by Jess Corban
Even the Brutes seem more irritable through this leg of the journey. All except Jase, who still offers encouraging words to me and Neechi and laughs heartily at Bri’s increasingly sarcastic gibes. “Why bother taking over Nedé when you could live in this paradise?” she shoots, and “For all your nifty Bruteness, you’d think you could have made a bridge, or canal, or something useful.”
Eventually the mud thins a bit, along with Bri’s jawing, and brave coconut palms occasionally shoot up from among the mangroves, like feathery umbrellas. Soon bromeliads grow in the branches of broadleaf trees, and after another hour, a delicious salty breeze cuts through the stagnant swamp air like life itself. When, through the tangle, I catch my first glimpse of distant lapping water, I nearly whoop in jubilation.
We made it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE HALCYON SEA DANCES UNDER a brisk wind, lapping gently against piles of frilly, glistening green-brown kelp along the shore—mounds and mounds of it, fermenting in the sun. At Finca del Mar, Gentles rake the beaches before any debris can accumulate. This untouched, unruly shoreline underscores the very reason I’ve never been farther than I can swim from Nedé’s coast.
Years ago, when I was nine or ten, Mother took my sisters and me to a particularly fine beach in Lapé Province for a holiday. While we canvassed the grainy sand for shells, I overheard some women talking about an incident that had occurred the week before. A group of three Gentles had been fishing for red snapper a hundred yards out. Somehow the long rope securing their boat to the dock untethered, and a strong afternoon current swept them away, never to be seen again.
The memory unnerves me.
The sea is unpredictable—everyone knows this. One false move and she could drag you from the safety of Nedé to who knows where, or swallow you whole if you’re not careful. That’s why only a few brave, nautically inclined women—and a small task force of courageous Alexia—venture out in little sailboats. And even then, they watch the wind and stick to the calmer waters near the shoreline—never beyond the reef.
It was easier to push down my apprehension about this leg of our journey when we were kilometers away. Now the place where sky meets sea, usually so bewitching, appears exponentially distant.
The Brutes scout the beach for safety before we wade into the dark blue-brown water. Mud and sweat melt from our skin like the sediment stirred by our steps. Most of the Brutes rinse quickly, though Rohan unwinds his bandages to soak the still-healing wounds with seawater before returning to shore.
I dip under the cool, salty water to keep from staring and to tame my unruly hair, braids tangled from days of travel and the stiff breeze. When I surface, Bri joins me, and we wade deep enough to rinse our trousers clean.
When we emerge, refreshed and blessedly free of mud, Torvus and Dantès have already cleared masses of concealing brush from a boat resting a few meters from the waterline. It takes four Brutes to slide the vessel into the water, and as they maneuver it, I can see why they dub this the “two-hull.”
Twin canoes—each easily six meters long—run parallel, connected by a raised platform three meters wide and two-thirds as long as the hulls. A mast rises from the platform, straight and tall as a queen palm—about as thick too. An oily cloth drapes from the mast, dingy brown, fringed by a few slack ropes.
“Half on each side,” Torvus orders. “Dantès and Jem, take the rear; Dáin, where I can see you.”
“Our packs?” Jem asks.
“Lash them to the platform. We’ll need them on the island.”
The island. When Jase first explained the plan to approach Phoenix City by sea, he mentioned it. At the time, I received the information with as much concern as his voice held—none. But now, climbing into a boat that sways atop windswept rivulets, I barely restrain the panicked curses itching my tongue.
In theory, I know what an island is. The foremothers left record of several they passed when they arrived two hundred years ago, and the knowledge has been passed down in geography lessons ever since. But no living Nedéan, to my knowledge, has ever ventured beyond the reef to actually see one. Why would we? Why face the possibility of being lost to the sea just to step on a tiny dollop of land, when we have all we need within our borders? It wouldn’t make sense.
Perhaps Bri is following my line of reasoning because she stalls midstride. “Just so we’re clear, this ‘island’—you’ve been there before?”
Dantès appraises her, then shrugs a shoulder. “Once.”
