Tempest

I watch her watch me watch the world go round. She, the ocean, writhes under a fork of lightning. Her very nature is a contradiction: liquid pulsing backward, sliding in at my command. Watching. Always watching, waiting for my hold to break. In her black depths, I see my face, a glowing orb cast in a sheet of stars. Her waves contort to twist my sphere, but she cannot rid herself of my reflection.

Billowing clouds obscure her water. Slowly, their film passes, and I squint to see into her kingdom. Peter clings to driftwood, deep in her right fist. He is small compared to other humans, thin and fragile with golden hair. He watches as my face peeks through the clouds. "Moon," he whispers, but he does not know that I can hear.

Dark smoke circles, thick as clouds. Peter's parents sink under the light of a burning ship. They churn and fight against her currents, but the ocean is too strong. She craves the horror, the excitement. Charred wood crackles and shoots rockets out across the darkness, up into my sky. She spews thick foam across the waves in a distorted smile.

His parents' screams bounce and twist in tinny echoes. I strain my ears, but Peter's heartbeat barely sounds. He is alone, but my face is soothing. He cannot hear his parents; he is not afraid. Peter used to murmur words before he slept, and I've longed for the stories. I try to wink now, to show him that I understand, but he never sees. I cannot understand the creatures in his world, the bits of flesh that last a moment before twinkling from sight. If they were stars, there would be nothing but debris across the galaxy.

Peter shines more brightly than the stars.

Her water pulses, but Peter takes no notice. He points and counts the spots of light across the sky. "Seven, eight, nine." He doesn't know what's after nine. The board plunges, and he fights to stay above the waves. Splinters sink into his hand; he moans, quietly. He forgets the stars and licks the salt from dried, cracked lips. The ocean knows he's on her surface, and she stills herself to wait.

I stretch through the emptiness and deep into her world. For a moment, I grip her waves, but she breaks away to rush into the deep. She plucks the drowning bodies from her surface and pulls them to a world that is entirely her own: dark and beautiful, filled with colors known only to her chosen guests. Peter's just a child, but she wants to hold his flesh. She finds herself in death, in her victims' terror. She thinks she has control, but I am master: I draw her forward; I push her back.

Wind howls through her waves, and she coils to hurl Peter's small body. "Stop!" I scream, but she doesn't listen. I reach her waves, but she pulls away. "Stop!" I roar again. "I command you!" I try to break her movement, but she writhes against my touch. Peter's yet another soul to join her minions: she is delighted. Her fingers sting his face, and he forgets me. He stares into her waves, her swirling eyes. She laughs as Peter whimpers. The wood flips in her hands, and he flails, bobbing in the water. I stretch out farther, as far as I can go. Peter reaches to catch my fingers, but I pass through his palm. I try to hold him, but I can touch his flesh no more than he can grasp my light.

The ocean opens a churning mouth and pulls Peter to his parents, to the ones I know I've lost before. There is a ripple, a moan, and then, he disappears. I watch her surface twist with pleasure. The image burns inside my eyes, but I've never learned to cry. I can only watch. When she storms again, I'll save them; I'll take control. (I think I've thought these things before.)

Her water stills to glass. Peter's driftwood floats beside charred ruins: a marker for his grave. Yet another tombstone; I've lost count. The night is calm, but foam churns in her surface. She is never calm.

She smiles as she always has and whispers, "Who's master, now?"