by K. Eastkott
That afternoon and the next day he spent on the final preparations for his journey. Binding the outrigger firmly in place so the craft was properly balanced took some time. He dove around the reef for lee-aandeh seaweed strings and used them as rigging for the tripod mast and the gaff of the sail, so he could raise and lower it quickly when needed. It took him a full day to repair, tighten, and strengthen the cheg-muug sail—the traditional triangular sail of his people—after the battering it had taken serving as his bivouac roof. Now, though, the kaank leaves were dry and light. It would work well.
Finally came that moment of bursting pride: His craft was ready but for a last significant act. The ceremony was simple, as simple as carving the traditional letters into the hull behind the boat’s eyes. In naming her, he chose Kreh-otchaw-oh, which meant “wavecrafter,” wavecrafting being one of the five skills a full Shahee must master. She seemed to sit on the beach smiling at him, her fine, polished wood glowing golden in the relaxed rays of the early evening sun.
The following dawn, Kreh-ursh took a carefully prepared bhayd stake from his gear, along with some keerr heather bark he’d been drying for days. In a sheltered lee of the lagoon, he produced fire using the traditional method. This was the final rite, bringing fire home to his hearth at Rrurd. He opened a small earthenware pot given him by his father. Lined with charcoal and containing downward-facing air vents, if carefully protected during an ocean voyage, this pot could keep embers smoldering for days on the return journey. He waited until he had a strongly glowing bed of embers, and then shovelled some into the pot, replaced the lid, and stored it carefully in the canoe.
Then, the best part of a silver moon since he had set out from home, Kreh-ursh dragged Kreh-otchaw-oh down the beach and out into the waters of the lagoon to begin the final leg of sea-nomad-becoming—sailing home.
28. Current Reading
They crossed the reef. Kreh-otchaw-oh shuddered as she crashed into, and through, the foam curtain, bracing her fresh timbers against the first ocean swells of her brief lifetime. Kreh-ursh held his breath. Would she hold up, or be smashed into driftwood? The job of paddling this tiny vessel, so small compared to the great canoe, alone into the majesty and savagery of the open sea, had been too scary to think about while he sat on the beach earlier, gazing out at that palisade of crashing spray. Yet as he trickled sand, grain by grain, through his fingers—thoughts skipping out over the lagoon toward the reef, then westward across the ocean—the solution, like a seabird alighting on the waves, settled into his mind:
You hold the answer inside yourself.
He slipped down into trance, the state used for memorizing information in class. The long days, the tiresome repetition returned, and he felt knowledge touch his mind as lightly as the sand slid off his fingertips. Kaar-oh, Geh-meer, and the others sat together; enduring the monotony of training before embarking on sea-nomad-becoming; going over and over the same chants, codes, and thought techniques, the repetitively drilled focus points. He recalled wave forms—fish-scale pattern, feather effect, choppy wave-tops against wind. Every aspect of the constantly changing sea meant something, could be interpreted if you knew how to read it. Deer-ot, their teacher, seemingly grudging with even the simplest information, would sometimes make an enigmatic statement they might not quite understand concerning the shape of a cloud, or suddenly give emphatic instructions that would make no sense at all until one day, out on the ocean, they could see and feel it, as clearly as the wind ruffles your skin. It was like learning to breathe all over again. You had to breathe the sea, know Shah like you knew your own canoe. But she was changeable, unforgiving. Learn the lesson well the first time around. You might not get another chance.
In his mind, Kreh-ursh plotted, stage by careful stage, the chants he would need to cross the reef, plus his entire course back to Rrurd. Sitting there on the beach, he also remembered nighttime visions from the island as if they were dreams, dreams in which Taashou the shahiroh appeared.
That was the whole point of sea-nomad-becoming, the reason for isolation on Zjhuud-geh, for Taashou appearing in the night, challenging him in the arena of his own mind. Passive knowledge was not enough. To be Shahee you had to use it, know how to wield it. That was the only way of serving Shah. Sitting there on the sand, the days of hard work, the nights fighting his phantoms made sense.
