The rain came down as a steady drizzle, casting a curtain of chilled mist over Vall. It poured for five days straight, paving the ground over in a deep plain of mud and wet clay. Gele stood out under the storm, letting the rain wash off the dried blood. Mysk had finally taken the sutures out, and after a week of rest, he was finally free to run.
Seven days in the cave gave him no solace. Coan would leave him with his hands and feet tied. All he could do was dive into Sawyer’s memories or talk with Mysk—though his visits were rare. Caught in a trance, he would close his eyes and swim through the past. He walked through Chorllow’s stronghold, rebuilt with wood gutted from dead ships and looted houses. The stronghold was small, starved for stone. All it had were a few watchtowers and a small hold that barely housed all of Sawyer’s pirates. The children, with eyes like stained glass and gemstones, lived amongst them, under the Admiral’s protection. They were the only ones to survive the Siren. Gele saw them in the library, a cramped space of unorganized tomes stacked high. Sawyer and the wizard Duncan sat flipping through the faded pages. And meanwhile, a burly man with a bronze prosthetic nose told the kids stories of glory and war. But the Admiral, with her mage partner, searched for more than that. Sawyer Jean traced the words of cursed books with her mangled hand, the missing fingers barely a warning at all. Gele saw the text himself. Rituals written in blue ink alerted him of speaking to spirits, as well as warping the vessel of flesh and bone. Turning into a chimera, Gele scowled at his friend. Sometimes he tried to grab the book, but his fingers would phase through. But, eventually, he swallowed his stubbornness and began to read as well. Though, all he could feel was dread, for only he would know the outcome of the rituals the pirates meticulously planned. The ghost followed him through these moments. Watching, but hiding her thoughts the best she could.
When he could stand and run, Gele wanted to swim for real. Mysk agreed in exchange for stories of Galu. And Coan only shook her head, but her brother brought her along anyway. “Catch a fish, and bring it to the kids at the House,” Mysk laughed. “ ‘Coan the fisherman’ they’ll sing as it roasts.”
“How can I hunt when Gele has his bindings cut?”
“By pretending he is a fish as well, use him as bait. He’ll scare all the big ones over to you.” Mysk patted his sister on the shoulder and not so quietly whispered, “if he wanted to run away or hurt you, he would have done so already.”
Half-truth and half-lie, Sawyer smirked while Gele kept his face straight. Coan slept in bursts, shaking awake in outbursts of panting and shivers. Nightmares haunted her, and she spoke in her sleep. It was the only thing to disrupt Gele’s trances, like clanging drums above all the clamorous noise. Though Coan whispered to herself enough both awake and asleep, her posture was always limply rigid. Her mask, above all, was what kept him in the cave. Big circular eyes, rings of teeth taken from all kinds of beasts, spinning in a whirlpool of bone. Even if she was sleeping and trapped in a nightmare, she would be watching him, and Gele would not risk his freedom for a sprint towards the jungle. He would lose if she chased him. That sank into his head as he spoke to Mysk about Vall, eager to learn more. Gele wanted to find the truth about the dead tree and the other things the healer hid from him. But, he could not visit the temple again. There was a price of bloodshed if he tried.
Though, for a passing second, Gele was glad he stayed. The lake was deep in the jungle, a long hike from the cave. Coan led her brother and her prisoner. She stepped around the roots and the stones, knowing exactly where they were. She carried the healer’s big wooden box throughout it all, the bulky thing barely a bother. Meanwhile, Gele stumbled and slipped, and Mysk caught him each time he nearly fell. The jungle chirped and screamed, invisible animals hiding all around. Most huddled around the buckets of sap that adorned the wild grove, everything except the bloodsuckers. Mosquitoes came to bite him. The buzzing bugs hovered over his skin, finally able to pierce flesh not protected by clay and paint.
Sight, smell, and sound blended together into a single sense to become lost in. It was a beautiful blur of rustling purples, reds, and greens, like a million fingers reaching for each other. And Gele was there, trudging through it all, while Coan slipped in between, not disturbing a single leaf or branch.
