. . .
“Where are the hapless shipmen?—disappeared,
Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been,
Ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared,
What dismal tales know ye of things unseen?
Tales that ye tell your whispering selves between
The while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour;
And this it is that gives you, as I ween,
Those mournful voices, mournful evermore,
When ye come in at eve to us who dwell on shore…”
–Victor Hugo
. . .
For as long as my grandfather could remember (or for anyone, who’s been here long enough), it had appeared once a year, almost every other year from the distant shores of the blackened sea.
There’s no telling when or how.
It just simply did.
Grandpa said that this person–because even until now, no one even knows if said person is supposed to be a man or a woman. But after everything that happened, we’re so sure that thing wasn’t supposed to be human, after all–had been around ever since, drifting aimlessly in their little wooden boat, dressed in wide and billowing robes of black as they held up a strange, intricate looking lantern that glowed such a beautiful, vibrant blue amidst the darkness of the suddenly still waters.
Like a beacon, a sign.
…Or a warning.
Because no matter how pretty or intriguing such a person is (we used to wonder, used to ask the elders where does this person come from? What was their name? Why are they doing this? Questions upon questions that piled up and still went unanswered even after all these years–), whenever they show up, no one was allowed to go out to the sea until that strange, bluish glows fades as morning comes… and with it, the strange person disappearing as well.
According to the story that we were told–the only story that we know of–the glow was meant as a signal for the villagers to stay out of the ocean because bad things are bound to happen.
Once that bluish glow comes out of nowhere, fishermen would ground their boats or bring it back to the shore as fast as possible, divers and some of the others that were still playing or swimming in the sea would be yelled at to get out of the water quick and the whole village would look out over the ocean, waiting and watching with bated breaths as the hunched, hooded figure would become faintly visible somewhere from the distance, holding up the infamous lantern of glowing blue.
And for that very reason, everyone thought of the person as a guardian angel of some sorts. Like a mysterious, quiet protector bidding our village to safety.
…Even though their very presence was a bad omen.
It wasn’t something the villagers had ever dared to question; this kind of event was more than culture or any sort of superstitious tradition the past elders have made up so many years ago.
We just did it.
Meanwhile, I always found myself wondering (I’m sure any of us must have thought about it at some point although asking about it out loud had been frowned upon and was only spoken of in the most quietest of whispers), I mean what is the worst that could possibly happen to us if one of the villagers suddenly dares to break the age-long rule, what would happen if one of us suddenly went out into the water during this awaited night where an ethereal glow shines like a dying star in the ocean?
…Because no one, not even the elders in our close-knitted, seaside village seemed to really know why the very same waters that have provided for us could be dangerous when the Angel comes.
There are no real answers.
All we know is that something very bad will happen, something so catastrophic–it’s like a curse of some sort, so we couldn’t really risk it, no one in their right mind would (or should even) dare to break this rule, not until the Angel’s lantern goes out… so any naughty children who would even so much as go along with this treacherous line of thinking or show even the slightest hint of their displeasure during these events would be closely guarded by the adults and held with an iron grip by their parents or any assigned adult to keep them from messing it all up or ‘dooming us all’ or… or something along the lines.
But then again, like I said, not everyone believes that it could be really that bad… especially the younger ones. I’m not even sure where I stand in all that, not sure if I really believe in it myself.
It’s just something we grew up with doing, after all.
…But it all changed on my fourteenth summer.
The Angel suddenly showed up again, right on the eve of my fourteenth birthday which was nearing by the end of the season itself by the way.
Meanwhile, the fishermen hurriedly pulled in their boats, grousing and cursing about the fish they wouldn’t be able to catch for sure now just as everything slowly but surely grows dark around us, thanks to the steadily setting sun while the bluish glow remains bright and true even after everything, unchanged… even after all these years.
To be honest, during the Angel’s sporadic appearances, it certainly feels more like an unofficial occasion to our village (at least to the little ones), because the entire village would be out and about for the night, setting up barbecued or grilled fish and meat as we trade in meals and stories after stories and loiter about by the shore, watching and waiting for the glow to die down by early morning.
…As it always did.
Sometimes we even count down the hours. Like an unofficial festival of some sort. We are all allowed to stay up late as we please too.
It was honestly kind of fun.
However, by that time, we were all unaware of the danger we just found ourselves in. Even until now, I could still recall how I had been stupidly thinking of just how many sweetened rice cakes I’d be having for tonight when I heard my grandfather suddenly cursing under his breath.
I flinched, looking over at him.
