by David Salvi
Chris also tried his hand at catching dinner. Lavik showed Chris the ropes, and fishing came naturally. Instead of tigrus fish, they enjoyed an array of wildlife living in the sea below. Lavik mentioned their names, and Chris hadn’t heard of any of them. Racygut, Watgill, and Jaunties. Tasted good and fed the crew full. More importantly, Chris earned more respect from the folks aboard.
Riley joined him later on the deck. From what Chris observed, she was awake, alert, and prepared for the duration of the voyage. Not her first trip through the Ocean. She was determined and focused as the captain. She scanned the four sides of the ship, then her eyes went to the sky and back down to judge the intensity of the waves. Without imminent dangers, she only worried about the pace of the pull line. Undramatic, but undramatic was good.
“What say you, sailor?” Riley said to Chris. She sidled, bumping hips with Chris.
He half-cocked a smile at her, and replied, “Nothing, Captain. Just taking in the sea.”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Riley said. She assumed the same position as Chris. Arms rested against the railing. A deep breath of salty air.
Chris nodded at the observation. She really was.
Then after a few minutes, the land appeared ahead.
“Is that…?” Chris asked.
“Yep—home.”
Motus Island.
Ahead was a mountainous isle at the center of an atoll, which acted like a wall around the high-reaching keep. Scattered sandbars and islands peppered their natural moat. The water lightened the closer they approached the center isle. Krakona trees, and others unfamiliar to Chris, laced the atoll and the base of the center island. Lighter greens and rocky beaches painted the remainder of the sight.
“Amazing.”
“Yes, it is.” Riley said with conviction. Then she shouted to her sailors, “Motus in sights!”
An uproarious cheer from all corners of the boat.
She exhaled a sigh of relief after the chaos that was Canaanite City and an angry ‘cane at the front end of their sea voyage. The trip was longer than expected. Weather doesn’t always cooperate, as she told the crew whenever she jumped on the line to help an ailing Motus scalawag.
The vessel passed through a manned wooden gate that was blocking entry into the atoll. The structure arched over a man-made channel, connecting the Ocean of Antiquity through the atoll to the Motus Society’s protective moat, known as the Motus Lagoon.
Quiet soldiers, Chris spotted four, peered down at their comrades with a gargoyle-like stare, wearing pointed helmets and austere, ragged clothing.
“Who’s the captain?” a voice shouted from atop the gate. The gargoyles’ weapons, appearing to be rifles, pointed at the ship.
“That’d be me, Charlie. Riley Reuben,” Riley shouted upward.
“Must have been a hell of a trip, Riley. We expected you days ago,” Charlie said. He had a deep, bellowing voice that carried through the air with ease.
“You bet it was…” her voice trailed off a bit and she shook her head. Thoughts of the past week weren’t kind memories.
A cacophony of metal and cracked, rotted wood pierced the ears of those aboard the Santa Maria. Slowly the gate parted into two and outward into the Ocean of Antiquity, as if opening its arms to the world.
Once inside the lagoon, past the thicket of trees blanketing the atoll, Chris and the rest of the crew on the Santa Maria took in a majestic view.
Sentry towers lined the atoll. Soldiers manning the stations looked on.
Again, as they did every afternoon, the moons of Canaan painted a dazzling effect of colors into the early night sky. Mixing those colors with the arrays of blues and greens in the lagoon sent Chris’s mind into unadulterated fantasies. What lived in such exquisite lands?
Chris was entranced by the scene before him. Everything at that moment seemed to point to an evening celebration of some kind. On the lagoon, fishing skiffs rowed about in search of evening meals. Far in the background, a port with several docks, all wood, invited cultural activities. Intermittent music blared in preparation for the night’s festivities.
Their vessel was approaching the dock faster than he realized, so Riley, Lavik, and the crew prepped pace for their arrival.
More distinctive sounds boomed in his ears, and he found it strange. Pounding of a deep, foggy sound. Wind that made beautiful melodies. Maybe Mother Canaan had a beating heart and breathing lungs at the center of the atoll, Chris thought. It sounded that powerful in his body.