“Once? I don’t like the odds of once. How do you know you can get there again? Does this thing have reins?”
Half the Brutes seem to grunt, sigh, and roll their eyes in unison. But Jase calmly takes her pack. “Relax. Dantès was born for the sea. If he says he can find it, we’re as good as there.”
Bri glares at Jase—who winks at Dantès when she isn’t looking—but she allows him to guide her into a seat in front of him. Neechi glances nervously at me, and I force a nod. What choice do we have now? To the island we go.
We draw short paddles stored along the bottom of each hull, beneath the single-wide seats. At Torvus’s mark, we row in sync away from the shoreline.
“Draw! Draw! Draw!”
The wind picks up as the beach shrinks behind us. When I can barely distinguish one tree from the next, Dantès and Jem scramble deftly onto the platform. With sharp tugs, they raise the mainsail, tying complicated knots to ensure it stays put. The stiff fabric snaps to attention, and Dantès quickly makes adjustments to harness the oncoming northeast breeze. When Jem attaches a smaller sail in front of the mast, we really start to speed across the surface, rising and falling in a rhythmic, strangely soothing sway. We’re traveling fast now—faster, maybe, than Callisto could run.
The thought of her guts me, and I close my eyes to hold back tears. I imagine I’m straddling her bare back now, fingers curled in her two-tone mane, gulping down salt air as she gallops across the Halcyon.
Théo taps my shoulder, startling me out of my private grief.
“Stow the oar,” he grunts.
My cheeks redden as I realize I’m the only one still holding mine aloft, and slip it under my seat.
At least we won’t have to paddle the whole way to the island. I mean, I knew the sea was vast, but surrounded by water on all sides, with just the smallest sliver of land in the west to guide us, only now do I comprehend the word.
Magnificent frigate birds circle suspended above, their bent wings angled like black kites against the cloud-strewn sky. Dantès and Jem stick close to the ropes, making occasional adjustments to zigzag along. As we sail, kilometer after kilometer, our watery highway transforms from blue-brown to brilliant cerulean. Dots on the horizon grow in mass until they resemble piles of floating kelp—no, not seaweed, heaps of land no longer than a Phoenix City block—covered in tangled mangroves from tip to very tip, the trees’ spindly roots dangling into the sea like so many spiders’ legs.
“If that’s an island,” I whisper to Neechi in front of me, “I don’t know how we’re going to land this thing.” There’s nowhere to come ashore, let alone stand or sleep.
When he faces me, his brown eyes are as big as saucers, smile lines creasing every corner of his awestruck face. “I don’t care if we ever land, Dom Reina. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”
His wonder widens my own grin. Maybe Neechi’s courage has been bolstered by these fearless Brutes too. I doubt I’d have ever ventured into the open sea by myself, trapped in a carved-out tree, at the mercy of the temperamental wind and a worn rag of a sail, and yet with them—I steal a sideways glance at Rohan, opposite me in the other hull—with them, this somehow resembles adventure.
So I join Neechi’s shameless delight, staring out across the ever-moving water.
We soon cross the long, snaking reef that marks the end of Nedé’s waters—indicated by a natural wave break I’ve only ever heard about in my studies. White-tipped waves froth along its edge, creating a lite
ral line of demarcation between Nedé and . . . whatever dangers lie beyond.
Past the break, Dantès turns us northward. In another hour, cerulean water gives way to vast pockets of the truest turquoise I’ve ever seen, faceted like liquid, moving precious stones—more vibrant than I thought possible. I lean over the edge of the hull, entranced by the otherworldly hue and striking clarity, and wonder what creatures might live below.
Still we sail, free and fast, and though my shoulders, face, legs, chest—everything—begins to burn from the blazing sun ricocheting off the sea, I’m apt to second Neechi’s sentiment: I could sail like this forever.
Suddenly Jem points and Dantès is shouting at Jase, “That’s what I was trying to tell you about!”
The rest of us snap right, in the direction of Jem’s still-outstretched finger. Three fins slice through the water a stone’s throw away, keeping pace with our boat. I shield my eyes and squint to get a better look. What in Siyah’s name?
