Of Oysters, Pearls And Magic.

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A Sea Of Waves Prologue Wave One: The City Wave Two: The School Wave Three: Mirra’s Mirror Wave Four: Nacre Wave Five: Circles Wave Six: Light (Interlude) Wave Seven: Homesickness Wave Eight: Broken Shells Wave Nine: Scars Wave Ten: Whole (Interlude) Wave Eleven: Daughters of Divers Wave Twelve: Dance Wave Thirteen: Finally Found You (A Short Letter) Wave Fourteen: Sea Epilogue Appendix & Commentary Sea Tales Ships’ Tales

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Prologue Daughter Of The Sea I am the daughter of oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers. I am the descendant of the firstwave immigrants from old Terra Firma, the ancient Earth planet the grandmothers of the village speak so kindly of. I am the daughter of a line of women who risk their lives to dive for the treasures of the sea, the rough-shelled bivalves that give us food and beautiful orbs of beauty. I have my hands cut and sliced by the sharp shards covering the shells; my skin has bled and merged with the fresh salty juices while I learn the craft of opening the oysters. My grandmother says that once the oyster has blooded me, the sea has claimed me as Her own. She then holds her hand and shows me her scars – she too is a daughter of the sea. I laugh and swallow the sweet briny oyster flesh whole, letting it slide down my throat, a delicious flood of salt-copper-water. The women dive every early morning when the sea is calmer and when the tides are less torn and conflicted than a woman in childbirth. They slip on the black skins, snug close to their bodies, and adjust their breathing apparatus while they gossip about their husbands, children and household chores. This ritual has not changed for generations. And when they are done with the preparations, they slip into the clear-green water and swim into the depths while the oysters lie, baskets in toll. A good harvest would yield basketfuls and we know that they would fetch a good price at the fish markets near the City. A poor harvest would feed our households and nothing else. In the afternoons, the women wade waist-deep in the pearl-oyster pools and gather the mature pearl oysters. This time, they wear thick gloves and pry the tight shells open to remove the pearls, glistening in the sun like tiny rainbow-tinged moons. I sit often with them – my grandmother, my mother and my aunts – as they shell the oysters, feel for that tale-tell bulge and fish out the perfect spheres out of the tender slippery folds. The pearl oysters can be as hard-hearted as their ocean cousins; our hands have been lacerated by the jagged edges of the palm-sized shells. I am the daughter of such diligent women. They dive in the morning and swim in the afternoon, all because oyster-diving and pearl-gathering are already in their blood, in our lineage. I am proud to be one of them and I often wish that I could be as good as my grandmother or my mother. Yet I know I am a bit different from the rest of the women: my hands curl light and this is forbidden, as it is men’s magic. ~*~

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I realized I could curl light when I was just five. I was playing, as children would be, with my cousins on the beach, next to the shallow tide-pools where the water teemed with tiny sea-creatures. We would go fish and look for little crabs and shrimps living under the rocks. The water of the tide-pools was a delicious cold-warm and we enjoyed ourselves, laughing under the sun, dipping our toes in and watching the shoals of silver fry darting about. Suddenly there was a yell, a frantic shout. Someone had fallen in. I did what I thought was instinctive. I flung my hands up, in a fending gesture. My head filled with light circles, bright green-blue circles that spun and overlapped like the toy windmills they sell at the village fairs. The next thing I knew, Timas – my cousin- was pulled out from the water with bands of light. He was only three and was in my charge. Out of the water, he looked bedraggled and out of his shell (as my grandmother would say): totally lost and sobbing away. The rest of the children tittered and held back, eying me as if I was a frilly sea-eel crawling out from the depths of the sea. I held Timas to my chest, wondering what I had done. Oh the scolding I received later, in the privacy of the family hut. First Father is a man who hardly raises his voice. But that day, he did and forbade me to do what I did when I rescued Timas. Mother added her voice in and she expressed her shock and fear at my deed. Young as I was, I knew I had crossed some invisible line and did things I should not be doing. As I sobbed myself to sleep, I heard my parents arguing, with Grandmother providing a calm counterpoint. “You realize that came from your side of the family,” Mother was saying and First Father muttered angrily, “And your side too.” I finally fell asleep and slipped into dreams of spinning light circles. It was only after a few days when the storm-tossed atmosphere at the dining table had dissipated and everyone was talking to one another again, when Grandmother drew me aside and spoke me about men’s magic. Men could wield light and curl them into infinite shapes. No one knows why. They just do. They use it to power the silver fish – the little air-filled blimps – and travel to the City to conduct their business. They use it to light the fishing boats at night. They use it in the search of knowledge out of reach for women. I did not curl light, keeping it a secret, until I reached adolescence. I felt the circles growing brighter and more vivid. I felt them deep within my bones. To deny them was to stop myself from breathing. So, in quiet dank corners, away from the sea and the pearloyster pools, I practiced the crafting of light, listening to the circles in my head, and made rings and spirals that revolved in the air, reminding me of the golden sea-kelp forests. I am the daughter of the sea and a curler of light. I tiptoe between two worlds, both as real and as rich. Within me, the sea is shimmering peridot and the light magic interweaves with it like necklaces of bubbles wrapping themselves around seaweed. Intertwined. Me.

5 ~*~ Mirra I woke one morning as I would every morning to join the women. I fetched my black skin and the breathing apparatus, padding bare-foot to the edge of the sea where the rest of the women stood, doing their stretching exercises to get their blood circulation going. Their arms curved, dipped and bent as the sun rose. This scene remains one of the enduring memories inside me. The older and more experienced women dove in first, followed by the younger and learning women, including me. The water was warm against my exposed skin and I placed the breathing apparatus in my mouth. Having done so, I joined my sisters, the daughters of the sea, gliding down into the colder layers, to the oyster beds. The sea is Her own world, a world filled with shades and veils of light, flows and currents. She has Her own moods too, lightening and darkening – the trick is to know them. After generations of diving, the women have understood her and now swim with a healthy respect for Her. This lesson is taught to all the daughters; it is as vital as the letters we learn in the teaching hut, if not the most important, like breathing. I breathed in and out, bubbles filtering through the apparatus, trailing behind me like some shimmering tail. I swam with shoals of tiny finger-fish flashing their scales in the underwater light. Light refracts in the sea. I spied the oysters. Clusters of mature ones. My hands were gloved, my right holding a small knife gifted to me by my mother after I had completed my first dive, my left the basket. Whispering silent thanks, I dislodged the oysters gently, taking care not to hold onto the razor edges too tightly. I hefted one, testing its weight: it was heavy, meaning good fat flesh. I looked around me, seeing the slender forms of other women hard at work. Like porpoises, a song praised the grace of the women. Like porpoises swimming in unison, crescent moons dancing together. Once my basket was filled, I headed back to the surface, kicking hard, letting the momentum propel me upwards. I emerged, inhaling deeply the briny air. A commotion on the shore drew my attention. There was a crowd, mainly of young girls and of men; they surrounded a woman, pointing their fingers and yelling at her. One of the more vehement yellers was my Second Father. As I treaded water, moving closer to the shore, I could see that the woman was not that old, somewhat youngish in appearance. She wore a long brown robe and her hair was the black of night. She had pearls circling her brow and they gleamed like a crown or a diadem. She ignored the yelling and glanced at me with a small smile, before turning away, followed by the crowd. I was intrigued by this woman and became preoccupied with questions regarding her appearance. Why were people hostile to her? Who was she?

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As the women removed the shells and picked the malformed pearls (because even for edible oysters, they produce pearls), I worked out enough courage to ask my grandmother. “Who was the woman on the shore?” I asked, my fingers working automatically, sorting the pearls in terms of their sizes. I sometimes collected the ones that called out to me. Grandmother simply looked at me and answered, “The sea-witch.” Her voice bore a tone of finality, her expression a look of no-more-questions-asked. I grew perturbed. Why was Second Father so rude to her? Second Father was not my birth father, but he married my mother and was considered family. He was also a strong proponent of men’s magic and used his light proudly, sometimes arrogantly. At the night circles, he demonstrated it with extravagant and elaborate disks, dwarfing First Father’s and the rest of the men folk. He owned a silver fish and carried himself like a merchant from the City. He took an active dislike of me and I shared similar sentiments. Only the love of my mother prevented me from doing anything. We are daughters of the sea, part of an ancient lineage. Even then we show courtesy to visitors and extend our hospitality, especially to the storytellers and the rag-and-bone men who drop by to trade stories and goods for warm comfortable lodgings and food. As the day eased into early afternoon, the stately air-blimps arrived to transport the baskets of oysters to the City. The women pulled them with practiced ease to the open carriages and made sure there was no spillage from the containers. I watched the silver fish slowly ascend into the skies, humming as their propellers rotated rapidly. I caught a glimpse of light, interlinked and criss-crossed like an intricate web, winking tantalizingly from one silver fish as it passed overhead. Magic. It whispered in my blood, awakening my senses to fire. I dreamed of the sea-witch that night and she danced with the waves, green on green, her pearls gleaming in the sun, singing oddly familiar words Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. My name. ~*~ I am the daughter of oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers. I know the moods of the sea like I know my own. She can be kind one day and angry-raging the other. We get storms now and then, seasonal monsoons and the occasional typhoon. For seasons like these, we stay indoors, listening to the howling wind and the rain pummeling against the outer walls of our huts. Outside we know the sea is storm-tossed and the women occupy themselves with netting and assorted distractions: we too are storm-tossed inside, disliking being stuck in enclosed living quarters and longing for the sea.