(A word about my grandfather before you meet him… you see, Grandpa was usually a quiet, gentle man. But he was taller and bigger than most men in our village even though he was already somewhere in his late 70s.
And the others respected him too.
Even though I often heard from some of the other adults how my grandfather didn’t really belong in our village and only decided to stay here because of love… and then, the family he found with my late grandmother.
It was a shame that he lost her as well as his only son–who was my father–and his daughter-in-law to an epidemic when I was still a baby. )
He immediately alerted the others and pointed–because sure enough, for the first time since the Angel has made its appearance, its old wooden boat was slowly making its way to the shore.
. . .
The elders had called for a meeting.
I have no idea what they talked about with the other important people of the village because I wasn’t allowed to be there, but Grandpa managed to tell me the gist of it as he hurriedly packed our things (he insists to pack lightly, just take the things that we really, really need) before ushering me out of our home.
Apparently, he and some of the other elders had argued with the current village Chief that they should pack up and leave the village and then, retreat further somewhere inland to the mountains. But the others had laughed and mocked their idea, calling them a bunch of superstitious and senile fools.
Most of the elders had no longer believed in their years-long tradition, I realized this much later, the younger ones that have been put into authority even more so.
I couldn’t really blame the fact that they were tired of fearing or even listening to the unspoken rule of some stranger we didn’t even know. Grandfather told me on the way that most of the villagers didn’t want to keep on avoiding venturing the seas by the whims of a proclaimed ‘angel’, the very same ‘angel’ that we all have been raised to believe to be one after all this time.
Long story short, a fraction of the villagers followed after my grandfather’s very rash decision (as I believe that time) to leave the village while the rest decided to stay, still watching and waiting.
“But where would we even go, Grandpa?” I remembered asking him, feeling the slightest bit of resentful and very afraid of being brought so far away from the only home I’ve ever come to know, “Where would we stay?”
Grandpa tried to smile at me as he led us away from what had been our life for as long as we know it, “If… things do work out okay in the end, I’ll promise we’ll come back. But we can’t stay.”
“What? Why not?”
I sounded whiny, even to myself, but that moment, I don’t really care. I’m tired of being expected to listen, to follow through my Grandpa’s words without even knowing the whole story. I wanted answers.
But Grandpa didn’t say anything.
I don’t think even he has one.
. . .
When I woke up, I found myself bundled up with warm blankets in a cabin way up high in the mountains. Grandpa or some of the other men must have carried me all the way up.
How embarrassing.
Anyway, turns out, Grandpa later on filled me in with what I’ve missed: that this is the place where he used to live in with his family when he was still a young man before he decided to stay in the seaside village after Grandma died because it was way too lonely to stay up here. So I guess the villagers were right about him not being a local…
But Grandpa was right too.
The mountain is a lonely place to live in.
It was way colder up here too but I think the sudden freak storm was to blame. To make matters worse, it started raining horribly the entire day as well, making the already bleak mood worse.
Thunder roared overhead, the noises were so loud and startling that it made the hair on the back of my neck stand. It was continuous, one after another, on and on, like a battle-cry. It sounded like the gods themselves were at war with one another.
It made me think of giants and monsters that Grandpa used to tell me when I was a child as lightning flashed and streaked brightly across the darkened skies and the rain never lets up.
The storm showed no signs of stopping.
Way up high in the mountains, Grandpa (and some of the other elders who had managed to convince their families to come along with them, to stay with us as well) huddled close to me as we all sat down protected by thick blankets next the fireplace with a warmth that never seemed to reach us.
It feels like the chill has sunk down to our very bones, leeching whatever attempt we made for warmth as we all watched with bated breath as the ocean seemed to shift backwards from our seashore village, like it was retreating further and further…
But then, much to our horror, the water suddenly lurched forward like a whip as a wave so high it honestly looked like it was reaching for the heavens above before descending upon the earth.

At the same time, thunder after thunder had roared so loudly in my ears again to the point that I was so sure I was going deaf by the end of this.
Meanwhile, the water stopped right when it had the entire village completely covered, like a lid closing over a coffin with a resounding, final thud that crashed and flowed over where our home once stood.
It stayed there until we can see no visible trace of land anymore… as though our village had been a part of the ocean as well.
And maybe it was.
Even from way up here, all of us could have sworn that we can still hear the others we have all but left behind to their watery deaths screaming loud and clear, the screams of pain and horror. It all soon became lost to the roaring thunders and eerily whistling winds because the rain never stops for the entire day, it never lets up even at night, it never stops…
Or maybe those were our tears.