think human
;;
ii
a paper boat at sea
;;
When Hans awoke, the sore of his back, arms and legs are the first familiarities he registers. It was constant — there — but no pain he hasn't grown accustomed to, no change from a day's worth of labour.
What was new, though, was cold of his body, the hurt in his head and the greeting of his surroundings: the sight of an intricate ceiling staring back at him.
For a brief moment, Hans doubts the sunlight streaming into the room and the warmth of the bed.
"It's good to see you're awake." An old voice says, a sound gentle enough to soothe his aching body.
The tone of her voice lulls Hans to feel safe, and he turns his head to face the person, expecting no harm. A middle-aged woman with crow's feet and smile lines grin at him.
"It's good to see you too." Hans manages though his throat feels raw and dry. He genuinely means it, the fact that he isn't a corpse at the bottom of the ocean floor looking at fish means something.
"You're a polite one, aren't you? It's good that you have manners, I expected as much, your clothes do little to disguise your fine upbringing." The woman says to him, somewhat playful. "You slept for a long time. Three days."
His head hurt too much to think but the news shocked him anyway. Three days. Still, it's a miracle that he woke up at all.
Attempting to boost himself up to a sitting position, his arms shaking with effort. It's probably not wise, but he doesn't think he can spend any more days laying down.
The old woman's hand reaches out to stop him. "Don't get up, you're wounded." She says.
Wounded? He doesn't feel any pain. Or maybe his body's just used to the feeling.
"Lie back down, there's no such thing as too much rest." She instructs him.
He does as he's told. Somehow, it takes effort to do that too. Weak. He feels so weak.
Hans sucks in a deep breath then finally asks, "Where am I?"
"The church." She answers.
The? So there's only one? Is he one a small island?
He looks at her clothes. "Are you a nun?" Her kind eyes regard him softly. He will not lie, those eyes reminded him of his mother's.
"I am." She answers.
Hans doesn't know what to make of it. Is he safe staying here?
The nun seems to have read his thoughts well. Wanting to reassure him, she tells him, "Rest. I'll go get you some broth, you need your strength back."
;;
"What's this?" Hans asks the next day.
He had gathered enough energy to explore his surroundings (with his eyes, that is). There isn't much to do with his wound limiting him, he had finally felt the stab of pain when he had tried to sit up after the nun had retired for the night.
On his bedside laid his Southern Isles clothes, washed and neatly folded. It seems he's lost a glove. But, what truly catches his eye is the large sea green coloured fish scale. Did it come with him when he was dragged out of the ocean?
The nun smiles at the scale.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She says and opens her palm.
Hans hands it over to her without a second thought.
She plucks the shiny thing and raises it towards the rays of sun — it sparkles and reflects like a mirror. "Truly, it's like finding a pearl at the bottom of the ocean. While the other nuns and I were cleaning you up, we found this scale covering your wound. It's almost like someone intentionally placed it there to stop you from bleeding out."
"Are you saying someone saved my life?" Hans asks, knowing well that he couldn't have swum himself to shore at such a state.
Her eyes dart to the hue of health on Hans' cheeks and she does not comment on anything else. The nun simply bobs her head in a nod and replies, "There's no other way around it."
;;
The next few days spent at the church are somewhat pleasant, with the nun and small polite talks and the quiet.
But, most of the time, it's lonely: with just him and his thoughts. There's not much to do but stare — at ceilings and the outside through a window and the green scale by his bed.
Hans is eager to be accepted in this new place. He would like to believe the true reason behind his security at the church is its nature; a holy place, welcoming to all. However, there is a delusion within him. A resisting doubt. If this were the case, then why haven't the others spoken to him by now? Shouldn't someone else have approached him? Act in a carefree manner, visited 'the mysterious guest' held in a room by himself, asked him about his life-story and maybe make him laugh?
Someone should be curious about him, but no one except the lone nun sees him.
Is he invisible?
