Through the Whirlpool - Book I in the Jewel Fish Chronicles

by K. Eastkott

  I await you.

  To show her position, she opened a tiny clay fire pot she had held concealed under her cloak. Before long, she discerned a figure swimming in through the lagoon. She turned and walked back along the rocks onto the beach, holding the lantern up to guide the swimmer in. Then she stood before the whispering tide, amid wrack and driftwood. The swimmer waded from the waves.

  Daakohn, at last we can talk!

  Taashou, it is good to see you again.

  I have a fire above.

  They walked up the sand arm in arm. While Taashou was wrapped tightly in her blue shahiroh’s cloak against the evening chill, Daakohn was dressed as before, in his close-fitting suit of what looked like kelp but hugged his body like supple leather. He did not seem to notice the cold, though when they came to the low fire laid in a sheltered lee of the beach, he squatted close and warmed himself as if he had spent an age exposed to the harshest elements.

  One can adjust and adapt to life in the depths, but nothing replaces a healthy blaze!

  I was thinking of you when I built it up.

  When alone, they always spoke in mind speech, swifter for communicating both thoughts and feelings though tricky to shield from prying attention.

  How are the candidates faring?

  They have just begun. Two are highly promising yet both troublesome in their way. I cannot work it out. I have decided to monitor them closely.

  No hurzjh-faadaw-oh among them?

  Do we need a hurzjh-faadaw-oh?

  The imbalance in the rift will not heal itself. Since we last spoke, it has become worse. Now all the Shahee feel it. It affects the kree-eh the most. And when the kree-eh die, so does the ocean. Something must be done.

  Yet how can we know what? I will go myself. I have a better chance…

  You cannot, Taashou. You are old and have been too long a part of this world. You would not be able to cross.

  Then we will close it… if we can. I refuse to send an innocent into the twilight crossing, to exile them from everything they have known, their sense of belonging—forever—and even if they return, to spend what remains of their days like some cast-off piece, disconnected from tribe and culture…

  Like me? Knowledge has its own price, Taashou. I chose my destiny.

  You were seventeen. Yours was by accident, not design—you have said so yourself.

  Daakohn drew a burning stick from the fire and began to play with it in the night air, drawing patterns as if it were a wand.

  Still, we all choose, perhaps not our pasts but certainly our futures. The memories I love best from my former life… riding my mount like the wind across the plains, traveling with my people, the Taagaag-ee, to our summer camp, the celebrations… I will never have them back.

  You could, Daakohn! Talk to Raa-gehd; go back to your people…

  You know I cannot. My mount, my companion, is another now, and he is not suited to the grassy plains. So I wander, a nomad among nomads. We are all alone—the way we are born, the way we die—but for the twilight crosser, doubly so, because I lack that part of me that stayed in his world.

  He threw the stick into the fire:

  It is always thus, but I would not have had it any other way. In a sense I still chose my life. Yet you, Taashou, do not have any choice in this. An older person cannot go. It must be somebody young enough to shed the trappings of this world with no remorse, one who has not grown roots deep enough to bind.

  Taashou frowned. Like the tree in the myth, uprooted from the valley and sent to grow forever alone on the mountain to stop the sky from falling in?

  You can mock, Daakohn smiled, but that is how it is. You cannot rip somebody from their universe, throw them into another to breathe alien air or gas or whatever and then transplant them back again without some damage occurring.

  They were both silent, studying the fire as if waiting for it to speak and offer answers. Then Taashou turned and looked at the older man. Why?

  Why? In what sense, why?

  You became hurzjh-faadaw-oh by accident. The rift healed itself that time. How do we know the same will not happen? What is different this time?

  Some force is pulling the kree-eh from our seas. It is not the same, not the same at all.

  So, the hurzjh-faadaw-oh.

  The twilight crosser must be absolutely without hesitation. Remembering, Daakohn shuddered. The very knowledge of this thing induces a fear so strong that most grown Shahee could not overcome their instinct for survival to chance it. He looked at Taashou. You will have to find someone young… young yet … ruthless, brave… talented yet foolhardy.

