It was Mother who taught one to walk as Cypress should walk, and to talk as the Land’s daughter ought. Mother, who said Cypress must be pure; must be perfect in every way…
I would not have minded if Mother had taken me for a walk along the beach, Cypress thought. I would have expected her to. Why Father? Why did it have to be you? That had been betrayal. Just like the Land, she thought. He too, had betrayed his daughter whom he was supposed to have loved so much. There was no love, after all, she thought gazing unseeingly at the dark grey-blue waters beyond the entrance of the cave.
But there was Kaya… My brother, thought Cypress, as the warmth of affection replaced the wound of Father’s betrayal. Kaya, who taught her to climb trees, and who made her laugh even after one of Mother’s particularly somber lectures. Kaya, who swore her to secrecy regarding the swimming lessons. “Promise you won’t tell anyone? You won’t tell Mother?” She had promised, of course. Never told Mother or Father about the swimming lessons.
And it was Kaya who brought her to the Dark Rock. That was later, though, months later.
“Come,” he had beckoned to her, walking to the frightful edge of the rock that jutted forward like a jagged nightmare.
“I don’t want to!” she had cried, frightened.
He had turned to face her, looking stern like Father, but never as distant as Mother. “Cypress, I told you to come here,” he had ordered, but kindly, she had felt.
Reluctantly, she had taken a few steps forward.
He had stepped forward to meet her. “Come on, Cypress,” he had said gently. “We’ll go together.” He had held her hand tightly as they walked together slowly to the edge of the rock.
“You see,” he pointed towards the open water. “There’s nothing to fear.”
She had held on to his hand as she leaned forward and looked…
“Shadow will protect you,” he had said. “I will protect you.”
But where was he now? Where was Shadow? She looked down at the sodden crocodile hanging from a raggedy piece of leather. It was a sorry thing. It didn’t seem much good for anything. Certainly couldn’t offer any protection. It hadn’t stopped her from breaking her arm on the rocks! It was her left arm and it was now cradled in a sling against her chest. She had broken her leg two years ago, and it had felt just like this. Father had taught her how to tie a splint. She had cried and gotten quite cross with him – not as angry as now, of course, she thought, vengefully kicking the rough sand – but he had insisted on making her sit on a rock while he explained how to make and tie a splint to keep the bone in place.
“If you ever need to do it yourself, you will be in a lot of pain, and I might not be there to help you,” he had told her, not heeding her tears. “You should know how it feels now, so it will be easier for you if it ever happens again.”
But it wasn’t easier when it happened again, and her brother had been wrong about there being nothing to fear at the foot of the Dark Rock! Because they wouldn’t choose to throw people off a rock if there was nothing to fear, would they? They didn’t throw people on a nice, sunny day like the day her brother had taken her there, when wavelets played gently among small, protruding rock formations. When the sea was calm, and the sky clear. When the Sun was warm…
No. That’s not when they threw you off the Dark Rock. They waited for the most violent day of the year, when all the elements were enraged. And the Dark Rock looked even blacker, bleaker, more monstrous than ever. “You weren’t there,” she said out loud. “How do you know there was nothing to fear?”
What do you know of what it is to stand on that rock? To stand there in the dark cold with the wind whipping around in great big lashes, and to be surrounded by people one thought of as neighbors, but who were there in the end not as neighbors but to make sure you were thrown off that rock into the arms of the angry beast that crashed and thrashed against the whole world, screaming with all its might, ‘It’s unfair!’
What do you know of the waves? They are cords of ice that enfold you, take away your breath and drag you down into the belly of the monster that you call the sea.
And you said there was nothing to fear! What do you know of fear? She screwed up her eyes and buried her face in the crook of her right arm but memory was an insistent thing… it would not leave her alone…
Memory of the waves as they flung her towards the rocks of the shore… memory of a stinging pain in her left arm that she had barely noticed until she tried to swim against the unbearable force of the wind. And then suddenly the waves had changed… they had picked her up, and instead of beating her against the rocks, they thrust her roughly away…
… Just like the story, she thought, remembering the night after her tenth birthday when her mother had sat by her bed and read her the story … the story of a little girl whose father threw her away… into the River, and the River had flung her this way and that. It had been a sad story, but she had not minded at the time. She hadn’t thought it applied to her. It was just a story. An old tale that everyone knew. The old story of Evening Song. That was before the walk with Father by the sea...
It would have been easier, she had thought, to give in like Cypress in the story, than to battle the waves with one arm. Why were they so angry? Were they angry with me? Why? What had I done?
Cypress looked up and opened her eyes. “The waves weren’t angry with me!” she cried indignantly. The waves were harsh, but they had carried her towards the other side of the island. On their tiny island, where she could walk around the entire periphery in less than two hours, and the few houses where the residents of the island lived were clustered on the southeast quadrant side. The waves, churning and groaning, threw her towards the uninhabited side of their island…
The waves did what you said, she thought, talking to her brother in her mind. They did carry me to this side of the island. They brought me to the shore, she recalled. Almost gently – for the waves, that is – they had deposited her, throbbing arm and all, on a sheltered part of the shore. As she rose slowly from her watery resting place, she realized that she had arrived at the far end of the beach where caves stood like hungry giants waiting open-mouthed.
