The Spiral Beneath

“Some truths don’t rise with a shout—they pull you under, slow and singing.”

Standing on the rocks at the edge of the lagoon, the solitude that enveloped me was like a rare and welcome stillness in the constant thrum of our communal life. The surface of the water shimmered, still and glassy, catching the morning light like molten silver. It reflected the sky above, painting a portrait of calm that belied the challenges simmering beneath our daily routines.

In these fleeting moments alone, the reality of our existence settled on me more tangibly than ever. Without the distractions of conversation or tasks delegated and shared, the full weight of my role pressed in. I was not just surviving—I was shaping a life here, helping lay the foundation of something fragile and new, held together by perseverance, instinct, and hope.

Determined to use the quiet productively, I turned to the laundry, kneeling on the sun-warmed rocks and easing the bundled garments apart. My hands moved automatically, guided by old domestic habits—sorting by colour, as though I still had access to shelves of detergent and endless buckets of clean water. Shirts here, socks there, lighter linens off to the side. The fabric in my hands told a story—sweat-stained collars, ripped seams hastily stitched, sleeves rolled from long days under the sun. Each piece was a tactile memory, a glimpse of the people we had been, and the ones we were becoming.

But as I paused and surveyed the multicoloured mounds forming around me, the futility of the exercise sank in. The old ways—separating whites from darks, minding care labels, fussing over delicates—felt absurd in this place. There was no machine with cycles to choose from, no line of pegs or soft tumble of dryer heat. Just me, some water, and the elemental rhythm of wash and wring.

A sigh escaped me, laced with nostalgia. I allowed myself a heartbeat of longing—for proper soap, a laundry basket, the familiar scent of eucalyptus washing powder—and then I let it go.

This was Clivilius, and Clivilius demanded something else of us.

Refocusing, I adjusted my strategy. The task wasn’t about tradition—it was about function. I began re-sorting the clothes by weight and texture instead. The heavier trousers and sweatshirts I set apart, knowing they’d hold water longer and need more sun. The thinner shirts and underthings formed a separate pile, ones I could scrub and set out first to make the most of the daylight. It was a simple pivot, but it felt symbolic, another quiet concession to the world we now called home.

Here, adaptability was everything. Sentiment had to make room for efficiency. And as I dipped the first shirt into the cool lagoon, watching ripples bloom outward like veins on a leaf, I felt the shift settle within me—not with despair, but with purpose.

The fabric surrendered to the cool embrace of the lagoon, darkening as it drank in the water. But what I hadn’t expected was the sensation that followed—a delicate, invigorating tingle that began at my fingertips and travelled subtly through my skin, as though the lagoon itself recognised my presence and welcomed it.

The feeling was not unpleasant—just unusual. Almost as if the water held some residual energy, something alive and ancient, weaving itself around my hands. I stilled for a moment, eyes fixed on the ripples that gently radiated outward from where my fingers moved. There was a clarity to the water that felt… purposeful. Not sterile like tap water, not stagnant like a pond—this was something else. Something pure, yet oddly charged.

And with that came a wave of quiet introspection. In this surreal new world, where everything was alien and unknown, I was crouched beside a body of water, washing clothes by hand like generations of women before me. Somehow, that simple act felt grounding. Grounding and, strangely, sacred.

A small smile tugged at my lips. Who would have thought that doing laundry—tedious, repetitive, mundane laundry—would provide me with a moment of calm in Clivilius? But there it was. A small sanctuary within the rhythm of the work.

Curious but unfazed by the odd tingle in my hands, I pressed on. I began scrubbing the shirt against the smooth rocks, using gentle pressure and careful strokes, watching as the fine silt and embedded dust lifted and swirled away. One by one, I moved through the garments, my movements growing more confident and fluid with each passing minute. The washing became its own kind of meditation—scrub, rinse, wring, repeat. With each piece, I felt as if I were sloughing away the residue of our shared anxieties, lifting a little of the psychological weight we all carried.

