Through the Whirlpool
Read Through the Whirlpool Online
Authors: K. Eastkott
Through the Whirlpool
Book I in the Jewel Fish Chronicles
K. Eastkott
Escapade Press
(an imprint of Poble Sec Books)
First published as an e-book by Escapade Press, an imprint of Poble Sec Books, in 2013.
Copyright © K. Eastkott 2013
Cover design: gira visual communication
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
www.poblesecbooks.com
ISBN:
(.mobi) 978-0-9576551-0-2
F
or Josh, that ten-year-old who dreamed of becoming a magician
And for Ria
Contents
Twilight Cross
er, Book II of The Jewel Fish Chronicles
a Caller
T
he heat, as she breasted the summit, buffeted her, throwing the old woman back downhill. During the final thousand paces of the climb, the ground had gradually warmed then scorched the soles of her feet through her thin sandals. Now sweat poured from her body and she dreamed of a cool place, some crystal mountain stream where she might sit and soak her tired legs. Such was not to be found on Kaa-meer-geh. The entire island was barren red rock. And her task was not to rest but to prompt, encourage, coerce—at times threaten, or worse. First among the shahiroh, the sea callers, she was there to supervise the rite, there for sea-nomad-becoming.
Braving the heat, she forced herself
again toward the crater and stood on its very lip.
“
Taashou!”
T
he distant shout barely penetrated the deafening grind of the lava’s music, and she ignored it, forcing her sight down into the lava lake, which tossed its bright spears high. Despite the flames, Kaa-meer-geh was at peace, its magma pulsating warm ruby calm encrusted with dark rock scabs.
She
bore the heat. Slim, athletic, her body taut skin over toned muscles. Random streaks shone silver in her plaited hair, belying a strength honed with the years. Against the rough basalt, she resembled the ancient trunk of a loman tree, polished and elegant.
In
trance she waited, allowing her prescience to roll down into the molten stone and through it to that fluid intermingling of time and space where the universe ground against other dimensions. Future and past possibilities—crackling snakes of time—interwove and sparked off one another. Then the rock flames brought her a single vision: a figure writhing far above, engulfed in flames as it fell toward midnight waves. Though no screams reached her, still she knew who… She fought to hold the sight… And her heart lurched as the victim disappeared beneath the ocean’s surface.
“
Taashou!”
T
hat shout broke the trance, dissolving the ocean into fire. Golden stanzas seemed to shimmer in the heat-drenched air even as the sight dissipated:
The foreign seeker will be lost,
An ocean’s guardian laid low,
Before the one of touch afar
Returns a peace from long ago.
The strange prophecy seemed to
echo a time long before when something else had emerged from the magma.
Her
concentration had been shattered by that distant cry. She turned to face the horizon. The sea lay dark: a pan of murky oil awaiting a taper. Here and there, long swathes of water gleamed: the kree-eh—primeval life forms that glowed phosphorescent in its depths. A few final stars above were fading like sparks on the breeze. Dawn was near. She searched for whoever was calling her name, but the volcano’s slopes lay in gloom and she could see no movement below.
From her belt, she unslung
two objects and laid them on the sand: one a carved mask, its features defying description. Seeming to breathe as if alive, it sighed—a heritage ground out of rocks. It held its mystery to itself. Not yet time for its secrets to emerge.
The woman picked up the other, an arm-long, twisting shell. Fluted fingers flowered from a conical opening. It had a rough exterior of deepest purple
but inside shone like sunrise. Another shout from below. She ignored it again. There would be time to address it later. For thirty-two years, this had been her role and none had dared to interrupt; they would not do so now. So it was that pride condemned her to her dearest mistake.
On the horizon,
gray dawn softened into lilac, from there to indigo and copper. Celestial depths chameleoned into gold. Though almost full daylight up here, below the beach lay dark. Then a sparkle at the sea’s far reach, and the sun’s fire leaped above the horizon.
She put the shell horn to her lips—hesitated—and blew. A high, sad wail drifted out, gliding away over the island as the sun floated up into the sky, its rays saluting. The trumpet call rolled down the volcano
’s slopes as far as the barren shore and outward over the ocean beyond. Moments later, an answering wail—a fading moan from the mainland shadows. Seven horn blasts in total sounded from the mainland. Sea-nomad-becoming had commenced.
