Page 12 of Rainse
Was that what he was? An alien? Or was he a merman from the legends come to life? My grandma had always said that all legends were rooted in reality. Maybe the stories of mermaids and sea folk had their basis in people like him.
But this was the twenty-first century. There were satellites, sonar, internet. I highly doubted mythical creatures could hide from view as easily now as they could have centuries ago.
"You're awake." He said it without turning around. "I have made fish. And I have brought you something warmer to wear. Are you cold?"
"Freezing."
He got up, stretching to his full length, towering above me. He was taller than I'd remembered. He pulled a simple t-shirt from a bag, followed by a bundle of fabric.
"I believe this is what you humans wear," he said, hesitation lacing his voice. "I am not sure if it is meant for males or females. And it will likely be too big for you..."
Was he really as insecure as he sounded in this moment? Or was this an act to lull me into a fall sense of security?
I took it from him. "It will do. Turn around."
The shirt was definitely a man's, falling down to my thighs, but I didn't mind. It felt a whole lot better than the kelp covering. Rainse wordlessly handed me the fabric. It turned out to be a sort of cloak, made from a shimmering, light fabric unlike anything I'd ever seen before. I was looking forward to further inspecting it in daylight. My mother had been a seamstress, and I'd grown up surrounded by cupboards, boxes, shelves full of fabric. My dad had always said that she had an addiction.
I wrapped the cloak around myself like a blanket. Despite the thin material, I immediately felt warmer. But even better, I no longer felt vulnerable and exposed. What a difference clothes could make.
He still had his back turned to me. The flames threw enough light for me to see the play of muscles beneath the green sheen of his skin. Strange, beautiful, otherworldly.
When I sat down again, the sand was warm against my legs, the fire crackling softly between us. He offered me a piece of fish, wrapped in a broad leaf that gleamed with oil. I hesitated only long enough to test the smell—fresh, salty, cooked perfectly—and then ate. It was delicious, far better than anything I’d expected to find on a deserted island.
I was ravenous. When I'd finished the fish, he wordlessly handed me another one.
"What about you?" I asked, still chewing.
"I have already eaten."
Now that my initial hunger was sated and I was less cold, I could think more clearly again. And something didn't quite add up for me.
"How did you get all this stuff?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level. I didn't want to turn this into an argument with a stranger on whom I was entirely reliant. Not yet, anyway. "Where did you get the shirt? The matches to make a fire? The bag next to you?"
He looked into the flames instead of at me. “From the island.”
“The island,” I echoed. “You mean this island?”
“No. The other one.”
My pulse picked up. “So there’s another island nearby?”
His jaw tightened, the faint green tendrils along his shoulders shifting. “Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you take me there?”
I pushed the words out too quickly, and a stab of pain caught me under the ribs. I winced, covering it with a breath that hurt almost as much. “You think I can’t handle it?”
For the first time, he hesitated. His eyes flicked toward me, dark and unreadable. “The sea is not kind to the wounded. You would not survive the swim. “It is not safe for you.”
“Wounded?” I shot back. “I’m fine.”
“You make a sound when you inhale too deeply.”
I let out a shaky breath just to spite him—and immediately regretted it as pain lanced across my side. He didn’t move, but the tendrils along his shoulders twitched as though reacting to my discomfort.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “It’s just a bruise.”
“Bruises fade,” he said quietly. “But water does not forgive weakness. It is not safe.”
