Magic's Call
by Eric Witchey
Across the gravel path to Marble Mooring Pier, the tideline marks the middle ground between the world of Men and Mare. In that space between ebb tide and king, stands an aging, red phone booth, an artifact of a bygone day when stories ruled the minds of all folk and the sea and land shared marvelous magics and machines. Even now, when land folk have moved on to cells and satellites, the seafolk make magical calls from time to time when the tides are high.
She rides the king tide inland, sent by her father to make the call, to bring the mystical food that symbolizes human domain over all that is dry. Between waves and with care to stay hidden, she rises from seafoam and sheds her tail to rise on legs and stride, a goddess in her glory, to the secret booth once shared between the worlds and now forgotten by Men.
Distant yet, a few humans amble slow and cold through morning air, trudging from and to while carrying cups of steam in hand and hunched in shoulder and head as if the air is not thick enough to let them show their pride in form.
She has been warned. Neither speak nor sup with those who cannot swim the deeps without suits and false fins. Do what you have been sent to do. Do no more. Tarry not, and do not, of all the temptations, step upland and across the high-tide line.
