On Land, We Drown

ON LAND, WE DROWN

by Ai Jiang

Content warnings: Death, Body Horror

"No fish again?" Mother asks when Father arrives back home empty-handed. The front door swings without shutting. Mother draws tight the sleep robe she had left loosened as she did work around the house. I draw tighter the strings around my own robe and turn my nose up, catching a whiff of what Father brings into the space—the scent of the sea and something… unfamiliar; something foul—of death. 

It was only two weeks ago when he brought home extras from his daily catches. The smell of Mother’s homemade sour fish stew is still fresh in my mind. It is both mine and Father’s favourite, though my baby sister Xiān is quickly developing a taste for it as well. 

Guān jiějiě—a sister of no blood relation, though I felt closer to her than my family—who lives near us and often brings over fish snacks she dries on her windowsill, extras she swiped from her father’s catches. Ever since she was married several months ago, she has stopped visiting as well. I miss her. I finger the two white ribbons tied around my wrist she gifted me a few years back, clutching on to it like treasure. When she used to visit, she’d braid my hair with the ribbon, telling me I reminded her of when she was young. It still gives me great pride to think she used to be as unruly as me but grew up to be so beautiful, elegant, and kind.

Father takes off his straw hat—with the other hand still in his pocket, fishing gloves still on—and hangs it on a wooden peg next to the front door, its straw brushing the stone wall. He stares at the worn hat for a moment, marvelling at the frayed edges. Though he's not frowning, his pressed lips and shifting jaw give away his habit of grinding his teeth when he's stressed or anxious. It's the ‌same one I adopted while growing up, much to Mother’s dismay. I’ve also picked up a habit from Mother: the strange need to pace around the house right before Father returns each day, as if without him, the house might come under siege. Sometimes I find myself looking out the window, toward the roads and the travellers upon them, to watch for Father's return. And if the travellers were many and neared too quickly, we prayed much more fervently for Father’s presence. 

Rather than bringing goods for trade, these travellers often bring with them their desires, their lust, their violence. We are cautious, now, of the strangers, and we are hostile toward those who return, the stains of our blood still on their hands—displayed like victory, our graves, their medals, our homes, their unwilling pleasure houses. 

But as soon as Father comes through the door, Mother always has a small smile—one of pride, one of relief. Fishermen and fisherwomen are lost at sea every day, and we both know Father would be no exception should the waters choose to lead him astray. 

I look at Father's hat, because I'm not quite sure if staring anywhere else would be appropriate, and notice the mold at the top where his fingers just left. It is one Mother taught me how to weave when I was younger, out of tough grass found in the mountains nearby. I rubbed my fingers raw by the fifth try—the one he has now is the eighth. I’d made one for Guān jiějiě, too. I never told my parents that hers was actually the first I finished successfully.

"No." His voice is distant, the same way it sounds when he shouts back to the docks at us while on a boat already sailing away—but unmuffled by the sea—almost as though he was trying not to be heard rather than challenging the waves with his voice. The content look on his face after a long day at sea is not present today, nor has it been since the fish had stopped coming. 

 Mother and I wait, because Father's mouth stays hanging, struggling to say the next words.

"They're closing up the dock." We hold our breaths. "Maybe forever."

Mother's face, still pale, blanches further—her skin so translucent I think it might tear with a single expression and expel not blood but the salty water of the sea that treated us so well, offered us bountiful fish, until now. She is still frail from birthing Xiān two months ago. She would have to look for work, but to do it so soon would be difficult, and our grandparents—Grandmother in particular—would not have approved.

By the sandy shores, we used to point into the distance and say the sun is coming to visit, like it’s some marvelous thing, even though it happens daily. The waters that seem to so openly embrace us, welcome us, nourish us, have turned their backs, shunning us for something unknown to me. But it makes me want to stay, to reclaim the sea’s good faith, to atone for whatever evil that made it feel humanity’s betrayal. Perhaps it is because our community seems too turbulent, chaotic, not harmonious enough. I like to blame it on the travellers.

