The Mountain in the Sea

by Ray Nayler

Ha was weeping. Ancient, this shape-song. In it, rhythm of tide, of moon-ripple played out on night water. Of buoy-clang near the beach and shore of man. Of crab-scuttle and claw-clack. Of fish-dart and propeller-chug. Of whale-song in the wave.

As long as he was working, it stayed away; but he was not able to work all the time, and whenever he took a break—for a meal, a shower, a walk to clear his head—it was there. There, like a wave crashing in from the walls around him or rising from the cobblestones of the street, soaking him to the bone. The Gray.

The crowd at the terminal gate was mostly of people come from shopping, with bags at their feet and the blank, exhausted faces of consumers returning from their search for that thing they lacked.