The Waters of Nyra- Volume I

by Kelly Michelle Baker

  “How far do you usually travel?” she asked on the third day when Oharassie opened his spines. The horizon’s long back surrounded them in every direction. “There’s nothing interesting out here.”

  Oharassie shook his great head. Wrinkled skin tumbled raggedly down his neck. Before they’d left, she hardly seen his neck at all. At the willows, he seldom breached the water further than his bumpy head. Seeing it now only served to make him larger.

  “Quite the contrary,” he said. “This ocean has plenty to offer. It depends on your interests. Your cliffs would be interesting to newcomers, for instance. Likewise, I’m sure you’d be awed by some of the islands I’ve encountered, ones that lost their novelty long ago. For me, anyway.”

  “Oh.”

  “And that’s only what you can see!” His fins flashed above the surface. “Below is another world. I can’t even begin to describe it.”

  “You don’t need to begin,” Nyra said quickly, fearing the conversation would get off course.

  He looked hurt.

  “Sorry, I do want to hear about the ocean.” She felt rude for having squashed what was sure to be a whimsical ramble. “But my first question was how far do you usually travel.”

  Oharassie’s colossal brows narrowed.

  She turned sheepish. “I want to know how much you are going out of your way for me.” The sentiment was alien, yet sincere.

  Oharassie did not appear offended anymore. “Never you fret, my dear. I believe in this cause. But I don’t get out as much as I used to. My bones just aren’t up for it anymore. But more so, it’s the fear of missing my children that keeps me in one place. They know the willows; all were born and raised there. Off and on they visit, alone, or with their mates and children, and in rare cases, their children’s children. I’ve much to be proud of. I’d hate to miss anything.”

  Nyra nodded.

  “Nevertheless, I’m far from dead,” he said. “And my fins get itchy. I will leave for a half-month here and there.”

  “Is that what you were doing when you found me?” Nyra ventured.

  “Yes. I could sense a storm on the rise, punching its way out of those calm clouds. You see, I expected a full-blown storm. A big Mal Storm, thunder and everything.”

  Nyra pursed her mouth. “A maelstrom?”

  “No, a Mal Storm,” said the Aquadray.

  Nyra remembered a lesson from Dewep describing giant whirlpools in the ocean. She had called them maelstroms; a term that confused all the attending dragglings, including Blaze, who seldom suffered from true confusion. Since egghood, they were told the tale of the Great Thunder, where the deities shaped the fire-mountains from lightening. It was so catastrophic that mortals had dubbed it the Mal Storm, and such was a common term for any horrific natural phenomenon (for Agrings, and apparently Aquadrays as well). Because this term and the one for whirlpool were similar, the younglings had struggled to delineate them. As recently as last spring Nyra caught herself calling a heavy rain storm a ‘maelstrom.’ Blaze was quick to correct her. Nyra was quick to trip him in a puddle.

  “I knew it would start somewhere south,” said Oharassie. “I left in hopes of catching the show. The sky was ominous, but nothing came. Not the lightning explosions I’d predicted. I saw you flying just after the non-storm passed, and followed for a day or two before speaking out.”

  “Why didn’t you speak out as soon as you saw me?”

  “Ha! You know the answer to that, my dear! How did you react when we met?”

  Nyra flicked salt from her ears, looking away, embarrassed. “Not well, I guess.”

  Oharassie wound his neck to face her, a trunk creaking in the wind. “Just as you feared me in all my… bigness, I feared your response. But you made me curious, so I followed. You never turned around, nor met up with anyone. North was all that mattered. Then when you dipped close to the surface I noticed your shivering. You were withering, and fast. So, despite some awful first impressions, I thought a friendship would be worth the expense.”

  “So you wanted to help me in the beginning,” said Nyra.

  “However I could,” he said, facing forward again. “I didn’t know what that would entail at the time. Helping may have been pointing you in the right direction; the opposite direction, I’d hoped. I attributed your northern track to naivety, not heroism. But help is help, and I needed something to do.”

  “Lucky me.”

  The beast laughed, and Nyra swayed off balance as the boom reached Oharassie’s spines. “I suppose yes, even if I didn’t ask permission,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you allow me to give this little ride right now. But I’ll admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve… manipulated your movements. Remember how afraid you were that first day? So determined to keep distance from me?”

  “How could I forget?” she said slowly, unsure of where he was going.

  He chuckled. “I used this to my advantage. Yours, too. I was herding you like a sickleback whale on krill. I wanted to get you to my nook as quickly as possible. So, knowing you’d stay opposite of me, I pointed my nose a fraction northeast, to right where we needed to be.”

  Looking back, her arrival had been unlike other island arrivals. Conveniently, the sea willows had appeared right in front of her, while she had to deviate left or right to reach most other stops.

  “Will the Zealer home be dead ahead when we get to Garrionom? Do you know where they live?” she asked.

  “Up north,” he laughed. “Going senile already, are we?”

  Nyra grinned. “Where do they live specifically?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. They live near this wide snow basin, a sort of flat valley between two peaks. I’ve seen them flying over that area. They have a cave nearby.”

  “Have you ever talked to them?”

