The wind is good today.

                It curls around my fingers, fluttering in the careful folds of my dark cloak. It teases the hood from my head, sending it trailing out behind me. Circling down my arms, it pools in my open palms, coiling like a snake preparing to spring.

                It is restless, like me. But it will not be waiting much longer.

                The dark ocean is churning, deep and dark and unforgiving. This part of the sea has no life, no light, and no love. It is unforgiving, it does not care who you are. It will destroy you.

                The clouds roll together like a curtain, hiding the actors as they prepare for their final act. They are setting the stage for the dramatic end, the scene of all scenes. The whistling wind creates a score, thunder and lightning crashing together in a beautiful cacophony of sound and chaos and orchestra. The creaking of the ship shudders around me, outlines of its twin a smudge through the fog.

                The boards toss through the water messily, crews racing on the slick deck to tie sails and secure cargo. Bewilderment is clear on their faces, moments before they were sailing on clear skies and looking at crystal waters and now this fierce tempest tosses around them.

                I watch as a father tries to shelter his wife from the flying ropes, a young boy cries. A woman keeps her hair tied back as she climbs the whipping ladder to the crow’s nest. A young lady shudders in the cabin, crossing herself. A man desperately pulls at the leads for the sails.

                They sink, all of them. The wood splinters like a sound of shattering diamonds and the mast breaks into a million small pieces, a swarm of bees, a clump of dust, the reflections in someone’s hazel eyes, and the sparkling on the calm waters. My ship cuts through the water once again, calm breezes catching my sails.

                The sound of wood against stone catches my attention as the shore comes upon me, straggling ivy crumbling down an expanse of cut rock, cliffs and stone jagged and sharp. Skeletons of those who fail to reach a proper tomb lay around me, lying peacefully, and restless.

                It is as every time I reach this shore, I cannot help but stop to admire the gleaming bone. Whispers of their lives tend to float towards me like memory, an imaginary life of a small family escaping certain death, a girl much too young accused of being a witch.

                Breath fills my lungs, deeply, before gravel crunches and they are no longer in sight.

“M’Lady!”

My head whips back, startled, red blurring with blue, a uniform of importance. Words stick to my tongue like sap from yew, lips squeezed shut as if I were savouring the finest mouth of honey.

“You’re back! We are greatly pleased at your presence!”

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I seem to be able to swallow my meal, smiles teasing my lips like feathers. Knees return from gravel, arms enclose arms, we walk hand in hand back to the city.

Bustling crowds on softened grass wander through stalls with shining stones on rope, wool and fur woven into the softest fabrics. People in warm clothing bustle about with silk-smooth smiles, cool skin bumping gently against each other.

The cloak slides off of my shoulders, I am led to a small tent with cool water and clean clothes. Flowing folds of bright fabric hug and twirl from my body, leaving me feeling almost giddy.

The sun is dipping down the horizon as I emerge, festival picking up in full swing. People dance and sing with the festivities, lovers spinning in each other’s arms and friends joyfully placing flowers in each other’s hair.

“Nadja!”

Sleeves the colour of storming eyes envelop me, and, grinning, a friend looks down to me.

“Alana! You’ve grown,” I exclaim, jealous. My height refuses to change, despite my fierce will. She merely laughs, taking her cool hand in my warm one, leading me excitedly to the wild party below us. Drinks spill loosely with food following behind, stomachs pleased and a smile coming smoothly from deep within souls.

Shadows darken the fairy lights illuminating us, towers of glass and crystal looming above. But somehow it brings no fear, only peace. I am where I should be.

Home.

The word is unexpected, and legs stumble over a stone on the ground, knees dampening on wet soil. Muscles fix themselves back to standing as I continue reveling in the festivities.

The night begins to draw to a close, people drift away in pairs to fires in warm hearths. I find my feet leading me to the towering castle above us, the looming mouth beasting and intimidating.

Winding and winding lead to steeple of transparency, soft cushions over hard stone. Sore bones settle over feather and fabric, gazing at the tomb-shaped houses in front of me, all in rows. I gaze down upon the only place I’ve ever found love, acceptance.

Then horns.

Sharp, trilling noises, piercing the evening air.

Men run with sturdy legs to the villages, and I am suddenly near them, running to stop them, voice crackling like dry wheat.

“Stop!”

They shudder, stop, turn, gaze in horror and shock and fear and without stopping they turn and change to me.

“It’s her! The one that’s been drowning all our ships!”

“You took my family from me!”

“My daughter was on that ship!”

A wall of flesh and bone and skin blocks the angry masses from reaching, but not hitting it, they stop, staring, grieving. Voices crackle and crisp with tears, arms reach out to eyes, touching my fortress. They turn back with fierce anger.

“My… my mother… What are you doing to them?” The leader of the group has shining eyes, his hands quivering.

“Nothing! They’re my friends!” I see the colours of Alana in the wall.

“They’re… they’re corpses. They are dead. You killed them!”

“Dirty witch! I always knew this would happen! I should’ve killed you as a baby.”

                I see the field through tearing eyes – when that happened, I’m not sure, my brain muddy and bruised. I see the houses anew, as tombs on a stretch of grassy field, a tower in ruins. Corpses are all that remain of my dearest family.

                “You never loved me.”

                The words are faint, mucky, clear. I am unsure who said them, but my mouth is open, as if I did. Did I? Everything seems so… so wrong.

                “Because you are a witch. You wanted to hurt us.” A man I now recognize as my father is staring is pity and hatred.

“No,” slips from my lips like water in a sea of ocean. “No, I wanted you to love me, I never would’ve hurt you.”

                The more I say the more my brain clears, the more it hurts, the pain pounds. I should go with them, I know, but feet are stuck to the ground and unmoving.

Mouths open again, throat clear, prepare, but ahead of them is an army of empty corpses pushing and hunting and leaving nothing left, and the pain eases from a pounding skull.

An army of cold, grey flesh returns and stand, lifeless, collapses. Pain fades, muddles, confuses and clears.

“Nadja?”

Alana is in front of me, a hand open in greeting. I take it and dance with her in front of curious looking stones, legs twirling, joy radiating.

Everything is as it should be.

Home.