The curtains are drawn and the lights remain off even with the return of the hotel’s power. All you want to do is to sleep, to slip away and become nothing; there, nothing can touch you. Outside the hotel room, in the flooded streets, the world has turned to water; the infinite sea that thrums with life has taken everything away. You’ve been spared, while Chee Seng—
You blink rapidly. The curtains lighten—weak morning light seeping through the worn, dirty fabric—and then darken again. You feel no thirst or hunger—only the tightening knots of guilt and numbness in your stomach. You turn on your side, pull your knees to your chest. Maybe if you can stay like this, you’ll disappear, slipping into something similar to death, a realm of non-existence. But only if you keep very, very still.
A knock on the door, followed by a pause, and then another few quick raps. Vague shadows in the narrow gap between the bottom edge of the door and the floor. A voice deep and urgent—someone calling out—the words indistinct. Another two knocks. The shadows hesitate, then move away, footsteps fading down the corridor.
You stay very still, close your eyes and wait to fall into the deep well of your dark, swirling thoughts.
3
CHEE SENG
A sharp smell assaults my senses as I stir awake. The hard, wood-planked bed beneath me creaks as I try to move; every stiff muscle in my body shrieks with pain. A frayed stale-smelling blanket is draped over me, looking as though sewn together with different rags. The air in the room is warm, almost suffocating. I manage to lean up onto one elbow; I appear to be in the living area of a small, sparsely furnished hut. Slender beams of sunlight stream through the only window in the room, illuminating the dust motes that dance languidly in the stuffy air.
Directly opposite the bed, a dented soot-stained pot is boiling on a stove, with soft plumes of steam rising from its jumping lid. A sharp hunger comes alive inside me, though my body is too weak to move. No one seems to be around; everything is still. Outside, a songbird is trilling. I open my mouth but no sound comes out; my tongue is thick and my throat feels scraped raw.
I turn my head and see a ceramic bowl holding some kind of dark liquid, on a wooden stool beside the bed. I inch towards it. I try lifting my hands, but they are so sapped of strength that they barely move. I lean over the edge of the bowl and sip—and almost immediately my gag reflex kicks in, and I vomit up the little that was left in my stomach, leaving behind a rancid aftertaste. I spit onto the floor, strings of yellowish saliva sticking to my chin. I start to cough, which causes me to double up in a knife-sharp convulsion of pain. Once it subsides, I lean back and sink deeper into the folds of the rag blanket, and close my eyes, exhausted.
I hear something, the scuffle of someone stepping into the room, and crack my eyelids open to see a figure in silhouette. It approaches the bed and presses a hand to my forehead. Then the hand moves to the back of my head, raising it up. My lips meet the rim of the ceramic bowl. The bitterness of the brew once again causes me to gag, but before I can retch, the foul fluid is poured down my throat, forcing me to swallow it all. Then my head is laid back down, and I fall instantly into a sleep as deep as death.
Dipping in and out of wakefulness, I lose track of the reality around me; the only thing that makes any sense is the recent memory that keeps looping through my mind.
I was lying on the beach after a long tussle with the sea. I could feel the gritty texture of wet sand on my face; my lips were crusted with salt, and a residual metallic taste lingered in my mouth. My stomach churned, and I began to tremble violently, as though I were still trapped in the sea’s undercurrents, being whipped and tossed about, drowning. I forced myself to calm down, then opened my eyes again and surveyed the beach. The harsh sunlight had bleached everything of colour. I had no clue where I was; the long expanse of beach seemed to stretch without end in both directions. Apart from the rhythmic sound of the lapping waves, it was utterly silent.
With great effort, I flipped onto my back. The sky was smothered with billows of heavy rain clouds. I could have lain there forever were it not for the sharp little flints of raindrops now hitting my face. I jerked backward on the sand, away from the breaking waves, suddenly overcome by the primal fear that the water would take me again. I had to leave the beach immediately; despite the pain, I struggled to my feet.
Past the beach was a thick grove of palm and coconut trees, a forest that led to a hilly, craggy ridge via a narrow dirt path. A world of shadows beckoned from within. I took a step, and then another, and stumbled my way into the dark forest.
4
WEI XIANG
The man hears a deep rumbling coming from the distance, a collision of noises that grows into a forlorn, bewildering cry. And he understands what it is, after a while: the crashing of waves.
The sea is coming for him.
The man is standing in a hotel room, looking out of the glass-paned door to the balcony. A woman lies on the bed, deep in slumber. Her pearlescent naked body shines against the white bedsheet; her fingers twitch, the wedding ring catching the pale light from the window, flashing once, twice. The man bends down to the bed, hesitating over whether to wake the woman. He breathes in the warm, musky smell emanating from her body.
The sound of waves grows louder, more insistent. He turns back to the window, to the world outside the room. The sky is grey, made impenetrable by a thick bank of ashy clouds. He opens the balcony door and steps outside. The sight below him is unlike anything he has ever seen before: a tempestuous sea stretching to the horizon. He shivers uncontrollably.
A hand touches his shoulder and shakes the man out of the spell. The woman. The man stares at her, unable to comprehend her immediate presence. The woman turns her gaze to the roiling water, her expression slipping swiftly into disbelief. And for a long time they stand there, side-by-side, mute and unmoving.
The woman lowers her head into her palms, her body heaving as if in deep agony; the man puts a hand on her back, and strokes gently. He can feel the trembles rippling through her, unstoppable, as if the sea itself were churning inside her—urgent, fervent, alive.
Her body, the sea.
The man hears another sound, a cry. He looks out, straining to catch its source, his eyes scanning the surface of the water, and sees it: a small boy enfolded in the waves. The woman looks at the man with stricken eyes, willing him to act. But the man does not move. She takes a step backward, away from his touch, then leaps over the railing of the balcony before the man can even react, and is swallowed whole by the sea below.
In the long moments that follow, the man can only register the silence in his head—a dark, hollow pit that takes in all and gives nothing. The water around him continues to swell. Just as he is convinced that he has lost the woman to the sea, she suddenly breaks the surface of the choppy water, holding the unconscious boy in an arm-lock, their entangled bodies bobbing, appearing and disappearing with every wave. But then, just as abruptly as they first appeared, they are gone again: the waves have pulled backward, as if the sea has sucked in a deep breath, and dragged them both away.
The man lets out an anguished cry. The world he knows is finally gone, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
Upon waking, Wei Xiang realises Ai Ling’s side of the bed is empty. He sits upright and rubs the sides of his throbbing head. Remnants of the dream are still playing in his mind, some parts so clear that when he closes his eyes he can see them again: Ai Ling and the boy in the waves, disappearing under the water, drawn away from him. He is seized by a sharp moment of panic; he breathes deeply and shakes his head, forcing the strange dream to break its hold on him.