Go to the nose rock! She could hear her brother say. The nose rock. She had looked around and found its rocky protrusion that she and her brother had always likened to an old, pendulous nose, not fifty meters away. She had found the nose rock! Savoring the minor victory, she made her way to the rock and flopped down in the shelter of the bulbous outcropping with its sprouts of dry weeds that resembled a giant’s hairy warts. She had been on the verge of tears as a wave of hopeless self-pity assailed her when she noticed – out of the corner of her eye – something dark flapping in the directionless wind. Leaning forward to investigate she was delighted to find an old sweater caught in the rock’s crevice – its single ‘nostril’. She pulled it out quickly. It was a good sweater. It was big and bulky and came down below her knees, and smelled mostly of fish. Perhaps one of the fishermen left it behind, she thought excitedly, peeling off the cold, wet robe that clung to her body like swathes of clammy seaweed, and wriggling happily into the prickly wool of her new find. She peered again into the crevice and rummaged around, triumphantly retrieving a pair of thick, woolen socks! They will definitely scratch my feet she thought, as she removed her sodden slippers, replacing them with the dry, comforting wool. Thank you, she thought, vaguely trying to picture a kindly, but absent-minded fishermen, rocking along in his small fishing boat, oblivious to the fact that his second pair of socks and sweater were now worn by an eleven-year-old girl.
What a long day yesterday had been, Cypress thought, in the shelter of one of those caves she had feared so much before. She looked down at her broken arm lying in the sling she had constructed out of long ropes of seaweed and driftwood. Father had been right, she thought grudgingly. It had been easier. But it had not been easy.
Now I am a real sea-girl, she thought disconsolately, resting her chin on her knees. I’m completel
y covered in seawater and salt, and I’m wearing a necklace of seaweed and a fisherman’s sweater. In her mind rose the tantalizing dream of a hot bath. That was impossible now, and she determined not to think of it.
The cave in which she sat was abutted by the natural wall of rock that separated this lonely side of the island from the inhabited part. She had spent all eleven years of her life on that side of the island, except for brief trips to Stone Island, which was the largest of the White Islands, and also where the Elder and his family lived. There had been three trips, all in the past year. She had actually been permitted to meet the Elder’s wife. It was an enormous honor, her mother had said. Cypress must be worthy… She hung her head. Am I worthy? She wondered. Have I been pure as Mother wanted? As pure, as perfect as Cypress? I don’t know. She knew by heart, how it was written in the Book of Shadow:
And the Land was glad, my brothers,
My sisters, the Land decorated the world with flowers.
What was it, do you remember, my kin?
My brothers, why was it that the Land, formerly so cold and grave,
Could not keep from smiling?
We remember, they said, in the River below
We remember the days before…
The days before the day…
When the Dark One and his sister
Held equal sway…
For the first time, my sisters
The Sun met her brother
Half way.
What happened then, my brothers,
When Night and Day
Held equal sway?
It was a time of rejoicing, they said,
A time to put aside grudges,
It was a time to pull asunder
Crusted chains and rusted forges.
It was a time of freedom, they said
Swirling in the River below.
And on that day, my sisters, when Night and Day held equal sway,
When the world was awash with flowers
And the Land was laughing all the hours…
Who was it, my brothers,
Who came in the time
When the Sun began her descent,
But before the Dark One’s footfall could be felt?
Our Dear One, they murmured,
Dearest One…
She stole in
Ever so softly
like the breeze before dawn
She smiled
Oh so sweetly
Like honeysuckle and jasmine, all in one…
What did the Land do, my kin,
When he saw this being,
This gentle thing,
That had arrived
In between?
We remember, they said, in the River below…
We remember how the Land called to her
Saying,
You are my rose, my brightness,
It is all lightness.
My hazel-eyed daughter, my dearest Cypress…
Cypress sighed, picking viciously at the splint on her arm. I am not good enough to be Cypress, she thought. I am not all that sweet. I bet she never got angry like me! “Ow!” she cried as pain shot through her right arm. She let the tears flow. Tears of pain and sorrow. And fear for the hereafter…
Wiping her eyes, she ventured a look over her shoulder at the dark recesses of her cavernous shelter. The people of the island did not come to this side. No one ventured into the caves... well most people didn’t. Cypress shivered and hugged her knees closer, determined not to look at the dark, damp walls that surrounded her. Despite the cold and the wind, she had remained close to the entrance of the cave. She dared not venture into its dark depths, particularly the underground chambers.
No one went below…except Father. But that was different. Father could go anywhere on the island because he was Twilight’s Hand. Every island had one, and Father was theirs. Father performed all the rituals… All the rituals that took place in these caves were hidden from view, and attended only by the Twilight’s Hands of the islands.
