A Sea Of Waves

PrologueWave One: The CityWave Two: The School Wave Three: Mirra’s Mirror Wave Four: NacreWave Five: CirclesWave Six: Light (Interlude)Wave Seven: HomesicknessWave Eight: Broken ShellsWave Nine: ScarsWave Ten: Whole (Interlude)Wave Eleven: Daughters of DiversWave Twelve: DanceWave Thirteen: Finally Found You (A Short Letter)Wave Fourteen: Sea Epilogue Appendix & CommentarySea TalesShips’ Tales

Prologue

Daughter Of The Sea

I am the daughter of oyster-divers and pearl-gatherers. I am the descendant of the first-wave immigrants from old Terra Firma, the ancient Earth planet the grandmothers of thevillage speak so kindly of. I am the daughter of a line of women who risk their lives todive for the treasures of the sea, the rough-shelled bivalves that give us food and beautifulorbs of beauty.I have my hands cut and sliced by the sharp shards covering the shells; my skin has bledand merged with the fresh salty juices while I learn the craft of opening the oysters. Mygrandmother says that once the oyster has blooded me, the sea has claimed me as Her own. She then holds her hand and shows me her scars – she too is a daughter of the sea. Ilaugh and swallow the sweet briny oyster flesh whole, letting it slide down my throat, adelicious flood of

salt-copper-water

.The women dive every early morning when the sea is calmer and when the tides are lesstorn and conflicted than a woman in childbirth. They slip on the black skins, snug close totheir bodies, and adjust their breathing apparatus while they gossip about their husbands,children and household chores. This ritual has not changed for generations. And whenthey are done with the preparations, they slip into the clear-green water and swim into thedepths while the oysters lie, baskets in toll. A good harvest would yield basketfuls and weknow that they would fetch a good price at the fish markets near the City. A poor harvestwould feed our households and nothing else.In the afternoons, the women wade waist-deep in the pearl-oyster pools and gather themature pearl oysters. This time, they wear thick gloves and pry the tight shells open toremove the pearls, glistening in the sun like tiny rainbow-tinged moons. I sit often withthem – my grandmother, my mother and my aunts – as they shell the oysters, feel for thattale-tell bulge and fish out the perfect spheres out of the tender slippery folds. The pearloysters can be as hard-hearted as their ocean cousins; our hands have been lacerated bythe jagged edges of the palm-sized shells.I am the daughter of such diligent women. They dive in the morning and swim in theafternoon, all because oyster-diving and pearl-gathering are already in their blood, in our lineage. I am proud to be one of them and I often wish that I could be as good as mygrandmother or my mother. Yet I know I am a bit different from the rest of the women:my hands curl light and this is forbidden, as it is men’s magic.~*~3