Between Nowhere and Not Yet #3
He wasn’t afraid. He was exhilarated.
The past few days, he’d seen more crabs creeping along the beach than usual.
At first, it had felt like a coastal oddity—quirky, harmless.
He’d even snatched a few for supper. But when their numbers swelled, day after day, curiosity sparked like flint.
And that morning, he followed them into the woods, just to see.
He hadn’t expected this.
What he’d found wasn’t a colony. It was an invasion.
Thousands—no, tens of thousands—scarlet crabs pouring through the undergrowth like living lava, marching with mindless, mesmerizing purpose.
He’d heard stories. Legends told by old fishermen about red tides of legs and shells. He had laughed at them once.
Not now.
“Damn! They can move!” he shouted to the trees, half in awe, half in disbelief, as the tide of crabs swept toward him. They clambered over his boots, hooked onto his trouser legs. He had to scramble to avoid being trampled—not from danger, but from sheer force of numbers.
Near the beach, he spotted salvation, a tree tilted against another, forming a natural perch. He climbed fast, breathless with giddy amazement. From above, he watched them surge from the trees and flood the sand. A scarlet river cascading from the forest to the sea.
The beach was alive—writhing, shifting, clicking claws flashing in the sunlight. Some dug furiously at the wet sand, while others wandered in apparent chaos, yet clearly driven. Nic’s eyes sparkled. He recognized the madness of instinct when he saw it.
An ancient force had summoned them. Some pulse of moonlight, or tidal whisper, or scent on the breeze only they could read. Mating. Or migration. It didn’t matter.
It was magnificent!
He sat on the tilted tree like a king on a crooked throne, grinning wildly as the forest emptied itself at his feet. Nature had called a parade, and he’d gotten a front-row seat.
A light drizzle had begun at midday and had lingered for hours, steady as heartbeat.
The faint crescent moon offered no guidance through the thick curtain of clouds, but Nic’s small oil lamp cast a narrow halo on the damp world around him.
He pushed rain-heavy strands from his eyes and stepped carefully between the crowd of crabs.
The determined little creatures were undeterred by weather or watcher.
If anything, they seemed more resolute, their march unbroken.
The beach was a map of holes now—each one clawed open with intent.
After hours crouched in the rain, Nic had begun to see the pattern.
The males, smaller and restless, were the architects.
They busied themselves with construction, carving homes into wet sand, battling over prime terrain.
Claws clashed and locked like swords. The larger females meandered nearby, foraging with perfect disinterest in the ongoing skirmishes.
He knelt by one of the burrows and peered into the darkness.
He saw only one crab—but he knew there were two.
A silent pairing was taking place beneath the sand, a quiet ceremony repeated by the thousands.
Nearby, a male waved his claws in theatrical invitation as a crimson-hued lady passed, possibly weighing the neatness of the den or the symmetry of his shell.
Did she care for appearance? For strength?
Or was it some soundless signal, some private measure, only crabs could comprehend?
He climbed onto a boulder slick with spray. The rain had eased into a fine mist, but the sea remained restless. Waves slammed the rocks below, sending sheets of frigid brine surging up around him. On the shore, the crabs scuttled on, lost in a ritual older than mortal memory.
They needed no tenderness, no longing. Only tide and moonlight. Their instinct was unburdened by emotion. No lovers’ quarrels. No fragile confessions. They mated because a pulse inside them said now, and that was enough.
Nic exhaled slowly. Would it not be simpler if men were the same? If love didn’t demand so much? No vulnerability, no sacrifice. Just chemistry and timing. The crabs thrived without love—so why had man been cursed with it?
He looked toward the dark horizon, chilled deeper than the sea wind could reach.
Somewhere out there, Helen was breathing beneath the same sky.
And yet, their love—so fierce, so full—was unraveling thread by thread.
They couldn't live on longing alone. Passion wasn’t mortar enough for something meant to last.
He could no longer see their future clearly. But even the thought of a world without her felt like drowning.
Could he end it, if ending it might save them both?
Or worse—if she came to that decision first—would he have the strength to let her go?
Beneath the echo of rain and the tide’s crashing grief, Nic had no answer. Only the ache of wanting and the terrible silence of not knowing what to do with it.
