Fiction by Analiese Huber
Even during the stormiest season of the year, it never seemed to be raining when the Old Man went to talk to the Sea. We would make a game of sneaking out to watch him, carefully sheltered behind yards of bark-stripped trees and silver-backed basalt floating amongst a tangled sea of overgrown weeds. The screeches of the gulls didn’t get carried away once the wind slowed to a low rumble, grating unpleasantly in our young ears. But just as daybreak rose against the cloud-bursting sky, so did he. Over what seemed to be our entire lives of observation, it was well known to us all that he only ever hobbled down to the shore the morning after a full moon, when its pearly shadow still clung to the skyline.
Never bothering to turn on any lights inside his worn little cabin, our only indication that he was awake was the sudden clap of the wooden door against its hinges. I can still remember the oddly sweet smell of the waterlogged dirt we would lie against, trying to be as low and still as possible so the Old Man wouldn’t see us, even from so far away. None of the village’s children ever dared to move closer until he was far enough down the cliffside and looking out past the crumbing shore near its base.
If one were to dare to peek over the outlook’s edge, breaking the biggest rule of every adult in town, the “shore” became more of a slow disintegration of the chalky black rock that covered the entire cliff. In the early morning light, the sea was still so dark it was hard to tell where the rocks ended and where the water began. We could only tell that the Old Man had reached his destination when the tails of his patched old duster coat started to look like they were bobbing around like horseflies.
According to the ancient Miss O’Donnell, the only person in town to still remember the Old Man’s arrival, he was wearing that long brown coat when he first appeared, too. No one had seen him without it hanging off his shoulders, even when the humid summer months came rolling around and just looking at someone in sleeves was enough to get a heat rash. There were whispers of disease, a horrible scar, and plenty of other reasons for children like us to avoid him if we could help it.
But there was something magnetic about the patched-and-ragged coat worn like bronze armor, the dense black curls dusted with silver, the sun-spotted skin that was tanned from years underneath the golden sun of some far-off place. So, until we were old enough to lose interest, we would always watch from afar, as he kept wading further into the salt-crusted waters.
Up to the tops of his boots.
Up to his knees.
Up to his waist.
The duster would swirl and ripple in the breeze until it was too saturated to stay afloat and dropped into the sea behind him; a fearsome beast lying in wait behind its master. His shoulders rose and fell with the rolling waves, each breath seeming to return a small piece of life that had been chipped away since his last excursion. After an excruciating wait, at least for the impatient children that we were, a coarse voice would reach us from above the crying birds and dancing breeze.
None of us knew the language that he spoke, but I somehow instinctively knew that whatever the tongue, the Old Man was reciting a hymn. His speech slowly turned to song, words curling out like vines. Years later, I would recall them being similar to Greek. But back then, because we had no knowledge of anywhere beyond the cliffside villages, those foreign words sounded like a magical spell the Old Man was using to persuade the Sea away from the brink of another storm.
Once the prayer was finished, his low, lilting timbre would fall back into softer speech that we could only catch echoes of from so high up. But there was a brightness left in his rumbling voice, like lightning in the water lapping against his stomach. Even from so far away, he seemed to become weightless the more that he spoke, as if conversing with a very old friend.
Far older of a friend than any of us were to one another back then.
And much closer of a friend than I think I have ever had, still.
The things that he told the Sea were different each time. Some sounded like wistful recantations, some like lamentations. Some only took a few minutes, leaving us to scramble back to the safety of our tall, grassy ocean when he turned to go, and others took hours, with boredom taking us home one by one. But when we were lucky, there were mornings when the Sea would talk back.
Though it was difficult to discern from so far up, the waters would occasionally rise into small, flowing figures that danced around the Old Man in a flurry of droplets. Whenever it happened, we could hear a booming bark of laughter so much bigger than what seemed possible for his crumpled frame. The laugh of a king. It was the only indication that we weren’t just dreaming. And even then, it sometimes felt like I was the only one who really believed it had happened.
After saying his piece, the Old Man would go still, letting the waves ebb and flow against him. He would often stand that way for hours at least. After that, anyone who was still watching would grow restless and start the trudge back to town, trying to stay quiet, lest we were spotted.
Only once did I stay long enough to see him climb back up to the small cabin at the edge of the bluffs.
***
It was uncharacteristically warm for spring and I had managed to drift to sleep against the curve of the hollowed trunk of a fallen tree, silky tails of wild grass lapping against my legs like a blanket. Something about the rocking breeze and twinkling mist that hung in the air was more intoxicating than a lullaby. By that year, I was one of the only children left who visited the Old Man and one of the only ones still young enough to stay captivated by the magic that he seemed to hold. That balmy, dewy morning, I was alone with only fragments of dreams, and the boldest members of a flock of cooing gulls for company.
