wyrdwind

It’s said

humanity’s sins grew so great

that not even the ocean

could swallow them, no kingdom

of the land or sea could withstand

the death of phytoplankton. Mass

asphyxiation. Desertification.

As for the Seal of Solomon, well,

a team of outcasts ages past

discovered that it was a prison,

a prism of torment designed

to enslave…something. Someone.

Whispers of ghosts, marids,

the morning and evening star.

When that seal shattered,

magic receded from the world. The power

of a dying wish

for another’s freedom.

Story for another day.

Suffice to say,

competition for the remaining

habitable zones was vicious.

Everyone kept to their clans.

No trace of djinn, truces tense.

Seafolk cultivated liquid starlight,

brilliant blue algae nurseries cresting waves,

combed rocky tide pools into fertile tresses,

clam and kelp gardens along scavenged

deep sea chains. Coral reefs replanted.

After decades

of killing humans on sight

land and sea firmly parted ways.

But all his life

King Shahriman had a dream.

Sunlight decanting through his room

in the most peculiar way,

he had to make the bed,

he had to make the bed, and within,

an impending wave, aching to break.

It never arrived.

He was never satisfied.

No matter how many he lie beside

it was never quite right, oh,

he required size. Some kind of might.

In their cheek

his parents had named him

King Kingly Spirit, not that

he’d ever met the man, when asked

his mother dodged with

something something song of the sea.

King Kingly Spirit, very

gilding the lily, bleeding the pomegranate,

and not to be dramatic, but he saw to it

the wandering tribes united, gave rise to a city

with his own hands—and many others—

clay and earth and standing stones, concrete remnants,

sand scoured shattered and pebbled rainbow glass,

this location chosen

when he came upon three proud acacia

unscathed by tumult, took it as a sign,

knew as his mother taught, that a king

lives only as a burning effigy, his buildings

but temples in service of some secret divinity.

One makes the space

and if one be worthy

she sees it filled. Who’s she?

Well that’s just one of those things

you find out. You live long enough,

never settle and stay the course. Art

of surprise. But all his life,

that is three decades and change,

he had favor and lovers and dalliance aplenty

but no queen to rule beside, a man

cannot create a life, and that was fine.

It was fine. The city thrived, the people

were strong and happy. So why did he cry?

And every day he would ride

further and further along the cairn boundary.

He watched the sea.

And out there times were plenty dicey.

A number of mermaid kingdoms had gone

mad with grief. Some resorted to cannibalism.

How to address, even begin, to soothe a hurt

so vast? A blue planet. As fate would have it,

a great lady bore twins. Wholly unexpected

of their long declining fertility rates, the result

of humanity treating the ocean like a toilet.

A boy and a girl and the gift

of song. All of creation. Our twins set off

with the last marid and some dolphins

and caravanned into quite a spectale.

A found family of sorts, no,

a roving kingdom. Lights and amusement,

trinkets, relics, and trade. Comfort.

Sorrow.

In the water, you always know,

you can’t not. Toxins take their course

and a seaborn cannot hide.

They felt it all.

And each performance became testimony,

revelation, a judgment day, tsunami

or misted rain, these two had range.

But some humans yet remained

who hadn’t learned their lesson

the first time.

Engaged in dark commerce

with a mermaid death cult gathered

about offshore drilling platforms. I’m sure

you know the ones I’m talking about.

A wound cannot heal

with an active infection. Our twins

and their caravan caught in the crossfire.

Some convergence of foul plots.

Betrayed by the most decrepit

of their kind, for such a beauty

those humans paid a hefty price.

Ripped from the ocean

as the others fought to the death

and packed into a shipping container,

contents female,

the next thing she or these human women knew

was the screeching halt days, weeks later

of their rumbling transport.

Muffled slaughter.

Everything stank.

Too bright, too dry, too hot.

Different human women

shrouded in billowing garments

like a ship’s sails, armed

and mounted on horses and camels. Water.

They were alarmed at her skin,

dangerously fair, and soon she too

sported a similar style. With an added woven hat.

The others dispersed at checkpoints, crossroads,

carried off home, but our wayward seaborn

had nowhere to go.

Her voice was gone,

her limbs so very, very heavy.

Finally, in order to escape

the sun and whipping sand,

they descended into the quanats

hoping to make their…guest

more comfortable. One woman

had even taken it upon herself

to administer without fail

timely and lightly scented mist bursts.

They tried every form of communication

they could think of, even sign language,

told her stories regardless

of whether or not she understood,

complete with shadow puppets.

Once, after heated discussion,

they offered her camel salt.

Would that she possessed

the will to smile, loosed

a tear instead.

Where was her brother now?

