The sea. The place that held all of my time, my life, and my spirit. The place where my soul could lie down and immerse itself in the warmth. The place where all memories are kept, yet all good has faded. The place where my mother was once lost, and then never found. The place that had once been considered home, and yet never again.
The sea on a day with the sun trying its best to burn, among others, is the sea I love the most. There, I would spread my arms and fill them with wind till their texture becomes the same as petals. I would jump on the sand, treasure the heat underneath me once more, and then float in the air. I would sing above the sea in a way humans won’t understand, and listen to the reply of the waves and rocks. Occasionally, if the weather is pleasant enough, I would dive and let my wing touch the surface of the sea. I would enjoy my time as much as I could, and then turn back home when the light begins to fade.
*
Mom used to teach me how to read.
She would press her feather-soft forefinger against the small black patterns on the paper, and tell me how to voice the meaning of those patterns. I always loved listening to her speak. Her voice reminded me of the feeling when the setting sun casts light on a seashell—pure, yet firm. The books she showed me were always arranged with a black page and then a colorful page; the black ones contained small patterns, and the colorful ones large. The large patterns were always easier to understand, as they showed you the scene straightforwardly. The small patterns, however, required careful inspection; each one needed to be read and understood. Each one needed to be read and understood and strung together as if arranging grains of sand, in order to see the complete picture.
Once, as sunlight streamed through the small house’s window and fell on those patterns, I pointed at the four lines crowded together and asked my mother what they meant.
Mom said it’s called “home”. A colorful but complicated word. If we break it down, it would become “love”, “cuddle”, and “finding”. I managed to understand the first two words quickly, because they always showed up in books and usually appeared together. They seem to be the same thing, to be part of “home”. But I couldn’t understand “finding”. I couldn’t understand why it could be placed along with the other two words. It felt wrong. “Finding” is a vague word, like light shadows on the cover of the sea, something that seems to be there, but you are just unsure whether it’s really there, really existing. It’s an action that you’ll never know where it ends or how it ends. It’s the sea at night, which you’ll never know when the storm begins. While “love” and “cuddle” are the grits in the afternoon. Warm, cozy, take one step in, and you will feel protected and safe. It felt wrong to place the three words together.
And so I asked. I pointed at the picture, which shows three starfish walking on the seabed, holding each other’s tentacles, heading towards an unknown sea area. Does that make them “home”? I asked, and read the patterns carefully. Mother, father, child? There was a moment of silence. Only the waves were giving quiet answers. Mom paused and then told me that it doesn’t have to be three creatures. It wasn’t the number that mattered. It was the concept that mattered. The concept? I asked.
That you could fly as high as you want, without worrying about the things happening beneath. If you fall, harshly and dangerously, we will catch you, comfort you, and hug you. So you could again fly, up in the air, freely and happily. The concept that you needn’t worry. Mom and the sea will be there for you. Always.
I blinked, finding it a bit confusing. Why aren’t you flying with me? I asked. We should be together. We could both be up in the air, carrying each other when one falls.
Mom paused.
You’re right. She said, finally. You’re right.
Now go to sleep, my dear. It’s late.
*
In the morning, when the sun was just barely rising and the seawater had not yet been warmed by the sun, we would read. Occasionally, we would write. Mom always said that writing is about extracting a piece of your soul and sealing it in words. This piece of soul doesn't have to be beautiful or clear, but it will be yours. As long as the words are yours, the soul behind them is yours.
We took turns using a "pencil" to write. Mom called it a "pencil," but I thought "flowing stone" was a better name. A slender, twig-like stone that hid a stream within—a gray-black stream. Every stroke was like water flowing onto the paper, fixing itself into tiny, delicate patterns, forming the sea.
When she used the "pencil," she was always very careful. So was I. I would lean over the table, my nose almost touching the white paper, gently drawing those marvelous little patterns with the pointed tip. After finishing each one, I would stop, carefully considering what the next one would look like, rehearsing it in my mind until the strokes seemed to be deeply etched in front of my eyes. Then, I would lean in and draw the next pattern. Fearful of getting the words wrong. Fearful of getting the soul wrong.
My words had never left the sea. Sometimes, I wondered what places without a sea look like.
*
In the afternoon, we usually transformed ourselves. Mom said that not all beings can freely change forms. For instance, the forms of "humans" and "animals" are permanently fixed; "humans" cannot become "animals," and "animals" cannot become "humans." But we can. Sometimes we resemble humans, and sometimes we resemble animals. Thus, we are neither.
"Remember, at dusk—" Mom said, fastening the necklace around my neck. My token pendant swayed on the delicate chain, sparkling like a star in the sunlight.
"—We home.” I finished, extending my hand to touch the smooth surface of my token. It was a deep blue stone, round, with one end slightly pointed, shaped like a drop of water—a miniature sea.
"We return home.” Mom nodded, guiding the necklace to rest against my skin before turning toward the ocean. She stepped away.
Her smooth skin gradually became covered in scales, and her hair sank against her back, absorbed and merged with her bones. The layer of fabric that had originally covered her was shed and tossed onto the shimmering sand. She walked into the water until it was deep enough, her heels elegantly aligning, transforming into a broad fish tail—a dolphin.
Splash.
I touched my token one last time and walked into the sea, lifting the hem of my clothing to take it off. When our form resembled that of "humans," clothes were necessary. The skin was too easily scratched by sharp stones and fine sand, and any injuries would hinder our ability to change forms. Scales couldn't cover wounds, and everything would become troublesome.
