The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  Chapter 23

  L ike tumbling from a hammock, the sense of falling shocked Jack awake. He had been dumped unceremoniously to the ground with his throbbing head being the first to contact the hard, sandy, floor. His wrists and ankles burned; they were lashed together around a pole that had been used to carry him as if he were a pig for dressing. The brute at his head grabbed the wooden rod and slid it from between his arms and legs, tossing it to the side. Pulling Jack to his feet, the warrior twisted a volcanic glass blade through his fingers and in two slashes, sliced the bands around Jacks wrists and ankles.

  Jack’s mind reeled as everything around him was altogether too bright and loud. He was close to the water, the thrumming of waves pounding against a rocky shore causing the ground beneath his feet to tremble. All too quickly, the sound was drowned out by the stomping and chanting of hundreds of muscular natives stretching up the cliff face before him. In awe, he stood upon the sandy floor of an amphitheater, a tall stone wall behind him and hundreds of natives fighting to be the loudest before him. As the crowd worked into a violent frenzy, slapping their thighs and sticking out their tongues, the brute that had cut his bindings stepped into him so that he was inches from his nose. With an eerie smile he chanted in Jack’s face, his eyes growing wide, chin lifted, his voice rising to a shout. “E kore e ara toa whakaora koutou! E kore e ara toa whakaora koutou!”

  “Wha… I don’t understand?” Jack asked, his senses still foggy. He only spent a fraction of a thought on running, the very idea crushed by the reality that he had nowhere to go. In unison, every person halted their chant, stood erect like soldiers, and faced the same direction, Jack spinning on the spot to match their gaze. Descending a set of steps, a man and a woman hand in hand brought every observer to adulating awe. Jack, confused by everything about him, was slow to recognize the man, but the longer he stared, the more focused he became upon the leaf tattoos that climbed his legs; Jack knew immediately who he was. The woman was much younger, tall and slender. Her creamy dark skin was a glowing umber as it shimmered from some sort of cream spread over her more delicate features. Whereas the man looked like he wore the scars of battle earning the right for his place of distinction, she on the other hand carried an air about her that left nobody, not even Jack, in doubt that she was royalty. Her hair was a satin sheet of silvery blonde that stretched past her waist and flowed in the slightest breeze, a complete contrast to every other aboriginal he could see. Starting from just below her bottom lip, an intricate tattoo stretched down her throat and past her neck, traveling out to the ends of her shoulders.

  In oblation, every native bowed silently as the royals took their seats on separate prominent stone chairs. As if by an unwritten decree, the surrounding audience immediately followed suit, sitting upon wooden benches. The air was instantly still and eerily quiet but for a humming of energy and building excitement.

  “Kua tatari te wa roa tatou hoki tenei ra!” A warrior stood before the royal couple and began to speak to the audience.

  “I wish I knew what the devil he was saying,” Jack whispered, his frustration and fear consuming to the point where his thoughts leapt from his mouth. Shocking pain pierced his ears as they suddenly popped, the overwhelming sense to vomit causing him to double over.

  “Tigerlily ui hoki a challenger to whakakore the intruder!” The strange tongue warbled into familiar words causing Jack to freeze.

  In a gale, the crowd stood, chanting loudly, “Taniwha!”

  The chief’s voice rose above the din as he took to his feet. “Moremore! We summon you to protect our ways!”

  On cue, the entire assembly rose and crouched to one knee, faces down in supplication. Jack, confused, spun around on his heels, trying to look in every direction at once. It was enough that he became dizzy from the rotations, his neck hairs standing on end with the thought that there was something behind him. Turning about slowly, he watched with foreboding as a giant hand glistening with water swallowed the topmost stone of the enclosure. Jack, fear controlling his frame, backed away until his feet entangled with the ground and he collapsed upon his rear. With terror, he watched as a huge head, completely bald, covered in tattoos, and shimmering with water grew above the wall. In one great leap, the giant sprang from the ocean high into the air and landed in a crouch. The thunderous shock of his twelve-foot form hurled the sand up in rippling waves, tossing Jack back up to his feet and then forward onto his knees. The monster stood proudly as large droplets of water rolled off his boulder-sized shoulders. Jack thought that his eyes were playing tricks in the sweltering heat as the giant shimmered otherworldly until he shook his large head and neck.

