To The Sea

The end of the world looked different than Silke imagined. Strands of mahogany hair stung her eyes as she took an uneasy step toward the others. They kept their backs turned to her. Fist clenching the damp material, she squinted at Aleksandr. A lump formed in her throat. She never believed Shura would’ve left without her. The undulating waves reached his shirt tails, which came untucked. Silke’s heels sank into the sand. Her hands thrust forward to catch herself, but met with nothing.

She swallowed a lungful of black water. Her fingers clawed at mid air. Silke’s chest burned with exertion. Hands falling to her side, she debated whether to keep fighting. Her eyes drifted. Shura took another step forward. Without warning, she found herself back on her feet. Trying to catch her breath.
Her shoulders shook. Shura hadn’t turned at the sound of her thrashing. The itchy lace collar made it feel like she still struggled beneath the waves. Silke resisted the urge to call out to him. William Fry urged them onward. The pillar of clouds like a beacon; he motioned to something Silke couldn’t see. Nor did she want to. How could they walk to their fate with such resilience? What would they make of Silke fighting against it with everything she had?

“Stay the path,” he said. What did it mean?
Silke’s body no longer obeyed the commands of her mind. Not another step, it warned. Shura must’ve felt the frantic beat of her heart as if it pounded in his own ears. He paused. Silke allowed herself a moment of hopefulness when he turned. Then, he extended a hand to her. Beckoning her to join him. Her thoughts urged her onward. If she trusted nobody else, she trusted Shura.

She and Aleksandr grew up together. He told her how much he loathed the nickname and Silke refused to call him anything else. Her boot squelched in the wet sand. As she took a tentative step forward, another reached for him. Silke couldn’t distinguish their faces from afar, but she swallowed a cry of despair. Shura hesitated. His eyes flickered to hers as if repeating the question he hadn’t asked. Will you come?

Whatever spell held them in place broke. Shura’s hand fell to his side. He stumbled before returning his gaze to Mr. Fry.

Mr. Fry lifted both arms into the air, as if summoning a god. Prayers and incantations erupted from the women’s lips. Silke cringed at the knowledge that her family was among them. Even her father, a practical man, lowered his eyes as a pillar of black clouds descended. The tide receded gradually. Silke scanned their faces for a sign of familiarity. Shura wore the waistcoat with the mismatched button. She repaired it herself. None of them noticed Silke.
“My children,” Mr. Fry greeted them, “the time has come for us to repay our ancestors’ debts.”

When William Fry began his sermons in the lip of a cave, nobody took him seriously. She and Shura sneaked into the congregation against their parents’ advice. Shura’s elbow smashed into her rib cage and he jeered at the man. Women gasped and fluttered their eyes. Men covered their disdain with coughs into their handkerchief. Gusts of winds drowned out much of what he said. Silke wheezed out a laugh. Her ankle rolled and for a split second the entire world fell away. The sea threatened to engulf her. Mr. Fry’s voice rose to match the thundering waves, but he didn’t spare her a glance. Her scream pierced through the air, but a gust of wind swallowed it before it reached the others. Silke thought for certain she would die.

Shura’s fingers seared her wrist. Arm wrenched from its socket, she abandoned propriety and threw herself to him. She hadn’t attended a sermon since. “It serves you right,” her father said, “for making light of Mr. Fry. He’s unwell, Silke. The two of you should know better than to mock those who require our help.” He prodded the bruised flesh. When Silke whistled in a breath, he only shook his head. “It isn’t broken. Let this be a lesson to you.”

Had her near death been a premonition? Why didn’t Shura come to her rescue now? He stood shoulder to shoulder with William Fry, who punctuated each statement with a fist.

The earth shuddered in acknowledgment. Silke gathered her skirts. Too many layers restricted her movements. Nobody else showed alarm as the ground swallowed itself. Sharp teeth gleamed in the sand. Faster. An odor as sharp and pungent as blood remained in her mouth. She bet if she bit her tongue it tasted similar. Her chest burned. No matter how much faster she pumped her legs, the shore grew further away. Pulsating black tentacles lashed through the air. What if they took Silke with them? Would she regret trying to leave Shura? Would he ever forgive her?

Lightning split the sky in two. Silke collapsed onto the beach. The brightness dulled her senses. Mr. Fry’s voice cut through the sluggish atmosphere. A thunderous crack followed. Massive stones plummeted from the edge of the cliff. Like a tear mended by expert hands, the waves came crashing back down. Silke didn’t know if she imagined the screams accompanying it. Perhaps she sought to distinguish them from the shells they became. Where once they breathed life, now they clung to Mr. Fry’s every word. Something tugged at her ankle.
In her mind, she saw Shura’s outstretched hand accompanied by one of the spindly tentacles. As impossible as it sounded, Silke knew he wouldn’t let her go without a fight. She licked her lips. It burned. Fingers clawing at jagged pieces of rock, Silke fought to anchor herself. If defying her fate meant renouncing everybody she knew and loved, she would gladly do so for the chance to live. She didn’t belong with them, no matter how cruel their deaths.
Silke wrenched her foot from the creature’s grasp and crawled across the beach. She refused to submit herself to it.