  I will search out a volunteer. But I will not sacrifice an innocent, Daakohn. That would be an abomination. It must be somebody who fully knows where they are going and the slim chance of any return.

  I went without knowing. That was what, in a strange way, saved me.

  As you say, this time it is different.

  They sat in silence after that. The fire gradually died.

  20. A Keen-Skur’s Fang

  Looking up at the trunk, Kreh-ursh should have been happy; he had his tree. His success at locating it had renewed his faith in himself, and in his training. There ought to be no doubts now. Yet there was something… Geh-meer being there down at the coast… that sick dragon... and something, or someone else… This island… it made him nervous; it felt creepy.

  The trunk, slightly wider than his shoulders, as in his vision, stretched up above him, perfectly straight, for two or three lengths of his own body. It was perfect. Its crown spread into a dense tangle of smaller branches and tiny spade-shaped leaves. He only had to place his hand on the bark to feel immediate empathy with the thing growing beside him, the joy of its living sap flowing beneath his fingertips. Yet thinking about the practical problems to be overcome, he felt unsure. They were high above the water. It was impossible to move the tree down to the shore. So he would have to work up here.

  He took a swallow of his potion and looked around. Since he had left home, he had drunk a lot of the liquid. He must start hunting and gathering food. To one side of the small clearing an old root system thrust up new shoots from a hewn stump. It looked as if some other candidate had performed sea-nomad-becoming here. A brook slapped and rattled its pebbled bed beyond. When he went to investigate, he found the stream ran swift, free of debris, a clean roadway back to the sea. It was perfect, yet… something about this clearing stirred memories. Crazy—it was the first time he had ever walked these slopes.

  Placing gourd, sleeping mat, and his bag of tools to one side of the clearing, he went back into the jungle with just his knife. A cautious search around his campsite showed that the area was safe enough: no recent signs of any large beasts. He set bird snares and gathered a small supply of roots, berries, and fruit, hanging them away from predators on low tree boughs back at his new camp.

  The next job was building a rudimentary bivouac from sticks and vines. After harvesting several armfuls of kaank leaves—long, flat, and fibrous—he sat in the clearing and wove until sunset. This large triangular matting would not only roof his bivouac while he stayed here—once it had dried fully, it would also have another use. The bivouac, shaded by trees on one side of the clearing, was hardly permanent, but should hold up well enough as a shelter and somewhere to store his gear. Enough for the days he would be here. After a simple meal of berries and fruit, he crawled into his bivouac and collapsed as darkness fell.

  Early next morning he approached the trunk of his tree. Laying out his tools beside him, he placed his hands on the bark, preparing to work. His feeling of oneness with the wood was renewed. A thrum of life hummed in the flowing sap. This was the blood he tried to connect with, asking this life force for permission to meet his needs, as he initiated the next, longest, most strenuous stage of Shahee-faadaw.

  Evening sun rays slanted down through the leaves, gilding the clearing gold and bronze. Kreh-ursh lay exhausted on the ground. He knew he should crawl under shelter to
protect himself from the dampness night would bring, but he could not lift even a finger. Beside him, stretching the length of the clearing, lay his tree. The mass of its branches was tangled in the dense undergrowth on the far side of the clearing. On this side, the lower end of its trunk, hacked into a rough cone by many blows from his ax, lay close to its stump. Wood chips carpeted the surrounding ground for some distance. His muscles ached, and his hands were blistered. Tonight he could do no more.

  Sleep claimed him quickly but brought little relief. His troubled dreams carried him back to Rrurd, to the past. In this memory-lit space, Kaar-oh was there. The boy sat simply, cross-legged on the ground in his ill-fitting, berry-stained tunic. His lop-sided grin showed the blank gap of his missing tooth as he improvised another of those crazy ideas they both knew would lead to trouble. Kreh-ursh had been punished once already this moon by the Shahee Council—Rrurd’s gaggle of puffed-up elders, whose only activity seemed to be spying on Kreh-ursh and Kaar-oh, trying to stop them from having any fun.

