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Wilbur was singing to the sea again.
Fundy was used to this. He figured it was just one of the quirks that came with being a lighthouse keeper, alongside unwarranted amounts of tea and a beanie that remained forever unwashed. So, when he heard the stirrings of a guitar, he just put on the kettle and waited for the water to boil. When it was done, he poured it into two mugs, tea bags already resting in them – a traditional English Breakfast for Wilbur, a fruity blend with real dried berries for him – and went out to sit next to him on the pier.
He set Wilbur’s mug down and sipped on his own, gently leaning on his father. Enough to feel his warmth, radiating through his thick coat, but not enough to interrupt his music. He closed his eyes, allowed the melody to wash over him. It was a sea shanty, or else something close, and Wilbur’s voice was timed perfectly with the lapping and the crashing of the waves, filling Fundy’s bones with longing.
Eventually the song trailed off, leaving the sea to continue its melody on its own, and Wilbur put down his guitar.
“Did you know, I didn’t plan to be a lighthouse keeper?” asked Wilbur.
Fundy opened his eyes. It had never occurred to him that Wilbur had ever been anything but a lighthouse keeper. It ran in the blood of their family, and Fundy couldn’t picture the lighthouse without his father. It would be like removing its lungs or heart. He looked up, and saw something bittersweet in Wilbur’s eyes.
“I was going to be a musician,” he said, running his fingers through Fundy’s hair. “Had a band and everything. Was going to leave this small town behind. The sea too, though I’m sure I would have seen it plenty. It’s a big thing. Hard to avoid.”
Fundy still couldn’t picture him in a context that wasn’t their home, in a place where sea salt wasn’t always hanging in the air, but Wilbur and music did make sense. There were two sounds Fundy loved more than anything: the sea, and his father’s singing voice. The strum of his guitar was a close third.
“Why did you stay, then?” asked Fundy. The sun was descending to the water, its golden light beginning to turn pink and orange on the canvas of the sea and the sky.
“I met your mother,” answered Wilbur, honestly. “And then you were born. You deserved to grow up by the sea. Your grandfather offered to take care of you, but I knew I would never forgive myself if I missed watching my son grow up.”
Love swelled in Fundy’s chest, a king tide of affection for his father and his father’s affection for him, but also something darker. A fear.
“I’m not a child anymore,” said Fundy, and he wasn’t. He was fourteen. Two more years and he would be able to leave school and become an apprentice at the lighthouse. “Grandpa will be back from vacation soon. He can take care of me, and you can go and become a musician.”
Wilbur smiled at Fundy, and there was a sadness in it that made Fundy’s heart ache. “Nah, I’ve grown fond of the lighthouse. And of a certain son of mine,” he said, pulling Fundy close. “Besides, who would sing to the sea?”
“I’m learning. I could,” said Fundy, but Wilbur just gave him another of his sad smiles.
Fundy had been fifteen for a few months now, and his skin was beginning to itch. Wilbur had brought him creams, but they only helped a little; a fact his father seemed unsurprised by. The only real relief was the water and its salt.
Even as the months turned cold and winter settled over their town, he still swam. The temperature had never affected him as much as the other kids, but now the chill didn’t touch him at all. Some days it felt like he spent more time in water than on land. Even on land, if he was struggling with homework Wilbur would simply run him a bath, dumping seawater into it, and Fundy would do his work there, sitting in a pair of swimming trunks.
“Your mother loves to swim as well,” said Wilbur. He was somewhat inconsistent with tenses when it came to Sally. Sometimes he used present, sometimes past. Fundy had once worked up the courage to point it out, and Wilbur had replied by saying that with some things change was possible – like her favourite song, or how she laughed – and so present tense would be presumptive. Fundy privately thought it was a bull explanation, but his courage hadn’t extended that far.
Fundy hummed, bringing over the mugs. He sat down opposite Wilbur and handed him the baby blue one.
Wilbur accepted it and continued. “She spent most of her time in the water. I think I only managed to get her on land ten, twenty times.”
Fundy wondered about his parents and their romance sometimes. Not that he wanted to linger on the details, but from all he knew their relationship wasn’t standard, not for their town anyway. Most of his schoolmates had two parents, if not more, except for Tubbo and Tommy, who didn’t have any parents and lived on their own. Meanwhile, he had his father and a mother who disappeared as soon as he was born.
