Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  Concerned chiefly with saving his own warty skin—the public image of the Subos was tarnished to a lesser degree by blame through association—and the plans he had painstakingly crafted, Eskaa tried appeasing the multitude with the lame pledge that the very first Fish-with-Hands speared by the expeditionary force planning to embark in a few weeks would be shipped back to Lunder Atoll, the corpse put on public display and made available for civic mutilation.

  Seeing a chance for redemption and to outdo his oddly subdued rival, Ryops went one hop further, promising the mob the immediate launch of a raiding party charged with capturing alive the first Fish-with-Hands they paddled across, to be brought back to the isle for ritual execution. His improvisation worked a treat and the riled Piawro dispersed without further incident.

  Ryops saw the boating party off that morning on the ebb tide joined by the convocation of coached well-wishers Eskaa organised to line the lagoon's southern beach. Priestly blessings and rousing croaks of encouragement supported the canoeists paddling frantically to clear the Surge, surfing the choppy back of the outgoing currents into open water before the wavy sea level drained sufficiently to raise the barricading reef crest. The cheering Piawro lingered until the paired outrigger canoes safely crossed the coral boundary heading out to Nir Sea, ambling back to their waiting tasks that directly aided the war effort.

  For Ryops, it meant daily inspection tours of the atoll's pressured industries. Two short months remained before cyclonic storms lashed the tropics, battering the unshielded atoll with torrential rains and swamping flood tides. The islanders were under the sun to mobilise their war fleet before typhoons made them shore bound. The Dokran Teh did his part exhorting toiling workers to up production of materiel with quiet words of encouragement. Where just days ago his presence inflamed the malcontents, Ryops the Liberator became tolerated, helped by Eskaa's marketing of him as the Piawro's saving grace. Even the embittered Climbers stomached his visits.

  Which is not to say the willowy carvers were to be trusted. Their resentment of the Leapers, festering for decades, would not evaporate overnight. Ryops guessed their fishy change of heart was down to one dark hope; that their current Piawro masters might come to grief in the struggle against the Fish-with-Hands, leaving the leadership positions conveniently vacant.

  Ryops tried not to dwell on the Climbers rooting for the other team.

  Distracting bawls pulled the Dokran Teh's overseeing gaze from the stonemasons mining the beach-land obsidian deposit, drowning out the metrical tapping of hand axes splintering the glassy black base rock into workable flakes earmarked for shaping into harpoon tips. Looking away up the sun-drenched sands, Ryops saw Chulib mercilessly drilling the Shurpeha's newest recruits. Wielding unsharpened dummy spears, the initial squad of twenty strong trainee warriors was put through its paces under the broiling fireball, practicing thrusting and guard stances in ragged unison.

  "Chulib will soon whip them into shipshape. Yessiree, Dokran. He'll have that sorry bunch hopping through hoops blindfolded by the time he's done with them."

  Ryops glanced weirdly at the commenting bodyguard alongside him. His popularity upped again, the Dokran's safety was no longer an issue and as such his personal escort reduced to one, freeing other Shurpeha for war related duties. One of which was playing assistant coaches to their bullying commander.

  Chulib's bellowing rang over the chalky sands like claps of thunder, his undisciplined novices falling over themselves to smarten up their untidy act, harassed by junior Shurpeha drillmasters bawling from the sidelines. Feeling a harbingering westerly brush his snout, Ryops sensed the sands of time slipping away and bounded smartly inland.

  Adhering to his usual routine, Ryops stopped off at the lumber camp on his way to the plantations. Loggers hacked down Corakk Jungle at an alarming rate, felling trees right, left, and centre to feed the war effort's gluttonous hunger for timber. The tortured creaks and groans of chopped and sawn boles voiced Lunder's protest at having her precious foliage stripped, baring the vulnerable island ecosystem to the ravages of erosion. Wood smoke palled over R'bat City denser than ever before, thickened into acrid soup by additional controlled fires hollowing out tree trunks into war canoe hulls. Eyes stinging, the Dokran made to hop away into clearer air and literally bumped into Eskaa.

  Leading a procession of fawning acolytes, the strutting Subos made no apologies for the near collision. “Sightseeing again, Ryops?"