The Santa Maria slowed, and several crew members, including Riley and Lavik, hung off the port side edge with heavy ropes in their hands. Ropes were thrown to three men on the pier, who promptly attached them to metallic docking cleats screwed to the pier.
“Secure!” one of them called out. And the crew cheered.
Riley, Lavik, the crew, and Santa Maria were home. Chris, however, still felt like a foreigner. He’d have to lean on the likes of Riley and Lavik, who at least showed him a veneer of warmth on the journey.
A deckhand leaped off the side of the boat and tumbled forward on the pier. He exclaimed in ecstasy the feeling of being home after several days. He kissed the pier and shouted in glee. Turning back to his vessel, the deckhand exclaimed to Chris, “Come on down, boy. You’re home now!” Chris extended his hand and jumped off with his brown knapsack on his back.
Just beyond the pier was a village square full of pop-up shops and people. That is where the music originated, Chris realized.
Sprinting to the pier were all sorts of Motus members—men, women, children, of all colors and sizes. They spouted joyful cheers at the arrival of their leader, Riley. Many stormed her like a famous hero of battle, like one Chris had read about in Hemingway. They asked for any anecdote from the trip. A heroic act in battle. A daring escape. Trials and hardships. Anything to file in their memory banks.
Chris noticed some people with pieces of paper and pencils stretching out toward Riley. She scribbled something on one and moved to the next. The written word was a rarity in Canaan, but not on Motus.
Moments later Motus dignitaries arrived, all long-robed elders with graying and white hair, and the men with beards. They had twinkles of happiness across their faces and in their eyes. They wore fine gems around their necks, wrists and fingers.
“Our dearest Riley. Fearless and brave,” said the one man in the middle. Before he could continue, the crowd’s ruckus cheer blared. Chris figured this elder was the head of all of Motus Society. He donned more jewelry and decorations than the others, had a few extra wrinkles in his face, and a tanner, more leathery skin. The other elders also deferred by turning in unison to his person.
“Titus, our elder and leader,” Riley said to Titus. She bowed and then rushed into his body for a warm embrace like a child running into her father’s arms. The crowd cheered.
“There’s much to talk about…and celebrate!” Titus said. The crowd roared again.
“Yes. We have accomplished what we wanted to accomplish. Everything we wanted is right here.” Riley said, and she motioned behind her, swinging her arm clockwise. A sea of people parted to reveal Chris, the lone stranger to this family, in between the wedge with the dock, boats, and eastern horizon behind him.
The crowd silenced. A child started crying. And Chris gave a nervous wave as if to say sorry.
Riley interrupted before raised eyebrows and scoffs ruined her star-status, “No, not him. The backpack.”
“Knapsack,” Chris quickly corrected.
“Whatever,” Riley said. She walked over and snatched it off his body with a little extra force than he had preferred. A strap caught his elbow. She finally tugged it free after a little embarrassment between the two of them. “Inside this knap-sack is a collection of Oscar Marian’s personal journals and plans for the Grand Exodus. Locked in here is the truth. And what we must reveal to all of Canaan!”
An eruption. The red-headed hero got her groove back despite Chris’s awkwardness.
&nbs
p; A chant started amongst the crowd in riotous fashion. They chanted “Motus” with thumping vigor. The crowd, the knapsack, and all its contents were carried off into the town square as Chris hung in the periphery and clawed his way through an impenetrable crowd for the only thing on Canaan that truly mattered to him. He screamed to stop, but his pleas were overrun by the crowd’s roaring shouts and behavior.
He scowled at the crowd. Again he was alone and wondering what was meant for him in the world. Ahead of him was a thunderous crowd of people he had grown up despising, because that’s what Canaanites told him to think. So far, they did little to dispel the notion.
As they entered the plaza, the crowd dispersed into varying sects of bodies. Riley and the dignitaries went to a large edifice at the center of the town, but instead of a tower, it was a rounded, domed structure appearing to have a hollow hole at the center. Plenty of light gave way to bounce off the walls and illuminate its interior. When dark, the candle and torch lights lit the space.
