by Brian Braden
Mountainous waves, black and covered in brown foam, teetered all around them, choked with logs, ice, and splintered timber.
A Minnow man she did not recognize stumbled from behind her and grabbed the hand of the woman with the baby. “Glania, come! We stand a better chance in a smaller boat on our own.” He lifted her and dragged her away. Glania looked back at Atamoda with trepidation.
Through the crowd, Atamoda saw them stumble into a boat at the edge of the flotilla. Glania, baby crying in her arms, never took her eyes off Atamoda. In the confusion and chaos no one other than Atamoda witnessed the man pull the knots and release the boat from the flotilla. He pushed away into the violent sea and began paddling between the waves. Neither Glania nor her husband saw the enormous tree trunk tumble out of a nearby crest, but Atmoda did. With leaves still attached, the trunk slammed into the tiny boat, dragging it below the water, never to surface again.
Atamoda closed her eyes against the horror, opening them in time to spy Ghalen shepherding women and children toward the flotilla’s center. Atamoda’s heart lifted as she saw Kol-ok with them. Even with all their skill, the Lo had difficulty remaining upright in the howling gale and undulating decks.
Kol-ok dropped to his knees next to his mother. “Father commands all to the center! I am to stay with you.” Atamoda wrapped her arm around his neck and held him tightly.
Arcs of lightning, only glimpsed by the Lo in times past with utmost rarity, traced long, ragged tendrils across the boiling sky.
Through the spraying mist, she caught glimpses of men running across the decks, desperately fighting to keep the flotilla together. Occasionally, she spied Aizarg with Levidi and Okta by his side, issuing commands from a nearby raft.
She wanted him with her, with his children. Atamoda knew the thought irrational, but it didn’t matter.
The sea’s power wreaked havoc faster than the men could work. Knots held, but ropes snapped, and deadly space formed between the boats. The sea splintered hulls and swamped boats. Atamoda looked on horrified as the flooded hulls began to pull down the surrounding vessels.
She heard Okta’s voice rise on the gale. “Release the flooded boats!”
Men pulled knots and kicked away the ruined hulls as gaps in the flotilla multiplied.
Ghalen appeared next to the women, rope in hand. “Secure this to the decks and hold on to it!” he shouted, barely audible above the wind.
Atamoda handed Bat-or to Sana, and with Kol-ok and several women, tied the rope in a long line across several rafts. Everyone grabbed on, wrapping their hands, but careful not to tie themselves to the rope. The rope came not a moment too soon as muddy waves broke over the decks, trying to wash them away and spreading a thick layer of silt across the flotilla.
Women clutched children and held tightly to the rope. Filthy water washed over them, swamping more boats and driving their occupants to the crowded rafts. Dozens more packed around them, shivering and clutching the rope.
Large swaths of the flotilla vanished at a time under the waves. Atamoda held her breath until she saw the decks reemerge, wondering in horror how many of her people had been washed away.
At the edge of the flotilla Atamoda heard a wet ripping and popping above the wind. An enormous tree trunk invaded a gap between two boats. Its upended roots stretched outward like a hundred deformed claws, shredding ropes and ripping apart boats and rafts. People leapt out of the juggernaut’s path as it plunged deeper into the flotilla’s heart, forming a watery chasm. Ai-dar, a Minnow elder, could not dodge quickly enough. The old man stumbled over the lip of a boat and fell face-first onto a raft. The tree trunk crushed the boat behind him as its roots snared his legs. He dug his fingernails into the wood, but the tree dragged him into the water. Horrified, she watched the trunk roll over Ai-dar before it sank beneath the waves, leaving the two halves of the flotilla joined only at the two center rafts.
Several men, led by Okta, threw ropes across the widened gulf and struggled to pull the two halves together against the invading waves. As they worked, peels of deafening thunder joined the howling wind, making it almost impossible to hear the screams.
A strange wave rose high above the others in the distance. It collapsed, rose, and collapsed again in an odd manner that immediately drew Atamoda’s attention.
The wave thrust upward, closer now. With each flash of lightning, it came ominously into focus. Only one wave removed from the flotilla, she finally saw its white sides streaked black with silt.