  Wiping his watery eyes dry with the palm of his hand, the chieftain said, “Just doing my rounds,” his tone staying neutral. So far their unholy pact held, although Ryops tested it every chance he got. “I see you've got a replacement rattle, Eskaa. What froglet did you swipe that from?"

  A croaky chuckle ballooned the magician-priest's throat sacs. Leaning upon his renovated staff, the cloying smoke swirls adding to his carefully cultivated mystique, Eskaa gave his Dokran a friendly warning. “Make the most of the limelight. Fame is such a fleeting joy."

  Placing a preventive hand on his tensed Shurpeha's sword arm, Ryops took in the ceremonially cloaked Subos. “All dressed up and no volcano to blow?"

  The insult hit the mark. Eskaa's own bulgy, watering eyes bridled, though in the midday warmth and the choking heat cast by the many work fires he astonishingly kept his cool. “Logs do not consecrate themselves and unblessed canoes are never seaworthy. Unless you're planning to have the army swim out to meet the Fish-with-Hands, I suggest you stay out of my way."

  Signalling his accompanying guard forward, Ryops pushed through Eskaa's flunkies, sniping at the slighted Subos as he passed him by, “Bit hard to do that when you're blocking my path."

  Carrying on through the dwindling jungle beyond sight, if not smell, of the pervading smoke, Ryops came across one of the dirt-poor villages fringing the main settlement in which the lowest caste of Piawro society resided. Pausing beside the unnamed slapdash warren of shallow setts tunnelled into the thin layer of precious topsoil, the chieftain was taken by an old Burrower squatting outside the entrance to his rude home. Time ravaged the aged Landhoppers cruelly, shrinking the elderly to one-third their proud adult size. Rheumy eyes marked the dwarf amphib a blind, seemingly spent member of the island community who had outlived his usefulness. Yet there he crouched on his heels, arthritically crippled hands mechanically sanding smooth a breadfruit wood float, destined to be part of a canoe outrigger, with a coarse piece of sharkskin.

  Ryops was moved by the selfless oldster's devotion to community spirit. Every islander, in some way, shape, or form, pitched in with the invasion preparations. Eskaa's vision, warped as it was, gave them a common purpose missing from their everyday drudgery. Humbled by the conception, Ryops vowed to do right by his children.

  My tadpoles.

  Irony lumped in his throat. No boast to say that consecutive Dokrans—since the time the ancestral amphibs fled the mainland to resettle on this remote coral atoll sanctuary—fathered every single Piawro, living and deceased, Ryops remained frustratingly heirless. Confounded by his inability to inject a fresh bloodline into the restricted Dokran gene pool, his baffling impotency failed to diminish his paternal feelings. Irrespective of tribal distinction, every Landhopper was physically linked to the leadership, existing as a valuable and contributing member of the chieftain's extended family. And to a father fell the responsibility of nurturing and protecting his brood.

  No longer in the mood for touring, Ryops skipped his scheduled stopover at the priceless plots of fertile land given over to yam and banana plantings. The Dokran's need to take his mind off his unproductive maleness overrode inspecting produce. Rooted in the heavily tilled soil, the valuable food plants would still be there tomorrow. Shurpeha scarecrows posted about the fields ensured that, scaring off likely thieves.

  Not that any robbers would be of the feathered variety. The flightless two-foot long native rail, the sole land bird endemic to the atoll, had ages ago been eaten into extinction, crammed into the cooking pots of the immigrant amphib
s. Seabirds rarely alighted, having learnt the only way to avoid predation by the giant talking frogs was to nest elsewhere. Even the plentiful globetrotting curlews no longer used the jungle stopover during their circuitous clockwise flight from the northern breeding grounds. Not a single migrant wader had been spotted, let alone made touchdown on the island rest stop, in over a century.

  Which left only the cat-sized local rats to plague the cultivated areas, since no sane thinking Piawro dared consider thieving foodstuffs to the detriment of the war fleet. Rodent eradication was in full swing, famished Burrowers making a meal of the odorous black and white animals at every opportunity by singing off the fur and boiling thoroughly the rank flesh. Prolific breeders, the rats were nonetheless fighting a losing battle against the amphibian infestation. Vermin was fast becoming a scarcity on the menu. Pretty soon the only meatable snack would be the terrestrial shellfish and only so much can be done with crabsticks.

