Authors: Brian Braden
A strange wave rose high above the others in the distance. It collapsed, rose, and collapsed again in an odd manner that immediately drew Atamoda’s attention.
The wave thrust upward, closer now. With each flash of lightning, it came ominously into focus. Only one wave removed from the flotilla, she finally saw its white sides streaked black with silt.
An island of ice!
The giant ice shard loomed larger than the entire flotilla. If it struck them, all was lost. As if drunk, the berg bobbed vertically. Then, a wave suddenly thrust it high until it teetered precariously over them, lightning dancing off its jagged tip in ear-splitting explosions. For what felt like an eternity, the iceberg thrust vertically above the water, as if defying the forces of nature. Slowly, it twisted and fell backwards toward them.
“Down!” Atamoda shouted.
She shoved Kol-ok to the deck and threw herself over both her children. Atamoda buried her head into Kol-ok’s back as a muffled boom shook the deck. She wrapped her entire arm around the rope just as a blast of frigid water slammed against them. The rope snapped tight, trying to rip her arm out of its socket. Kol-ok, with a strong grasp on the rope, stayed firmly at her side. The powerful current sought every nook and cranny, trying to lift her from the deck as if seeking her other child beneath her.
Silt filled her mouth and invaded her nostrils. Bodies slammed against her as the current ripped her people from the decks. Atamoda tried to open her eyes to see Bat-or, but closed them against the stinging grit.
She felt Bat-or slip in her left arm. Desperately, she tightened her grip, but the water’s unrelenting force capitalized on the growing gap between her and her little boy. Bat-or’s little fists tugged her tunic, desperately trying to cling to his mother. His tugs turned to flails, interfering with her tenuous grip around his waist.
The water didn’t relent. Atamoda’s fingers cramped, her bicep burned, but his slippery skin slid farther down her arm.
Another body slammed hard against her shoulder, jarring Bat-or from her hand.
Without hesitation, Atamoda let go and followed her child.
Atamoda tumbled violently, rolling and slamming against decks, masts, and other people as the current rocketed her along. She fought to remain conscious as her head repeatedly struck the decks. Atamoda felt herself cartwheel upside down as water rushed into her nose. Suddenly, the deck erupted from the water, and her tumbling ceased.
Coated in a layer of silt, she struggled to stand. Atamoda found herself on the edge of the flotilla, the deck slick with slime. Had the deck breached only a moment later, she would have been washed overboard. Her legs quaked uncontrollably as she scanned the decks around her, praying Bat-or might be caught in the rigging or in the bottom of a boat. Across the flotilla she only saw silt-covered bodies beginning to stir and cough.
“Bat-or!
Bat-or!
” she screamed across the waves, tears cutting channels in her mud-caked cheeks. In the lightning flashes, she spied dozens of men and women bobbing in the water, slowly drifting away. Some clung to logs, others to shattered reed hulls.
Some floated face down.
“Atamoda!” Aizarg appeared next to her.
“Bat-or!” She pointed to the sea. In a matter of moments, he secured a rope around his waist, tied it off to the deck, and leapt in. Aizarg swam from one floundering person to the next, sending them back toward the flotilla along his rope. Atamoda and Kol-ok helped pull each from the water, but Bat-or was not among them.
Soon, Aizarg could find no more. Still, he repeatedly dove into the water, searching for his son. The waves began to diminish, even as the sky darkened, and lightning proliferated across the heavens.
Okta came alongside them. “The waves begin to subside. We have to repair the flotilla the best we can while we have a chance. We need the Uros.” Okta reached down for the rope to pull Aizarg back in. Atamoda shoved him back.
“He searches for my son!”
Okta grimaced. “I am sorry, truly. Many have been lost. But we need the Uros, or many more will die this day. The ice island did not strike us, but it washed many of our people overboard.” Okta pointed across the flotilla. “Even now, Ba-lok, Ghalen, and Levidi are leading rescue efforts on the other sides.”
Kol-ok began to sob as the realization of his brother’s fate became real.
