Peace is easy to find when enveloped in water. Cool ocean currents weave between webbed fingers, a celestial serenity of deep reverberations wafts with the tides. Even when spearing a fish, there is peace to be found; the cycle of life, though unsparing, is not inherently violent. To eat or be eaten, a twisted contract signed at birth and carried out with an empathic distance. Thus is the flow of life for the matriarch of Bonnabeau Bay.
With a bag full of cod and char she ascends from the coastal depths surrounding her home. She is a female Piscinid, an anthropomorphic creature with droopy, fish-like features and sharp fins, though her atrophied torso stands out most prominently. Her scaly gray skin sheens as she bobs amongst the waves and whistling winds. After wiping her bulbous eyes, she lies back and lets the disorder sink in. How discordant this life can be, how distant were the swarming shoals of her youth.
The sole of her dinghy is a welcome reprieve from the entropic ocean. Chest heaving, her lungs take over for her gills, expanding breath after breath as bottled water drowns out a salty throat. The catches of the day are transferred from bag to bucket, splashing up a storm to escape the murky fate awaiting them. A few yanks of a pull cord kicks the boat’s patchwork motor into gear.
A brisk drive between juts of rock leads to the snow-covered cliffs surrounding Bonnabeau Bay proper. The migration paths of her past used to provide safety aplenty, but that was before the landfarers’ reign. Now she lives behind towering crags in a rundown houseboat, a discarded invention of those who hunt down her kind, a camouflage in a foreign land. On said houseboat stands a school of similarly scaly and gray children who wave to welcome their mother. After docking the dinghy and stepping onto her abode, she greets them with a worn smile.
The Piscinid hatchlings immediately scramble for the haul in their mother’s hands, but she lifts the bucket of fish above her head before they can grab any. Wet slaps ripple across the still bay as she takes off running around the deck with the little ones giving chase close behind. If not for their shorter legs, they would outrun her in an instant. Their whole lives had been spent on solid ground after all. It still takes only a minute for them to corner her, but they know better than to celebrate just yet.
With a graceful hop backward, their mother splashes into the blue expanse beyond the boat. She stays underwater but keeps the bucket held above the waves, shaking it to entice the hungry hatchlings. Shuddering like the fish in the pail, the youngsters take baby steps toward the deck’s edge before taking the leap of faith together. Their mother surfaces and watches her children flail about for a bit. Unlike running, swimming is certainly not their strong suit. Though, with the way their world is changing, does it need to be? Safe waters are disappearing faster than ever, and though they may be shunned on land, they have strong legs for running and sharp fins for fighting. Perhaps this is a necessary evolution, one happening before her very eyes. This consideration lasts for a few more seconds before she scoops up her sorry seafarers and brings them back aboard the boat.
Downtrodden faces quickly turn as the fish are finally distributed. The hatchlings slurp the meat right off the bone, gobbling down second and third servings with ease. A satisfied smile rests on their mother’s face as she sits watching them. The youngest of the brood looks from the now empty bucket then to the matriarch, holding out their half-eaten meal. She shakes her head and pushes back their offering. They must fill their bellies, not her. The young one lifts the fish to their mouth once more, chewing the briny meat with a slow reverence.
After stuffing their droopy faces, the bloated hatchlings lie scattered across the deck. Leaving them to bathe in the sun, their mother enters the dim cabin of the houseboat. The resemblance to her old home inside a sunken cave brings with it a sentimentality; rays of light shine through chipped wood planks, patches of moss radiate a faint petrichor. Though the sights and smells may be similar, it certainly lacks the liveliness of her old abode. There, Piscinids of all shapes and sizes mixed and mingled, swimming amongst dense schools of fish and harmonizing with distant whale songs. Deathly silent is the cabin she stands in, devoid of life except for the cluster of translucent eggs pressed into one corner and the snores from the deck. They will all one day live that melodic life, this she promised them.
In the meanwhile, however, she simply sits by the eggs and picks dust off their membranes. Slowly but surely, the day’s endeavors catch up to her and she slips into sleep.
Wind blows in the semisweet smell of ozone, cumulonimbus clouds climb high into the twilight sky; a storm brews. The houseboat rocks above churning tide, shaking awake the Piscinid mother. Rushing out onto the deck, she grabs her children and shoves them inside, not sparing a second to look at the chunks of stone raining down with the sudden deluge. Wood creaks, the door to the cabin blows open then slams closed, a loud snap cuts through the whistling gale. The rope once connected to the anchor flaps through the air, its end frayed and weightless.
The waters of Bonnabeau Bay swirl into a vortex, slamming the houseboat into cliff face after cliff face. Ripped from their mucus coatings, eggs bounce across the cabin floor as the hatchlings desperately clutch to their mother. All she can do is hold them tight and watch the water pouring in through every gap in the wood with a wide, glassy stare.