  Hopping to a standstill in a cleared patch of fired land adjacent to a sugarcane crop, the towering thick-stemmed grass caging the declining rat population, Ryops squinted up at the solar furnace relentlessly baking Lunder Atoll and blinked languidly. Removal of the jungle rooftop exposed the isle to increasingly cancerous amounts of tropical sunlight, broiling the atoll daily.

  Snapping his pudgy fingers, Ryops called for his attending minder to rub moisturiser into the wind-cracked skin of his unclothed back. Breadfruit sap was wonderfully versatile!

  "This shouldn't be part of my job description, chief,” his escort grumbled.

  Ryops laughed off the complaint. “Quit bitching, Knalli. You were put on this atoll to serve your Dokran. That includes acting as my masseuse. You really do have soft hands.” He could almost see the embarrassed guardsman squirming.

  Knalli was readily likable. Chulib regularly chastised the youngest member of his Shurpeha compliment for his outspokenness, yet Ryops found Knalli's candour refreshing. He preferred not to be surrounded by yes frogmen.

  "That son-of-a-fish the Subos has tailing us is still back there, chief. I saw him a moment ago, out of the corner of my eye, hop into the sugarcane."

  "Maybe he works part time as ratcatcher."

  Eskaa had started keeping visible tabs on his partner. Theirs was an arrangement that did not generate trust, moreso when Ryops’ own mole mysteriously disappeared while on assignment infiltrating the magician-priest's personal servants.

  "Why don't we give him a show to report back to his master with,” suggested the Dokran. “My close quarter fighting skills sorely need honing. If I'm to lead you Shurpeha into battle, I'd better brush up on my swordplay. A decent workout will warn Eskaa not to mess with me or my boys."

  Only too glad to dispense with applying sun block, Knalli wiped clean his hands on his muscled thighs before handing his macana over to Ryops. “Let's see if you've got any better moves than last time,” he goaded the Dokran, facing his flimsy bamboo shield toward his opponent. “And hopping away doesn't count."

  Clearly unfamiliar with handling weaponry, Ryops nevertheless gave it his best shot and rushed the readied Shurpeha, clumsily brandishing the stone-edged sword like a fly swatter. Knalli neatly sidehopped the Dokran's wild swings before defeating him in three rapid moves. The first blow to Ryops caught him completely off guard and he staggered sideways. Although Knalli intentionally held back, there was force enough behind his fisted strike to numb the right half of the chieftain's snouted face. The speedy guard was careful not to punch anywhere near his chief's poison glands; a single drop paralysed and killed an adult amphib in minutes. That icebreaker was followed up by an open-handed chop to the wrist, effectively disarming Ryops. Even as the whacked Dokran ribbited in fright and pain, Knalli scooped up the dropped macana before it clattered on the ground. The final hit, a double-footed kick to the chest, utterly floored Ryops.

  Sprawled in the harrowed earth gasping for breath, the winded chieftain croaked, “Remind Chulib that Shurpeha duty is protecting, not pummelling, me."

  "He's always razzing me for being too enthused.” Knalli extended his free hand to pull the dazed Dokran to his feet. Injured pride prevented Ryops from accepting the proffered help and he stubbornly wobbled to his feet unassisted. An impish smile creased Knalli's amused mug. “That'll prove to the Subos just how dangerous you are, chief."

  Dusting himself off, the bellyaching Dokran grimaced. “I prefer spawning to fighting."

  "Care to try again?” Knalli coaxed, hefting his weapon promisingly.

  Groaning louder, Ryops wished, “Surely it must be siesta time soon."

  * * * *

  Lasbow brazenly poked his head above the waves. A patchwork of varying blues quilted Pah Ocean's restless surface, the brightly burning sun accenting the differentiating sapphires, indigos, and cobalts which hued the marine spectrum. Crossing this tapestry of aquatic monochrome raced two fishing canoes; trivial, yet concurrently noteworthy in the boundless oceanic bionetwork. Often the smallest of disturbances upsets the most tenuous of balances and these seemingly inconsequential dots on the vast sea of history were about to play their part in a swiftly escalating chain of events set to change undersea and oversea life forever.

  Seaguard scouts were shadowing the intruder vessels since picking up the telltale acoustic signature of paddles rhythmically dipping into water a quarter hour ago. Surfaced astern of the Landhopper watercraft, their bold captain took a moment to wonder why any creature would voluntarily travel on top of the sea rather than seek safer passage below the waves.