The others?

Bas-relief story book scenery

increased on the home stretch,

some kind of reservoir or oasis,

a massive water processing station.

A temple. Unlike any seen in an age.

Enormous pillars

and stone latticework screens

conducting and shifting wind and sunlight

encircling labyrinthine

a grove of fruit trees and a deep

tiered fountain, really a multi-storey

series of waterfalls splashed

into ponds and baths.

She caught her breath.

Having sent ahead,

a calm and secluded chamber prepared.

No direct light. Silk swags casting

ambient hues as she might find

homelike.

All she did as sleep,

could not reconcile her surroundings,

adapt to these new ways, there were just

too many eyes.

So heavy.

Could these humans be trusted?

Did she care?

Scratched a new existence, clawed

bodily compliance until her spirit was raw,

into the hoary wee hours

as a steady droplet

splattered on stone,

ventured further and further from her room,

today one thing, tomorrow one more.

They left her alone.

Let her figure it out.

If a particular struggle protracted,

the next day things were arranged just so,

but never the sense someone hovered

or expected overmuch. They did not push.

Minute adjustments to her habitat.

Leaving out little treats and snacks,

Their efforts noted

and appreciated.

When she joined the others

in tending the grove

they acted as if

she’d always been there.

Fully included

despite never having spoke.

They acquainted her

with their people’s treasure trove.

Honeysuckles all the shades of dawn, jasmine,

starry sky purple petunias, tissue fleck pale lavender

blooms sprinkled atop mounts of creeping rosemary,

elephant bush gobbling entire fences,

boswellia, myrrh, cactus the colors of mountain blush—

neon crowns on snowy down

to towering night bloomers.

Many things rescued from far off, just cuttings

tucked in bags and pockets carefully proliferated.

A variety of figs, medjool dates, so many citrus,

carob, tamarind and moringa.

Great black lady wasps

taken up residence in brush,

busy over pomegranate buds and hips.

Their way was minimal subsequent interference,

just do it right the first time, big swings, indeed,

every cultivar present evolved with a retinue

of suitable attendants.

A plethora of creatures tiny to quite large.

One hardly noticed

the absence of her speech. Words were far

from necessary.

The women showed her spices, sweets,

teas, perfumes, cloth, medicines, and wines.

Stages of production, explicitly nontoxic.

Workshopped a strong enough humectant

to heal her badly chapped skin.

One day, they brought her to a special section.

So much easier to breathe. Very high humidity.

A courtyard housing climbing orchid vines

with a stumpery for their sole, humble companions,

the melipona bee. Mellow and stingless. What makes

a thing precious. One of the last things

that had come to them by sea.

In the summer they wore

tactical linens and gauze, head to toe

both heat reflective iridescent and producing

directed electric charge with movement,

and algae based oxygen compressor masks

for arid zone maintenance. Borders contested

against dunes shifting and slumbering,

at times howling and haunting. This

was a scorching sea

plunged frigid at night

only camels and sailors could navigate,

living ships in their own right.

Her own camel was young and bright white,

expertly trained, herself a joy and a prize,

with a fifty year expectancy

would be with her all her life.

This had been a gift quite mysterious.

A helper on her journey, equally fair,

rather birds of a feather in that respect.

It almost

made up for the trauma of abduction.

At night in the open air

constellations over a small fire,

tea and rose syrup pastry, some shortbread,

the women spoke of her former captors.

Curs crawled out from bunkers, vile

weapons and technologies, relics

from the fallen age. Convinced

their plummeting birth rates

would be solved if they just

defiled as many young women as possible,

stole them from all around. Traced at last

from their disastrous overreach.

It was indirectly

their lust for her seaborn genes and exotic beauty

that exposed their underbelly.

To preempt greater seaborn retaliation

against human interference

and as a show of good faith after such incident,

the Matrons of the Morning Star

had authorized a brutal strike

on the base of operations,

made it one hundred percent clear

the actions of these men an their enablers

were unacceptable

in the eyes of their society, turned

their corpses into a seaside display,

left their women to wail and haunt

every bunker breached with its toxins

neutralized. Their way of life.

They would adapt or die.

Not long after, an answering display

composed of those seaborn

who had likewise betrayed. An unspoken

covenant between mothers of the aftermath,

universal.

If you mean business, you put blood on it.

With a dark alliance disbanded

it remained to be seen

if the hand of friendship, sisterhood,

might be extended instead.

Things were

tense.

Her presence marked the potential

to transmute disaster into opportunity.

She prayed her family survived.