Near midnight, Nic noticed the tide of red beginning to shift. The males had begun their restless retreat into the forest, slipping one by one beneath the tangled green. But the scarlet ladies remained.
They lingered under the weight of the clouds, unmoving silhouettes against the pale shimmer of surf. For hours they waited, statues cast in crimson and patience. Nic watched from the shore, puzzled. What held them here? What were they waiting for in the hush before dawn?
And then, light breached the horizon—soft, rose-tinged, trembling, and the answer revealed itself.
One by one, the red-veiled ladies moved forward, stepping into the surf as if drawn by some ancient summons. The sea crashed around them, cold and breathless, and as each wave surged in, the crabs released their cargo—delicate white clouds, billowing in the foam.
Eggs.
New life, flung into the harsh mercy of the churning tide.
The water swallowed the clouds, sweeping them into the endless depths far beyond this small coast. Nic stood frozen, waves lapping upon shore, and watched as the ocean claimed them all.
By sunrise, only a few remained—last offerings to the sea. Most of the armored mothers had turned and vanished into the forest behind their mates, their duty done.
Alone atop his boulder, Nic gazed toward the horizon, grief blooming quietly beneath his ribs.
How many of those fragile lives would survive the chaos waiting for them beneath the surface?
How many would live long enough to feel the pull of moon and tide and return here—scarred, changed, burdened by the journey?
And if the travelers did return, would they remember this place? Would the cliffs feel like home? Or merely a dream they couldn’t quite name?
The surf roared. The light didn’t warmed the waves. And Nic’s sorrow pressed in—not sharp, but steady. A weight worn smooth with time.
The gloom clung to Nic for days afterward—a heavy, wet shroud he couldn’t shrug off.
He knew the crabs weren’t to blame. They had only stirred the silt at the bottom of his heart’s lake, revealing what had always been there.
The endless drizzle didn’t help. It soaked everything—sky, ground, thought.
He ached for the sun, for the crash of warm waves on bare skin, but the sea was iron-gray and sharp as knives, and the clouds hadn’t lifted in days.
Nothing was dry. Not the bark of trees. Not the earth. Not even the inside of his tent. A slow leak had turned his bedding clammy, his spare clothes sodden. Damp had crept into every seam of his world.
He crouched over his iron kettle, coaxing flame from damp tinder. The little spark hissed and sulked, unwilling to rise. Smoke curled up like a dying breath. Nic tried shielding the wisp of fire with his hands, but the wet wind snatched it anyway.
The fire died. The cold pressed in closer.
Huddled in darkness, he listened to the ocean wailing into the wind.
His tea was just a handful of leaves steeping in cold water.
He drank it anyway. His stomach groaned at the thought of the uncooked pheasant nearby, but there was no fire to roast it, no heat to render it edible.
Instead, he rationed out a small handful of nuts—chewed slowly, deliberately, each bite a tiny defiance against hunger.
He stared into the void and let his mind slip toward home.
He saw it clearly—bursting through his family’s door, shedding his damp coat, warmth wrapping around him like an embrace.
The hearth roaring. The savory scent of his mother’s steak pie spilling from the oven.
Father at his desk, sorting ledgers with a furrowed brow.
Uriah nestled in his corner chair, a blanket over his legs, reading aloud a story Nic had heard a dozen times.
Mother setting the table, silverware arranged just so, every action gentle with care.
Maybe River would be there too, if it was a quieter night at the hospital.
He imagined himself stepping into that picture. Carrying the stew pot to the table. Dipping in a spoon. Laughing as his mother swatted at his hand for sneaking a bite. His mouth watered.
He could almost feel the knife in his palm, pressing butter into the soft break of a warm roll.
He could almost hear her voice calling them to supper.
But the dream cracked. The cold pushed deeper. The wind howled through the trees, and his stomach answered back with a hollow growl.
All that remained was darkness, and the ache of being far from where he belonged.
Nic swished the clams briskly in a shallow bowl of fresh water, smiling as sand slipped away from their ridged shells.
Nearby, his kettle of broth had just begun to simmer over the fire.
He dipped in a long spoon and stirred gently, loosening bits of seaweed from the bottom with care.
One by one, he dropped the clams into the bubbling pot.
Each landed with a soft plunk, satisfying and full of promise.