Mother begins to pace again. She raises a hand to her lips, catching the white crescent of her index finger's nail between her front teeth. Then she releases. "W—"

"The sea is poisoned." Father pulls off one glove. Beneath it sits eaten flesh, bone on the verge of showing through exposed muscle. Chewed away are the hard-earned callouses he developed over the years. The wedding band is no longer settled on the half skeleton of his ring finger but loosely on his pinky, which is still mostly whole. 

Mother flees the room, but I remain stalled, staring, wondering if this might be revenge for the overfishing, the litter thrown into the sea by the passing travellers, our lacking display of gratitude for all that the waters provide.

•••

By the time Mother shepherds Father and I towards the sandy shores next to the docks with my baby brother bundled against her chest, most of the town has already collected steps away from the sea. Everything smells of rot—of corpses. Only yesterday it smelled like salt water taffy—a mix of the sea and sweets stand set up where the shore meets the flattened dirt paths. 

Uncle Shēn breaks apart from his family—we attended his daughter's wedding only last week—and approaches us. He grasps Father's extended hand, pulls him forth. They exchange pats on one another's backs while I stand near Mother, watching behind the small arm of my brother Xiān, who is grasping onto Mother’s shoulder, half awake. I'm surprised he isn’t crying, given how strong the breeze from the sea is today—both in weight and scent.

As soon as the men break apart, Mother asks in haste, "Is it a chemical leak from the city nearby?"

As the waves roll onto the sand, they both wash up and wash away fishbones and other shriveled sea life with colours unnatural to the species—blue rather than purple, purple rather than pink, pink rather than green. 

"No, I don't believe so," Uncle Shēn replies.

"Perhaps the factory—"

Father shakes his head, resting his unmaimed hand on Mother's shoulder.

"Perhaps they dumped the toxins, the possible contamination—"

"It isn't," Father says.

The town's people back away as the waters, edge closer, the waves crashing harder, leaving more carcasses than they take away.

In the distance, a large tail resembling a serpent's whips out of the water before disappearing. It was such a brief flash I wonder if it was only a trick of the eye. I look to see if anyone else noticed. If they did, there is no reaction or murmuring. There are myths of sea creatures, but I don’t recall this being one of them—at least not one that should be present here. 

A wail echoes from behind us, the ninth one in less than a few months. Not always, but it is often caused by a roaming traveler—an unknown individual passing through, a merchant or a guard—staying and receiving hospitality from one of the townspeople.

Uncle Shēn stiffens, and we understand why.

With eyes wide, we turn from the water and head towards the sound with urgent steps, following behind Uncle Shēn, who we haven't seen run in several years.

•••

This is how Grandfather lost Grandmother, too, and how he swore not to lose Mother. And for years, much to the dismay of others, he refused to offer any hospitality asked of him by strangers—even, at times, family and friends visiting from distant towns. Whenever he could, he’d whisper to Mother to say safe, remain out of sight when she could, especially when the travellers passed. Kindness, he said, is often more of a vice than a virtue. I never wanted to believe in his pessimistic views, but today, I find myself recalling his words. 

Uncle Shēn's eyes are rimmed red with unspilled tears when he walks with steady steps and tense shoulders towards the open front door of his home. I want to run in, but Mother clutches onto my arm while tears spill from us both. The image of Guān jiějiě in traditional red wedding wear comes to mind—her painted red lips that brightened her smile and snowy face that made her the fairest that day. Even on a normal day, I would say she is the town’s beauty. 

We remain outside out of respect, to offer our silent support. There is no sound, but we know Uncle Shēn is in pain. When an hour passes, Father walks forth and shuts the front door. We return home, but our minds linger at the Shēn house. I wonder if Father will begin refusing hospitality too. We've only had a guest once, a woman and her husband with a child my age from a neighbouring town. Father trusted them, thinking surely they would understand the pain of loss, having a child of their own; that surely they would not be so cruel to perform violent atrocities in front of innocent eyes. But if it had been anyone else, would Father have still said yes?

When the funeral takes place only days later, the entire town attends, the poisoned sea forgotten for the moment by everyone but me. The serpent tail's mocking wave curls like a finger in my memory, not as a beckoning, "Come here," but a questioning, "What will you do?"

