The Light Between Tides

Chapter 2: The Biologist

Rae Sarte arrived in Bahawen under a sky thick with the scent of impending rain. The tricycle ride from the bus terminal had been bumpy, the driver talkative, but Rae had kept her eyes fixed on the window, watching the coastline unfurl in jagged cliffs and whispering waves. It was not her first time in a coastal town, but something about Bahawen felt heavier, as though the mist carried the weight of things left unsaid.

She wore a field jacket over a black rash guard, her cargo pants still creased from travel. A waterproof notebook stuck out from her side pocket, and her duffel bag was overpacked and strapped tightly, slung heavily against her shoulder. Her boots crunched gravel as she stepped down onto the field station platform: three concrete steps, a narrow walkway, and a lone solar panel angled toward the moody sky. She took in the surroundings—a single nipa-roofed hut tucked beside an overgrown trail, stacks of crates and scientific instruments half-covered with tarps.

Mira, her research assistant, waved from the porch. “You must be Dr. Sarte! We’ve been waiting!”

Rae nodded, a polite smile forming. “Just Rae is fine.”

Inside, the field station smelled of instant coffee, seaweed, and equipment grease. Rae dropped her things and immediately began asking questions about the satellite data, the tide charts, and the jellyfish sightings from the past week. Mira struggled to keep up, half-laughing, half-impressed.

“We’ve seen movement,” Mira said, pointing to a crude map pinned on the wall. “Clusters here, near the parola. They glow at night. Locals say it’s a bad omen.”

Rae raised an eyebrow. “Or an indicator of rising ocean temperatures and disrupted migratory cycles.”

“They say it’s a spirit bloom. Like the sea’s remembering something.”

Rae didn’t reply. She was used to superstition, but something in Mira’s voice wasn’t mocking. It was wonder. Respect. A small part of Rae filed it away.

They walked down to the beach that afternoon. Rae knelt near the shore, taking water samples and jotting quick notes while Mira explained the flow patterns and weather anomalies. Tiny flecks of light blinked beneath the waves even in daylight, a sign of dense plankton populations, possibly feeding the jellyfish.

Later, Mira offered to take Rae to the cliffside for a clearer view of the bloom site. The trail was narrow, the drop steep. The sun dipped low, casting everything in shades of amber and blue. When the wind shifted, Rae caught her first glimpse of the parola—its white stone tower faded, but still standing against the sea like a scar. Below it, waves shimmered faintly with blue fire.

“The mural’s in there,” Mira said, pointing toward the chapel beside the lighthouse. “An artist is restoring it. Isla Aldave.”

Rae turned her head. “The Isla Aldave?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

Rae shrugged. “She did a series on forgotten churches. My ex collected her prints.”

Mira grinned. “She’s quieter now. Keeps to herself. But the mural’s supposed to be…different.”

“Different how?”

Mira just smiled. “You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the horizon shift. The glow from the sea pulsed gently, like breath.

That night, Rae sat on the edge of the bluff, notebook in hand. She sketched the coastline, the waves, and that strange glimmer beneath the surface. She made a note about luminescence clusters, bloom intervals, and current shifts and then paused.

Underneath her chart, she wrote a single line:

She keeps her distance, but the sea never does.

The following morning, Rae met with local barangay officials, curious but distant. They approved her permit but warned her, half-seriously, to avoid diving alone. "The sea is stubborn," one elder said. "She takes what she wants."

She returned to the lab with more questions than answers. The jellyfish bloom was unusual not just in timing, but in location. Her gut told her there was more at play than climate and current. At the station, she analyzed the salinity readings, DNA swab samples, and temperature anomalies. Something was shifting.

Mira interrupted her with a steaming mug of salabat. “You work like the sea’s running out.”

Rae chuckled. “I just want to understand why they're here now.”

“And you think science has all the answers?”

“No,” Rae said quietly. “But it asks the right questions.”

That afternoon, she walked to the parola alone. The chapel door was ajar. She heard the gentle sound of brushstrokes inside. She didn’t step in, just watched from a distance. The artist—Isla—stood before the wall, back to her, arm moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

Rae studied her quietly. Dark braid falling down her back, body still as stone. Something about her presence reminded Rae of tides—not crashing waves, but the slow, inevitable pull.

She left without saying a word.

But she’d be back.

The mural. The bloom. The silence wrapped around Bahawen like fog.

Something waited beneath it all.