  And then a Piawro spotter glanced back, catching sight of Lasbow.

  Excited shouts preceded the frantic turning of the canoes, one swinging to port, the other heeling over to starboard on a reverse tack. Paddlers upped their tempo a notch, digging deep to complete the turn in the foot high wavelets and bear down on their quarry before they lost sight of him. Done with acting out his role as baitfish, Lasbow sounded to rejoin the thirty strong pod of matchless Fishers eagerly awaiting the order to attack from the protectiveness of the Deep, ensuring he made a sizable splash to keep the Landhoppers interest focused on the spot where he dived.

  Cerdic unleashed his straining mermen the instant Lasbow retook command of his half of the vengeance squad. The Merking's strategy was unimaginatively straightforward: lure the waveriders to a halt, then streak to the anathematised surface and upend their boats, spilling them into the water where they would prove easy marks to spear.

  Flourishing his swordfish bill blade, Cerdic waved his backup Fishers onwards and upwards. Ignoring Lasbow's recommendation to hang back and let the royal guard lead the charge, the bullhead monarch stormed ahead, eager to dole out his brand of Cetari justice. “Gut them like the dogfish they are!” he compelled. After all, the spoken code of the sea was a fin for a fin.

  Lasbow powered ahead of his own battle group with rapid sweeps of his broad flukes, gritting his file teeth determinedly, rigidly holding his trident extended before him like an underwater battering ram. The secondary Seaguardians fanned out into an accompanying wedge behind their speeding captain, poised to begin picking off the first Landhoppers dumped overboard.

  The Piawro were sitting sea ducks. Milling on the surface, the coconut sennit throwing net transported on the nearer canoe raised at the ready to fling over the target, the amphibs crewing both the capture vessel and its escort vainly scanned the depths for further sign of the splashing Fish-with-Hands. Frustrated eyes searched the unrevealing blue, their owners bunched into a crouch that would explode them into action the moment they glimpsed their prey anew. They got more than they bargained for when Lasbow reappeared barrelling from out of the shadowy deep like a retributive torpedo.

  Accelerated up to ramming speed, he dropped his trident at the last second and rolled, taking the full brunt of thumping into the canoe's underside on his trailing shoulder and upper back. The momentous impact overturned the outrigger hull, sending the Piawro aboard flailing into the sea, net and all.

  Paine
d by the collision, Lasbow floated temporarily stunned beneath the upturned canoe, reeling vulnerably oblivious to danger. He was brought back to his senses by a confused, inverted Landhopper mug staring him in the face, plainly bewildered by the shock dunking and appearance of this Fish-with-Hands host. The enemies in this undeclared war locked eyes for the briefest instant, their opposing intelligences seeking comprehension before mutual enmity kicked in; all in the fleeting, yet timeless space of a heartbeat.

  Lasbow recovered from his torpor first. Lunging reactively, he lanced the unarmed, upside down amphib skew-whiff in the shoulder, burying two of the prongs deep in the deltoid muscle. Trilling in response, blood clouding the seawater, the impaled Piawro instinctively grabbed hold of the whalebone shaft, trying vainly to yank the trident out of his body. Firmly embedded in his flesh, their hooks cruelly snagging on the sliced muscle tissue, the barbed heads failed to dislodge. Designed to stick fast in an impaled fish, they worked equally well on bigger prey. All the Landhopper succeeded in doing was amplifying his pain.

  Fearing the flexing haft might snap under the strain, Lasbow prudently let go. His surprise move sent the writhing frogman lurching backwards. Slipping free the bone-handled megashark tooth-dagger from the belt of twined seagrass looped about his midriff, the Cetari commander closed for the kill with the potent symbol of his captaincy.

  And there a problem arose. Just how did one knife to death a frog? There was no Cetari school of thought on effective killing methods employable on Landhoppers. Trained to hunt a variety of fishes, the current generation of mermen lacked firsthand dealings with the amphibious islanders; initiates sneaking nocturnally into a desolate lagoon did not rate highly on the interaction scale. Past altercations hardly helped either, constituting Fishers beating a hasty retreat without properly engaging the violent prone terrestrials. Today was going to be a case of trial and error for Lasbow.