Day 11 – April 11 – Part 2 - The Battle of the Black Field - NaShoStoMo

Here's part 2 of today's NaShoStoMo Challenge stories. This one visits again the world of Airthai...

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 2 - The Battle of the Black Field

It was on the third day of the eight month that two kingdoms clashed on the plain called Eiragin. This battle was called the Battle of the Black Field. 

“Sound the call.” As the horns of the army sounded and was joined by the clashing of spear and swords upon shields, Prince Elkaatan of Trelkanor stared over the field at the approaching army of Reiaghy. Once sister-kingdoms, their last years had been plagued by strife caused by ambitious men with deep enough pockets to be able to buy fighting men. The horns sounded again and Elkaatan could feel the tenseness of the soldiers all around him. Dressed in white, red and purple – the colours of Trelkanor - he looked every bit the regal leader. Yet he was quite a few people removed from the throne. Well-liked by his people, but being only the fourth son of the king of Trelkanor, Elkaatan was to lead the suicide battle against the forces of Reiaghy. Though he could not see the Werlea between the soldiers, he was sure they were there. Réjhal, his own Ahma, a scholar of the True Light, was not at his side. Maybe he would even miss the entire battle. He prayed it would not be so; his men needed all the help they could get. He lifted his sword in his left hand and the clamouring stopped just long enough for the last blast of the horns to sound as the signal to charge.

From the river Tarathlon and Dieuwke could hear the sound of battle drifting from the field. “We are too late,” Dieuwke said, trying not to let those around her hear.

“We can’t turn around now.”

They got off the barge and got onto the horses awaiting them. 

“Reiaghy will have reinforcements coming,” one of the young hands warned Tarathlon. “If you cannot help, those of Trelkanor will surely all be slain.”

Tarathlon of Reiaghy and Dieuwke of Trelkanor charged towards the battlefield. Behind them more than one hundred Khallahna came, their yellow cloaks streaming in the wind. From the water the land rose until the battle plain was revealed beneath them. From the north they could see another party in the dark blue and gold of the Reiaghy close in. Trelkanor would be crushed, the men too few to hold the tide of blue-clothed men.

Tarathlon turned to the Khallahna. “You know what you have to do,” he said. “Keep them from each other as long as you have to. Follow me!”

Tarathlon’s horse carried him swiftly down the hill to the plain where he stopped between the bodies of a few who had tried to flee the field. He searched for the source of power within him, straightened his arms and pushed between the two groups of fighting men with all his might. He knew he could keep at least twenty men like this and he started entangling the leaders of both groups. The fighters first strove with the sudden blocking of air around them, but soon slackened when they saw there was nothing they could do. The other Khallahna followed suite, their arms outstretched, blocking the air and making it impossible for the men to fight. Seven of the men broke away from the group to go and stop the nearing column of men from the north.

Dieuwke, too, had her arms outstretched. Within her the power was stronger than ten of the men combined. She walked through the blockings as if they didn’t exist until she was within earshot of the leaders. Behind her, much slower, Tarathlon advanced.

The carnage was greater than they had thought. Only a small band of the Trelkanor men remained standing around their prince.

From the Reiaghy he could feel the dark power of the Werlea breaking down the barriers ever so slowly.

“I am Tarathlon,” he said, “A leader of the Khallahna. You were led into the battle by the greed of the Werlea and their minions. Let them step forward and all your lives may be spared. If you do not, they will face blinding or death.”

For a moment there was utter silence. Then Tarathlon could feel the bonds on the air weaken around almost twenty men. The Werlea stepped forward, grinning as they stepped towards him. 

“We have trained in our knowledge for hundreds of years,” their leader spoke. “Now you want to quell us?” He reached out his hand and clenched it into a fist. One of the men Tarathlon was holding was cut-off in mid-scream and fell to the ground dead.

“You dare oppose me?”

“I do,” Dieuwke said and stepped forward. A murmur went through the crowd.

“Really?” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He stuck out his hand again and Dieuwke blocked it, sending his arm back in a wide arc. The Werlea cursed. “Finish them!”