  In just a few long strides the creature circled the arena, stopping in the center while reaching his enormous arms out their full length, his head arched back. With a great roar, he rent the air as the people chanted, “Moremore, Moremore…” Even at a distance, the giant’s shadow loomed over Jack, who backed all the way to the rocky wall behind him. Moremore lowered his great bald head, his black eyes boring into the boy. Jack was unequal to the task and shifted his gaze to the ground momentarily and then back up to the creature; his curiosity of the monster just able to override his fear every half second.

  Jack had never seen anything like what stood before him. The creature was a mixture of man and beast. The very human muscles of his legs and feet were taught as he crouched, a white-and-black-beaded covering about his loins. His arms were that of a man as well. The creature’s wrists and elbows tied with green strands so as to force his muscles to bulge. However, beginning at his core, up through his his stomach, out to his chest and up to the top of his bald head, his skin turned from the dark caramel of the natives to a pale, ocean, gray. Jack marveled most at Moremore’s neck—he didn’t really have one. In its place a solid trunk of skin supported the amalgamated head of man and shark. Jack’s gaze locked upon a series of strange tattoos—five parallel lines that sprang to life as sea water streamed past them, opening and unfurling like the gills of a shark. As if from instinct, the beast shook his head like a dog, freeing the wet as the fissures in his skin flattened once more into mere ink. Moremore aimed his black eyes upon Jack and grinned, revealing a mouth full of sharpened teeth stretching to where his ears should have been. Turning, the beast lowered its head and bowed toward the excited, chanting crowd.

  As if from nowhere, six women stood line abreast of the creature, each carrying a different weapon and offering them to Moremore. Taking a fighting stance, he shook his head slowly with a wicked grin. Extending his hands, he flexed his thick fingers, each one cracking eagerly from the force. Moremore extended his chin towards Jack, his intent to fight barehanded, clear. In unison, the women turned on their heels to face Jack, offering him their weapons in turn. Striving to look anywhere but at Moremore, Jack hesitantly stepped forward and nervously inspected the wood and stone instruments before him. He took a step back shaking his head in disbelief as his mind filled with dread. In unison, the women took a step forward with their wares, the intention clear: he was going to fight the monster. Jack took one last shuddering look at Moremore, ran a sweaty hand over his forehead, and then moved cautiously to examine the ebony clubs and spears. The primitive weapons, punctuated with embedded shark teeth along their edges, gave off the impression of pain even while lying still. With a shaking breath, he ran his fingers nervously along the smooth surface of a heavy wooden club, its alternating black and brown grain formed into a wicked edge along one side.

  “Wahaika,” the woman holding it barked.

  Jack nodded, chewing his lip. He reached out, ready to grip it in hand, when his eye caught a long wooden shaft. At one end it was tipped with a greenstone spear-point, the other end flat, its edges sharpened with jagged shark teeth.

  “Taiaha.” The woman holding it smiled and offered it to Jack with her head bowed.

  Jack’s lips cracked with a grin of irony; given the situation he knew that even if he had it, his karambit would be of no use, and yet
he had no idea what he was to do with any of these grand carved clubs.

  Jack stepped forward and retrieved the spear, its length well over five feet. He was used to the street brawls and knife fights in London. There was very little thinking or planning involved—you just tried to be meaner and faster than everyone else, like cats trapped in a small sack. This was different. He would never pick a fight with the biggest thug in the alley. He knew his only chance was to keep as much distance between him and Moremore as possible, and he hoped this tool would do the trick.

  He regretted his decision as soon as he hefted its full weight, positive that the Faversham’s anchor weighed less, but the parade of other weapons were marched off the field before he could exchange it.

