Three Times Chosen

by Alan J. Garner

  Until then allowed to develop unimpeded as a fenceless social group whose focus primarily was on play, during which time basic interaction skills formed, the younglings were demarcated into their various cultural niches and “imprinted” with their societal roles, timed to coincide with speech progressing from childish gurgles into the grammatical ribbits and croaks that brought with it a foundational understanding of first their environment, then their racial backgrounds.

  Children are as trainable as a grapevine and, once having taking root, the perceptions instilled by their propagators are impossible to transplant out of them. Piawro class distinction would endure as long as Lunder Atoll itself.

  Wafting up from the other side of the crater lip ringing its waterlogged bowl warbled an impinging ribbit belonging to Chulib. “Dokran! Eskaa wants a word."

  Peeved, the chieftain trilled back, “Give him two—piss and off."

  "Shame on you, Ryops, using such language in front of the hatchlings."

  The reproached chieftain came up off his haunches, mildly amused at receiving a telling-off from the lecturing female. He graciously brooked his Spawner's overfriendliness, her Leaper status making her immune to rebuke, for now. The second the tadpoles were deemed fit enough to be netted and shifted from the hatchery, with its rocky lakeside views, to the sluggish, jungled river, she reverted to the servile lowliness accorded all amphib females by the suppressive males. It was the incentive that saw every female of breeding age aspiring to become the Dokran's concubine by proxy, luxuriating in that privileged fortnight of equitable citizenry before again being relegated to humiliating namelessness.

  Sadly, anonymity stayed with her like bad body odour. Ryops had not taken the trouble to learn her name, or those of her sister breeders. Why bother? It is not like he actually slept with any of his consorts.

  "Any promising hopefuls amongst that lot?” Anxiety sharpened Ryops’ query. Leadership worries aside, fathering an heir had turned into an obsession, as if that disillusionment made him less of an amphibiman.

  "It's too early to tell. You ought to know that!” one of the Climber Spawners fractiously snapped as she spread another handful of lip-smacking shoots over the teeming water, igniting further voracity from the jumbled tadpoles. Moving house to the river meant also graduating to an insect diet, but in the interim the Piawro brood savoured their vegetarianism.

  "Dokran, if you'll hop to it. Eskaa's patience is as illusive as his charm."

  Chulib's pushiness put paid to his fatherly moment. With a disinclined leap Ryops vaulted back into the chieftain's saddle and over the crater rim to team up with Chulib. Eskaa was nowhere to be seen littering the steep volcanic slope, although Knalli's diligence was evident. Forever watchful in the background, he unstintingly guarded the Dokran's person, keenly monitoring the approaches to Crater Lake like a geostationary spy satellite.

  "The Subos waits for you on the beach,” the Shurpeha commander informed him. “I'll accompany you myself. My boys report Eskaa's behaving irrationally of late."

  "How is that different from any other day, boss?” Knalli muttered from his vantage point atop an outcropping of stolid lava frozen into stone by the coolness of time.

  Amused by the one-liner, Chulib summarily relieved his youngest sentry with a dismissive flick of his bug-eyed head.

  Ryops conveyed his irritation in a frown. “Eskaa wants to see me, and I have to go to him? Remind me who the Dokran here is, Chu."

  The faithful head of Ryops’ bodyguards smiled evilly. “Ever considered poisoning him?"

  "Are you still toying with the diabolical notion of bumping Eskaa off?"

  "I have had to change the methodology. Trees are getting thin on the ground."

  "Doesn't it bother you that murdering the Subos is a sure-fire way of damning you to Dughenna forever, with no possible hope of rebirth out of the underworld?"

  Standing on the barren volcanic slope with a bird's-eye view of the scorched, deforested island and its starving inhabitants steadily wasting away, Chulib profoundly wisecracked, “Can't be any more hellish than this."

  Patting Chulib's shoulder, Ryops chuckled, “Don't ever lose your sense of humour, old pal."

  As the Dokran schussed away down the mountain's ashy slope on his outsized webbed feet like a natural skier, Chulib slalomed after him, croaking his bafflement. “Who was joking?"