7 There is a song in my mind. A snippet, actually, from my dreams. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. It stirs within me like the sea kelp fronds lit with sun. I wonder what it means. ~*~ Wrath Second Father behaved curtly towards me days after the sea-witch had appeared in our village. I stayed my anger and held my tongue, because I love my half-sisters and hate to see them hurt or otherwise. Moreover, his attitude simply accentuated my curiosity. I wanted to know more about the sea-witch. The storm hit within a week. We had fair notice of it, being warned by the watchers who paid close attention to weather patterns. Sheets of water cascaded down, washing away the sand, causing rivulets to form on the shores. The wind was strong and batted at anyone who dared venture out of their huts. I sometimes dreaded staying indoors, simply because there was Second Father around with his surly face and his barbed words. Grandmother was there, shielding me from his bluster. She was diplomatic when it came to her sons-in-law, polite and neutral in her speech. My birth father – First Father – was cordial towards Second Father and told me to be pleasant towards his brother (all the men in the village call each other ‘brother’). He was still concerned about my light curling ability and stressed repeatedly that I should focus on other things. I nodded, though I seethed inside. I was no longer a little girl to be told to or of. Yet for his kindness, First Father did not prepare for the wrath I was about to face on the second day of the storm. Second Father was the leader who led the charge and showed up at the door, the raindrops beating a jagged rhythm on his rattan raincoat. He had earlier left the house, muttering about something and we let him, having more important things to worry about. The netting needed repairing and we still had to check on the pearl-oyster pools now open to the deluge of rain. “What are you doing?” My mother said sternly, flicking water off her. Second Father was letting water pour into the hut and she did not like that. He led a group of solemn-faced men, similarly attired and similarly postured: belligerent. “We have decided,” Second Father snarled and glared at me with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Mirra needs to be secluded.” Ice flooded my body and I cried, “I did nothing.” First Father shook his head. “Brother, you don’t have to do this.” Mother flung a look at him; he knew something we didn’t.

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“Why did the sea-witch appear?” Second Father sneered and stalked into the hut, rainwater dripping off him. He stopped before me and grabbed my right arm. His hand was cold, clammy. “Because of her. Her!” I pulled my arm away, wincing at the pain. There would be some form of bruising later. His grip was that vicious. “No. I refuse to go. I have stopped my light curling.” “Stop lying, you little urchin,” Second Father spat and Mother stared at the ugly man she had married. “Women should not use magic.” First Father lost his cordiality with his brother and stepped up, putting himself between me and Second Father. “She has said so. Let her go, brother.” Second Father was past reasoning. He flung First Father aside, grabbed me once more and dragged me out into the open where the rain drenched everything. I soon became soaked to the skin. Someone tied my hands with rough fishing wire and it cut into my wrists. I was surprised it did not slice through skin. There was a scuffle. First Father lost his temper and slapped Second Father across his jaw. In the pouring rain, I could glimpse pairs of eyes peering from other huts. My breathing grew frantic, my body was cold. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. Second Father regained his composure, flung a contemptuous glance at First Father whose eyes showed shock and anger. “Majority vote, brother.” The rest of the group muttered assent and refused to meet my eyes, my parents’ eyes. “What perfidy is this?” Grandmother’s voice. Loud and clear. She had been napping. Now she stood, her stance stubborn, arms akimbo on her sides. Second Father ignored her and yanked me into moving. I stumbled, slipping on the slick mud. Fell. Another vicious tug at my arm – and I found myself flung into a dark hut, smelling nothing but dead and rotting fish. The door slammed close and I was alone, heart thumping wildly, in the fetid darkness. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. I pulled at the door. It was locked from outside. I screamed and shouted. I beat the walls with my bound fists. Nobody seemed to have heard me. Instead there was the roar of the rain and the wind. There was some shouting outside, women’s voices raised against men’s. I blinked back tears and stared at my hands, tied as they were. I tried to summon the circles back. They appeared, but they were weak, bereft of power, spinning feebly. It was as if my ability had fled, fearful of censure.

9 Then the sea had her revenge. ~*~ I am the daughter of the sea. It has been said that the sea will protect her daughter when she cries out for help, that She will step in when there is injustice done. I am the daughter of the sea. I have never doubted that. ~*~ Sea Wrath At first there was a slow subtle roar, as if it was coming from the distance. The roar soon gathered strength and I could feel the floor beneath my feet tremble. The winds seemed to have died down, only replaced by this sound. Then – KERRACK! The hut I was in splintered apart and in came water. Torrents of dark water flowing ferociously towards me. I gasped and backed away, tearing at the wire binding my wrists together with my teeth. Tsunami. I could hear screaming this time. Women. Men. Children. As the dark water swirled about me and I tried to keep myself afloat, I saw women and men swept aside by the force of the dark water like twigs in a river. My family. I held onto something, bound as I was. The current was strong. The sea was furious. Just as I was. We were feeling Her wrath. Suddenly the vise-like pressure around my wrists loosened and I breathed a sigh of relief. I flexed my hands, feeling the blood circulation return in painful spurts. The water rushed around my chest and I half-swam, half-fought, half-walked my way to the splintered opening. I could only see a black wave, pushing debris inland. Some of my neighbors had managed to climb onto their roofs and were clinging onto anything stable desperately. They shouted something at me. Mirra. My family. First Father’s body bobbed past. He looked unconscious but alive. His limbs twitched. I raised my sore right hand and the bright circles re-appeared, hardened by resolve. I willed him to safety and a green-white arc gently eased him onto drier and higher ground.

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Two figures, wide-eyed and struggling: Mother and Grandmother. They gasped for air. They were expert swimmers but even then they could not withstand the wrath of the sea. Mother mouthed Mirra before slipping away, dragged along by the dark water. I willed two more bright arcs, shifted my hands, and the arcs lifted my mother and grandmother clear out of the water. Their feet dangled in the air. I moved them to where First Father was. Mother immediately turned her attention to him. Grandmother collapsed. Water filled my senses and I lifted my head so that I could breathe. I saw yet another body – a male – drift amongst the detritus flung up by the sea. Second Father. My heart clenched. I hated him. He had brought this upon himself. Second Father stirred and thrashed about as if he was drowning. He shouted for help. His eyes found me and grew wider. He began to cry like a baby. Silently, I lifted my hand and created a tight circle glistening with green and silver tones. Sea tones. I made it slide around Second Father who then clung onto it as thought it was a safety float for children. I willed it to carry him away from the dark water and it did, depositing him all crumpled next to my family. The use of so much light drained me. My body felt consumed by some out-of-control fire, hollowed-out, and I grew dizzy, limp. I gurgled, water filling my vision and my lungs. ~*~ At first, it was light that pierced through the darkness as well as a soft voice speaking tenderly to me. Followed by Mirra, you have to wake up. A groan. It was my own voice: weak, faded. Mirra. Mirra. Mirra. My mouth tasted sea brine and something darker, earthier. I choked, coughed and sat up straight, retching out more seawater. My middle hurt. I hurt. There was someone beside me, in brown robe and pearls entwined in her hair. She held a cool towel against my forehead, her hands graceful, mild. “You gave us a fright,” she said, her voice a mellow contralto. She wiped my face and I could see that her hands were also scarred. Old scars, oyster scars, multiple scars marking her skin.

11 “I am also an oyster-diver. My village is not that far away from yours.” The pearls clicked as she dipped the towel into a bucket of clear water. I could see that the pearls were malformed, in odd shapes, strung together in a beautiful necklace. “You are the sea-witch,” I said. She did not look terrifying at all. “Oh,” she smiled and her eyes twinkled merrily, “Is that what I am called now?” I opened my mouth and closed it. “Sometimes, it’s best,” she brought me a cup of hot seafood broth and I sipped it gratefully, warmth glowing in my middle, “to treat abuse and derision with humor.” “My family,” reality sank in. The tsunami. My family. The village covered with the dark water. “Everyone is safe,” the sea-witch’s voice was reassuring. “You did well saving them.” The memory of me curling light rose unbidden and I became afraid. “Why are you so fearful?” She glanced at me while she took away the cup and refilled it with hot bitter kelp tea. Men’s magic, I wanted to say. “You did well,” she repeated, her voice not unkindly. “There is no such thing as men’s magic or women’s magic. We all came from the same people, didn’t we?” With that, she spoke to me about the mysteries and truths. ~*~

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Looking For Her: A Journey I am the daughter of oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers. I am the descendant of travelers from old Terra Firma, the ancient Earth the women of the village speak so proudly of. I am the daughter of a line of women who risk their lives to dive for the oysters, the roughshelled bivalves that sustain us and give us beautiful pearls. I am the daughter of the sea and a curler of light. I stand between two worlds, both real and rich. Within me, the peridot of the sea and light magic dance like helix strands. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. In my hands I hold the piercing oyster shells and they bite into my skin. Through my hands I direct light and it fills my body, my soul like the golden sun. With these two gifts within me, I travel, just as my ancestors had done so for many generations. My belongings are minimum, my clothing adequate and enough to protect me from the weather and travails of the journey. There is so much to learn ahead of me and my past is a story I would tell one day when I finally settle down, out of many pearls I have collected throughout my adolescence. I keep them like memories. They are memories. They keep me strong as I make my way to the City and strengthen my will as I pass by the ghost villages of hollowed ship hulls left behind after the first-wave and pick my way through the rows of empty huts leading to the main City gates. There I know I will find her.

13 Wave One: The City The City is named the City. A prosaic name, given by my pragmatic and practicalminded ancestors who set about trying to make their new home hospitable and not given to anything fanciful or poetic. Situated on the curve of the Bay of Atsuko, it is the place where everyone goes to, either by necessity or by choice. The Sea of Dead Ships provides a daunting – if not, frightening – barrier: hollowed ship hulls where the wind rattles through dead metal walls and echoes mournfully of long past stories, of pain and anguish. Many people have to pass through the Dead Ships before entering the outer gates proper and even then, they have to encounter the ghost towns, emptied of people. One can say that the City is protected, in a strange way. Yet, people still congregate at the City. Silver fish, from the coastal villages, carriages from the Innerlands and by plain walking, journeys on the many roads leading to the City. I have made my own journey in such a manner, on foot. I have now settled in the middle section between Lambs Quarter and the Schools. Lambs Quarter, the only whimsical name bestowed by our levelheaded ancients, is a marketplace selling vegetables and herbs as well as livestock. It is a thriving area, filled with the normal and the exotic. Most householders living in the City get their staples from Lambs Quarter and do a fair bit of trading. The Schools are the institutions where children and adults study. Many are highly reputable. The one I find myself attending is no exception. My little room faces the courtyard of one of the Schools and I enjoy watching the students perform morning exercises before trooping into their classrooms for the day’s lessons. Ah. My room. I have decorated it to remind me of home. Oyster shells, salvaged from the coastal and immensely fashionable Eateries, line the simple wooden mantle and book shelves on the wall. Tiny pearls scattered around, their nacre covering twinkling in the light, provide some form of tactile and visual pleasure. A mobile, made with green and amber glass, swings gently in the breeze. At certain times, when the light is just right, I am reminded of the sea-kelp forests. And at these times, my heart aches painfully and I long to be back with my family. I am no longer a child. So many things have changed. I am changed. I am still a daughter of the sea and Her waves beat within me. I am still a daughter of oyster-divers and pearlgatherers and I guard my heritage fiercely. However I have made my choice, decided the path I wanted to take, because it is the best for me. I am a curler of light and I now have someone to teach me. ~*~

