Black Keerie shot him a disapproving look when Kellen hesitated to follow their example.
Do it. He told himself. Then, he reached out with his own tentacles to wrap around the water-dragon. Kellen stretched his tentacles to their limits as they encompassed Phobetor’s slippery form. For all of his attempts, Kellen could not maintain his grip without using the clawed tips of his tentacles.
The others held no such concerns, burying the ends of their tentacles deep in Phobetor’s flesh like someone driving sewing needles into a pin cushion.
Despite the Sancul travelers wounding him with their many claw-tipped touches, the dragon seemed not to notice the pain or his added burden. Its reptilian head snaked around in search of Kellen, its black eyes holding on him.
Phobetor’s voice filled Kellen’s mind. Latch on, Uncle. I will carry you . . .
I-I don’t want to hurt you though, said Kellen.
Phobetor chuckled in his mind. You could never harm me, Uncle. I should not be as I am now without you having aided in my shaping.
Though he did not understand the meaning of Phobetor’s words, Kellen latched on all the same when sighting the others waiting and watchful of him. As they had done, so too did Kellen bury the sharp points of his tentacles into the dragon’s flesh for the coming journey. The flesh seemed to absorb his claws, the dragon neither wincing nor offering up any wisp of blood for the wounding that Kellen gave. He understood then that their combined efforts pained the dragon no more than hatchets chipping at the near impenetrable, thick bark of a redwood tree.
The moment Kellen secured his grip, the dragon sped off through the darkened water in side-winding fashion. As Phobetor drove them against an underwater current, the sonic speed with which he carried them forced Kellen to duck his head like he remembered having done on roller coasters when g-forces pressed him against his seat.
And all the while, Phobetor drove them further in descent.
When Kellen dared to break his gaze away from staring at the dragon’s back, he saw them plunging toward the Abyssal plain – a shrouded and endless, bleak stretch of black rock. For a moment, he imagined the Salt dragon slamming them all into the mass like a nose-diving plane without the wherewithal to pull up at the last. Kellen fidgeted in attempting to pry his claws frees of Phobetor’s dragon flesh that he might fall away before the crash. Despite his attempts, the dragon flesh held him all the same, as if Phobetor were the one to truly hold claim over Kellen instead.
Wincing as the rocky face rushed to greet them, Kellen closed his eyes and braced for the impact. When the moment they should have hit came and passed, Kellen reopened his eyes and gasped in awe at the sight before him - a cavern unlike any other that Kellen had ever seen.
Where he recalled the birth of his Salted life appearing in the form of Crayfish Cavern’s glittering stalactites, the water-filled cavern that Phobetor carried him through now gleamed with greenish, bioluminescent shadows, all dancing against a crystallized backdrop of deep purple and ebony-make. Bioluminescent torchlight aligned the walls, and all of their lanterns spiraling downward to reveal a maze with innumerable staging points further in and below.
Kellen imagined the cavern like the inside of an amethyst geode he had once seen in the Indianapolis Children’s Museum back at home. The puncture-like holes in the stony walls also reminded him of a beehive – each hole dotting the cavern-sides like a honeycomb. Some of the cavern mouths held more greenish light deep within, promising life and secret denizens within, if one were so brave as to venture inside. The darker, emptier tunnels feared Kellen more. His gaze lingered on the empty black spots as they passed. Even as Phobetor sped the collected party onward in further descent, Kellen’s skin tingled with the notion that he remained watched over and looked upon from unseen eyes that remained hidden away within the tunnel mouths.
Phobetor did not stop their plunge, despite the cavern walls closing in around them. Like swimming through a funnel, Phobetor pressed on through a gap in the stony floor that Kellen imagined as being too small to accommodate the dragon’s size. As before, when out in the open Salt, the dragon’s head again began to melt away, its body shriveling and shortening in rapid succession. The thick flesh gave up its hold over Kellen then, he and the other Sancul falling off and away whilst the remainder of Phobetor’s body morphed and shrunk back into the leathery train of his cape. Then, it shrunk further until the cape became a hood and looked only as if he wore a plum-tinted cloak.