Some of the Khallahna stepped forward and more men, of both Reiaghy and Trelkanor, fell to the ground with their breath taken from them. Stunned, Tarathlon turned to the Khallahna, searching for the traitor’s faces. The others released the men they held fast and who now didn’t dare move on their own. The Khallahna strove with the traitors among them and with the Werlea. Some of the soldiers now joined in as well, attacking the Werlea with sword and spears and axes. Side by side the soldiers of Trelkanor and Reiaghy fell to kill the Werlea. Dieuwke stretched out her hands and blinded many of the Werlea, leaving them without their Power and begging for mercy. None could believe her strength.

Elkaatan lowered his sword slightly and looked at Tarathlon. Dieuwke saw the leader of the Werlea move towards the prince, but she blocked him so that Elkaatan only staggered a few steps back. 

“Not fast enough,” the Werlea said and grabbed a small knife from his belt and hurling it at the prince. Dieuwke tried her best to stop it, managing to keep the blade from sliding in more than an inch into his flesh. The prince was knocked down, grabbing at the hilt of the knife to remove it from his chest. With a final effort, Dieuwke got it free, slamming it back at the Werlea, the knife sinking deep into his thigh. She turned to block some of the other Werlea who were advancing.

Tarathlon ran over to the prince, clamping his hand over the wound, using his Talent to staunch the blood. Too late did he see the advancing, half-dead Werlea who took up a fallen soldier’s knife and stabbed Dieuwke from behind.

With a last effort Dieuwke made her hand a fist and twisted her arm sharply, causing pain to restrict the Werlea’s chest and leaving him gasping on his knees. Tarathlon ran to Dieuwke’s side. Elkaatan brought his sword down on the gasping Werlea and slew him. Those of the Werlea and traitors of the Khallahna still alive, on seeing their leader dead, started to flee from the field, their yellow cloaks making good targets for the archers.

Tarathlon knelt next to Dieuwke and, with his remaining strength, blocked the pain from her wound. Her eyes had been closed, but with the block in place, she opened them briefly before they faded and no life in her burned anymore.

“She is a hero,” Elkaatan said, “we will sing of her for a long time to come.”

Tarathlon shook his head as tears flowed freely from his eyes. “Say nothing of her. Not her name, nor where she came from. Say that she was of the true Khallahna and nothing more.”

“I will not, she will get the honour her actions deserve.”

Tarathlon lowered his voice. “I don’t think you understand,” he said softly. “She was not taught how to use the Power.” 

Elkaatan looked at the white cloth covering the body. “Born that way? That strong? But she must have blinded thirty Werlea on her own!”

Tarathlon nodded. “Better leave that knowledge to live another day. She has a daughter.” He took the cloak from his shoulders and laid it over her. 

Elkaatan understood what he was getting at. “You have my word. I will make sure her family is provided for.” A messenger gave a swift message to the prince. He said a quick farewell before trudging off to the other side of the camp.

Tarathlon bent down and kissed Dieuwke’s covered brow. “I will see you again Dieuwke,” he spoke softly. “After all this have passed.”

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 1 – He Who Throws Down - NaShoStoMo Challenge

Seeing as I've been quite lax over the weekend with NaShoStoMo posts... here's the first one for today - just in time for morning tea (if you are in S.A., that is...). Today's first piece is loosely based on some Khoikhoi mythology.

 

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 1 – He Who Throws Down

“You dare ask why the people here have no use of your weapons? Go east; go over the sand for two days until you reach a great chasm in the earth. The air there is thick and warm; heated from below in great caverns. There he sits, the one called He Who Throws Down. Face him and tell me that those weapons you carry harm him at all. Go now, but do not expect that you will return.” The old man held the other’s gaze until it faltered. Rivulets of sweat made their way from his brow and neck, but that may just have been because of the heat here.

The man shifted his gun from the crook of one arm to the other. 

“There is nothing this black powder cannot undo. I will face this Thrower if you wish me to. I will return with his head and claim the Killer’s Inheritance.”

The old man laughed. “Yes, yes, they always say that. In my young days many men also said that.” He paused for a moment. “You must bring proof you were there even if you don’t bring his head.” The old man’s voice took on a strange tone. 

“Proof? What do you want me to bring? A bag filled with sand?”

“Look for a string of red glass beads. They are old and strung on a string of pure gold. Bring it to me and I will know that you were at his lair.”

“I will bring the creature’s head,” the hunter grinned.