The season progressed

and they sent goats up argan trees,

summoned from arid prairie rooftops

by some whistling language,

shook olives and pistachios onto tarps,

plucked saffron stigmas in early dawn

beneath shimmering cirrus, sweeping breeze

through her indigo and mulberry stonewash layers

stitched with sprays of tiny glass pearls

over deeper stains. This had been

yet another gift.

As to the identity

of this…benefactor, the women

remained tight-lipped. Custom sunglasses

for her sensitive eyes. Fine leathers

for riding and work. A clever falcon

to assist in pest patrol. Paints.

Goodness, someone

had certainly taken interest,

had given her every conceivable need

a great deal of thought.

The women’s glances lately laced

with high amusement,

especially when she’d periodically

whip around as if to catch

this observer in the act, squinting

with suspicion at random foliage.

This generosity vexed her so,

felt so conspicuous,

that she threw herself into her work.

Last to bed and first to wake, driven

by her need to convey

that she didn’t take kindness for granted,

if indeed “kindness” the precise intention.

Shied the distinction of special treatment,

had no desire to cultivate

resentment from her peers. Onlookers.

She devised a manner of message

in which these people might contact

her kin. Crafted a sense

of their spirit.

Late into her nights

she’d created deep sea lanterns,

all shapes and sizes

arranged in cascading clusters

affixed to textural starburst anchors,

vivid fruit and blossom mosaics

pressed and waterproofed.

One loose, round link at the end

in open invitation.

Her human family marvelled

and any seaborn not living under a rock

would recognize her handiwork.

Hopefully.

Well it was on the newly minted

Lantern Day festival

they met.

He seemed

a man of long suffering reputation, charming,

rather hard worn for one so relatively young—

near her own age—

but not unattractive by any means,

oh no, he looked good. Had anything been said

to go wrong, it went wrong just right.

He made her smile

even without words. If she couldn’t talk,

he wouldn’t either.

Thus, she acquired a visitor.

Rather than put her on the spot,

he joined in her work. She in his,

somewhat more public than her predilection.

They played games

and took tea with chaperones. Painted together.

He was very careful

to do her no dishonor. Nonetheless,

his intentions became quite clear.

He had apparently

abandoned any and all previous flirtations

for well over a year.

From the moment he saw her.

Damn near been living like a monk,

by his standards anyhow, and well,

she really wanted

to see what that hair was all about.

Seaborn were mammals of course,

but were mostly smooth to slightly scaled

with sleek locks,

they did not sport such rich texture.

She’d gotten used to the smell.

In his case, she liked it.

These days she scarcely noticed

the weight.

He brought her some distance away,

black goat hair tents along the steppes,

dug out and reinforced underneath.

Some sort of military encampment.

It quickly became obvious

he was the only man present.

It quickly became obvious

that the imposing woman before her

was his mother.

A Matron of the Morning Star.

He left.

They partook the provisions he’d presented

in silence.

The Matron noticed her studying the tapestry,

meticulously woven and beaded, a complex

landscape triptych of event horizons

radiating from three different nascent voids,

not unlike pearls.

“These represent

our sacred three. The great

intercessors. Goddesses

of the ancient world.

Al-Uzza, the Mighty, guardian

of trade and travelers, dealer

of justice and war.

Al-Lat, the Mother,

full as the moon, bringer

of monsoons, spring, and fertility.

Manat, the Eldest,

lady of fate, death, time,

and destiny.”

She unboxed candied orange rind

and spiced dates soaked in rum

then stuffed with ground nuts. Salt.

Landlife certainly had perks,

these people did things with food.

It could almost be said

she took a little color, pleasantly warm.

“Your people are right to be wary.

Our order hid for thousands of years

after the fall of Mecca. It’s so rare

for a man to be selfless

they couldn’t shut up about it,

said he was special until

they guaranteed another worthy man

would never be born again. Mark me,

little mermaid, and take this to heart:

no man

ever spoke the word of Allah

without a woman

who first put those words in his mouth.”

The Matron placed a marred signet ring

in her palm,

skin prickled, candles flickered.

“I was not blessed

with a daughter. But neither

did I raise a useless son.

He’s done some good here on Earth,

whether or not he realizes, all that’s left

is to find the right woman

to help him hold onto it. Tell me,

is that woman you?”

As far as pleas for a grandchild went,

that was top shelf.

No seaborn maman done better.

She surely understood the assignment,

closed her hand around that ring

without hesitation.

Shahriman would have plenty

to hold onto soon enough.

Some days later,

on a balmy late autumn night,

the land’s contours lush deluge

in the moonglow, the two of them alone,

he brought her to the top of a tower

to reveal a pet project.

Partially open air, optional heavy drapes,

columns and arches capped

with a small dome and striking finial.

In the center of the room

he had hand tiled a large round inset bath.