He now saw how brainless his and Kaar-oh’s expedition to Gaa-shuudot had been, a silly children’s adventure. Kaar-oh had died because of their own idiocy. They had never known what they needed to be successful; they had only thought they did. It made him weep as he finally accepted it—Kaar-oh’s death was a weight he would carry now throughout his life.
Opening his eyes wide, gazing at the jumping surf separating ocean from lagoon, he had felt ready. Ready to sail back to Rrurd, knowing what it was to be Shahee—such a different idea to what he had thought before! A Shahee was a sailor and a fisherman, but far more. The Shahee were Shah’s guardians. No Shahee had the right to take from the sea except for his or her own survival. Before allowing Shah to be damaged, he must perish himself—for all creatures were just links in the ocean’s single continuous chain.
Kreh-otchaw-oh hauled herself up the wide, blue back of the first ocean roller. Kreh-ursh was sweating, his paddle driving hard into the wave’s surface. His voice lifted above the roar to call out the sacred syllables that bound him and his craft to the elements. They reached the top of the first wave and floated for a moment, seemingly still, on its crest. Out to the east, the sun had risen over the stretched belly of the world. Below its light, on the sparkling horizon, he saw a silhouette. It was the great canoe, rocking up and down on the ocean, its crew attentive to the candidates setting out, over these days, to make the return journey to their village in the west. He raised his paddle in salute and was answered, in the distance, by two or three raised oars. Then he sliced down into the hide of the wave. Kreh-otchaw-oh jumped and sprang, skimming fast down the green hillside, and they galloped away, seeking to circle the island and sail west.
When his back felt like it was about to break and his arms were ready to drop off, but now on a steady course due west, he rested his paddle and raised the tripod with its woven sail. The wind filled it and began to whisk them along. He tied his paddle to the stern post, using it as a rudder. Looking around at sea and sky, reading the wave formations, comparing them to the sun, he found and checked his position in relation to the piled clouds—which indicated land masses still out of sight under the horizon.
With each glance back, from the crest of each breaker, Zjhuud-geh’s cone gradually shrank. Finally, the only remaining sign of the volcano was a puff of silver cloud on the horizon behind. Then even that dropped below the sea, and they were alone with nothing but blue on all sides and fresh spray on the breeze. Hot sun bathed his face after too long living in the jungle’s gloom. Below he watched sparkling shoals of kree-eh turning all the colors of the rainbow, deep in the cool water. Now that they had left, even though the salt air was invigorating in his nostrils, he missed the island’s rich perfume, wished he had brought some token as a present for his people. Relaxed, almost sad, he thought it strange that after his torturous ordeal, sea-nomad-becoming should be ending on such a pleasant note: this leisurely amble up and down Shah’s great peaks, under a clear blue sky and a warm sun. While one eye remained open to keep their course true, Kreh-ursh slid into a contented daydream. He recalled other sailing trips: boat races up and down the coast of his village in his father’s canoe, sheltered by Kaa-meer-geh’s dark, reddish bulk to the northeast; lazy days fishing with friends in the quiet northern bay, their canoes bound together into a single raft, so that when they became bored with fishing they would take turns diving off into the sun-hot muddy water, one of them always keeping a lookout for the gaashaw-skur—a venomous water serpent that paralyzed with a single bite and dragged you down to its nest in the reed roots.
Kreh-ursh’s head dropped back against Kreh-otchaw-oh’s stern post
. He slept. The paddle, hooked into its thong on the gunwale, began to flap…
A loud roaring awoke him. Instantly, he was alert and struggling with the rudder oar. Bearing down from the north, a hissing wall of foam charged toward them.
