Once upon a time…

I am older than the salt on my tongue. When I was young, our cliff village kept the Tide Lantern, a brass lamp hung from a whale’s jaw. Each year, on the Night of Unmoored Fires, the sea spat up blue flames that drifted like lost boats. We followed them with the Lantern so they would not wander inland.

One year, raiders came by moonless tide. They cut the Lantern loose and laughed at our prayers. The blue fires shook, then sank. We barred doors and held our breath. I felt the floor hum, like drums under earth. The old graves in the dune cracked open. Out came those who had fished before us, faces full of salt light. They took up nets woven of spray and shadow and walked through the raiders’ camp without sound. Knots tied themselves. Oars turned to stone. The raiders’ sails caught fire that did not burn cloth, only courage.

At dawn, the ghosts raised the Lantern back to the whale’s jaw and tipped it once toward home. The sea steadied. We mended rope and rebuilt the pier. Since then, on that night, we set an empty bowl at every door for those who return to keep watch.