Lightning cracks atop the raging ocean followed by deafening booms of thunder. The incessant pounding of rocks against the houseboat’s hull has stopped, but this only brings more worry. Has the tide itself forsaken them?
The tempest calms to a thick shower, the waves let up their assault. Cautiously opening the cabin door now dangling from a single hinge, the hatchlings creep onto the deck. Their mother follows close behind them, her eyes unblinking, her pulse racing. Plastic bottles and aluminum cans float amongst the surf, hulking metal platforms illuminated by artificial lights loom in the distance. They had drifted into human waters.
Stomach hardening, bile burning in the back of her throat, the Piscinid mother rushes to the houseboat’s stern motor. As she repeatedly yanks back on its ripcord, her ears perk up at the sound of deep bass melodies and clicking warbles echoing through the rain. Whale songs, a symphonic glimmer of solace. Having been hunted down by humans for millennia, the colossal creatures were experts at avoiding the fleshy landfarers. Finding them meant finding safety.
Without another thought, she cranks the churning motor into high gear and speeds towards the source of the songs. Her hatchlings run to the bow of the hurrying houseboat, reveling in the new sights with ignorant awe. There are no cliffs here, only roaring waves and translucent walls of rain. Their chests flutter; how daunting this expanse, how enticing this seldom-thought freedom.
In their frenzied survey of the open ocean, they are the first to see the towering hull of a ship approaching. Blinding spotlights switch on along the metal monstrosity, all of them pointed at the Piscinid vessel. The hatchlings shuffle back, their mouths slack and limbs limp. Their mother sprints to their side, glaring at the speakers blasting stolen whale songs from the opposing craft’s bow. Then she sees them, with their unmistakable scaleless skin and bushels of hair: humans.
The creaking of the human’s harpoon cannon is motivation aplenty for her to scoop up her hatchlings and dive into the water. Her heart shatters over leaving her eggs, but she quickly steels herself. There are still the little ones in her arms.
Lights flash on under the waves. Humans wrapped in slick rubber suits give chase with artificial fins, illuminated spearguns at the ready. Like fish in a pail, a murky fate awaits the Piscinids; this the hatchlings realized, letting out bubbly yelps in their mother’s grasp. Imperceptible tears flow from her sullen eyes, a fiery resignation forms in her chest. They must one day live that boisterous, melodic life of old, they simply must. One by one, she plants a kiss on each of her children’s foreheads before releasing them. A wordless howl from her lips signals them to scatter before she slithers away toward the pursuing divers.
Spears whiz by her as she dodges and weaves across the spotlit water. They had made a mistake picking a fight on her turf. Before the divers can ready more ammunition, her razor-sharp fins slice through their soft skin. If she was to die, she would take a few with her. Blood froths up from the humans’ wounds, acting as a target for their accomplices aboard the ship. An explosion rings through the air, shooting down a bomb-tipped harpoon that cuts through the water and blasts through her torso. A bubbling blue ichor gushes from her skin and around the metal. So this was the pain her kind had felt countless times before. How had a living being designed such a cruelty?
The harpoon cannon reels in its bloodied prey. Rain patters atop the metal deck as humans gather around the gasping Piscinid. Veins strain against her scaly skin as she frees herself from the weapon. Heaving breaths and trembling legs accompany waves of blue blood oozing out from the hole in her torso. Despite the unrivaled anguish, she does not fall. They will not make a trophy of her. Blood drips from her readied fins and trickles down to her clenched fists.
A human steps out from the crowd and adjusts his captain’s hat as he looks up at the mangled creature before him. His cold stare meets her flaming glare. If she knew their tongue, they would never unhear her years of rage. The human mutters something to one of his compatriots who quickly produces two cutlasses, a more intimate weapon of their kind. One is thrown at her feet while he grabs the other. Without questioning, she picks up the blade and prepares to strike. The human raises an eyebrow and smiles, his blade readied just the same.
Sparks fly through the rain as metal meets metal. The human’s chunky boots stomp across the deck as webbed feet slap in tow. Even with blurring sight and fading sound, she does not let up the attack. Eat or be eaten, a twisted contract signed at birth; why had this human broken the pact? Why had he let her fight? Why had he given her a chance? His blade slips across hers, missing any scaly flesh and passing through the hole in her torso. Her blade does not miss, nor do her fins that follow soon after. A few seconds pass before the human falls apart in chunks, the rest of his accomplices making no move to avenge him. These could not truly be the same creatures that took over her kind’s waters, that would be too cruel a joke.
With a labored leap off the edge of the ship, she is enveloped in water once more. The currents here are cold, so cold she feels a chill creeping through her veins. Her eyelids struggle to stay open, she needs to rest… No, this was no time to think of herself… Her hatchlings couldn’t have gone far, they would soon need food and shelter…
The distant cry of a whale ripples through the waves.