Endless Tides Teaser

The benevolent, almost smiling, moon of that night spun a pool of light in the desert. Far beneath the sky the wind swept up flocks of sand making them waltz as if to a lament.

            Three men stood in the pool of lustre, locked in their struggle.

            The thief’s hands moved slowly to the pocket of his brown garbs, checking his loot was still there. It was, although he knew not for how long it would stay.

            The man in the crimson coat rested the blade of his katana on his shoulder; the blade, black, even in such magnificent, haunting light, seemed as stoic as the smiling man holding it. The hilt, as crimson as the man’s coat, gave an air of arrogance to the weapon. Two red ribbons swam from the hilt in the breeze.

            The third man, wearing a blue coat, was stood next to the man in crimson. His sword remained sheathed, yet something in his face whispered to the thief that he would use it more readily than his companion.

            The men were silent. Their thoughts were muted, mere images running in the reflection of a flowing mind.

            A lone black cloud crept across the sky obscuring, at first, only the stars, then, as it seemed to swell with night air, the moon. The pool of light disappeared leaving the men in darkness – a veritable nothing in the nothingness of the desert.

            The man in the crimson coat moved his shoulders wearily before tilting his head to the man in blue.

            “You want to kill him, don’t you, DeFlare?” he said. His voice was frivolous, yet a deep and soothing baritone. It shattered the silence instantly.

            DeFlare nodded.

“We have our orders.” He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The man in crimson tilted his head back to the thief. The thief observed as the breeze blew his enemy’s chin length blonde hair, causing it to shroud his face. In the already thick darkness he thought it must have impaired the man’s vision at least slightly, though the thief knew not how to take advantage of this. The man in crimson ran his fingers through his hair, clearing his face of obstruction.

‘So much for that advantage...’ thought the thief.

“Do you know who we are?” the man in crimson said.

“You’re Captain Laike Skyheart of the Fourth Division, although, I don’t know your associate.”

Skyheart smiled.

“Actually, it’s Division Four,” he said. “But I’ll allow the mistake to go unpunished just this once. At this point the identity of my associate is unimportant.” His smile faded. “I assume you know why we’re here?”

The thief nodded.

“Give it to us,” Skyheart said, “and you’re free to leave.”

“We’re wasting time,” DeFlare said.

Skyheart held his free left hand out to the thief. The black cloud continued on its journey, washing the men in light once more.

The thief didn’t move.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Skyheart sighed.

Lieutenant DeFlare began a slow, heavy walk over to the thief, his footsteps singing out, serenading the silence. The imposing figure constantly growing with shrinking distance caused the thief to shiver, though he told himself it was the cold. Unknowingly, he placed his hand in his pocket, grasped the jewel and, in a smooth sweeping motion, threw it to the Captain. Skyheart caught it in his free left hand, his sword in his right still resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” the Captain said.

DeFlare continued his advance. A glint of steel shone out in the desert and the sword being drawn from its wooden scabbard screamed. The blade cut through air, then man, then air once more.

The thief fell.

“We had our orders,” DeFlare said, sheathing his sword and neatening his short brown hair.

“Indeed we did,” Skyheart replied, “although, I never was one for following them.”

DeFlare turned and looked back towards to younger, yet higher ranking, man.

“We’ve a long walk home,” he said. “We’d best start now if we’re to be back by morning.”

“And so ends another adventure,” Skyheart said, placing the jewel in his pocket and sheathing his sword. “How long must we wait until the next?”

The two began the long walk back to Thieron, paying no mind to the dead thief, his blood colouring the sand a familiar shade of red as the viscous fluid seeped into the grained ground, as if at the request of the leaving men; their silhouettes shrinking in the distance, their long leather coats swimming in the breeze.

*

The sun reigned down on the island; their island. The only inhabitants were a mother, her young son and his pet baby turtle. They sat on the beach looking out at the calm sea doing nothing other than being.

The boy named Paccon stood.

“I’m ready now, Mama.”