The entire floor.

Glittering copper grout, deep ocean porcelain

with quartz flecks, let out into

grogged burnt umber Moravian stars

on gradient kelp greens, brushed

with faintly iridescent grit as he’d noticed

she loved texture. Man been busy.

Sitting up to their knees, hands linked,

he asked for her name.

But it was so heavy.

So she kissed him instead,

flung off his clothes still hot on his neck,

yes, her hands were still fast.

Before he knew it, they were in the bath.

Not precisely the evening he’d planned,

but he was a flexible man, evidenced

by the unique position she had him pinned,

one hand in his hair and the other

possessively nipping his lower back,

damn, he here was

trying to be a gentleman. Right.

The second gift, he’d almost forgotten.

“Wait, my love. I have something

that might help.”

A slightly metallic taste on his lips,

warm salt tugging some very taught strings

low in his belly. Hardly felt his age.

Extricated just long enough,

thrilling like a boy

under her piercing gaze. Opened a box

and inside were two luminous stones

warm to the touch and shaped somewhat

like eggs. One of the last

remnants of old magic.

“Let’s see what I can do

about that weight.”

They were in fact

a pair of very special pearls.

With this new breathing room

he thoroughly perused

her every contour, working dense muscles

with the warming stone, catching

lonely glistening bits in his mouth,

admired her flush, patches of scales

curiously soft. Oh, not so different

from humans after all. She soon found

what the second stone was for.

As one moved underwater

the other hummed, and he kept that palm

firmly rooted to its station,

not that her relentless flesh, wracked

with wave after wave after wave,

would willingly relinquish its prize. She gasped.

She clawed. She cried. She felt light.

When, trembling,

she indicated he should replace that stone

with himself,

again he asked

for her name.

She couldn’t provide it,

but she was so close.

He would wait.

Shahriman was a patient man.

Once a week did the asking, postponed

his own release, and when finally

a month had passed, well,

her body had decided

it was very much Ready for a child

and he was just gonna have to lie back

and take it like a man.

She wasn’t hearing no. Fuck that tub.

When she jumped him on his home turf,

poor Shahriman tidying his chambers,

minding his business being a good boy,

he knew he was in trouble.

She was, after all,

inexplicably heavy, tossed on his sheets,

and his traitor flesh

sprang alive immediately all gods yes,

today’s the day, I rise

to the occasion.

But suddenly,

as she tenderly freed and hungrily

handled his dripping

fruits,

let them know

they had a job to do,

well it just up and popped out,

“Julnar.”

Oh? Oh! Open lipped surprise.

“Julnar!” He pointed

with unabashed delight. Her eyes

darkened with honeyed purpose

when she briefly licked and nipped

his offered finger.

“Julnar.” Possessive. He didn’t fight.

And oh, he was in trouble. A seaborn

knows how to build, suspend, and execute

a climax.

Couldn’t even remember

his own name in the end. Only hers,

caught in prayer, liminal space. He learned

the meaning of devotion

over and over and over.

They were married.

He heard the whole

of Julnar’s story. They found her family

rather tripled in size

and an alliance was made. Mermaid midwives

delivered their twins, and neighboring peoples

of land and sea opened trade. Great arches crisscrossed

the reinforced coastline. Festivals of lights above

a floating marketplace. Seaborn would join in celebration

of Lantern Day.

When one fine dawn

Shahriman sat beside his wife

on the shore with her falcon and camel

with one babe clutching her breast

while the other slept strapped to a hump,

and he was so happy he could die, his ribs could crack

and his soul just fly away,

the last marid

momentarily in the form

of a large leopard seal

galumphed up to them, Julnar

called out with joy to him, quite familiar

with all his shapes and tricky ways.

Made for introductions, but Shahriman

recognized a damning shared beauty mark

on a face untouched by time, son of a,

faint outrage, the last marid turned to him

twinkle in his eye

and said,

“Wish granted.”

.

@~^~

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Well summer is here early and it was either AC for my bedroom or AC for my chickens and I’ll do anything for those flussy cabbages. Plus, I wasn’t willing to incur mortgage sized electric bills yet to do both, so cumulative heat stress had me struggle bussing through my work week like a zombie. Not much time to create when you gotta vegetate and stare at the ceiling for a couple hours just to cool down after clocking 40 and doing chores. Even thinking makes you hot. If I happen to miss a week for the next five or six months, assume I Am Tired.

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Anyways, turns out when you remove all the rape, slavery, and religious fapping from 1K1N you’re left with almost nothing. I pulled from a Shakespeare play and a Bible story—I’m sure you can guess which ones—and hit some notes I’m sure you expect from me by now to spin this yarn.