As I wrung out a pair of trousers, the muscles in my arms began to protest. The sun, now climbing higher, bore down without mercy, turning the air thick and still. Sweat beaded across my forehead and temples, trickling down the sides of my face in salty trails. My back ached slightly from the repetitive bending, and yet, the work felt meaningful. Every drop of sweat, every ache in my joints, was proof of purpose.

I stood, stretching for a moment, casting my gaze over the rocks where damp shirts and trousers now lay in tidy rows, the sunlight already working its magic. It was labour, yes—but there was something deeply gratifying in seeing the tangible results of that effort.

In a world where so much felt uncertain and ephemeral, this was something real. Something I could control. And that—however fleeting—was worth its weight in gold.

As the day wore on, I established a rhythm of washing and then periodically turning the clothes. It became an almost ritualistic process—lifting each garment gently, assessing its dampness, then flipping it over to expose the untouched side to the full force of the sun’s warmth. It was important to ensure that both sides received their fair share of sunlight, a simple but crucial strategy to maximise drying efficiency. The repetition—the kneeling, reaching, turning—formed a quiet choreography, a dance of necessity dictated by the terrain, the heat, and time itself.

The rocks beneath me had warmed considerably, their surfaces radiating a gentle heat that pressed against my thighs through the fabric of my trousers. It should have been uncomfortable, but somehow, it was grounding—another reminder of how intimately we were beginning to interact with Clivilius, how inseparable we were from its rhythms.

What unsettled me, though, was the tingling in my hands. Far from subsiding with exposure, the sensation grew stronger, more defined. It was subtle at first, like the aftertaste of mint on the skin—but then it would swell, growing into a gentle, almost electric buzz that danced beneath the surface of my palms and fingers. I paused more than once, staring down at my hands, half-expecting to see some visible change—glowing veins, perhaps, or strange patterns blooming across the skin. But there was nothing. Just flesh and water. Just sensation.

It wasn’t pain. In fact, it was the opposite—soothing, almost hypnotic. Curiously, it was as though the lagoon was whispering comfort into my skin. I caught myself sighing aloud once, a sound of such deep contentment that it startled me. I blinked, suddenly aware of the trance I was slipping into.

And then, every so often, a wave would come over me—an almost dizzying flush of serenity, like being wrapped in velvet light. My breath would catch in my throat, and my entire body would give a small, involuntary shudder, as if I had stepped into a warm bath after a long winter’s walk. These were not merely moments of calm; they were moments of transcendence. As if something within Clivilius itself was responding to me, drawing me closer.

I didn’t know whether to be frightened or grateful.

The sensation didn’t feel like anything I’d encountered on Earth. It wasn’t adrenaline, nor was it fatigue. It was… something else. Something I couldn’t explain. The entomologist in me itched to study it, to catalogue and analyse this strange, physiological reaction. But another part of me—the deeper, quieter part—didn’t want to disturb the magic. It simply wanted to feel.

And so, I surrendered to the rhythm: scrub, rinse, wring, turn. The motion was both grounding and transformative, each garment laid out like a sun-worshipper, soaking in the light of this new sun. I moved with purpose, yet floated in these moments of connection, caught in the delicate balance between awe and apprehension.

This place was strange and dangerous, yes—but it was also sacred. And somewhere, in the heart of the day, between the sweat and the sun and the tingling of my hands in clear water, I began to understand that surviving in Clivilius wasn’t, perhaps, just about endurance. It was about communion.

Pausing for a much-needed break, I allowed myself a moment to glance over the fruits of my labour thus far. The clothing, now neatly laid out on the rocks to dry, shimmered slightly under the afternoon sun, their damp fibres catching the light like dewdrops on blades of grass. It was a quiet tableau of diligence—shirts, trousers, socks, and underthings spread in patient rows, basking in the sun’s embrace. Each garment bore witness to the grit and grime of our days in Clivilius, and now, in their cleaner state, they seemed to symbolise not just physical renewal, but something deeper—proof that we were still capable of reclaiming small pockets of order in the midst of chaos.

There was a distinct sense of satisfaction in seeing them there, transformed from their soiled state to something fresher, something reclaimed. I let my shoulders relax, rolled them back to ease the ache building in my spine. The warmth of the sun was relentless, but today I welcomed it. It promised that these clothes wouldn’t remain damp for long, and that the effort I had poured into this laborious task would soon pay off. This small victory—fleeting though it might be—offered a momentary balm to my weary mind, a rare instance of cause and effect that felt unequivocally positive.