Like the crying cave, the hills hid behind the trees well. But when the canopy peeled away, Gele could see mountains looming over the jungle, giants taller than giants. Gele’s eyes locked on the summit, a spire dressed in purple forests. Blue streams trickled down the black basalt mounds and deposited into the pool below. A hot spring nestled itself around a horde of statues and weathered rocks. Thin fingers of steam trailed up and touched the monuments, planting tears in their eyes. The crystal blue of the water sliced into the colors Gele was now so used to seeing, so clear it reflected shadows of fish from the Second Sea.
“The water comes from the mountain, warmed from below,” Coan said, “like it breathes into the spring. No fish sadly, but it will rejuvenate your body. I come here often while patrolling the island,” she admitted.
“You’re here more than the House.” Mysk ruffled her hair. “Coan the fish they might call you instead.”
“Stop,” Coan lightly swatted his hand away. She set her weapons and her brother’s box down. First, to enter the water, she washed the clay from her skin. Though Coan never touched her mask, it stayed on even when she cleaned her face. She did not venture too deep, just laying in the shallows with all but her mask submerged. Mysk took everything off but hid his nose and mouth as he waded to a sullen corner and made his space. The sea monsters stood on the edge, some in the water, giving him a perfect place to be alone.
Gele undressed, leaving his cobalt blue scarf and skirt by the water’s edge. And once he entered, the heat flushed through his whole body. A sense of comfort took over. Everything in him melted away, becoming one with the water, not unlike the Beckoning. Something pulled him, calling him to dive deep into the water. He was not the only one to feel it. He watched Sawyer skip along the surface, the spirit running on air. With her last step, she leaped over him and sank in, not disturbing the spring at all. She dived straight towards the bottom, seeing how deep it really went. Gele, playing along, followed her. His old aches and pains flitted away as he became encompassed by the soothing water. The scars and cuts meant nothing against the warmth. Yet, a discomfort crept along his back and stomach, a tiny blemish to a blissful peace. When he looked across the water, he knew why and felt nothing.
Sawyer was in the same state as him, letting everything fall away as she plummeted down. Gele could see them again, the gills and the crooked wings. Disgusting, he thought at once. The wings had grown from the dead Siren, the bones of a two-thousand-year-old dead queen, and a half-mermaid half-woman chimera. All consumed alongside people who perished screaming. The scales and feathers infected her skin—a disease bought by blood. The gills quivered, breathing. The flailing fins that grew out of her did nothing for her as she sank. And the wings, stunted and covered in tattered feathers, all he could hear was the banging of bronze hammers and the scene he saw before. It haunts me too. Sawyer polluted the spring. I don’t hate you. Gele clenched his teeth as he felt a fever rush to his head. They were close to the bottom, where something wanted them to be. I don’t hate you. I hate the chimera. He could trust her. She was the one he trusted the most. But, a friend? He could never love a friend with a burden such as that, especially one that made him watch every night, again and again, locked inside dreams disguised as memories.
Sawyer could hear his admonishments. Gele knew and was not afraid. Judge me too, he thought. You know me as I know you. But all Sawyer did was sink into the lake. There was no shame, with just the two of them there. The wings fluttered and the gills breathed freely. Was it cause Emned was no longer here? Because they were away from the Second Sea? Away from Hell? His head began to burn. He could not hear his partner anymore. The heat seeped into his mind, clouding everything. Sawyer had a quiet smile spanning her face. But Gele could only see the chimera and the rituals that created it. No, he saw the pirate, drenched in blood. All of it was one beast, with wings so wide they could wrap around him. Disgusting. Gele could only hear the clanging in his head now. He shut his eyes, so he could feel her close but not look upon her shame. So tiring to dive so deep. A thousand eyes stared at him as he floated. At the bottom, there was something dwelling there, like the Anima, waiting for him. A group, a legion, a world he did not know was at the bottom. Something swirling, like the colors of the temple under the dead tree. But, he could not make it there. Sawyer felt missing from him and how lonely that was.
“Gele!” Sawyer screamed. A pair of hands grabbed him, pulling him as he hung limp in the warm spring, where nothing seemed to matter. There was no boat waiting on the surface, so where would Sawyer take him? Would he finally drown?
“He’s breathing, just overheated!” Coan shouted, “Mysk, how do I cool him off?”