Wilbur always said that Sally had gone out to sea, back to her home. That she would return, one day. As a child, Fundy believed it with all his heart. He would sit at the top of the lighthouse, watching for the flash of red that would mark her return. Recently, however, Fundy had learned about euphemisms in his English class, and was starting to suspect ‘gone out to sea’ really meant ‘dead’.
Fundy considered asking Wilbur if this was the case when the door to the kitchen slammed open.
Fundy jumped, nearly spilling his tea. At the entrance was Tommy, in all his loud glory, and Tubbo, peering out from behind him.
“Wilbur!” he greeted. “Fundy. We’re here, and we’ve got the paperwork.”
Fundy was already confused, but Wilbur gestured them in.
“Here they are, boss man,” said Tubbo, handing over several official-looking documents.
Fundy peered at them, trying to catch some of the words, but Wilbur lifted them up, blocking his view. “Excellent,” he said, leafing through them. “I’m not seeing any misspellings.”
“I did the writing, but Tubbo was the one who actually figured out what needed to be written,” explained Tommy, sounding proud. Tubbo grinned shyly.
“Well, you should be able to start in a couple weeks—”
“Start what?” interrupted Fundy, unable to ignore his curiosity any longer. It was like a wild fox, digging and biting at his brain.
“Their apprenticeships,” said Wilbur nonchalantly. “Tommy just turned sixteen, and we both know Philza has been going on more and more vacations. It’s a good time to start training the next generation of keepers—”
“But I’m the next generation of keepers!” protested Fundy. He felt confused, lost, betrayed. He also felt stupid, like he was overreacting, but this lighthouse had been in their family for generations. Fundy had always thought he would be the one to fill his father’s boots, to take over caring for his home. His brain scrambled for anything he had missed. Sure, Wilbur hadn’t really done anything on the logistic side of things, hadn’t discussed what exactly would happen, but that’s just because Fundy still had a year before he could leave school. Not because he didn’t want Fundy to take over.
Tommy and Tubbo were side-eyeing each other, Tommy making an exaggerated grimace. Like a toddler had just started throwing a tantrum in a shop. Fundy glared at him.
“Of course, of course,” placated Wilbur. “We don’t need to just have one lighthouse keeper. When you turn sixteen there will still be a place for you.”
Fundy felt his draw drop. He knew when his father was lying, and his father was lying. You didn’t need three lighthouse keepers, not when they were all young and fit. There would be no room for Fundy.
He stood up, pushed himself away from the table. Stormed out the door, ignoring Wilbur and Tubbo and Tommy, and headed straight for the beach.
The stones dug into his feet, so he started to run. There must have been a broken bottle, because he felt a sharp pain, but still he didn’t stop. Not till he reached the water.
He dove in, let the cold sea embrace him. He didn’t know if he had started crying, and now it didn’t matter. If there were any tears, their salt was now mixed with that of the ocean’s.
He swam out, till the lighthouse was just a white and red needle piercing the sky. Even with his clothes, he felt light. Warnings of currents echoed in his head but he didn’t feel afraid. He trusted the sea.
He let himself sink down, till there was nothing in his life but water. He stayed there, waiting for his lungs to start to ache, but they never did.
It was night when he returned. Wilbur was waiting on the pier, a blanket and a mug of tea – still steaming – in his hands. Fundy walked past him without saying a word.
Winter and autumn had long passed by, and Fundy still hadn’t forgiven Wilbur. He knew he was being petty, knew he should accept his father’s olive branches, but it was hard not to be petty when suddenly Tommy and Tubbo was living in his home, and when Wilbur had given up all pretence regarding Fundy ever being a lighthouse keeper.
When he wasn’t in school, he was in the sea. It was starting to feel more like his home than the lighthouse. He was certainly more comfortable there, without anyone to have awkward and tense conversations with. There had been a lot more storms recently, more than was normal for spring, but Fundy didn’t care. It matched his new angry mood. Even when the sea and sky were raging, Fundy still swam. He would return in the middle of the night, dripping water onto the floor. Wilbur would always be waiting for him, tea and blanket ready, and Fundy would always ignore him.
It was on one of these nights, three days from his birthday, that Wilbur blocked the stairwell leading to his bedroom.
“We need to talk,” Wilbur said.
Fundy looked at him angrily, but sat down at the kitchen table. Wilbur joined him.
