Decemblog! 15/31 – Thetis

Because I did nothing significant but reorganize my bookshelves today, I give you a short story I wrote for Creative Writing. I warn ye though, it is rather depressing.

(Oh, and I apologize to my fellow bloggers, as the text cut won’t show up on our shared blog page, and it is kind of long.)

Thetis
by Samantha Horton

You named our daughter Thetis, after the sea nymph. You told me that she would be like a fish; that you would teach her to dive and hold her breath longer than even you could. You said her eyes would be as green as the waves when the sun catches them, that her hair would be dirty blonde like the sand that covers our floors. You said that you’d take her out on your boat, teach her how to fish, and how to tie all those intricate knots. You told me she would be your first mate, and that you would leave your boat, the only thing you love more than the sea, to her when you died. I often felt that you had already built her up as the ocean’s child before she even had the chance to be mine. Sometimes, as I stood on the cliffs watching your ship get smaller and smaller on the horizon, I would rest my hands on that heavy belly of mine, and whisper to her. Sometimes I would sing one of those old sea songs you used to sing to me when I was sick, others I would describe the scenery, the grass that ran all the way up and over the cliff, as if it were trying to fly. No matter what I sang or spoke to her, I would always promise, as I turned my back to the sea, to never leave her like her father so often would. I promised over and over again to always be in arms reach.

She was born in late August, in our wedding bed, atop those sheets I could never get all the sand out of. I had never seen you so happy, pulling her from my womb and straight into your arms. She was perfect, glass green eyes and a rough mop of sandy blonde hair, just like you had predicted. You spent hours beside her cradle, rocking it gently and singing so softly, it was almost a whisper. It hadn’t even been a week when your work pulled you back to your boat. I begged you to stay just another day longer, and I could tell you wanted to, but I soon found myself back on that familiar cliff with our daughter nestled tightly against my chest, watching those cursed waves take you away from me. You promised to return in a month’s time.

I busied myself with our little daughter, making her clothing and talking to her constantly. I told her stories of your ocean adventures, of the fish you caught and the people you met. You became the hero in every story, and I always ended them with you returning to us, with a string of the biggest bass hanging from your lucky fishing rod. I moved her cradle next to the window, and she would spend most of the day on her side, peering out through the wooden slats at the horizon. It seemed like we both spent most of our days with our eyes where the sky kisses the sea. A month passed, with no sign of you. It was as if Thetis knew that you were supposed to be home, she became fussy and often woke me in the middle of the night with a cry that could not be settled by milk or lullaby. Another month passed painfully. I cursed every day that did not bring you back to me. I could no longer spend my time staring at that wretched ocean. I took to caring for us on my own, making small garments from my left over wool and walking to the nearby village to sell them. I carried Thetis with me on every trip, hoping in the very bottom of my heart that you would be waiting for us when we returned. You never were.

Four days after our daughter’s first birthday, on the anniversary of the day that loathsome ocean dragged you away from me, something washed ashore. Fearing the worst, I took Thetis into my arms and made my way down the cliffs to the beach. The path was narrow but smoothed flat from your fishing boots. Looking at those familiar footprints, I felt as though I were walking in your shoes, making my way to that weathered little dock with dreams of fish swimming through my mind. As I stepped onto the sand I snapped back into reality; I could now see that the wreckage was, in fact, a fishing boat. All thought left my mind as my legs took control, carrying me, carrying Thetis, to the ship crashed into the shore. There my worst fears were confirmed. It was yours, splintered to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. I felt as though my soul left my body, with so many memories flooding my senses I lost track of everything around me, the crash of the waves, the drift of the sand, the call of the gulls far overhead. I lost everything except Thetis, who I held onto so tightly she whimpered. It was in that moment that I vowed to never allow her to become you; I would not allow your adventuresome spirit to grow within her heart.

I waited until Thetis was sound asleep in her crib before I returned to the beach. I brought all the pitch we had been saving for the winter lanterns along, as well as your bedside lamp. It was low tide, and your ship stood alone in the sand, beckoning me to it like a ghost. The moon seemed to share my pain, a lonely silver crescent hanging low in the sky. It alone was my audience as I worked quickly, pouring the pitch all along both sides of the wreckage. I drenched the ropes, the flags, anything within reach before smashing the lantern amongst the debris. It caught fire quicker than I had predicted, and I backed away, settling myself in the sand just close enough to feel the heat. I sat beside that roaring fire until it was nothing but embers. I know you meant for it to be hers, but you must understand that I could never allow her to see the ocean the way you did. When the tide came in and turned all the embers into steam, that I vowed to never let her near the water.

