SIREN STITCH

When sirens are banished they are ridden of memories, experiences and stories of the underworld. We are cast out to live the rest of our lives among land-dwellers. And most tragic of it all is the loss of our tails. No more midnight swims amongst corals, no more half-breaching with humpbacks or wave riding with pinnipeds. I knew, whenever the wash of ocean water teased between my toes, that I belonged somewhere faraway from here. But I remembered no one from this distant place. I was left with the vestiges of that bygone world. My siren, my voice, being part of it.

Mr Silvan Tomestrano was the one who found me by the oceanside. He was advanced in years, kind to me and most notably brilliant with meals. I came to this conclusion after eating out on his obliging. The hot, salted food had left me scarred for weeks and Mr Silvan had been mannered to show how sorry he felt. Whereas other fishermen treated their meals to a great deal of fire, Mr Silvan's was barely heated; it soothed my tongue to the very last bud. Frankly, I could eat a bladder of seaweed straight out of water but I had never bothered to tell him. The land dwellers loved their fires; it warmed them in the cold, burned their dead to ash and lit their their world when it was dark.

I did not like the lukewarmness of this new world, wherever I was from the cold must have been customary. Mr Silvan again was considerate enough to keep only the candles in his room lit. He lived alone, once married but without children. I had asked him once of the pictures of children on the walls. And he said that they were moments captured with his great-nieces and nephews. Now, I have my own moment captured in film with Mr Silvan—him on a boat, retrieving a net from shallow waters and me wearing a pinafore and a strawhat holding out two fingers in front of my face and smiling, just like with his great-nieces.

I don't recall if the underworld has devices like the land-dwellers and honestly, I think it would be good for me to forget a world that had forgotten me. Mr Silvan had been so good to me and it was high time I began living my new life without any grievances from the past. Despite the sentiment to acclimate, some things wouldn't let me blend in with the land-dwellers. For one my hair was dark purple, my eyes were blood red and I was sickly pale. No way, I would enter a room unnoticed. Mr Silvan brought it to my notice that it wasn't unusual for land-dwellers to dye their hair. He said he had seen violet shades of hair here and there so I shouldn't be so worried. I had seen coloured hair myself. In fact, a growing acquaintance of mine, Dylan, had hair that faded from blond to very dark brown.

I saw Dylan whenever I went to the town's marketplace with Mr Silvan. Dylan was one to talk in length about trivia from his world. I learned many things from him but only saw him once a month and hardly ever outside of the market fairs. He had never asked about my hair. In fact he never asked me anything about myself. His grandmother had a tent beside Mr Silvan's so we used most of that time working to talk. I had gotten fond of Mr Silvan's straw hat and mostly wore it out. We sold frozen fish, oyster, scallops, crabs and other shellfish while Dylan and his grandmother traded in more variety—souvenirs, beach shirts, spices, even produce.

Dylan spoke much about the city, the places he wanted to see, the concerts he'd frequent if given the opportunity.

"Why don't you go live in the city? You clearly fancy the life."

"It's more expensive there than here."

"Then save," I had suggested, oblivious.

"It would take years for me to save enough to venture out on my own."

"You said something about scholars before. You can't get one?"

"Scholarships?"

"Yeah. Scholarships."

"Maybe. But I can't just betray my grandma like that."

"What of your parents?"

Mr Silvan drew my attention from the conversation then to help him with a sale. But, I had later grasped that Dylan's parents were most likely dead and that it was a little standoffish to ask after things of that sort.

I felt no particular loyalty to family. If anything, I understood from the start that by my very nature I had a pull more to community than to blood kindred. Perhaps in the underworld, society wasn't built around close knit family like it had been amongst land-dwellers. The sense of loss I felt wasn't tied to any one person, it was more a feeling of being expunged from a group, from a way of life. I still wonder what so great an offence I had committed to elicit being cast out forever. I was young, what was known as a teenager in surface dweller speak, that even raised further questions.

I got to see the most people during spring breaks. Yes, the beach was also full during summer but I suffered summer sicknesses during those times and preferred to remain inside. I ate less and my skin turned light blue, the skin of my toes also shrank so much that it hurt me to walk. Mr Silvan understood that and did not implore my help as much he would ordinarily. The only other time I saw Dylan outside of the market fairs was in the summer. He came with his grandmother to pick up some things but even then I stayed mostly in my bed. The land-dwellers were not so bad. Perhaps I was supposed to hate them or fear them given that I was not one them. Whatever the pain of my banishment was, Mr Silvan's kindness had cushioned it.

