Heh's Adoration

At some point, you learn in Biology class that the modern version of humanity evolved from an amphibious creature, which means human beings adapted to life on the land from life in the water. In other words, we came from Merfolx.

One of them legged up from beneath the surface, survived its first breath of air, and began the evolutionary crawl toward bipedalism. Flopping their way up into humanity, Merfolx became their higher, walking selves.

The graph of that ascension resembles a stairway. It goes up a little, plateaus, and then repeats infinitely. Merging with your higher self looks like evolution, a stepwise process one shift up at a time until you are exactly where you ought to be with little to no evidence of having changed at all.

People are enamored of Merfolx, trying to connect back to the part of themselves that is still quite Mer. Submerged in water, daily. Doused. Hydrated. Subconsciously trying to liberate their memories of the deep while consciously fearing full immersion, unable to surrender to the deep, relegated to life on land where we barely even notice if we breathe at all.

According to the psychic intuitives who channel the Mer, their language is primarily a telepathic dialect. This is by necessity as underwater verbal communication is complex. Sound travels differently there. Thicker. Slower. Muted. Punctuated sounds, especially, don’t travel well. For sound to move through water, it has to be a continuous flow.

A vibration.

Zero Wavelength theory proposes that in a still sea, sound travels at zero wavelength, or the distance required to fully circle the sea and return back to its source, uninterrupted. Each ripple speeds up transmission and cumulatively represents the full spectrum of wavelengths.

When Merfolx sing, the sound of their voice’s vibration through water is perpetual, so the tune goes on until it’s received, calling to whoever’s ear it first lands upon, however near or far. The sea sustains the sound, which the air cannot, making the sea the soul of all Merfolx who themselves are soulless.

Neurophysiologically, mermaid vocal cords develop before anything else. They braid into the organs body and its physical systems, each possessing a unique vibration that the Mer can sing. When your heart hurts, for example, it emits a detectable frequency that Merfolx can match and vocalize back the salve, the exact missing frequency that escaped in pain.

A Mer voice, whether undersea or through the air, is the pure sound of healing. When they swim to stormbound vessels about to capsize, it is not because they love death, as myth would have it. No. They sense the fear of those on board and feel it in their body as if it was their own. By the frequency the fear emits, Merfolx can diagnose its source and then sing the antidote to make them unafraid.

A Mer's tune is a treasure, wildly protected by their god, Heh.

What folklore has blurred over in the mainstream Mer tale is that inhabiting two realms is a divisive way to live. Being both fish-like and human-like, you cannot wholly inhabit either aspect of yourself, so you feel torn. Physically torn. Emotionally torn. Two parts of yourself at war.

Thus, Heh, to unite and align them to something worth living for. Otherwise, they pray to Heh to blacken the water and harden their heart into extinction, or they beg Heh for legs, and turn their scales inside out to devour the fish part of themself.

Tailicide.

For peace of mind and heart, they worship the rays of sunlight in the sea, symbolized by a seashell shaped like a scallop. Lore tells that Heh pulled the shell from inside himself and put it in Mer hearts. Then Heh weakened the barrier between mind and water so that their thoughts could flow freely in the space between their hearts.

To gather the strength of the sea for prayer purposes, the Mer have a ritual, intuitively translated as the "Scallop Seashell Tune." They make the sign of the scallop, a single-handed gesture, over the heart space. With your palm facing your heart, a couple of inches away from your chest, you spread your fingers apart. This is the first scallop. Then, you sweep your hand up and away, gently pulling your fingertips together to a close a few inches further out from your body. Your five fingertips meet to form the second scallop, honoring both your lower, fish self and your higher, footed self that you believe you can become.

While enacting the sign of the scallop, the Mer sing a simple tune that travels up to the surface. Heh captures the wordless vibration as it hits the air. There are no lyrics, just the most beautiful sound you’ve never heard.

Heh breathes the sound in and filters its impurities out. Then, Heh kisses the sea and exhales. These sounds, which have gathered precious data from the body through the vocal cords that sang it, become the the sparkling, divine rays of light that the Mer adore.