A Fallen Harbour

And so it was that a small figure fell from their slumber and was awoken by the wine-dark stirring sea, foam peaked waves and the roar of silence summarily greeting them as they were discarded thoughtlessly into the tide.  

Bloodied moonglow scarcely glinted as the failing ember of the watchtower stood now blackened for another eve. Darkness encircled the figure as they were sunk further into the breathless sea as if a pike driven into clay. The sailor turned, spinning upwards, fighting every urge to call in surprise or in fear.
The seas of the Yansir’s coast sleep heavily upon the desert’s edge and many are caught below their sail as the port-gate closes each night. This was the day that Nimah should have walked freely upon land again, this was the day that they should have no longer be a name inked upon a line.
Becalmed. A week of windless waiting and worn hands no longer able to grasp the ragged oars of their ship had sapped the last humour of the crew and the curfew of Yansir harbour seemed a final cruelty too ill to be taken without anger.  

Strength failed as Niamh’s thrashing seemed to only drag them further from the silk-lined surface of the sea.
Beyond the gate, beyond the harbour, a dozen cafés each served their dishes of oil-soaked lamb, sliced and slowly roasted upon coals of garlic and rosemary. Hard-kneaded discs of flatbread were sprinkled with salt, almost plucked directly from the sea, as red-rich flames flickered in each colour of celebration, the laughter of the city beyond almost still evident beneath the drowning waves.

Whiteness caught the edges of Nimah’s vision; a picture of their father was erroneously cast as a memory in the failing half-light. The rich lined rug lain upon varnished oak, the peeling paint of a ceiling that he could never repair, a trade taken by the simplicity of war.

Stillness now eclipsed Nimah’s struggle, the lost sailor felt themselves retreat into slowness as their form upon the tapestry had begun to fade.
It was as though years of focus, years of practice and labour, had finally reached their totality and by unfortunate chance they had been marked to be left unfulfilled.
The dust of chalk clouded Nimah’s weary vison, a face they recalled as being kind, a memory too swaddled by static to consider its name.

Fateless, Nimah caught sight of the sky and as if a buoy discarded by stormfront, took in their salvation with gasps unable to be fully repaid.           
Adrift, they were then swept rapidly leftward, dragging them below the salt-bitten sea once more, turning them, threshing them within the way-tide. Bodily they were thrown into the gate of Yansir port, the ancient, tiled walls unyielding as the sailor’s remaining strength mouldered.
Sprawling, Nimah pulled themselves upward, the storm battered tile cutting at their palms and forearms as they lifted themselves from the sea.
Cruelly, a cresting wave then drew itself from the tumult and pushed Nimah again into the churning tide, crashing them again against the harbour gate.

A pressure was felt to release.
Breathe, a voice said to them calmly.

Before Nimah was a bead of light no larger than the tip of a wick. It flickered, once, twice.
Drawing nearer, Nimah saw beyond the light. They saw a study filled with charts and maps, they saw countless shelves all lined with candles. A feeling of endings was inter-woven within the fabric of this room, it was as though its very being was formed from the frayed ends of every thread still in existence, the last page of every book marked without coda.

Wishing to walk forward, to stand within the peaceful glow of the study’s lamplight, Nimah was halted by a single thread, drawn taught and still snagged by the darkness. One fragile thread, pulled to its point of breaking, a tug would be all that was required to break it.
Nimah turned towards the darkness and heard the crashing of waves behind them, the thunder of their heartbeat, the pressure of breath screaming to be drawn.
Nimah grasped the thread and pulled willing for it to hold. With shaking knuckle, the sailor reached into the dark and pulled themselves forward, baulking against the stirring weight of the sea as they climbed. Their full weight now taken by the bow-quavering thread; Nimah could feel the ache of their stirring. With sudden fury they were dragged upward by the tide, a scarlet pain returning as they were torn helplessly through the breakwater and deposited into a feckless current beyond.

The water receded into stillness.
Wind, warm from the deserts of the sandseas to the north, pulled across the port as Nimah coughed weakly, the lights of Yansir never appearing so beautiful as they twinkled quietly above.

Too weak to swim, Nimah floated for a moment and listened to the laughter of the harbour. A bell rung softly as it rolled amongst the eddying tide, a distant drum pounded and marched below a melody of cheers and applause.
Something dropped heavily into the water by Nimah’s side, a whistle was blown from the seawall above.

Again, Nimah was lifted away from the light of Dormir’s study, away from the darkness of the sea.
Faintly, they could feel the warmth of the stone pier, they could hear the muffled voices of people calling, praying.
They were finally home.
Today they were free.                       

---

J. McCray
2024