul. As she raised her hand in greeting, Erik loudly blurted out, “Hi, Honey, we’re home!” and grinned, perennially unable to read a room. Rather than acknowledge the oafish interjection, those assembled returned to their conversations as Talia made her way to the bar. She ordered three dark and stormys, which were handed to her with a glare by the bartender, who was too young to have known her, but clearly carried some community knowledge of her history with the town. She then proceeded, with Erik, to the booth where Paul was seated. She saw that he had one of the old texts open on the table, but he closed the small book and placed it under his thigh as they approached.

Talia greeted Paul as Erik stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Sniffing the air, the old man reached out and took one of the cups from Talia’s hand. Without toasting, he drained the drink, softly belched, and said “Your mother went down.”

“Down to Boston?” asked Erik, oblivious. Talia and Paul ignored him.

“Aye,” replied Talia, “I suppose someone had to.” Paul grunted, and Talia asked him if she and Erik could stay with him.

The old man regarded the two of them for a moment before saying, “You know what you did, and you know what that means, but we see what you’ve done now, so aye, you can stay. There’s plenty of room. Sit if you want, it’ll be a few hours before I head back.”

Erik mouthed, “I thought we were staying at a hotel,” looking slightly dismayed.

“There are no hotels here,” she said, taking a seat. For the next ninety minutes Paul deflected Erik’s questions about himself, Talia, and the town, while inquiring keenly about the large, redheaded man’s family history. He seemed particularly interested in what was known of his ancestors long before they’d settled in North Dakota. Erik laughed and professed ignorance, saying that Talia certainly knew more than he did, thanks to her studies.

After a few more drinks, Erik excused himself to the bathroom. When they were alone, Paul pulled the book from under his lap, opened it to a page of squiggly text. Taking Talia by the hand, they recited one of the old prayers in a language that sounded like water gurgling through stone.

The night at Paul’s had been unavoidably awkward, but the old man had pulled a lobster trap on a long line up onto the beach out his back door and served a platter of the bright red crustaceans with a big bowl of melted butter and no sides, which Erik seemed to enjoy, in spite of himself. For Talia it was like tasting her childhood for the first time all over again. Afterwards, she took Erik down to the beach to cast the shells into the waves, as was customary.

With the sun fully set and the sound of crashing waves suffusing the night air, Paul poured himself a drink, and after a second thought, another for Talia. “What’s that?” asked Erik, eyeballing the dark green liquid in the glasses on the counter.

Paul laughed and said, “A local brew we call ‘Kraken’s Blood.’ This stuff’ll web your toes and give you gills. Grab a beer for yourself from the fridge.” Erik did just that.

At 8 o’clock Paul turned on the TV and turned it to the new episode of Visitors From Beyond, which posited that beings from a distant world had crashed on earth millions of years ago, existing in the seas and under the Antarctic ice. Evidence, claimed the host, could be found in Native American legends and ancient Viking eddas. During the opening credits the landline rang, and Paul spent the entirety of the show drinking, cackling and speaking to whomever was on the other end in a language Erik couldn’t place, but which Talia knew well.

All traces of Talia’s existence had seemingly been erased from the house, without even a photograph of her remaining. She wasn’t surprised at this, and couldn’t be hurt too badly, as she understood the attitudes of Paul and the locals. Before bed, for no reason in particular, Erik opened the closet in the bedroom they were sharing, revealing a dozen and a half white shifts of ascending size hanging in a row. “Are these communion dresses?” he asked.

“Something like that,” replied Talia.

“They’re all full of sand and seaweed,” Erik exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied Talia, refusing to say more.

Talia used the creaky bed and the creaky house to avoid any sort of intimacy, which was a relief. It was easy to pass as normal among the Newcomers, but certain endeavors required perfumes and preparations which would have been unnecessary had she stayed in East Haven.

The following day, Talia stood on the stairs, looking down at the sea. The stone steps, carved into the rocky coastline, descended not to some mooring, but down the steep-walled passageway cut into the cliff and continued directly into the water. It was low tide, and she’d had to tread carefully on slippery seaweed as she made her way to where foamy ripples lapped at the last riser above the surface. Growing higher as she went down, the walls on either side of her were adorned with squiggly sigils that she’d not seen in decades, but whose meanings had come flooding back to her as she’d taken her first steps down toward the sea.

With the steel-grey sky pinched above her and cold October water washing over her bare feet, Talia turned to her left to make silent acknowledgement of the sacrilege, as was the way of her people. The rock wall was defaced there, with Viking runes cut deep into the surface, marring the delicately carved prayers and invocations which had been ancient even when that crude barbarian had vandalized this sacred place.