  Cowering beneath rafters of rain-blackened clouds prematurely darkening the day, the beach sprawled deserted aside from scarecrow Eskaa staring pensively out at the sullen lagoon. Beyond, restless combers curled in thunderously against the cresting reef, pounding the boundary of Harvest Shallows with angry foam. Picturing the gaunt magician-priest as a fleshy manifestation of the God of Death, Ryops banished the association with a blink of his misted eyes. He imagined Soruca looked far less severe.

  Hearing his approach, Eskaa turned and greeted Ryops in tried and trusted fashion. “Finished playing happy families then?"

  Responding in like, the insulted Dokran made light of the cleric's flashy robe, the colourfully decorated bark cloth flapping in the erratic sea breeze. “Overdressed again, Eskaa."

  "Clothes make the frogman, Ryops. That makes you underdressed."

  Unbothered by his cooler nakedness, the chieftain got down to business. “You wanted to talk."

  "In private.” The Subos glared at Chulib.

  Chulib stared daringly back before yielding. “I could always sharpen my sword up. It'll need testing afterwards.” His measured gaze lingered a moment on Eskaa's scrawny neck before he prudently withdrew further up the beach.

  Nervously fingering his flimsy feathered torc, Eskaa waited until Chulib hopped out of earshot, noting that the Shurpeha boss remained troublingly in sight. ‘When are you going to put an end to the Fish-with-Hands running this sideshow?” he bluntly put to Ryops.

  "Who says they are?"

  "Ask any one of the scouts maintaining watch over the entrance to the lagoon. There has been a navy of those heathen talking fish anchored off the reef these past two moons, hassling with impunity any Piawro gutsy enough to venture outside Harvest Shallows. Fishing canoes are holed and sunk, swimmers dragged beneath the waves never to be seen again. Face facts, Ryops. They have us boxed in. Isn't it about time we made them aware just who the master race is in these parts?"

  Hopping up to his accusing Subos, undaunted by Eskaa's overbearing tallness, the challenged Dokran rationalised, “We aren't ready to confront them yet. The timetable for our invasion went up in smoke the moment Corakk Jungle did. It's taking longer than anticipated to replace the dugouts lost in the fire."

  "That's bullfrog-shit! The Fish-with-Hands are that close our army can literally swim out to meet them in battle."

  "Maybe so, but there are other considerations to take into account. At the moment our people are more scared by Soruca's squally breath than schooling fish."

  "Armed fish,” Eskaa pointed out in an exasperated croak. “Ryops, are you ever going to accept that the Fish-with-Hands are intelligent killers?"

  "The moment one flops out of the water onto the beach and relates his plan for murdering you in perfect Fhasic, you'll have a convert. Perhaps I'll even shake his fin."

  Infuriation further bulged Eskaa's obtruding eyes. “You witnessed Der-kay's demonstrable cunning in evading Cuddles before riding my pet to freedom through the Surge."

  "Any animal can fluke its way out of a trap."

  Eskaa patronisingly waggled a finger at Ryops. “But to then have his entire shoal hem us in our own lagoon. That indicates cognisance."

  "Or coincidence. I'll grant you the Fish-with-Hands are a danger to amphib mariners. So is a school of reef sharks. They are equally brainless and prone to congregate in inconvenient spots."

  Losing his temper, the Subos shouted down his political opposite. “Wake up and smell the coconut oil, Dokran! Get your priorities straight."

  Commendably keeping his own rising ire in check, Ryops answered with controlled slo
wness, “I most certainly am. Are you forgetting the God of Wind's seasonal storms will blow in upon us any day now?

  Eskaa clapped and wrung his hands together, his rage defusing. “It is right for the peasants to be afraid of the Elementals. Gods must be feared more than revered, as it was in the old days.” A sea snake of an idea slithered sinisterly into his thoughts. “Yes, that gives me the ideal platform to work from,” he mumbled in connivance to himself. “A revival of ancient ways would create the perfect incentive."

  "What are you ribbiting on about?"

  "All the workers need is inducement to forget their troubles and labour harder to refloat the war effort. I'll give them it in the form of sacrifice."

  "Using what as victims? Unless you're planning to dig up earthworms, there are no dumb creatures left on the atoll to dismember."

  "Apart from the malingerers themselves."

  Revolted by the abhorrence Eskaa was proposing, Ryops dug his heels into the sand, sounding his aversion. “No, Subos, not in my lifetime. I'll never condone a return to sacrificing Piawro, whatever the reason. We no longer kill one another when things get tough. We are not animals."