  In his dreams they were back in the canoe at the river mouth, under a midday sun that struck like a spear from above. Arm length by careful arm length, they reeled out the thin fibrous rope. Bound at intervals along it were bloody hunks of meat, each chunk concealing a gaark-teer or hook-star—the five-pronged, barbed piece of ironwork designed to wedge in the beast’s gullet. Then they squatted in the bottom of the canoe, scanning the green surface. The river was dead still.

  “Maybe we should have asked permission,” Kaar-oh murmured.

  “You know what they would have said: The river Gaa-shuudot is out of bounds till we’re full Shahee.”

  “What are we supposed to do then? We need it to become men…”

  “You can complete sea-nomad-becoming without it.”

  “But it helps. Anyway, it was your idea. Don’t you want it now?

  “Of course, I want it… I just wonder… maybe we should just practice working with the wind or the currents—you know, forget about the… it.”

  “But you’re the one who wanted to try—can’t you imagine the way the chants will work, focused through a keen-skur fang? We’ll be more than Shahee, we could end up as, as…”

  Words failed him. Then, again he saw Kaar-oh falling, saw that crimson pouch against his pale rough-spun tunic, a look of fear, a spout of blood—a scarlet splash pumping into the river water, gathering predators…

  He was awake. It was deep night. On the sacred island. Trees were groaning, boughs creaking. Forms and shadows, like clouds, like people, flitted and drifted between the trunks around him. Wisps of mist glowed silvery. Kreh-ursh could see him approaching through the trees… A face came near, smiling, whispering. Silky fingers seemed to drag through his hair…

  This time he was truly awake. This was real. Taashou was leaning over him. She had a gourd of liquid she placed to his lips. It tasted similar to his mother’s potion, though there were other strange flavors. Opening her hand, she revealed a half-dozen gohrroh-urbh leaves.

  Chew. Don’t swallow. Then spit them out.

  He ground the herb between his teeth, extracting as much juice as possible before spitting the pulp outside the bivouac. The leaves were rich and flavorful. Yet even as he reached for another, their heaviness hit him. His eyelids drooped, his hand dropped to the mat, head falling onto his improvised pillow, and he slipped back into sleep. This time, there were no dreams. He slept soundly, deeply, deliciously. The next morning he was woken by the cacophony of birds, who screamed their laughter at him. They found it hilarious, the crazy things a body could imagine in the night.

  21. Seatown

  When she was sure the boy was sleeping soundly, Taashou crept out of the bivouac and moved with soft steps down through the dark jungle toward the shore. Troubling whispers and sighs stirred the trees around her on all sides. Occasionally, she saw wraithlike beings drifting in the jungle. She took care to avert her eyes. Yet once, a ghostly figure—an ancient man, wisps of pale silver hair dripping from his crinkled head, a heavy staff clasped firmly in both hands—appeared from behind a tree and confronted her. She spoke before he did:

  Father, I have a task to perform. Let me on my way. We will have our reckoning when I return.

  Taashou… Even in mind speech, his voice wheezed like spray on the rocks. I’m not here for one of our little battles; I must warn you—the rift…

  I know. I’ve summoned the Great Council. The rift has returned. Shah is threatened.

  Not just Shah. The rift is random—it appears where it will. Worlds meet and flow apart—the timeless fertilization of the universe between dimensions… but an imbalance has occurred. You must look deeper. This is not just a threat to the sea.

  The land people have been called as well.

  Yes, the Rraawu and other peoples should have a voice. They may be next.

  The only reason Gordonor is coming is to seal a trading agreement with the Geyg-ee…

  Then that is a gift the universe has given you; make use of it. The Shahee cannot solve this alone.

  So what path?

  You know I cannot advise action from this side.

  But you can see further. You have escaped time. Tell me more.

  A silence fell while they studied each other. Finally, the old man spoke:

  The rift is natural. It comes and goes with the years. Yet something on the other side… This is not natural.

  But who could wield such power?

  I can say no more. When we lose our place in your dimension, we are shunned by the laws that rule it and can no longer influence events. Yet your world is endangered. You must act.