An island of ice!
The giant ice shard loomed larger than the entire flotilla. If it struck them, all was lost. As if drunk, the berg bobbed vertically. Then, a wave suddenly thrust it high until it teetered precariously over them, lightning dancing off its jagged tip in ear-splitting explosions. For what felt like an eternity, the iceberg thrust vertically above the water, as if defying the forces of nature. Slowly, it twisted and fell backwards toward them.
“Down!” Atamoda shouted.
She shoved Kol-ok to the deck and threw herself over both her children. Atamoda buried her head into Kol-ok’s back as a muffled boom shook the deck. She wrapped her entire arm around the rope just as a blast of frigid water slammed against them. The rope snapped tight, trying to rip her arm out of its socket. Kol-ok, with a strong grasp on the rope, stayed firmly at her side. The powerful current sought every nook and cranny, trying to lift her from the deck as if seeking her other child beneath her.
Silt filled her mouth and invaded her nostrils. Bodies slammed against her as the current ripped her people from the decks. Atamoda tried to open her eyes to see Bat-or, but closed them against the stinging grit.
She felt Bat-or slip in her left arm. Desperately, she tightened her grip, but the water’s unrelenting force capitalized on the growing gap between her and her little boy. Bat-or’s little fists tugged her tunic, desperately trying to cling to his mother. His tugs turned to flails, interfering with her tenuous grip around his waist.
The water didn’t relent. Atamoda’s fingers cramped, her bicep burned, but his slippery skin slid farther down her arm.
Another body slammed hard against her shoulder, jarring Bat-or from her hand.
Without hesitation, Atamoda let go and followed her child.
Atamoda tumbled violently, rolling and slamming against decks, masts, and other people as the current rocketed her along. She fought to remain conscious as her head repeatedly struck the decks. Atamoda felt herself cartwheel upside down as water rushed into her nose. Suddenly, the deck erupted from the water, and her tumbling ceased.
Coated in a layer of silt, she struggled to stand. Atamoda found herself on the edge of the flotilla, the deck slick with slime. Had the deck breached only a moment later, she would have been washed overboard. Her legs quaked uncontrollably as she scanned the decks around her, praying Bat-or might be caught in the rigging or in the bottom of a boat. Across the flotilla she only saw silt-covered bodies beginning to stir and cough.
“Bat-or! Bat-or!” she screamed across the waves, tears cutting channels in her mud-caked cheeks. In the lightning flashes, she spied dozens of men and women bobbing in the water, slowly drifting away. Some clung to logs, others to shattered reed hulls.
Some floated face down.
“Atamoda!” Aizarg appeared next to her.
“Bat-or!” She pointed to the sea. In a matter of moments, he secured a rope around his waist, tied it off to the deck, and leapt in. Aizarg swam from one floundering person to the next, sending them back toward the flotilla along his rope. Atamoda and Kol-ok helped pull each from the water, but Bat-or was not among them.
Soon, Aizarg could find no more. Still, he repeatedly dove into the water, searching for his son. The waves began to diminish, even as the sky darkened, and lightning proliferated across the heavens.
Okta came alongside them. “The waves begin to subside. We have to repair the flotilla the best we can while we have a chance. We need the Uros.” Okta reached down for the rope to pull
Aizarg back in. Atamoda shoved him back.
“He searches for my son!”
Okta grimaced. “I am sorry, truly. Many have been lost. But we need the Uros, or many more will die this day. The ice island did not strike us, but it washed many of our people overboard.” Okta pointed across the flotilla. “Even now, Ba-lok, Ghalen, and Levidi are leading rescue efforts on the other sides.”
Kol-ok began to sob as the realization of his brother’s fate became real.
“I will rescue my son if you men will not!” Atamoda gritted her teeth and turned to dive in. Okta grabbed her arm.
“Dive in and you will die! Bat-or is dead. Many are dead!”
Atamoda yanked away as Aizarg lifted himself out of the water. He approached Atamoda, eyes red-rimmed with tears, and wrapped his arms around her.
