A thin line of tangerine fire between the horizon and the deep. The pale glow of morning gently laps the saffron surface of the water. An acrid, sweet stench from the shoreline furnaces hangs heavy in the air.
The procession breaks into view, emerging first behind the distant docks and gliding soundlessly through the shimmering copper. The swimmers’ scaled tails flicker iridescent in the lagoon. They glide soundlessly in warm and sticky waters.
The nine swimmers circle the bound one in the dory. A scarlet hood obscures her sight and her breath. She is heaped in syrup and chrysanthemums. A terracotta jug rides at the prow: the outline of a face has been pressed crudely into the clay. It will hold what’s left of her when the dancing and feasting is over, when the old gods descend again into their labyrinth of fjord caverns.
In the wee hours when the stars still flickered over them, the girl clung to her mother. They sat entwined for a long time, weeping. Then the older woman recited the prayers, repeating ancient blessings as she stirred the unguent with bare fingers. She cupped her hand and filled it with honey and pistachios, ate from her palm, and fed the girl from her mouth like a baby bird. Then she slipped the red scarf over her daughter’s head, fastening it with a silk cord.
The night swimmers would be there soon, ready to demand their cargo.
At the first hush of light the mother led the girl down to the beach where the boat was already waiting. It is time, she said softly, pushing the vessel gently into the mouth of the dawn.
Bio: Lorette C. Luzajic
