Lungs and Legs

Chapter 1

There is one thing worse than a sea-witch in this world and that is a man with a little notebook. I should know, I have met both.
A witch once offered me a deal: a changed body for a lost voice. But when a man with a little notebook took my life from my hands and wrote it down he offered me nothing in return. He did not ask permission, nor did he make deals. He took my story, as though he found it on the side of the road, and that is how I know: nothing is sacred and nothing is safe from a man with a little notebook.

And since I have met him, you know where this story begins: where they tell you it should have ended, on a moon-lit night on the Northern sea. Under a cloudless sky, a royal ship rocks gently on the waves. Under the deck, in his royal bed, a prince is asleep with his newly-wed princess.
The crew is asleep too, after a night of celebration.
The witch is gone now, the sea has closed above her without a trace. I am alone and for a moment I could nearly believe that she was never here. But there is a knife in my hand and no time for wishful thinking.
The deck is wet and slippery – a strange and unpleasant sensation that rises from the feet and overwhelms me for a moment. If the man with a little notebook got to you first, you know that this is where I have to make a choice. I loved a man, and failed to make him love me, and now my options are murder or nothingness.
I look at the stairs leading down, below deck. I imagine myself descending, walking: the corridor, the door, the bed... In my mind, I stop there, I cannot make a step. I do not want to see them. I cannot face it. I cannot make it fact. As long as I am here, with the moon shivering in the water, the wet air in my lungs (it still surprises me how they fill up, as though they are going to explode) the impossible situation is just in my mind. It cannot be, so it is not.

I feel panic raising in me. There has got to be something to do, a way out, a way around. I have got to get away from all this, somehow.
I turn around, turn towards where the dark line of the horizon signals the forest, the far-off land. It cannot be that far. There are still a few hours left before sunrise. I only contemplate the waves for a moment before climbing the railings. I know my way – part of me remembers. I take a big gulp of air, hold it in the newly-found lungs, and jump.

Swimming is now harder than I could have ever imagined. It is violent, and counter-intuitive, and unnatural. The legs have to kick, I have to fight my way through, push against the waves. This body cannot trust the water and it struggles to find its way across it. Every second, I have to suppress the reflex of giving in. I go down, and gasp for air, and grasp for the surface. At times, I do not believe I am going to make it. And even if I do, will I make it in time? And even then, will it matter? The fear makes me lose my breath again – I cannot afford it. I will get as far as I can. It is the best I can do.
The nightgown is not helping. I should have taken it off, but now it is too late for that, now all that matters is beating the water with my hands, kicking myself away from the depth, pushing and pulling against the tide and across the distance.

At some point one foot hits something, then the other one, then I am on my knees in water and in sand. And then I am walking, trying to run, stumbling towards the beach and the line of trees behind it.
I walk until there is only dry sand underneath the feet and stop. I do not yet dare look back, only up. The moon is still there, too bright to let the stars show their faces. The night is not quite over yet and I have to keep going, as far as possible, as far into the land as I can. I have no idea if this is going to save me, but every power must have boundaries, I figure. When we change worlds, the rules change too. No contract can be binding everywhere. And so I must run.

The legs hurt from all the kicking, but I force them to move as fast as possible. The sand seems to cling to me, slowing me down, but after a while there is less of it, more grass, and trees on both sides of me. I am not sure which direction I am running in, nor where this will lead me, but the exhaustion is helping me not to think. All I can do now is force this body to move forward. There is less light now, the moon is hidden by leafs, so I make my way blindly, away, in a straight line, feet hitting things on the ground, branches striking my face.
I do no know how long I have run. Minutes, hours, I have no idea. I am beyond caring, beyond fear or worry, when I notice the patches of sky brighten. The day is breaking. I fall on my knees, breathing heavily, and wait.
And when the day comes and brings nothing but thin, timid rays of light, I cry. And then I fall asleep.