I place one of the hair ribbons Guān jiějiě used to braid into my hair a few times a week—when Mother and Father were both running errands around town, and there was no one to walk me to school—next to the flowers by her gravestone, and keep the other clutched in my fist. 

•••

Three days after the funeral, Mother looks out the window, rocking baby Xiān back and forth, and says, "Everyone is leaving. And they're saying that the shoreline is rising. The water is getting too close, the waves might cause a flood—again."

But the last time it was fine. We were able to return to our homes when the waves receded. I have always believed that this is the water’s warning to us, a reminder, time, and time again, that we must treat Mother Nature with greater kindness, a gentler hand. But with the sea poisoned… Perhaps we have not done enough, or perhaps the water is angry with the travellers. It’s what I like to think, but this is only an idealized speculation. 

Father, quiet, sits at the dining table while Mother paces, thinking. But we can't leave, or rather, I won't. It is the only home I know. Father came from another town, but I know Mother must surely feel the same as I do.

"We can't leave!" I say.

"Yuèměi, your father has no work," Mother chides.

Father doesn't look at us when he says, "There is nothing left for us here."

I think of Grandfather's grave near the water. "But Grandfather—"

"—is gone." To my surprise, it’s Mother who responds.

Our eyes bore into one another’s—in hers is defeat; in mine is defiance. 

•••

I listen to Mother packing in her room, sharing hushed whispers incomprehensible through the walls, though at times the wood seems paper-thin.

When the house stills except for the low rumble of Father's snores, I pull on a heavy wool jacket and rubber boots. I unearth Grandfather's fishing pole from the basement, though it takes a few moments to untangle it. His old gloves are too big for my hands, but I put them on anyway. I think of all the fish Grandfather tricked me into thinking I caught with his fishing pole when we would cast it into the shallow waters while standing on the shore, the sea pushing gentle waves against our ankles. In my room, rather than jewelry, there is a collection of fishbones in the wooden box Mother gifted me when I turned thirteen. 

Down the shore from the fishing dock is the small rowboat that Father occasionally brings Mother and I on for an afternoon row, and sometimes it was Guān jiějiě who took me out to sea—never too far, for she often told me stories of those too daring, who challenge and fail when the sea mocks a daredevil's cowardice.

I untie the rope that secures the rowboat to the shore, the same way I have seen Father do it, the slightly different and unsmooth way Guān jiějiě used to, and before that, the way Grandfather's sure fingers worked the rope free. Pushing the boat to the edge of where the sea begins, I get in, careful not to splash the poisoned water, for fear it might eat me alive the same way it did Father's hand.

I paddle, slow, towards where I believe I saw the serpent's tail. The heavy, violent winds threaten to toss me overboard, and the water feels thick like honey against my oar. This endeavour might mean death, but out of sheer desperation, I still have to try. Our family is meant to live by the sea, and though there are other towns by safer waters—something many had caught word of—they will never be the same. Those towns will not hold the same memories.

As I continue paddling, I look back. The shadow of the town in the distance grows fainter by the second. At that moment, mortal life has never felt more miniscule. But I remind myself: this is the only home I know.

Yuèměi.

I turn, gaze leaving the town to meet nine pairs of angry eyes, sad eyes—eyes still longing for a life they no longer have and know that this is indeed a man-made disaster; though it is not one anyone would expect. Each set of eyes sits on a perfect porcelain face. In the middle is Guān jiějiě's.

Three vertically stacked heads look towards the right, three straight ahead, three to the left. The only weakness is where it cannot see, where wet hair plastered against the skull and nape of the beautiful yet frightening faces of young maidens who passed—not at their own hand or of natural causes. These are the faces of all the women who the passing travellers took advantage of—women with families, children, and siblings.

The heads sway. Greasy clumps of hair fall into the water and, before my eyes, become seaweed that the sea quickly swallows. The serpent regrows what hair is lost. Its perfect faces warp, become marred, and its endless, scaled body extends deep into the sea—though unmoving, the creature seems to grow taller by the second as the dark, buoyant waters push against its body. For a second, everything mutes, before a single, echoless voice appears. I search nine slanted and drooping mouths for the source, but all faces remain immobile.