And so Ewald walked across the burning sand for two days and saw nothing but sand and rocks and a few snakes burrowing into the soil, seeking comfort from the sun. Soon his legs and arms grew tired and he wished for more water than he had. On the second day he reached the great chasm; a rent in the earth that came upon the unwary traveler and would swallow him if he did not keep his eyes on the ground. Nothing but sand was near it, but he could see many white human skulls and bones at the bottom. Some of the skulls were broken. On one of these bones he saw the red beads and he climbed stealthily downwards to retrieve it. The stones and gold would also reap a good price. He reached the top again and looked into the face of one of the most horrible creatures he had seen in all of his life. It was large and bloated with black markings like that of a leopard upon his skin. His face seemed more animal than human, as did the claws he dug into the sand. His bulging red eyes were like that of a reptile. A scraggly mane hung in clumps around his neck. The monster sat parched and scorched in the sun next to the great hole and laughed when he saw the man. His voice rebounded between his ragged teeth and the great black hills in the distance.

“Have you come to kill me?” he asked in a hissing, growling voice.

“I…I have,” Ewald said, taken aback that the nightmarish creature spoke to him. He remembered the unwavering and unbelieving gaze of the old man and pointed his gun at the Thrower. The creature showed even more ragged teeth as Ewald pointed and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet ricochet from the creature’s baked skin and struck Ewald on his arm, leaving a deep gash.

The creature laughed. “No mortal can kill me! No metal can pierce me, no sun can kill me!” he said. “Come, come, and aim again! Take a rock and see if you fare better with it! See if you can win the inheritance!” He took up a rock that fit into his palm and, as he did so, looked down into the hole and realized how so many human bones came to be there and he grew frightened. He let the stone fall and retreated, making sure to keep his face to the creature until he could see him no more.

Ewald bound his arm as good as he could with cloth torn from his shirt and hastened back through night and day to the old man. Reaching him, he showed him the red beads that he took from the bones. The man took them and placed them upon the table in front of him before giving the man some water.

“You have not brought his head,” he said and Ewald shook his head. “I could not.”

The old man smiled again. “No one will ever kill that monster, though they will try. But it does not matter, for now I am unbound,” he said and stood. He took the beads and slipped them into his pocket. “You won’t have use of money for a long time. Maybe someone else will be kind enough to bring you your own string of beads.” Ewald tried to follow him, but could not get further than ten steps from the shack’s door.

Twenty years later Ewald welcomed a young man into the shack. It did not take long for the young man to speak. Ewald touched the beard grown over many years. Then he spoke: “You dare ask why the people here have no use of your weapons? Go east, go over the sand until two days pass and you reach a great hole. The air there is thick and warm, heated from below in great caverns. There he sits, the one we call He Who Throws Down. Face him and tell me that those weapons you carry harm him at all. Go now, but do not expect that you will return. “Look for a string of red glass beads. They are old and strung on a string of pure gold. Bring it to me and I will know that you were at his lair.”

Day 9 – April 9 – El Dorado

Day 9 – April 9 – El Dorado

Monomapotapa. The name alone conjured up riches the like of which were only found in El Dorado. Johannes stamped his feet to get some warmth back into them as he waited for the elf to come. The clock in the bell tower tolled the hour of midnight when the cloaked elf appeared in the alley way. He carried a bundle wrapped in a shade-shifting blue cloth. Ah, the dragon egg. It had taken much privatering and a bit of good old pirating to get enough money together to pay for the egg. Especially on the black market. The exchange was made and Johannes was left nearly broke, but with the bundle tucked under his arm. The elf disappeared into the darkness without a word, and a cold shiver ran down Johannes’ spine. Tomorrow he would board the ship for the Cape of Good Hope. On 15 March 1796 he would at last be able to set out on his new life.


On the ship the egg never left his sight or his side. Johannes regarded everyone else on the ship with utter distrust and could barely keep his wits about him for the weeks it took to reach the Cape. If he was to be found in possession of a dragon egg, the people would surely first throw him overboard before smashing the egg. But to his great relief, no one found out what it was that he was always carrying in a rough bag slung across his shoulder.

It was on his third night on land that the egg hatched and he found himself in possession of a bright yellow dragon. Its scales glimmered like gold and its wings were tipped in an emerald hue. Johannes grinned to himself as he fed the young dragon strips of meat. He had read enough about dragons to know that this one would be perfect for hunting gold.

