Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  "But it'll keep the wolf fish from the door long enough to shore up your sagging status. I can only solve one major problem at a time."

  "You are spiritual caretaker of the Piawro, not island manager. It's my job as chieftain to provide solutions to secular crises."

  "And you're failing admirably, Dokran."

  Already reconsidering their alliance, Ryops spat, “Might be a good idea to formulise this truce of ours, before I say something you'll regret.” A bout of mutual head bobbing, the Piawro version of a handshake, cemented the armistice for the greater good of the amphibs. Prodding the limply hanging Durgay with a testing finger, the Dokran smiled cynically. “You do have trouble keeping your pets awake, Eskaa. Reschedule this sideshow for when you make sushi out of this wretch. Talking food should be quite a novelty."

  Breaking his crooked staff against Durgay's broad back in frustration, the bones of his exploding rattle scattering across the warming sand, the venting Subos glanced down at the rat tailbone pointing to the chieftain bounding away down the beach. “Where are you off to?” Eskaa croaked demandingly.

  His receding voice barely carrying over the muted roar of the distant breakers rolling in from the open ocean to crash against the north-eastern reef barrier, Ryops faintly answered, “Spouting war is your department. Organising it falls to me. I have to start building an army if we're to go on safari."

  Narrowing his bulbous eyes, Eskaa promised the uncomprehending merman, “I will have you singing like a sea canary."

  * * * *

  That evening Eskaa gratefully disrobed. While flattering, the bark cloth wrap made for uncomfortable daywear in the stuffy tropical climate. Handing the cumbersome cloak to a temple servant, he was about to take a refreshing sip of coconut milk when the acolyte dared question his master's gamesmanship.

  "Subos, your pretence confuses me. Why endorse Ryops’ insecure Dokrany when your goal is to take him down?"

  Eskaa silenced the altar boy's effrontery with a sharp backhand smack across the youth's snout. Weary from a taxing day spent kissing froglets and general schmoozing to maintain his high profile and gain momentum for the war effort, his explosive temper was shorter than normal.

  The gall of the tadpole!

  What gave an underling the right to second-guess his ingenious master plan? Throwing his drinking coconut at the slapped acolyte, who ducked and ran for cover from the temple backroom doubling as Eskaa's private retreat, the husk fittingly splattered on a tapa wall hanging depicting a stylised rendition of Mont Plaas's last eruption. Spilt milk smeared the screen-printed volcano, creating the daft illusion of snow in the tropics.

  Calming down just as impulsively, he reviewed his carefully crafted subterfuge. Lulling Ryops into a false sense of security, admittedly a work in progress, was coming along nicely, better than he hoped for in fact. Discrediting the Dokran no longer served any useful purpose. Restoring Ryops’ blemished reputation was only hop one in his grand takeover bid.

  Prevented from opting for the open or covert assassination scenario to become Piawro CEO, and too impatient to let rebellion run its mutinous course, that left exploiting the Fish-with Hands. Estimating the barest minimum of a thousand Cetari swarmed in the waters about Castle Rock, Eskaa especially liked that impressive number. Pressuring Ryops to front his favoured Shurpeha in the opening onslaught after the outbreak of war should be easy enough to swing, simply by playing upon the Dokran's civic duty.

  With any luck the fool will be torpedoed and sink in the first attack wave.

  Not trusting putting all his fish eggs in one cane basket, Eskaa had formulated a backup plan in case the riled mermen out to avenge their murdered princess failed to eliminate his rival. Slipping a handful of ringers in with the Shurpeha recruits would ensure Ryops’ tragic death from “friendly fire” in case he managed to beat the odds.

  Chuffed at his own guile, Eskaa had one more act of underhandedness to perform before retiring to his bed mat. Hurriedly exiting the temple after removing his feather torc, the sneaky Subos cleared the bamboo stockade unseen by the slack gatehouse guard and stole through the sticky twilight, another faceless amphib too buoyed up by the prospect of conquest and food to sleep.

  R'bat City was abuzz with speculative chatter in the wake of the morning's revelation. Citizenry continued clogging the shabby dirt streets, milling outside grimy dwellings, visiting family and friends to exchange viewpoints. Neighbours excitedly discussed the pros of the holy crusade, unwilling to consider the glaring drawback of warring; people get killed.