However, as my eyes drifted to the sizeable pile of clothing that remained beside me, a heavy sigh escaped my lips before I could stifle it. The pile sat squat and unyielding, a looming reminder of the work still left undone. The sense of accomplishment I’d just begun to savour faded at once, like mist retreating from the morning sun. What had seemed manageable when I first began now felt endless, each crumpled item another weight dragging at my willpower.

The silence around me, once soothing, began to feel more like a vacuum. Despite the beauty of our surroundings—the mirrored stillness of the lagoon, the rustling whisper of wind threading across the grainy sands—a sense of isolation crept in, curling around the edges of my thoughts. Here, surrounded by a desert wilderness that neither judged nor offered comfort, the solitude felt stark. It wasn't loneliness exactly; it was something more nuanced—a quiet realisation of responsibility, of the invisible but ever-present burden we each carried.

I glanced over my shoulder as if half-expecting to see someone approaching, but there was no sign of Kain’s return. Just the sun overhead, the rock beneath me, and the task ahead.

This was the nature of our new existence—interdependent, yes, but still deeply solitary. Each of us had our duties, our unspoken agreements of contribution. And this, today, was mine: a quiet, unglamorous labour that no one else would see completed, yet one that mattered all the same. A single cog turning in the fragile machinery of our survival.

Squatting on my chosen rock perch, I reached for another piece of clothing from the pile beside me. I ran my thumb along the edge, briefly lost in the thought of who had worn it last and what burdens they had carried in it. As I leaned forward to submerge the garment into the lagoon’s cool, crystalline waters, a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye made my breath catch.

My body tensed instinctively. I froze, kneeling low on my haunches like an animal startled in the underbrush, every muscle held taut. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my gaze outward, letting my eyes sweep across the surface of the lagoon, searching for the source of that disturbance.

And then I saw it.

Further out, beyond the reach of my rock-stationed post, the water was stirring—subtly at first, then with greater purpose. A single whirlpool began to spiral into existence, its rotation graceful and slow, like a dancer turning on an invisible stage. The sight struck a chord of unease deep within me, an echo of yesterday’s encounter with the same strange phenomena. Though small and seemingly harmless, the whirlpool carried an undeniable sense of intention, as if the lagoon itself had exhaled and drawn in again with quiet purpose.

I stared, rooted to the spot.

Within moments, others joined it—three, four, five—spaced irregularly across the calm water, all spinning in measured silence. They moved not with the chaos of Earth’s turbulent waters, but with a kind of serene control, as if their existence had been choreographed. There was a rhythm to them, an alien cadence that defied all logic I’d brought with me from my former life.

These were no ordinary whirlpools. They shimmered with a quality I couldn’t quite name, as though the water itself contained more than just liquid—light, perhaps, or some energy I couldn’t identify. Sunlight danced on their surfaces, refracted through their spiralling motion, sending arcs of pale colour into the air: flashes of soft pink, turquoise, violet. The iridescence lingered for a second longer than it should have, as if the light was reluctant to fade.

I found myself leaning forward slightly, utterly transfixed. The whirlpools possessed a haunting elegance, and for a brief moment, I felt the same strange pull that certain deep-sea creatures inspired when glimpsed in underwater documentaries—beings so foreign, so profoundly un-Earthly, they left the viewer unsure whether to marvel or recoil.

A whisper of awe slid through me, but it did little to soothe the taut wire of caution threading through my nerves. Beauty or not, this was not normal. Not here. Not anywhere I knew.

My scientist’s mind began firing through possibilities—geothermal activity? A series of linked underground vents? Some unknown chemical or magnetic interaction within the lagoon bed? The hypotheses came thick and fast, but none sat comfortably. There was too much precision in the motion, too much grace in the pattern. It was nature, yes—but nature speaking in a dialect I hadn’t yet learned.

And underneath all of it was a quiet, steady sense of dread.

