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You always liked the sea.
As it rocks your parents' fishing boat side to side, sitting in its infinite vastness fills you with a sense of endless calm. The silence is not scary, when the waves splash gently against wood, and the darkness is not scary, when the stars are there to guide you. In the horizon, the line between the water and the sky blurs, and you row, row, row.
Surrounded by thousands of lights, you can't say you feel lonely at all.
Besides, you're not far from shore—distant shapes of buildings softening against the mountain lines of your hometown. You can see it clearly, if you close your eyes: a parent tucks his child in bed, kissing them on the forehead and whispering good night. Not far from them, the quiet in the next house is broken by murmured laughs. Somewhere, an owl hoots. You open your eyes. Underneath you, the stars admire their reflections on the water's surface, lulling you into deep serenity.
You breathe in the cold air and let it through you, like a flash of frigid lightning. The ocean breeze picks up, and you keep your hat steady on your head as it passes. In the stillness, you begin to miss your warm bed. You should get back, before your parents get worried. Grabbing the oars, you turn to the...
Where are you, again? You turn your head around, trying to find a landmark, something to guide your way, but you only find meters and meters of nothingness. The night sky shines upon you, millions of lights glimmering in vain , for you can't make sense of them, even though you should. You don't have time for this—It's late, you have to go back (where?), before they (who?) get worried, before you're in actual trouble.
But you're lost at sea. You can't imagine any worse trouble than this. How did you get here? How do you go back? Back to where? What if you just pick a direction and end up adrift forever, no food no water no land no people until your skin rots and your mind unwinds and then you'll become a cautionary tale, the type of poor victim children get warned about.
The air you exhale is cold, clouding in front of you as you clutch your chest. Breathe in, but the frost gets stuck in your throat, and breathe out, but it makes the world spin. Your forehead touches wood and you wheeze, hunched over, trying to keep your lungs from spilling out of your mouth. It burns, lit charcoal in your belly, charring your insides and leaving you coughing smoke. The less air you manage to breathe in, the more your vision darkens, and through your light-headedness you manage only a single thought: Please.
When you open your eyes again, the sunrise is hitting you square in the face. Your cheeks feel warm. Your throat is dry. The sky turns lighter, shade after shade, and with it come the sounds of not-so-distant voices. You wobble to your feet, trying to find the source, and you see it: a fishing boat fit for three or four people, coming your way. As they get closer, you make out the silhouette of two men. They approach cautiously at first (careful of pirates, your mind provides), but something must be on your face because as soon as they catch your eyes their expressions shift to horror. They tie the boats together, murmuring in static you cannot make sense of. Edging a little closer, angling your ear so that you may hear better, you jump in shock when they both turn in your direction.
The men are speaking to you in a language you don't know. Vaugardian? Stars, you don't know any Vaugardian. You've lived close to it all your life and never bothered to learn any, because you already knew—what... What did you know?
Your mouth moves, trying to speak. The words won't form. You try again, because what kind of teenager doesn't know how to speak? Your lips curl around shapes that you believe should make sounds and your tongue thrashes in your mouth and yet all that you're able to produce are the sounds of a drowning fish.
You're choking on air, clawing at your throat in a futile attempt to get the words out. You wish, fervently, that you could talk to these people, that you could explain what's going on.
You just wish...
"Help," you say, and you vomit blood.
Since then, time has passed. Days, weeks, months, it all blends into itself when your memory is falling apart and you can't tell anyone about it, since you don't speak the language the rest of the world seems to speak.
The village has received you warmly, at least. They have taken you in and given you work, things to occupy your mind with. It's not perfect, but it's routine.
Early in the day, you go fishing with the fishermen by the dock. They're a rowdy bunch, but they're also very kind. They like you, they say, because you can tie a "mad knot" (apparently) and because of how little you speak (hah!).
The man who found you is called Dominique. He has more than five heads on you and a graying beard he seems to stroke almost obsessively. He is, as you have been told, the maiden of the house, (you don't know what that means, not that you'd admit it) and he's the one who gives you your tasks for the day. He will sit, often, next to you on the fishing boat and tell you stories of his past as you wait for a bite. You can't recall most of his tales, long and winding and spoken quickly with a thick accent, but you can picture the way he smiles fondly at the memories.