In a couple of months he had bought a wagon, some oxen and provisions and found two men who would accompany him to the mostly unexplored interior. The dragon, which he had named Lalele, had grown extremely fast and already reached to his elbow. He had to get away from the city outskirts before someone found him, and the abundant wild in the interior would make feeding the dragon much easier.

By the time they crossed the Barrier of Spears, Lalele had already grown large enough for Johannes to ride on its back and he set out alone to the north, promising not only payment when he returned, but also a diary telling of everything that would befell him in the coming weeks and months.

**

When his diary was found some five years later, it came to light that he had indeed found his El Dorado, but that he had met his end near the Limpopo River. Some believed that he was caught by a lion, though some maintain that he was rather trampled by an elephant or came down with malaria. Probably we would never know, as his body has never been found. Johannes’ diary was taken to a museum in Bloemfontein to be studied and was hailed as the first fantasy book to be written in Southern Africa. It was published in 1896, but only one of the copies remains in the Literary Museum. It has never been reprinted.

Lalele fled south to the Barrier of Spears and made his home there. It is believed that he took the gold with him to make his bed and that his lair may still be found somewhere in the mountains. He was often seen flying at night and breathing fire at the moon. This is why the mountains where then also named the Drakensberg.

The city made of gold has yet to be found again.

Day 7 April 7 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – It Cannot Be Stopped!*

Well, so far writing a story every day (mostly during lunch) has been quite successful. Even though the flash pieces can all still use a bit of editing and rewriting, it is extremely enjoyable to be (willingly) forced to write something – on thing – every day. And posting – which means I can’t write one sentence and act like I’ve done a day’s work!

I’ve had a list of ideas scribbled down that I just never seem to get to and at least the NoShoStoMo challenge has given me more motivation to have a look at them again.

I also have a Great Plan *play epic music* to translate all of the NaShoStoMo pieces when they are finished – but I’m not going to put a time frame on this!

^*Well, so far so good.

The Door On the Shelf – Day 7 April 7 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Emily realised she can move between worlds when she found fairies at the bottom of her garden. Well, they weren’t really in her garden – they were on the border between her garden and the fairy realm. It turned out that the fairy realm nearly always bordered on a garden – and always the bottom of a garden. It turned out that she was very adept at finding borders between worlds; the Monster Realm under her bed and in her closet, the Phantom World of Dust and Dirt in various forgotten corners of the rambling house she lived in (though she almost never visited there), a dragon called Flametorch guarding its treasure in the cellar and an old astronomer from Geilgardia that liked to use the house’s roof as a way to study strange skies at night. Even as an only child, she was rarely lonely and barely ever bored. 

But her talent of finding other worlds – or, more precisely, other worlds who no one else could see or enter – made her a bit of an outsider at school. She took to wandering around at the bottom of the sports field during break, looking for fairies or poking around in the empty classrooms looking for a world she had not yet discovered. When the bullying became unbearable, she went to the school library. She didn’t do it because she particularly liked reading – real life seemed just as, if not more exciting to her. After meeting a real dragon and nearly being burned to a crisp, the monk-like figure wandering about the library intrigued instead of scared her. 

He was dressed in a robe of rough brown wool and had a bag slung over his shoulder. Every now and then he picked up a book, looked it over and either slipped it into his bag, or placed it back on the shelf. Emily noticed that his bag never seemed to have anything in it and when he took a book from the shelf there was never a gap where the book had been. She followed him for a while, past the picture books in the junior library and the history books until he reached the natural history books. There he turned around and looked straight at her. 

“Can you see me?” he asked a bit unsure of himself. 

“Of course,” Emily said and stepped closer. “You’re a bit difficult to miss, with not wearing a school uniform – and being the only other person in here.” She looked at the book the monk was holding. “Are you finding anything good?”

He shrugged. “I was looking for a book on dinosaurs for my nephew. He seems to think that they were some form of primitive dragon. You know, before they could breathe fire and so on.” He slipped another volume into his bag. “He needs to write a school report for his Magick Creatures 101 class.”

“You can’t just take the books. It’s stealing. You need a card or something.”

“I am borrowing them, not taking them or stealing them. Where do you think missing books in libraries go to? They won’t give library cards to extra-terrestrials, you know.” He took another book from the shelf and its space disappeared as if there had never been another book. “Anyway, this library forms part of our library back home – as long as you know which door to take. All libraries are fluid creatures.” He took a thick tome about volcanoes from the shelf, opened it and placed it on the floor. “Would you be so kind to just replace the book when I’m gone? I hate to leave a mess.” And with that, he stepped into and through the book and disappeared. 