What if these whirlpools weren’t random? What if they marked something deeper—something watching, or waiting?

I drew in a slow, shallow breath, the air thick with heat and questions, and clutched the damp shirt tighter in my hands. For a heartbeat longer, I stared out at the spinning water. I should’ve looked away. I should’ve gone back to scrubbing the clothes. But I didn’t. Not yet. I was caught in the web of mystery Clivilius wove so effortlessly, every thread tugging me closer to a truth I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Yet, I also couldn’t refuse.

As I squinted into the lagoon's depths, my eyes sought any sign of life, any clue that might explain the mesmerising whirlpools before me. The water, so clear and unblemished, seemed like a pane of glass, offering an unobstructed view into the world beneath its surface. My gaze scanned the lagoon’s floor—silky silt, scattered pebbles, the view unobstructed by any sign of aquatic vegetation that might sway gently with unseen currents.

Logic dictated that if an animal were responsible for the odd phenomenon, it would be plainly visible in such pristine conditions. Yet, as far as my eyes could tell, there was no creature, no disturbance, nothing to account for the gentle yet rapid swirls multiplying before me.

A strange sensation crept in—a stirring not of fear, but of yearning. An unusual and intense desire to understand, to truly experience the mystery of these whirlpools, swept over me. It was more than intellectual curiosity; it clawed deeper, bypassing reason, brushing up against something ancient inside me. It felt almost like a call, an invitation from the lagoon itself. The light they refracted grew brighter, more insistent, like a beacon whispering in colours only my subconscious could decipher.

The longer I watched, the more the whirlpools seemed alive—not in the way a predator stalks its prey, but in the way a melody lures a listener, pulling them closer, coaxing them to lose themselves in the music. The swirls danced with hues that defied explanation: pale aquamarines fading into silken violets, brief pulses of gold that flickered and vanished like fireflies. My breath caught. I felt that if I could just step a little closer, reach just a little farther, I might understand something important—something I hadn’t even known I’d forgotten.

Mesmerised, I found myself acting on a compulsion I couldn’t quite understand. It was as if the boundaries of my usual reserve and caution were being washed away by the spectacle before me. No conscious thought guided my hands as they began to move. With a sudden clarity of purpose, I began to strip, shedding my clothing piece by piece until I stood fully exposed on the edge of the rocks.

The moment my skin met the open air, a fresh breeze wrapped around me like a living thing. It was cool against the heat that clung to my skin, drawn from the labour and the sun. A wave of tingling goosebumps swept across my arms and back, as though my body had sensed the shift before my mind could catch up. I paused for a breath, chest rising and falling, aware of the strangeness of it all—but not frightened. Not yet.

This act of vulnerability, of standing naked at the edge of an unknown lagoon, was unlike me. Yet, in that moment, it felt entirely right, as if the lagoon and its mysterious whirlpools had laid bare a part of me that yearned for connection, for understanding beyond the confines of our human experience. The air seemed to pulse softly around me, the way a forest hushes before a storm or a child quiets before speaking their first word. The sensation was exhilarating, a mix of apprehension and a profound sense of freedom.

The light from the whirlpools danced over my skin in delicate patterns—lines and curves that shimmered like the wing scales of butterflies or the iridescent armour of beetles. I stood still, breathing slowly, and felt the elements press in around me: the warmth of sunlight on my shoulders, the cool slickness of stone beneath my feet, the subtle hum of water pulling and shifting at the shoreline.

Above me, the sky stretched wide and indifferent, pale blue bleeding into softer shades at the horizon. Below, the lagoon beckoned. I felt suspended between the two—a threadbare soul tethered to the earth yet pulled toward something greater, more mysterious.

Standing there, on the precipice of the unknown, I felt a deep pull towards the water, an urge to immerse myself in the lagoon’s secrets. Not just to observe, but to join. To relinquish the safety of separation and become part of something bigger—older, perhaps. Wiser. The sensation wasn’t merely physical; it was spiritual, instinctive. It was a desire to bridge the gap between the known and the mysterious, to become a part of the swirling dance that had captivated me so completely.