14 She is the sea-witch who saved me and I have managed to track her down. She no longer lives in her own village, another conscious choice. We all seem to be making conscious choices, especially for us. When I sit down with her to talk about the lessons of breathing and focusing, I look at her scarred hands. Like my own. The scars twist around her fingers, around her wrists and lower arms – marked by sharp oyster shells. When she lift them up to direct the circles, the scars become vivid white and dance along her arms like little sea-dragons. She has a name, just as I have one. The men folk in my village make her sound as if she is an ogre, a true sea-hag. She is none of that. She is Auri. In her School, there are all sorts of people. Children, teenagers and adults: male and female, bonded in pairs or triads or Apart. All of them have stories of their own to tell. All of them are keen to further their knowledge on magic. There are not only the light circles I have grown up knowing; magic can be expressed in other geometric shapes like spirals, chevrons and triskhelions. I have witnessed it manifest in spheres of swirling light. Besides light, there are other forms of magic like earth or air. I am still getting used to living in the City and meeting so many people in Auri’s School. ~*~ I dream of home nightly and occasionally, I dream of Second Father’s derision. How he has resented my ability and made his dislike plain for all to see. How he railed against the sea-witch and painted a false image of her. He tried to lock me up as a form of punishment, of shunning me. The tsunami changed that. It was the sea’s wrath, Her rage. She has always protected Her own. I saved him though from drowning and he was soon contrite, embarrassed. For me, the damage was done and my heart burned with the desire to leave. Auri told me months after the tsunami, after my own journey to seek her, that she waded into the debris left behind the sea’s wake to pull me out. No one dared to step in to help. She nursed me while I struggled with unconsciousness and when I woke, she told me about the mysteries and truths. Perhaps I am a vengeful person, hateful towards Second Father. And perhaps I should find compassion and understanding towards him one day. Even now, I am seized with anger whenever I think about him. I am not sure what my mother would do now with him. She would still look after my half-siblings as we follow our mother-lines more. ~*~ When the dreams get too poignant or too painful, I rouse myself up from my bed and make simple candles out of the oyster shells.

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Oyster shell candles Things needed: Oyster shells/halves (washed and cleaned). Wax. Wicks/string. Metal pot. Scissors (to cut and measure the wicks). Heating the wax (bought from Lambs Quarter) in a metal pot until it is liquid, before filling the oyster shells (carefully). Adding the wicks before the liquid wax hardens. Remember to put the shell candles on a stable level surface. ~*~ The candles in the darkness give me so much hope.

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Wave Two: The School The School is a delightful place to be at, when it is quiet in the early morning, before the bulk of students arrives. There is a small fountain built in the middle of the courtyard, all blue and cream tiles and splashing clear water. I know Auri has it built, because she is of the sea too. It is in her blood. We cannot bear to be far away from water. The breathing and visualization classes are held next to the fountain. The sound of the water plays a part in the lessons as it serves as both auditory distraction and calming device. The students learn by focusing their breathing to the rhythm of their heartbeats, stilling their minds so that they are able to channel their abilities. I sometimes end up supervising the younger children, the pre-adolescents, when they have their classes. There are boys in these classes, many of them from the Innerlands where they are forbidden to practice magic. It is the reverse of what I have experienced and I find myself watching Benyi, a boy from one of the Innerlands towns. “Women practice magic openly,” he told me once, after a class. “They can speak to the earth and listen to its movements, its murmurs. When I showed that I could do it, the grandmothers wailed and made it sound as if I had done something really terrible.” His smile was sad and I knew that smile as deeply as mine. “When I showed them the power lines, they shook their heads and told me to stop. I managed to leave my town after last sun-circle.” “I do miss home,” Benyi continued wistfully and I could only nod. Here we were, kindred spirits. “At least I can listen to the earth now and touch it without hearing the tsks-tsks-tsks and seeing the eye-rolling.” “What do you plan to do after finishing your studies?” I asked him then and he looked at me, all thirteen sun-circles old. He was still a child, growing out of the stage but a child nonetheless. “Help the farmers,” he answered clearly. Our land is prone to earthquakes and we often experience slight tremors, even in the stability of the City. “They need to know where to plant their vegetables in the right place.” So I watch him when he meditates and hones his abilities. We have similar stories, similar sadness and despair. His scars are not visible, but they are there. ~*~ Sometimes, the School has a draining effect on me, simply because I see so many people who are like me, who are forced to leave their homes. Auri has taught me a delicious Innerlanders recipe and cooking it helps relieve some of the grief.

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Ayam (Chicken) Stew Things needed: Two drumsticks. Two pieces of breast meat (or thigh, depending on your choice). Ayam bones (for the stock). Carrots. Potatoes. One large onion. Tomatoes. A small calamondin orange (ordinary orange rind will do the trick). Olive oil. Soya sauce, both light and dark. Nutmeg powder. 1. Remove the skin (if the ayam has skin) and rinse the meat thoroughly, before putting the ayam (drumsticks, breast meat and bones) into a pot. 2. Fill the pot with water until the water level covers the ayam bits. Bring the water to a boil and remove the scum. This will form the stock base for the stew. 3. While the stock is being made, wash the vegetables, peel them if necessary and chop them up into chunks. Save the peels and shavings for the compost if you have one. 4. When the stock is done, remove ayam bits into a separate pot (or plate). Pour the stock into a clean pot. 5. Pour a teas-spoonful of olive oil in the pot (used for the stock) and add in the onion. Stir until it is golden-brown. 6. Add the ayam bits in slowly and gently stir. 7. Add in the vegetables and stir (use a big wooden spoon if possible). A few dashes of light soya sauce. 8. Gently pour in the stock and stir until everything is mixed. 9. Bring it to a boil, removing the scum constantly. Around this time, add in the dark soya sauce. 10. Bring down the heat and simmer for a couple of hours. You can add in the orange/peel and the nutmeg powder. 11. Watch the stew and stir it regularly. 12. After a couple of hours, you can serve the stew hot, with river rice or warm bread. ~*~

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Wave Three: Mirra’s Mirror I have hardly looked at myself in the mirror, after I have left my village for the City. I have never thought myself as beautiful or plain. I am just myself, simple as that. So I was surprised when Benyi gave me a small mirror with an ornate black iron-wrought frame, bought from the blacksmith who has his workshop at Lambs Quarter. I thanked him and he smiled at me shyly before darting off into his class. It came wrapped in gossamer-thin paper and I peeled the layers open, only to see my face reflected in the mirror. Only except I did not know that was my face, until I blinked and the reflection blinked back at me. I touched my right cheek and the reflection did so by touching her left. I have the black hair so typical of my village, worn long and tied in a severe ponytail. My face is slender, almost thin, and my skin color is brown, no doubt a product of being under the sun for a long time. My ancestors hailed mainly from Asian and Southeast Asian extraction. That was way back on Terra Firma and even now, we could perceive distinctive physical features: oblique eyes, dark hair, petite stature. I pouted my lips; they were a dark ruby red, glistening with my saliva. I tilted my face to the left and my hair caught the light from the candles: edged with gold and shimmering away, tinged with fire. I was intrigued by my own physical appearance. For a long time, I have decided to be Apart. That is to say that I have chosen to walk the path of singlehood. I have never thought of being part of a pair or triad or – like the families in my village – marrying husbands. I have not taken account of how I look like to people. I have now reached twenty-one sun-circles. Marriageable age, as Grandmother would say with a twinkle in her eye. My cousins have married once they are old enough. I remain repulsed by the concept after witnessing what Second Father has done. Yet… walking down the streets criss-crossing Lambs Quarter, where the merchants, farmers and vegetable growers stake their claims with their makeshift stalls, I have begun to draw attention from young men and women. It is a strange feeling, at times uncomfortable, at times enough to bring a flush of pleasure to my cheeks. Does my mirror reveal the true me? Am I still a daughter of the sea, a descendant of oyster divers and pearl gatherers? ~*~ I have placed the mirror with its black iron filigree next to the oyster candles. It reflects the warm flickering light and I enjoy watching it while the night deepens.

19 Wave Four: Nacre Many magical theories center on self-protection and self-defense, very much like the nacre that shields the sensitive oyster body from external intruders and irritants. Auri and her teachers make sure that self-protection is reinforced, until it is part of conscious and unconscious thinking. For us who have grown up defending ourselves, hiding from others, protection has come naturally as much as the way we breathe or sleep. Auri feels that I have protected myself to an extreme, that I have cocooned myself from almost everything. ~*~ “Open your senses. Feel.” This was her stern admonishment to me when she observed my training with a critical eye one morning. “Why?” I gently came out of my meditative trance, shaking off the vestigial images of sea green and golden fronds. “Your senses will tell you more things about your environment,” Auri’s lips curved in a wry smile. “My senses are functioning well enough,” my reply sounded snappish and I wished I had taken them back, for Auri looked at me intently. Surprisingly, she did not become angry. “You feel like a recluse, wrapped up in too much solitude,” she said quietly. She was wearing cerulean sea stones this time in her hair and she had exchanged her usual brown robe for a light blue. Her color, I thought suddenly and wondered why I had felt pleased about it. Her words resonated with me. Was I now a recluse? Had I steadily detached myself from human emotions? When did this happen? ~*~ Daughters of the sea are like their Mother – intense, emotional, ever-changing. We celebrate our emotions. We express them freely. What has happened to me? ~*~

20

When I discovered I could curl light, like the men folk in my village, I was exhilarated. Overjoyed with the new ability coursing in my veins, through my being, like the powerful undercurrents in the sea. The joy transformed into indignant frustration when I was forbidden to do anything with this ability, this gift. All I knew was that everything became secret. Curling light, forming the bright spinning circles, became a secret joy. Perhaps it was from that moment I had begun insulating myself from prying eyes, from knowing looks. From the disapproval shown by many men, including my own birth father. To an adolescent girl, shielding felt like the appropriate response – I had no one to turn to, not even the womenfolk who seemed to agree with the general attitude and consensus towards magic: it was men’s magic and women were not allowed, even though women held higher social positions. I had clearly encroached on the one single privilege given to men and they defended it most ferociously. The old memories, the bitter ones, make me protect myself even more. Am I making pearls or awful deformed sea rock? Am I bitter? And Auri… Why did I feel joy when I found out about her personal affinity with the color blue? She is at least ten sun-circles older than me and I consider her my old sister, my teacher and mentor. Is it just mere heroine-worship? I have to ponder on these new feelings emerging forth. ~*~ I have taken to drinking tisanes when I am in a contemplative mood and Lambs Quarter is a wealth of knowledge when it comes to the diverse uses of herbs and flowers. Tisane Bag Herbs and flowers of your personal choice, freshly picked. (I prefer chamomile for its calming effects). A handful would be appropriate. Remember to dry them and when they are sufficiently dried, fill little cloth bags. Two teaspoonfuls make a good pot of herbal tea. ~*~ I prefer sipping the tea infused with Innerlanders chamomile blooms. It is a new habit, recently adopted when I started living in the City.