29. Squall
Kreh-ursh gouged his paddle deep into the wave’s back, calling on the elements under his influence. To heave Kreh-otchaw-oh around was their only hope: to run before, not meet the squall side on. If they could… Then the shock of it hit. Wind roared. Volleys of hail hit the canoe like stones. Kreh-otchaw-oh’s sail was torn from its ties by the blast. Lunging, Kreh-ursh grabbed it just as it was swept away, dragging rigging and spars behind. But the sail lifted, and pulled him bodily from the canoe. By luck, as he plunged into the water, one arm curled tight around the outrigger. With his other hand, he gripped the woven sail, refusing to let it drag him under. Pulled downward by the waterlogged matting, Kreh-otchaw-oh skidded sideways into a trough. Clinging to the outrigger, desperate to keep his head above water, Kreh-ursh mouthed a moving chant—trying to lighten the underwater weight. But his words were whipped from between his teeth as sea and hail lashed his face. He had to let the sail go. Yet in the moment of that thought, he found he couldn’t—his wrist was tangled in the stays. He tightened his grip on the outrigger, knowing that letting go now was death. The canoe foundered into the wave trough, a boiling maelstrom of furious surf. His chant strengthened. Slowly Kreh-otchaw-oh rose, keeping her gunwales above the angry sea. Shoulders aching, Kreh-ursh hauled on the sail with his free arm and pulled it from the depths. Then they were rising. Wind and rain pushed them up the side of the next wave. Kreh-ursh worked his way around to the stern of his craft, untangled his wrist from the rigging, and lashed the sail to the stern post. Finally, with what felt like the last of his strength, he heaved himself up and tumbled aboard. The sail splayed out in the water behind, acting as a sea anchor, holding their stern toward the storm.
The canoe was full of water, submerged nearly to her gunwales. As the squall thrashed them like seaweed thrown onto the beach, Kreh-ursh began to bail with one hand while battling to steer with the other, fighting the current to keep them planing downwind.
He should have been alert, ready for this danger. Squalls of this kind—half waterspout, half gale—were common on Shah. All they could do now was run south, abandoning their original course, and try to stay afloat till it was all over. Rain still lashed his back and shoulders. Kreh-otchaw-oh rode low, sluggish to respond. It seemed as if they were fighting the weather for days, beyond exhaustion. Kreh-ursh kept on bailing.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the squall rushed past. Kreh-otchaw-oh seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, shuddering, nearly human, flapping a loose stay in farewell. With double-handed scoops and then grabbing a small bowl from his belongings, Kreh-ursh continued emptying water from the craft. Regaining buoyancy might be the key to his survival. After he had emptied about half the water, he hoisted the spars, pulled the sail back on board and hung it, letting it flap loose to dry out. He kept bailing. Soon most of the water was gone. He pulled in the sheet and adjusted their course due west. From now on, he would have to keep a better lookout. In this tiny craft, he could not afford to sleep until he reached land. He had no idea how far off course they might be. Furthermore, with this overcast sky, these confused wave patterns did not help to pinpoint their position. However, any bearing due west would at least bring them to land, hopefully no further south than the great river. Then they could sail up the coast to Rrurd.
The wide hills and valleys of the ocean rose and fell as before, an unbroken, green expanse. He was emptying the last few finger widths of water from the canoe when a patch of crimson in the bottom caught his eye. Something caught underneath the twig matting on the bottom floated free. He picked it up, heart thudding against his ribcage. This should not be here! But as he stretched his arm back to hurl it out into the wide ocean, something checked him. He curled his fist around the scarlet bag. How could it have ended up here? He threw it away on the island! Kaar-oh and his talisman should have stayed there, on Zjhuud-geh! He couldn’t fathom how… unless when he threw it… could it have landed by some improbable chance…? Kaar-oh must have interfered somehow. Was that possible? He was a spirit, nonexistent; he lacked substance. How could he possibly...? Kreh-ursh tucked the bag among his belongings and spat into the water.
The hint of sun visible through the clouds showed it was almost midday. He had no idea how long this voyage would last. Might he reach land that day, as fast as the great canoe that brought him to Zjhuud-geh? He doubted it. He would be sailing by starlight—for one or several nights. The cloud patterns, now he paid attention, were odd—nothing he recognized from training—as if the entire sky were cloaked in silver fish scales, yet with an uncanny, circular movement in the upper hemisphere he could not remember ever having seen. It was as if an enormous paddle had been dug into the clouds and was gouging a swirling pattern into their substance, a giant whirlpool forming in the sky…
It would be good to get home. For so long, the only company he’d had were Taashou and Kaar-oh—if you could call them company, a witch and a dead boy. Taashou alone would have been preferable. Nor had he met any other candidate since Geh-meer had helped him with the dragon—they would keep that a secret. He felt lonely, had seen no sign of the great canoe since that brief glimpse off the sacred island. It felt as if he were the sole person on the sea. Alone—alone throughout the entire crossing from island to mainland. Shah, the wide ocean, stretched away on all sides, the only break that odd patch of brown farther to the south.