By the time I was awakened by an unsuspecting gull trying to nest in my stringy hair, the air was unusually quiet, and stars were shyly peeking out from behind clouds in a milky gray sky. Disoriented and stumbling, I wandered forward only to see the rising frame of the Old Man, finally reaching the top of his ascent. I wasn’t aware of how close to the cliff’s edge I had gotten until our gazes met from across a handful of boulders.
The right pupil was a dark, muddy green. The left was as silvery-white as the moon that was starting to crest among the blinking stars.
The mismatched pair stared at me from under thick eyebrows for a while, and it only then occurred to me that I should be afraid. Stumbling back, my mind raced, trying to think of something to say.
“I… I wasn’t spying, sir.”
“I was just wandering nearby and got lost, that’s all.”
My voice didn’t come as anything but a trembling squeak, and it was a surprise that the Old Man heard me at all.
“It’s getting late, much too late for a child to be out alone. Come.”
His eyes felt like they were looking straight through me. Not even my father’s eyes were that intense, not even Ms. O’Donnell’s wrinkled gaze seemed that wizened. For a fraction of a moment, it felt like I was looking at a god. As he turned his back to lead the way to his cabin, I felt my feet follow along at their own jurisdiction.
The shack was built of wood so old that the sea air had stripped away all its color, leaving behind a washed gray shadow. A roof, more rust than metal, whistled against anything stronger than stagnant air. The only belongings outside were the ones that I had seen each time that I went to watch the Old Man’s ritual: a worn stump for a chair and a messy scattering of wood shavings on the ground around it. The air smelled like salt and grass and starlight, familiar enough to quell my fears about being so close to the being I had only ever observed from afar. He was taller than I had expected and had probably been even taller before curling over with age. But the first thing that I realized was that I could reach out and be able to grab the mottled old duster that clung to his hunching back, still noticeably wet. And I thought about doing it, for a morbidly curious second. But before I could steel my nerves, the Old Man unstuck the door latch and began to shuffle inside.
After the Old Man slowly made his rounds around the single room with a crumpled matchbook, the warm glow of lamplight invited me into the cabin. Trying to fight the exhaustion still lingering from my nap, I found myself curled up on a worn cushion next to the tall iron stove across the room. The frame of the Old Man was struck with fluttering shadows as he silently busied himself with something near the windows facing out towards the watery horizon.
Placing a tin mug of shimmering amber tea down next to me, he continued to move about, so mundanely that I almost didn’t notice when he began to shoulder off the soggy duster. His right side came into view first, and I held my breath.
Nothing. Just a normal arm of a weathered old man.
Then I saw his left side, and my breath got stuck on its way up, causing me to choke out a strangled cough of surprise.
Clearly visible under his loose shirt and atop his left shoulder sat a wedge of something that looked like pure moonlight. It ran down his back and over his sloping shoulder, moving in perfect tandem like it had always been a part of him. Like it was somehow alive.
Finally catching the exaggerated expression that I was probably making as he turned back around, the Old Man let out an amused snort.
“It’s only ivory, little girl. Just a little stone to help me fill out the missing bits.”
Strangely and suddenly, my voice felt smooth as a stream as questions began to fly from my mouth without any precipice. Not put back by the impolite interrogation, he sat and listened to every single one of my queries without interruption. And once I finally stopped to catch my breath, he began a very long night of answers.
***
At dawn, I was sent on my way with a moth-eaten blanket wrapped across my shoulders, another small jug of tea, and strict instructions to keep my new knowledge of him a closely guarded secret.
Though I couldn’t possibly understand the weight of this task at the time, my fright had been replaced by a quiet fortitude. I wove my way back across the cliffside path in silence; through the waves of grass and past islands of rocks that winked in the misty morning light.
My head swam with echoes of the Old Man and the stories that he had told me. Of corrupt fathers and a blessing that struck like lightning. Of horse races through dappled groves and alongside crystal streams. Of a bold princess, who held all the light in the world thousands of years ago. Of the Sea, with eyes that were simultaneously every shade of blue, and hands strong as crashing waves. I suspected that I would have dreams about them all for the rest of my life.
Sure, the way he had said it all had made them sound like stories, but the look behind his eyes implied otherwise. It wasn’t harsh or condescending, like the way other adults told me stories, but painstakingly assured. It planted a small seed of suspicion into my head. That maybe, just maybe, there had been truth to all that he had confessed.
The one thing that I was sure was genuine was the name that he had begrudgingly given me before I had left the cabin, after I had asked for the nth time that night. Turning back to look at the shrunken silhouette of the gray shack above the sea, his response reverberated in my head like a roll of thunder.
“My name? Long ago, I was called Pelops.”