21

Wave Five: Circles My magic imagery and visualization involves circles and disks. This is the pattern-style typical of my lineage. Other groups of people, having descended from the different waves of immigrants, have other pattern-styles. Or signatures, as Auri would say. Individual regions have different and varying signatures, recognizable by practitioners like names to people or places. My circles have colors. Distinct colors – green and white or green and silver. They appear in my mind, spinning like a child’s toy whirly-gig. Sometimes they are plain circles, unadorned by inherent patterns. Sometimes they are more elaborate, concentric circles inlaid with more concentric circles like the whorls on oyster shells. I am starting to think that green is my own personal color, just as blue is Auri’s. The magic is influenced – no, intertwined – with the user’s own self. Logical, because the magic comes directly from the user. I have not used the circles for defensive purposes, not since the tsunami, the sea’s wrath, had struck my village. I know that light curled in the right manner can save lives. What I dare not contemplate is its reverse aspect. ~*~ The City has been experiencing a series of mild tremors lately. In my studies, which include geography, I have learnt that the City was built on a dead volcano linked to a still-active chain of volcanoes called The Ridge. The sea I have grown up with is actually part of the cirque bay formed from its large crater. My ancestors landed on the Bay and started their lives along its curved coast. The second wave of immigrants moved inland and their descendents now live with the constant threat of earthquakes and other forms of seismic activity. The City folk live their lives with unabashed joy though. Practical-minded as they are, they enjoy their food, their social groups and their interests. They have even coped well with the tremors, having planned shelters for the eventual ‘big one’, as they always joke. I see the ripples circling outwards in my glass of water and see the items on my shelves quiver. It is an odd experience, living with tremors. But that is the City for you. I have grown up with the idea that the City is this thriving hub, a center of prosperous commerce (and it is). My village supplies the plumb juicy oysters so welcomed by the Eateries, transported via the fleet of silver fish that arrives daily to bring in their treasures. Now I know that the City is mortal and not all that infallible.

22

Auri has made sure that her School has a shelter – just in case. All the major institutions have their own shelters, reinforced by strong metal frames. The children of the City grow up with drills taught in their Schools and by their parent groups. Look for sturdy structures to crouch under, like a firm table. Do not panic. At times, the Schools hold simulations to prepare the children for the future. I wonder if the people of the City see themselves as sons and daughters of the earth, because so much revolves around the stability of the land beneath their feet. ~*~ I find myself wandering down Lambs Quarter as it has become one of my favorite personal haunts. My senses are tempted by the variety of goods being sold there. Pots of fresh herbs grown in gardens and hydroponic farms. Vegetables brought from the Innerlands. Herds of livestock shepherded from the Innerlands as well – ayam, ma and yang. The patois of language bantered around as people barter and chat over their produce. The diversity of people thronging Lambs Quarter is astounding too, providing visual and verbal color to the canvas that is Lambs Quarter. This is where I met Josh. After a particularly long drawn out earth tremor, I managed to soothe my jittery nerves by taking a slow walk down to Lambs Quarter. Going to there is part-meditation, partcontemplation, part-calming-myself-down. The walk itself is immensely therapeutic. As usual, I walked past the cages of ayam clucking away and showing off their speckled feathers. I politely declined buying the rich eggs – advertised so eloquently by the seller – and strode on, taking in the sights and sounds. I still feel like a tourist, amazed at the bustling locale. The herbs and vegetables stalls were next and I stood for a while, sniffing at the silvery-green rosemary tips and chatting to the woman who owned the stall about the uses of tisanes. Then, it was down the small eateries set up by enterprising young men and women, fresh from the Innerlands and the coastal villages. I sampled broths and stews, cooked to perfection by obviously loving and attentive chefs. It was by chance I stopped by a new eatery, one populated by empty chairs and tables. But the smell emanating from inside the shop was divine. And familiar. My interest was piqued and I peered into the shop, looking for its owner. “Hello?” A young man, about my age, perhaps one or two sun-circles older, walked out, wiping his hands on a clean dishcloth. He had hair the Innerlanders call ‘auburn’ and an open honest face with clear green eyes. A boyish face, coupled with a body frame the dancers in the School refer to as ‘lean’. “Oh, hello there.” His voice was cheerful. “I would like to sample whatever is sending the delicious aroma, if that is alright with you.” I was perplexed. Such enticing fragrances and yet no customers?

23 “Wait here,” he smiled and disappeared into what I presumed was the kitchen, only to reappear with a large white porcelain bowl filled with steamy stew and an enamel spoon. He placed it on a table and bade me sit which I did, inhaling the oh-so-familiar and nostalgic fragrance. “Genuine oyster stew,” he explained as he watched me savor the stew with a grin. The flavors brought me home instantly and I was transported back to Mother’s kitchen, helping her chop herbs and vegetables as she prepared the oysters for the broth. We make use of oysters differently in my village but the flavor is there. Home. “This is simply delicious,” I mopped up the stew with some mixed-oats bread the young man had provided. I reached into my pockets for payment. He stopped me, shaking his head. “For you, it’s free.” “No, no, no. I should at least pay you.” I laughed and insisted on paying him. We got down to light bantering and soon, we were talking like old friends. His name is Josh and he hails from an Innerlander farming family. He is new in the City and has just established his eatery, hence the lack of customers. ~*~ We have started talking to each other more often, both Josh and I. It is an interesting development. And coupled with my confused feelings for Auri, it is going to be more remarkable. Oddly enough, I feel awake. Alive. Like my light circles.

24

Wave Six: Light (Interlude) They always say that light will come at the end of night. I wish this were true for me. When I am in my darkest moments, when I feel beset by the memories, by fetid darkness and the awful feeling of being trapped inside, I cling onto the fact that I have light within me. That I can curl with my will. That I did save lives. That I am now able to be open with who I am.

Wave Seven: Homesickness I am homesick. Even though the City has been kind to me so far, I am still a daughter of the sea. I miss the sea’s touch on my skin, the embrace of seawater around me. There is always the communal Baths where I find myself soaking my body in the hot springs. But nothing beats the real sea and Her warmth. Do you feel like this? I often ask Auri. Do you? She does not say much. Her eyes answer everything. Sometimes there is just too much concrete surrounding us and the feeling gets too unbearable, intolerable. Josh knows the feeling too. It is not merely a feeling, but a whole-body aching where medical healing does not work. I am the only chef in the family, he tells me simply and I stare at him, recognizing that voice, that tone. Another kindred spirit. Am I always drawn to people with the same stories to tell? So we leave our homes and make new ones in other places. Our bodies, our memories, are tied to the land we are born on – and we get homesick. In times like these, I remember the folk song my Grandmother has taught me. The title roughly translates to “The Sky Is Dark”. It comforts me in times of loneliness and I recall it being sung in a sincere quavering voice while the memories of boiling broth and quiet chatter gently cradle me to sleep.

25

Wave Eight: Broken Shells The earthquake struck suddenly, just like the tsunami. At first, there was the subtle rumble beneath my bed, an earth tremor shaking the oyster shell candles on the shelves and set the mirror to trembling. Even the mobile swayed as if blown by an unnatural wind, tinkling softly. By now I had gotten used to the earth tremors and I went back to bed, only to have it shaken away from my body that faltered and fell heavily onto the floor. I climbed back up to my feet and lost equilibrium straightaway. Things toppled around. Shells crashed. Something sharp hit my head then and darkness took me into her greedy grasp. Woke up, later, to find my home in total shambles and that I was miraculously alive, only with a swollen bruise on the left side of my head. My oyster shells had shattered, their sharp-edged shards scattered. I cut myself on a few when I tried to get up, using my hands as traction and support. The cuts bled freely and were painful. But I was used to such wounds. I wrapped some cloth around them and headed out. The street outside was a mess. Crumbled buildings, toppled statues, broken concrete pillars. And bodies. Rescuers were already picking their way through the rubble as I swayed on my feet and tried to make sense of the whole situation. Ma-drawn carriages were carrying the injured and the traumatized. Not all had gotten to the shelters and because the earthquake had hit in the early hours of the morning, many were thrown out of their beds. Many bore bruises and cuts on their faces and limbs. Boots crunched concrete debris and I looked up to see one man from the civic rescue team carry a familiar figure in his arms. Benyi. “Not dead,” the man said, covered with dust and other things. “I heard that he tried to warn people of an earthquake. But no one listened to him.” As I watched, my heart bleak, he carried Benyi to an awaiting carriage, already filled to the brim with injured City folk still too shocked to talk. Trained as they were, they were not totally prepared for a real one. “Mirra,” someone called my name and I turned, numbly, to see Auri making her careful way to me. “Mirra.” And I was drawn into her embrace and the smell of her hair – sweet, flowery – filled my nostrils as I buried my face into her shoulder. We then pulled away and I could see that she was wearing only a peach nightgown with a robe thrown over for warmth. We held onto each other as more rescuers pulled out bodies in front of us.

26 “Benyi,” I could only say and Auri regarded me silently, nodding. To force ourselves out from the inertia born of shock and trauma, we helped the rescuers, using our bare hands to pull away heavy rubble. Another team had brought in their trained canines and the tawny-furred animals were ambling nimble-pawed on the heaps of rubble, their noses close to the concrete, claws clicking. Occasionally, one would thump its tail, signaling the presence of a survivor trapped under the debris; its handler would then call out for help to the rescuers. As I worked, using a bit of light to illuminate the debris – it was still dark – and a bit of curling light to lift the heavier rubble out of the way, I thought of another person. Josh. Did he survive? “Mirra!” It was his voice and I felt a surge of pleasure and joy course through my body. And suffered a sharp pang when I saw his left side bandaged up, red seeping through. He managed to smile wanly at me, his boyish face pale. Auri was watching our exchange with a questioning look and a small smile. I noticed it and grinned – I hope – sheepishly. “Josh, this is the Auri I talk about all the time,” I said and he bowed courteously, making Auri chuckle. We went back to more serious and urgent business: helping the rescuers and digging for survivors. By the end of the day, my hands were covered with new cuts, new scars.

