I Hear The Starwhale Sing by Kanishk Tantia
3500 words, 17 minutes reading time
Issue 3 (Fall/Winter 2023)
Annika clambers into the boat after me, silver sari fluttering in the wind. I’m bundled in furs and oilskin to prevent the chill fingers of the wind from digging into my flesh, but the starbride is impervious to the elements. She’s more than I am, after all. More powerful, more beautiful, more important, more everything.
Everything a parent should want for their child.
I dip the oars into the water and push away from shore. Annika sits in front of me but faces away from my gaze, staring at the depths instead. It’s the first day of summer after her eighteenth birthday. Summer means so little here, but the ice has melted enough for me to row Annika out to sea. There are still small islands of ice stubbornly refusing to dissipate, but I can push them away with my oars.
There’s a small crowd watching us, but they disperse before we’re out of sight. Old man Mudeeb is the first to leave, shuffling away on crutches. The children follow soon after. I feel a surge of anger. They’re supposed to provision us for the journey, supposed to wait until I return. But I know it’s not their fault. Mudeeb might collapse if he doesn’t get back inside, and the adults need to prepare what meager provisions they can for pickling and storage. The winters have been getting harsher, and it’s hard to expect them to give what they don’t have, or to spare energy to watch me struggle to row.
“How…how are you? How have you been?” The cold is biting even through the oilskins, and my words are shakier than I expected. “You’ve gotten…tall.”
Annika whips around to look at me, her face expressionless. When did that become the default? She’d been so emotional as a child, her eyebrows waggling and nose wrinkling at the slightest provocation.
“Taller than I was at fourteen?” Her face remains composed, a mask I cannot pierce. “Yes. I suppose I have, Ma.”
If I squint, I can make out an empty shore. Just us, on the open ocean, rowing away from home. Well, I’m rowing away from home. I suppose I’m taking Annika to hers.
“You were so small, back then. Tinier than my arm when you were born.” I speak through gasps, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dadi took one look at you and said you were the starbride.”
“Dadi couldn’t see anything when I was born.” The starbride is ancient, but Annika is only eighteen, and the measured tone does not suit her. “She was blind in both eyes, Ma. She couldn’t have known.”
“But she saw you. She knew you.” It had been miraculous, a rare moment of lucidity from my mother. She had pointed directly at Annika, called her starbride. “She loved you.”
“She loved the starbride. I don’t know if she ever knew me.”
I push the oars in chilly silence. We have a long way to go.
Isplats is a three day trek from the nearest city, a twisting, ice-covered path braved only by the occasional foolhardy merchant. Only two types of ships ever come by: hopelessly lost or dangerously egotistical; only one type of ship ever leaves: grateful and humbled.
But we do have a starwhale, which I suppose counts for something.
Everyone has a starwhale story. Old man Mudeeb has so many, each of them so different, one would think they’re as common as snow. The butcher has theories on what it eats. The children seem to see it all the time, one-upping each other with fanciful tales of its existence.
Everyone except me. I never saw it, but I believed it was out there. Where else would the eternal whalesong come from? It was an ever-present wail, and eventually faded into the background unless one tried, really tried, to hear it. And though everyone has a different starwhale story, we know what the song means.
Loss.
“It’s crying.” My Amma, Annika’s Dadi, told me the story when I was a child. It was a birthday ritual, a sacred story she told me before bedtime. Love, loss, prophecy. What child wouldn’t be entranced? “The starwhale cries because it’s lonely.”
“Why is it lonely, Amma?” I would ask on cue, pulling my knees up to my chin, sitting between Amma’s legs. “Doesn’t it have friends?”
“Maybe. You can have friends and still be lonely. Those are the worst kinds of friends, after all.” Amma would pull me closer and rub fish oil into my hair. I hated the way it smelled, so she used my obsession with the starwhale as a distraction. “But no, it’s lonely because it misses its mate.”
“What happened to its mate?” I wriggle under the assault on my hair until Amma uses her knees to steady my head, preventing any further escape attempts.
“We killed her, beta.” Amma’s fingers feel nice in my scalp, even if the oil is greasy and pungent, the worst parts of the smelliest fish. “Hundreds of years ago. Isplats was darker and colder then, and the men and women who came here needed to eat. They needed warmth. They needed fuel. So, they set out to hunt a starwhale. Back then, there were two, you see.”
