by Larry Niven
The stone that is my grandmother leans toward the honeyed bun. The tar cracks and a bit of the sea spills onto the ground. She snaps back into place. Once, the sea lived where my village now stands, but the sea fell in love with an island and drifted away. Some say the island spurned the sea’s advances; others say the sea was so amorous that he swallowed her. Either way, when he tried to return home, the stones stymied him.
“Please. Tell me about the things you’ve brought.”
Grandmother can’t smell the honey, or the warm bread, or the savory scent of the meat within. So I tell her about the bun as I pull forth ribbons and a scrub brush and a waterskin. The fissure that is her mouth smiles as I speak, as I wash her face, as I lay the ribbons across what once was her head.
“Thank you, little one. It makes me remember before …” her voice trails off.
Before she fell in love with a stone. Yes, I know. “I’m nineteen, Grandmother. Not so little.”
“And you haven’t fallen in love?”
“No.”
“It’s a wonderful thing, Tahrie,” she says. “Without love, I wouldn’t have given birth to your aunts and uncles.” Her eyes shift to the right side of her face—toward all the stones standing in a row. “I wouldn’t have had your father.” She looks to me. “And I wouldn’t have been able to protect our village.”
My father speaks differently. To me, she has changed; to him, she has died.
“This,” she says, and she doesn’t need to gesture for me to know what she means, “it’s in our blood.”
“And grandfather?” I lay my hand on the stone next to her. His surface is warm and weathered, crisscrossed by so many cracks, like the wrinkles on an old man’s face. “Was it in his blood?” It’s a silly question. He has no blood.
Grandmother’s eyes grow wide and deep. “I don’t know. But I suppose even stones become lonely.”
A wave buffets the back of Grandmother’s head, and another trickle of water wets the sand. I look to the sky as mist settles on my cheeks. When I open my mouth to speak, I taste salt. “And the sea grows restless.”
“Don’t be afraid to fall in love,” she says. “The stones won’t hold much longer.”
I nod, biting back the words on my tongue. I’m not a fool. I will never fall in love.
* * *
As I return to the thatched huts, I feel the villagers watching me, their gazes like unwelcome fingers on the back of my neck. They watch my brother the same way. They used to watch my sister, before she married a man.
If I turn quickly, I catch them—like puppies sitting beneath a table, wondering if the master will drop a bone. I quash the thought; it’s unkind. I’m no one’s master, just a woman with the potential to attract a stone or a tree or something stronger than a man. Something that can hold back the sea.
When I open the door to my family’s home, I find my father chopping scallops and my mother weaving another basket. My brother guts fish in the corner.
“You should leave your grandmother alone. Don’t taunt her with what she can’t have or remember,” my mother says without looking up from her work. Her black hair is pulled back, her eyes narrowed. My father says nothing. Shuramin, my brother, gives me a sympathetic look and shrugs. He’s put up with my mother for nearly as long as I have.
I set the basket by the door.
Father’s hands move in a blur. He never worries about cutting himself. No blade can bite his fingers. His skin feels soft to me, but there’s a gray tint beneath the brown.
“I’ll tend to her if I like,” I say.
“Watch the sharpness of your tongue, Tahrie,” my father says. His voice rumbles and rattles, like rocks in a jar. “Or you’ll fall in love with sawgrass.”
I lift my chin. “Grandmother still remembers what it’s like to be a woman.”
The steady chopping punctuates father’s words. “You don’t know what she was like as a woman.”
Grandmother’s parting words still prickle in my mind. “If her love can turn her into a stone, why can’t grandfather’s turn him into a man?”
This time, my mother answers. “Because stones can’t change, fool girl. Now be of some use and fetch the water.”
I stalk from the house and into the watching eyes.
* * *
It happens for Shuramin several days later, with the first rains of the wet season. I wake in the middle of the night with the crack of thunder loud in my ears. When I turn over in bed, I see that Shuramin’s is empty.
I throw a cape on before searching for him.
Outside, the wind whips through the tree branches, and rain stings my cheeks. I find my brother at the edge of the village, near the trees. He kneels in the mud, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Rainwater runs into his hair.
There’s something intimate in his expression, so I don’t touch his shoulder. “Shuramin,” I say.
He opens his eyes. “I heard her whispering my name,” he says. “The storm. I had to come outside, to be closer.”
I breathe in sharply, and feel as if I will never again breathe out. I know his next words before he speaks them.
“I think I’m falling in love.”
* * *
It rains for ten straight days as Shuramin grows acquainted with the storm. He spends his nights outside. Nothing I say can engage him; nothing I do catches his attention more than the lightning and the burgeoning clouds.
By the tenth day, his skin begins to grow pale, his lips blue. It’s subtle. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t grown up with him, broken bread with him, shared good times and bad.
He returns home infrequently for meals.
“Perhaps the village will be saved,” my mother says after he leaves for the night. “His storm can use the seawater for her rain—drain the sea away a little and drop the water far from shore.”
Father sits on the floor, repairing a net. His lips tighten as Mother speaks, but he keeps his silence.
“And what of your son?” I say. “You’re fine with him becoming clouds and rain and lightning?”
