Witness

This short piece— yet another competition entry— was in the subgenre of “shipwreck.” Unable to help myself, I was drawn to the supernatural, and wished to give the piece a dreamy, sunken feeling. I accept critique regarding the somewhat opaque plotline.

***

Minh dips his paddle into crystalline blue shallows, clear to the bottom, genteel waters clutching the sheer coastline. Draped in the edges of jungle, the cliffs buzz with life: caws, chatters, and chirps— the five-pitch song of babblers ringing like a taunt, rhythmic over the cacophony. I - can - see - you - there! I - can - see - you - there!

Sunlight dances on the surface of the water. These remote regions of Palawan are devastating in their beauty, luring Minh in like an insect to the warmth of a lamp. He is searching for her veins-- deep coastal caves, the mouths of the underground rivers that flow to the island’s heart. 

Minh grins as he catches sight of one, a black cape in the cliffs. It is low, the kind of cave easily sealed at high tide. Noting the time, he paddles further into its coolness. 

It is a narrow, twisting passage. Minh’s lamplight ripples over black water. Jungle clamor fades into stillness and unsteady drips. Minh feels a tug from his chest to the dark, drawing him further— until he is pulled from his stupor by the call of the other paddlers, urging him to leave before the change of tide. After a pause, Minh turns back. 

Retching up saltwater,  she claws her way up gritty rock, drenched in bone-freezing surf. Outside the cave, the typhoon howls on, tearing at the sea in its rage. She shivers in the dark, her heart beating as an arrow-stricken bird— she was alive, but for how long? Her ship had struck the rocky coast, its teeth tearing through teakwood as if it were paper, torrential winds smothering the screams of the drowning. 

Teeth chattering, she cries for her father, on her hands and knees, shuffling through tar blackness. Baba! Her calls echo against her skin. Her fingers fumble over other bits of the wreckage flushed into the cave, shards of wood, cloth, some sodden rice— a familiar leather bag, holding only a few of her father’s tools. 

She clutches the bag to her chest and weeps.

Minh awakes in a cold sweat. Never had he such a dream: a deep sleeper, his nights pass in a blink; yet, for hours he has been clawing through darkness, body wracked by cold water. He rolls over, attempting to match the restful breathing of the other cave divers, despite the prickle over his skin. 

Hours tick away as the sky grays. Never has sleep been so evasive, his heart so unsettled. Without waking his companions, Minh slips from camp, making his way back to the coast. 

A day passes in darkness. The typhoon batters on, the sea swollen and ravenous. Unable to swim, her leg deeply gashed from the wreck, she has decided to wait for help. 

Or whatever else may come.

Drinking condensation from cave walls and chewing on wet rice, she subsists until she can light a small fire with strips of wood and canvas; barely dried, they flood her eyes with bitter smoke. Still, its warmth soothes her. She is surrounded by pillars of limestone, pocketed with ocher and shimmers of sandstone, shadows quaking over their rivets, formed by the caress of the tide. Her fingers feel the familiar texture of stone, and remember the callused hands of her father, guiding her through the steps of his craft. 

Water reveals imperfection in the stone.

She would cough on the chalkish air released from the dry cut of rock, and drift off to the rhythm of his chisel. Deep sleep awaited her in the warmth of her father’s shadow. 

The direction you cut is always inwards— you are not forcing its shape. You are bringing what is already within, out. 

He once carved a likeness of her mother. Countless times had her fingertips brushed over the smoothness of her face, her mother’s imperceptible smile memorialized by her father. 

It’s so we do not forget. 

Now, he is gone— and his daughter trembles, feverish and alone. 

The cave compels Minh into its depths. He paddles down its closing throat, his gut wrings with an uneasy familiarity. He has always loved exploration, the thrill of an unknown place. This is something else. 

This is a return. 

Her wound has soured. Her body remains damp with sweat as memory and dream overwhelm her. Her fire grows weaker each day as she exhausts her kindling, and her rice is gone. She hears nothing but her shuddering breath and the cadence of water. 

Death awaits at either end of the cave’s black veins. 

Who will remember her? 

Her fire is soon to die. 

Who will mourn her father?

Her hand reaches for her father’s chisel with the last of her strength. She must be sure to cut inwards. The water will reveal imperfections in the stone. Warming, she feels the strength of his arms around her— the chisel begins to ring in time with his voice.

We - will - not - be - forgotten. 

The last stretch of the tunnel requires him to dive. Minh dons his equipment with practiced care— these lonely places still ensnare the most experienced divers, their bodies plunged to depths beyond recovery. 

There is a moment of pause. 

He has always craved to bear witness to the world’s secrets, nature battling against him at every turn. Now, Minh follows its beckon like a carp in a tapering cage. 

Void waters are silent in wait. 

His heart sets. I will see why you have brought me here.

Minh dives. The frigid cold bites his skin, but he knows his limits. He navigates the snaking tunnels, feeling his way through the dark, until his head breaks the surfaces, gasps echoing. Minh draws himself up the shore, the beam of his flashlight washing over waning stone.

      The light stops over a relief cut into the gray walls— the embrace of a man and young girl, roughhewn and weathered. Beneath it, in the Chữ Hán script of a distant era, there survives an epigraph. 

I,Thảo Thị, daughter of Dao Thảo Văn, am alive.