A new arrival
Posted: Tue Sep 09, 2025 11:15 pm
Chapter 1: Seashells
“Mommy, mommy, look what I’ve found!” he would yell, breathless from his run.
The things he brought home were unremarkable, the humdrum detritus of the shoreline. Yet she would place them on the shelf to dry anyway. “Oh my, they are so pretty! Where did you find them?”
“To the beach, to the beach!” the boy would scream before breaking into a full, breakneck gallop towards the surf. Those were the days of no responsibilities, of constant smiles and unimpeded amazement, of pure, childish glee.
***
“I will watch you grow from the afterlife,” the woman whispered, her face slick with sweat. She touched the boy’s cheek, a smile on her lips despite the pain that wracked her body. “I know, I know,” the boy sobbed. For years after, every time he looked at the dried seashells she had kept, the tears would return.
***
“You smell nicer than Bran,” she smiled. “You kissed Bran?!” he gasped. They kissed. The memory, like so many others, would fade with time. It was not a particularly good kiss, but it lingered, a singular point of light in a time when little else mattered.
***
His father came home with an arrow shaft protruding from his leg; his older brother did not come home at all. “A cyst has formed, but you will live,” the village healer assured the old man. The boy was crying. “Don’t cry, boy,” his father comforted him, his voice raspy. “Just remember that war is the most foolish thing a man can do. But sometimes, it cannot be avoided.”
***
“If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the sea,” he grinned, handing the dried seashell to his sister. She smirked and pushed it away playfully. “We can hear the sea right now because we are at the sea, you idiot!” The waves crashed against the shore in perfect punctuation. “Oh, right,” the boy chuckled. “When are you going to marry?” his sister asked, a new seriousness in her tone. “I don’t know. Someday.” He paused. “Or maybe never.” His sister rubbed her belly, a nascent swell beneath her palm. She was pregnant by a boy from the next village, the one across the forest.
***
“Merchant fleet,” an older man announced, spitting onto the sand. “Oh?” the boy raised an eyebrow. “The merchant fleet,” the man explained, “is what keeps you from military service on land and puts you into military service on the seas.” “I don’t know,” the boy said, weighing the options that had never before seemed like options. “You can always die a toothless peasant in your own fishing village, I suppose,” the old man grinned, showing a distinct lack of his own.
***
His sister sighed, the sound nearly lost in the sea breeze. “I think my husband is visiting some woman from beyond the marsh…” she began. The young man wasn't listening. He was handling a dried seashell, examining its perfect, spiraling form. “Does he still have all his teeth?” he asked absently. “What? What does that matter?” she scoffed. “It doesn’t, I guess.” He held the seashell to his ear. He looked out at a ship on the horizon, so distant that only its masts were visible, the great curve of the world hiding its hull. He did not know this, of course. To him, the ship’s slow appearance from nowhere was a form of magic. And the life at sea, set against the quiet desperation of his village, seemed the most enticing magic of all.
“Mommy, mommy, look what I’ve found!” he would yell, breathless from his run.
The things he brought home were unremarkable, the humdrum detritus of the shoreline. Yet she would place them on the shelf to dry anyway. “Oh my, they are so pretty! Where did you find them?”
“To the beach, to the beach!” the boy would scream before breaking into a full, breakneck gallop towards the surf. Those were the days of no responsibilities, of constant smiles and unimpeded amazement, of pure, childish glee.
***
“I will watch you grow from the afterlife,” the woman whispered, her face slick with sweat. She touched the boy’s cheek, a smile on her lips despite the pain that wracked her body. “I know, I know,” the boy sobbed. For years after, every time he looked at the dried seashells she had kept, the tears would return.
***
“You smell nicer than Bran,” she smiled. “You kissed Bran?!” he gasped. They kissed. The memory, like so many others, would fade with time. It was not a particularly good kiss, but it lingered, a singular point of light in a time when little else mattered.
***
His father came home with an arrow shaft protruding from his leg; his older brother did not come home at all. “A cyst has formed, but you will live,” the village healer assured the old man. The boy was crying. “Don’t cry, boy,” his father comforted him, his voice raspy. “Just remember that war is the most foolish thing a man can do. But sometimes, it cannot be avoided.”
***
“If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the sea,” he grinned, handing the dried seashell to his sister. She smirked and pushed it away playfully. “We can hear the sea right now because we are at the sea, you idiot!” The waves crashed against the shore in perfect punctuation. “Oh, right,” the boy chuckled. “When are you going to marry?” his sister asked, a new seriousness in her tone. “I don’t know. Someday.” He paused. “Or maybe never.” His sister rubbed her belly, a nascent swell beneath her palm. She was pregnant by a boy from the next village, the one across the forest.
***
“Merchant fleet,” an older man announced, spitting onto the sand. “Oh?” the boy raised an eyebrow. “The merchant fleet,” the man explained, “is what keeps you from military service on land and puts you into military service on the seas.” “I don’t know,” the boy said, weighing the options that had never before seemed like options. “You can always die a toothless peasant in your own fishing village, I suppose,” the old man grinned, showing a distinct lack of his own.
***
His sister sighed, the sound nearly lost in the sea breeze. “I think my husband is visiting some woman from beyond the marsh…” she began. The young man wasn't listening. He was handling a dried seashell, examining its perfect, spiraling form. “Does he still have all his teeth?” he asked absently. “What? What does that matter?” she scoffed. “It doesn’t, I guess.” He held the seashell to his ear. He looked out at a ship on the horizon, so distant that only its masts were visible, the great curve of the world hiding its hull. He did not know this, of course. To him, the ship’s slow appearance from nowhere was a form of magic. And the life at sea, set against the quiet desperation of his village, seemed the most enticing magic of all.