by Lesley Smith
The Parable of the Three Visitors
extracted from the Sacred Scrolls.
The Sea and the River
For one of Aia’s children to walk as a mortal is to share in our suffering and our joy.
The Writings of Kaiene the Blessed, first Oracle of Aia.
For the people of Caerim, a tiny village on the cusp of the ocean and the reef known as the Water Child’s Bones, the day of the final spring tide was one of celebration. It heralded the coming of the New Year, the start of summer, and nights of lightstorms that cracked the sky and sea apart. There was the promise of good fishing and lazy sun-soaked days, the anticipation of it promising delight and contentment.
Most of the Seaborn hamlets along Reshka’s eastern coast kept their own festivals outside of the official religious calendar, to mark the high and lowest tides of the three seasons, or just to thank the Lady of the Waves for bestowing her bounty upon them. This was one of those days, and the village folk were keen to celebrate a massive haul of fish and nutritious weed which would see them through the hot days of the coming summer.
Jeiana had woken with the sun to the noise of her husband and son snoring in the pallet beside her. Marthus’ tendrils were still nestled in her back and she found it comforting, even if disentangling herself had woken him far too early. There were more important things to do this morning and Marthus had grumbled, even as he dressed and headed out for a morning fishing on the other side of the reef.
She dressed with haste, there was much to do. Rather than her usual clothes, today she wore her joining gown, a long dress of pale blues and whites the colour of sea and foam that showed off her Seaborn tattoos. It caressed her skin like a lover’s touch and ended at her ankles. The dress was now reserved solely for important days, for festivals and joinings, for nights of merriment and celebration. Pinning her hair half up, Jeiana curled ringlets around her fingers and selected her favourite necklace, the one made for her joining day by her sister-by-joining who lived in Gehol, that was made up of orbs of silver and pressed discs of silver, gold, and bronze.
Today was a day of worship.
The morning dawned clear, the sea blue-green and calling to the children and adults alike, inviting them for a morning swim. Jeiana looked forward to the day as she saw Lukai off to play with Yuna’s son. Their menfolk had already dragged their kerash out to sea, accompanied by the amarai, the deep divers who helped chase fish into their nets.
From her hut on the shoreline, above the point where the highest tide could reach, Jeiana could see the dancing fish diving through the Water Child’s Bones, the name they gave to the ancient reef which stood between them and the deeper ocean.
Caerim was one of the oldest hamlets on this side of the desert. The houses were made from particular sand-blasted stone that was unlike any seen anywhere else. They were built into the rock surrounding the long, thin beach, a rabble of domed rooves and the twin light towers that refracted firelight to guide the kerash travelling home after dark. The cluster of houses was small and strong, but also truly ancient, having passed through the generations from matriarch to daughter and patriarch to son since the diaspora from Canhei, when the various clans and tribes scattered themselves over Reshka.
Dennabirds were circling above the townsfolk, nesting in the leaning trees which lined the beach. Several of the younglings had already shinned up the limbs to take the odd egg from a nest or to dislodge one of the hanging pods to roast on the fire during the night’s festivities. Some had even gone deeper back, into the rock forest, to find the tell-tale paper-hives to raid for the celebration; shamir honey always seemed to make the celebrations that much sweeter, even if the sting reminded that nothing came without a price.
Tasked and ready, Jeiana had helped the priestesses prepare for the rites and rituals. She had baked bread, helped distill water, then used her brush as she had been taught in the temple in Gehol to write the sacred verses which would be hung from the leaning trees. The dancing banners might be nothing compared to the forthcoming celebrations in any of the great cities, but it was from them that the people of Caerim had adopted the custom.
Unlike their brethren to the west, the Seaborn never used pigments of starstone mixed into their ink. Instead, once written, they sprinkled freshly dried salt onto the wet calligraphy and watched the shards dry, creating a rippled effect that was found nowhere else in Reshka. It was their homage to their Lady of the Waves, who spoke to them in their dreams.