“Here, set him down in the shade, where the mud is!”
A soft cool hunted the warmth, routing it as he felt the sweat drip down his face. A flask of water was put to his lips as he basked in the shade. Exhaustion choked him, making his lungs sore with each breath. So hot, even still. He tried opening his eyes, but he only wanted to sleep. But didn’t sleep mean death? He could not remember. Too delirious, too warm. So, he opened his eyes.
Coan was standing over him, holding the water flask. With the paint washed away, Gele could see her and her brother’s gray-brown skin. Yet, Coan’s body was beset by a thousand cuts and gashes. They covered her like how a lizard is dressed in scales. Made her skin look tough but terribly sickly. Some were thin lines that ran across her chest. Others were old burns that clung to her shoulder and neck. A deep groove went across her stomach and another on her hand. And then, there was the mask and whatever laid under that.
“Let him rest a while,” Mysk advised. “The shade and cool mud will help. And of course, fresh water.”
“Stupid thing to do,” Coan scoffed. “At least now you can’t run away.”
“If you don’t want Gele to run, take him to the House. If you want your husband, take him to where Vall really is, not in the cave with all the empty hooks.”
“He’s not my husband,” Coan grumbled. “He is an invader. Don’t joke about that, brother.”
“Just give him a chance at the House, or he’ll see Vall as captors, not as a place or a people.” Mysk rubbed his face under his mask. “Please, think about it while he rests.”
“I’m going to get us food,” Coan passed the flask to Mysk, “but I will consider it.” Like a shadow, she vanished into the jungle. Her hushed footsteps dissipated into silence, and the warlord was gone.
“Thank you,” Gele whispered, still tired.
“I am a healer. This is my role,” Mysk shrugged. “Different ways to perform it, more than just bandages and potions.”
“Water?” Gele asked and drank when the flask was put to his lips. “What is the House?”
“Where the people of Vall have lived since the beginning of time, at least until my silly little sister decided to live like a bat.”
“What will we find there?” Gele muttered aloud, really speaking to the spirit sitting in the spring. Sawyer waded in the water, staring at him from afar. He could not tell what she was thinking. Though, by the way she sat curled up, hugging her knees, he could tell he was in no place to interject himself. Disgusting? A glimpse of her feelings cut into him. And that was all he needed to hear.
“If I tell you all the tales, you will not see much when you see it with your own eyes,” Mysk answered his question, which only brought a scowl from Sawyer.
“Then I will wait and rest,” Gele said as he shut his eyes.
Inside his dream, he visited Chorllow. He crept down the halls, with the floorboards underneath creaking with every step. Am I a soul in her memories, or am I the only one here who isn’t a ghost? Sometimes he saw double images, people in two places at once. Voices clashed as overlapping memories built up to an onslaught of noise. A hundred arguments flung words in the same room. Everything was falling into one single moment, a chaotic entanglement that he could not follow.
Gele focused on a single set of voices, a hushed argument traded in stern whispers. He climbed to the top of the fortress on rickety stairs until he found a set of iron doors. On the other side, Duncan the wizard wore a quiet face of strained disgust. His expression said all the horrible things his lips held back. “No, not with you, not with a chimera,” Duncan muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
Sawyer sat naked on her bed, with the wings and patches of feathers exposed. She did not cover herself, only laid there with haunted eyes. “You helped me with the ritual. You read the books with me. You’re one of the only people that know.”
“Shared secrets are not a testament to love. I’m loyal to Sawyer Jean, the Admiral, not the harpy she hides underneath. Your body . . . magic is an ugly thing, Sal–”
“Don’t call me that!” Sawyer snarled. “Just get out. Say all the vile things about me to yourself and get out. I live with it, and I know what I am.” She waited until Duncan left, fingers clutching the feathers. There had been so many times she had tried to pull them off, only for them to grow back like weeds. But the wings? Sawyer never touched the wings. The hesitation quaked as the temptation rose to meet it. The want to reach the sky prevailed so innate it coiled around her head as its only lingering thought. Eventually, she shut those iron doors and made sure the locks held firm.