Though Kellen took the moment to calm the adrenaline racing through him, Erebus wasted no time. The Sancul father gathered Hypnos up with his tentacles and then swam away in descent through the darkened cavern mouth lain before them. Faster than any other could follow, Erebus outswam even Nyx and Kanaloa who sped off into the tunnel after him.
Kellen watched them go, wondering after Hypnos and his fits, and imagined himself trapped in the dream-like world that Hypnos kept Moros within, both prisoners of his own mind and body. You’re fighting with Moros, aren’t you, Hypnos? Kellen told himself of the fits that had taken hold of Hypnos. But why? Kellen wondered again. What is it you’re fighting with him about, Hypnos? Why do you keep Moros in there with you, rather than let your brother go?
A part of Kellen warned that he knew that answer too, though he refused to face it in favor of watching Black Keerie instead. Where the others had gone on, she had remained alongside Phobetor, the pair of them looking to one another in such a way that told Kellen they spoke in private.
But what are you talking about? Kellen wondered when Black Keerie gave him a look that forewarned he should never receive the answer. What did you tell him, Keerie?
Unlike the silence between them, Phobetor seemed the more eager to break the elsewise quiet water surrounding them. Uncle! He cried, swimming to join Kellen anew, grasping at his hand to pull him into the cavern mouth the others had already swam through. Come. Despite my father’s ailment, I know my mother will be most pleased to see you again too.
Black Keerie tittered. Why should your mother be pleased to see this creature before you? She cast her scorn on Kellen. It was his fault that her husband was stolen from her.
Phobetor’s face scrunched at the word. You name him Creature? He asked Black Keerie.
Aye, that I do, now, she said, in reference of Kellen. For that be the name Erebus first gave him. And I know not what else to call the pretender who swims before you wearing my lover’s face, Phobetor. Whatever his name, his lies spoke to me of his truth. She turned away from him, toward the other Sancul again. This one before us is neither my lover, Moros, nor your true uncle either, Phobetor.
Kellen warmed at the rightful accusation. I told you the truth a long time ago, Keerie, he kept the thought to himself. You just didn’t want to see it. None of you but Erebus would see it. He looked to Phobetor, wondering which camp the nephew of Moros and son of Hypnos would fall under – believer or no.
For his part, Phobetor laughed off the claims. I see my grandfather’s constant doubting has worn away at even your convictions, Keerie.
Aye, said she in hateful reply. I thought Erebus a fool at first for his doubting also. Now, I think him the only one to see and face things as they truly are.
Believe as you will, then, Phobetor waved her off, then reached for Kellen. I am content to swim at my uncle’s side once more, as I did so often in the days of old. Aye, to learn such things from the Other side as only my uncle could teach. He the only one to venture there and back again, as he foretold us all that he would do.
Again, Black Keerie barked a laugh. Do not look to the Creature before you for answers, Phobetor. You will receive none from him. Nothing but lies and excuses of ill memory for all that this one has suffered. Or claimed to have endured, rather.
But he has suffered, Keerie, said Phobetor. For just as my mother watched the fall of Orphan Knoll from afar, she saw his wounding in one of her scryings too. Aye, and shared such visions with my sister and I too. He looked to Kellen with some sadness
in his gaze. You have endured much, Uncle. My sister, mother, and I have all seen the events which you have suffered through to reach us again.
Black Keerie jeered. No doubt the Mother of Masks will share the same visions with us disbelievers, then, once she has eased your father’s pain.
How will your mother help Hypnos? Kellen asked Phobetor, regretting the question the moment he heard Black Keerie snort.
Black Keerie laughed in screeching mockery. You see, Phobetor? Again, this Creature proves himself a liar, she pointed her finger at him. You think your uncle should not remember all of your mother’s power? Nothing of yours? Aye, nor the powers of your brother and sister too?