Emily stared at the book until the bell rang. Only then did she reach out and put the book back on the shelf. Then she looked at all the books around her and wondered which one’s door she should try first.

THE END (for now)

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Some Airthai fiction for today's NaShoStoMo challenge. Aran is a character I've had in mind for some time - and I think this may be one of quite a few stories about him. Also, having a pounding headache today might have had an influence...

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge


Aran struggled along the dusty path and realised he was utterly lost. The sun sat wrong in the sky, the Red Mountains looked wrong, the road showed no sign of soldiers passing. He stopped and looked around him. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn. He felt at his breast for the letter stowed there – a message he was to take to the Awíkla. He was to send news that a passage to the Lost Ones had been discovered and more soldiers were needed. A sudden gust of wind whipped the red dust around him and Aran shielded his face with the light coloured cloth which he wore around his neck. The valley which he had reached by taking the wrong turn was as desolate parched as the rest of the western part of the Sundered Lands.

He tried swallowing, but his mouth and throat was too parched. He felt at his pocket for the letter. He had to get more soldiers to the pass. He had to keep on running. But where to? The glare from the sun made his surrounds wavy and indistinct and he could not distinguish whether the small outcropping he saw was boulders or nomadic tents. He could see no-one and only the droning of cicadas sounded in his ears. Or maybe it was just his thickening blood that sounded a warning to him to get to water. He shook the dust from his clothes and looked around again. Would he have better luck continuing along this road, or to turn back?

In the end he plodded on, hoping some shade and water lay before him – and that he would reach it before succumbing to the heat. By the time he reached the next crossroad his head was pounding and the pain reverberated through his whole body. He wanted to cry, but even tears would not come. He squinted against the sun and saw a statue that gladdened his heart. It was a black stone dragon. The carved stone stood stark against the red and yellow stone of the surroundings.

The messenger stumbled to the dark pillar of stone. Surely in this wilderness the pillar would also show where a well is? He wiped at his face and neck as he looked around at the ground around the pillar until he spotted the low stone covering of the well. With his last strength he moved the stone lid and peered down. The low well was empty.

With a cry of despair Aran fell to his knees and started sobbing. Why did he have to die like this? Why would his god let this happen? He was, after all, on his way to the Awíkla! He was serving as best he could. The pain in his head and body intensified and he could not summon strength to stumbled more than a few steps at a time. Was there no one that could help him? He fell again and caught himself on bloody palms. Then he saw another figure approaching.

He forced himself upright and waited, not sure if the figure was even real. The figure was not wearing the light armour of the soldiers or the robes of the Awíkla. And surely a S’wíkla wouldn’t travel all alone in this wilderness? Then he saw the light blue band around the man’s waist. The man was of the Aíhla! Aran drew his knife from his belt and waited for the man to attack. He was a S’wíkla, after all, and would not die without a fight.

The Aíhlaê drew closer and, when he was nearly ten metres away, spoke. “I am Leshem,” he called and revealed his face from beneath its light colouring. “You are lost?” he asked before Aran could answer. “I have not seen any other Awíkla here,” he called and stepped closer. “You look near death, friend, let us help you.”

Friend? Us? Aran glanced around – and saw two other figures approaching in the distance. The rush of blood blocked out all sound as the man who called himself Leshem walked still closer. When the Aíhlaê reached for his belt, Aran attacked with all the strength he had left, and struck straight for the Aíhlaê’s heart. His blade struck true and he fell on top of the dying man before forcing himself to his feet to face the other Aíhla who were approaching. Aran pressed his left hand to the ground as he got up and felt mud between his fingers. He glanced down, saw the Aíhlaê’s water skin spill its contents into the red dust, and realised that the man had not reached for weapon. But it was too late.

Security – Day 4 – April 4 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Security

We were one of the last complexes in the suburb to upgrade our security. The Jones’ residential complex across the street was, of course, the first ones to employ a golem to guard their property. Sometimes you could see it behind the wrought iron gate or its glowing, red eyes at night as it peered between the electric fence wires on the wall. The wall spikes below glowed like bloodied spears and I tried not to look across to their place at all and even kept my living area curtains closed the whole day as well.


