September 21, 2019, 01:36 PM
She rises. It isn't of her own volition—she is not even awake for it—but the mother is in a frenzy, reacting to the presence of her drifting daughter with a distinct lack of love or forethought. The body of the woman is lifted by the tide, deposited, and then the mother retreats again. Over the course of hours the ocean pulls away from the quaking edge of the world, as if lingering to see if the woman will rise is too much to bear.
Minerva is oblivious to all of it. In her mind she is at home again: it is summertime, the island is full of light and warmth, and the laughter of her sisters. The sea—her mother—is calm. The sisters sing as they work; although their voices are muted in her memory, the flashing images bring comfort to the wayward maiden. The sky gradually darkens in her mind until her sisters are like stars, and the moon is smiling down upon her. She is alone, but she is well.
And when Minerva wakes from her dream she is choking.
Her eyes open to the shock of grey light—no moon to be found, no warmth, no sisters singing. The sun is hidden behind a plethora of clouds, they're thin and drifting like a fog, and oh, too bright! She winces and reaches a forelimb up to block the light and finds her body does not want to respond—she is cold, and something has netted around her legs. Her head is pounding and the longer Minerva is awake the more she feels it. She takes a breath and her lungs spasm in to a coughing fit, but through this she finds some relief; a bile-thick wave of sea water purges from between her teeth. She gags.
Overhead are some hungry and panicking gulls, curious of what the sea had left for them—but equally terrified of the state of the ground beneath. They do not land, and choose instead to coast on the air currents from on high.
Minerva is oblivious to all of it. In her mind she is at home again: it is summertime, the island is full of light and warmth, and the laughter of her sisters. The sea—her mother—is calm. The sisters sing as they work; although their voices are muted in her memory, the flashing images bring comfort to the wayward maiden. The sky gradually darkens in her mind until her sisters are like stars, and the moon is smiling down upon her. She is alone, but she is well.
And when Minerva wakes from her dream she is choking.
Her eyes open to the shock of grey light—no moon to be found, no warmth, no sisters singing. The sun is hidden behind a plethora of clouds, they're thin and drifting like a fog, and oh, too bright! She winces and reaches a forelimb up to block the light and finds her body does not want to respond—she is cold, and something has netted around her legs. Her head is pounding and the longer Minerva is awake the more she feels it. She takes a breath and her lungs spasm in to a coughing fit, but through this she finds some relief; a bile-thick wave of sea water purges from between her teeth. She gags.
Overhead are some hungry and panicking gulls, curious of what the sea had left for them—but equally terrified of the state of the ground beneath. They do not land, and choose instead to coast on the air currents from on high.