Congratulations to our Tales From The Tide Short story competition winner, Talia Duckworth.
The tide brought back something that should have stayed lost.
They say it is better to feel pain with truth than joy with oblivion, yet the latter seems far more appealing when faced the former.
For is it not better to be caged with happiness than free with the knowledge she lied?
• • •
The sea raised me. Every memory and milestone was shared with those waves, as broken and brazen as me. Mama never let me keep mirrors in the house. The only time I caught a glimpse of my reflection was within those waters, a poetic premonition that I would soon, in a far deeper sense, find myself there too.
Sometimes, I would hope the reflection would pull me in with her. With her sun-stained locks and sky-blue eyes; she looked brighter and braver than I’d ever be.
Papa worked in the city, a place of grey and stone, Mama said. We are safe here, she said. I knew it was true. When Papa came home, the sea mimicked him. Violent and volatile, irate and erratic. When he left, it succumbed to a mild hum.
My childhood was happy. I’d let the sun flush my face as it rose, running across the cool sand until my feet sunk into the salty sea. The wind bit my lips and danced with my hair. I crawled across hills to claw clams out of mud. I knew just where to find the fattest fish, and paraded them like a trophy at twilight. I was the Queen of the Sea.
I was happy, no one could deny that. I skipped, sang and danced until I collapsed into the sand. Mama and I laughed all day until it was time to settle under the stars to sleep.
“My little sea pearl,” she whispered. “Mine.”
• • •
It was nearly winter, I could tell. The wind whistled a little louder, and the sun sank a little lower. I stretched my legs out long, counting the freckles. My skin always lightened in winter, mellowing from a rich brown to a soft tan. “The world loses its colour in winter,” Mama said.
I was taller than Mama now. She too, it seemed, was winter. Her skin paled, and her chestnut curls had straightened to silver.
“I’m getting older,” she says, eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace.
“Am I?”
“Of course,” she laughs. “We are like the trees. We grow and grow only to form wrinkles and fall.”
I sit with that for a minute. “How old am I, Mama?”
She jerked her eyes to mine. “Whatever makes you ask such a thing?”
“Well, Papa said that he was fifty years old, last time he came. Is that old?”
“Your father never should have said such a thing.”
“But is he old? Am I old?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“And Petra the seagull has lived at least three winters now. Is that old?”
Mama stays silent.
“How many winters am I, Mama?”
She turns to look back at the fire. Sighs. “Sixteen. Seventeen, perhaps. It is not important, Kalani. Now hush, I am trying to count the embers.”
I hushed. But I couldn’t help but think that was a lot of winters. How have I not formed wrinkles like Mama, like the trees?
I awake the next morning to rain. It rarely rains here. I stand outside, letting the water wash the dirt from my hair. The sea is angry today. I wonder if that means Papa is coming home.
I let my net fall in, not hopeful. The fish don’t like when the sea yells. I sit with my back against a stone, waiting for a tug. The water flows down my face. It’s fresh and cool. I open my mouth and let it coat my throat. It’s a nice change from the salty burn of the sea.
I sigh, watching the clouds of breath puff from my mouth. I suppose breakfast will just have to be vegetables today. I crouch to stand when I feel a yank.
I lean forward and pull my arms back, flinging the net upward.
I’ve fished out many treasures from the sea, but usually along with fish, not instead of. Of course it was a bottle. My stomach growled in grief.
The bottle slipped through my fingers. Algae and shells stuck to the shards. Inside was white, peeking out from the green that painted the glass.
Mama used to tell me a story about a bottle with a message, swept by the sea and carried away, before falling in the hands of an island girl.
We used to have a lot of stories on the shelf. She burned them when I started to read the words.
Carefully, I dig my nails into the brown plug. Did the sea bring me a message, like it did the girl in Mama’s story?
Eventually, the plug came out. Inside was a roll of white; like what the stories used to be made out of.
I unfold it. There are words, and numbers, but I don’t know what they mean. All I see is my name.
That, and a photo. Two adults I don’t recognise hold a girl between them.
The girl is the one in my reflection.
• • •
I remember Mama crying when she saw the white scroll.
She said the adults were evil and she needed to save me.
She said Papa helped her.
She said she was my real Mama, no matter what.
She was the one who called the police and told them to come get me.
She said the bottle was a sign.
• • •
The man in the white coat said I was eighteen years old.
The woman in the black tie said I needed to start school right away.
The man in the blue hat asked if Mama ever hurt me. I said no.
• • •
I met my real Mama and Papa. They had the same sunshine hair as me.
• • •
They said I would be happier.
It should have stayed lost.
