One

Chapter One: Slack Tide

The fog is not a wall, it’s a breathing thing. It lifts, thins, kneads itself across the tidal flats until the moon,faint as a bruise,shows through. Barnacles rasp under my boots. The mud remembers my weight and lets me go slow, one patient step at a time.

A gull calls and the sound lands in my throat before it reaches my ears.

Sel: Feel how the air moves. Don’t name it yet.

I taste iron. Salt. A green bitterness like crushed kelp. The tide has paused in its argument with the shore, a long held breath between pull and push. All along the wrinkled flats, tiny geysers tick and spit,clam necks withdrawing, water resettling. The whole place is a listening body.

Vael: You always pick these hours.

Sel: You only hear me in the seam hours. Blame your daylight if you like.

A bubble pops. My boot sinks an inch deeper and the ooze rises cold against my ankle. In that cold I find a steady beat,my pulse, stubborn, counting. It feels like a stake through fog: proof that something stays while everything else wavers.

Sel: Proof?

Vael: A kind of it.

Sel: You’d build a temple on a pulse?

Vael: I’d pitch a tent, at least.

Wind drags its sleeve across the reeds. The marsh grass tilts and returns, tilts and returns, the way old men nod when they don’t agree. The flats are scored with lines,the old reach of tides, the record of last night’s moon. You can walk them like a map until they intersect and the ground tells you to stop.

I don’t stop. I step harder, heel first, as if pressing meaning into mud.

Sel: You’re not pressing anything in. You’re leaving.

Vael: Marks count.

Sel: Marks fade.

Vael: Not all.

Sel: Name one that kept its shape.

I think of a hillside near home where a fire ran two summers ago. Charred scabs on granite, new ferns bristling through the ash. I remember the heat on my shins. I remember how, later, the rain came soft as breath through gauze. The black gave way to small green tongues. The hillside wore its burn like a rune, then forgot it, then remembered it differently.

Vael: The burn still reads.

Sel: And the hillside is not reading you.

The fog thickens again and the moon goes away. Sound stays. The far moan of a buoy, loose chain tapping metal. The faint shiver of eelgrass when a fish turns. One drop, another, dripping from my coat hem. My fingers are numb and slick; I rub thumb and forefinger until friction returns, until I can feel the ridges of skin catch.

Sel: You trust tactility like scripture.

Vael: It hasn’t failed me yet.

Sel: It has, many times. You just called it mystery when it slipped.

I crouch. The mud yields in a neat oval and the saltwater seeps in slow. A strand of kelp lies there, half-buried, slick like a living rope. I smooth it against my knee. Its surface is studded with small clear bladders. Each one mirrors a tiny, distorted moon. The thing feels cool, exact. I press my thumb into one bladder and it collapses, sighing air as old as the tide that made it.

Vael: This,this I understand. Pressure, release.

Sel: And the air inside?

Vael: Trapped light. Old breath from a storm week, maybe.

Sel: Maybe. You’re building a story to rest in.

Vael: Everyone needs shelter.

Sel: Call it shelter; don’t call it truth.

A heron lifts from the dark water with the sound of wet silk. Its legs pull free with a small pop, like cork exiting bottle, and it slides away without a wingbeat. It leaves a clean hole in the fog that closes, stitch by stitch.

Sel: Listen.

I listen. The flats hum, a throat cleared but not yet speaking. I think of the talk in rooms with bright bulbs: diagrams, definitions, careful ladders of thought reaching for a ceiling that shifts. I can smell those rooms here somehow,hot dust on wiring, dry paper, the startled citrus of peeled skin. I can’t hear the sentences, but I can hear their bones: if,then, because,therefore, as though.

Vael: You think the mind is a net. I think it’s this,tide lines, marks that guide until they don’t.

Sel: We both like edges.

Vael: You haunt them. I,I live here when I can.

Sel: “When you can.” There it is.

I stand and the mud resists release, suction licking at my heel. When it does let go it does so with a small laugh, and I nearly laugh back. The fog threads itself through my hair. Each strand holds a bead of water that slides and catches at the scalp. My skull feels like a shell for a moment, thin, resonant. If I placed my ear to it I’d hear the sea that isn’t there.

Sel: Don’t get clever.

Vael: I’m cold.

Sel: So you are.

I walk toward the darker dark where the channel starts. The deeper water is a band of ink under the fog. Mid-steps, I pause. The old whale bone lies half-buried where the silt gathers. I’ve come to it before. It’s the length of my arm and smooth as driftwood, but heavier, ancient milk in its color. I lay my palm against it. The cold climbs. The bone keeps its own time.

Sel: Touching a ruin won’t make it speak.

Vael: It’s a way to be quiet.

Sel: You are never quiet. You are only quieter.

I want to tell you about the first time I came to a place like this,how I had run until my lungs burned and my ribs felt like a cage someone was trying to open from the inside; how the water had bent toward me, not away; how I had learned then that breathing is both theft and gift. But the flats are here, and they disallow tidy beginnings. The world leans in with a wet hand over my mouth. It wants me to listen, not confess.

Sel: Good. Stay with the air that exists.

Vael: It still doesn’t explain itself.

Sel: Why do you need air to explain itself? You don’t demand that of hunger.