Father conducted all the rituals… but he had not been there for the Cypress Ritual. She could not feel grateful for that. After all, it did not much matter who was trying to drown you. The important thing was the drowning. She had not understood that part of the story at all. “Why would Cypress care what her father thought?” She remembered asking her Mother, incredulous that the story seemed to indicate that the drowning girl’s greatest worry had been her father’s displeasure. Her Mother had not given a proper answer, because there isn’t one, Cypress thought.
She drove away thoughts of her family. The only thing that mattered now, in the hereafter, was survival. From her vantage point she could look out at the grey, violent sea that appeared to merge almost seamlessly with a morose sky. The Lodos winds could go on for days sometimes, and there was no way any fisherman would venture out to sea in this weather. Besides, the fishermen came very seldom, and when they did, they avoided the inhabitants of the island as much as possible. The fishermen don’t like us, she thought sadly. They come from the mainland. Nobody likes us there. They hate us.
But it was the fishermen who taught her brother to swim, she recalled.
Had the waves not been so big, and had her arm not hurt so much, she would have swum out as far as she could and hoped for one of them to find her. Her brother said the fishermen didn’t hate the little girls; that they helped them sometimes.
She tried to will away thoughts of hot soup and roast chicken. What if there’s something in the nose rock again, she wondered hopefully. Maybe something to eat, this time. It seemed entirely implausible: rocks didn’t grow food and clothing, but it gave her something to do besides staring at the grey horizon.
Cypress peered out of the cave towards where the rock reposed stolidly, oblivious to the onslaught of the elements. Picking herself up, she ventured towards the rock as Lodos whipped her bare legs and face with lashes that felt like icy blades.
Just as I expect, there is nothing, she thought, gazing at the craggy rock-face. She had avoided looking inside the crevice where she had found the sweater and socks for fear of disappointment... for fear. But I must, she decided, because unless this rock has started growing food, I’m going to have to eat pebbles! With her eyes firmly closed, she thrust her right hand deep into the crevice…
17
Following a light evening meal of cold cuts and a potato salad, finishing with strong coffee, they were ensconced in the wood-paneled room in the middle of the ship, referred to as the library.
“Patron, darling, tell us more about Pera,” Cat urged from her seat in a straight-backed, solid armchair bolted to the floorboards.
“Pera?
“Pera, with its some five million inhabitants, is located upon the Sea of Marble. And into the Sea of Marble, stretches the land of Pera, like two lovers reaching for a kiss. Where their lips never meet, lie the straits of Ortasu.
“There is an old poem from the Book of Shadow–” Patron paused and flashed a mischievous smile. It goes like this:
To the east lies Daylight’s land:
The domain of the Sun, our Golden One
Where we lay our heads,
Where we make our toil.
Across the bridge, across the Altin bridge,
Lies the western land.
And into the west we go, when our work is done,
We go after Evening Song.
In the west roams the other,
The one they call Daylight’s brother.
The one they call Twilight.”
“The Book of Shadow? What’s that?” Cat asked.
“Have you read Evening Song? All of you? I know Roland has.” Patron gave them each a searching look.
“Yes…” Cat said in a faraway tone, “A sad story about a girl who drowned. Roland drew my attention to the alligator on the cover. It reminded me of our alligators back home,” she added wistfully. “What has a ’gator go to do with Pera?”
“It’s not an alligator,” Patron correc
ted her indignantly, “Shadow is the Crocodile.”
Confused silence reigned in the library.
“Sorry?” Cat ventured. “Shadow? The Crocodile? You appear to be stringing familiar words together without any apparent meaning.”
Father Griffith raised his eyebrows.
Bruce looked at Patron expectantly. “I am accustomed to making sense of the often unfocused and rambling minds of some of my clients, but I confess I find myself baffled by your statement. So? As you were saying, the Crocodile what? And what on earth is the Book of Shadow?”
Cat smiled serenely. “Yes, we are all rather at sea, as it were. Pardon the pun.”
“Perhaps I can explain,” Orion interjected. “Patron has a hard time since she’s from Pera, and the Book of Shadow is something she knows in her bones. I came to it later in life, like you. Do you mind, Patron?” He looked apologetically at the pirate. Patron told him to get on with it.
“The Book of Shadow is a collection of stories,” Orion continued, raising a hand to quell Patron’s burgeoning protest. “That is what it is. There is no actual book. There are stories, poems, songs, sayings… that are all attributed to Shadow. And these are all, including the story of Evening Song – collectively referred to as the Book of Shadow.
“Perans have a hard time explaining it as succinctly as me of course!” He smiled roguishly at Patron, who snorted in response.
“And we have several stories from the Book of Shadow in our library.” Patron announced, indicating the rows of books nestling safely behind glass on shelves.
“A pirate who likes to read,” Father Griffith smiled at her.
“Why not?” she countered playfully. “It gets boring at sea sometimes. A good library is a must on any ship!” she sniffed.
the Dark shall do what Light cannot (LiGa Book 2) Page 15