Phobetor shrugged. If he did not remember you, Keerie, I see no reason he should not recall my mother’s face either. At the moment, it matters not to me what he remembers or no. My mother will mix a remedy to help rejog his memory soon enough.
Kellen fended off a shiver running through him at Phobetor’s words. What happens, then? He wondered to himself as Phobetor and Black Keerie argued on. What happens when their remedy fails and all of them find out that I’m a liar like Erebus has called me all along?
Black Keerie drew Kellen from his silence when pointing directly at his chest. This one needs no jogging of the mind, she said to Phobetor. One cannot recall what they have not lived through to share the tale of.
When Phobetor glanced at Kellen, he understood that he must respond to Black Keerie’s continued accusations, or else strengthen her claims for his lingering silence.
Kellen forced a laugh and a wicked grin. You know, Keerie, I would’ve thought you’d like that I can’t remember everything, he said. Because if I remembered half of your nagging and your questions, I might not have bothered coming back from the Other side at all.
Phobetor laughed, then, his mockery combined with Kellen’s words enough to send Black Keerie sneering and swimming off in chase after the others already gone on into the nearest tunnel.
Phobetor swam over and clapped Kellen on the shoulder. Oh, Uncle, I have missed your presence so. I fear our lives have been quite dreary all these long years since you left us.
It’s . . . good to be back, said Kellen, careful to not divulge much else for fear of strengthening Keerie’s continued assertions.
I imagine so, said Phobetor. Good to have your body healed and form returned to you, I should think. But is it true what Black Keerie claims? That you cannot recall much of our people, or your life before?
Kellen debated on which answer to give, deciding to walk the blurry line between truth and the lie. It’s true, he said quietly. I remember some things, but the rest are . . .
Hazy? Phobetor supplied the word.
Yes, said Kellen.
Phobetor smiled in such a manner that made Kellen’s stomach twist. Fear not, Uncle. We have a remedy for that also.
Good. Kellen shirked away from the Sancul’s grip. I hoped for that when Kanaloa said we’d be coming here.
Recall the Cavern of Somnus, do you? Phobetor asked.
No, said Kellen. Just that Kanaloa and Nyx said that coming here should help me to remember.
Indeed, said Phobetor. For my mother has ways of helping one to recall all manner of things, he chuckled. Aye, and also to forget all else they would rather not remember.
I’ll have some of that last bit, Kellen thought to himself, dwelling on all the memories he would purge from his mind if given the chance. His skin prickled as he peered into the awaiting darkness inside the tunnel before him that all the others had already swum through. Hesitant to enter in, he searched for any excuse to forestall his following of the other Sancul and learning what awaited Hypnos within.
I-I don’t remember much about this place, he said, turning to Phobetor, then pointing to the purplish outcroppings that reminded him of amethyst stones. The cavern is so beautiful, I mean. Can you not show me around the rest of this cavern first?
Phobetor nodded. I could indeed, Uncle, he said, his easy grin dawning and then widening further. But I think that all of the Others dying to see you would rather greet you first.
Others? Kellen asked.
Phobotor pointed upward. Like me, our people have been long awaiting your return and the final ascent to come . . .
Kellen followed his gaze into the above. Then, his blood well and truly turned to ice.
Where they had swum through empty water in descent in arrival, passing by the other tunnel mouths without stopping, now Kellen came face to face with all the scarred and wizened folk who dwelt deep within the honeycomb-like tunnels that comprised the Cavern of Somnus.
Kellen’s mind had no words for the shadowy folk he witnessed in the above– a collected horde of Sancul. Crowded together, thousands of rounded, black eyes gleamed with eerie stillness in the bioluminescent lantern lights. Their tentacles and massive forms too came like a wall of thorny, moving briar, and all of them stretched in continuing reach for him.
Kellen’s head acted like a swivel in attempting to count their number, unable to determine where one Sancul began and the other ended.
All watching.
Waiting.
Kellen winced at the cold touch of Phobetor’s hand upon his bicep.
Come, Uncle . . . he said, tugging him to ascend toward the gathered legions above. Allow me to re-introduce you.