Gele did not invade the room again. He slipped away, retreating down the same stairs. Do not pity her, he told himself, digging his fingernails into his palm. She had no gills or scales yet. Feel sorry for her now, but not then. She kills far more in the future. His legs froze on the stairs. Voices swam around him. And he could hear crying. Privacy, we can never have that, ever again. Both him and the spirit, tethered to each other’s soul, were always with a witness. Even with the Second Sea, you could hide in the shade. But not him or her. There was no crying alone, no personal introspection, no loneliness. He hated her, the pirate and the chimera. It was so tiring, the nightmares of blood and death. Why did he have to be haunted by it? But then, in the same regard, he would miss out on everything he loved: the long conversations, the stories of sea monsters, and someone who promised to protect him. A friend. He did not want to lose his friend. She could see this dream too, can’t she? I can never be free of her, he nearly retched at the thought. He had already seen the terrible ritual, and he was scared to see it again. But, he knew he could not escape it. He heard her crying still. I should not have seen it. I should have never seen any of it. Now, he had to choose. When he looked upon the spirit, what did he see at first glance? Did he see the pirate, the chimera, or the friend? All of them were Sawyer Jean, everything. That hung over him. Everything was her, it was stupid and cruel to say otherwise, and he heard the crying go on until he finally opened his eyes.
The spirit was sleeping across from him when he awoke. Her clothes draped over her, like blankets seemingly made of surf and smoke—what she died in and all she has. She had him, though, and Gele had her. They were both so far from home. She heard all of it, Gele knew. If not, thinking of it now was sure to tell her. So, he just shut his eyes, too afraid to look at the spirit directly.
Mysk came up to him soon after, passing him back his skirt, scarf, and brass bracelets. The healer had also dressed, repainting his skin with vibrant blue and red clay. The colors pranced together in the shapes of waves and sharp lines.
“Do they ever paint their skin on Galu?” Mysk asked as he gave Gele more water.
“No, only skirts and whatever treasures a family holds.” He looked down at his clothes as he finished wrapping the skirt around his waist. The bold blue barkcloth was meant to be Shuran’s before vanishing at sea. She would have loved it here. All the plants, the hot spring. His sister may have even loved that cave, with all the empty hooks and the mural of a never-ending war.
“Your scarf is a treasure then?” The healer asked. “And the bangles?”
Gele nearly laughed, “Brass is an old metal, coveted on Galu, connected to magic.” I sound like Sawyer, he realized. Shaking his head, he clutched his scarf. “And this? Yes, definitely a treasure. It was once my sister’s before she died. It is a dancer’s scarf, helps us catch the wind as we move our bodies.”
“Sister?” A confused voice cut through the chirps and buzzes of the jungle, barely louder than the rustling leaves. Coan came walking through the curtains of bushes and vines. Tossed over her shoulder was a catfish, bigger than she was tall. Her skin was painted again too. Purple and green swirls made her arrival appear like a shadow bursting from the tree bark.
“Shuran was her name,” Gele said as he spied the dead fish. The skull had been caved in, and the flint ax was dripping wet with water and blood. “She was a dancer, as I was too before I left Galu.”
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“Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister.” Coan fumbled with her words as she carried the fish. “Was she like you or different? Like a dancer, I mean.”
“She’s not used to talking like this,” Mysk whispered under his breath. “Friends are hard to come by in Coan’s Cave.”
Coan heard but tripped over her words as she spoke up with a retort, falling out as a meaningless mumble.
“Shuran was a dancer who wished to see the lands across the Sea of Shrouds. One time, she found a dead sea monster washed up on the beach, and inside its stomach were treasure and old skeletons.” Gele explained. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the story. “She hid them somewhere, but she never told me.” It was hard talking about Shuran to Mysk and Coan. Their masks made it impossible to read their faces—expressionless and haunting, like talking to statues. “She was a better dancer than me, but never got to leave Galu as I did.”
“Why would she want to leave?” Coan asked.
“She wanted to know what was out there. Stories could not answer what was inside that leviathan’s throat. She told me she would want to see the flowers, and the people, whatever thrived on the other islands. Maybe she would have gone in the armor she pulled out the corpse. Or maybe she would have gone dressed as I am now. That I cannot say.”
“I see,” Coan muttered, “wish armor washed up on our shores, swords too. The House needs them, but a man from Galu could not understand, could he?”
