Snippet!

The boy leapt from between the rusty metal crates like a grasshopper, startling the crane operator so badly that his entire load crashed onto the harbor.

The crash caught everyone’s attention; the boy held it. Glimmering slightly in the wintery gloom, he had beauty that snared like fishhooks and wore ruined gray pajamas that looked like they’d been dragged along the ocean floor. Surprise widened his eyes, impossibly more blue than the sea behind him. With dock workers, students, and tourists all staring at him in cod-mouthed silence, he offered a hopeful and somewhat silly smile.

“Hello,” he said weakly.

The tourists were the first to charge.

#

They couldn’t help themselves, they really couldn’t, but Alex knew what they’d do when they reached him, so he leapt off the quay into the North Sea.

Cold stole his breath, punched his lungs and commingled with the disappointment that burst like ripe fruit in his stomach. The ocean pushed him down and slammed him into the quay, maybe punishing him for jumping in without permission. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was utterly alive – maybe more alive than people, maybe sentient and ancient and wise – but who knew? His realization that he wasn’t human was all of six months old. At this point, he was willing to believe anything.

 

He came up for air, slightly dazed from impact, and above him on the quay, men shouted as if that would make him return. Wet silk clung to his skin, hampering his movements, but he dared not wait. With the sure strokes of a boy raised on an island, he swam away from the thick, slick cement of the quay and hoped no one would jump in after him. If he could reach the ladder across the way before his pursuers could realize where he was headed –

“He’s going for the ladder!” shouted one accursedly loud sailor.

So much for that advantage. He kept swimming – what else could he do? – as several people began to run the long way around, evidently hoping to cut him off. But here was the ladder now; grabbing frantically at the slick ladder rungs, Alex pulled himself up onto the opposite quay and ran.

He almost ran all-out, but he didn’t.To show himself as anything but a normal human would backfire. He had to do this like a normal human would, with his own two feet and wits.

Multi-colored hulls highlighted the kingdom of gray-brown stone stretching off to his left, half-hidden by white silos and large tanks. He leapt over hoses, dodged around crates and more people. Smooth-faced warehouses merely hinted at the grand masonry beyond, all beckoning towers and narrow streets that sparkled sporadically under the midwinter sun. He yearned to see it all. Freedom was so close, close enough to smell, and just maybe he could lose himself among the masses of people, the myriad of cars, the sheer mad acreage of land in the outside world. If, perhaps, he wore a bag over his head.

He left his original pursuers behind, and new ones took their place.

“That way!”

“Where’d he go?”

“Get him!”

They couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help desiring him, forgetting who they were in the wake of whatever curse he cast. Knowing that didn’t make him feel any better.

There was so much land. He could run forever and never reach the end. The thrill of freedom after twelve years of captivity sang in his muscles. Twelve years, an entire lifetime; still, he turned right instead of left because leaving the ocean behind was too strange. Acrid smells of oil and exhaust burned his eyes, and still, he ran.

“Just stop, stop following me,” Alex cried at the wind, wishing denial had power, and that’s when he spotted the seawall.

It was rough, dark, and sloped, and neatly hid whatever was on the other side. A quick glance behind him showed his pursuers were briefly out of sight; desperate, he flung himself toward it.Twice his height; not a problem. That he managed to clamber over without losing his clothes was a far greater miracle.

Here, hidden, was a village of cobbled stone. Long, low cottages followed an uneven road to form an enormous, open square. The central grassy area was bordered by a row of shacks, lent color by decorations made from old boats and fishing implements. Bed sheets flapped dully on nearby clotheslines. The harbor’s silos were still visible, but only barely, and all the traffic sounds and smells were muted. At the very foot of the city, here was peace. He stood for a moment, taking it in.

Mincing along a whitewashed wall was a small furry animal, sleek and tri-colored, with delicate ears and the careful padding step of a predator. Alex stared, recalling the picture books he’d studied. “A cat!” he whispered in delight. “You’re a cat, aren’t you?”

It – he? She? – paused in her walk to eye him with deep solemnity. She leapt off the wall with such grace that gravity was reduced to polite consideration, and hit the ground running. In three seconds, she was gone.

So that was a cat! Why hadn’t his books said how beautiful they were?

“Fittie!” someone shouted behind him. “He went into Fittie!”

His pursuers had found him. His heart sickened. Alex ran again, vision briefly blurred by unwanted tears. Maybe it would be like this forever. Maybe the only ones who wouldn’t try to rape him were cats.

A path led out from the village onto a golden beach that stretched so far he could not see the end. He raced onto it, sprinting on his toes, wondering what life would be like with only cats for company. Half a mile down the beach, he spotted a man.

The man stood on the sand, resplendent in a fitted, blue velvet suit with very wide lapels and a black bowtie. He looked no older than nineteen, but an eerie stillness imbued his tall, slender form with nobility that belied youth. Evidently unmoved by Alex’s plight, he watched the procession’s approach with utter aplomb.

Alex prepared to dodge around him, but the blue-suited man showed no interest in grabbing. This behavior was so strange that Alex turned to stare as he ran past, and that’s when he realized that all his pursuers were gone.

“Wha?” he squawked, and stumbled. Curling by instinct, he flipped into a somersault and landed on his feet in a spray of damp sand, then spun, ready to run if necessary.

The blue-suited man had not moved. Wide brown curls framed his face, not quite long enough to drift into his green eyes. He wore an expression of slight puzzlement. “You are not a selkie,” he said with a distinctly Italian accent.

The statement was too random, the moment too charged. Alex started to laugh.

Tagged as: alex, practice