Deep, Deep Ocean

by Carter Bowman

  “Dad, why did we come to this?”

  The crowd was loosening, and Ashra picked out the receding chestnut hair of his father from the crowd upon breaking free.

  “We came because it’s a piece of history, Ashra.” He frowned at the withering expression on his son’s face. “I know, and I get it, but you’d regret skipping a once in a lifetime opportunity like today. It’ll be fun, alright?”

  Sensing his father’s effort, Ashra stepped into pace beside him, forcing a smile across his thin face. “It will be if you’re paying.”

  Douglas Swallow clapped his son on the back as a fresh round of applause broke in front of them. “Keep your wits about you. Remember, if someone starts looking at you strangely, start walking. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Ashra nodded, turning his attention to the silhouettes rising above the crowd to stand on the constructed wooden podium beneath the New Franconian Historical Clock Tower.

  In truth, it would take a stranger with keen eyes to notice anything different about Ashra Swallow. At first glance, he could be any other near twenty-something. His motherly next door neighbor often complained he was perpetually hollow around the cheeks, and in desperate need of some muscle to fill out his shoulders. This did not even touch his hair, a stony gray that fell past his ears — but that could be written off as simply another symptom of the hair dyeing, body piercing generation. No, it was only upon closer inspection that strangers would find the communal details of imperfection common to all people to be missing. His face — it was too symmetrical, both bottle green eyes, the shape of almonds, rested a shade too proportionally above a smooth nose and mouth. None of these features became extraordinary until you took them all together. Some cumulative angle in the lines of his face put people ill at ease the longer they looked — some intuition warning them that the boy those features belonged to was not one of their own.

  They were right, in part. Ashra Swallow walked among the citizens of New Franconia, but he was not one of them, not entirely.

  “Citizens of New Franconia. Welcome. Welcome to the 100th Anniversary Gloom Festival!” proclaimed a mustached man from the podium. Ashra studied the figure from his hiding place in the crowd, taking in the stiff pressing of his suit and glistening golden ring on his finger, visible more than thirty yards away.

  “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the Chief Royal Councilman of our city, great-great-grandson of the renowned hero, Reginald Siegfried, Councilman Lestor Bartholomew Siegfried!”

  Another round of applause filled the square as a taller man, broad-shouldered and equally stiff, took the brass projector from the podium. Siegfried’s suit, decorated with military awards, gleamed upon the crowd with a radiance equal to his white-toothed smile. Ashra could see that despite his proud posture, pearls of sweat were already beading around his collar. Not one for warm weather himself, Ashra empathized with the Councilman’s discomfort as the temperature in the square crept closer to a boil.

  “People of New Franconia, it has been an honor to serve and protect this fine city these past ten years in office. Our team has worked tirelessly to co-ordinate this festival, with the hope that you will join us in celebrating the symbolic heroism my grandfather’s grandfather showed all those years ago.”

  The crowd grew quiet.

  “Years ago, when Passerine, our beloved home, was but our own, before we had to worry for the safety of our loved ones and the borders that protect us all, people lived simpler lives. Young Peter Gloom fell on the wrong side of fate that day, and was the first to lose his life upon the initial overlap of the Decay Belt on this day one hundred years ago.”

  Lestor paused, allowing murmurs of consolation to spread before continuing. He knew how to spin a narrative, Ashra granted.

  Dead kids are always a nice touch.

  “His sacrifice was not in vain, thanks to the brave efforts of Reginald Siegfried, who struck down the then unknown Chryssian encroacher with all the valiance of his noble lineage. This act set the stage for what would become one of the most trying times in our nation’s history.”

  Councilman Lestor, for all his bravado, appeared a touch ruddy in the cheeks, lending to Ashra’s theory that lineages were most often touted by those with little to personally offer. Besides, if the histories of other nations had proven anything to Ashra, it was that pure bloodlines usually managed to pollute themselves more thoroughly than any surprise children with an exotic mistress ever could.

  “Peter Gloom’s death marked the beginning of a new era — the age of the Calm Channel. The growth of the Decay Belt meant the loss of homes and businesses, it meant the loss of a peace we once took for granted. But with the loss of tranquility came the bonding of Passerine as one nation across many countries, a resolution we still adhere to today. We stand on the ground won through the strength of our leadership and sacrifices. These compounded acts of bravery have succeeded in keeping those who threaten our way of life away from our children, thus reclaiming the peace we sought for so long.”

  “It’s easier to make those kinds of statements when you always had ten times the resources and a thousand times the men,” whispered Douglas into his son’s ear.