27

Wave Nine: Scars As a child and now a woman, I am always unusually affected by environmental changes. The earthquake is no exception and I end up weakened and in bed. When the rescuers were done with their work and everyone started to bring their lives back to a semblance of normalcy after a solemn memorial, I went back to my home which was not severely damaged, only broken shelves and shells. I spent a day or two cleaning the space up with Josh’s help and when I completed the task, promptly fell into bed and slept a deep uninterrupted sleep. I roused myself enough to pay Benyi a visit and he could only smile at me bravely from his hospital bed, his arms wrapped up in swathes of bandages, his face pinched in pain and pallid by medication. After which, I helped Auri to clear fallen rubble and debris in the School. After the hours of backbreaking labor, I slumbered once more like watersoaked driftwood. The exhaustion combined unfavorably with the intense bouts of homesickness and I soon became out-of-sorts, physically and emotionally fragile. Auri later paid me a visit and told me things that truly shook me to the core. ~*~ I was in bed, drained of my energy. I did not have the strength to get up. Auri arrived with a pot of freshly made stew and a flask of tea. She watched me eat, seated by my side. I remember how she had nursed me back to health after the tsunami. “Do you know why I am called the sea-witch, by the men folk in your village?” She asked me, her voice gentle. I looked at her curiously. Second Father seemed to hate her. The other men in the village echoed his sentiments, always murmuring darkly under their breath. “I am called the sea-witch because I killed a man when he tried to assault me.” My cup of tea was left untouched. I sat up slowly. Auri’s face was calm, her eyes – distant, sad. “In my village, I was able to curl light without being censured. But the men folk were unhappy. One man strove to show his power by trying to dominate me through assault. He found me alone one day.”

28 She paused and closed her eyes. Opened them again and this time, tears glistened unshed like pearls locked within. “He thought by forcing me and assaulting me, he could take away my light magic, my joy. He was a strong man and he pushed me down, onto the sea rocks. I was picking limpets then and I swung my basket at him, in his face. The pain seemed to make him more furious and he tore my clothes off.” “I thought there and then that I did not want to die. No, I wanted to live and I wanted to protect myself. So I killed him. Curled a light circle around his neck to strangle him. I choked the air out of him. He fell onto me, his face blue, his body lifeless. It was then people found me and they accused me of killing him. Called me names. Sea-witch is the mildest of them.” “Word spread quickly,” her tears gleamed, trickling down her cheeks like silver rivulets. “I left my village and lived as a recluse for a while, before leaving for the City.” “Auri…” I whispered and leaned forward, reaching out a hand to touch her face. Felt the wetness on her cheek, dampening the velvety smoothness. “I proved to him and other people that I am no abomination. That I survive is a proof of my strength, my will.” “Auri…” “Do you think I am a murderer? A horrible person?” “No!” We both ached together, two kindred souls joined by pain and empathy. I did something else then. I got up, gingerly, carefully, and cupped her face with my hands. Kissed her gently on her lips. They felt like flower petals. Soft and firm at the same time. Hint of salt. Like the sea. I tasted her tears on them and kissed her once more. I wanted to tell her so much that I understood her. I wanted to tell her so much that I loved her for her strength, her will. For herself. She was the first to pull back and gaze at me, her eyes sparkling. With a rustle of her blue skirt, she leaned forward and returned the kiss. I could smell her light sweetness. We later spent the night curled around each other, holding hands and savoring the touch of skin on skin. We both have scars. We know them, see them and touch them. We acknowledge them. “I think Josh has to know,” Auri chuckled and nuzzled the back of my neck.

29 Wave Ten: Whole (Interlude) Of course Josh has to know. He is surprised at first, gradually accepting Auri into our circle, effectively turning us into a triad. For me, I am surprised too, though in a pleasant way. I have long thought I was Apart. We are still discovering many things about each other, all three of us. Auri is the oldest in the triad and the most stable. Besides she is the mistress of the School! As for the scars within and without, Auri has helped me as much as I do on my part. I have drawn myself out of the physical and mental fog – for the better, because my body has begun its healing process. As a treat, Josh cooks his rich oyster stew. Food heals and the company I am with speeds the healing, makes it work wonders to the body and the soul. ~*~ Josh’s Innerlanders Oyster Stew • • • • • •

Half a cup of freshly churned butter A cup of chopped celery (carrots and potatoes are also good). Three table-spoonful of chopped shallots (small onions make a fine substitute as well). One quart of fresh cream. Two bowlfuls of fresh oysters, washed clean of grit. Salt and ground black pepper for taste.

Melt the butter in a large pot, throw in the shallots or small onions. Stir until the shallots are soft and golden-brown. Add in the celery (or the carrots and potatoes). Add in the fresh cream and mix with medium heat, remembering to stir frequently. When the mixture is about to boil, add in the oysters and the brine they have been soaked in. Salt and pepper for the seasoning. Taste first before adding more salt. Stir until the “lips” of the oysters curl and when this happens, turn off the heat. Serve with hot bread or river rice. Or enjoy it unadorned. ~*~ Our bellies are warmed by the delicious food and our souls enriched by the loving company and community that is the triad. I gift Josh with a yellow scarf – it fits him well and yellow is his personal color. He laughs and kisses me on the cheek.

30 When we join each other in bed, we become like oysters, opening up to the world, to tender touch and soft voices. We are exposed to total vulnerability, presenting our naked and true selves to one another. Our sensuality is enhanced by sensitivity, trust and understanding. Our lips touch smooth and scarred skin, kindling fires in our chests and loins. Joshi spoons me from the back, like a warm curved palm, his hands cupping my breasts, while I gather Auri close, her face nuzzling the space between skin and flesh, licking salt and water with her moist tongue. She gasps when I inhales her scent deeply and kisses her inner lips, the soft velvety patch between her thighs like sea moss. Pain transmutes to pleasure. Our sweat flows like glistening nacre, coating heaving bodies united in climax. I am becoming whole as my beloved companions are. And my dreams are dreams of the sea, interwoven with Auri’s love and Joshi’s caring regard.

31

Wave Eleven: Daughter of Divers The silver fishes arrive promptly every morning to deposit the baskets of oysters at the Eateries. They arrive, glinting silver in the sun. They are magic-powered blimps, shaped like the aerodynamic forms of fish. I would watch them fly overhead as they make their stately way to the Eateries. They are mostly piloted by men. Like Second Father. Sometimes, gossip from the pilots makes its way into the conversations of the City folk. There has been some form of viral infection running through the coastal villages, striking men and women in their prime. The healers and doctors are baffled. I worry about my family, especially Grandmother who is no doubt by now very old and vulnerable to the ravages of diseases and viruses. ~*~ The first person I saw when the silver fishes alighted on the landing spot designated by the City Council was Second Father. He had aged incredibly. His formerly dark hair was now snow-white, sparse on his scalp. His face, once handsome and arrogant, was care-worn, lined as if by tiny fissures. He walked with a slight hunch and a discernible limp; I realized his left leg had shrunk alarmingly. It was just bone wrapped in skin. I should feel some sympathy and even horror. All I knew was my heart contracting and hardening with bitterness and sudden hostility. He could not recognize me at first, I having left the village soon after the tsunami and I have grown up since then. His dark eyes concentrated on me and widened in recognition. “Mirra,” he greeted me and his voice was a pale ghost, almost fading away in the morning air. I had to listen very closely – it was that soft. A whisper. “Second Father,” I responded. Automatic. Rote. I had neither emotional investment nor attachment in this man. He shook his head. “I am no longer your Second Father. Your mother threw me out a couple of years ago. I have been living alone by myself.” Did I hear a plea in his voice? “What happened to your leg?” I found myself asking, out of curiosity, not concern. The man whom I knew as Second Father and was no longer shook his head again, heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the center of his being. “Stroke.”

32 I could see that the left side of his face was sagging and he seemed unable to move his facial muscles. “Are you still curling light?” The next question from him startled me. I steeled myself for his response when I replied with a cool “Yes”. “I see,” he nodded. No hostility, no anger, no bluster coming from him. “Keep doing that.” And with those words, he hobbled away and that was the last time I saw him. When I next heard from the rest of the pilots on their weekly supply run, I was informed that Second Father had died. In his sleep. Alone. That night, in the company of Auri and Josh, I lit a remembrance candle and left it in the dark so that it could continue to shine until the coming of dawn. I am a daughter of oyster divers and even I have some decency when it comes to remembering the dead, especially those who have hurt me deeply.

33

Wave Twelve: Dance The City recovers quickly from earthquakes. They have accepted the seismic movements and irregularities as part of life. They celebrate the return of normalcy with dances – nearly all the whole City turns up for the outdoor parties and feasts. Being descendents of immigrants from old Terra Firma who had celebrated the turn of seasons with festivals, the City Council coincides the dance with winter or “Yule”. Our winters are milder and more bearable than Terran ones. For Yule, I wear a crown of pearls and sea stones, crafted by Auri who used her crafting skills to eke out a living when she was a recluse. My garments are a simple green-gold color, tinged with a hint of light blue – the embodiment of seawater. It being winter, they have been insulated with a thin layer of wool. Josh brings me mahogany calfskin boots, tanned and dyed by Innerlanders craftsmen. In return, I give Auri a blue toga and a dark blue velvet cloak, embroidered with tiny sequined stars, Josh a yellow-brown tunic with tiny embroidered ivy leaves tattooed around the hem, a pair of chocolate pants tailored to match his height. ~*~ Men mostly dominate the night circles at my village. Dances are often coupled with stories of masculine bravado and good-natured bragging. The women have their own circles too and the dances are more ecstatic, young women and older mothers throwing themselves into a wild frenzy as the drums throb and chanters sing. In the City, men and women attend the dances. It is an eye-opening and learning experience for me. I find myself relaxing, laughing and enjoying myself as Josh spins me around and Auri pulling me to join a circle-dance, both of us skipping in time with the music. ~*~ Josh introduces me to the wassailing, whereby people would visit different households, singing songs. It is a tradition kept and practiced by his family. “There is also the orchard-visiting wassail,” he says as we walks back to our table, deliciously tired after the dance and immensely thirsty. He pours me a bit of cider and the sweet acidic drink fills my mouth, before going down my throat in a pleasant rush. “We sing to make sure we have a good harvest. Do you have similar traditions?”