I didn’t move yet. But every part of me leaned forward, inward, drawn by the heartbeat of Clivilius itself. The moment was hushed, expectant, as if the world was holding its breath alongside me—waiting.

Taking that first deliberate step into the lagoon, a profound sense of peace enveloped me. It wasn’t just a surface calm, but something deeper—an inner quiet that resonated through my chest like the echo of a long-lost lullaby. It was a feeling so complete and overwhelming that it seemed to wash away all traces of doubt or hesitation that had lingered in my mind. The cool embrace of the water against my skin was invigorating, startling at first, but quickly replaced by a sense of renewal, as though every droplet that touched me carried away a fragment of fear, weariness, or pain. Each step forward intensified the joy that bubbled up within me, so pure and startling in its clarity that I almost laughed aloud at the freedom of it.

There was a purity in this act, a surrender to the unknown that felt both daring and utterly right.

With each step, the water rose, caressing my skin, its touch both gentle and alive. It moved like silk around my legs and hips, slipping between my fingers with the grace of a living thing. The world above faded, the shoreline and sky blurring at the edges of my focus, until all that remained was this moment—me, the water, and the strange, impossible phenomena at its heart. The further I waded, the closer I got to the mystery—the whirlpools that danced upon the water’s surface. They moved with hypnotic elegance, small yet powerful, as if nature itself had chosen to reveal something sacred in these swirls.

Their gentle yet rapid swirls, which had so captivated me from the shore, now beckoned me closer, an invitation I found impossible to resist. My breath slowed. The air tasted sweeter somehow, touched with a hint of minerals and earth, as though the very elements were aligning to witness this moment.

Approaching the first whirlpool, I found my usual caution abandoned, replaced by a curiosity and a need to understand that drove me forward. I did not analyse the motion or catalogue its peculiarities like I might have once done in a lab. I simply felt—letting my instincts carry me. The moment I entered the pull of the vortex, a rush unlike anything I’d ever experienced surged through me.

It was like stepping through a veil. The water shifted, thickened, enveloping me not with resistance, but with intention. The strong pull of the whirlpool was undeniable, a force of nature that demanded respect, yet there was no fear, only a profound exhilaration. My limbs trembled—not from cold, but from awe.

The pressure of the water as it swirled around my body was almost intoxicating. It didn’t churn violently, but gripped me in a steady spiral, its momentum firm yet comforting. It was as if I could feel the very life-force of the world coursing through me, a tangible energy that pulsed with the rhythm of the natural world. With every heartbeat, I felt more attuned to it—my senses heightened, my awareness expanding like ripples on the surface.

This sensation, so powerful and all-encompassing, was unlike anything I had felt before. It was as though the water itself was alive, its movements imbued with a purpose and a vitality that connected everything it touched. I could feel the thread of that connection lacing through my muscles, my spine, into the marrow of my bones.

This moment, within the embrace of the whirlpool, transcended mere physical sensation. It was a communion, a joining of my essence with the essence of this world. The barriers between us—between myself and Clivilius, between body and water, science and instinct—seemed to dissolve. What remained was raw, unfiltered connection. A dialogue written in currents and pulses. A message I couldn’t yet translate, but somehow knew.

Exhilaration mingled with reverence. Tears welled in my eyes, though I wasn’t sad. It was too much beauty all at once. Too much truth. Too much knowing. And still, I didn’t pull away. I let myself remain—body adrift, mind aflame—utterly consumed by this strange, sacred experience.

Feeling a deep sense of peace and unthreatened by the whirlpools’ mysterious embrace, an idea sparked within me—sudden, wild, and beautiful in its spontaneity. The experience had imbued me with a sense of daring, a desire to merge the ordinary with the extraordinary, to turn even the most mundane act of washing into something sacred, transformative. With this newfound exhilaration coursing through me, I waded back to shore, the water sighing around my thighs as I moved with renewed purpose.

My steps were quick and purposeful, light as though the earth itself no longer burdened me. There, on the warm rocks where I had left them, lay the remaining clothes—dull, dusty remnants of our daily grind. Yet as I gathered them in my arms, they felt different somehow, imbued with new significance. I held them close, the bundle soft and sun-warmed against my skin, as if I were carrying offerings to a temple hidden beneath the waves.