I found some extra wood and nails in the cellar, left over from when you built our cozy little cottage by the sea. I spent several hours lining each plank up and hammering it in until every window and door that faced that god-forsaken ocean could not be opened. I almost felt as though I were trying to keep your ghost out. I was plagued with nightmares in the months that followed; sometimes I dreamt our whole house filled with water, and you would come swimming through with Thetis at your side, as if you were mermaids laughing and playing, while the water filled my lungs and I lapsed into death. These dreams pushed me further into my misery.

Thetis, however, seemed to be rather unaffected. She would beg me to tell her the stories of your travels, and I often obliged. While I was mad at you and that terrible water for claiming you, I did not have the heart to tell our beautiful little daughter that her father was not coming home. Instead I told fantastic tales of your voyages and how, one day, you would return. Whenever she would ask to take her down to the water and to wait, or to even let her look out through the boards at the sea I would pull her into me, smooth her hair, and tell her that she simply could not. I told her that the ocean was made so that only those with the strength and might of her father could ever grasp it, that weaker people, like she and I, were made for waiting. I don’t know why I told her such things. Maybe I always felt that way; she was just the first person to hear it.

Seasons came and went and I did everything to care for us. I learned to gather and chop wood for the stove, I taught Thetis how to work with wool and she started contributing in her own small ways to the small money we would earn. I used that money to stock the cellar like you used to, and to buy Thetis small toys and treats. She grew up so fast, learning to read and write long before I ever learned, and every day she looked more and more like you. Sometimes she would waddle down into the cellar, take an empty jar off the shelf, spread out on our old marriage bed, and write you a letter. When she was finished she’d ask me to fold it, but it in the jar, and seal it up tight. We’d walk to the village, and she’d give it to the first fishermen she saw, asking them to toss her letters into the ocean, because she knew her daddy would find them. They would always agree, and cast me a sad look, as if I should feel ashamed for not breaking a little girl’s heart. You would always be a story in her mind, but at least I would always have her.

After four years of the same routine, I began to think that nothing would ever change it. I taught Thetis everything I knew, and she learned quickly. She wasn’t yet five and already she spun her own wool. She had perfect little hands and freckles on her cheeks. Her hair had gotten so long, I would always put it in pigtail braids and they would float behind her when she ran. She never tired of the stories about you, even though I had run out of ideas for new ones. She would ask for her favorites over and over. Sometimes I would catch her at the well, both of her little hands in the pail, playing with the water as she told those same stories to herself. Even that little exposure to the outside world troubled me. I know she loved me, but I could feel a divide between us, her curiosity seemed to be winning her over in small ways. She used to beg me to take her along the cliffs, but she had given up asking one day when I was especially harsh on her. It was in times like those, when I scolded her, that I she would get this look in her eyes, and I could almost see you breaking her surface. It terrified me. I prayed that I would always have the strength to contain it.
Looking back, I should have known better than to do what I did. The heat was just so stifling and I knew that just a bit of that ocean breeze would cool the whole cottage down. I knew I was taking a risk, prying the planks from the door, but I planned to quickly replace them with cloth, pulled tight to block any view. Thetis lay asleep in our bed. It had been so hot lately, that she often couldn’t do much else. I worked quickly, pulling the boards out one at a time, trying to ignore the heat and keep up my pace. I was soon over half way done, but all the work and sun was so overwhelming that I needed a drink of water. I checked on Thetis, she was sleeping soundly and I figured I could take a break. I grabbed a cup and hurried to the water pail. It must have been the door closing behind me that woke her, for the next thing I knew, I heard little footsteps fly across the cottage. Everything slowed down, and I heard Thetis squeal,

“Daddy! You’re home!”
“Thetis!” I screamed, running into the house. I couldn’t see her. I ran to the door, getting there just in time to see her tiny feet disappear over the edge of the cliff. All I can recall is the silence, and how it was broken as she plunged into the water. I looked automatically to the horizon, but saw no sign of a boat.

I still don’t know why she jumped. Maybe the light and the waves played tricks on her eyes, making her think she saw a boat. Maybe those silly stories had tied you so close to the ocean that she thought you were one in the same. Maybe your spirit really did grow in her body, taking her over, dragging her back to you. Maybe it’s all my fault. Maybe she would have lived if I had just taught her to swim. Maybe I should follow her.

I can’t feel anything anymore, nor can I find anything to console me. All I have now is this shack, perched on the cliffs, overlooking the water that took my life away. I should burn it to the ground, turn it back to the Earth, just like your beloved boat. I haven’t mourned her, I feel like I’ve lost all right to any emotion. Maybe the best thing to do is to cast myself into the water; destroy my life like I destroyed your daughter’s. At least I know that she is now where she always belonged, with you, at the very bottom of that selfish sea.

I do hope you are happy.