Without warning, three nearly human-sized gray creatures with long snouts leap from the water in unison, curving in bascule before diving back into the water. Again and again they leap through the air, then splash down like playful children. I’m laughing in delight, breathless and wondering what they could be. I’ve never seen such a fish—never even heard of a creature like this. The Brutes, too, jaw and point at the curiosities.
I don’t know how, but I’d swear the fish are grinning at us too. One opens its mouth as it jumps, as if to call out a greeting.
Rohan’s words echo in my mind: What other strange, beautiful places exist beyond what we’ve seen?
What lands, what creatures—what people—might wait beyond the horizon that stretches endlessly away, no matter how far we sail?
I glance again at the big Brute. He’s leaning over the side of his hull now, vigorously pulling at a line, drawing it in hand over hand. I sit up straighter to get a better look. With a quick jerk and a great heave, he hauls a narrow silver fish—longer than his arm—into the boat.
“Roast fish tonight!” Galion cheers, as Rohan pins the shiny, large-scaled fish atop the platform, avoiding its snapping jaws lined with sharp teeth.
When its fluttering gills finally still, he uses a knife to cut out a small chunk of its flesh, then wraps the rest in a wet cloth and slips it under his seat—the only shade we have. Attaching the hunk of white-pink meat to his hook, he drops the line overboard.
“Always hunting,” I muse aloud.
Théo chuckles. “That’s ’cause we’re always eatin’.”
By the time the sun begins the final third of its daytime circuit, Rohan has caught three more fish, one of which I recognize. Most Nedéans have an appetite for the bug-eyed, red-scaled snapper. I’m suddenly very anxious for dinner.
Occasional clouds and a steady wind keep our skin from sweating, but not from burning. So after nearly a whole day of sailing, we’re all starting to wilt from the incessant glare of that gem-like water. Despite my earlier claim that I could sail forever, I’m not terribly disappointed when Dantès points confidently ahead and shouts, “There it is!”
I’m even less disappointed when we navigate close enough to take in our destination.
Vastly different from the tiny mangrove islands we passed earlier, this swath of land resembles a hunk of Nedéan coastline, plopped right into the sea. Though I can’t make out its entire shape, as we skirt east around the southern tip, it appears long and narrow, and curves slightly, like a banana. It’s also flat as parchment and encompasses more hectares than Finca del Mar. The turquoise sea brushes against sun-bleached sand, and tall palms line the perimeter, their fronds rustling restlessly in the never-ending wind. A flock of pelicans floats just offshore, riding the rise and fall of the sea.
Jem drops the smaller sail and Dantès tries to maneuver us right onto shore, but the unruly wind forces us to drop the mainsail and row the final thirty meters. Once the front of the two-hull touches sand, we jump into knee-deep water—warmer than I expect, and so clear I can see my toes beneath its surface—and push the boat up onto the beach.
I’m parched, burned, soaked to my waist, but unmistakably, deliciously alive. The island dances with peaceful energy. I curl my bare toes into the strange sand—bone white and soft as sugar. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like any of this.
Bri stomps into the crystal-clear surf, sloshing through the water in a wide circle. Her blonde hair blows every which way, but the thrashing strands can’t mask her grin. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her this happy. Something about this place infuses us all with fresh life.
While Torvus and Dáin gather driftwood to roast our fish, the rest of the Brutes shed weapons and shirts and make a run for the water.
“Come on!” Jase calls to the three of us, then dives in headlong.
I question Neechi, “Can you swim?”
He shakes his head. “You go.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll help with dinner.” As he makes his way to Torvus, the contrast of Gentle and Brute strikes me again. Yet they have more in common than I would ever have expected.
Bri has already removed her weapons belt, which we’ve been wearing over our Brute clothing. Nedéans do enough swimming to know soggy clothes aren’t buoyant, so I’m not surprised when she slips out of her breeches. It’s nothing we wouldn’t do at the swimming holes back in Amal, but for some reason I feel a bit shy about shedding mine around the Brutes.