  Oharassie’s pace slowed. Nyra leaned forward, falling into a membrane. She straightened up.

  “What’s going on?” she said, scanning the water.

  “Nothing.” He did not look at her.

  “What? Is there a shark?” she said panicked, before realizing that no shark was a match for an Aquadray. Not by a long shot.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just thinking. About Zealers.”

  Her jaw clenched, peering over to see his face as best she could. “Have you ever talked to the Zealers?” she repeated.

  “No,” he sighed.

  Her ears quivered. “So why are you acting so—”

  “Please pardon my surprise Nyra. I only hesitate because of little things I know of the Zealers. Petty gossip.”

  Tingles ran down her vocal chords, making her voice small. “What things?”

  “Well,” he said. “They are very loyal creatures. Proud, you might say. And they have reason to be; they are magnificent, as you shall see.”

  “So?” Nyra prompted. “Should I be worried? You sound worried.”

  “I’m not, my dear.” He said warmly. “They are just rumors, that’s all. And rumors more often than not amount to nothing.”

  “What kinds of rumors?”

  “Nothing realistic, or very specific for that matter,” he sighed again. “Some believe that Zealers are vain, selfishly fond of themselves. But Nyra, remember that stories can be born from anything. A creature with little tolerance for nonsense may be perceived as evil or rude to another beast. From there, nasty tales arise, and the stories become prejudiced.”

  Nyra shook. Oharassie stopped and brought his massive head around again.

  “I do know this. The Zealers are just. They believe in what is right, as anyone should, and they do what they can to keep good order. For you, all this means is that you must respect them. That’s it. They take themselves very seriously. Given the nature of your quest, I don’t expect you’d be frivolous. Be strong and grateful. You’ll receive wonders in return.”

  Nyra felt a whine bumping her tongue. “So were you… were you just going to drop me off at Garrionom knowing
Zealers were dangerous?”

  He laughed shortly. “Dangerous! Who said dangerous? Nyra, you must understand that Zealers are endowed in natural weaponry, but you will not be provoking them. Zealers only begrudge enemies. As I said, you have nothing to fear.”

  Oharassie gave an emphasized shiver and turned away. “And don’t you worry about this cold either. Their cave, I hear, is warm. Zealers can tolerate cold, but they like to rest in the heat. They’ll put you up in accommodations fitting Royals.”

  Nyra began to rework her concerns into another question. She almost had one ready by the time Oharassie spoke again.

  “I think we should pick up speed. You’d best tuck under.”

  She obeyed, forgetting the question as a gust of cold ushered her inside. When she asked about it later, Oharassie called her a fitty-fretter, a term with which Nyra was not familiar, but it sounded condescending. She’d changed the subject.

  Sleeping was not the same friend to Oharassie as it was to most. They could go days without a visit. Only at the sea willows did they embrace every afternoon and at night. There, Oharassie welcomed dreams and rest. But like Nyra’s inclination for drinking water, frequent sleep was merely a leisure for the Aquadray. Still, Nyra struggled to understand, having stolen enough slumber for three dragons since they set sea together.

  In the beginning she had asked him “how much longer?” over and over. Oharassie never gave real answers. “Depends on the current, depends on my strength.” His voice was so aged and kind that Nyra didn’t press the matter further (for at least a day at a time). Considering that three-quarters of the ocean remained, and that Nyra had taken so long to cross the first fraction, she was surprised by Oharassie’s announcement ten days in; they would arrive by noon tomorrow.

  Parting clouds announced the final morning at sea, expanding to a breadth of endless blue skies. Whipping winds died to breezy kisses. The pace was slow and warmed in sunrays, aside rhythmic splashes of the lazy ocean.

  And there were seabirds—real land things.

  Oharassie moved slowly as soon as land appeared. It was a tiny strip in the distance, and at first looked like a band of mist. But land it was. Nyra rode outside, prickling with anticipation. The Agring and Aquadray found plenty to discuss, rushing over one another’s pauses like brisk air currents, wanting to cram as much sociability in as possible. Oharassie had been the best company yet (he easily outcompeted the Xefexes, who could not talk, and the Hawk, which could not refrain from the kill). Who knew if the Zealers would be so agreeable? As far as she knew, these were her last engrossing conversations until she returned home, and there was no telling when that would be.

  “The Xefexes couldn’t talk,” Nyra explained, recalling her time at the Green Spot. It was one of many details she had shared with him but had not discussed. She wanted Oharassie’s opinions.

  “You’re sure about that?” he said. The sunlight made his slick skin radiant.

  “They just chirped and bobbed their heads. Or squeaked really loudly. But no words. Just little sounds and body language.”

  “Ah-ha! So you admit that there was language.” He characteristically slapped a flipper. Nyra cringed as a deluge of water rounded over her head. A membranous fold arched above just in time, catching the errant water in heavy patters.

  “Not real language. Body language,” she explained.

  “But that’s just it, Nyra. It was a language, just not your own.” He chuckled. “There are hundreds of ways to communicate, and then some even inside each way. Dialects divide language even further. Accents, codes, signatures—the possibilities are infinite.”

  “You and I speak the same, though. Except for the accent.”

