The Micliac

Nina grew up in Saint Bernard, a little town near the beach. Back then, it was a small settlement with only two pavement streets, an elementary school, some shops, a cafeteria, and a guest house that today has been redesigned as a cozy hotel. Her father was a fisherman and he had raised her by himself, as the mother died in childbirth. Many years later, Nina would still recall the scent of the sea and the sound of the everlasting wind that tangled her long, black hair when she was a young girl. Some miles north, there was a lighthouse that would shine and bring hope to both father and daughter even during those lonely, long winter nights. By contrast, during the summer, the town became alive, as it was crowded with tourists. One of them would be my future grandfather Leo, a traveling salesman, who stopped by in 1948. Nina was nineteen years old by that time. Leo and Nina fell in love and got married within a matter of weeks, and she followed him to the big city bringing her aging father with her. None of them ever returned to Saint Bernard, as they had nothing left.

Yet, some part of Nina, my dear grandmother, never left her hometown. She would always tell me and my two sisters about its sunny dock, the delicious pies the owner of the cafeteria would bake, the long walks she took on the sand, the bonfires in which my great-grandfather would roast the catch of the day, and her happy childhood years. Among my favorite stories, there was the one of the Micliacs. I thought she must have got the name from some mythology, yet my grandmother could hardly read and write. As I grew up and researched, it struck me that not even Google or Wikipedia could provide an answer. Could she possibly have made the whole things up?

According to my grandma, the Micliacs are sea entities, their entire bodies composed of water –or a substance similar to water. Most of the time, they seem invisible. However, unlike water, they can change their colors and turn discernible at will. She and other children from Saint Bernard would spot them during the sunset when their fins would briefly emerge through the waves. "Only a few times I saw them flipping in the air", she would tell us with a mysterious, deep voice, "you see, girls, Micliacs fear us human beings, huge, solid earth beasts who keep throwing garbage into the sea, fighting wars in the middle of the ocean, hurting each other and every living thing. I believe they are peaceful creatures that just want to keep on undisturbed". I always thought she added that last part as a warning for us to stop littering, and as advice of being nice to each other. "Grandma, how do they look?" Stephanie, my youngest sister, would always ask. Sometimes, grandma described them as dolphin-like creatures, graceful as the sea waves. Other times, in her story they would take a human shape, and even sing with human voices, like mermaids. I, the eldest sister, would smile and feel tender warmth in my heart listening to her fantasies.

Grandma died a few months before my first child was born. She went peacefully in her sleep, and I know she regretted nothing. "I'm only hoping to meet your grandfather once more", she said the last time we got to share a cup of tea. She didn't mention her birthplace at all. Yet, I spent the following ten years of my life dreaming about visiting Saint Bernard. It wasn't really far away from our city, but I dreaded disappointment since, by then, it had become a well-known touristic spot, quite different from the peaceful town my grandmother used to evoke through her stories.

In any case, one summer Chase, my husband, surprised me with bus tickets and a hotel reservation for us and our two boys. When we arrived, I felt relieved: despite being a prosperous touristic beach town, Saint Bernard was still small, rustic, and charming. We were heading for great family fun, Tim and Alex building sandcastles and chasing seagulls, while their father and I would lie down in the sun and relax. We ate tons of ice-cream, and in the evenings, we enjoyed eating comfort food that the owner of the hotel would cook himself. By the way, the cafeteria was still open, and the owner was the granddaughter of the lady my grandmother had met. The pies were still delicious. Chase and I enjoyed the romantic view of the moon over the ocean when our kids were already asleep. As for the boys, they enjoyed playing at the seaside more than anything: it was the first time we took them to the beach.

Everything was perfect.

And then, there was that afternoon.

I have been lying down on the beach, doing a crossword puzzle while Chase and the kids were taking a swim. When I heard Alex, my 9-year-old, screaming for help, I felt my blood freezing. "Mom, mom! It's Tim! Tim is lost!" I leaped up, ran to the shore and I caught a glimpse of my desperate husband, swimming around and looking for our little boy. One big wave had torn him apart from his father's arms, and the current had taken him deeper into the sea. I dived into the cold water and I started to shout his name. I couldn't think. He was just seven years old, and I knew he could hardly float on a pool. The lifeguard heard our screams and she was already running towards the sea when I spotted Tim's little body lying on the shore. Seaweed was tangled on his arms and legs.

We all ran towards him and we feared the worse. And yet, even before I could lean and grab his little body, he had already sat down and was rubbing his eyes. "Tim, oh, Timmy, my love, my dear, dear little boy", I hugged him so hard that the lifeguard requested me to give him some air. By that time, both his dad and his brother had joined me and we were all sobbing. Other people had gathered around us and they were looking at the scene with astonishment. "I'm ok, mom", he said, "I just got scared". "Oh, Timmy, how could I lose you? I'll never forgive myself", mumbled Chase. I gave him a sympathetic tap on the shoulder. "He's fine, that's what matters the most", said the lifeguard, "Although, kid, you must be a hell of a swimmer to be alive". As she double-checked Tim's vital signs, I noticed he had a strange little smile on his face. We hugged him and rubbed him with a towel.

"Now, tell us, Tim", my husband finally said, as we finally sat down and offered our boys a cool drink, "how did you get back to the shore? Did the waves push you?" "No, daddy, the waves were pulling me back! I got really scared, I was sinking and I couldn't see or hear anything! But then, the kind man took me to the shore." Alex, Chase, and I opened our mouths wide. "What man, Tim?" I asked. "Well… at first I thought he was a guy, a glass guy. I could see through him. He was cold and wet. Now that I think about it, he kinda looked like a dolphin too… I don't know… it was more like, like a shape… but he could swim very well, he kept my head out of the water all the time, that's why I couldn't see him, better. I think I saw a fin or something like that. It was him who took me to the shore so I could breathe".

Chase and Alex stared at each other. I lifted my eyes towards the horizon and looked at the sea. "I can still hear him, mom, can you?" I heard Tim's little voice. And, in amusement, I heard it too. The singing. It might have been the sound of the breeze, but there was something –or someone– else far away, deep into the sea, whose voice made my heart tremble with gratitude and amazement. I tried to distinguish a fin, perhaps a flipping creature over the waves. "Thank you", I whispered. I don't think even Tim heard me say it.

But wherever she is, I am sure my grandmother Nina was feeling thankful as well.