Being a member of the Seaborn, Jeiana was pledged to her. She had learned to swim as a child, lain under the tattooists’ needles as an adult and been been joined with one bare foot in the ocean and the other on the sand. Jeiana could hold her breath for what seemed like an age, though not quite as long as one of the amarai, and she could see better under water than on land. She got land sick if she wandered too far from the ocean, her skin itching as if she was bathing in a sandstorm; if she listened hard enough, she could hear the songs of the Water Children when the wind was blowing just so.
Like all children of Ishvei’s World, she knew how to write, and loved Ishvei as only her children do. Sometimes she wondered, if not for her beloved one, Marthus, and their son, Lukai, if she would have followed in her mother’s footsteps and become a temple maiden herself, or even in her greatmother’s as an amarai. But no, that was for another life and she was happy as mate and mother, even if Lukai had come from Marthus’ loins. Perhaps, Aia and Kodia willing, they would have a daughter in the next year or so. Smiling, her plan already forming, an unspent future unfurling on the sea, Jeiana decided she would like that, and she was sure Lukai would as well.
As Thaeos began to rise higher and the temperature slowly rose under his gaze, Jeiana walked through the surf, knee-deep in the clear warm water with a reed basket on her arm. The hem of her dyed dress was floating, and the silt kept trying to swallow her feet whole as she moved through the shallows. Looking back at the beach, she saw people working in the sunshine; the bards were singing the old songs while the younglings teased skeleton crabs or caged selavai with sticks. Lukai was among them, and she knew he was safe in the gaze of her friends and the elders. Family for them was something that didn’t just include the natal parent and their chosen lovers or spouses.
In the distance, on the horizon, Jeiana could already see the tiny three-sided kerash bobbing on the ocean as they rowed home. Each of the boats was carved out from the oldest of trees, and could seat a single person and half their weight in sea-creatures. Marthus’ had been in his clan for six generations, and it was their most prized possession next to the hair-braided lines and metal hooks. They must have had a good morning fishing for the feast to be heading back so early.
Half buried in the silt, which still insisted on trying to swallow her feet and tail, Jeiana spotted another caavashell, and then some pieces of luminescent rainbowclam. She loved to walk in the water, the hem of her her long dress floating like the fins of a linnack fish, and had happily offered to collect offerings for the Lady of the Waves’ table.
Pulling the knife from her belt, Jeiana shucked the caavashell apart with an expert hand and broke it in two. She used her thumb to split the meat from the roe and swallowed the creature whole, then washed the shell in the water. They were perfect for offering plates, and no one would mind if she devoured the odd morsel in search of hidden gems; this was the right of those who walked in the water, just as the fishermen could keep a fish or two for their table.
The silt seemed to shudder as she pulled out the next shell. For a moment, Jeiana felt like she was going to fall and a strange vibration seemed to pass through her, as if the removal of this one mollusc had been felt deep in the planet’s soul; as if she had wounded Ishvei’s World itself. After steadying herself, Jeiana was pleased to find this shell offered a little more luck; it contained a tear pearl about the size of her thumbnail. These were rare. After all, the Lady of the Waves seldom cried, and to find one of this size meant only luck and prosperity for the Se
aborn.
Her basket now half full of shells and weed, Jeiana began to wade back to the shore. Still captivated by the pearl in her palm she didn’t notice the tide receding or realise the reason why the group of kerash had begun to paddle home so early. Normally they would never think of returning until Thaeos began to sink, but today, well, something was different.
The people on the beach had stopped work and were standing, looking dazed. Lukai was wailing and his voice snapped her from her reverie as she ran to the sound of his cries, her maternal instincts kicking into full gear. Several of the great pods had fallen from the trees as if cut by an invisible knife, and the baker’s boy, Jacoi, lay still on the sand, one of the pods nearby and spattered with his blood. His death was quick, the others’ would not be.