  "In this, Ryops, I don't require your blessing."

  Eskaa's undisguised disloyalty should have come as no shock, yet the Dokran could only listen speechlessly while the Subos unabashedly outlined his intent.

  "This falls under the heading of a religious matter, not a leadership issue. Our laws state unambiguously that in times of extreme crisis, when the very existence of the Piawro is put in jeopardy by acts of god, as was the case when that lava flow threatened to engulf our ancestors on that ancient day on Steamy Beach, full tribal decision-making, both physical and moral, is at the discretion of the magician-priesthood, specifically the individual who directly communes with the deities themselves. I'd class this situation as extreme, hmmm?"

  Ryops argued hard for sanity to prevail. “We're not trying to appease a volcano god this time. The Piawro are a more enlightened, more civilised folk nowadays. There has not been a sacrificial desire for nigh on thirty generations."

  Narrowing his farseeing eyes, Eskaa philosophised. “Too often progress supersedes tradition for no good reason. In my estimate such a resurrection is long overdue. Ritual killings make you feel alive, not to mention the obvious perks it brings the ruling class."

  Snorting, Ryops talked down to the lankier amphib. “You're croaking crazier than usual, if that's possible."

  "Am I? Imagine eliminating the malcontents under the legitimate guise of religious practice. Admit it. Ridding yourself of the Climbers is a tempting prospect, an opportunity too good to pass up."

  Personally, Ryops entertained few reservations about ditching some of the antagonistic middle class amphibs. Life would be so much easier without their constant sniping backstage. Professionally was a different kettle of fish. R'bat City relied heavily on its artisan caste for the production of daily merchandise—dinnerware, spearheads, to itemise the obvious—alongside more creative pursuits that delineated the cultural identity of the Piawro, civilising their “Stone Age” ethnicity with beautifying artworks in the form of hand-painted tapestries and carved curios, mostly religious wooden icons with a few secular trinkets of shell thrown in for good measure, to name but a couple. How could exquisite artistry blossom from such malice? That was easy; the loveliest orchid flowered from the filthiest manure. Lunder Atoll would be an emptier, bleaker place if Eskaa got his way and negligently removed the ambitiousness of the Climbers.

  "I won't resort to such wickedness."

  "You still haven't grasped the situation, Dokran. Your disapproval won't halt me enacting my butchery. It's true what they say ... old habits do die hard."

  "What will make you abate this repulsive thirst for blood?"

  "Something awfully momentous, considering you'd be stifling my religious impulses."

  "What'll it take, Eskaa!"

  "You living up to your chieftainship commitment and sailing out at the forefront of the Amphib Army to slap our enemies in the chops with a wet fish,” advocated the Subos. “That alone will help me rethink my stance on filleting a Climber or two."

  "This smacks of coercion."

  "Persuasion has a nicer ribbit to it."

  Outsmarted yet again by his tricky Subos, Ryops head-bobbed his loath endorsement of the deal. He was just a prawn in Eskaa's undersea chess game.

  "Do smile, Ryops. It's a fair trade off. What's a few gutted Fish-with-Hands compared with preserving Piawro numbers."

  "Amphibs will invariably die achieving your war goals."

  I'm banking on one in particular. Eskaa leered manically.

  Disgust soured Ryops’ face. “You're nuttier than a coconut palm."

  Leaping straight up, using his replacement staff to stabilise his sudden gymnastics, Eskaa lashed out with his strapping hind legs, catching Ryops on the hop. Luckily the Subos mistimed his potentially chest crushing kick, delivering the unprepared Dokran a glancing blow which nonetheless put him on his back, winded and dazed.

  "Don't ever imply I'm fruity,” Eskaa spat on him.

  It took Chulib twenty mighty bounds to get the jump on the attacking priest, ramming the hilt of his down-swung sword between Eskaa's bony shoulder blades. The slammed Subos pitched forward onto the cushioning sand and instinctively tried to roll over. Chulib pinned him to the beach, leaning his foot against the back of the priest's head, squishing Eskaa's face into the suffocative sands. He only deigned to let the Subos up when Eskaa began to splutter and cough. Flopping onto his back, Eskaa's grit-smeared eyes widened upon seeing the macana flashing downwards in a lethal arc, indenting the finely grained sand inches from his earhole.