Sauntering behind was Chris, dejected and worried. Something caught his attention as he trudged through. He heard disparate shouts from all the angles.
“Break out the ale!” What’s ale?
“Motus will reign!”
“To Riley—hip-hip-hooray!”
“Freedom to all of Canaan!”
Repeated over and over and in various forms, these calls were sparing one name Chris normally heard in these circumstances: Oscar Marian.
Chris listened intently, as he walked through the streets with more conviction. Nothing. No Oscar. No Marian. No mention of anything but freedom, party supplies, and more freedom, with the occasional praise of their leader, Riley.
Back in Canaanite City, any sort of jubilation immediately summoned Oscar’s name, or the mission and Grand Exodus.
***
A lackey working for the dignitaries had found Chris on the streets browsing the immediate village that was Motus Island’s city center. He was a lanky, stringy-haired, tan man looking much older than he said he was. The lackey claimed twenty-eight, but that was close to Chris’s age. No chance, suspected Chris.
“Well, I’m here to guide you around. Show you the ropes!” the lackey told him.
The man called himself Wallock and addressed Chris as Christopher, which reverted Chris’s thoughts back to his mother, who’d call him Christopher at the end of a day or when she was upset. A rare moment of sobriety amidst his new “family.”
Regardless of his age-related canard, Wallock proved a welcoming ally in a foreign nation of strangers. He shepherded Chris about town and its surrounding lands while basking in Apollo for more bits of tan on his leathery face, like many of the Motus Islanders. Wallock also basked in the history he was able to share, even the most minute points of rumors and gossip.
Chris drowned that out by glancing around for something interesting to look at, like children playing with sticks and a white ball. Or a wicker basket against a wooden sheet, both hoisted several feet in the air for children to throw a brown ball, stitched with fibered rope. He was fascinated by these games. On Canaan, “Games” held a much worse meaning.
“Fancy the Earthly games, do ya, sir?” he asked Chris.
Wallock prided himself on being a local, one born into the Motus Society clan instead of converting from Canaanitism, as they called it. The detractors who fled Canaan in search of freedom would describe the horrors of reality in Canaanite City. Oppression. Class divide. Forced labor. Harsh punishments. Strict rules on thought and expression. And of course, the Games. It made his blood boil, said Wallock.
“It’s the opposite of our very humanity!” he said.
The tour moved past the games and into the center of the square where a fountain had pumped water through its cylindrical spout, spitting outward into the basin below. Lining the square were shops, all with lush colors and varying patterns to indicate what each sold. Pictures and signs cluttered the area, but the people seemed fine with it. Storekeepers hooted and hollered at patrons. Patrons hollered back for a better price.
Then Wallock pointed at their feet. Painted on the ground was a green pentagram.
“Center of the square and atoll, geographically, it is. We are at the apex of it all, Sir Christopher!” An extra twinge of pride in his voice.
“Cool,” Chris said.
The lack of enthusiasm deflated Wallock for a moment. He wrapped his arm around Chris and said, “Come on, lad. That isn’t the way to be here. You’re one of us now.”
“Okay.” His mind went to writing. Poetry of some sort to distill the spectrum of emotions he felt pumping through his heart. Around him were strangers who he was told were family. Back at Canaanite City, Canaanites were family under Oscar’s flag, but they felt like strangers. Maybe he’d give the former a try.
As they walked, Chris struck up conversation, “The city is intricate.”
“Yes, Motus workers are fine laborers.”
The notion piqued Chris’s interest, “Yeah?”
“Of course, metalworkers. Engineers. Plumbers. Miners. All men and women of trade. The best the universe has to offer.”
“Interesting,” Chris said quietly.
“This way, sir. The elders are gathering in the Great Hall. First a delicious meal, then drink. Then more drink,” Wallock said as he giggled. “And then stories of heroes past and present. Perhaps you’ll have your chance to tell a story, Sir Christopher.”
“I’m not much of a storyteller.”
“Nonsense! Deep inside you is the greatest storyteller. Release him!”
Chris smirked.