  Hunching down to appear smaller, garbed in an invisible air of anonymity, Eskaa slinked unnoticed through the preoccupied community. Caring nothing for his flock, the Subos viewed them all as stepping-stones on his path to power.

  Let them focus on their bellies. It'll make it easier for me to pull the strings making my puppets dance.

  Veering down a lane crookedly bisecting two blocks of pithouses left empty by occupiers seeking conversation, he quit the humming city and hopped through a graveyard of logged trees, the hacked stumps tombstones marking Piawro consumptive greed. Ecology was a dirty word in the amphib language. Why bother replanting the deforested jungle or restock the fished out lagoon when the godly Elementals were sure to provide replacements when prayed to?

  Nimbly slaloming the deadwood obstacle course, Eskaa crossed the threshold of the receding jungle boundary, letting Corakk's tangled undergrowth stage his disappearing act for him. Slowed by the hampering vines trailing from the sparse trees like tripwires, his shortened hops took him on a trackless path toward Mont Plaas.

  Eskaa's route was necessarily circuitous. Off limits to all but the Dokran Teh and his approved concubines, even the untouchable Subos risked extreme punishment for trespassing in and around Crater Lake. There are fates worse than death with which to penalise lawbreakers as the last interloper found to his cost at the hands of the Dokran two generations removed from Ryops. Subjected to ritualistic cannibalism, the criminal wound up on the dinner table as the main course. There is no finer delicacy than frog's legs.

  Stooping on the lakeshore with the patience of a heron angling for fish, Eskaa peered unseeing into the blackish water tinged silver from starshine. Framed by the silhouetting moon rising ponderously behind his hunched back, the contemplative Subos projected the sinister look of a punishing wraith. Uncorking an unmarked bamboo phial recovered from a lakeshore hiding spot beneath an innocuous pile of rocks, he leisurely poured a clear, treacly liquid into the sacred breeding waters, the colourless syrup oozing sinisterly through the glistening Spawning Pool. A lemony odour lingered faintly in the night air afterwards, an unsettlingly pleasant smell at odds with the heinous crime Eskaa busied himself committing.

  In spite of his inherited grand title of magician-priest, Eskaa remained as impotent as his talentless predecessors. Relying on cheap conjuring tricks and implied prowess to sustain their mystique, generations of Subos’ worked without any skill whatsoever in the magic arts. Incantations—while hypnotising the ignorant and uneducated with intoned eloquence—stayed hollow, powerless words. Even the temple workers served unaware of the deception, blinded by faith and fanaticism. Only the Dokran, and often his Shurpeha commander, was privy to the truth, pledged to stay mum and uphold the equilibrium of Piawro control.

  Which is not to say any Subos was entirely weakly.

  Well versed in botanical and religious lore, adept at reading and forecasting weather patterns, an expert player in the arena of mind games, those skills alone empowered the charlatan magician-priest but combined to make him especially formidable.

  There's more than one way to skin a catfish.

  Sorely tempted to expedite Ryops’ demise and don the mantle of frog prince forthwith, Eskaa nonetheless relied on the tried and trusted formula of sabotage. Slow and steady wins the race. Even if by some lucky fluke the Dokran outlived the mermen, misadventure, and mutiny, his survival would prove meaningless. The toxic agent Eskaa routinely poisoned the
lake with following his chief's indulgence ensured Ryops fathered no successor.

  Eskaa prided himself on not being an indiscriminate murderer. He terminated only those specifically blocking his way, even if they happened to be the unborn. The contaminant solely targeted that egg carrying genetic Dokran potential, smothering the embryonic tadpole developing unawares inside while leaving the surrounding egg clusters unharmed. A secret blend of plant toxins formulated by an earlier Subos as a birth control to selectively breed the unsuspecting Dokrans, the insidious potion guaranteed only a pool of budding religious converts hatched.

  Diffusing rapidly through the cratered womb of the amphibs, death permeated the jellied strands of nascent life. Eskaa heard, before he saw, the doomed egg pop to the lake's surface, detached from the mothering jelly by the attacking toxin. Jumping artlessly into the mildly steaming water, he paddled to where Ryops’ future lineage bobbed lifelessly in the waves of disturbance engineered by malice.

  Delicately picking up the squishy orb in his fingers, Eskaa scrutinised his petty victory. The poison would completely dissolve by sunup, leaving no trace of its presence in the spoiled water. That left only the evidence in his guilty hand. Trusting again that the toxin was harmless to adults, Eskaa popped the egg into his grinning mouth and swallowed.