  Chulib experienced a giddying head-rush. Putting the fear of the gods into the conceited magician-priest was such a buzz! “Next swing, I'll take off your ugly head, then reach down into the hole, rip out your spongy spine, and make my own rattle out of your backbones.” Arrogant to the last, Eskaa grimaced defiantly at the dutiful Shurpeha. Meeting that glower, Chulib's mug split into a smile of chilling glee. “Get ready to meet Ceretas face to face, Subos."

  "Hold off!” croaked Ryops.

  Straddling the downed Subos, his obsidian-studded sword frozen in a decapitating overhand stroke, the Dokran's enraged protector teetered on the knife-edge splitting duty from desire. Wavering, the leading Shurpeha glanced pleadingly at Ryops, a wordless entreaty for him to carry out the overdue execution.

  Levering himself up on his elbows, gasping for breath, the chieftain acted magnanimously. “Don't be rash, Chu. Drop the attitude, along with the sword."

  Compliance this time did not come easy for the guard boss. Compulsion warred with commitment in a private battle of the C's. Faithfulness eventually won out and he sulkily lowered his weapon.

  Scrabbling out from under Chulib's wrathful shadow, Eskaa hawked crunchy grains of sand out of his downturned mouth before resuming his high and mighty loftiness, making a casual pretence of brushing clean his dirtied cloak after scavenging his fallen staff. He smirked shamelessly at Chulib.

  "Loyalty is a commendable trait in a Shurpeha. Take care it is not misspent. Oh, and never forget this important rule. As Subos, I'm untouchable.” Bravely leaning close to the bridled bodyguard, Eskaa rubbed Chulib's snout in his impunity by scratching a line in the disturbed sand between the two of them with the tip of his rattly rod. “Cross that again and I'll guarantee you find out firsthand how bad purgatory is."

  Scowling, Chulib laid down the law. “Socking the Dokran is an unpardonable offence, even for the Subos. Ever lay your foot, hand, or tongue on him again and—"

  "Ryops tripped and fell. As the gods are my witness, I never touched him. You were too far away to see clearly, Chulib ... my word against yours. Who will the tribe believe? A hothead minder, known for his extreme prejudice against the priesthood, or their aggrieved, bruised Subos, victim of an unprovoked assault by the aforementioned bully.” Eskaa rolled his shoulders with ex
aggerated slowness, a pitiable groan accompanying his put-on wince. Theatrics was Eskaa's speciality and there was no better show-frogman alive.

  Keen to wipe the smirk off Eskaa's face, Ryops happily burst his bubble. “You aren't above my law. I had Chulib spare you for one reason alone—the people, misguidedly, respect you. Unlike you, I act unselfishly for the benefit of the island, keeping the interests of the Piawro first and foremost at heart. They require a Subos for spiritual guidance, even if he happens to be an untrustworthy toad."

  "I reinvented you, Ryops. Be warned; what I crafted can be unmade, just as speedily."

  The chieftain shrugged off the terrorisation. “All partnerships end up being dissolved.” Ryops aimed to hop away with the lionfish's share of popularity when their political divorce eventuated. “It's the law of averages. Nothing lasts forever. Even gods fade away."

  Finished grooming, Eskaa resolved, “The show must go on,” and bounced stiffly off into the patchy remnants of the intensively logged jungle.

  Used to Eskaa's intimidation tactics, outright violence was completely out of character for Ryops’ archenemy. Little did he realise impetuosity had gnawed away at the Subos’ patience, sparking this extraordinary outburst. The priest's craving for absolute power could no longer be contained. That lack of self-control weakened Eskaa, while at the same time upping his dangerousness to an unpredictable level.

  Hauled to his feet, Ryops felt the tension in Chulib's firm grip. “I've got just the outlet for your hostility,” he ribbited promisingly into the Shurpeha's earhole. “Fancy a spot of fishing?"

  * * * *

  Music ushered in the war. Blowing soulfully into conch horns, Piawro buglers set the tone for the parade they headed, the sonorous largo of the shell trumpets floating hauntingly down the windless beach. The following procession slow-hopped across the unstirred sands; four columns of solemnised warriors amounting to half a thousand purposely trained frogmen, shadowed in turn by an unnaturally silent crowd of supporters blanketing the seashore like a fogbank.