“I will rescue my son if you men will not!” Atamoda gritted her teeth and turned to dive in. Okta grabbed her arm.
“Dive in and you will die! Bat-or is dead. Many are dead!”
Atamoda yanked away as Aizarg lifted himself out of the water. He approached Atamoda, eyes red-rimmed with tears, and wrapped his arms around her.
Atamoda shrugged him off and tugged at the rope around his waist. She tried to untie the wet knot, but her trembling fingers would not obey.
“Atamoda...he’s gone,” Aizarg whispered.
She slapped him with full force. He staggered back and rubbed his cheek.
“If the Uros will not save his child, I will!” She tugged and tugged, but the knot wouldn’t budge.
“I do not need a rope.” She turned to dive in, but Aizarg grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her side.
Atamoda kicked and screamed, fighting her husband with all her strength. “He’s not dead! Let me go! He needs me.”
Husband and wife sank to the deck.
She gazed out across the restless water and thought of Setenay’s lifeless face.
The demons. The water is full of demons.
The thought of her baby boy floating among the demons drove Atamoda to the brink of madness. “We cannot leave him out there. He was so afraid, Aizarg. I cannot bear thinking of him being afraid.” Aizarg squeezed her tighter.
“I need you!” he whispered urgently into her ear. “Kol-ok needs you. Bat-or’s journey is over. Come, we must attend to the living.”
“Mama,” a tiny voice called from behind.
Atamoda’s heart fluttered as Aizarg pulled her up.
“Mama,” the voice called again.
She turned to see the Scythian girl, completely covered in silt, standing behind them. Bat-or rested on her hip with his little hands outstretched. Only his eyes and lips weren’t caked in silt.
“The water washed me to the end of the rope,” Sana said with her strange, fluid accent. “He tumbled into me a few moments later, and I was able to snatch him. I think we passed out.”
Atmoda rushed to embrace Bat-or, and in the process, embraced Sana, too. She held the Scythian girl close, sobbing and repeating “thank you” over and over.
Sana nodded and pulled way, relinquishing Bat-or to his mother.
“Hmm,” Okta grunted.
“Sana, you have my undying thanks,” Aizarg said.
As the wind died, moans and cries became audible across the flotilla. Silt covered forms were lying on the decks, or stumbling about in a daze. Some called for loved ones; others began sifting through the debris, trying to put their vessels back in order.
At the edges, men with ropes tied to their waists repeatedly dived into the choppy water, dodging floating debris as they searched for those washed overboard.
Something struck Atamoda’s shoulder with a warm, wet heaviness, soon followed by more wet impacts on her head.
“Mamma, water!” Bat-or pointed upward as the fat rain drops fell harder.
“What is this?” Kol-ok asked.
“The Tears of Psatina,” Aizarg held his hands up, letting the rain wash away the filth. “It is as Noah promised.”
Where there is purpose, there also is hope.
– Lo Proverb
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Atamoda huddled among the survivors, shielding Bat-or against the driving rain like a mother bird protecting her fledgling. Each flash of lightning peeled back the darkness, revealing the shivering, desperate faces around her.
Cold rain poured off her bare skin, making her wish for winter garb. Every few minutes Ba-tor shivered, despite her best efforts to warm him with her own body.
“I’m cold, Momma,” he said.
“Shhh. Daddy is going to fix it.”
Exhausted and in shock, the remnants of the Lo nation crowded around the Uros and his inner council like a wall. Beneath a sail hastily stretched into a leaky canopy, the council laid their grim tally before their Uros.
“The sea took fifteen Minnow, along with a third of my boats and three rafts.” Ba-lok had to almost shout to be heard above the wind and flapping canopy.
Aizarg turned to Levidi. “And the Crane?”
“Nineteen lost, including four men. Eight boats and two rafts are destroyed. Three might be salvageable...maybe,” Levidi shrugged.
“What is our final count?” Aizarg asked Okta.
Okta laid down a handful of broken sticks and hastily arranged them on the deck in the center of the circle.
