On Land, We Drown

ON LAND, WE DROWN

by Ai Jiang

Content warnings: Death, Body Horror

"No fish again?" Mother asks when Father arrives back home empty-handed. The front door swings without shutting. Mother draws tight the sleep robe she had left loosened as she did work around the house. I draw tighter the strings around my own robe and turn my nose up, catching a whiff of what Father brings into the space—the scent of the sea and something… unfamiliar; something foul—of death. 

It was only two weeks ago when he brought home extras from his daily catches. The smell of Mother’s homemade sour fish stew is still fresh in my mind. It is both mine and Father’s favourite, though my baby sister Xiān is quickly developing a taste for it as well. 

Guān jiějiě—a sister of no blood relation, though I felt closer to her than my family—who lives near us and often brings over fish snacks she dries on her windowsill, extras she swiped from her father’s catches. Ever since she was married several months ago, she has stopped visiting as well. I miss her. I finger the two white ribbons tied around my wrist she gifted me a few years back, clutching on to it like treasure. When she used to visit, she’d braid my hair with the ribbon, telling me I reminded her of when she was young. It still gives me great pride to think she used to be as unruly as me but grew up to be so beautiful, elegant, and kind.

Father takes off his straw hat—with the other hand still in his pocket, fishing gloves still on—and hangs it on a wooden peg next to the front door, its straw brushing the stone wall. He stares at the worn hat for a moment, marvelling at the frayed edges. Though he's not frowning, his pressed lips and shifting jaw give away his habit of grinding his teeth when he's stressed or anxious. It's the ‌same one I adopted while growing up, much to Mother’s dismay. I’ve also picked up a habit from Mother: the strange need to pace around the house right before Father returns each day, as if without him, the house might come under siege. Sometimes I find myself looking out the window, toward the roads and the travellers upon them, to watch for Father's return. And if the travellers were many and neared too quickly, we prayed much more fervently for Father’s presence. 

Rather than bringing goods for trade, these travellers often bring with them their desires, their lust, their violence. We are cautious, now, of the strangers, and we are hostile toward those who return, the stains of our blood still on their hands—displayed like victory, our graves, their medals, our homes, their unwilling pleasure houses. 

But as soon as Father comes through the door, Mother always has a small smile—one of pride, one of relief. Fishermen and fisherwomen are lost at sea every day, and we both know Father would be no exception should the waters choose to lead him astray. 

I look at Father's hat, because I'm not quite sure if staring anywhere else would be appropriate, and notice the mold at the top where his fingers just left. It is one Mother taught me how to weave when I was younger, out of tough grass found in the mountains nearby. I rubbed my fingers raw by the fifth try—the one he has now is the eighth. I’d made one for Guān jiějiě, too. I never told my parents that hers was actually the first I finished successfully.

"No." His voice is distant, the same way it sounds when he shouts back to the docks at us while on a boat already sailing away—but unmuffled by the sea—almost as though he was trying not to be heard rather than challenging the waves with his voice. The content look on his face after a long day at sea is not present today, nor has it been since the fish had stopped coming. 

 Mother and I wait, because Father's mouth stays hanging, struggling to say the next words.

"They're closing up the dock." We hold our breaths. "Maybe forever."

Mother's face, still pale, blanches further—her skin so translucent I think it might tear with a single expression and expel not blood but the salty water of the sea that treated us so well, offered us bountiful fish, until now. She is still frail from birthing Xiān two months ago. She would have to look for work, but to do it so soon would be difficult, and our grandparents—Grandmother in particular—would not have approved.

By the sandy shores, we used to point into the distance and say the sun is coming to visit, like it’s some marvelous thing, even though it happens daily. The waters that seem to so openly embrace us, welcome us, nourish us, have turned their backs, shunning us for something unknown to me. But it makes me want to stay, to reclaim the sea’s good faith, to atone for whatever evil that made it feel humanity’s betrayal. Perhaps it is because our community seems too turbulent, chaotic, not harmonious enough. I like to blame it on the travellers.

Mother begins to pace again. She raises a hand to her lips, catching the white crescent of her index finger's nail between her front teeth. Then she releases. "W—"

"The sea is poisoned." Father pulls off one glove. Beneath it sits eaten flesh, bone on the verge of showing through exposed muscle. Chewed away are the hard-earned callouses he developed over the years. The wedding band is no longer settled on the half skeleton of his ring finger but loosely on his pinky, which is still mostly whole. 

Mother flees the room, but I remain stalled, staring, wondering if this might be revenge for the overfishing, the litter thrown into the sea by the passing travellers, our lacking display of gratitude for all that the waters provide.

•••

By the time Mother shepherds Father and I towards the sandy shores next to the docks with my baby brother bundled against her chest, most of the town has already collected steps away from the sea. Everything smells of rot—of corpses. Only yesterday it smelled like salt water taffy—a mix of the sea and sweets stand set up where the shore meets the flattened dirt paths. 

Uncle Shēn breaks apart from his family—we attended his daughter's wedding only last week—and approaches us. He grasps Father's extended hand, pulls him forth. They exchange pats on one another's backs while I stand near Mother, watching behind the small arm of my brother Xiān, who is grasping onto Mother’s shoulder, half awake. I'm surprised he isn’t crying, given how strong the breeze from the sea is today—both in weight and scent.

As soon as the men break apart, Mother asks in haste, "Is it a chemical leak from the city nearby?"

As the waves roll onto the sand, they both wash up and wash away fishbones and other shriveled sea life with colours unnatural to the species—blue rather than purple, purple rather than pink, pink rather than green. 

"No, I don't believe so," Uncle Shēn replies.

"Perhaps the factory—"

Father shakes his head, resting his unmaimed hand on Mother's shoulder.

"Perhaps they dumped the toxins, the possible contamination—"

"It isn't," Father says.

The town's people back away as the waters, edge closer, the waves crashing harder, leaving more carcasses than they take away.

In the distance, a large tail resembling a serpent's whips out of the water before disappearing. It was such a brief flash I wonder if it was only a trick of the eye. I look to see if anyone else noticed. If they did, there is no reaction or murmuring. There are myths of sea creatures, but I don’t recall this being one of them—at least not one that should be present here. 

A wail echoes from behind us, the ninth one in less than a few months. Not always, but it is often caused by a roaming traveler—an unknown individual passing through, a merchant or a guard—staying and receiving hospitality from one of the townspeople.

Uncle Shēn stiffens, and we understand why.

With eyes wide, we turn from the water and head towards the sound with urgent steps, following behind Uncle Shēn, who we haven't seen run in several years.

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 5.2...