Sometimes, though, someone else will come with you. A young lad, maybe around your age. They haven't told you their name, or how old they are, and you haven't figured out how to ask them (yet! Yet. You want to. You will. Eventually). They prefer the silence and often carry around tasty snacks to give you in secret. On days when neither of them are by the dock, you sit with any fisherman that will take you; not too hard of a feat, really, but you're a little annoyed that you're not allowed alone on a boat anymore. You swear you would have reached it if you had rowed just a little while longer.
After working for the day, you walk, balancing your weight as you carry the spoils of the day with full hands, towards the northernmost house of the village.
Your guardian (and she made sure you knew this word) is an older Ka Buan woman who lives alone in the outskirts of the village. She told you her name, many nights ago, and it's a shame really because you don't have even an inkling of what it may be. Every day of every week, you are expected to be at her house by sundown, so that she may teach you Vaugardian (and a little bit of Ka Buan, if she's in enough of a good mood), and so she may feed you a warm dinner. Her cooking's fine, though you think your mom's is better. Still, it's tasty, filling, and she has a big pot that is always sizzling. You like to watch the bubbles as they rise to the surface and pop, because doing so scratches an itch in the back of your mind. Like you may remember, if you just... And then she'll pull you away, a bit forcefully, scolding you about getting your face too close and burning yourself.
She says you're a good student and that's why she likes you. You disagree, considering how long it took you to realize that "kid" was a common word and not just the name she had decided to call you, but you let her tuck you in anyways.
You like Ka Buan better than Vaugardian, you think. The former rolls easier off your tongue than the latter, rife with sounds that your mouth is more comfortable producing. Neither feels good , though, and you can't shake the feeling that you're not learning, just parroting words back without understanding their meaning.
You're old enough, so you know. You're more than aware how strange it is, for a child your age to not speak a lick of any language known, for a child your age to be alone, their parents unknown and nowhere to be found. Yes, you know very well just how much you don't belong, how this isn't your home, because your home is... Somewhere, and nobody seems to know or remember but they do know something they won't tell you and it's driving you insane because you can't even picture your real house in your mind without your vision darkening from the headache.
Most people are patient with you. They'll wait as you stumble through terms and sentences, clumsily carving thoughts into words, and they'll correct you kindly when you mess up. Even with your tutor, though, you will speak and you'll notice the way her head tilts, sometimes and just a little, and you'll recognize the specific glint in her eye that tells you she's not following.
But it's natural. You don't make sense to your own ears, so how could anyone else decipher your gibberish?
Instead, you have learned to talk without words—you point, you nod, you gesture with one hand or the other. It makes you feel even more stupid, but it gets the job done, and that's all that matters.
Communication is hard, you think, as you open the door to your temporary house—elbow on the doorknob and hip pushing against wood—and find your mentor inside, sitting at the dinner table with pencil and paper.
"Oh, kid," She greets. "You're back already."
You nod, placing the bag on the table, careful not to stain anything important.
"Same as usual?" You nod, again. She smiles. "Well, I heard something fun today. The House has an acting class—that's ak-tin, kid, not whatever you were saying—and they're apparently putting on a play."
"Play?" You mimic.
"Yes. You know, the thing with actors on a stage? And they act out a story?" She places one hand on her chest and extends the other. Oh! You know plays. You like them, even, or so you think. "Would you like to go? It's tonight."
You nod; of course you would like to go.
Right on the beach, far away enough so the water won't reach, stands the wooden platform where the actors should perform. Surrounding it, mismatched pairs of chairs are spread out on the soft sand. It's clear, from the few people that walk around, carrying objects backstage and placing props for the oncoming performance: you're here early.
You follow your guardian as she chooses your seats, in the middle row, closer to the platform than the others. The chair squeaks when you sit on it. And... that's it. You just have to wait for it to begin. The ocean is loud, the waves crashing on the sand and echoing in the space, and this close to the water the air is kind of cold. You press your hand against your cheek in an attempt to warm it up and, naturally, you bite your nails.