“Thirty-four rafts survive. In addition to the two wedding barges, we have thirteen large rafts and twenty common rafts, with thirty-nine boats scattered all around. I count twenty-six men, not including Virag and his worthless henchmen. As for women and children, they number almost fifty.
Okta pointed to the largest sticks. “The wedding barges are here, the rest of the flotilla stretches out in a long line, mostly Crane vessels, until they transition to Minnow vessels. The arrangement is lopsided and unwieldy. We lurch from one swell to the next, the Minnow vessels whiplashing at the end of the procession. How we survived so far is a miracle.” Okta’s eyes briefly flashed up toward the staff. “We must reorganize the fleet before the next big wind hits.”
Ghalen spoke up. “Reorganizing will be difficult. The boats fill with this infernal sky water as fast as we can bail, not to mention the waves. But it’s the confounded silt that’s sinking them. And what doesn’t flounder, the sea rips apart. Debris and ice slam against our outer vessels even as we speak. ” Ghalen shook his head. “Most of our poles have snapped, so now the men use masts and sticks to deflect the debris.”
Ba-lok leaned in and tapped the sticks. “We have to separate the flotilla, and quickly. We stand a better chance of survival one boat at a time.”
“And how do you intend to keep our people together?” Okta snapped.
“The same way we keep a fishing fleet together in fog, with lines and torches.”
“Torches?” Okta flicked his finger under a stream of water leaking through the canopy. “Bah! This is no wind storm, or even ice mists. There is no shore to paddle to, no home star to guide upon. We’ve never dealt with waves like this, or floating ice and debris.
Never.
If we do it your way, rafts will shatter, boats will swamp, and people will die.”
“A Lo man knows his boat! No one knows how to tend this jumbled mass of vessels, it’s completely unwieldy,” Ba-lok countered.
“I must agree with Ba-lok, Uros,” Ghalen said. “We may not last the night.”
“And who will man the boats, Ghalen?” Okta said. “We don’t have enough men to tend each vessel. Do we abandon women and children to their own skill against
this
sea? And how shall we divide our food and supplies?”
Ba-lok glared at the older sco-lo-ti. “We have no other choice.”
“We have a choice!” Okta turned to Aizarg. “Ba-lok wants us to take our chances one boat at a time because that is what he knows. But if this deluge lasts as long as the Narim foretold, then we will perish
one boat at a time
.”
“Okta, there is merit to what you say, but our odds at riding the storm are better one boat at a time.” Ghalen said. “We’re being ripped apart.”
Levidi nodded. “If we untie the vessels, I doubt we’ll keep the fleet together longer than a few hours. The storm is separating the flotilla whether we wish it or not. We’re unraveling along the edges like a piece of cloth. Water drenches everything. Precious supplies have been washed overboard, and what’s left will rot if we can’t keep it dry. The men need sleep, and the women and children are cold.”
“Ghalen and Levidi speak wisdom. We sit here and jabber while boats are crushed. Separate the fleet, save our people” Ba-lok insisted.
Atamoda saw fear masked as determination guiding Ba-lok. For that, she did not blame the young sco-lo-ti. Even with his faults, she knew he cared for his people. But in Okta’s face she saw a different expression.
Purpose? Or perhaps inspiration?
More than any Lo clan, the Carp held a magical attachment to the sea. They considered land taboo, often living their entire lives without dust touching their heels.
She knew something gripped Okta’s mind like a wolf seizes the throat of its prey, locked and unwilling to release it. Atamoda knew Okta desperately wanted to make the others understand his vision for the flotilla, whatever it may be. She hoped Aizarg would give him a chance to voice his thoughts. The idea of riding out the deluge bobbing amongst these towering waves in a solitary raft terrified her.
Her gaze drifted to the staff cradled in her husband’s arms. The men droned on as her mind drifted, and her eyes grew wide. With every flash of lightning, the red metal orb seemed to swim with a dim glow originating from within.