  Like the rolling of a bolder, the ground quivered as Moremore pounced forward, his head bent down in a charge, his black eyes glimmering with conceit. Jack backed away and spun from the giant’s grasp, barely avoiding a swipe from his huge paw. Rolling up from his dive in the sand, Jack held the taiaha out like a spear, the muscles in his forearm straining from its weight. Moremore turned once more, crouching for a second run. Taking a split second to gather his wits, Jack backed up. As the huge creature reached him in just a few short steps, he spun his spear in a swinging circle with all of his might, using its weight to slingshot around. His timing was perfect as the tooth end of the spear sunk into the charging giant’s thigh, gashing his flesh. Moremore halted with a roar, looking down upon his bleeding wound as if it was the first time he had ever felt true pain. Jack, who for his talents had never imagined that he’d had a chance against the giant, stood there stunned, rather than pressing the attack. Moremore seized the advantage and yanked his leg back with a grunt, the power of his muscled body ripping the handle from Jack’s hand. Up on the balls of his feet as the last of the wooden shaft tore from his fingers Jack was completely defenseless and unprepared when in one fluid motion Moremore swung his giant palm into his chest. The blow sent him skipping across the sandy basin of the stadium like a flat rock on a placid pond. Slowly, Jack rolled up to his knees, and then regained his feet while spitting sand from his mouth. Pulling open his loose shirt, he winced in pain at the red outline of Moremore’s palm indelibly printed upon his chest, a searing ache pinched at his left shoulder as his lifeless arm dangled immobile.

  Moremore gave a mighty grunt tearing the spiked head from his leg, blood oozing out of the wound. In a massive show of strength and frustration, he gripped the heavy wooden spear at both ends and snapped the spiked, bloody end free; with a grin, he tossed it unceremoniously to the ground. Moremore menaced with the spear point, swinging that half of the spear back and forth with confidence, slowly pressing forward.

  Jack stumbled back dizzily as the carnival atmosphere of the natives continued with jeering roars of laughter. He knew by his labored, painful, breaths he would not survive another blow. Timing the creature’s next swing, Jack dove to the sand, hoping to roll past his attacker and gain a few more precious seconds. His plan was inadequate, as the creature simply flicked his wrist, catching him mid-flight with the splintered shaft of his spear and hurled him into the air like the ball in a game of rounders.

  In a flash of starry black his wits became muddled as he landed with an echoing crunch into the stands. For a moment,he was back on the dock in London, Nathan’s fists pummeling him over and over as he plead for mercy.

  ‘I ain’t got a farthing of patience for a betrayer!’ Nathan’s voice growled in his ear. ‘Try an steal from ol’ Nafan!’

  The black of his thoughts suddenly washing away, he was aware of the natives chanting, “Moremore, Moremore…”

  Jack rolled off the broken bench where he landed, blood spewing from his mouth as he coughed. His vision had returned, but it was a bright blur of dark-skinned bodies and the tropical sun. Stumbling to his feet, he watched as the hulking, silvery figure of Moremore began to lumber up the stands in his direction as the natives parted from the creatures path.

  Jack hobbled backwards as his chest screamed in protest. It felt like his ribs were split in two. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled higher up the stands, through the natives and over more wooden seats, Moremore gaining on him with each step. He could feel little byond the jabbing pain of his broken ribs tearing at his lungs as he stumbled upon his knees, the natives taking the liberty to strike him a blow every so often. By the time Jack reached the top of the arena, the searing agony of his wounds had cleared his vision, the deafening sound of pounding waves battering his ears from below. Teetering at the stony cliff edge on wobbly knees, he peered down at the craggy rocks that jettisoned out of the seafloor. It may have been the blood, but Jack could have sworn that he could taste the briney sea foam reaching its fingers towards him in great, swelling sprays. At once, he could feel the looming giant behind him, Moremore’s shadow darkening the sun directly overhead—Jack knew he was caught. Slowly he turned to his side and, with a bent head, he glanced between his tormentor and the rocks below. He was faced with a dark decision, and he could see Nathan’s evil glimmer in the eye of the creature. Just like the little boy he had been, there was no way to win against overwhelming force, but this time he was not about to cower.