You're on your fourth or fifth nail, by the time the bulk of the audience arrives, and you're on your seventh or eighth, by the time someone walks into the stage and asks everyone to quieten down. Pressing on the tiny wound underneath your index finger, you lower your hand to your lap.
As it begins, you realize: you have no idea what the play is about, and: it's the best thing you have ever seen. There's people moving in and out of the stage (suh-teidsh), moving things around and talking with words you haven't learned yet. There is, also, a man with a rock. He pushes it up a hill, and it takes a lot of effort, and then, when he's about to reach the very top and be done with his task, the rock rolls downhill and he has to start over.
You feel horrible for him. The actor pushing the boulder is clearly having trouble with it, or that's what you think, because you can see other people helping them push it. You also think you're not supposed to see the other people, because they keep saying how this man is "alone", but still, it looks hard. It's not all bad, though! Every time he tries (and fails) to reach the top, he gets a reward! And it's a really good reward, because he gets to remember something about his past.
In seconds, you're invested. Hanging on the edge of your seat, holding with bated breath on to words you can't follow, you let yourself be dazzled by the emotions portrayed in the actor's faces. They laugh, they yell, they grunt, all in a narrative cacophony from which you can't take your eyes off. The tension rises and rises as the events begin happening quicker and quicker, and the rock falls, and the actors scream, and the rock goes up, and the actors wail. Up then down and down then up, like the waves of the sea you adore, moving you closer and closer to the thing you wish to remember most, and you can see its shape now, almost touch its nebulous form as it hides and scurries inside your memories, and then... Applause. The play is over, everyone goes home.
But where's your home to go to?
After the play, your guardian buys you a slice of pizza, also courtesy of the House, and leads you down the road you're used to taking every afternoon. You talk with her on the way—or, rather, she talks and you gesture in agreement, chewing on your food. Still, in a quiet moment, you find the courage to open your mouth. "The man."
"Sisyphus," she says slowly.
"Sisfus," you repeat.
"Si-sy-phus."
"Si-sy-phrus?"
"Heh, close enough."
Nodding, you continue, trying your best to say each word clearly. "If he forgets. Easier?"
"If he forgets what?"
"Rock," you make a downward motion with your hand. "Falling."
"You think that Sisyphus forgets that the rock will fall before he gets to the top of the hill?"
You nod vigorously. "Easier, right?"
"Hm... Yes, it would be easier on him. Not the point of his story though."
"Point?"
"Ah, what you're supposed to learn from the play. But nevermind that, I like your thinking."
Well, you don't really get it... But she's smiling at you, so it's probably fine.
That night, you lay awake in bed staring at the ceiling. You repeat, in your head, each scene of the play. As if trying to burn each image into your memories, you mouth the actors' words, or what you can recall of them, so that they may never, ever leave you.
Sisfus. Sisphrus. Sifrus. Sifrun. You don't really like his name. But you want to commit it to memory, etch it in your brain with a chisel. Careful yet with purpose, you'd carve each line of each letter into your brain matter—at least, as soon as you figure out how to spell it—so, like a beloved memento, you may forever carry it with you.
The ceiling remains unchanging under your gaze, and the night comes and goes. You wait for the morning signs you've grown used to: the birds, as they welcome the day with song, the first rays of sunlight, peeking through the window, and the groggy footsteps of your guardian, as she walks towards the kitchen and begins preparing breakfast. As usual, she boils water for tea—a herbal concoction that always wakes you right up. She takes her tea as is, poured straight from the teapot, but she'll always add a spoonful of honey to yours.
You enter the kitchen, tripping on the wooden plank you usually trip on, if nothing else because she'll hear you coming and so she won't be startled. She's minding the kettle, arranging biscuits on a plate to serve you later. It's routine, all of it, a warmth that knots in your chest like a rope and leaves you a little out of breath. You tug at her clothes until she looks at you, and you say, your free hand pointing towards your chest: "Name."
"Name?" your caretaker repeats.
"Sif-frin."
"Siffrin."
You nod. "Siffrin."
Satisfied, you grab a biscuit and sit down at the table. You drink your tea, eat another biscuit or two, and in minutes you're out the door to begin your day at the docks, as usual. You did always like the sea.
It's just that now, you're not really sure why.