The Mercies

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

Last night Maren dreamt a whale beached itself on the rocks outside her house. She climbed down the cliff to its heaving body and rested her eye against its eye, wrapped her arms across the great stinking swell. There was nothing she could do for it but this.

But she doubts her mother wakes with salt on her tongue, the sea mottling her breath.

Grief cannot feed you, though it fills you.

She feels tired and happy, and does not think of the whale at all.

Maren wonders how sailors can stand to come ashore at all.

Maren dreams, as always, of the whale. There is salt in her mouth, and her arms strain with effort. But the whale is swimming, not beached, and though it is black and has five fins she isn’t afraid. She reaches out to it, and it is warm as blood.

“Circles have no end,” says Kirsten, and straightens suddenly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”