Any inhibitions, however, fade to the background as we tumble pell-mell into the waiting arms of the sea. Jase and Rohan circle back when they see us swimming toward them, then lead us out to the spot where the others are already diving down like fishing pelicans.
“It’s going to sting your eyes a bit—” Jase grins, treading water—“but trust me—it’s worth it to keep them open.”
He slowly draws a lungful of air, then flips under the swaying surface.
Bri follows, diving after him not a second later. I glance at Rohan, suddenly a little nervous. I’m no stranger to swimming in the sea, but this is deeper, more tumultuous, and farther from shore than I’m used to.
He must sense my apprehension. “You can hold on to me if you want,” he says, offering me his hand.
I grip it tightly.
He squeezes once. “Ready?”
I nod.
We each suck in a breath and dive down, down, beneath the surface.
My first thought is that someone has seared my eyeballs with hot coals. Sting a bit? Really, Jase?
But my second thought, quickly overshadowing the first, is that I’ve left my own world and been transported to a realm of sheer fantasy.
A school of flat silver fish with yellow fins shimmy past, circling around a large boulder. The rock itself is covered with all manner of oddly shaped plants—fanlike, tubular, spiky, ridged—in muted pinks, greens, and blues. Among these plants, brilliantly colored fish nibble and dart—stunning azure with lime-green tails, striking yellow with black patches, flat and round, narrow and long, some covered in spines, others with snouts like a pig’s. An enormous gray dinner plate with wings hovers above the sandy floor, flapping its body like an underwater bird, whiplike tail trailing behind.
Everywhere is movement. Seagrass bends and straightens. Shadows shift and dance. A giant turtle lumbers slowly past. Even a “stationary” group of fish, sheltering in a cavernous opening, sway left to right in unison.
Rohan pulls me closer to the rock, pointing to several protruding worm-like creatures with feathery burgundy tops. He snaps his fingers next to one, and they instantly retract, disappearing into themselves. I giggle, bubbles escaping like iridescent marbles. Oops. Within seconds, my lungs begin to burn.
I point up, and Rohan follows me back to air.
Breaking the surface I squeal, “This is amazing!”
He grins at my delight, rubbing his sore eyes. He appears different somehow, with his hair slicked back and cheeks burned brown-red. Younger? Untroubled
? I can’t place the change, but it’s bewitching. If the underwater world weren’t enough to marvel at, the little droplets of water suspended in his lashes, the sea’s mottled reflection against his wet skin, could be enough to captivate me all afternoon.
“Again?” I beg.
“As many times as you want, Rei.”
I don’t think I need his hand anymore, but I take it anyway.
The sun nears the western horizon, bathing the island in a warm glow.
Eight Brutes, two women, and a Gentle laze around the fire atop palm fronds, stomachs full of fish, clothes stiff from drying in the breeze. Our bloodred eyes sting like they’ve been pickled in salt water, and my body still sways in time to the waves’ echo. Empty coconut husks litter the shore, emptied of their tangy water. Aggressive gulls swarm around the discarded fish skin and bones we flung on nearby rocks. But us? We don’t do anything for once. A day full of sailing and swimming—on the heels of five days trekking through the Jungle—has settled us all into quiet exhaustion.
I lie back on my frond mat, staring up at the clouds and papery palms, listening to the quiet lapping of water against sand. I’m thrilled Torvus decided we’ll stay here through tomorrow evening before setting out for Phoenix City. Our mission—finding Teera, upending the Matriarchy, restoring justice—feels like a dream just now—this, a truer reality. Surely it can wait one more day.
Most of the Brutes, plus Neechi, sun-spent and satiated, sleep comfortably in the sun’s final rays. Dáin whittles alone, Jase shows Bri how to remove the stubborn animal from a large conch shell they found while diving, and Neechi sorts other curious shells he collected in the shallows.
I’m just thinking that I haven’t felt this happy in months—that I wish nothing would have to change and we could go on like this forever, for as long as the sea is wide—when Rohan’s deep whisper tickles my ear.
“Walk with me?”