“I know you’ve been angry with me but—”
“Why don’t you trust me to take over the lighthouse?” snapped Fundy. “This is my home. I was born here. I’ve lived my entire life here, would be happy to live the rest of it here too. Am I really that much of a failure in your eyes?”
Wilbur smiled at him. Sadly, like he used to when Fundy was younger. With a shock, Fundy realises there are tears in his eyes. Just welling up, not yet falling, but still, they’re there.
“You weren’t born here,” he said. His voice was soft, with a hint of a tremble. “You were born in the sea.”
Fundy frowned, unsure what he meant. Wilbur had always said he had a water birth. He had assumed that meant the lighthouse bathtub. Surely his mother hadn’t decided to have labour half-submerged in the ocean?
“And,” Wilbur continued, “you wouldn’t be happy to live here. Not with what’s going to happen, on your birthday.”
Fundy tensed. Tried to put together the evidence. “Are you kicking me out?” he asked, voice cracking.
“No!” denied Wilbur, horrified. He reached forward, touching Fundy’s cheeks. “My baby boy. No, never.” He hesitated, like the words wouldn’t come to his tongue. “Sally, your mother, is coming.”
“My mother is dead,” said Fundy flatly. He was completely and utterly lost.
Wilbur shook his head. “No, she just went home,” he said. “She couldn’t live here, and she couldn’t take you to her home. Not till your sixteenth.”
“What? Why?” asked Fundy.
Wilbur dropped his hands. “I should have told you this before,” he confessed. “Before I took on Tommy and Tubbo, at the very least. But I just… I didn’t have the words.”
“You’re great with words, though,” said Fundy. “You were going to be a musician.”
Wilbur looked at him. “Your mother is a mermaid,” he said at last.
Fundy stared back at him. Waited for him to start laughing. Felt his own laughter rising in his throat. Oh, Wilbur got him good! He had finally managed to get him back, for all the tricks and pranks over the years.
But Wilbur didn’t laugh. He just looked like he was going to cry. Fundy’s laughter died in his throat, stillborn.
“You come into the world human,” explained Wilbur. “Too human for the sea, anyway. But Sally… she explained that when you turned sixteen, she would come to collect you. As long as you grew up by the sea, it would accept you by then.”
Fundy had a thousand questions. Only one came out.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
Wilbur’s tears started to fall.
“Oh, Fundy,” said Wilbur. He stood up, walked around the kitchen. Pulled Fundy into a hug. Salty water fell on his skin. “We both know you want to go. Ever since you were young, the sea has called to you. It was quiet at first, but now… you spend more time in water than on land. I wish your home was still here, with me, but it isn’t.”
Fundy slowly hugged his father back. The final piece of the puzzle, one he hadn’t even known he had been working on, fell into place. Fundy started to cry as well.
It was his birthday, and he was standing on the pier alone.
Wilbur was watching from the land. They had both agreed that it would be too hard otherwise. Fundy was still mad at him. For not telling him sooner, for allowing Fundy to waste his last months with him on spite and anger and pettiness. Mainly, though, he was furious with himself, and aching deep in his chest.
Wilbur had said that Fundy would probably be able to visit him. Once he had learned to live in the sea. But he had sounded unsure, and Fundy didn’t know when that would be.
He used to watch from the top of the lighthouse, for the flash of red. Hoping the colour would appear. Longing for it. Now he watched from the pier, with something adjacent to fear.
It was when the sky and the sea started to turn orange and pink that he saw the crimson.
Fundy stood up. He ached to look back, to see his father’s face, but he knew it would be a mistake. Knew that, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave. So, he took a final breath – tasted the sea salt that always hung heavy in the air – and dove into the water.
The water embraced him, like always, but this time it didn’t stop at his skin. It reached inside him, caressing his bones and his heart and his stomach. It wrapped around his lungs, and then sunk into them and filled them with salt.
No sensation of drowning came. Just a deep sense of home.
Aches did shoot through his body, years of growing pain condensed into a handful of minutes, but the sea soothed them. Fundy let himself drift until they disappeared entirely.
He looked down at his legs and saw orange, shimmering in the underwater sunlight. He gave his tail an experimental flex, and saw that it also had stripes of black and white.
He looked up at the pier, distorted by water. Saw the shape of Wilbur standing at its edge. Then he looked out into the water and saw a mermaid, waiting. She had crimson hair and a crimson tail, and she was smiling.
The red of his mother beckoned him, and he swam to it.