Another tendril of lightning arced across the sky accompanied by a rolling clap of thunder and a terrible epiphany. A dark thought sank its teeth into her mind, shaking Atamoda from her trance. She looked up to see Aizarg staring at her.
“Atamoda, you wish to say something?” he said.
She pointed to the staff. “I believe this totem is a gateway to the Nameless God. Truly, I dread drifting too far from its power. You men consider only the waves and wind, but if the demons return, Kus-ge and I cannot protect a scattered fleet. They fear the staff, not us.”
Okta grinned and wagged his finger at her excitedly. “Yes. Yes! We must also consider this.”
Before Aizarg could say anything, Okta quickly rearranged the sticks and splintered pieces of wood. “Before us exists only two constants, storm and sea. Unless we can stabilize the flotilla, we cannot exist in harmony with either. We must cease fighting.” Okta paused as a hint of a smile touched his lined face. To Atamoda, he almost seemed to grow younger. Okta slowly raised his hand and closed it into a fist. “We must become one with sea and storm.”
As Okta spoke, Atamoda sensed the flotilla slowly spinning, directionless, with no other purpose except to endure. Occasionally, tremors shook the flotilla as debris assaulted the edges. Decks rose and fell with sickening groans as lightning sizzled throughout the inky sky. Yet, the Lo ignored the dying world and hung on each word uttered by the Sco-lo-ti of the Carp. Soon, those in the inner council were nodding and asking questions.
Atamoda could not hear every word, nor did she understand everything Okta spoke of. But she recognized the light of hope beginning to take root in the hearts of the council and her people.
Finally, the questions ran out. Okta looked about, unable to suppress his smile.
Aizarg turned to his inner council, “You’ve heard Okta’s plan. Speak your thoughts.”
“What Okta proposes has never been done. To attempt it in the best of times would take days. Now...” Ba-lok shook his head. “...now, it’s impossible.”
“I don’t know, Aizarg,” Levidi stared down at the collection of sticks. “I don’t know.”
Ghalen tapped the center of the sticks. “If the seas grow any rougher, I can’t see how this can be done. If the Nameless God grants us a reprieve, perhaps.”
Aizarg closed his eyes and lowered his head.
Is he praying?
Atamoda found the sight of a man in communion with the spirits jarring. So much had changed. She wondered what thoughts, what prayers, raced through his mind. At that moment the patesi-le realized how much she mourned for the lost gods that no longer filled her spirit.
Could I ever commune with this Nameless God?
The people stared at her husband, waiting on their Uros to pronounce their fate. Heavier than the rain, she felt anxious fear radiating toward him, a dark light more imposing than the giant wave.
Aizarg took a deep breath and handed Levidi the staff. “Wedge it there.” He pointed to a small gap between two logs in the center of the wedding barge.
Levidi obeyed as Aizarg stood to address his people. “If we separate, our people will drift alone in the veil of darkness. Our light will be extinguished forever, one boat at a time.”
Aizarg’s voice rose above the thundering rain as he gestured to the inner circle. “The flotilla is our arun-ki, this inner circle our köy-lo-hely. We are Lo. One people. Let our light begin here.”
As Aizarg spoke, the red metal orb began to glow like the previous night’s embers being rekindled just before dawn. Gasps went out among the Lo, including Atamoda. The Lo held their hands toward the staff as the glow slowly intensified, infusing washed out faces with color and life.
Once again, the Nameless God displays His power.
Bat-or stretched his little fingers toward the light. “It’s pretty, Mommy.”
Aizarg continued, “The Deluge is the will of the Nameless God, but so are we! The Lo will unite and become one with sea and storm. Crane, Minnow, Carp, and Turtle will turn Okta’s words into reality and link this flotilla into an unbroken chain, which will carry us across the Black Sea.”
Rays of light extended to the arun-ki’s embattled edges, where the men fighting the sea turned to witness its brilliance.
At opposite ends of the crowded circle, the Fox and the Snake averted their eyes from the wondrous light. Unnoticed by all, they shrank back into the shadows behind the curtain of rain.