Sea Boy

‘Rinse your feet before you come inside,’ the fisherman growled. ‘Don’t go tracking sand all over my clean floors.’

‘Clean’ was an overstatement. The inside of the fisherman’s house was almost exactly how the boy had expected: too-small rug, stained with salt water, covering mottled tile floors. Wooden furniture, two chairs sitting around a circular table. A pitched roof, walls littered with hooks and ledges holding antique clocks and black-and-white photos of things the boy didn’t recognise.

‘Yes, sir.’ The boy obliged, turning a rusty metal handle next to the front door. A garden hose lay unused nearby.

The water was cold, but the boy didn’t feel it. His skin was wet but smooth and unpruned, sand deeply ingrained in its creases. He rinsed his feet until he could no longer see the specks but could still feel them between his toes, gritty and grainy.

‘Come inside.’ The fisherman said reluctantly. The boy avoided his gaze, which was hard and callous. He couldn’t even see the fisherman’s chin, half of his face covered by a thick salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a hat above bushy eyebrows, but had little hair on top. ‘I’ll stick you in the bath. Maybe then your memory’ll return.’

The boy shuddered. He didn’t like the idea of the fisherman’s rough hands rubbing across his skin, which was bare beneath a towel he’d been given. But there was a strange itch creeping its way across him –something missing, maybe. His memories. Where had they gone?

‘Yes, sir.’ The boy said again. He followed the fisherman inside the small house. A framed photo of a woman was the only picture in colour on the walls. The house was small. The boy felt trapped as the door slammed shut behind him, the whistle of the wind fading into a dull hum.

He was led through a small passageway, where the fisherman dumped his tacklebox and leaned his rod up against the wall. There was a stand with metallic claws that held it in place.

‘In there,’ the fisherman said. ‘Soap’s on your right. Shampoo, if you need it, is in the cupboard.’ He gestured at a small cabinet beneath the sink.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said tentatively. The fisherman grunted and left, his heavy footsteps plodding away.

The bathroom was warm and slightly humid. There was a large mirror over the sink, where the boy saw himself for the first time. His hair was wet and clumped together, his skin moist and shiny, like it was covered in a strange, oily layer. He scratched at it, and some of it transferred to beneath his fingernails. He tried to move his fingers, but something was stopping them –a piece of flesh, webbing his fingers together. The boy gasped, wedging them beneath his armpits, as if the fisherman could see them. It felt wrong.

As the boy filled up the metal tub with water, he thought about where he’d come from. He couldn’t remember anything before the fisherman pulled him off the beach, shivering and shaking. He could still feel his firm hands picking him up as if he weighed nothing, gripping his shoulders, wrapping him in a towel.

‘God, where’d you come from, mate? Where are your parents?’

The boy had tried to speak but the words came out as a strange gurgle. It was only later that he found his voice.

‘There’s no one out here. No one for miles. God I –’ He had hesitated. ‘Come home with me, won’t you, mate? Just for a night. We’ll find your parents in the morning.’

The boy had nodded. He didn’t feel he had a choice. The fisherman was right: the beach was completely empty. The sky was dark and threatening rain –not even the occasional couple or family was anywhere in sight.

The boy had been loaded into the fisherman’s truck, strapped in, a sharp band across his waist and torso. He was trapped, naked, draped in a towel.

‘What’s your name?’ It took a second for the boy to realise the fisherman was talking to him. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘I –’ the boy stammered, his voice strange and thick, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. ‘I don’t know.’

The fisherman was silent, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

The boy lathered his body with soap in the metal bathtub. It was slimy and laden with small cuts, and he explored himself, searching for anything to lead him back to where he came from. The back of his head was tender, his hair matted with dried blood, tiny, metallic flecks. There was a deep, purple bruise on his shin. A set of three matching scratches on his neck, except, no, they weren’t scratches. They were grooves, with fleshy, healthy tissue, like they had always been there.

His toes were webbed, too. His foot moved in unison, like a flipper, one, smooth motion. Strange and alien.

When he stepped out, the water dripped off him in an instant. It gathered in a pool by his feet. He mopped it up with his towel, then wrapped it around his body.

‘Uh, sir?’ The boy called. The kettle was on, he could hear it. He could smell it. Hot water.

The boy stepped out. He padded across the tile floor into the kitchen. The fisherman was pouring hot water into two mugs. He stopped as he saw the boy.

‘I made some calls,’ he said, avoiding the boy’s gaze. ‘No one seems to know who your folks are. So I’ll take you to the police station in the morning. You really can’t remember anything before I found you?’ He arched an eyebrow.

‘Uh, no. Nothing.’ The boy said. He didn’t want to go to the police station. Something was wrong, something was off. He just hadn’t quite figured out what it was.

‘Right. Well, I’ll grab you some clothes. Won’t fit nicely, but it’ll have to do. Can’t have you in a towel all night.’ The fisherman abandoned the mugs, steaming on the benchtop.

Clothes. What the fisherman was wearing, and what the boy wasn’t. He didn’t want to wear clothes. He wouldn’t be able to swim in clothes.

He noticed the front door, slightly ajar. It must have popped open when he slammed it the first time. A cool breeze trickled in, carrying the scent of salt and sand and the ocean.

That was where he was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Where he had come from. Why his fingers and toes were webbed, why he had gills on his neck and oil on his skin. And where he needed to return.

When the fisherman returned, the boy was gone. The door was open. And a trail of slimy footprints led him outside.

‘Boy?’ He called into the wind.