When the Ocean Calls

Chapter Twelve | Evening Farewell

Time faded with the sun until the sky was streaked in a pastel peach and pink ombre. The evening breeze diluted the humid air, rustling the leaves of the palm tree I rested under. I relished the scent of salt carried in its cool breath. Now this was what I called a vacation. There was something remarkably pleasant in doing nothing, just watching the ocean reach and recede from shore.

A pang of guilt shot through me. Lani. Oh, if only Lani could be here right now, everything would be complete.

The Nereids were far chiller than the mermaids. Etyma spent the entire day splashing in the waves. Somehow, she never lost an ounce of energy. Kallais oscillated between stretching, sitting in the ocean, and pacing along the beach. A few times, she passed by, and the most idyllic words reached my ears. Her poetry combined with the ocean's rush created the most beautiful concert I'd ever heard. Melaina planted herself in the sand, her fingers at work painting a wooden figurine. Ptolema and Pisces left several hours prior to do their afternoon rounds of the surrounding ocean.

Kallais strolled along the beach now, the lull of her voice in the air.

"Caught up in the wind thereby,

Ephemeral leaves floated by,

At midday, an evening sky,

Soaring through the air so high."

I closed my eyes. All I felt was the wind's touch on my skin.

"Until down, down, the leaves wound,

Laid to rest upon the ground,

More and more, maple colors mound,

The sprouts of summer now drowned."

A wave whooshed in the distance. I opened my eyes to find Kallais in front of me. Heat tingled on my face.

Kallais peered down at me. Not an ounce of stress marred her wrinkleless skin. "Have you been listening to my poetry?"

"Yes, it's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so." She settled into the sand beside me. "Sometimes I wonder."

"Really?"

Kallais smiled. "We all doubt ourselves sometimes. Take Melaina. She's perfected her art for centuries, yet she considers herself an amateur."

I glanced over my shoulder. Melaina's brow set in a line as she meticulously dotted paint on the doll's face.

"For Ptolema," Kallais continued. "Her craft is in battle. She refuses to miss a day of training in order to stay in shape, even though she's the most talented swordsman in the whole Caribbean. I'm sure every artist has doubted his or herself, even you."

I laughed. "I'm no artist. I've never been good at art."

"There are many different forms of art. Melaina and Ptolema are both artists. It's just that one creates sculptures and paintings while the other choreographs moves in battle." Kallais paused, examining me with her sparkling gaze. "You're an artist, too. I can see it in your eyes."

I shook my head vehemently. If there was one thing I was sure of, I didn't have the grace of an artist.

"Then what are you good at?"

I hesitated. This was the dreaded question my counselor, friends, and family asked whenever this subject came up. My mind circled back to what I had been avoiding for the past year: the career that would define the rest of my life.