  Waste not; want not.

  Chapter Five

  The eve of the talk show dawned. Everybody was in place. Durgay, airborne again, lolled in a blank-faced stupor, meanly starved and occasionally beaten into submission by his inhuman jailers. Ryops stooped back from the strung up merman, surrounded by stiff Shurpeha bristling with swords, shields, and attitude. Chulib orbited the calmly waiting Dokran, boldly ready to jump on the first sign of trouble from the tens of thousands of Piawro crowding the sandy strip of northern beach and defoliated coastal uplands.

  All eyes were riveted on Eskaa.

  Forgoing his gaudy cloak and weighty helmet in the interest of nimbleness, the featured Subos took centre stage wearing nothing but body paint and a toadying smile. He started chanting solemnly around a raging bonfire that added unnecessary drama and heat to the proceedings, pausing every few hops to throw a handful of metallic powder into the crackling flames consuming precious wood. A shower of sparks resulted, topped by billowy puffs of coloured smoke greening the purpled sky of the emerging day.

  Show off.

  Jealously gnawed at the critiquing Dokran. The adulation heaped on Eskaa by the masses should rightfully be his, not squandered on an egocentric user.

  The suggestible Piawro caste system was fully represented by the amphibs thronging in suspense. Leapers—the elitist, managerial minority to which the supervisory chieftainship and priesthood, including their respective attendants, belonged—dominated the front dozen rows. To their rear the numerically doubled Climbers stooped haughtily, distinguishable from lesser Landhoppers by their lissom build and friction pads gracing their fingertips and toes. Formerly the upper echelon of the amphib social order, the woodcarving and stonecutting artisans were centuries ago overthrown in a bloodless coup and to this day resented the demotion, clinging undyingly to their past prestige. Behind them skulked the backbone of the Piawro, the farming Diggers; overworked tenders of the subsistence bamboo and breadfruit plantations. Themselves subdivided into the near feral Burrowers living primitively in earthen dens on the fringes of R'bat City, the virtual slave caste provided Eskaa his power base.

  Ryops second-guessed his wisdom at granting the islanders an unprecedented day off from their drudging toil. Campaigning for war was one thing, staging an actual invasion something else. Faced with the logistical nightmare of shipping 500 warriors overseas, all hands were needed on deck to make Eskaa's liberal promise a reality. With hurricane season a matter of months away, haste was paramount. Climber loggers should be felling trees, carving the trunks into dugout canoes and paddles, sculpting branches into the shafts that the obsidian spearheads their mining counterparts busied themselves chipping would slot into. Since an army of marines paddles on its stomach the Diggers were required to be planting ahead of time, squeezing every last seed and root from the over-tilled land to feed the soldiery. Then there was Chulib's task of training up a hundred more Shurpeha to be competent lancers before the commencement of hostilities. Unhappy at making Eskaa's toadies privy to Shurpeha fighting techniques, Chulib was reassured by his Dokran's shrewd advice: “Simply don't teach them everything you know, Chu. Save the best tricks for when you need them most yourself."

  Even so, Ryops could not shake the feeling of his Subos once again outwitting him. Joining the multitude putting Eskaa in the limelight, he regarded the gyrating magician-priest. Naked flesh decorated with abstract charcoal symbols representing fire, earth, water, and air, the incanting Subos summoned up the natural forces of the Elementals to sanctify the assembly. His misgivings notwithstanding, Ryops grudgingly respected Eskaa's talent as a showfrogman extraordinaire.

  Finishing his fire dance with a final plume of verdant smoke curling skyward atop a fizzing geyser of sparks, the enraptured Subos lifted his spindly arms to the crowd in consecration. “The blessings of the Gods be upon you,” he intoned ritualisitically.

  "The powers of the Gods infuse you,” the prescribed reply rumbled from the host.

  Emboldened by the unilateral show of faith in him, Eskaa boomed, “Gathered we are to make a blood offering of this Fish-with-Hands in way of honouring Terrible Vhello's patronage of our crusade."

  Croaky cheers met his assertion. Many were attending just to see blood spilt.