I felt a strange but familiar sensation of growth in my legs, as if something were breaking through the earth. Feathers. I knew clearly. My arms bent at the elbows, pressed against my ribs, and stretched out. My wings were unfolding. I guessed this feeling was akin to shedding a shell. Crabs would understand.
Soon, I could no longer recall what it felt like to use human limbs. I floated lightly and swiftly, easily catching the direction of the wind and the calls of the sea. I bounced twice on the ground, the sand sinking softly beneath me, leaving small impressions. Sought out the relatively hard ground, my instinct directed. The way of thinking in animal form is always different from that of humans; the former is often straightforward, clear, and singular in purpose, while the latter tends to be circuitous, complex, and hazy, like the mist that occasionally rises over the sea.
The sun and the horizon exchanged a blanket of warm, fluffy clouds. I lightly tapped my claws on the stone surface and flew toward the more intense sunlight. I had about four hours to experience the wind and the waves, then, before the day would fade and the shadows on the sea would disappear, I would return home on time. The turquoise pendant hanging around my neck would refract dimming light, and I would remember my connection to that little house by the sea, remember the words, remember Mom. At that time, I would not be led to fly farther and farther away by the sea’s song. I would return home.
This was what I had promised Mom.
*
The event transpired six days ago.
A thin fog covered the morning window, and I usually wiped it away with my palm, intending to admire the half-asleep, half-awake sea through this transparent barrier. In my memory, the sea during this time was always gray, illuminated neither by sunlight nor disturbed by night. It floated there indistinctly, like the fog on the window that could disperse at any moment.
But that day, for some reason, I felt it was darker than usual, almost black. Like smoke that sometimes rises on the horizon, evoking thoughts of humans, disease, and death.
I focused my gaze, trying to identify the source of this change. Then, right there, not far away, I saw a colossal "whale of the sea." It spun awkwardly and drifted haphazardly while a circle of black matter expanded outward from it. I watched intently for a moment and felt that this substance resembled ink from an octopus. But an octopus's ink is never that thick, nor does it spread so quickly, as if it were about to deprive the entire ocean of air.
The "whale of the sea" did not stop moving. Panicked cries pierced through the glass, muddied like a splash of murky seawater, yet I could vaguely discern the tones. It was the voice of humans. Only then did I remember that the "whale of the sea" was what Mom had told me was a "boat," a place for humans or their cargo. I always felt that "boat" was not a memorable name, much like how I thought "pencil" was not a vivid enough description. I stubbornly changed it.
The cries continued, and footsteps soon joined in the chaos. Before long, the "whale of the sea" had drifted away, but the black circle still expanded from its center. I sat there, silent, and decided not to turn and wake Mom. I foolishly, naively thought that this whale wouldn’t cause any problems.
*
That evening, Mom did not return.
The black water spread quickly, already swallowing up a large portion of the visible ocean. It opened wide to absorb life, swallowing it down and spitting it out. I saw fish and shrimp rise to the surface, covered in the sticky, inescapable black water, their white eyes turned toward the sky, and I was certain they were dead. This realization plunged me into the depths of a winter ocean.
I did not see Mom. I did not see the smooth fins, the sleek streamlined body, or the agile tail. I was certain she was not among those fish and shrimp. But I couldn't find her.
*
I hid myself in our little house, no longer approaching the sea. I only occasionally flew out during the brief hour of the brightest noon, searching repeatedly for a trace of her.
I still longed for the freedom from the sky, desired the vibrancy of the ocean from before, and craved everything beyond the window. I missed my mother. Overwhelmingly worrying and missing.
The black water was gradually consuming the sea.
*
However, the hunger accumulated throughout the day whispered in my ears, urging me to venture out to find food—to seek out the small fish in the crystalline depths of the sea, to dive in at the right moment.
I knew all too well that one day I would surrender. To hunger, to instinct, to freedom.
Sooner or later.
And that day came faster than I had imagined.
*
The ocean. The ocean within my sight was no longer the one I once knew. In the past, it was grand and splendid, teeming with countless burgeoning forms of life. Although it sometimes shifted between light and dark, it would raise waves to the skies and sweep things away; it was still the ocean. That ocean. But now, its waves had subdued, its breath stilled. It was neither joyful nor angry anymore. The blackness consumed it, covering all the vitality that had once burned fiercely.
I stood on the beach, staring, impotently loathing all of it. The wind had also been tainted, now carrying the stench of rotting black water that flooded my nostrils. All I could do was silently thank myself for having a dull sense of smell in human form.
I had to find a new ocean. Perhaps my mother had already swum ahead, waiting for me in a cleaner, purer place. Perhaps this black water merely covered a small area, and if I just kept flying forward, I would find the ocean as it had once been. Maybe if I followed the sky, my former home would not be far away.
The former nest. The place that held all of my spirit.
Wings stretched out from my sides, the skin faded away, replaced by layers of feathers. I had always loved my feathers; when the wind blew through them in the air, they would undulate like the waves of the sea. The feeling of growth and contraction is synchronized, familiar, and reassuring. The process of transforming into a bird remained the same, but this time I could no longer hear the wind sing or the sea call as clearly.
I eventually would.
This time, I would flap my wings and go forward, regardless of the sun’s position, regardless of whether the turquoise hanging from my neck had lost its luster, regardless of dusk or dawn. I would go forward.
Homing.