“I guess not,” Gele said, knowing not to take the blame for his home.
“Then follow me,” Coan began walking, not waiting for him or Mysk at all, “I suppose with my kill, they’ll be a big dinner for us all tonight.”
“You’re taking me to your house?” Gele asked.
“The House,” Mysk corrected, “though I am also curious why.”
“You are a captive, but I will not keep you locked in the cave forever,” Coan tsked. “Better place you somewhere a dancer could be useful and not in a pit of missing swords.”
Wake up, Gele thought, glancing at the spirit. Coan had already started walking. The dead fish slung over her shoulder watched him was glazed-over eyes. Brain and blood leaked from its smashed head. Could have been me, Gele gulped as his fingers ran along the scar.
Sawyer was quick to leap to her feet, awake and reaching for the empty sword scabbard. Instantly, she noticed they were leaving. She flung her clothes on, arms moving through the sleeves like passing through fog. Dressed, the ghost trailed behind, well-aware of what Gele saw while he slept. She wore a wounded look. Gele wanted to apologize but knew he had to wait. He still saw the gills and wings when he saw her. “I’m sorry,” he let the thought slip.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Gele,” Sawyer sighed. “Your hate, it makes more sense than why you left with me in the first place.”
“But. . .”
“I know,” she said. “You saw Chorllow and Duncan. It’s something I wished you didn’t, but what can be done about it now?
“I . . .” Guilt grappled Gele, forcing him quiet. Even if disgust ruled his opinion, more than a semblance of care ruled victor.
“Let’s go see this House. Adventure and all that,” Sawyer rubbed the back of her neck. “Be careful. I still don’t trust Coan yet. There’s something she’s not telling you about the hooks in the cave and why we have only seen these two.”
Gele nodded, “if I need to, I can run. Otherwise, I will stay and learn.”
“Learn quickly. That fish definitely didn’t.”
Gele had become far too used to the sight of the bludgeoned fish by the time Coan halted. Over a hill and across a shallow stream, and never leaving the jungle, a clearing disturbed the overgrowth. It was like before, populated by stone wardens, mimicking dead monsters as they guarded Vall. These statues had failed. Stark black soil uprooted the jungle, introducing the barren plains. Naked gray husks whispered rumors of a lost forest. Grass grew here in pale patches. Burned, Gele noticed, as he found memories of towns Sawyer pillaged imprinted onto Vall. He could hear screams as he stepped onto the dry soil. Flames licked the ground, and ash fumed in his throat. How long ago was this fire, if the ground was still so desecrated?
“Years ago,” Sawyer answered. She pointed back to where they came. “Everything behind us had been young trees, shorter than other parts of the island. Lush, still, but definitely regrowing.”
Gele had not noticed, for the jungle was thick as it ever was. But then, the ashfield stretched on for miles as if paved with chalk. “What happened here?” Gele asked aloud. Mysk and Coan were already walking, unphased by the solemn sight.
“Did you never hear of the war?” Mysk’s voice shook, rattling from behind his mask.
“I was only told of ancient wars from a long time ago,” Gele said.
Coan pointed her sword at him, “what?”
“You would have been a child then, but you must remember.” Mysk pointed out to the gray. “Did they ever see the smoke from their silver shores? They must have!”
His stomach dropped, run! He told himself to flee, but all he could see was Coan’s jawbone sword. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, to them, it must have been a story worth forgetting,” Mysk said while he walked. “Follow close behind, and I will tell you everything. I was ten years old when it happened, but I remember.”
“Brother, don’t,” Coan hissed the words.
“If I don’t teach him, no one will.”
Gele, reluctantly, chose not to turn back and sprint to the marsh, where his boat hid. He wanted to listen. What else did he not know? Sawyer moved after him, both guarded and curious. Her eyes watched the warlord, reading every move.
“Sixteen years ago, that’s when it happened,” Mysk said as he marched down the trail of gray dirt. “A hundred boats from Rem appeared on our shores. They came to meet us there, on the beaches. Fifteen soldiers went, our father included. There, the war chiefs landed and told us to bow our heads and take off our masks. They said to leave Vall or there’d be war. They promised the extinction of our people. I still don’t know what they wanted, my father never told me, but he did bring back a warning. All the wives and husbands who left Vall for marriage came back as heads in cloth bags, their faces—their masks—broken or burned. They tortured them, I think. I still do not know why.