Wallock motioned to keep moving toward the Great Hall and its rotund stature.
People gathered in droves. Shops announced closing, games stopped, boats docked, and young ones dozed off to sleep in their parents’ laps and arms. Chris adored the sight and thought about writing a touching poem. For later.
Wallock pushed through meshes of people. They complained and shoved back, but Wallock marched on undeterred by the social battling. His left hand plowed through as his right held tightly to Chris’s arm.
They made it to the center of the Great Hall, and Riley came into view. Whatever bump, nick, scrape, and bruise Chris endured during their trek through the sea of folks immediately dulled when his eyes caught her red hair. He rushed up to her.
“Hey, Riley. Or captain. Captain Riley.” That’s all he had. Get a grip, idiot, he thought.
“Just Riley on the mainland, sailor,” she said with a smirk.
“Right.”
There was a pause. Riley raised her eyebrows and forced a fake smile as if begging Chris to say something to break the silence.
She raised her arm with a familiar object in hand.
“My knapsack!” Chris exclaimed.
“I made sure you didn’t lose it,” Riley said. “Should be a tad lighter too.”
After checking, Chris saw the container was gone. Finally the pressure from the container’s edging won’t dig his back. He saw his Hemingway book, a mass of loose papers, and personal writings. He dug deep to find a small plastic object. It was there. All was right in the world for the moment.
“Didn’t think you’d mind. Plus the council wants to read all they can on Oscar. See what they can find out from these documents. Some of the important secrets of our history are in there.”
She turned her body, and Chris followed. They looked out into the crowd.
“I started reading them,” Chris said matter-of-factly.
Riley’s eyes darted to Chris. She said, “Really? You can read?”
“Yeah, can you?” He thought it was an odd question, but a common one in Canaan.
“Of course. We all can.” She said it with a point of pride. Her eyelids fluttered and she sported a cocky smile. “Well, what’d they say?”
Chris shrugged off her enthusiasm with, “A lot about the Great Exodus.”
“And?” Eager for more.
“And stuff on Canaan. Standard. You should
read them. I wouldn’t want to ruin any surprises..”
“Oh yeah? What surprises?” Riley had warmed up to him.
“I said I can’t ruin it for you.” Chris was smirking at her.
Wallock watched the exchange with little interest and headed to the bar for an ale.
“So, what’s going on tonight?” Chris asked.
“Mass gathering. We’re calling men and women of age to arms.”
“For what?”
“War. We have what we need to overthrow the Arch Canaanites, enlighten the Canaanites, and finally end their miserable existence,” Riley said with a determination in her voice.
Something felt nauseous in Chris’s stomach. A crossroads of cultures, both claiming to be right, did not mean to lead to war.
“There isn’t another way? What about peace? A peaceful way.”
Riley immediately rebutted, “No, they do not know anything of peace. Only power and holding on to that power.”
Wallock returned with three ales in hand, all in wooden mugs twice the size Chris saw at the tavern. He urged Chris to a sip, which he obliged and much to his delight.
“Drink up, sailor. The party is about to begin,” Riley said. She walked away, swaying her hips like a brush throwing Chris’s focus in a tizzy.
“What you think, Sir Christopher?” Wallock asked with a gleeful smile.
“Delicious actually.”
“Studies on Earth show that the smartest people were the biggest drinkers. Funny correlation, isn’t it? Killing brain cells for the smart people.”
“How do you know that?” Chris asked.
“Medical journals.” Wallock took a sip.
“Library has hundreds of them. Other stuff too,” Riley said, still swaying.
“There’s a library here??” Chris excitedly asked like a child.
“Yep, all kinds of goodies in there. Check it out sometime,” Wallock said.
The prospect of running around a library turned Chris’s mood.
Then Wallock patted Chris on the shoulder and turned toward the center of the Great Hall. Whatever was going to happen did. Dignitaries formed an arc with Titus at the center raising his hands to the crowd. Their voices and motions slowed to a stop. All eyes and ears were forward. There was a collective sit-down, crossing their legs and bumping knees. Chris followed suit.