Hans thinks — he suspects, at least — that the only reason no one has asked him to leave is due to the fact that they know of his identity. He believes the others aren't brave enough to haul him away. It's only a matter of time before the news of his crimes, history and striped title reaches the space he's residing at.
The knowledge of his status haunts him.
;;
"How did you become a nun?" Hans asks. He couldn't possibly talk about himself, so he talks about her instead, about the nun.
Her kind eyes look outside the colourful glass window then back at him. "When I was still a girl," She begins her tale. "I was in love with a boy."
Oh, spare me. Forget that I asked. Hans thinks, the last thing he wants to hear is a love story.
"He was one of the young masters of the manor and I was a maid." The main continues. "He fell terribly sick one day, we all thought he was going to die. So, I prayed. And in that prayer, I told the Lord that I loved the young master and that I didn't want him to pass. In a desperate plead, I promised the Lord that if the young master was healed then I'd join the church. It worked." She smiles. "I left the same day the young master's fever broke."
Hans made a face, he doesn't think he'd ever make such a big sacrifice. "How long ago was that?"
"I don't recall, I haven't seen him since I left."
"Did you tell him about your …" How is he going to word this? "... endeavours before you went away?"
"I did not tell him, no. But, my love for him is still there despite my absence."
There's a pause on Hans' part, then he asks, "Was it worth it?"
The nun's smile broadens. Unlike Hans, she doesn't hesitate. "It was. Love doesn't end so easily. Of course, it helps that I fell in love again."
"With?" Is he about to hear a scandal?
She points upwards.
"God?" He asks. How did he not see such a predictable answer coming?
She gives him a look. "You may not have strong faith, but at least believe in love, there are many kinds."
;;
The church oddly reminds him of life back at the Isles — old haunting structures, authorities who ignore him and children screaming alike his nieces and nephews — and Hans wants to be anywhere but the Isles.
So he explores the grounds, sight-seeing the little garden and the churchyard and forgotten places until he stumbled upon a stone stairway that leads downwards. The large fish scale that he keeps in his pocket feels like a force tugging him towards the end of the stairs.
"Can I go down there?" He asks the nun the same day he had discovered it, his mouth hovering over the soup he was brought.
"You can." The nun replies. "I know it looks dark and scary, those stairs are old and most don't clean past the top steps, but feel free to explore it. If you follow the path, it leads to a lovely place. It leads to the sea, the spot where I found you."
"Will you go there again?" Hans asks.
"No." She shakes her head. "I rarely do. The Lord must have told me to visit the beach on the day I found you."
Hans manages a thankful smile.
"You should go — take a walk along the shore, enjoy the breeze. It's a good place to think, not many will disturb you there." With that, she smiles and pats his freckled hand.
.
.
.
Hans came to understand why no one ventured to the sandy beach halfway down the long stretch of stairs; the old stairway isn't safe — the waves had crashed so violently over its history with the bricks and stone that it had collapsed the wall meant to keep the ocean out. The stairway laid exposed, crumbling, and slippery with seawater and algae.
Anyone could have easily slipped and fallen if not focused or careful, plummeting into the ocean and the rocks that lay beneath it. It was dangerous, but Hans never did learn when to stop at anything — fighting, scheming, staring at Death in the face.
He ventures down the steps, smelling the salt in the air and feeling giddy at the possibility of sinking his feet into soft sand.
When he finally reached the bottom of the steps, he feels accomplished for some reason. Hans never would have guessed he'd feel this joyous over something so simple.
He turns to the sea.
;;
He came back to the beach almost every day when there was nothing to do — no chores to help with, no books to read to lonely orphan children, no penance to pay.
Hans would sit and stare, but never once did he swim out in the open waters. He didn't trust himself. The word 'weak' branded itself in his skull. I am still too weak, he tells himself.
The ocean greets him like an old friend. It should have been the last place he would have liked to visit, on the account that he almost drowned and died. But, Hans doesn't blame Mother Nature for taking back what is hers.