17
CHIDI
Allambee Omondi lay upon the decking of Girard’s boat, The Lady Cat. The young warrior’s wounds were bound and blood-stained, even as Chidi Etienne pressed against the worst of his injuries with all her strength to keep her friend from bleeding out.
Fighting against the stinging in her eyes, Chidi prayed to any higher power that would heed her call. Don’t let him die . . . her head ached as she thought the words, her eyes losing their bout to keep back the tears from cascading down her cheeks. Please, don’t let him die. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s just a boy.
Beside her, Bryant kept further pressure on still more of the stab wounds littering Allambee’s torso. The grimness in the Selkie marshals’ eyes communicated all that he dared not say.
Chidi read the message in all the same. He’s not gonna make it, she imagined Bryant saying.
When Chidi continued looking to Bryant for some measure of hope, the Selkie marshal glanced away and pretended to study the skillful, sewing work that Marisa Bourgeois threaded in Allambee’s skin, stitching what wounds she could.
Chidi’s gaze too canvassed the wounded warrior. There are too many wounds, she knew, pushing the thought away, even as the truth lay before her. Far too many . . .
Allambee’s hair still glistened with beads of Salt, his forehead soaked in feverish sweat, his eyes closed to the world as his body trembled in its continued clinging to life.
“Keep fighting, Allambee,” Chidi whispered, hoping he might hear and hold to her words. “We’re going to help you. Just keep fighting.”
To their credit, neither Bryant or Marisa spoke against Chidi’s hopeful claims.
With a sigh, Marisa stitched her last of the smaller wounds and then placed the needle in a makeshift, bloodied tray beside her.
“Well?” Chidi asked of her, even as her mind told her that she would not like any answer given from Marisa Bourgeois. A seed of gnawing doubt within her warned that Marisa had foreseen their circumstance and let it occur anyway.
“He is not long for this world,” said Marisa quietly. “He has lost too much blood.”
“Give him some of mine, then.” Chidi offered up her arm in show for Marisa to pierce with the needle’s end and begin a transfusion between them.
Marisa grimaced as she glanced away, turning toward Bryant instead.
“What?” Chidi demanded of the famed runner. “Why are you looking to him for? Bryant’s not in pain. He’s not offering up his blood. Take some of mine!”
Bryant reached over to her, his voice barely above a whisper. “Chidi . . .”
“Don’t,” she replied, shaking as she did
.
Bryant nodded, but refused to break his stare of her. “We don’t have the tools, Chidi. The supplies we need to fix him up. Not all the way out here.”
“Call someone, then,” she wept. “You’re a marshal. Go radio someone to fly in and save him.”
“It don’t work like in the movies, Chidi,” he replied. “Sometimes you can’t call in the cavalry on account of there is none.”
“You’re not trying,” she said. “You haven’t tried to call anyone.”
Bryant looked away from her, out across the empty Salt. “It won’t matter, sweetheart,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re too far from anywhere . . . and Marisa is right. He’s lost too much blood.”
“Then give him some of mine,” Chidi repeated, insistent as she raised her arm further toward Marisa Bourgeois.
The famed, elusive runner did not budge from her former stance.
“Take it,” Chidi shouted at her. “Take my blood and give it to him.”
Bryant called her down with more soft words. “We don’t even know if you’re blood types match. If you’re not a match, it could kill him.”
Chidi glared at him. “If he’s going to die anyway, then what’s the harm in trying?”
Bryant’s expression wilted under her stare. “All right, partner.” He nodded at Marisa. “Do it, Bourgeois.”
Marisa did not budge.
“Do it,” Bryant said to her again, his voice carrying a firmer command. “Or I will.”
Marisa ignored him. “Brave boy,” she said, reaching for Allambee’s brow, stroking the sweat beads away. “The wise ones say there is no greater love than one who would lay down their life for another.” She looked up to Chidi with warmth and pity too. “He loves you deeply. As do we all of us here.”
Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 Page 25