“How do you hunt a starwhale?”
Amma always paused here. I think it was partially for dramatic effect and partially because my hair was knotty and tangly, and she needed to pick away at it until it finally loosened out.
“You don’t. They know the ocean, and the sky, and everything beyond.” Amma reached for her comb, a thick piece of carved wood she claimed had been in the family for nearly eight generations. “How could you hunt something like that?”
“Then how did we kill it?”
“She came to us, beta. They say she swam to Isplats on the day the men were going to hunt her.” Her nimble fingers would start braiding then, plucking strands of freshly oiled and straightened hair, twisting, and curling them into intricate patterns. “She washed up on the shore, barely breathing. And when the men started hurling spears at her, she did nothing. As if she knew what we needed and offered herself for our sake.”
“And then the whalesong started?”
Amma didn’t respond until she had finished braiding and binding my hair, until she was sure it would stay in place until the next morning.
“Yes. As soon as the starwhale stopped breathing, the whalesong started.” Amma finally released me from between her knees. “Because its mate knew what we did, and mourned and cried. And it will continue to cry until—”
“—until the bride is reborn!”
“Yes, jaan. Until the starbride returns.”
A story. A silly story.
I don’t like silly stories anymore.
Isplats is far away from us now and my arms are tired. We have at least a few more hours to row, if not longer. Annika only needs to sit there, untouched by frost or hunger. But I need food. I need breaks. I need energy for the return, even if I return incomplete.
“You used to love these.” The spicy-but-sweet tang of achaar hits my nose. Pickled cloudberries, harvested in summer, preserved for winter. “Remember? I punished you for eating an entire jar of these when you were eleven.”
“Twelve, Ma.” Annika’s gaze settles on the bright red berries, dripping in spices and oil. “You were saving them for my thirteenth birthday.”
“Are you sure? I thought—”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
She says it with such certainty that I must agree, even if I know she’s wrong.
“Twelve then. I was going to make you sweep the house for a month, but then you went to Pa.” I pull the oilskin in closer, and instinctively offer Annika the jar, tilting it towards her so she can pick at the berries. “Do you remember what you said?”
For the first time in a long time, I see Annika smile. It’s hauntingly familiar, the smile of a stranger I knew in another life. Would it be more recognizable if I’d been able to see her these past years? But the seashrine doesn’t allow visitors. Not even family. Especially not family.
“I told Pa they were supposed to be mine anyway.” Her teeth are perfectly white and perfectly shaped, completely even. I don’t know if the starwhale cares for dentistry, but we owe the starbride everything. The seashrine probably paid for it. “Why would you punish me for taking what’s mine?”
“Terrible argument.” I shake the pickles in front of her, hoping she’ll take at least one. I didn’t expect her to want them. They aren’t fit for a starbride. But I had hoped anyway. “Absolutely nonsensical.”
“I know.” She pushes the jar away delicately with a painted fingernail, but I can see her eyes following the movement of the glistening berries even as I take one and swallow it. “But I was eleven.”
It’s a good thing she refused. The cloudberries are too sour, too bitter. I can’t imagine she’ll enjoy the taste after eating at the seashrine for four years. And anyway, I was never very good at pickling.
We brought tea out in the only set of unchipped cups we owned. Amma was saving them for a special occasion, and I thought this counted well enough. The spicy, stringent smell of moss and bark filled the room, just warm enough to remind us of the coming summer.
“So, where is she?” The selector put the cup down a little more forcefully than I would have liked, but it stayed in one piece, thank the starwhale. “The so-called starbride? Where is she?”
“Ah. Annika. She’ll be here. Just a few minutes, I promise.”
He made a noncommittal grunt and looked at his watch. I already knew exactly how many minutes and seconds late Annika was. Instead, I looked outside, as if my daughter would magically appear at our doorstep.
“I have a few other homes to visit, you understand?” His politeness was sharper than any rudeness I could muster. It came with the barest trace of contempt, so slight it might be imagined. “I apologize. Everyone thinks it’s their daughter or son, but we haven’t had a starbride yet. This is a formality, you know?”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, I understand.” A sigh. “A few more minutes.”
I was certain, even then, and my certainty couldn’t be explained away by parental love. Annika was special. And when she arrived, a few minutes later than late, we were sure the selector would see it too.
“Why were you late, Annika?”