  Taashou was silent for a long time, gazing into the night as she thought. Then:

  The boy you see sleeping there, watch him while I’m away. He must finish Shahee-faadaw.

  The old man laughed:

  The lad’s complicated things for himself, fighting his future and his past together! Go, Taashou. One of the others is also more important than you think... One of the girls...

  Geh-meer?

  He nodded. She has the Sight, like yourself. All three—there was a third, but he is with me now—are important. But go, finish your task… They’ll be safe under my watch... Though remember to return... or I shall bring you back.

  As he spoke, his figure faded into the night.

  At the shore, the shahiroh pulled away the dry palm leaves covering her canoe. Suu-ohn-maalaa—Sighing Seabird—the craft she had lovingly built all those years ago, on this very isle. The vessel seemed to sing a welcome as she slid it across the hissing silver sand. It slipped into the lapping waves.

  Ahead of them, the water was a black vacuum in the night. Only the long, low cloud of surf glowing out on the reef guided her. Driving her paddle into the sea, she headed toward it. Spray erupted and rained down, drenching her as she entered the collision zone between ocean breakers and the coral shelf. Then her chant prevailed, water boiled under her craft, raising her, easing her across the violence. Soon she was slicing out through the night. Above her Hurm’s Girdle shone rosy, while the White Lady was a slim crescent low in the sky. Kree-eh glowed silver and pink through the black water. Reading the stars, Taashou turned Suu-ohn-maalaa north. Her chant rose in volume, becoming strident, thunderous above the roar and moan of Shah. She struggled up the shivering black slopes, sliding fast down into their valleys. Always to the same purpose, reaching for the same destination.

  A sixth of a tide cycle later, a spark flashed on the horizon. She lost it as she plunged over another crest and dropped down. Yet soon it was back, flickering in the distance. Before long, though still a long way off, she saw it clearly: a constant flame burning in the night.

  I’ll be waiting for you on the dock.

  Before Duu-feen left her cabin, she raked the fire down and secured the guard. She threw the sea-green cloak of the Shahee around her shoulders and wrapped it tight. Here on the high ocean, the wind gusted chill at night, even in summer. After fastening her door, s
he made her way across Shah-rraatawuu toward the docks. Around her, despite the time, the place seethed with activity. Shahee strode to and fro, escorting the guests who had been arriving all day. Close-lipped shahiroh stepped quietly around the shaky land people who’d invaded their domain: portly Rraawuu from the cities and lithe but tremulous Geyg-ee, whose bows and spears seemed oddly out of place on the ocean. Most looked green, nauseated, struggling to find their balance in this, their first experience at sea.

  The floating town was built on rafts in the form of a huge wheel. Carved hulls with platforms lashed between them formed its body. Each hull could be steered individually to best meet the forces of wind and tide while remaining attached to the whole flexible structure. When the community needed to travel, this seaborne town did not turn, but each hull was steered, keels dropped and sails raised. The town would lumber along its course, aided by shahiroh skill. Fore and aft—though those terms were ambiguous here—higher, arched structures created two gaps in the ring, raised so that even a large canoe might pass beneath with masts lowered. Inside the wheel, the “docks”—wooden platforms floating on the sea, bound to the inside of the ring—allowed vessels to be tied up, lashed fast during storms. The town moved fluidly—while one rim crested a high ocean roller, the other might be washing the shallows of a trough. This aspect was what most scared the land people, that at any moment those boards might separate on the waves and sink beneath their feet. Duu-feen knew that was ridiculous. Everything was built of the lightest wood, bound with lee-aandeh cord. The town was like a floating garland of woven twigs, sprightly buoyant and capable of adapting to the ocean’s every mood.

  Tonight, the main mast was raised and the beacon lit—a single enormous taat-eh spar that towered over the ocean, visible from far out to sea. It was mounted on the widest platform in the ring—a huge raft a hundred paces wide. Dozens of fine lee-aandeh weed stays held it upright. What the land people did not see was that a spar of almost half its length, weighted with rock ballast, dropped down into the depths beneath to steady the whole structure.