34

“The older women pray to Ma-Tzu, the goddess of the sea. It is an old tradition passed down from the first-wave immigration time.” I say and memories return, bringing me back to childhood. “We now see the sea as a protector. We call ourselves daughters of the sea.” We talk about traditions the whole night while the musicians continue playing their repertoire of songs. Auri talks a little about the particular customs of her village but she mostly listens to the conversation, content to just enjoy the company. I realize that our triad is a small community of sorts. We bring into the relationship a pastiche of our experiences, our stories. We mirror one another.

35

Wave Thirteen: Finally Found You (A Short Letter) Auri and Josh, I am grateful to have finally found you. This revelation, with my magic my curling of light - gives me so much joy, so much pleasure. You two are the golden sunlight on sea kelp, keeping me going, giving me the motivation to move on. That you are both open to magic and understand how it makes one different is enough to make my heart sing. Auri, I am forever indebted to you. The first time I saw you, I thought you were just the sea-witch. Now, I know you as you, an individual, the woman whom I love and cherish very much. Josh, your culinary skills are as divine as you are – rich, multi-layered, you. The whole makes the person – and your skills are just part of the man I love. And my loves, please continue sharing our stories, our passions, our loves. Yours, Mirra

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Wave Fourteen: Sea To the sea, I return. I took a leave of absence from the School, promising Auri to resume my studies once I come back. Auri was decidedly unhappy about my decision to go back to my village, to the sea. But she gave me assent and kissed me softly on the cheek. Josh hugged me and told me to be careful, his eyes speaking more than his lips. To the sea, I return. I traveled past the ghost towns and was amazed to see new life sprouting on the metal roofs and crevices. Green fern fronds, fiddleheads curling, as they emerged magically in places where I did not expect to be rich or fertile. I traveled past the Sea of Dead Ships, marveling – now – at their sepulchral grandeur. The wind still echoed through their hollowed hulls and vacant shells, echoes of old and myriad voices, of their histories. Theirs was an unspoken story, woven across time and space as they cut through the galaxy to their new home. Like the ghost towns, green was appearing in cracks splitting the weathered metallic coverings. To the sea, I return. ~*~ The pearl-oysters beds were the first things I saw when I approached the village. Familiar, familiar grounds. Large, squarish beds, immersed in seawater. It was where I practiced curling light, in total secrecy. I did not need the secrecy now and the thought was liberating, lightening my steps, making me walk faster. I saw the huts when I walked closer to the village and I was astonished to see that they were bigger, with concrete roofs and brick walls. The roads were paved with proper tiles and were now even, no more crookedness and pitted with holes. Evidence of the tsunami had disappeared, replaced by brick and concrete. I felt as if I was walking into a surreal place, familiar and alien at the same time. Trade with the City had indeed made my village prosper. I half-dreaded to see the sea drastically changed and rejoiced when I saw the green expanse of water, tipped with foam-topped waves. It was already afternoon and the women had all returned back from their oyster diving and were at home. The sea was

37 quiet, broken except for the laughter of girls playing along the shore. One saw me and ran up to me, eyes curious and sparkling. “Are you Mirra?” Surprised that she could recognize me, I nodded and the girl darted off to the houses. The rest of the girls watched me closely as I slipped off my travel clothes and stepped into the warm-cold water, my bare feet immersed in clear sea and soft mud. I walked in more, until the water was waist-deep and I inhaled in the familiar smell of home. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. The evocative refrain came back. Memory, song, signature. I whispered it as I dipped my whole body into the sea, my skin immediately responding with a rash of goose pimples, settling down as I got used to the temperature. I let the sea embrace me. To the sea, I return. I dove into the deep, kicking with my feet. Strange and comfortingly that I could still remember how to swim – no, I am a daughter of the sea. Swimming is already in my bones. I breathed out and streams of tiny bubbles, tiny pearls, curled and flared out around me. I could see shoals of flits – the leafy sea-dragon hybrids, clawed with six limbs – glistening with their patterns of green-gold, their elaborate fins and frills merging with the sea fronds. Some people kept them as pets, if I recall correctly. The clusters of oysters were still there, lovingly and meticulously cultivated, watched and tended by generations of women. I had not brought the right equipment – I had kept my knife in a box back at my City house – and I could only touch them, feeling their jagged edges with my fingertips. My personal pilgrimage done, I kicked myself back to the surface, bubbles fizzing about me, popping on my skin, on my face. I saw two women, both old. My heart constricted. Mother and Grandmother. As I swam to the shore, I could see that they had both aged, just as the late Second Father had. Grandmother was bent over, her hands gnarled. Arthritis. Mother had more white hair than black, her face lined but still beautiful. They were wearing the traditional floral scarves around their necks, the collared brocade coats and dark pants. We only wear the traditional finery when we greet guests. I realized, with some shock, that I had become their guest. “Ma,” I felt conscious of my wet body, my hair still dripping with the sea water. “AhMa.”

38 “We are glad you came back,” Mother said, taking me into her embrace, wet or not. “Now, let us go in. There is a lot to talk about.” ~*~ They made me kelp tea and the bracing slightly bitter taste reminded me that I had finally come home. They made me simple fare – oyster fritters and clear seafood broth – and bade me eat. I ate quietly, savoring the taste, committing it to memory. I asked Mother for the recipes and she told me so – verbally, for we have an oral tradition when it comes to daily living. I related my experiences at the City, how I enrolled myself at the School and how I met Auri and Josh. I did not tell them that Auri was the sea-witch and I tried to keep it so. Mother and Grandmother listened intently, nodding in agreement. “Auri is the sea-witch, isn’t she?” Grandmother spoke up suddenly and I almost dropped the oyster fritter. I could only nod and Grandmother began to chuckle merrily. “I told you so,” she turned to Mother who mock-glared, her lips trembling with suppressed laughter. “I told the men folk and they won’t listen. They kept saying that she was some terrible sea-hag who rose from the sea, covered with kelp and bringing destruction upon anyone who dared look at her. Whatever he did, the idiot deserved it.” I lifted my eyebrows. They had known all along. “And to think that the men folk, bless their hearts and souls, listened to your former husband and followed him like some school of dumb fish. It was a good thing you ended the marriage.” Grandmother was positively laughing now. Then she turned solemn. “It is a good thing he died. The filth he’d spread about women-this and women-that was disgusting.” “So women can openly curl light now?” I said wryly and she darted me a quick startled look. The conversation died a sudden death and we ate the fritters in silence. I had more questions now. I had thought that by coming back to the village, I would find answers and resolutions. I had imagined a nice ending. Now there were more open ends. At day’s end, I bade them farewell. Grandmother wept and wanted me to stay for another day. I had a life now in the City and I needed to go back to the School, to Auri and Josh. With a final embrace, I left my mother and grandmother. However, before I left the village proper, I collected some oyster shells and stored them in my backpack. I also collected seawater and kept it in a small perfume bottle. These would be the physical memories I would bring back from my village. The rest of the memories would be in my heart and mind.

39 Mirra-Mirra-Mirra. To the sea, I return. And I did. And I will return again and again. ~*~ Oyster Fritters You will need: Five tablespoons of oysters (cleaned and washed of grit) Five tablespoons of finely-chopped celery Five cloves of garlic, minced/finely-chopped Five scallions, minced/finely-chopped One teaspoon of soy sauce Half of a teaspoon of sugar A quarter teaspoon of ground white pepper Half a cup of all-purpose flour Half a cup of cornstarch Two tablespoons of water One cup corn oil Combine oysters, celery, garlic, scallions, soy sauce and sugar. Mix flour, cornstarch, and water and then mix with the oyster-vegetable mixture. Heat oil until it is hot. Immerse the ladle in the oil until it is hot. Fill the ladle to almost full with some of the oyster mixture. Immediately hold it just under the surface of the oil until it is set, then tip it out and fry the cake until golden-brown, turning it several times. Drain to remove the excess oil.

40 Epilogue I am the daughter of oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers. I am the descendant of the firstwave immigrants from old Terra Firma, the ancient Earth planet the grandmothers of the village speak so kindly of. I am the daughter of a line of women who risk their lives to dive for the treasures of the sea, the rough-shelled bivalves that give us food and beautiful orbs of beauty. I am the daughter of the sea and a curler of light. I tiptoe between two worlds, both as real and as rich. Within me, the sea sings shimmering peridot and the light magic merges with it like necklaces of bubbles wrapping themselves around seaweed. Intertwined. Me. My journey from my village to the City is just the beginning of a long meaningful tapestry. I have two lovers who cherish me, a School that welcomes me and a new life at a place filled with promises, stories, hopes and dreams. No doubt there will be bitterness, pain and anguish – but that is part of this journey I am undertaking. What will my unborn daughter remember? What will I teach her? I will definitely teach her about the sea, the oysters and the pearls. And magic. She has to know that part of her, because it is her heritage, her birthright. ~*~ The sea is my mother And I am her daughter – Her water is mine own. Her emotions My joy, my grief, my anger. The sea is my mother And I am her daughter. (Traditional song)

To the sea, I return. Mirra-Mirra-Mirra.

-fin-

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Appendix Characters Mirra Auri (The Sea-Witch) Josh Benyi Mother Grandmother Timas First Father Second Father Assorted Fauna And Flora Flit – Resembled Terra’s leafy sea-dragon. Clawed. Ma – Horse. Yang – Goat. Ayam – Chicken. Sniffer canines – Dogs and other canids bred for specific functions, like disaster rescue work. Finger-fish – Minnow-like fish. Indigenous. Sea kelp forest – Sea fronds resembling the sea kelp forests of Terra. Sea moss - Moss-like plants growing in the sea. Limpets - Marine gastropod mollusks. Transplants from Terran. Might have hybridized with indigenous species. Oysters - Bivalves. Transplants from Terra. Vegetables and herbs – Transplants and variants from Terra. Note: The colonists brought over genes and embryos taken from all the known animal and plant stock – imagine a Noah’s Ark – to build a new world. The only known indigenous animal species are the flit, an aquatic race resembling Terran leafy seadragons, and the finger-fish, a minnow-like fish. There are also indigenous shellfish and mollusk species found mainly in the sea as well as the sea-kelp (resembling the said plant species) and sea-moss.