Jeiana dropped the basket on the sand, slipped the pearl into the inside pocket of her clothing and called out to her friend. “What happened, Yuna?”
“The earth shook. Didn’t you feel it?” Yuna had gone pale, her voice quaking.
Jeiana started to shake her head and then stopped. “I thought it was just the shifting of the silt.”
“The pods fell and one of them hit poor Jacoi. Jaisenthia took him in a heartbeat.” Yuna lowered her head and mumbled a quiet prayer.
Jeiana realised they needed to take action, to save the little children of their tribe from seeing Jacoi’s passing. She gently took her friend’s arm and led her away from the crowd. “Let’s round up the young ones, they don’t need to see a passing so early in their lives.”
Already the wailing of grief had started as Jacoi’s father and mother ran down to find the body of their only son. Yuna and Jeiana herded the children back to the village, away from the display of sorrow.
The rushing in her ears came quickly; a noise like a thousand thirsty baelish stampeding across the desert sands when they saw there was water in an oasis. Thaeos seemed to fade, as if behind clouds, and the air itself seemed to cool and still. Jeiana felt a bolt of cold fear shooting down her spine and out into the tips of her tendrils and limbs. Yuna had gone white, eyes wide, unable to articulate what she was seeing. Jeiana turned to see the great wave looming over them, so tall it blotted out even Thaeos’ golden light.
That was the last thing she would ever see.
Consciousness exploded in on oblivion and Jeiana’s eyes flew open. Without thinking, she turned to the side, vomiting sea water out of her lungs onto the sand. The pain was blinding, salt burning in her chest as the coughing wracked her body. Was it meant to hurt like this? She sucked in mouthfuls of air and fell back. Her brain was spinning, her vision clouded and blurry. Where was she? Who was she?
“It’s all right, you’re safe.” One of the healers who had held her while she vomited began to mop the sweat out of her eyes. “Do you know your name?”
She knew how to count time by the rising and falling of tides, knew verses and prayers, she knew how to create a child, how to make another cry out in pleasure. The name, her name, that took a moment more of thought. Somehow, the name wasn’t hers and never would be again. “Jeiana of Caerim, beloved of Marthus and mother to Lukai.”
“Do you know what happened, Jeiana?”
“Water,” she gasped, trying to filter through the last imprints of a brain that wasn’t hers. “A wave. Death.”
A solemn look and then the thing she knew he must say: “You’re the only survivor; Caerim was destroyed.” The healer lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The words had no effect. Should she weep or scream? Jeiana just frowned, images flashing through her memory. It always took a little time to adapt to a pre-existing mortal form, which was why it was seldom done. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks and wasn’t sure if it was for the woman whose body she had borrowed, for the child and husband that woman had lost, or for herself.
“Jaisenthia has had a busy day,” the healer said sadly, surveying the bodies lined up on the sand. “Count your blessings, daughter, and be thankful that the Lady of the River’s boat was too full to take you.”
The sound of her true name, the one the people of this world knew her by, made her look up. “Then I’m blessed to still be alive.”
“Do you have family outside of Caerim, Jeiana?”
“Marthus does, in Gehol.” She searched Jeiana’s memories for names and faces. “A sister named…Chelle.”
The healer handed her a cup. “Drink this and I’ll have someone contact them. For now, just rest.”
Jeiana nodded, suddenly tired, downed the bitter liquid, and did her best not to vomit. It was a draught of herbs to make her sleep. “Thank you.”
The second time Jeiana awoke, the new mind inside this resurrected body was fully assimilated. She opened her eyes, breathing deep and tasting the air, smelling salt, death, and water. She was lying on her side on a make-shift pallet beneath a shaded rock on the edge of the forest of boulders which protected Caerim from the sands of the Southern Desert.