It looked familiar.
30. Pine Bluff
Jade was not sure where she was headed, just needed to get out after dinner and walk. Her feet led her down the road. Joan had been on the phone most of the time while cooking dinner—fried liver as hard as a ship’s biscuit, flaky potatoes, gray peas—scribbling notes furiously onto a legal pad. A friend from Wild Watch had called—that was when she had rubberized the carrots—to tell her he had “accessed” the Port Authority database. She began to take notes: shipping company, vessel, ports of departure and destination, dates, cargoes… There were seven companies with ships passing within five miles of the coast... two ships carrying oil or oil products.
“Listen to this…” Joan propped open a thick legal volume on the defrosting packet of peas she had forgotten to put back in the freezer: “‘Where a harbor master has reason to believe that the ship owner has committed an offence under Section 131 by the discharge from the ship of oil into harbor waters, the harbor master may detain…’ Yes, but we’re talking about the open sea…”
Too late, Jade caught a whiff of burnt onions.
“But you say they have all the permits? So there’s really no evidence…”
Jade scraped crisp, black bits onto her plate, thinking that she really must learn to cook.
“…but Section 284… ‘In its application to the detention of a vessel under this section, shall have effect with the omission of subsections (1), (6), and (7) and… in (a) subsection (2), the reference to “competent authority” being a reference to the harbor authority; and (b) in subsection (4), persons in relation to whom that subsection applies…’ We still need to show that the slick came from that particular vessel… that they’re polluting the bay… It comes down again to the fact we have no proof…”
Jade always found she could think better when surrounded by her favorite sliding sandscape. Out of sight of the house, she stepped into the dunes, walking northward toward Pine Bluff. Her mom would give her a hiding if she knew: Don’t leave the track—you’ll wreck the ecosystem! She wandered toward the shore. Here the ground was sandy, straggling pines growing down to the water, their roots bracing the sandy soil. The bank shelved steeply—not really a bluff, but it was what everybody called it—the place below where the Mauri River emptied into the bay, river and ocean currents colliding in a violent choppiness.
The jetty road ended
in an open area fifty yards beyond, but Jade sat down under trees close to the bank. The tussling water brought up thoughts of Kyle as he was yesterday, battling the waves on his oversized boogie board. How life could change in a day! She had failed her brother, and to make matters worse she seemed to be losing her mind. Why? Something to do with her dream? Things were about to change, she knew, but did not know how, just had a feeling of horror deep in her bones, maybe like the way animals can sense an earthquake hours before it happens. There must be some relation between it all… but what? All of these things, the laughter and ominous moaning, the clouds, her dream, and always the desire to drop down, farther down into the deep, to dive into the green...
…hurzjh-faadaw-oh…
That mocking laughter seemed to be saying… What? Try as hard as you can, you’ll never understand. The language of those guttural syllables. It was tiring to think about any of it.
She heard someone coming toward the bank. She didn’t really feel like speaking to anyone in the mood she was in and was about to move farther along when she caught a flash of blue serge. She looked around. Several yards away, two pines had collapsed together. A third leaned in over them at an angle. Where the trunks met they formed a kind of teepee, buried under sand. Underneath was a hollow just large enough to squeeze into. She hid. From there she could look out between cracks in the trunks.
The footsteps came right up to the teepee. She held her breath, watching the intruder’s feet—black leather shoes, formal trousers of navy serge with a thin white stripe down the outside. Yes, she definitely knew that uniform. The legs bent at the knees as the newcomer squatted down, and Jade pressed herself deeper into the hollow. Then pale stony eyes and a mass of dirty blond hair came into sight: Rena, dressed for work. She was staring at the hollow but amazingly did not see Jade. She lit a cigarette and began to smoke it. Sometimes she looked toward Jade’s hiding place, but in a slightly bored way, staring without seeing, like you would gaze out of the classroom window during a boring class on a beautiful day.