“If it makes him happy,” Mother says. She eases into the wicker chair by the fire pit, and folds her hands in her lap.
“Happy? Does a storm know happiness?” No one is listening to me. No one cares.
“It knows love,” she says. Her gaze lowers to her hands, her forehead furrowing.
I stride over to her. “A storm won’t be enough. We should move the village away from the shore. Let the sea come home.”
Mother’s head jerks up. “Move the entire village? Leave our houses? Our land?”
“Yes.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Go. Tell your brother to fall out of love with the storm. Tell the villagers that they must lose their houses, their homes, and move from the shore.”
I clench and unclench my fists, my knuckles aching. She’s right. I cannot change this.
* * *
I go to see Grandmother in the rain. Shuramin rarely comes home anymore. When Mother says something that upsets him, he goes fuzzy around the edges—like a cloud.
Grandmother smiles when she sees me. “Tahrie. You’ve come again.”
I lay a steaming, herbed fish at her base. “I will keep coming, until you won’t answer me anymore. I’ve brought you freshly-cooked fish.”
I describe it in great detail, and Grandmother closes her eyes. As I speak, I hear the waves lapping against the stones. They form a rhythm, and without realizing what I’m doing, I emphasize the words that occur at the same time as the waves.
It isn’t until I stop speaking that I hear it.
Tahrie, the waves say. Tahrie, Tahrie, Tahrie …
I drop the ribbons and the brush and run.
* * *
I do my best to stay indoors, despite the way Mother’s comments grate my nerves. She means well, I know. Even so, late at night, when all the village is quiet, the sea whispers my name. Tahrie, he says. Tahrie, come to the shore. Speak with me.
; With my pillow and blankets, I form a cave for my head. I press my forehead to the cool wooden slats at the top of my bed, the sounds of my heartbeat and my breath the only things in the world.
* * *
Five nights after the sea first speaks to me, Father convinces Shuramin to have dinner with our family by the fire pit, as we used to, even though he doesn’t need to eat much anymore. It’s no longer raining, but when my brother reaches for a mango, his fingers drip.
“She’s wonderful,” he says. “There is so much about clouds and lightning I didn’t know. We wish to be married. Soon.”
Father pats his shoulder, his hand lingering, as if he doesn’t wish to let go. When he does, his palm is wet.
Mother leans forward. “What about the sea? Can the storm do something to keep him at bay?”
Shuramin glances between us. “But there’s no need. Hasn’t Tahrie told you? The storm told me everything. The sea has seen Tahrie, heard her. He wants her for his bride.”
They stare, and it’s worse than the way the villagers watch me.
I do not want to be the island.
“Tahrie,” my mother breathes, “you can save the village.”
It’s too much. I shoot up from my place by the fire and my bowl spills onto the ground; clumps of rice, plantain, and fish scatter. “And then what? Will you lay flowers by the shore, will you light a candle for me on Vashmihan—the way you do for Grandmother? The way you will do for him?” I don’t point at my brother, but they know. “Will I have children who can no longer bear to look at me, as I melt into the sea?”
My body can’t contain the press of my emotions, nor can the house. I shove the door open and flee into the night.
Tahrie, speak with me, the sea says as I make for the trees. Please. His voice dogs my step. At the edge of the forest, I turn.
“No!” My shout echoes through the village, and the sea falls silent. I am Tahrie, and I wish to remain as I am.
* * *
I dream of the stones crumbling. The sea rushes in, and he crushes the houses until they are splinters.
No one sees the wave coming.
* * *
My brother finds me curled in the roots of a tree, my head resting upon its trunk. The rising sun sends gold streaking through the leaves. He sits next to me, and for a while we just watch the horizon.
“The storm would change for me if she could,” Shuramin finally says.
I squint into the light. “Are you sure?”
He lets out a sigh, and there’s a rumble at the end of it, like distant thunder. “Every night, I ask her to move the sea. She can’t. There’s too much of him. The water she takes drains him so very little.”
He sounds like Mother—such finality, as if there is no other choice. I grit my teeth. “Then I must move the village.”
“Tahrie.” He tries to grab my arm as I push myself to my feet, but misses.
When I clear the last of the trees, the village has already awakened. People carry water, whittle spears, and line up at the oven. This time, when I feel their eyes upon me, I welcome it.
“The stones won’t hold much longer,” I call out. “The sea is coming. He will smash our houses and carry our people away from shore. We need to move. Build our village anew.”
Everyone stops what they’re doing. “But this is our home,” someone replies.
“The sea hasn’t breached the stones yet,” another says.
How can I make them see? I can’t show them my dreams, can’t tell them that I am the only child left in my family who hasn’t fallen in love, and I have no intention of falling for the sea.
And then Mother pushes her way through the villagers. She seizes me by the shoulder and hisses into my ear. “Don’t be foolish, girl. Are you so selfish? You haven’t even spoken to the sea. You’ve made no effort.”
Tahrie, the sea says, speak with me.
I close my eyes and taste bitterness on my tongue. “Do you think that love will solve your problems? Tell that to Father.”
I whirl out of her grip and find the path to the shore, because much as I hate to admit it, she is right.
