Tell the Water

With the blustery wind and cold rain leaving me soaked and shaking, I held my breath and jumped into the sea. It was only a 10ft drop, but the freezing cold had a way of shattering me as I plunged under its white foam caps. It was this shattering that I lived for. The frigid sea always had a way of forcing me out of my head, forcing me to be present in the moment. It was impossible to think about anything other than “Breathe and survive.”

“Don’t be afraid, be aware,” are the words I gasped out between chattering teeth. Those were the words my mother used to comfort me. As a child I was always telling her what I was afraid of, hoping she would tell me that nothing bad was ever going to happen to me. While it was what I was always searching for in those moments, it wasn’t what I actually needed. I couldn’t afford to be coddled with silly platitudes that had no basis in reality. My mother telling me not to be afraid, but to be aware was her way of helping me hone my presence and confront the fact that something bad might happen, but we will deal with it when it happens, not before.

After the initial shock from the impact of the cold, I allowed myself a minute to tread water and drink in as much air as I could. My inhales quickly turning to sobs, my salty tears mixing with the salt of the sea. It felt connecting, it made me feel slightly more whole. I wouldn’t last much longer out here like this, the cold season was now upon us, and if I had any hopes of keeping all my fingers and toes, I needed to make my escape now. As I swam back, the waves of the sea crashed into me, taking with them my agony. A few minutes later, I dragged myself onto the rocky shore, their rough and jagged edges scraping against my skin as I heaved my body on top of them. I stared at the grey sky, not a ray of sunshine to be seen, “good” I thought, this place doesn’t deserve to see the sun. Not today.

My quiet tears quickly turned into rage. I screamed on that beach until my throat was raw and I felt like I might claw my skin from my body. Physically I had completely exhausted myself, mentally, I was spiraling, now that I was out of the water and my thoughts were able to wholly turn towards my mother. My mother was fierce, she was lovely, and above all else, she gave everything of herself to help others, even if she was mostly met with ridicule instead of gratitude.

My mother grew herbs in our garden next to our tiny cottage on the outskirts of town. She was always toying with new recipes to help with fever, sleep, increasing fertility, birth control, anything the people in our village might need, my mother wanted to be prepared. Many came to her, often in secret. While many in our village relied on my moms “medicine,” there was still an undercurrent of distrust. When we went out together, the villagers would often mutter things like “witch” under their breath. They came to her when they needed her, but would never stand up for her or give her the proper respect she deserved. None of the disrespect or harassment was ever enough to make my mom stop. I greatly respected her for that, I don’t think I would be strong enough for it, certainly not without her.

This last client request, however, led to one situation where my mother bit off more than she could chew. The Constable's wife, Emily, came to my mom in the middle of the night with bruises around her neck. That night she told my mother about her history of abuse at the hands of her husband, and how he found the herbs for preventing pregnancy my mother gave her. She feared she was pregnant and living with an abusive man that she could never get away from on our tiny island. After she left, I asked my mother what she intended to do, all she said was “leave it to me, I’ll take care of it.” She brushed me off, which was unlike her, but I did as I was told.

That was a week ago. Today my mother was murdered. The story being circulated is that my mother provided Emily with herbs that she could put in her husband’s food to kill him. The Constable caught his wife trying to poison him. After questioning his wife, she admitted that she got the herbs from my mother. Emily reported that it was my mother that wanted to kill the Constable. The villagers called for her death, having had enough of her witchcraft. The Constable has always hated my mother, and today he finally had his opportunity to be rid of her once and for all.

I had arrived at the village square after she was murdered, I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her. She had given me a list of all the things she expected me to do that morning before leaving the house, so I didn't realize anything was amiss. I had likely been milking goats or drying herbs as my mother drew her last breath. The weight of that thought nearly crushed me.

As I relived how I got to this moment, I was reminded of another thing my mother always used to tell me, “If you want comfort, tell the trees, if you want revenge, tell the water.” I wondered if that was why I instinctively found myself seeking refuge in the water. I always assumed it was a way my mother wanted me to process my complicated feelings by getting in tune with nature, but maybe it was more literal than I previously thought. Pulling myself up onto my knees, I slammed my fists into the shallowest parts of the water, sending sea salt spraying.

“I hate them. Every person on this god-forsaken island deserves to be punished for what they did to her! Whether directly or indirectly. They did not deserve her, what they deserve is wrath.” I cried out between rasping breaths.

I continued to lay on the beach for what felt like hours, too exhausted to move, just watching the pale gray sky turn darker.

I’m not sure how I made it back to our cottage, I barely remember the trek up the rocky mountainside. The cottage was dark and cold, an ominous presence hanging in the air alongside my mothers dried herbs that hung on seemingly every spare inch of our little kitchen ceiling.

After lighting the fire in the hearth and scrubbing myself clean in the tub, I made myself a cup of tea.

Wrapping myself in a blanket, mug in hand, I crawled out onto the roof outside my bedroom window, looking at the stars in the sky- looking for hope. Movement on the horizon caught my attention, drawing my focus down to the sea. Far enough away that it took me a full minute to discern their shape- I squinted my eyes. Were those ships? My heart began to thump wildly in my chest, my mouth becoming dry.

Taking shape in the water before my tiny island were dozens of ships. Not just any ships, war ships. Torch lights were set ablaze on the decks, creating a menacing effect as they drew nearer. As they got even closer to shore, I could hear the beating drums sounding out their war cries, could feel it thumping in my chest as their drums seemed to replace my own beating heart.

What the hell? I drew my mug up to my mouth and paused as I saw the ripple effects in the tea. “If you want comfort, tell the trees, if you want revenge, tell the water.” My mother’s words reverberated in my skull. I had asked for wrath and vengeance on behalf of my mother, and it has come.

“This is all my fault.” What had I done?