Atamoda shrugged him off and tugged at the rope around his waist. She tried to untie the wet knot, but her trembling fingers would not obey.
“Atamoda...he’s gone,” Aizarg whispered.
She slapped him with full force. He staggered back and rubbed his cheek.
“If the Uros will not save his child, I will!” She tugged and tugged, but the knot wouldn’t budge.
“I do not need a rope.” She turned to dive in, but Aizarg grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her side.
Atamoda kicked and screamed, fighting her husband with all her strength. “He’s not dead! Let me go! He needs me.”
Husband and wife sank to the deck.
She gazed out across the restless water and thought of Setenay’s lifeless face. The demons. The water is full of demons. The thought of her baby boy floating among the demons drove Atamoda to the brink of madness. “We cannot leave him out there. He was so afraid, Aizarg. I cannot bear thinking of him being afraid.” Aizarg squeezed her tighter.
“I need you!” he whispered urgently into her ear. “Kol-ok needs you. Bat-or’s journey is over. Come, we must attend to the living.”
“Mama,” a tiny voice called from behind.
Atamoda’s heart fluttered as Aizarg pulled her up.
“Mama,” the voice called again.
She turned to see the Scythian girl, completely covered in silt, standing behind them. Bat-or rested on her hip with his little hands outstretched. Only his eyes and lips weren’t caked in silt.
“The water washed me to the end of the rope,” Sana said with her strange, fluid accent. “He tumbled into me a few moments later, and I was able to snatch him. I think we passed out.”
Atmoda rushed to embrace Bat-or, and in the process, embraced Sana, too. She held the Scythian girl close, sobbing and repeating “thank you” over and over.
Sana nodded and pulled way, relinquishing Bat-or to his mother.
“Hmm,” Okta grunted.
“Sana, you have my undying thanks,” Aizarg said.
As the wind died, moans and cries became audible across the flotilla. Silt covered forms were lying on the decks, or stumbling about in a daze. Some called for loved ones; others began sifting through the debris, trying to put their vessels back in order.
At the edges, men with ropes tied to their waists repeatedly dived into the choppy water, dodging floating debris as they searched for those washed overboard.
Something struck Atamoda’s shoulder with a warm, wet heaviness, soon followed by more wet impacts on her head.
“Mamma, water!” Bat-or pointed upward as the fat rain drops fell harder.
“What is this?” Kol-ok asked.
“The Tears of Psatina,” Aizarg held his hands up, letting the rain wash away the filth. “It is as Noah promised.”
15. The First Council of Boats
Where there is purpose, there also is hope. – Lo Proverb
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Atamoda huddled among the survivors, shielding Bat-or against the driving rain like a mother bird protecting her fledgling. Each flash of lightning peeled back the darkness, revealing the shivering, desperate faces around her.
Cold rain poured off her bare skin, making her wish for winter garb. Every few minutes Ba-tor shivered, despite her best efforts to warm him with her own body.
“I’m cold, Momma,” he said.
“Shhh. Daddy is going to fix it.”
Exhausted and in shock, the remnants of the Lo nation crowded around the Uros and his inner council like a wall. Beneath a sail hastily stretched into a leaky canopy, the council laid their grim tally before their Uros.
“The sea took fifteen Minnow, along with a third of my boats and three rafts.” Ba-lok had to almost shout to be heard above the wind and flapping canopy.
Aizarg turned to Levidi. “And the Crane?”
“Nineteen lost, including four men. Eight boats and two rafts are destroyed. Three might be salvageable...maybe,” Levidi shrugged.
“What is our final count?” Aizarg asked Okta.
Okta laid down a handful of broken sticks and hastily arranged them on the deck in the center of the circle.
“Thirty-four rafts survive. In addition to the two wedding barges, we have thirteen large rafts and twenty common rafts, with thirty-nine boats scattered all around. I count twenty-six men, not including Virag and his worthless henchmen. As for women and children, they number almost fifty.