Leave.

My lips refuse to part.

 No, I think.

You will only become one of us if you stay.

I won't.

And how do you know?

I don't.

The faces laugh, even Guān jiějiě’s. She had dreamed of growing old in this town.

Foolish child.

This is my home.

And the screams come from town.

The creature’s many eyes roll back, showing white as it tossed its head in the shore's direction. I turn to look—but somehow, we're already back to shore—or where the shore should be. Behind my boat, the sea threatens to submerge the town entirely.

Those who made it out of their houses sit on rooftops, watching the rising, poisoned sea swallow over half the height of the wooden structures. Some townspeople are swept away by the water, their skin changing colour waters consume them. When they rise again, they become unmoving bodies set in motion only by the churn of waves, looking barely human—without flesh, growing holes throughout the lengths of bones, hair clumped, much like the serpent’s, much like seaweed. The same mold I spotted on Father's hat now covers their limbs, making their once natural skin appear moss-like—death riding the flood.

"Yuèměi!" It is the combined voices of Mother and Father calling my name, struggling to reach me, fighting against the sound of crashing water.

I scramble for Grandfather's old fishing rod and cast it towards the creature, towards Guān jiějiě. And it hooks. My eyes lock with jiějiě's as she bellows a piercing screech. I pull, trying to bring her closer. Behind the pain in the creature's many eyes. Clutching onto the fishing line, I propel myself forth, leaping onto the creature's back when it is close enough, as it continues to wail. Though the scales are tinged with poison, burning the exposed flesh of my body as I climb up its nape, I do not add to the persisting cries that echo louder than the rage of the crashing salt water waves.

By the time I reach the top of the creature's head, my fingers are almost raw to the bone. Hints of white peek through like Father's damaged hand, but I refuse to stop, refuse the pain. I bow my head forth, looking at the creature upside down, meeting the eyes of each of the nine faces, each woman in pain, and offer my own sorrows—the loss of my home—before my eyes rest on Guān jiějiě. From my hair I tug free the single remaining white ribbon, and weave, with sure hands, into what remains of jiějiě’s hair: a replica of the braid I spent years trying to perfect when jiějiě’s time became dominated by others. Her hair is no longer at the magnificent length she had when she was living, human, and the rest of the ribbon hangs free in two long tails. 

The braid sways in the breeze. 

Then silence.

Each of the creature's mouths open, stretching into lipless, toothless caverns. Even as the heads loom closer, wanting to consume me, claim me as their own, add to their many heads, I remain still, biting back my quivering bravery. I hope to show her that I am not afraid, not of her, not of the sister I grew up with and admire; not of our home that is supposed to be safe, but at times isn’t; and not even of the travellers that have passed and taken many from us. I will not surrender, and they will not win. 

Jiějiě.

The mouths snap shut, and the creature’s eyes widen and blink—horizontally, like lizards—slow, deliberate, two at a time. Recognition is the best way to describe the expression on each inhuman yet beautifully marred face. I can’t help but wonder if our memories are running through jiějiě’s head. If my calling of her name has woken who she once was when she was still human. She must realize that our home is worth saving, that we are still worth saving. 

Jiějiě.

Our eyes remained locked in voiceless exchange And I continue to stare, to call her name in my mind as though that itself is enough, has to be enough. 

Don’t worry about me. About all of us. We will be okay. 

Silence drags on until finally she nods, swimming toward shore and lowering her head until I can slide off, feet meeting the sand. She recedes with the waves and the sea once again stills. In the distance, the white ribbon in her hair billows, like a flag of surrender, but I know it only means that there will be peace for now. It is a reminder of the innocence lost, the innocence still intact, a battle I will continue to fight in her stead. The bottoms of my robe are torn and eaten above my knees, but I don’t cower or hide. Guān jiějiě doesn't disappear until I am once again back in the arms of my parents, my unruly hair untamed and with my bare feet—unpoisoned.