“The starwhale waited three thousand years. Surely you can wait twenty minutes?” She paused, looked at me, and saw what I’m sure was an expression of horror plastered across my face. It didn’t deter her. It never did, in the moment. “Or are you going to start singing too?”
The selector left an hour later, and I hugged Annika, peppering her face with kisses. Starbride or not, I could tell the stress of the interview had gotten to her. She was charming in front of strangers, but alone with me, she crumpled.
“Did I upset him?” She spoke into my shoulder, unwilling to look into my eyes. “Did he hate me?”
I paused. The expression on his face was one I’d seen before. So many people who met Annika for the first time left with the same expression.
“No. I think he loved you. I think he hated that he loved you.”
“And that’s good?”
“It’s wonderful, beta.”
Three weeks later, the selector returned. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him in. Or maybe I shouldn’t have let Annika leave. But I did what I thought was best for her, for the starbride.
The ocean is calmer now that Isplats is far behind the horizon. The boat glides on a thin sheet of glass and my oars spread ripples for what seems like miles. The stars reflect on the water, light scattering on floating patches of light until it may as well be daytime.
“I think—I think we need to take a break, Annika.”
She nods without looking at me, still staring straight ahead towards our destination. It’s only a few hours away, and the whalesong is louder than I’ve ever heard it. No longer in the background, it washes over us, demanding attention, drawing out pity for the plight of the starwhale. I’m sure it affects Annika more than me.
“I’m sorry. I just…I just need some time. A couple hours, and I’ll be okay.”
I crack open a tin of wax and daub globs of it onto my skin. The furs and oilskin protect my core, but my face, my eyelids, my lips, those are still at the mercy of the winds. I look at the back of Annika’s head, braided black hair shining with fish oil.
“You don’t need any wax, do you?” I laugh at myself as I ask. “No, probably not. The starbride doesn’t feel cold. Must be nice.”
I’m about to close the tin when I notice her hand reaching out for it. Her fingernails are still perfectly manicured, but the skin around them is paler now, graying blue. A tremor runs through her hand, and soon envelopes her entire body. She’s shivering.
“Annika?”
“Yes, ma?” Her voice is still steady. If I didn’t see her shake, I wouldn’t know anything was wrong. “A break is fine. They tell me I’ve waited over three thousand years. A few more hours won’t kill me.”
“I…”
I think they might, but the words die in my throat. Instead, I strip the heaviest fur coat off my back and drape it on her. It’s damp, seeped in sweat and sea spray, but warmer than the thin sari she’s wearing.
“I love you, jaan.”
“I love you too, ma.” She pulls the coat closer, but still doesn’t look at me. “I love you too.”
I push the wax tin towards her, carefully shifting my weight so the boat doesn’t rock too much. This is all blasphemy, of course. The starbride shouldn’t need any help. Amma used to tell me the starbride would swim from the shores of Isplats, turning into a whale the moment the water touched her. Plenty of water has touched Annika, and she still appears entirely human. But stories can be wrong.
“What did you do there?” I ask her once she’s done applying the wax to herself. She still won’t look at me, but she does at least answer.
“So much, and so little.”
“That’s a very starbride answer.” I chuckle. “It means nothing.”
And does nothing to alleviate my fears. I know she’s the starbride, but the uncertainty lies in my heart nonetheless. A mistake. An accident. A vain hope, maybe. Isplats is on the brink. Maybe we wanted a starbride so badly, we didn’t realize we never had one.
“Or maybe it means everything.” She turns around then, and I can see laughter in her eyes. The wax sticks to her skin, but there are already small patches of frostbite on her nose and earlobes. “But really, they made me do so much. So many tests. Holding my breath underwater. Predicting what the starwhale would sing the next day. Then next week. Then next month.”
“And you passed?” Relief seeps into me, immediately followed by a creeping shame at the momentary loss of faith. Of course they tested her. I always knew it; we all knew it. “Those tests, you passed them?”
“They chose me, Ma. Does it matter if I passed, or failed, or cheated?” And when she says it, I believe her. “They chose me. I’m the starbride.”
They did choose her. The seashrine anointed her. The priests blessed her. Everyone in Isplats saw us leave. My daughter, the starbride.
I continue to stare at Annika’s braided hair, and somehow, without my knowledge or my permission, my eyes close.
The other mothers and I met once a week, ostensibly to pray, but really to gossip and support each other. We knew the chances were against us. There had been no starbride in so long.