Vael: Hunger warns. Air hides.

Sel: Or you ignore it until it withholds itself.

A little panic rolls through me like a flock of small birds, quick and directionless. I inhale. The inhale catches at the back of my throat,the place where breath becomes mine,and for a blink it fails. The body riots. Then the gate opens and the clean cold pours in and my chest spreads like a net on water.

Sel: See how fast the temple shakes.

Vael: I’m still standing.

Sel: For now.

I hate your precision when it’s right. I love your precision when it’s right. My jaw tightens and then I let it soften. I rub my palms again and press them to my forearms, counting the hairs under my touch. Each small prick proves the boundary of me. Each proves nothing I can use beyond this weather.

The buoy moans again. The sound drags a thread from my chest out to the mouth of the channel. The thread holds. On it, questions bead and slide: What is consciousness but a reef we keep building from what breaks? What is knowing but a pattern of breath laid over water? What is this,the cold that won’t explain, the fog that erases its own edges as it draws them?

Sel: Speak to me, not the fog.

Vael: I’m trying.

Sel: No, you’re performing a hymn for yourself.

Vael: Maybe the hymn keeps me here.

Sel: Or it keeps you from here.

I squat again, lower this time, until my coat’s hem drinks from the mud. I dig my fingers in. I want the grit under my nails. I want the black crescents to prove I was inside the seam, not watching from the safe dry bank. My knuckles ache. Something hard gives,a shell fragment, pale and clean as a tooth. I hold it to my tongue. It tastes like brine and time, like a word I knew as a child and outgrew.

Sel: Do you ever tire of the reliquary?

Vael: I tire of the blank.

Sel: Then stop naming the blank.

Vael: If I stop, what’s left?

Sel: The feel of breath taking you. The way your ribs open. The way they close.

I exhale and count to seven. The count isn’t sacred. It steadies the animals in me. In the pause after, I hear something I hadn’t: the pulse in the ear, a small drum under the larger tide. The body keeps its own miles. The fog thins enough to show the line where marsh turns to open water. The moon returns, bruised again, less shy.

Sel: You wanted a perfect schema once.

Vael: I wanted to stop making and remaking.

Sel: But you’re here, at slack tide.

Vael: Yes.

Sel: This is the doctrine: not arrival. Interval.

I don’t like doctrines. But the word sits in the mud and doesn’t sink. The flats stretch out, scored with truths that lasted a night. Even the firmest line is a suggestion. Even the buoy’s moan is a weathered promise. The marsh root laces the waterlogged ground in a net that gives, then holds, then gives again.

Vael: And what am I to do with that?

Sel: Walk it. Leave and return. Learn the taste of “almost.”

Vael: That’s your comfort?

Sel: No. It’s your work.

I stand. My knees pop. The heron is gone; the hole it left in the fog has learned to be whole again. A wind arrives from nowhere and everywhere, slipping under my coat, pressing through to skin, then bone. I draw in that wind and it does not ask for permission. It wants what all wind wants: to move through.

Sel: Not your wind. Not your air. Borrowed.

Vael: Borrowed is enough to live on.

Sel: Until it isn’t.

Vael: You love the cliff.

Sel: I love the edge because you pretend it isn’t there.

I take three steps toward the channel. The ground goes from sponge to stone. The sound changes with the ground: squelch to scrape. I stop at the lip and look down; the water is flat as a blank page and dark as a closed eye. I don’t see my face. Good. I am tired of my face. I’m more interested in the way the water refuses me while making room for everything that can float.

Sel: Ask your question.

Vael: You ask it.

Sel: Do you know what you are inhaling?

Vael: Cold. Salt. Rot. Bloom. Whatever crossed the marsh before me. Whatever left the marsh hours ago. Whatever,whoever,breathed out and did not think to own it.

Sel: Not an essence then. A mingling.

Vael: A mingling that keeps me upright.

Sel: For now.

Vael: You always end there.

Sel: Endings are transitions said with less patience.

The first ripple breaks the page,no wind, just some unseen muscle turning below. Circles swell, reach my boot tip, tug at the mud print I left, and blur it. The print survives, barely. I blink; it becomes no more than a dim oval. With the next pull it will go.

I don’t step back. I don’t step in. I stand in the seam air, listening to the flats breathe. My chest follows their measure without instruction. The breath tastes less like salt now and more like metal warmed by touch. My tongue finds the crack in a tooth; the crack is a line through enamel, a seam inside a seam.

Sel: You want absolutes because you fear the living ground.

Vael: I want to stop pretending that names will save me.

Sel: Good.

Vael: But I won’t stop naming.

Sel: I know. We keep speaking so the silence can say what we missed.

Across the channel a bell rings,a real bell, not the buoy. Maybe a skiff in the fog, someone feeling their way by sound, knuckles on metal. It rings once, then again, and the space answers with a soft, almost human echo that might be reed or stone. I answer without meaning to. Not with a word. With a breath I didn’t plan, and the way it exits my body,warm now,into a cold that receives it without comment.

The flats take the exhale and make nothing of it that I can see. The fog lifts a little. The moon comes clean. The line between water and mud sharpens, holds, then lets go. I stand in that reprieve, a brief accuracy. I stand and do not resolve.

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