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Climate There are four seasons on the planet, resembling Terran seasons. Winters, however, are relatively milder with temperatures ranging from below single digits (4) to double (20) (degrees Celsius), prompting abundant and fertile vegetable growth. Technology Silver fish – Air blimps/air ships, powered by light magic. Boats (fishing) – Used by the coastal villages. Carriages – Basic transport for goods and people, drawn by ma. Note: There were remnants of advanced technology, as evidenced by the Sea of Dead Ships – abandoned starships used by the colonists for their journey from Terra. Geography The main settlements took place on a cirque bay created by the crater of a long extinct volcano that was linked to a still-active chain of volcanoes named The Ridge. The bay (Atsuko) was connected to a sea and water overlapped into the bay. The colonists made their homes along the coastal areas and gradually moved inland to inhabit the valleys and plains. The overall feel of the land would resemble current Terran locations like Japan or Indonesia. Lush, rich, fertile – and intensely aware of the seismic and tectonic activity beneath the landscape. The City, for example, was prone to earthquakes; the Innerlands were no exception as well. Much of the sympathetic magic developed by the Innerlanders was based on knowing the earth and its movements. As a result of this intimate link to its geography, magic evolved, deeply and strongly based on the landscape. Language and culture Much of the inhabitants were descendants of first and second waves of immigrants from Terra, the majority hailing from Asian and Southeast Asian countries and states with a mixture of Chinese and Malay ethnic groups. The second wave was mainly Caucasian or European.

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The language that was born after generations of interchange and cross-fertilization was a creole or patois of blended words, taken from the dominant languages. For example, “ma” and “yang” mean horse and goat in Mandarin Chinese, while “ayam” is chicken in Bahasa. Likewise, the concept of the wassail was a distinct influence from Anglo-Saxon languages. The Caucasian immigrants moved inland into the plains, hills and valleys designated the “innerlands” by the cartographers. As a result, their descendants were called the Innerlanders and were mostly farmers cultivating Terran variants of vegetable crops and livestock. The coastal villages were occupied mainly by Chinese or Asian descendents who introduced a mélange of traditions and cultures. They cultivated seafood, including the highly popular and lucrative oysters and pearl oysters. There was some form of religion or spiritual practice. The women in the coastal villages worshipped Ma-Tzu, the Taiwanese/Chinese goddess of the sea. The festivals at the City were arranged in the pagan wheel of year. However, with the colonization of the planet, the colonists also came up with new words to describe their experiences. For example, “sun-circle” denoted a full Terran (365) year. Pockets of traditionalists still existed and old languages were still spoken. An example of a traditional song sung by Mirra’s Grandmother – “The Sky Is Dark” – is an actual Hokkien folk song titled “Ti Oh Oh” , with ‘ti’ meaning sky and ‘oh oh’ meaning dark clouds or dark. Mirra’s village probably still speaks a variant of Min Bei (Northern Min) . To the listener hearing the people of Mirra’s world speak – say, the lingua franca of the world – he or she would be surprised that the language itself does not sound like any known Earth language. Listen closer – and he or she could discern distinctive words taken from various Earth languages. Social norms and matrimonial customs were diverse. Polyandry was widely practiced by the coastal villages, polyamory being more prevalent in the City. Monogamy was accepted as well. Singlehood (Apart) was widely tolerated and accepted as it was deemed a valid life choice. Terms used were pairs, triads and Apart.

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Author’s commentary on motifs and imagery: Why oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers? The story idea for Of Oysters, Pearls And Magic came in the middle of the night like a gentle insistent voice. A whisper in my ear for me to write. Now at the moment of writing, I am heavily pregnant and will be giving birth in about three or four weeks’ time. So imagine my chagrin when I started receiving voices, images and scenarios. I was going “No, not now” but the prompting voice was nothing but persistent. And I began to write. And what an interesting and thought-provoking journey it has turned out to be. Even though I have stopped writing at about 18, 000 words, the story wants to be continued further, the characters rich and pregnant with their own particular tales, particular histories. But why oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers? At first – and at a superficial level – it was simple a title, an evocative plot device. I was inspired and intrigued by the women oyster-divers from Japan. As the story progressed, other aspects were woven in. Aspects that seemed to come from deep inside me: my heritage, my past. How I envisioned Mirra’s matriarchal/matrilineal society was just my envisioning of a possible societal cultural model set in a possible future. I thought if matriarchal/matrilineal societies could exist on present-day Terra/Earth, why not on a planet far far away? Descendants from colonists, building their own worlds, own societies and prospering from merging and merged cultures and traditions. It was a familiar trope used by many writers. Cultural norms in Mirra’s world were – at best – my envisioning of how a world could and would work. Many of us grew up with heterosexual monogamy and the literature/socio-cultural norms surrounding it. Could this socio-cultural norm persist in the future? If we are talking about the future, why not? Could we accept and welcome other alternate cultural norms such as polyandry, polygamy or polyamory? How would we view singlehood in the future? Mirra’s world accepts polyandry, polyamory and singlehood as valid lifestyle/path choices. If a remote village in China could work without the established ideas and ideals of conventional marriage, why not imagine a world with similar cultural notions?

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Likewise, traditions and cultures were strong in Mirra’s world, continued by the colonialists’ descendants. I wove in aspects of my heritage, albeit unconsciously. The ‘Aha’ moments came, later, when I started to really examine the motifs and imagery used in the story. The traditional costumes of Mirra’s people were modeled after the traditional costumes of the Hui An people in China. The Hui An women wear colorful floral kerchiefs around their heads, topped with large conical straw hats, and dark pants. I changed the floral kerchiefs to scarves. Likewise, the Hui An people are coastal folk and sustain their lives with fishing and harvesting seafood. Now, this is where my heritage comes in. My paternal grandmothers came from Hui An. They were technically Hokkien (Fujian), but the Hui An are actually a minority group, evidenced in their distinctive traditional costumes. They now consider themselves part of the dominant Han culture and celebrate its festivals. A week ago, before this commentary came into being, my father told me that the Hui An culture was dying out, as the land the Hui An people lived on had gone through radical changes, thanks to China’s drive for economic and industrial success. It is a grim and ultimately saddening wake-up call. Much of what’s left in Hui An is now heavily industrial, fixated on mining and tourism; it is also subsumed under a larger region. Yet there are still people who follow the traditions, something I feel should be continued for future generations. It was either coincidence or cosmic synchronicity when I found out that Hui An also had oysters and they were apparently part of the coastal/fishing/seafood landscape. The oysters were apparently large and plump, as big as my palm. So, in a way, Mirra’s village was an echo of what I envisioned a future Hui An to be. In the later chapters/waves, the reader might notice a common thread/motif based on food and communal eating. Food is culture. It is part of culture. Eating with loved ones denotes community, trust and intimacy. Sharing food is a sign of closeness. A lot of cultures, like the Chinese for example, are food-based (and food-crazy too!). Mirra shares food with her lovers. Sharing recipes are part of this culture. Sharing food with family reinforces community and continuity. It also helps when the author herself likes food and is more or less a foodie. The recipe for the oyster fritters is actually based on the recipe for the Fuzhou oyster cake, a tasty cake/fritter greatly enjoyed by my father (and later by myself). Fuzhou is also part of Fujian province.

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Furthermore, motifs such as the sea and the colors green-gold link and gel the story together. I like motifs and use them as literary devices in stories. The sea is Mirra’s world, so to speak. She sees herself as a daughter of the sea. A lot of her own self-image and identity is derived from the sea. The sea is part of her landscape and forms part of what makes Mirra Mirra. Readers who are interested in the history of words might also see links with Mirra and the sea – Mari, Mary, Mira, Miriam. Interestingly enough, Mira/Mirra/Miriam also mean “bitterness” and serves as a surprisingly good insight into Mirra’s life… ~*~

So ends the commentary. I really hope that you have enjoyed the story.

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Sea Tales

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The Sea Witch’s Tale I am not much of a storyteller, even though I am already given so many names by many people whom I know and do not know. I am the Sea Witch to many people, because I have done something abominable in their eyes. The name hurt for a while, but then people give names to other people and things they do not understand. I am the Sea Witch, simply because I know magic. It tingles on my fingertips, glowing blue concentric circles in my mind, filling me with wonder. I am the Sea Witch, simply because I defended myself against a man who tried to dominate me, who thought by removing my dignity, I would be reduced back to just being a woman without anything. Am I angry at what he had done to me? Yes. I am furious. I wanted to live. This man wanted to shame me, to make me die inside. But do I hate him? No. Hate consumes the person and twists the psyche: I just wanted to leave the village, to seek out my own path. My own ilk. ~*~ My village is closer to the tip of the bay. We cultivate and harvest oysters. My hands have the scars to prove it. We also do a bit of abalone farming and the village is replete with abalone shells, from small ones the size of a baby’s ear to large ones as big as my palm. They glisten rainbow in the sunlight, more so when they are dipped in water and the colors come forth, vivid, strong. The women are the oyster-divers, the abalone-farmers. The sweet-salty flesh of oyster and abalone are commonplace to us. In our veins throb seawater; our hearts beat the currents of the sea. Yet, there is a division between the men and the women: the men claim that they carry the mystical knowledge of our ancestors, that they are the rightful bearers of magic. I know that it is false, because we all came from the same ancestors and our gifts were their gifts. Often have I spoken against such prejudice, but my words are ignored or brushed away, even by my mother and her mother. The blue concentric circles came when I reached adolescence and flowered, blossoming into full view. The men did not like it. Their sullen faces were evidence enough. I practiced, in the middle of the night, when the village was asleep. I practiced willing the concentric circles to spin, to shift things, in front of the sea because I knew She would listen. ~*~

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There was a man in the village who saw himself as the guardian of men’s magic. He also claimed that he was my suitor and wanted to win my hand. I knew he was a petty individual and would do anything to get his way. I had already repelled his advances and turned him away. He nursed his grudge and waited for the right time to put me in my place. I remember his name. Corin. The men in the village called him Wan. He prided himself on his physique and his looks – and he loudly proclaimed his presence during the night meets. Now Corin watched me intently, just as we intently watched the shoals of fingerfish with our nets. Initially, I did not think that he was a threat and went on merrily, making necklaces with sea-stones and sea-glass, bantering with my friends. I was a young woman, brimming with youth and energy. I could feel the whisper of my magic in my bones and I felt powerful. Strong. ~*~ Limpets are my weakness. I like to eat them fresh and sweet, straight from the sea rocks where they cling. Unfortunately this weakness was made known to Corin who bade his time and waited. The day when I was assaulted was a beautiful. Blue skies, the sea gentle and green. The waves kinder than usual, exposing the limpets. I brought along my basket and picked my way across the sea rocks, careful not to slip and fall. I had my knife with me and I wasted no time picking the tiny shellfish. The sun was warm on my back. I was humming a tune. I did not hear the footsteps behind me until he was almost upon me. He grabbed me first by the hair and yanked it hard so that he could make me face him. I tried to pull away. I could see his beefy hand grabbing my dark curly hair and his face… awful, lust-filled. And hateful. So hateful. “What are you doing?” I gasped, shock hitting my body at the realization that he was going to rape me. “Have you lost your mind?” “No,” Corin replied with a sick leer and all I knew was that he was an ugly person. Ugly to the core of his being. “You are a strange woman. A user of magic. An aberration. A freak. Your mind is different from the other women. Perhaps you have lost your mind…” “It’s time to put you back in your rightful place.”

