Bitter is the Sea, and Bright
by Michelle Muenzler
When the Isperfell come to our village of Merse by the Sea, it is not with their delicate bone-lattice knives readied and their faces painted for war. No, they approach the old way. Slowly and from just down the shore, emerald sea water cascading from their bright scales and lean arms opened wide.
Their needled teeth gleam.
"We stay," they say, though it takes us some moments to make out the words, the long jaws of the Isperfell not being made for human speech.
But once the words are known, we do what any other village clinging to survival along these remote shores would do in our place. We greet our new guests as in the old stories--a pained smile on every face--and welcome them to our homes to stay.
It's the price of the sea, after all. One that every village knows it will someday pay.
They were seven days the last time they stayed, or so say our elders with their shaking voices and trembling hands clutched against their chests. Seven days and seven nights, and half a morning spent watching them go.
And that time, the host village was lucky. That time, the Isperfell left on their own.
We at Merse by the Sea are not so blessed.
Which is why when the tenth day approaches, shells are pulled from a dusty bag long set aside for just this purpose, and Leena who just finished suckling her first child and is thick with another draws the lone striped one. Several question the wisdom of the bag's choosing, but in the end, it is agreed that not even the Isperfell--incomprehensible though they may be--would be so cruel as to separate mother from child.
Trembling, Leena approaches a smaller Isperfell with scales like blue glass and asks if they are ready yet to go.
Gentle, like Leena to her own child, the Isperfell pulls her into its loose embrace. One webbed claw rests atop her broad belly, and its long snout nuzzles against her cheek. The pulse along Leena's neck throbs. Then, whisper-fast, the Isperfell slides its bone-lattice knife across her throat.
"We stay," says the Isperfell, cupping Leena to its concave chest. Her fish-gasps spill blood in bright ribbons to the floor until there is no more to spill, and only then is she discarded from the Isperfell's embrace.
We linger awake through the night, stomachs heaving.
But come morning, we force the smiles back onto our faces. Wait for the Isperfell to indicate they are done with us at last, that Leena's sacrifice was of worth.
The Isperfell, however, remain.
Smiling with their sly fish-pin teeth and watching us even as we watch them in return.
At twenty days, our stores of smoked fish and preserves are gone. Yet still we do our best to weather the unfathomable storm that is the Isperfell. This remote village is our home, after all. This sea, our blood.
Hungered, our children take to trapping the small rats that creep through the stores at night, an act the Isperfell ignore. Less acceptable is the young couple that decides to toss their nets into the shallows despite all warnings from the elders. To that the Isperfell take great offense.
The Isperfell do not bother with their knives for the couple.
Their teeth are sharp enough.
And so we stick to trapping rats. To ravaging our gardens before their season. To slaughtering what few milk goats can be spared. And also praying to whatever gods will listen that the Isperfell do not take further offense.
That they do not decide to go to war.