“
Taashou, wait!”
Lowering the horn, she peered down into the predawn gloom. A figure was toiling up the slope, close now. It was Lehd, youngest of the sea callers,
he whose shouts had meant to distract her.
“
We shouldn’t have started,” he panted. “It is… too dangerous. The others have seen it… sent me to tell you… the rift has opened!”
If he could have seen her expression... but from where he was standing her figure flickered ghostlike in the volcano
’s hot embrace. He knew she was angry with him for interrupting the ritual, but he could not see that shadow sliding across her face as she turned back to the fire, its highest flames now invisible in the sunlight. Her thoughts were her own as she pondered the rift… So it had returned. But where would it lead them this time?
wn
N
ight receded, lifting him from sleep. In the silence—as still as the polished surface of a moonlit lake—some whisper had nudged him in his dreams. His fingers reached for the leather bag looped on a thong around his throat, caressing a hidden shape. Yet there were only the sounds of every night: the rolling crash of surf on the beach, soothing, repetitive; and a hissing rattle that flapped around their hut like a clumsy bird—the wind clattering the palms. The surf ebbed and broke almost in time with his parents’ breathing—a guttural snore and a gentle whistling—both rhythms entwined in their own melody. These were the comfortable sounds of his world—so familiar he had to listen carefully to pick them out. It was something else, a subtle scratching of claws on the walls of his mind. Then other mental noise intruded. People had begun to awake. The village was stirring.
He sat up, remembering what must be begun, where he was headed today. He was ready. Stretching limbs and cracking joints, he shook off sleep, threw aside his blanket, relishing the predawn chill. He washed his face. As he ran through his exercises, he heard his father
’s feet hit the floor with a slap as he too rolled from his hammock. His mother groaned, imaged a sleepy question, but his father replied in words: “Sea-nomad-becoming.”
Sunrise was close. Finishing his exercises, he closed his eyes for a moment. Sea-nomad-becoming. Today he would shed his former life. Tomorrow he might be a man.
A mind question from his mother…
No
. Later he could eat. The rites demanded that he fast until arrival. Zjhuud-geh Island would be teeming with fruit, and he was capable with a snare, handy with a fishing spear and line. Food gathered by his own hand... that would be the easiest part. His mother pushed aside the curtain defining his personal space and placed a full gourd beside his tools. This was the only sustenance he could carry. A potion of herbs steeped in a mother’s knowledge. A life source.
He spent a few moments checking his tools, though they had been polished, sharpened, repaired repeatedly over the last week
and were as honed as could be. He was wrapping them, securing them in their woven bag when it came: a faint, high moan floating across the sea, from Kaa-meer-geh Island... the summons. Another call rose in answer. Closer this time, down on the beach. The call of the sea, inviting him, Kreh-ursh, and his friends to embark on sea-nomad-becoming. The long wail died away, then sounded again moments later. And again. He held his breath: seven horn blasts. Seven hopefuls about to set off. Seven... who should have been eight. Kaar-oh, his friend, who had trained with him, would never attempt the nomad-becoming now.
Perhaps it was wrong, but the impulse was too great. Kreh-ursh stooped into a corner and opened a wooden chest. He took out a tiny leather bag, similar to his own yellow one but crimson. Inside, another unique carved shape, which only he had looked at since... it had been his friend
’s. He hung this second bag around his neck too. The best he could do. Might Kaar-oh know. Then it was as if, in his imagination, he felt his friend stir, breathe again. He heard his laugh, found himself smiling at the gap-toothed grin... Crazy!
Looking around his small section of the hut, he surveyed it all—hammock, chest, floor mat, spears, fishing tackle, wooden toys from when he was a boy—a pile of things, so important once. Nothing he would take now. He
tightened his belt from which the gourd and his knife hung, shouldered the heavy bundle containing his tools, cooking utensils and a few other belongings, slung blanket and sleeping mat across his back, and ducked under the curtain.