Scared that the robbers would come to their properties if they were left protected only by wires, alarms and armed response panic buttons; the other neighbours soon followed suit. As golems could be formed out of clay, it was the cheapest choice in New Era Security. Only the excessively rich and politicians could afford cyborgs to patrol their grounds. But none of them lived near this part of town. As the inner city slums had mushroomed, the suburbs were soon taken over; and previous open tracks of land were walled in before sprawling houses were built and their elite clients driven with police protection into the scattered idylls still existing in the Golden Province. Inside those walls were everything a person could want – solar electricity and water, schools and enough access to the internet that no one ever had to leave to go to work or look further than the fifteen foot walls enclosing their part of the world.

So the rest of us – the middle classes and the lower classes – lived outside the sprawling mansions of the rich; supplying their power, water and food and trying our best to stay alive. The golems worked for a while. Crime in the area dropped steeply and the few “unsavoury persons” that did try to enter property without the owner’s consent were found dead in the street the next morning. Some were not found at all. But it still seemed the best option – after all, those whose golems had killed a robber or two argued, they could have seen the “WARNING: GOLEM GUARD” notice on the gate and the glowing red eyes glaring at them should have been a clue as well. So we all took to checking the street for any bodies before letting the kids out to go to school. We figured that the bodies would stop turning up in a couple of weeks any way – word would obviously spread that our area was well-guarded. But our complex still did not have a golem.

Then, about a week after the last corpse was found, my house was burgled. Luckily during the day when no one was home; but almost nothing was left inside. They had even emptied the pantry shelf and left only a box of cake mix long past its sell-by date. We had to face up to it – we had to get a guard for our complex. I called the toll-free Guards-R-Us number, but gave up after twenty minutes of tuneless electronic music. Figuring there was nothing left to steal anyway, I booked a cheap room at a local hotel and waited for the next morning to come and the call centres to open.

I wasn’t there when a couple of teenagers tried to sneak into a friend’s house for a surprise birthday wake-up. I also wasn’t there when the parents found that the golem had taken the task of keeping unauthorised persons from the property too seriously. I was thankful that I wasn’t the first one to check the road that day and that only came home after the paramedics and police had left. The grieving parents removed the letter from the golem’s brow and watched its enormous bulk turn to dust. Probably the others will follow suit.

Some people are talking about getting a troll or two for the whole neighbourhood as they would still be cheaper than a cyborg. At least trolls have more intelligence than the man-made hunk of clay and would only attack on command if their owner’s lives weren’t in danger. I left the neighbourhood meeting early. When Jones talked of trolls attacking on command, his eyes seemed just a bit too bright as he looked at his neighbour; Smith I think his name is. I think I would rather have a cyborg – at least they have voice and face recognition. Of course, as they are only available to the few elite in the mansions, I will have to quit my job and move away. I hope someone in the mansions have need of a live-in maid or nanny.

The Man Who Spoke to the Sea - Day 3 of the NaShoStoMo challenge

The Man Who Spoke to the Sea

Dark thunderclouds packed together above the small, white washed houses behind the sand dunes. Dense shrubs clamored for space on the top and side of the heaps of sand as if to flee from the waves that today pushed foam fingers farther and farther up the beach. Sand-laden wind blew from the wide water over the dunes, today even lashing the houses huddling behind the dune. The storm came, like many on this part of the coast, with little warning. No warning to those not used to the weather. But here the fishermen knew when the wind blew just so to take their boats to the shore and batten down the hatches. Some said Reinard could even hear the storm two days out by the sound of the waves. All knew that he had had the best sea legs of all the fishermen in Vissermanshoek. Some of the older people in the village even said he had come from the waves, washed ashore as a baby when one of the great merchant ships sailed into a squall and sank, taking all other souls upon it to the salty depths.


But not Reinard. He was saved and adopted by old Dan Shoestring and lived the life of a fisherman, as connected to the sea as any could be. They said he heard it speak. “Not in a language you would understand easily, you know” as old Shoestring said. “He listens to all its secrets,” they said. They also said his wife, Sanna, was of the sea-folk, just like they said she had looked the water serpent in the eyes. Like they said he had given her the jewel from his brow to wear upon her neck. Like they said his family was destined for great things. Like they said Sanna went back to the sea-folk when her youngest daughter turned three. Like they said she had moved to Cape Town to live the life of the upper class. Like they said the rich strangers would come. Like they said Reinard’s heart was too broken to ever heal. They were right about three things. That rich people will come and build mansions to block the sea. That Reinard’s children would not be fisherman like generations before. That Reinard’s heart was broken.