Arms full, I made my way back to the swirling eddies, the lagoon calling to me like a siren’s song. The sunlight gleamed on the water's surface, painting it in ribbons of gold and silver, and the whispering whirlpools danced in welcome. Every step deeper into the water felt like a return, not just to the lagoon but to something more elemental—something sacred and ancient that pulsed just beneath the surface of this world.

Overcome with a sense of jubilation, a giggle escaped me, unbidden and bright, reminiscent of a schoolgirl’s carefree laughter. The sound startled even me, crystalline and light, a sharp contrast to the solemnity that so often clung to me. It echoed off the rocks and rippled across the water, scattering like stardust in the light. For a heartbeat, I wasn’t a scientist, a survivor, a weary woman carrying the weight of a fractured settlement—I was simply alive, and free.

In a moment of pure whimsy, I raised the bundle of clothes above my head and tossed them into the air above the whirlpools.

Time seemed to pause.

The garments rose, lifted by the arc of my throw and caught momentarily in the breeze. Their spread silhouettes were like wings unfurling, cloth angels suspended against the endless sky. The sunlight caught them mid-flight, playing across the fabric, turning the worn cotton and faded fibres into something transcendent. Each shirt, each trouser leg, each crumpled sock was lit from within—as though the very magic of the lagoon had woven itself into their threads.

The colours deepened—blues rich as lapis, reds like glowing coals, even the whites shone with a brilliance untouched by dust or toil. The transformation was ethereal. They were no longer just clothes; they were banners of our survival, of our hope, caught in the golden hush of the sun.

Then gravity reclaimed them, but gently—oh so gently.

As the soft breeze whispered secrets only the wild knew, the clothes began their slow descent, drifting downward in a spiralling dance, guided not by weight or wind, but by something older, wiser. They landed in the water not with splashes, but with grace, and the whirlpools embraced them as if welcoming home long-lost kin. They circled around me like petals on a breeze, their movement fluid and balletic, a silent choreography authored by nature itself.

It was a spectacle of harmony and beauty, the garments moving as though they were alive, in tune with the waters that caressed my skin and the air that played through my hair. My fingers skimmed the surface beside them, tracing patterns in the eddies, as though trying to write poetry in water.

This melody—this symphony of nature and fabric—resonated with every fibre of my being. It wasn’t a song sung aloud, but I heard it nonetheless, clear as any choir: a chorus that sang of unity, of belonging, of my place in this strange and magnificent world. For a fleeting, exquisite moment, I was not just a witness to the mystery—I was a part of it, woven into its rhythm like thread in a living tapestry.

The water lapped gently against my skin, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to echo the beat of my own heart. Everything else—responsibility, fear, logic—faded into the periphery. Embracing the unparalleled freedom that surged through me, I found myself utterly hypnotised by the refracting colours that multiplied and complexified in the sky above. It was as though the atmosphere itself had responded to the lagoon’s magic, mirroring the eddies below with shifting veils of colour that rippled across the heavens like living brushstrokes.

It was as if the cosmos had bent its rules for a moment, allowing this silent theatre to unfold just for me. Celestial ribbons of sapphire and gold, coral and deep amethyst curved across the sky in mesmerising loops, each hue impossibly rich, fluid, and alive. I stared upwards, breath caught in my throat, the colours no longer just seen but somehow felt, vibrating through me with an intimacy I couldn't explain.

Compelled by a joy that felt both ancient and new, I began to turn in circles, my movements spontaneous and unrestrained. There was no choreography, no structure—only instinct. With each rotation, I flung up water into the air, sending droplets soaring like a constellation of liquid stars. The droplets caught the spectral light above, refracting it, amplifying it, creating momentary arcs of prismatic brilliance that surrounded me like a coronation of the wild.

The water, cool and ever-shifting against my body, became an extension of my dance, a partner as responsive and intuitive as breath. Each splash, each ripple, was a note in an unspoken symphony, as though the lagoon itself was composing music with motion. A strange, light-headed euphoria rose within me—not from fatigue or heat, but from a deeper well of feeling. A sense of release. A sense of becoming.