“I hear Gayatri—”
“She came back last night. Right after midnight.”
It explained why one of the mothers was missing. Ashin had never wanted Gayatri to be the starbride, but the shrine had taken her daughter against her wishes. Still, she had been sure her daughter would return one day.
“She looked happy.”
“Who, Gayatri?”
“Ashin. I saw her at the butchers today, buying halibut.”
The other mothers and I shared looks of pride and shame. Did we want our daughters back, or not? I avoided the question as long as I could, because I wasn’t sure which answer was the right one.
When Annika left, there were twelve of us, but as the children returned, the numbers dwindled. Ashin had no place in the group anymore. Gayatri wasn’t chosen. She wasn’t the starbride. Our daughters still could be.
There were only six left. Then five. Then three.
“It’s Rekha’s birthday.” Her mother put a small cake on the table, a little tradition we made, a celebration without the celebrated. The cakes used to be larger, back when there were more of us. “I couldn’t find eggs or butter, but—”
“She would have loved it.”
We sang, three voices forcefully injecting cheer into the meeting room.
“Sometimes, I wonder. Do I even want—”
“You do. We all do.”
We lied to each other, claiming there was no greater honor. Or at least, I lied to them. Perhaps they truly meant it. Perhaps, as the winters grew longer and the goods grew rarer, they meant it more and more, while I meant it less and less.
Maybe that’s why Annika was chosen. Because I didn’t want her to be. Because after three years of missing Annika, I finally knew the answer. I didn’t pray for her to be the starbride. I prayed for her to be rejected, for her to come home, for her to be a child again.
But the starbride was meant to be a sacrifice.
I wake to the sound of Annika rummaging in my bag. The sky is still dark, with streaks of purple faintly visible in the horizon.
“Ma, do you have more cloudberries?” Her fingers and teeth are stained pink from the pickles, and an empty jar rolls around the boat. “I don’t see any in the bag, but—”
I pull the bag close and fish for the jar.
“Here.”
“Where was it?” She pulls the lid off and uses a not-so-delicately manicured finger to pop one in her mouth. “I couldn’t see any.”
“In the bag. It was in the bag, jaan.”
She doesn’t say anything. Understandable, given the prodigious number of berries she’s stuffing into her face.
“Didn’t they give you any cloudberries at the shrine?”
“What? No. No, nothing sweet, nothing spicy.” She swallows and immediately pops another one into her mouth. “Flavor is distraction. The starbride doesn’t need distractions, only focus.”
Red juice glistens at the corners of her mouth, and for the briefest moment, the stranger disappears. The mask breaks, and I see a child once more.
And then I touch the oars, and the façade asserts itself once more. Annika closes the jar and rearranges her face into an expression of nothingness.
“Yes. Let’s go, Ma. It’s time, isn’t it?”
My arms ache. The soreness of the previous day has only intensified, and every muscle screams at me to stop. They aren’t alone. Every fiber of me wants to stop, wants to turn around, wants to throw the oars overboard. Instead, I keep going until my arms warm up and the repetitive motion drives any thoughts from my head.
The whalesong is stronger now, and it continues to grow. Reverberating in my skull. Soon, the water abruptly changes color. The pale blue sheets of water turn black. And every few feet, pinpricks of starlight shine through the surface of the water.
The starwhale lies below us, singing, mourning, waiting.
“Ma?” Annika shouts over the song as she stands, shrugging the fur coat off her shoulders and immediately shivering. “Are you happy they chose me?”
No.
“Yes, jaan. I—I am.”
She turns towards me, black hair whipping against the sky. Flashes of orange and magenta shine through the tresses, and I can barely see any frostbite on her skin anymore.
My daughter. The chosen one. The starbride.
“Bye, Ma.”
Don’t go. Don’t leave. Stay with me. I want to shout the words out loud, but they die in my throat. I have more cloudberries for her, if she wants them. She just has to stay with me. But instead, she lowers herself into the water. She gasps, a sharp intake of breath, her face screwed up in pain as the cold seeps into her skin.
It’s all wrong, isn’t it? It’s all awfully, awfully wrong. The story. The prophecy. The ritual. It’s all wrong. And by the time I realize it, she’s gone, sinking into the depths. The last I see of my daughter is the silver sari she wears, before the darkness swallows her entirely.
The whalesong never stops.