Ursula's Call

I have a sickness. When my friends won’t answer the phone or message me back, I start writing a story just for them, over text message, until they do. This is one of those.

It’s obnoxious. Send help.

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Somewhere, out on the water, you hear it. Perhaps taunting you, but then, you never could simply receive a compliment.

You nudge the tiller, just enough to stop the sail luffing. It’s worn ash wood, a bundle of memory beneath your grip. You remember when you felled that tree. What you said to it. And what it said to you.

The tiller lolls, pulling you back to the present. “I'm already on the water!” you call. “What more could I give?” But the wind stops. Your boat drifts momentarily before a gentle current begins tugging you back. To comfort. To obligation. To your sister.

Shadows overhead.

Birds! It’s been ages since you’ve seen birds. You envy their carefree wonder through the sky. Easy for you. Yours is a north wind.

North. Where the spindle flowers are just beginning to spool, and little Kaia may have already learned the three-in-kind, or how to force a draw at Trencher’s Knuckles. Obligation is there, to be sure, but the work is out here.

And the work can wait.

“Jibe ho!” you shout. Your laugh is exhaustion and mirth, like a drakhauler after a long shift at the Spring hatch. The tiller has hardened you, each callous a fraternal oath fulfilled. You throw it hard over and duck the boom as the sail catches its breath. A tropical breeze damps your face.

You are going home. You will hear the call again. And you will have promises to keep.