Canvas blocked out Thaeos’ light and she could see similar tents, held up by branches, littering the nearby area to offer some relief from both the heat and the devastation. Jeiana sat up and realised her hair was darker now and, though dried, was plastered to her face. As she moved to tuck it behind her ears, she saw it was not the only change; her skin was whiter too, the sparkle gone, as if she was a corpse and not a living daughter of Ishvei’s World. The wave had taken her—as it had the rest of her tribe—but still she lived, even if on the inside she was no longer Jeiana.
There was a reason why indwelling was so seldom done. Bodies at the point of death were not whole, and recovering from that took time. Jeiana had to work with what she had, and during her coma the part of her which was not Jeiana worked to make this fragile mortal form a workable host for the long term.
She remembered a silly boy who was still learning what it meant to be what they were. He had barged into a dead man’s body as it dropped and animated it without thinking, without asking. His superior had known he was there immediately, but it made things awkward, as the man had already been reported dead and his widow was on her way to identify her husband’s corpse. The boyling had been forced to channel the original man’s voice so his widow could say her goodbyes and, not surprisingly, it was a mistake he had not repeated.
Without warning, the memory vanished, fading like a popping soap bubble. That was a memory of the Lady of the River, not of Jeiana of Caerim, daughter of the Seaborn. For a moment she couldn’t understand how that had made the transition when so much else had not.
Images of her fate, however, had. The breaking down of personality barriers, the inability to distinguish herself and the memories she had assimilated. Eventually a kind of dementia would set in and her consciousness would fade until only Jeiana was left. That very concept was terrifying, but it was a part of the bargain of taking on a used corporeal form, a sacrifice required by the universe in exchange for breaking the fixed laws of life, death, and rebirth.
There would come a day, perhaps seasons, or maybe even years from now, when she would answer to Jeiana as if it had been her only name. What was happening now would be simply a madness from which ‘Jeiana’ would one day awake, even though her soul was gone to another place with those she loved.
The bindings were already in place, tying the small, eternal part of her to this physical form. She could feel them slowly tightening, like stitches in a wound. Eventually she would be unable to wriggle out or break the bonds; then there would be no turning back and she would be stuck, bound to this fragile mortal body as if she were born into it.
For a moment, like a bird who has flown into a house, she wanted to panic, to struggle, to get out. It took all of Jeiana’s willpower to resist the urge to flee, to calm herself and not rip the bonds that dug into her soul.
She watched healers milling about, and only realised when one stepped under the canvas holding a skin of water how thirsty she was and how dry her throat had become. Her back ached and she reached around to feel two
padded wads of cloth stuck over the area where her tendrils—the delicate organs which would allow parthenogenesis—should have been located, just above the opening to her fallopian tubes.
What had the wave done to her borrowed body?
“You’re awake. Good,” the young man said, as he ducked under the canvas. “Try and sip this. You’ll just vomit if you don’t.”
She assented, a bargain made between them, and he handed her the skin. Jeiana uncorked the skin and put her lips to the seal, feeling the deliciously cold water flow down her throat.
“Sips, Jeiana, sips!” The healer warned.
Too late, her stomach heaved and she vomited foul-tasting green bile over the sand at her feet. “I’m sorry.”
The healer sighed, gentle exasperation on his face. “My patients never listen. Shall we try this again? Sips, all right?”
“Yes…what’s your name?”
“Kavan.”
“Thank you, Healer Kavan,” Jeiana said, smiling weakly. Then she sipped. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I was traveling with the Edoi caravan of Feium Asun that were heading to your village. We felt the ground shaking and then they saw a huge wave, perhaps as high as three leaning trees. It swallowed your village and all the people in it. We’ve started seeing bodies washing up on the shore, but no one survived. All died in the first few seconds from impact, or drowned. I think most of them were knocked unconscious. Their passing would have been quick, and they wouldn’t have known what was happening.”
“A blessing then.”
“I explained your situation to Taras, the Clanfather. The Feium Asun have offered to take you to Gehol,” Kavan said gently. “You mentioned you have extended family there?”