Talia had gone to nursing school, but minored in Pre-Columbian American Studies, focusing primarily on the Vikings' exploration of the New World. Even had she not been educated in Scandinavian runes, she had been taught as a child the meaning of the deep scars in the rock. Simply translated, it read “Ragnvald the Red pissed here.” That the brute had defiled such a holy site, not even with a proclamation to his gods, but with the ancient equivalent of a teenage graffiti tagger had offended the locals greatly. As they were the ones who had carved the staircase, it was well within their power to erase the vandalism, but they had let the marks remain for over a thousand years, as a reminder of what happens when dereliction of duties is allowed to occur and perpetrators are left unpunished.

Standing at the water’s edge, Talia reached out to touch the runes, and for the first time in twenty years felt the familiar tingling in her fingers, toes, and neck. The sensation suffused her entire being, sending ripples across her smooth skin. Her mouth opened, drinking in the salty air, and the steps beckoned her to continue her descent. It felt like the first time all over again, like being haunted by the ghosts of one’s childhood. Oh how she wished that she could go down again, to see the lights, but her “walk in the park” had gone on too long, leaving Erik waiting at the town’s small library. She dipped her cupped palms in the water and drank deeply after offering the traditional prayer.

Erik emerged from the library seemingly bewildered. He told Talia that most of the books in the collection were written in some strange script and asked if that was “some Indian thing,” and went on to say that the large section on ancient aliens seemed out of place in a small town. He said he’d found a book claiming that visitors from space have been coming to earth for millenia, influencing the course of human history for thousands of years. “Just like they said on Visitors From Beyond,” he said. She simply nodded at this.

They spent the rest of the day exploring the town, or re-exploring, in Talia’s case. Tiago, the man who ran the clam shack on the dock at the entrance to the town, had seemed old to Talia as a child, but was as unchanged from her memories as the rest of East Haven, which was a place that evolved slowly. Tiago smiled when he saw Talia, and beamed as he introduced himself to Erik. He said he was excited to see them both at the feast that night and didn’t charge them for the lobster rolls they ate on a bench while watching the fishing boats come in. “What feast?” asked Erik. Talia explained it was just a thing for the locals and assured him he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

During the course of her studies, Talia had taken a class on genetics. One project had required students to get a DNA test to determine their ancestry. She’d filled out a request to be excused for religious reasons, but the professor had pressed her. Talia had asked him if he knew how certain Native American tribes believed that a photograph could steal their soul, and he acknowledged familiarity with the phenomenon. Then she stared at him until he understood. It was far better to exploit myth and ignorance than to let her genes ever be investigated. The old ways of her people had only persevered for so long due to stalwart vigilance in the face of an ever changing world.

During her years among The Newcomers, especially during the hard years where she worked two jobs to put herself through school, Talia often wondered why she still felt such an obligation to the locals of East Haven. Though it was fear of uncertainty that had caused her to flee the town, for decades she had felt compelled to atone for her sin, going so far as to undertake the Herculean task of facilitating some measure of revenge for a thousand year old transgression. The sense of obligation had led her as far as Europe, where she’d used her academic credentials to investigate birth records going back centuries searching for the blood of the vandal.

By the time she’d found what she was looking for, it was diluted, but such was the homogenizing effect of entropy over time. She, herself, felt diluted, as if the culture of The Newcomers had washed away part of who she was, yet she persevered. The seduction was difficult, feeling like a betrayal, but she cast herself as a secret agent on a mission, under the deepest of covers. What was harder, though, were the two years spent in North Dakota as she enacted her plan of seduction and revenge, which was really a form of atonement. That it pained and shamed her so made sense, many worthwhile endeavors require sacrifice. Being that far from the sea for so long had made her ache in ways she had not anticipated.

Paul wasn’t home when they returned to the house in the afternoon. The last few hours of daylight were spent watching TV. Talia could tell that Erik’s normal good humor was being tested, and that he felt this trip to her strange hometown was an unproductive waste of time, but she said nothing to make him feel better. As the sun began to set, she said it was time to get ready for the feast, and surprised Erik by emerging from the bedroom wearing one of the white shifts. “Tradition,” she explained.

“Can we leave tomorrow?” asked Erik.

“We can leave tonight,” she replied, eliciting a smile from the pale ginger.

They arrived at The Kraken’s Maw to find the whole of the town assembled. Paul was there, as well as Tiago, with everyone dressed in filmy white raiments. As they entered the pub, the gathered masses beamed with smiles. “They’re happy to see you,” whispered Erik to Talia. He was clearly uncomfortable.

“No, they’re happy to see you,” she replied. She was done lying.

Tiago approached and handed Erik a large glass of rum. Everyone else was drinking Kraken’s Blood, which caused their skin to flush with an aquamarine tint. Paul appeared, handed Talia a glass, and bid her to follow him. “I’ll be right back,” she said to her fiancé, who grinned at her with more than a little discomfort.

Paul led her to the men’s room, where some words were freshly carved into the dark wood of the wall, as if with a key. “Erik Redbjörn pissed here,” it read. “You did well,” said Paul, “You will be forgiven.” Uncharacteristically, he hugged her and said, “Let’s go see your mom and dad.”