The Turning Land, the Constant Sea
In the mornings when he journeys back to shore, Namu’s boat is followed. Tracked. Tracked by pulsating mushroom fields of translucent jellyfish. Tracked by swarming spheres of silver-blue carangid fish. Tracked by the golden onslaught of butterflyfish, by the trailing rainbows of fusiliers and pretty pastel clouds of delicate damsel fish. Tracked by the diaphanous silk of scarf octopi, by eels furiously twisting like gymnasts’ ribbons, by tiny cavalries of galloping seahorses. Pausing on the water’s edge, Namu pries off dozens of starfish that have plastered themselves to his boat’s sides during the night. They try to sucker onto his palm, but Namu releases them with a strong flick of his wrist. Sighing and sinking to the sea’s sandy bottom, the starfish ready themselves for the next night’s humiliations. As a final reminder, platoons of crabs march out of the sea, doggedly escorting Namu as he drags his boat up the cold grey sand.
Namu ignores them all.
