Many Bright Strands

This was another assignment from the aforementioned class on perspective and time. We were asked to write a scene beginning with any line from the poem The Diver’s Clothes Lying Empty by Rumi; I later extended the piece to include in my final portfolio in the class.

In the ocean there are many bright strands of something light and delicate – something you’ve never seen before, despite all your years on the water. It glows, not unlike the algae you’ve seen in distant ports and bays, but its shine is glittering white in the clear evening. It’s far more impressive than any algae you know of.

You and a few of your shipmates lean over the railing, staring at the substance where it drifts on the surface of the water, wondering quietly what it could be. It crosses your mind that normally you would talk to each other about it, share your theories and conjecture regarding its origin, but for some reason the glowing threads seem to inspire silence and thoughtfulness. The night air is the perfect temperature, and you’re comfortable as you cross your arms against the rough wooden rail, your mind wandering. Between the threads you can see other specks of light, reflections of the bright stars that shine through the cloudless night sky. The ship rocks gently on calm waves, and you lose all sense of time, vaguely aware of your crewmates leaving one by one while you continue to stare into the water. It’s been a long day and you can’t blame them for growing tired. But you’re too content and too absorbed to move just yet.

As you watch the drifting lights, you think of the old stories. You know them much better than any of the younger sailors do, these days – not so many people telling them anymore, you suppose. But you grew up with tales of selkies and fae, and in your travels you always followed your grandmother’s advice: if you want to get a sense of a place and its people, ask after the folktales. And take the stories to heart, because whether they’re truth or merely metaphor, they matter. The strands of light make you wonder – if you had landed on one of those little islands you saw go past a few hours ago, and if there had been people there, what stories might they have told?

It’s not until you’ve been alone for some time – how long, you’ve no idea – that something changes in the calm waters below you. At first, you’re not sure whether you actually saw it, or if it was just a trick of your eyes and the light and the waves, but then there it is – a dark shape beneath the surface, drawing lazily closer. You watch as the strands part with the rippling water and something emerges from below.

You’ve heard many tales, all around the world, of creatures in the uncharted depths of the sea, and you know better than to believe them all. Thanks to your upbringing, you also know better than to doubt them all. Nonetheless, you never pictured anything quite like this. Its body, you estimate, must be half the length of the ship, if not more. The long and powerful blue-green tail resembles that of a fish, battle scars marring the dull scales; above that, something akin to a human torso, if only vaguely. The trunk of its slick greenish-grey body lacks any notable features, aside from more scars. It has arms, thick with both muscle and the blubber it takes to survive the ocean’s cold depths, that end in long, webbed hands. On its face there are dark, slitted eyes and a sharp-toothed mouth, with gills running the length of its neck behind the jawline. Long, wild hair, green with algae, completes the image, flowing over the creature’s shoulders and down into the water.

Perhaps you ought to be frightened, you think, but you can’t seem to muster the energy. You’re calm – whether that’s because of the strange bright strands in the water or simply the rhythm of the waves, you can’t tell. Either way you’re fine, so you wait and watch, wondering what the creature is going to do. It watches back, and after a moment its mouth parts into a grin that would be quite menacing if it didn’t seem somehow harmless. Intent, you suppose, is readable across races.

It strikes you that perhaps the silent creature is waiting for you to act first, and so you ask the first question that crosses your mind: “Do these belong to you?” You gesture at the bright threads in the water.

It tips its head, then skims one hand through the water, gathering a bundle of strands and lifting them up. It doesn’t speak, but somehow you nonetheless know precisely what it’s saying when it looks back at you: Of course. Then it holds them up towards you.

You know better than to accept an unprecedented gift from a creature such as this. “No, thank you,” you answer politely. “But I very much appreciate it.” Your arms stay folded on the railing, your eyes resting on the bright threads only for a second or two and then returning to the creature’s face.

The creature regards you for a moment, then returns its attention to the strands in its hand. Deftly, it straightens and untangles them, then twists them into a long cord. You watch silently, curious. You would have thought that webbed hands would struggle more to comb out the knots, and to braid them so nimbly. Before long, the creature drifts in the middle of a dark, empty patch of water, holding a brightly glowing rope in its fingers. It looks back up at you, grin broadening, and offers again.

Your grandparents raised you well, and you know the rules – or perhaps more accurately, you have by now heard enough stories that you have some inkling of what the rules might be, here. At any rate you know better than to deny a gift offered twice. “Thank you,” you say, slowly opening your hands out in front of you and allowing the rope to be coiled over them. “Your kindness will be remembered.” You do not suggest that you are in the creature’s debt, because beings such as this remember what they are owed. Looking down at the rope, you weigh it in your hands – it’s lighter than you would have thought, not to mention drier – and you wonder what properties it might prove to possess. Perhaps it is nothing out of the ordinary; perhaps the glow will have faded by morning and it will just be another hank of rope. But then again, given the circumstances under which it has come to you, perhaps not.

You raise your eyes back to the creature, which is still watching you. Apparently satisfied with your response, it nods, still grinning, before slipping back into the depths.