The Sea Remembers

First drops of rain knock on my door, soft like shy fingertips. The night spreads its silent blanket behind the windows. That blanket falls thick and warm, and vast enough to cover the empty village from my view, but it cannot block out the angry growl of the sea.

The sea growls at me.

I know it, and the sea knows I know. It circles my rickety hut like an animal. A predator on the prowl. All the others have already been scared into moving away, but I am not afraid. And even if I am, because who wouldn’t fear the rolling waters spilling over the high berms, my terror is not enough to make me spill my secrets.

Besides, where would I go? These walls have known me from birth. I have spent all my decades walking along this coastline. If the sea wants to get me for what I have done to it, I dare it to come and find me.

The sea will find me one day. Or one night. I know it and the sea knows it too.

The problem is… water remembers. Young folk would laugh at me for saying so, but what do the young folk know? They haven’t lived on this shore for as long as I have. They haven’t watched the waves weep or shimmer with joy. They haven’t seen the waves recede, despondent and flat, that night long ago when I finally mustered the courage to conquer the monster and feed it to them. They haven’t seen them swell in angry bursts so rapidly afterwards, when the monster’s rage seeped into the water and made it crave my blood.

The fingertips tap on my windows, still soft but getting bolder. They keep probing, keep searching, they try to find crevices, loose hinges and unlocked latches. Anything to get in.

Maybe the sea will find me tonight.

It was my fault. So what? I shouldn’t have fed the waves with rage and blood. But I was young. What did I know? I was too scared of the policemen’s stern faces, uniforms and prisons. Too scared of the world I have never seen but longed for.

Later, it was too late to see it. Because water remembers.

The village of my youth – a crowded place full of kids and fishing nets. I remember it well. And I remember fishermen’s strong fists and meaty arms. They wives’ gaunt faces.

Back then, the sea was like a tamed bear at our feet, familiar but never trusted. Never taken lightly. Always revered and respected.

The boats would leave at dawn empty. They returned at dusk with their nets full of leaping silver. The sea knew us well. It let us ride on its back as long as we knew how to treat it. Grandfathers passed down this knowledge to fathers, to sons, to daughters. Never go to the sea in anger. Never laugh it in the face or scorn it.

The rain is no longer shy. It raps on the roof and on the windows.

The wind won’t let me sleep tonight. The gale comes from the sea like the messenger of its anger. My door rattles. I laugh before the cough grates in my throat and think that my life has been long. I no longer care about it.

One thing I cared about was to survive the monster.

Everyone knew. The whole village averted their faces. How could they not see my bruises? The cuts. The scars. The arm that got broken one winter. When it healed, it stayed crooked and weaker, but not useless. Not at all useless.

He laughed. He mocked my clumsy gestures and told me that I should die so that his new wife could move in – younger, fairer and happier. I didn’t know why a new wife of his should be any happier, but I didn’t ask him. By then I knew better than say what he wouldn’t hear and I never questioned his anger.

I also knew when he slept. I knew how to swing a shovel – the one with the edge made sharper on the round stones by the shoreline. A crooked arm turned out useful in the end, despite its weakness.

I fed his guts to the sea. I scrubbed blood off the floor with its waters. I led the boat into the currents and told others that he had gone fishing. Only the night saw me do it.

Only the sea remembered.

That night, the tamed bear changed. A hungry maw opened on our doorsteps and the sea no longer fed us. From then on, we were the fodder.

It was raining that night when the first one vanished… and every time the sea reached out to harm us. First a dog. Then a child. Then another.

I laughed the waves in the face because the monster could no longer harm me. I thought: let it take them. All those who covered their ears so as not to hear me screaming, those who averted their eyes from my bruises – they could all go to the sea. I longed to see them afraid and in tears, screaming like I have screamed and shivering like I used to shiver.

The rain is no longer knocking. It rams its fists on the door and threatens to rip out the windows.

Yes. I think this is the night. There is no one left in the village. The rain has soaked broken dwellings. The gale has searched all the corners and found no one to feed on.

Only my hut still faces the waves like a brazen old hag. Fearless, with nothing to lose, like the old hag that lives here.

I jump when a fist finally breaks through the window and the rain slaps my cheeks. My feet land on the floor with a splash, and an icy grip reaches my ankles. The sea has finally found me.

Something pours in over the threshold, and I laugh, and laugh, and laugh as I wade to the door. It bulges.

Welcome back, monster.