“We had so many soldiers then, faces as old as the conquests we once had. Three hundred years ago, Coan the Warlord took his people to the far west, to the beastmen’s empires, and nearly took the Chimera King’s throne. And those weapons still rested in Coan’s Cave. We could fight, just maybe. I remember my father arguing numbers all night until he took me to Galu, desperate for warriors. When we arrived, I met the King, and all he did was spit in our faces and tell us we had nothing to offer.”
Gele looked out into the distance. Old buildings lay crumbled and charred, with owls nested in the ruins. Wood homes dotted the land as a blue river sliced into the ashfield. A city had once been here, and now it was not. Only the collapsed hovels remained, about a hundred and a half laid ruined and slowly sinking into the earth. They spread out over the ashfield indiscriminately like little boulders. And there was no telling what they were before, just that they were gone now. When it was standing, the city could have been a third of Gulw’s size, maybe a quarter. But that was still thousands of people gone.
“The next time the Second Sea lit up, that was when the armies came. My father and I were home. All the soldiers were ready. And at the heart of it was the House. Coan was reborn, but she could not lead them, so the fifteen soldiers who were there on the beach took her place.”
“I was only five then,” Coan said, angered to hear her name. “I could not have helped at all.”
“I know, sister,” Mysk muttered. “ We were in the temple with all the other children and the elders.”
“What happened when the army came?”
“All the soldiers died,” Mysk said. “A hundred faces lost in only an hour. I heard thunder, but it didn’t rain. So much thunder. Rem’s warriors wielded sticks that could summon thunder and smoke. Bottles of fire melted both iron and bone. I don’t remember who told me, but I heard the Second Sea was black that night, choking on soot.”
“I told you that,” Coan snapped. “I was there!” She pointed with her sword across the field. “I was fighting, as the warlord should. I was performing my role!”
“No, you were with me, I remember. . .”
“I snuck out when you helped the elders. I took Coan’s sword. That’s what they wanted. I thought you knew. Did I not tell you all those years ago? I know I told you so many times.”
“I. . .” Mysk paused, nearly fainting. His bones turned to water, and his legs quivered and shook. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember at all.”
“I saw the thundersticks, the potions, and oils that burned the jungle down.” The warlord knelt down and pressed her hand into the polluted sand. “I had Coan’s sword with me, the one from two hundred years ago. That was me. I was there. I saw the soldiers die. Their bodies burn, the smiths and woodcutters meeting the same fate. I was there. I saw the House burn, the crops consumed by smoke. I was there. I. . .”
“You don’t have to say anymore,” Gele nearly screamed. He clenched his teeth. Panic and fear begged him not to step foot in another scourged past.
After a long breath, Coan finally said, “they took the sword. I saw the House burn, everything eaten by fire. That was what they wanted, Coan’s sword. I brought it right to them, and they killed everyone who did not hide.” Coan froze, pointing at the river. “I was there, where the fire could not touch me. I threw the sword away. It was stuck in someone. I was only five. My mother was in the river. There was a boom and I. . .” She pushed her hand against her mask. “It hit us and . . .”
“All we have are the children and elderly and the adults who managed to run,” Mysk said, cutting his sister off. “We have grown up now, to take our parents’ places. But Vall, it has yet to recover. I am a healer, but no people could fix this in one small generation.”
“The sword, why did they take it?” Gele asked.
Mysk sighed, “I don’t know. It was an old thing. From a long time ago, maybe a thousand years old. The blade was silver, I think, but the handle, it was made of amber, with a creature trapped inside, something that fell down from the Second Sea.”
“What?” Gele’s heart dropped, thoughts of the Siren ensnaring itself to ever-present worries.
“A dead thing. I don’t know why Rem wanted it,” Coan shook her head. “The sword snapped while fighting. The blade broke in two. It was useless.”
“Then, that sword you left in the cave?”
“Just the last one left, the only one to survive the blaze,” The warlord said. “Nothing special.”