  “Yes, but that’s my doing, if you’ll allow me to be boastful. I know many tongues. Yours happens to be a primary language. Can’t say why. Perhaps Agrings and Aquadrays were once a similar species and our customs followed a similar path, albeit down very different lineages. Xefexes do things differently. I wager it’s physically impossible for them to speak like us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Put it in perspective. Those loud squeaks, can you do them?”

  “Well, maybe…” Nyra said. She contracted her throat into a tight space. A sloppy, undulating squawk escaped. She coughed.

  Nyra bounced upon her companion’s booming laughter.

  “Maybe not exactly the same way,” she croaked.

  “Everything is in perspective, my dear. What is a series of whistles to you may be poetry to them. Just as Quay and Roendon take on different forms depending on who is choosing to imagine them.”

  Quay and Roendon. She’d not thought of them in some time. Daily she eyed the sky and would assess Quay’s position, or note Roendon phasing into the twilight. The deities were there just as rocks and trees and waves covered the planet. She saw them, but only as the features of life.

  Giving it proper consideration, however, Quay and Roendon were not objects like sands and leaves. They represented something far greater than life and land. Yet they were commonplace in language and living. One exclaimed Quay’s name in day and Roendon’s in night (unless reversing them in slander). Then there were the ancient stories where the Greats gave blessings to the lowly creatures below. Very few Gatherings omitted the Seara story, a tale whereby a very brave colony called Seara convinced the omnipotent onlookers to grant them flight. But as far as spirituality went, the faith of Nyra’s family was blurry.

  “What are Quay and Roendon?” She treaded the words with careful innocence, hesitant, but reflecting on the Seara’s bravery. “What are they really?” She wasn’t even sure if the question was right, or understandable.

  “That’s controversial water, Nyra,” he said solemnly. “But you ask a fair question. Dragons tend to avoid rather than dispute it.”

  “What do you think?” she ventured.

  His breath stopped. The air hung still.

  “I do not think the suns above are eyes. Same goes for the moons.”

  Nyra gasped. “Then where are they?” She had meant to ask where Quay and Roendon were in his opinion. But it was as though Oharassie was a speaker of truth for all things, because she trusted him with all things.

  “I’m not sure that they are there at all.”

  “But you must!” she shouted. She did not know why she was upset. She just was. “You must, at least part of you.” There was a clue. What was it?

  “Yahinuve!” she remembered. Ahead Oharassie silently mouthed the name. His eyes shut knowingly. Nyra didn’t let him speak. “What about Yahinuve? You know she is with you, you said so yourself. Wouldn’t she be with Quay and Roendon, wherever they are?” With Oharassie or with Quay and Roendon? Two places at once. The dead could do that. Couldn’t they?

  “You misunderstood me, Nyra.” He forced a somber chuckle. “My belief in Yahinuve at my side is not literal. When I speak of her, I only imagine what she would be saying were she with me, alive. My quirk has nothing to do with ghosts or shadows from an afterlife. It is only me and my recollections catching up with the present.”

  Nyra’s ears lowered.

  “But Nyra, that I do not speak to Yahinuve does not mean I deny the chance that she persists somewhere. She may very well be with me at all times, thinking the same things I say in her place. But I cannot know this for sure. Some can, maybe even you, but not I. That’s just my logic. I think you’ll discover that I’m not alone, should you be brave enough to ask this question of someone else. You were brave to ask me. I hope others will be courageous enough to answer honestly.”

  Nyra hadn’t associated faith with any type of courage. Yet if faith were universal, there’d be no fear. If Oharassie was right, the universe she knew was skewed at an angle she’d not considered, in a tilt that could only grow steeper with age and worry.

  “What about me?” she said in a small voice.

  Oharassie, despite Nyra’s lack of clarity, nodded.

  “Your opinion is your own. And in the end,
no one should sway you towards what is right or wrong. It’s a journey you must make alone, Nyra, inside.”

  “All alone?”

  “Yes. But like your journey across the ocean, remember the truth of those around you. Even if you doubt these far off realities, your friends and family are real. I’m real. And I’m helping. I always will whenever I can.”

  “Alright,” she whispered, looking away.

  He turned forward. “And speaking of which, we’re here.”

  A jagged edge crisscrossed ahead, much closer, much bigger.

  The blue, at last, had ended.

  Quay and Roendon still buzzed in her mind, like an itch at the tip of her nostrils. She’d known them in mimics, mimics of names and mimics of stories, always told in the traditions of truth. Reality and what might be pleasing were scattered in too many pieces, and at that moment she was unsure if each fragment could fit together. Not even Thaydra, who encouraged optimistic thinking, had ever really confirmed omnipotence in the radiant suns and glowing moons.

  But Nyra, seeing Garrionom craggling up the sky, let the itch die in an imaginary sneeze. One day it would resurface, she was sure. But for now, she’d accept the suns above for the warmth they gave and promised to give again whenever the clouds did part.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” She stretched her neck as far as it would go. “That’s Garrionom?” The great line dividing water and sky gave way to the subtle patterns of mountains. Nyra thought it fake, surreal.

  “It still looks so small from here,” she murmured.