Ashur didn't know for sure how he'd gotten here. That beach was unknown to him. Had he ever been to a beach anyway? His memories were confused. He looked down. Apart from his usual yellow briefs, he was naked. He was grasping a shovel and a small, empty bucket.

Deep inside, he knew something was out of place. He shouldn’t have been here alone. But he didn’t feel either lost or threatened. The landscape was still and silent, except for the soft rustle of the waves as they broke on the sand ahead of him. He set out, padding towards the shore. The sun scorched the beach. He didn’t care. Had he ever known anything else than scorchers since he’d been born anyway? Once, his father had told him about clouds and rain, drops of water falling from the sky, grass and trees and forests. He’d chuckled. Wasn’t that another one of dad’s proverbial fancy stories?

When he reached the sea, he stooped down, dipped his forefinger into the water and put it into his mouth. It was deliciously salty. Laying the bucket aside, he dug a single shovelful of sand and watched the walls of the hole crumble into it until it was leveled. Then he took a step ahead and shuddered as the water came up to meet his toes, for it was icy.

Something at the edge of his visual field caught his attention. He spun to the left. His parents were sitting there, at short distance. How come he hadn’t seen them before? He waved to them with his shovel. His father waved back, motioning him to come nearer. Ashur stood up, scooped seawater into his bucket, and walked towards him.

As he came closer, he spotted a sand castle a few yards beyond where his parents sat. He ran to it. The castle had a lofty dungeon surrounded by curtain walls and a moat. Ashur emptied his bucket into it. The water flowed around then slowly seeped into the sand until nothing was left of it. Looking into his bucket, Ashur discovered a tiny shell still lying in its bottom. He picked it up, turned around and walked back to his father.

Ashur sat next to him, opposite his mother. No word was spoken. His parents’ eyes were locked onto the horizon. Ashur reached out to his hand, and squeezed it. Then he too turned his gaze to the horizon, hoping to make out what it was they were so intently gazing at.

The sun was shining hot. The rustle of the waves was lulling him. It was hard to remain focussed. His head dropped, ever so slightly, and his eyes shut. 

It seemed to him that he’d dozed off only the tiniest fraction of a second, but when he opened his eyes again, the landscape had changed dramatically. Ahead of him, the sun was sinking into a crimson horizon. The sky was navy blue. The sea had turned into a maelstrom. Giant waves, bigger by the second, broke and rolled onto the shore with a thunderous roar. One of them reached Ashur’s feet. When it retreated, another one immediately took over and crawled up to his crotch.

Ashur wanted to run away but found he was paralyzed. Another wave swept his midriff. Suddenly, he remembered his father, and turned to him for help.

There was no one around.

Ashur screamed, and screamed again, but what good was his frail voice against the raging ocean? A new wave came crashing against his neck, and left him half-buried into the sand. He saw the next one rushing to him, towering above his head. His eyes widened.

[hr]

It was another of those now too common missions for the Italian corvette [i]L’azzura[/i] patrolling along the shores of Lampedusa. Once again, the ship has come too late, only to discover the flotsam of yet another dinghy sunk by the tempest. The corpses, stuck in the shallows, were being picked up one by one by divers and hauled aboard. Migrants, whose journey to a better world had ended only yards away from the promise land.

Gianfranco, the third officer, was a stout mariner, but he couldn’t help wincing each time the lifeless body of a child was reclaimed from the sea. What was that one? Six? Seven, tops? Gianfranco knelt next to him and brushed the tangle of dark, soaked hair away to reveal a delicate, winsome face.

“Fuck it man!” the voice of Sandro, the on-duty yeoman, said behind him. “No children should die like this. This is a damn shame.”

Gianfranco nodded for all answer. He let his eyes sweep down along the corpse. They stopped midway. The boy was clutching something in his right fist. Delicately, he parted the fragile fingers and saw a small, garden variety seashell. Probably some sort of keepsake, Gianfranco thought.

He remained there, silent, for a minute. Then, sighing, he closed the boy’s fist back. “Godspeed, my lad,” he whispered as he zipped up the opaque plastic bag in which the body has been placed. Then he turned his attention to the next victim, which was being dragged over the gunwale.