Okta pointed to the largest sticks. “The wedding barges are here, the rest of the flotilla stretches out in a long line, mostly Crane vessels, until they transition to Minnow vessels. The arrangement is lopsided and unwieldy. We lurch from one swell to the next, the Minnow vessels whiplashing at the end of the procession. How we survived so far is a miracle.” Okta’s eyes briefly flashed up toward the staff. “We must reorganize the fleet before the next big wind hits.”
Ghalen spoke up. “Reorganizing will be difficult. The boats fill with this infernal sky water as fast as we can bail, not to mention the waves. But it’s the confounded silt that’s sinking them. And what doesn’t flounder, the sea rips apart. Debris and ice slam against our outer vessels even as we speak. ” Ghalen shook his head. “Most of our poles have snapped, so now the men use masts and sticks to deflect the debris.”
Ba-lok leaned in and tapped the sticks. “We have to separate the flotilla, and quickly. We stand a better chance of survival one boat at a time.”
“And how do you intend to keep our people together?” Okta snapped.
“The same way we keep a fishing fleet together in fog, with lines and torches.”
“Torches?” Okta flicked his finger under a stream of water leaking through the canopy. “Bah! This is no wind storm, or even ice mists. There is no shore to paddle to, no home star to guide upon. We’ve never dealt with waves like this, or floating ice and debris. Never. If we do it your way, rafts will shatter, boats will swamp, and people will die.”
“A Lo man knows his boat! No one knows how to tend this jumbled mass of vessels, it’s completely unwieldy,” Ba-lok countered.
“I must agree with Ba-lok, Uros,” Ghalen said. “We may not last the night.”
“And who will man the boats, Ghalen?” Okta said. “We don’t have enough men to tend each vessel. Do we abandon women and children to their own skill against this sea? And how shall we divide our food and supplies?”
Ba-lok glared at the older sco-lo-ti. “We have no other choice.”
“We have a choice!” Okta turned to Aizarg. “Ba-lok wants us to take our chances one boat at a time because that is what he knows. But if this deluge lasts as long as the Narim foretold, then we will perish one boat at a time.”
“Okta, there is merit to what you say, but our odds at riding the storm are better one boat at a time.” Ghalen said. “We’re being ripped apart.”
Levidi nodded. “If we untie the vessels, I doubt we’ll keep the fleet together longer than a few hours. The storm is separating the flotilla whether we wish it or not. We’re unraveling along the edges like a piece of cloth. Water drenches everything. Precious supplies have been washed overboard, and what’s
left will rot if we can’t keep it dry. The men need sleep, and the women and children are cold.”
“Ghalen and Levidi speak wisdom. We sit here and jabber while boats are crushed. Separate the fleet, save our people” Ba-lok insisted.
Atamoda saw fear masked as determination guiding Ba-lok. For that, she did not blame the young sco-lo-ti. Even with his faults, she knew he cared for his people. But in Okta’s face she saw a different expression.
Purpose? Or perhaps inspiration?
More than any Lo clan, the Carp held a magical attachment to the sea. They considered land taboo, often living their entire lives without dust touching their heels.
She knew something gripped Okta’s mind like a wolf seizes the throat of its prey, locked and unwilling to release it. Atamoda knew Okta desperately wanted to make the others understand his vision for the flotilla, whatever it may be. She hoped Aizarg would give him a chance to voice his thoughts. The idea of riding out the deluge bobbing amongst these towering waves in a solitary raft terrified her.
Her gaze drifted to the staff cradled in her husband’s arms. The men droned on as her mind drifted, and her eyes grew wide. With every flash of lightning, the red metal orb seemed to swim with a dim glow originating from within.
Another tendril of lightning arced across the sky accompanied by a rolling clap of thunder and a terrible epiphany. A dark thought sank its teeth into her mind, shaking Atamoda from her trance. She looked up to see Aizarg staring at her.
“Atamoda, you wish to say something?” he said.
She pointed to the staff. “I believe this totem is a gateway to the Nameless God. Truly, I dread drifting too far from its power. You men consider only the waves and wind, but if the demons return, Kus-ge and I cannot protect a scattered fleet. They fear the staff, not us.”
Okta grinned and wagged his finger at her excitedly. “Yes. Yes! We must also consider this.”