  Jack calmed himself by timing his breaths to the crashing waves and, against all the pain that thrashed his body, he stood completely erect. In his mind’s eye he was equal to that cabin boy of ol’ Frenchy’s story. Defiantly, he faced his attacker with a wicked grin before hacking a glob of bloody spittle at Moremore’s feet. With a defiant grin and sigh of relief, Jack fell backward off the edge as his last bit of strength abandoned him. He would not give the beast the satisfaction of finishing him off. He was finally free of it all.

  Chapter 24

  J ack was aware of the world long before he realized he was awake, the acrid scent of smoke filling his nostrils. So, it was fire and brimstone, then. He had known the life he lived hadn’t been a righteous one. He had never expected heaven but hoped there would have been a middle ground. Resigned to eternal torment, he cracked his eyes then shut them immediately, wincing as he took a breath, pain lancing through his ribs. Ahh, the torment had already begun. Taking a few shallow breaths, the pain subsided, but didn’t leave entirely. Again, he opened his eyes. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but he was positive hell didn’t look like a lush green jungle. Looking down his torso, he could see some kind of cloth patched across his body. None of this made any sense. He was reaching to pull the cloth off when a molasses-colored hand shot out, grasping him by the wrist.

  “No. Let’s leave that there for now.” The voice was feminine, smooth, and rich. Jack rolled his head to the side, pleased that it didn’t hurt, and met a pair of bright green eyes alight with curiosity. As the woman sat up, long sheets of satiny, silver hair flowed across her shoulders, framing the intricate tattoo on her chin. Jack began to pant in shallow breaths, fear building in his chest. “No more natives,” he groaned as he flipped his head to the other side and tried to roll away. This was worse than hell.

  A gentle hand applied pressure to his arm, preventing the movement. “I mean you no harm.”

  “She is trying to help you.” This voice was different—masculine, but with a harmonious tinge to it like the strumming of a lute. “Tigerlily is the one who will help you. Please lay back until you are healed.”

  “Until…” Jack winced as he spoke, “...until I’m well enough that they can send that troll after me again. Have mercy and kill me now.”

  “No one is going to hurt you. You have my word as the guardian of Nisí Poté.” The man placed a heavy, comforting hand upon Jack’s chest, forcing stillness upon him. His fragile body too weak to fight, Jack gave up trying and obeyed.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked.

  “My name is Tristan. Now rest.”

  “How does he know my tongue?” Tigerlily asked in hushed tones as the two figures stepped back.

  “All men are strange to our kind,” Tristan replied, “but this one is special
. That is why I had to save him.”

  “I wished it,” Jack broke their whispered conversation.

  “Wished it?” Tigerlily replied.

  “I wa… I wanted to know your—” Jack tried to explain, the words foolish in his mouth. There was more said, but in the fog, he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  ***

  “You should have banished him the day he washed up on our shores, and yet even now you care for him with the help of those people!” Jack could hear the words, but it was a great while before his eyes broke open against the bright red glow behind the lids.

  “I have been watching him. This one is different.” Jack recognized this voice; it was the man he had seen before, Tristan. Fighting the stiffness in his neck, he rolled his head over and squinted at the door. The rippling blur of his vision slowly focused upon the form of a tall boy, or maybe a short man. He was confused. Behind the image there fluttered a pair of nearly transparent wings, flickering as he moved, and then like a dragonfly they would instantly freeze, only to shimmer in flight once more. His body was clad in a purple tunic and blue stockings, a golden thread forming the image of a lion running through the sleeves to his chest. The man’s entire being shimmered as if draped in gold dust. His nose and tops of his ears were sharp, with glowing green eyes like emeralds lit with the evening sun.