Spring breaks, and the beach was full but not nearly as it was during summers. Many people were in swimwears, reading novels on beach mats, picnicking under umbrellas and flying kites while hailing after each other. I was out and about during these times, mostly taking baskets of lobsters to beach shacks and picking litter in the evenings. I watched the waves and looked past the horizon whilst feeling sick that I did not again belong to the ocean. It was like a curse, the regret; it was always there. The desire to find peace despite the inkling feeling that I would only suffer. Dropping off lobsters at beach shacks, I'd notice a host of land-dweller imperfections. I liked to think I was not naive. I knew what it meant when people whistled as I passed by. It was these things that Mr Silvan urged me to ignore. I also read Mr Silvan's newspapers on occasion so I wasn't lax in knowledge regarding the crimes they were capable of. Dylan had also briefed me on some serial murderer stories. Then again, by nature, I wasn't so irked by these things. The underworld must have been violent by its own right.

One of my many evenings cleaning the stretch of white beach sand, I spied a boy engaging in my past time. Surf watching. He was seating on a log of wood, bare-chested and arms behind him supporting his weight. I stared at him a second longer than I ordinarily did other strangers; I would admit his presence caught me offguard. I passed him without a word and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think any more of him. The following evening, I took my picker to the shores and met him there again. This time with sunglasses on his head and a beach shirt swiveling in the wind against his back. My standard wear was Mr Silvan's checkered shirt and overalls which I rolled up to knees whenever I worked in the sand.

I wanted to ask him what was peaceful about watching the surfs. However, I'd be brazen to disturb his solitude. He had his reason after all for coming here alone. So I completed my task without inquiring and decided against passing by him the following day. When my trash bag was full I went over to the bins and disposed of it. I turned around and to my surprise the stoic boy by the log was standing in front of me. In retrospect, I should have been paranoid or somewhat cautious but as I mentioned before the normal land-dweller instinct wasn't innate to me.

So, I only said a quiet, "Oh. Hey."

Standing, he was much taller and of a larger build, short black hair and an unascertainable eye colour (black perhaps?) at least in the dimming twilight.

"Do I know you?" Those were the first words he uttered.

I breathed. "I don't know. Do you know me?"

"I am just pulling your legs." He laughed."I once read that asking a stranger whether you know them or have seen them somewhere before is a good way to break the ice."

"Well, ice broken. I am Yara." I shook him. "Yara Tomestrano."

"I am Carle." He almost backed away. "Woah! Your eyes are red. Like your pupils... They are red."

Dylan had spoken to me about contact lenses before. He hadn't been direct about it but I was certain he was commenting on my eyes.

"It's just contacts. Sorry if I frightened you."

"No. It's no problem. It looks really... unique."

"Yeah. I'll tell you now that my hair is dyed purple so don't jump away if you see it."

He seemed nervous but he cracked up regardless. "I won't."

We walked away from the bin area and walked the road leading to the bungalows.

"So you are here for a school break?"

"Yeah college break. Just thought I'd hang around the beach for a change of scenery. What of you?"

"Oh, me? I live here. With my grandfather."

"That must be very cool. You get to swim whenever you like."

"I don't swim."

"Why? You can't swim?"

"I can. I just... don't like entering the water."

"I want to ask why but that may seem too direct."

"It's no problem. I can tell you why."

"Why?"

"Trauma. That's why. I was helping my grandfather with bait one time and I almost drowned."

"I am sorry."

I had told how many lies now? Though in my defense, that was far easier than telling a city boy that I once had a tail and was banished from the underworld with barely any memories left. Way to keep people away from ever visiting this side of town.

"You said you came here for a change of scenery?" I made an effort to steer the conversation away from me. "What do your normal breaks look like?"

"Nothing interesting really." He shrugged. "I follow my dad on work tours. He travels a lot."

"That sounds great."

"Not for me. Sometimes I have to sit in with him for long, boring meetings and symposia."

"So how did you change his mind? How did you convince him to let you see the ocean?"

"He never forced me to attend his work stuff. Honestly, I was hoping to dabble in with him. He is a museum director."

"That sounds cool," I said with an feint interest. I didn't know what museum director was. I'd probably ask Dylan or Mr Silvan when the opportunity arose. "It was nice meeting you, Carle. I should be on my way. My grandfather will be staying up for me."

"Goodnight, Yara. Can we meet tomorrow? The same place?"

"I'll keep in mind that I'll have to rush my cleaning then." I smiled, waved him a goodbye and began taking the route home.

There was something unusual about Carle. I couldn't shake the feeling that he had lied to me as much as I had to him. Mr Silvan had indeed been waiting up for me. He was dozing on a fishing chair when I arrived so I helped him up to his room.

"Your food is in your room," he said.

I nodded complacently and was quite stomped at myself for worrying and keeping him up. He was old; he needed his rest.