“And the House, didn’t it burn?”
“It did,” Mysk said, “you’ll see, we are almost there.”
Gele nodded and followed, marveling at the destruction and how far it stretched. He imagined all the soldiers clashing here. Galu did nothing. I never knew this happened so close to home. He thought of pirates, and they did not seem so far off now. “Sawyer,” he thought, “thundersticks and fire potions, could that be?”
“From Allecrea? I was thinking the same thing.” The Admiral surveyed the battlefield and the gutted houses caught in-between. “But, thundersticks could be some other tool, and alchemists of all kinds live in this world. I would wait to hear more if we can.”
Gele nodded, “but still if they are guns. . .”
“I will keep you safe,” Sawyer said with a stern and solid voice.
That was all Gele needed to hear. Though, his assurance wavered when he saw the statues smiling next to tall heaps of charred rubble. Only the sea monsters survived. Glancing up, the Second Sea proved it true. Shadows of sharks hunted schools of fish, sliding like flying arrows through the water and snatching huge mouthfuls in one gulp. Towards the east, floating mounds of coral were swarmed with life. Some eclipsed the sun, casting a vast shade over the ashfields. It nearly hid the House. Gele had a hard time seeing it at first, but then, when sunlight slipped through the Second Sea, he caught sight of a skeleton, one larger than anything he had ever seen. No, Gele corrected his observation. It was a shell.
It rested atop a hill, right by the river. Lush patches of purple grass and trees grew on the banks, reclaiming the burnt land. They grew from the stream to the edge of the House, where the barricade was, logs stacked high with no way in. Green with moss, the shell of some monstrous turtle or crab founded a great castle of painted bone. As Gele got closer, he could see where houses were built into the sides and roofs. They were small little hovels, with only thin pillars as walls, but even so, they gave new life to the dead creature. He could spy a weaver with her clothes, a toolmaker cutting stone, a musician with a flute that sang to the sea above. All the noises melded into one distance chime.
Two children sat at the top, who called out to Coan, jumping and yelling. Gele did not see them at first. The skeleton was decorated with every color under the sun, all morphed together in stripes, spirals, and a thousand different shapes. Green dragons flew alongside blue suns, and trees of a hundred shades of gold grew where the ash had sucked away all the color.
“Are we climbing over the walls?” Gele asked, eager to see what lay beyond the barricade of logs and stone shards hammered in.
“Try and you’ll really be an invader,” Coan scoffed.
Mysk walked around the perimeter, whistling as he did. When he reached a flat stone at the edge of the riverbank, he knelt down and pulled it aside. A tight tunnel, with a low ceiling and closed walls, all made from dry padded clay. At the very end, there was a sparse ray of light. It cut through the dark and like a lighthouse at the end of a dark ocean. But an ocean was open. This was oppressively confined.
“Coan’s tunnel,” Mysk said, “so she can come in and get dinner when she doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Why are we going through here?” Coan scoffed, “brother, there’s a door.”
“A door that is a pain for the young gatekeepers to open.” Mysk slipped into the tunnel. “This will save us some time, I promise you.”
Gele was amazed that Mysk’s wooden box could fit, barely scraping the ceiling as he crawled. Coan followed, dragging the catfish behind her. Gele hesitated. And as he bent down into the hole, he watched Sawyer wave to him and walk right through the barricades. Damn you, he scowled, envious.
The tunnel was far more claustrophobic than Gele expected. Each shuffle made him fear that the walls would collapse and the ceiling would crush him. Crawling, he felt the worms wriggle under him, being crushed themselves as he moved along. The dead fish stared at him, a mocking smile somehow strung across its lips. Gele had to close his eyes, but then the walls only grew closer, squeezing against his shoulders. But then, just as he was scared of being stuck there, Coan pulled him out.