She looked up at him smiling. He was wearing the tall pointed straw hat she had made him and his grey rags. His face was practically non-existent under the shadow of the hat’s rim, yet still she knew he was smiling.

He clambered into the fishing boat and she passed him the fishing-rod.

“My first time fishing alone,” he said, beaming. “What an adventure.”

“You be back by dark.”

“I will, Mama.”

“And if the waves get too strong you come back straight away.”

“I will, Mama.”

She kissed him and pushed the boat out, sending him on his self-deemed “adventure”. She waved as he rowed further out. He waved back and set the rod out, waiting for his catch.

The woman saw he was consumed with his fishing and returned to the hut. The adventure could begin.

He felt a tickling in the pocket of his rags and reached in. The baby turtle was revealed as he pulled his hand out.

“Franklin!” Paccon said, elated by his pet’s presence. He laughed, leaned back and lay in the boat.

He lazed the hours away doing nothing. He exhaled gently and the warm air from his body met the cool air of the sea, creating perfection. He sat up and checked the line. Nothing had bitten. He sighed and lay back down, looking to the sky. It was perfectly clear. Franklin clambered over Paccon’s chest eliciting yet more laughter from the boy. After a few minutes the combination of the peacefully buoyant sea and perfect temperature led Paccon into a deep darkness. A deep nothingness. A deep sleep.

Back on land, the woman stepped outside of the hut onto the rocky beach – a collage of grey against the blue of the sea. She looked to see him, but instead saw the sky’s new blackness. Heavy clouds had drifted in from the north. She ran to the shoreline but still she couldn’t see him. She screamed out for her son to return but her voice fell silent on the air. She screamed again but was masked under a symphony of thunder. Rain crashed free of the clouds. She ran back to the hut, praying to any deity that might be listening to bring him home safely.

He woke to the sound of thunder; an antagonistic, violent roar from the heavens ripping through his ears. The seas, before so pleasantly buoyant, now attacked the fishing boat with visceral impact. The whining wind, winning in a contest against the terrified boy, caused the boat to spin in the apocalyptic waters.

“Mama!” Paccon screamed.

He reached for the oars only to find they had long been blown or swept away. Franklin clambered back into Paccon’s pocket finding what little sanctuary there was. The boy screamed again.

“Mama!”

The wind made its final assault, lifting the boat, boy as well, from the sea and carried them further into the night.

*

The flowers had long been blooming in the garden. Blossoms of pink and white sprouted from the soil beds and high bushes, obscuring her garden from prying eyes.

The young woman placed a bouquet of red blossoms onto the first of three graves.

‘Here lies Lawce Harmoire,

Beloved husband and father taken in The Mineral Wars.

He is dearly missed.’

She moved onto the next, placing blue blossoms.

‘Here lies Farr Harmoire,

Beloved mother who took her own life in The Mineral Wars.

She is dearly missed.’

She moved onto the next grave, removing a previous wilted bouquet of ambiguous origin and replacing them with black blossoms.

‘Here lies Kote Venar,

Beloved fiancé of Myri Harmoire.

May we finally be wed in time, my dearest?

When next we meet, perhaps fate will be less cruel.’

            She stood facing the ground for a few minutes experiencing a familiar itching behind her eyes. A feeling she had felt so often as a child and on days like that one. A tear made its way to the outside. More followed.

            Myri fell to her knees and clutched at her heart, with every will and intention to tear it out. Alas, she could not. She knelt there shrieking lightning in the graveyard garden. A garden in full bloom of life yet containing an equal amount of death. And that death was growing.

            “How long?” she asked her fiancé’s headstone. “How long until we are reunited? Have the Gods not toyed with me enough?”

            Tears turned to a river, birthing from her eyes.

            She heard thunder approaching her town of Port Fair. Consumed in her sorrow she continued to cry, mourning the long dead and new dead for as long as she could bear or as long as she could before she was stopped. Stopped before it was her time to be mourned.