* * *
My grandmother wakes as soon as I set foot on the sand. “Granddaughter,” she says with a smile, “what have you brought me today?”
I spread my hands wide, and wonder if she can see me. “Nothing, I’m sorry. Only my company.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
I sit in the warm sand at her base. Some of the surrounding ground is damp. I’m not sure where to begin, or how much I should tell her. “The sea …” I trail off.
“The sea is fickle, but determined,” Grandmother says. “Remember this.”
I gape.
“You are here to speak with him, are you not?”
“I am, but—”
“Then I will leave you two alone.” Her mouth becomes a fissure, her eyes become merely hollows.
I have waited for you, the sea says. Why are you afraid of me?
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, and find that it’s true. “I want you to go away, to leave my village in peace.”
I won’t leave this place without you. I’ve watched you—the way the sun kisses your hair, the footprints you leave upon the sand. I love you, Tahrie.
I want to claw his words from my mind. “And what of the island?”
The waves slap harder. A mistake.
“Did she turn you aside, or did you swallow her?”
A wave crashes into the stones, sending spray into the air. Both.
Sweat gathers in the small of my back. Now I am afraid, and wish I’d listened to Father about my sharp tongue. Water trickles in between my grandmother and grandfather, running in rivulets down the cracks in my grandfather’s face. It drips onto the already-damp spot on the sand.
The cracks—they weren’t there when I was younger, nor was the sea so high. The beginnings of a plan leak into my mind. Stones can change.
“I want to love you,” I tell the sea, “but you are so vast. I’m afraid I can only comprehend you in pieces. If I ask my grandmother to move aside, will you only let a little of yourself past the stones?”
For you, Tahrie, I will.
“Grandmother.” She wakes slowly. “Let the sea past. Please.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but she leans forward.
The sea spills over the top of her in a waterfall. He crashes to the sand, swirling around my ankles, tickling the hairs on my legs.
Like this?
“More.”
He fills the area behind the stones, until his surface brushes my knees.
“That’s far enough.” I lean over and trail my fingers over the sea foam. Ripples spread, and a small school of fish darts away. The sand between my toes stirs with the gentle rocking of the water. There is something seductive in the motion—if I close my eyes and let the sun caress my face, I can pretend there is nothing wrong.
You belong here, the sea says. It’s in your blood.
Grandmother is halfway submerged. Her flowers float in front of me and begin to drift down the line of stones. I turn away, and lift my skirt as I make my way back to dry land. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell the sea.
Do not make me wait too long, he says.
I swallow, and it feels as though something has lodged in my throat. Before I can stop myself, I’ve pivoted. “Are you lonely?” I’m not sure why I’m asking, or if I even care.
Always.
I have no answer for that, so I find the path and leave the shore.
* * *
“The sea is coming,” I tell the village. My skirt is still heavy and dripping, and I shiver each time a breeze stirs. “He has breached the stones. Look for yourselves if you don’t believe me.”
A few people stop their work and head to the shore.
They return somber-faced, but no one speaks of leaving.
* * *
I return to the sea, day after day, and each time I do, he edges a little clos
er to the village. He does as I ask, but there is something seething beneath his surface, an invisible riptide. On the third day, the villagers begin to speak of leaving. Mother doesn’t add to these discussions, even when prompted. She merely scowls and picks at the fibers in her skirt.
On the fifth day, she catches me on my way out of the house. Her fingers dig into my arm at the threshold. “Tahrie, what are you doing?”
“Going to see Grandmother.” She’s almost completely submerged now. The rest of my family said their goodbyes to her a long time ago; I have not.
Mother’s eyes narrow. “And what else?”
“What I have to.”
She releases me, so quickly that I stumble. “I knew it. This is our home, and you’re destroying it.”
“We can pick up and move,” I say. “We aren’t stones.”
“Tahrie—”
“I don’t love him,” I say.
Mother’s face goes still. It is only now that I realize how cracked and weathered it is, the line between her brows like a crevice. She reaches out and gently takes a section of my hair. And then, wordlessly, she lifts it in front of my eyes.
It’s white and curly, light as the foam upon the waves.
I back away, my throat dry, and I can’t feel the ground beneath my feet. I run down the path in a haze. When I get to the shore, the sea has surged higher, without my permission.
Grandmother is gone.
* * *
This shouldn’t be happening. I cup my hair with my hands. Half of it is white now, and it lifts into the air with the slightest wind. If I lick the back of my hand, it tastes like salt and seaweed.
I do not love the sea.
I tie a scarf around my head and go outside. The villagers have begun to move inland. They pass me by, sacks slung over their shoulders, bundles in their arms. The water laps at the houses closest to shore. With each wave, the sea invades the village and carries away the silt and the sand.
No one stares at me anymore. It is as if I am not here.
Mother and Father are the only ones who haven’t staked out a spot in the new village, who haven’t begun to move their belongings.
Can you comprehend me yet, Tahrie? the sea says. I have been patient.
He has been, I cannot deny it. He hasn’t obeyed my every command, but he is the sea, and I am just a woman. “Wait,” I tell him. “Just a little longer.”