  "But first, friends and followers, the devilfish scout must be made to confess his wickedness, to admit that his heinous reason for unsuccessfully sneaking into our home waters was to report back to his cruel masters on Piawro vulnerability. Let us show him just how weak we are! Bring forth the truth stick, so that the God of Fire's instrument of cleansing may burn away the lies of the sinful, laying bare evil in its truest and vilest form.” Vigorous clapping drowned out the hushed surf as a staid acolyte handed the Subos his preferred torture device, a flaming brand.

  Daring to put his oar in, Ryops circumspectly intervened. “Faithful Subos, I beg to disagree!"

  Pausing uncertainly, Eskaa cast a glowering eye over the Dokran as his meddlesome archrival hopped forward. A portentous hush quieted the bloodthirsty crowd. The Subos was not the only amphib playing with fire today.

  Addressing the gathering directly, Ryops smoothly opened with, “Good folk, soon we are to embark on a divine war of conquest favoured by the gods. Dare we desecrate our holiest traditions by subjecting this animal to hop one in the Trial by Flame, Tempest, and Mud? Need I remind you all how such sacred tests are reserved solely for those completing the Journey of the Dead to Dughenna, to determine their eligibility to undertake Kadi Nho, the Journey of Rebirth. Must we sully the worthiness of those ancestors whose strength and courage made possible their reincarnations through us."

  Grumbles of doubt played across the expanse of amphibs like wind whipping the ocean surface. Nobody wanted to risk angering family ghosts.

  Neatly outfoxed, the stymied Subos extinguished the torch in the sand at his feet. Scrabbling to recover lost ground, he hastily proclaimed,” The Dokran Teh is absolutely right. Never will I allow our ancestral kin to be tarnished by the impious. Make ready the devilfish for sacrifice."

  Croaks of dissent broke the wave of silence that washed over the crowd. “What about the confession, Subos? Yeah, we came to hear it scream.... I've never seen no talking fish ... You don't see it, stupid, you listen to it."

  "You don't want to disappoint your audience,” Ryops taunted Eskaa in muttered glee. “A crowd can get pretty ugly damn fast.” A smug smile creased his snout. “Can't you make the fishy-wishy talk without barbecuing him first?"

  Locking gazes with his Dokran, the Subos again swore, “I'll have him squealing like a stuck pigfish before you can say riot. Let the inquisition begin!"

  * * * *

  Durgay felt te
rrible. Pain wracked the merman's abused body, dulling the ache in his empty belly. Feeling as if his stretched tail was about to disintegrate, the scaly skin slough from his dehydrated body, breathing itself was torture.

  Sightlessness proved no handicap for him during this session, the blinding sun not yet risen high enough to blacken his unremitting vision. Daybreak granted the Fisher an unimpeded, if upside down, view of his tormentor; a gawky Landhopper whose crazed eyes brimmed with fury. Beyond him the jamboree terrifyingly filled his sight, a seething mass of amphibs lusting for gore. Wishing his blindness would return, Durgay recoiled in his mind as the loony Piawro sidled up to him like a scuttling crab intent on nipping.

  Mercifully, his persecutor refrained from beating or branding him anew. He instead afflicted Durgay by murdering Cetari sound-speech. The unforeseen change in tactics shocked the despairing Seaguardian out of his misery. Collecting his hazy faculties, Durgay concentrated on interpreting the sloppily enunciated whistles and clicks streaming from a mouth better suited to forming unintelligible croaks and ribbits.

  "Eskaa. You.... am."

  Grappling to comprehend his captor's meaning, the weakened Fisher rebutted the Subos’ conversational icebreaker. “Your Cerat is worse than your hospitality. My name is Durgay. Is yours—” Finding Piawro vocalisations difficult to master, he mispronounced the magician-priest's name. “Scah?"

  Forging ahead with his broken Merspeak, Eskaa ignored the unintended slight. “Der-kay ... woman, yes?"

  Perplexed at how the rumour of his alleged gayness reached Landhopper earholes, Durgay was gobsmacked.

  Sorting out the right word, Eskaa corrected his grammar. “Der-kay ... warrior."

  "No longer,” disputed the old Fisher. “Retired."

  "Der-kay—warrior!” insisted Eskaa. “To here ... all kill."

  "No.” Durgay slumped. “Here to die."

  * * * *

  Ryops impatiently tapped Eskaa's shoulder. Listening to the incomprehensible exchange between priest and prisoner, he mocked, “You've established one thing only, Eskaa; you can whistle while you work. I've yet to see proof of your talking to the animals."