Inside the walls, in the shell’s dark shadow, color flooded Gele’s vision. Even the inside of the colossal skeleton was painted: a mural of a thousand fish eating the sun. A few huts, built from wood and clay, were decorated with figures and monsters of every shade and hue. Some melted into a wild frenzy of shapes and lines, leaping from the walls and slithering across the ground. Staring at it, Gele could feel himself falling into the overlapping pictures. It was not the dead tree, the colors did not move here, but it was close. Tilting his head, he saw a thousand different things, all within a single glimpse. Blinking brought a thousand more. Every picture had one it covered, and fragments of that one remained, peeking out. A great sea dragon, with tendrils dotted with frills, hid behind a mother and son. A forest of trees had alligators stuck inside its branches. Everything merged together, with no center or apex. It was like all the shadows in the Second Sea, ripped from the sky and rolled out like a map.
Gele blinked again, and he saw more. There were far more huts, only visible where he took a step to the side. Sight was weird here. Everything hid from his eyes. Something moved, really moved this time. People crowded around the stranger. Their masks and body paint matched the near-maddening cacophony that stretched across the walls. And they were all looking at him.
There was no person here who did not have some kind of tool in their hands. Woodcutters carried stone hatchets. Fishermen had their poles. Musicians had the drums and flutes and the quiet song they knew by heart. Weavers strung thread together with a thin bone needle and intense patience. Even children, with no masks and painted stripes on their noses and cheeks, played with straw dolls, building them houses from sticks and mud. At the far corner, where the barricade dipped into a ditch, fences corralled a pen of pigs and goats. There, a farmer whispered to them with a shovel in her hand. A healer, like Mysk, carried a big wooden box on their back, inspecting the farmer’s bandaged arm. They moved all around him, at work, only giving him a passing glance.
Though, what captured Gele’s attention, was what laid under the shelter of the shell. Big wooden doors, thrice as tall as he was. Left wide open, Mysk led him inside. A tall tree stood at the center, a pillar holding up the bone. It was so withered, so old, it had petrified into solid stone. And, upon the hardened bark, a mural of fingers reaching for the Second Sea wrapped around the trunk, all the way to the top. It held up the ceiling, branches fanning out and seeping into the bone. And by the roots sat the mask-makers. Their faces were colorless, either a dense black or blank white, with no ornaments aside from two tiny brown eyes. They did not look at Gele, the newcomer, for the objects in their laps were far more important. Using stone chisels and knives, they slowly carved away at the wood, meticulous in every movement. There were over twenty of them, all absorbed by the masks. An army of paint pots kept them trapped in their work. One young man flung his new mask away, revolted. It landed by Gele, who saw a small cut that chipped the mask’s cheek, just a little too deep. A little girl came, snatching it off the ground and dropping it into a fire. The flames cleared away the imperfection, along with everything else. Crackling, it ate away at the face, poking out through the eyes and searing the wooden skin. Whose name was attached to that one?
“Any mistake could bring calamity to Vall,” Mysk whispered. “Old identities, the people who now carry lost names, are waiting for the faces patiently, so they must be perfect for their return. The war, we lost so many. And now we are reforming every single one we lost. Rem took joy in breaking our faces, but we’re not all dead just yet.” There was a glint of pride in his sullen words. “There are two hundred and seventy-six members of Vall. We will not die out as the rest of the world expects us to.” His hands reached out and grabbed Gele’s shoulders. “The King of Galu said that we would be washed away by the tides of time. I am no king, but I desperately wish to prove his words wrong.”
“So many invaders have come, looking for treasure and graves to rob.” Coan stared at the stone tree. “But there are two-hundred and seventy-seven with him here. Welcome to the House, Gele of Melaopel. This is your home now.”
Gele scanned the last remains of a city. It was a castle, really, surrounded by a moat of charred dirt. And the castles of Allecrea, they were still so far away. The people around him now, he could not tell if they were smiling or frowning, only absent stares. Yet, they had let him into their home and offered him a place there. I cannot stay. I am Coan’s captive, despite their hospitality. There was no love for this world, despite its wonder. I hold no resentment nor devotion, no judgment at all. I just wanted to see what was here. He looked to Sawyer, who kept her distance. She was by the barricades, looking at the wall, where a small spot held an eon’s worth of paintings. The spirit looked back at him, already knowing what he was going to say. “The morning after the spirits awaken, in just a few days, we’ll leave then.” He had to gamble on then. Galu had a ritual and festival, and so did every island he ever knew. While the House would be resting in its aftermath, he would find his canoe and take off with the rising dawn. I have to leave, Gele knew.