The memory rolls through the kelps of my mind, revealing the
hidden things.
My name is Kal, I remember.
Kal I do not remember.
You I know. I shall not aid you.
I remember the healing pools. I remember that when my body's
flesh failed – drowning, perhaps, or an accident with an axe, or overwork, or
being at the wrong end of a bad kicking, or letting a woman butcher me as I
fucked her – I would wake again in a healing pool. Start again. Strive again.
I remember the peace of the healing pools, caught between
the land's cliffs and the sea's storms. Some pools were warmer than others,
some were deeper than others. Some had crabs and anemones and swaying weeds to
entertain my eyes in the time between my reassembly and my resurrection. Some
pools – like this pool – were less interesting.
I know who I am, and I know where I am.
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