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The words dripped like fish toxins. I struggled, swung my heavy basket at his head. It connected with a sodden crunch, the limpets scattering in all directions. He did not seem to care. Instead he became angrier, more driven. I sobbed. I had lost my knife in the struggle. “Just because I rejected your advances doesn’t permit you to rape me,” I said desperately and my words choked as he yanked away the top of my tunic. It ripped, revealing my bare torso. With an animal growl, he plunged his head between my breasts and his breath was hot. It stank. He pushed me to the uneven rocks and my head made contact with one particularly sharp one, making me cry out. Broken bits of limpet shells nipped into my skin. He seemed to enjoy my terror like some dark moonshine and began nuzzling my throat, biting, marking me. I knew there and then I did not want to die like discarded fish or a rejected abalone. I knew that I wanted to live. I willed the concentric circles to come forth and slipped one, like a noose, around Corin’s neck. He was smothering me and I had to act fast. I willed the circle to tighten and it did, cutting right into Corin’s windpipe like metal wire. He gasped, choked and turned blue. His eyes stared at me wildly and I knew that I had gone too far. He fell heavily across my torso. His heart had stopped beating. Pushing him off, I tried to take stock of what had really happened, shivering with fright and adrenaline. It was then I realized a crowd had gathered and they looked at me as if I was a monster emerged from the depths of the sea. Perhaps I was, draped only with sea kelp fronds and my pride. ~*~ They started to hurl names at me. Killer. Murderer. Whore. All I could do was to hide in my own hut. Mother defended me. And still they jeered and called me vicious names. Sea Witch spread through the village like a relentless disease. I broke down and wept. In a way Corin had accomplished what he wanted to do: to shame me and reduce me to nothing. I felt dirty, unclean. I washed myself repeatedly, using sea water to scourge my skin. I became furious then. When I stalked out of the protection of the hut, people scattered before me like dry fish scales, frightened, outraged, horrified. When I gathered the sea rocks for the necklaces, they pointed fingers and said things they thought I did not understand. Sea witch, seducer, killer! Even the women, whom I thought would support me, ran away. My friends refused to even look at me. It was saddening and frustrating.

51 I decided to leave. My skills would tide me through. I was already a woman grown and I did not need anyone to help me. ~*~ I am called the Sea Witch. But I do have a name. My name. I am Auri. I am no abomination, no monster. I am as real as you are. I am Auri and this is my tale. ~*~

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Tea Cups And Scones: Josh’s Tale This tea set belongs to your Nan. It has been passed down from her grandmother, the whole chain of generations of Innerlanders women and perhaps even from old Terra Firma. I have seen it used during special occasions, when all the clan women get together to gossip and make their patchwork quilts. They sip light sweet tea from these porcelain cups, white with blue curls and twirls around the rims while they sort out the different pieces of cloth. I have seen it used during normal occasions, when visitors drop in to visit. Hospitality is one thing your Nan was good at. She would make sure that the visitors were given sufficient tea and freshly baked scones, lathered with home made cream butter and apricot jam. And served with the tea set and with such pride I could see it shining in her eyes. She served tea and scones when I made my decision to open an eatery in the City and gave the set to me, placed lovingly in an ornate box filled with soft tissue paper. It was her parting gift to me. “Use it wisely,” she told me softly, her face lined with age and laughter. She came from a long lineage of farmers and her bones were intimately tied to the bones of the land. “Give this to your daughter, if you decide to have children.” The cheeky twinkle in her eyes made me laugh aloud and she grinned. She must be a head-turner when she was young. Such startling green eyes and a grin that lit up the room like an old fashioned light bulb. She then proceeded to pour the tea – Lady Grey, her favorite tea – into two of the tea cups, slowly tilting the spout in and letting the tea pour out gently. It was an art she perfected: no spillage of tea, no unnecessary splatter. The fragrance of the tea became a memory there and then. I sipped the Lady Grey, as my Nan watched quietly. She lifted hers to her lips and completed the ceremony. She brought out the scones next and they were fresh from the oven, because I had seen her sneak a tray in. She brought out the bowls of cream butter and mulberry jam next. “Do you really have to go?” Her green eyes looked at me sadly as she broke one scone apart, faint steam issuing forth from the crumbly crack. I returned her gaze, feeling heartsick to the core. “I want to be a cook, Nan. You know that.”

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She nibbled at her plain scone and placed it back mostly uneaten onto the plate. “I know. You spent inordinate amounts of time in my kitchen.” Again that flash of humor in her eyes, tempered now with sadness and regret. “The land is in your blood, boy,” Nan said, suddenly sounding old. “Never forget that.” “I won’t, Nan.” And I leaned across the table to hug her, to hug this beautiful woman tightly. “Ooow,” she chuckled. “Not so hard, Josh. I might like your hug but my arthritic joints don’t!” We both laughed then, glad to ease the tension in the air. I like to cook. It is in my blood. I like to experiment with flavors, with herbs and spices. With my family being a true-blooded Innerlander family, I have access to vegetables and live stock. Fresh, sweet and none of the preserved stuff I see in the City. “Fresh from the farm” is the hallmark of my eatery. And I know that cooking is in Nan’s blood too. Her cookbooks and recipe books line her reading shelves like ancient spell tomes. I have spent afternoons reading them, poring over them and making food from them. But I have never seen myself as a farmer. “Please eat more of the scones,” Nan was saying. “I hope you make them when you open your eatery.” “I will,” I promised her and she smiled, pleased and relieved. We sipped more of the Lady Grey and I finished a scone. A thought struck me, bearing with it the question I had wanted to ask Nan for a long time. “Nan, do you mind if I serve your oyster stew at my new eatery?” Of course she did not mind. Her oyster stew is the stuff of legends. She gave it to me with a gentle admonishment that it must be made with care and love. And kindness, because people could and would taste kindness from the food they eat. So remember. Use kindness, when you make or create something. And keep the tea set well.

~*~

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Kindness, The Sea-Witch’s Daughter She sings with sea shells by the sea shore

Surrounded by the shells inlaid with rainbow nacre, glistening with dew from the Sea, sat Kindness, the Sea-Witch’s Daughter. Her tousled hair had pearls and sea-stones interwoven in them. Her face was broad, hinting of bright smiles and a child’s curiosity. Like her mother, she was always clad in blue. But it was the blue of the whispering Sea and the blue of the cirque lakes. She wore no shoes and she wriggled her toes as she played with the shells. Kindness could hear the sea in the shells, sibilant songs of the surf hissing on the sandy shore. She tried to hum the songs with her tongue, her vocal chords – sea-sea-sea-sea. The sea surrounded her. She sells sea shells by the sea shore. Kindness repeats this to herself, relishing the sounds just as she would with a bowl of delicious oyster stew steaming with her father’s care and her mother’s love. Of course she knows that these sea shells are not being sold. They are abundant, covering the beach with their wonderful silver and grey spiral shapes. Where she sits is secret. A cove, tucked away from everything else. She found it, by chance, when she was exploring the tidal pools and miniature coves. They glittered under the smoky sunlight, the whole stretch of shells covering the cove. All she could do was to stare in awe before dancing around the shells. Then she stood quietly, her heart beating loudly in her, a song, a song, her gaze going towards the sea. She picked a few choice shells, loving their touch on her skin and their weight – like a warm stone – in her hand. Like her mother, she collected shells and these spiral shells took center-stage. But she left the rest of them unpicked in the cove, because she knew that they belonged there – it was their sanctuary. Sea-sea-sea-sea, she sings to herself. I am Kindness, the Sea-Witch’s daughter.

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The Ships’ Voices They were the quiet carriers of immigrants, silent witnesses to the wishes, hopes and dreams of the colonists. If ships had voices, how would they sound like? Aurum The ship is going down. He knows it deep inside his bones. The almost-gale force winds batter Aurum like she is some child’s toy and the hull rings with the impacts. Bang. Bang. Bang. Somewhere in the cargo bay, he hopes, things – No, important items! An Ark of sorts! – are being secured. They better be, because – he grits his teeth and keeps his hands on the controls – the landing isn’t going to be pretty. Sif “Push,” head midwife Ling encourages the laboring woman. “One more push.” Face reddened and crunched up in a rictus of pain and effort, the woman sucks in a lungful of air and does what Ling has said. She lets loose a deep groan. Her husband and doula support her. A tiny form slips between her legs and into the capable hands of assistant midwife Sharifah who quickly wraps the baby up in a towel and proceeds to clean her. The silence of the Sick Bay is soon shattered with the defiant wail of a baby. “Congratulations,” Ling smiles warmly. “It is a girl.” A new generation is born on Sif, even as the ship heads unerringly towards her destination. The cycle of life goes on. Or Damn, triple damn. The coordinates are all wrong! Quick. Recalibrate them. We need to join the rest of the fleet. Feh. What fleet? We have been abandoned – Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.

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Yeah right. Look. We are heading towards this planet with volcanoes on it. So? We have been abandoned, I swear. Turn Or around? You are always the pessimist. Hah. Comes with the job description.

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About The Author

Joyce Chng is married, with two beautiful little girls and a wonderful husband. She resides in Singapore with her family. She enjoys medieval history, science fiction and fantasy, medieval longsword, gardening, and all things esoteric. The novella has an online/web presence: http://jolantru.wordpress.com. Joyce also has a Dreamwidth blog where she keeps her writery material: http://jolantru.dreamwidth.org.