He scouts the sandy floors, feeling cold waves at his feet and seashells under his soles. The Southern Isles had hard rocks and smooth pebbles for its beaches' surfaces, a walk along the shore was never quiet.
Hans could tell it was about to rain by the grey of the storm clouds and the roll of the tides — and yet, he can't bring himself to move away from the spot he's standing at. The sea was ready to battle against itself and the wild wilds and maybe anything made by man, be it little fishing boats or grand battleships; death and destruction alike, he wants to witness it all.
He takes out the fish scale and lifts it towards the dimming light, he wants to be in his own head, but, for some reason, the sight of currents pulls him in. A large wave crashes against a large jutting rock decorated with barnacles, everything appears normal.
… until Hans hears a shriek, then sees a flash of red.
He immediately acts, edging towards the water.
"Hello?" He calls, pocketing what he was holding.
Whatever poor soul that had wound up on this beach couldn't have come by accident, no set of dying lungs could have screamed that loud. It's a voice filled with purpose.
"Hello?" Hans calls again, his ankles already splashing and deep in the mouth of the shore.
He sees big eyes peek at him from behind the rock then catches sight of wet, flaming hair.
A girl? He wonders.
"Miss?" Hans says, coming closer.
"Go away f — from me!" Came the shutter of a response. She had an accent Hans' couldn't quite place.
Hans takes a step back, careful not to frighten her. "Are you alright?" He asks, the sea now up to his thighs.
The girl didn't reply, only staring at him in a timid way.
"Are you hurt?" Hans continues.
"No." Her reply sounded firm yet something about her tone tells Hans she's unsure of what to say next.
He believes the conversation they're having will be troubling, spoken in a language that is not in her native tongue. There's probably going to be a lack of understanding between them.
After a moment of hesitation, she slowly utters, "I am ... swimming."
I can see that. Hans thinks.
Then he sees something else: a bare shoulder. Was she ... nude? He does not need or want to know. Should he leave? But, what's a girl her age doing exposing herself in such a vulnerable state?
"Do you need anything? Is there something I can do for you?" Hans asks, averting his eyes.
"I am ..." She pauses as if attempting to remember what word to use, then she mimics Hans' previous sayings to him. "I am alright." She continues, her accent heavier as she grows more uncomfortable. Maybe she feels exposed? It was understandable for her to feel so.
Hans sees her shift from the corner of his eye. He wants to give her privacy but can he allow a girl to be alone in such harsh waters when a storm is coming?
He opens his mouth to suggest for help, the nun's assistance, but then he sees something he shouldn't have: a fishtail. Her tail.
;;
Notes: This was supposed to be longer but I dunno how to write conversations/interviews with a mermaid so I'm gonna procrastinate on it in iii. I watched YouTube videos and documentaries about mermaids but it's still difficult to decipher them as one thing (much less their language and culture) cause I've learned that people see them as two sides: the light and the dark, basically classic wifey material mermaids who give up their tails for some dick vs I'm-gonna-drown-you-and-eat-your-heart Sirens.
The reason behind this human/mermaid language barrier is because I don't think mermaids should familiarise themselves with human speech, it just seems unlikely. The mer-folk can memorise songs, I've memorised songs in another language, but they probably don't know what they're saying. King Triton was all like "Humans are bad!" so why should mer-folks take the time to learn whatever language humans speak and understand them? Some of us humans barely learn each other's language.
My other option was using Google Translate and a thesaurus then hoping for the best, some of the results were hilarious outcomes!
Also, language-roadblock is based on experiences. Sometimes I go to the store and talk to people and they're like, "Oh, you're from X, I can tell by your accent!" I didn't know I was obvious but okay! Also, being multilingual is an experience itself and stories surrounding it helped, they're funny. Don't know the name of a fruit? Point to an apple and say, "I like its friend." See a mouse at a hotel and don't remember the word? Tell the service, "You know Tom and Jerry? Jerry is here." A guy at the store doesn't know the word for chicken. He grabs and egg and ask, "Where is mother?"
— 25 October 2019