The first to come and prospect for land was a certain sir with an unpronounceable surname that came form the city. Not that the home would be his residence, of course, just over weekends and holidays when he wanted a ‘silent retreat’. He drove in teams of builders and built a house the size of a small village, a three storey high monstrosity with a flat roof where he and his friends could go for a cocktail or three and stare drunkenly at the horizon. Not that he wasn’t friendly at first in a sort of speak-slowly-to-people-not-as-highly-developed-as-you kind of way that said he regarded all other people as imbeciles to be tolerated to do menial work, but not quite being able to reach his own level of perfection.

One weekend he even dared to go to one of the houses to quiet the children who we playing outside –five minutes’ walk from his sprawling home. Needless to say that the show of a shotgun and the village driving him back to his own house had his ego bruised enough to stay away from his house in the following weeks. It was during this lull in cocktail parties that The Accident came to the village.

It was a storm like no other – not even Reinard had heard it in the waves, nor saw it in the wind. It was just there, out of the blue, breaking the small fishing boats like kindle and sending Reinard overboard from his. He still survived, though, again saved from certain drowning much like when he was a baby, though this time with a broken leg that wouldn’t quite heal. The village was left in shock. Three of their brothers had been taken by the waves. Five more were in hospital. One thatched roof caved in and the first rich mansion to be built in Vissermanshoek sunk a foot into the sand.

After the house built on sand sunk and one wall was lost to the waves, the village rejoiced that the rich sir Whatshisname would be staying in the city indefinitely. At least now, so they thought, they would be able to live in peace behind the dune, making an earnest living. Unfortunately, this did not stop others from coming to build their own sea-side mansions and host countless people themselves. The working crews were soon transported to the village, shacks spreading out like wild-fire in a few weeks, bringing noise, shebeens and litter.

And Reinard saw it all from his house where he sat on the porch, waiting for his leg to heal and feel the waves beneath him once more. With his children long gone to the cities to work, he felt truly alone, stranded behind the sheltering dune and wishing only to see the sea again. He waited and waited, growing greyer by the day. Most of all he missed the voice of the sea as it spoke to him while he waited for a net to fill.

It was then that the strangest thing yet was said to have happened. Reinard took to walking to the beach every morning, pushing two rows of neatly spaced holes next to his own footsteps in the morning sand as he fumbled along on the old wooden crutches he had been given at the clinic. Then he would sit on the rocks all alone all day until the waters caressed his feet, after which he would silently go back to his empty house before setting out again the next morning. Those that saw him said that he spoke to the sea while he sat there on the rocks. Some said he spoke to himself. Some said he had voices haunting his head. The visit to the hospital had left him pale and wane, but with the sea around him he quickly grew hale again. But he only spoke to the sea. The children of the village took to watching him and poking fun at him, getting an earful from parents who grew scared of the grey old man that only spoke to the sea.

Around him more houses rose from the sand, never heeding the first ill-fated house where it sunk deeper and deeper into the sand. But he never seemed to give a thought to them, simply walking past the row of half-finished houses on his way to the sea.

Erika, the wife of old Shoestring became ever more worried for Reinard, seeing as his children – or anyone else - ever visited anymore. She took to following him to the beach and back, she thought secretly.

Then, the day of his sixtieth birthday, when the rows of houses blocking their view from the sea was finished and filled with rowdy city-dwellers, she followed him for the last time. He walked with his crutches as he always did; his frame smaller that it used to be. Around his neck was the jewel that had belonged to his wife. He climbed into the rocks with difficulty and threw the crutches aside. He held the stone before him and called the name of his long-gone wife.

Now, I know this because Erica told me herself. She said she saw his wife emerging from the ocean looking just like she did forty years ago. She also said he grew young and grew a tail just like a fish. She said he gave her the jewel and followed her into the waves.

They, of course, say it was wishful thinking. They say it was suicide. They say he drowned. The also say there is no water serpent and a fisherman could never own a jewel like he did. But they don’t know the sea’s secrets. They don’t know her language and they still don’t know that a storm is coming when the wind is just so and the waves splash just at that certain angle against your boat.

THE END