  Easy or not, the last man standing offered the only testimony to how hard the battle had been, or how much in damages he could claim for reparations. In truth, the victory Lestor Siegfried boasted from his stage existed on tenuous terms — challenged by the ongoing squabbles between the ‘decayed’ and the ‘natives’ living too close to each others’ borders.

  Ashra did not need to hear Lestor repeat history yet again. As uninterested as he had been growing up, even the most oblivious children picked up the details of what followed the infamous death of Peter Gloom.

  New Franconia, called Franconia at the time, had been the first major city to experience the gradual overlap of the Decay Belt. Still unexplained, but much speculated on, one universe — the haunted, dying world of Chryssus — had begun to slowly replace the streets of Passerine. Once thriving neighborhoods were swallowed by shadows overnight, transitioning into the streets of Chryssus’s once living world. Scientists and politicians still hypothesized about how one reality could seemingly replace another without an agreed upon trigger, but the fact remained that Chryssus was spreading. Like fungus gripping the rind of a fruit, the obsidian streets and its inhabitants crept from their focal points through metropolitan valleys across Passerine. Slow in some areas, but spreading rapidly in others, the overlap was unpredictable. Ashra heard tales of islands swallowed by Chryssus overnight, leaving Passerinians to fend for themselves against those brought by the fungus. For as long as Ashra could remember, the divide between New Franconia and Chryssus had remained stagnant on the Rubicon River beside the western border of New Franconia. Despite the lack of visual growth, the threat of Chryssus rising from the surface of the opaque water remained a point of perpetual contention.

  To be sure, the Decay Belt bore all the signs of a defeated people — most structures appearing burned out or abandoned from afar. But those among the rare living brought along with the overlap had the scars of survival burned into their flesh. What happened to these survivors and their offspring had been lost in that world’s history, not that historians of Passerine made any great effort to resurrect the narrative of the imposing world.

  Peculiar beings were rumored to stalk the streets of the enclosed Decay Belt — creating legends of people and creatures who violently eschewed the laws of their surrounding Calm Channel. Despite sharing a strikingly similar language, a phenomenon that linguists applied to natural speech evolution, these transplanted denizens possessed strange abilities that cleaved them from anything resembling humanity. Grotesque deformities, murderous intent — it was no surprise Passerinian newspapers labelled those who crept from their shrouded confines as instant, unsympathetic villains.

  Many Chryssians did not possess the wisdom to retreat into the darkness of the Decay Belt. Those with a bone to pick or pride to uphold were more
often than not stamped out by the Royal Guards. Humanitarian groups from the self-proclaimed “Calm Channel” of Passerine naturally rose, speaking for the ‘ignorant Decayers” in patronizing tones about natural rights and habitats. In short time, however, they too were drowned out by the onslaught of criminal reports and newspapers hungry for fear-driven profit. This fear, demanding to be satiated, found its outlet in the new heroes of the age.

  “It is also my great pleasure to announce that we have with us today two esteemed guests joining us from the capital city of Djura.” Lestor’s sudden break in reveling monotone brought Ashra back from his introversion. “Please give a warm welcome to the Djural High Order of Sponsored Hunters, Dove and Robin!”

  More applause. It had not been until the Councilman’s words that Ashra took notice of the figures just off center stage. The crowd’s crescendo at the arrival of these two apparent celebrities made Ashra only more aware of his ignorance. Despite his unfamiliarity with their titles, Ashra could not deny the authority of the man called Robin as he sauntered towards the megaphone. His counterpart, the smaller and more delicate Dove, followed in his shadow. Ashra was surprised to discover that Dove was, in fact, a woman. Platinum blonde hair poured from beneath the snow-white brimmed hat slanted across her face.

  “People of New Franconia, thank you for inviting us to celebrate the 100th Gloom Festival with you!” proclaimed the brightly adorned Robin. While he did not wear a hat, his flyaway red hair had been brushed back into long copper waves that added nearly four inches to his height. Developed muscles on his arms and chest pulled against his fitted suit as he raised one hand to meet the cheers. While Robin, too, wore an assortment of service medals, his seemed to be more akin to fashion accessories than statements of nobility, the glittering pins patterned stylishly on his sleeves and pockets.

  Despite feeling a natural aversion to his obvious extroversion, Ashra could understand the excitement coming from this man. Hunters were the beacons of the new world, after all — brought only further into the limelight by the Gloom Festival.

  “Dove and I are happy to be joining you here today. It’s an honor to walk the same city that our forefather, Eagle, won all those years ago. We have pledged our lives to the Capital, to keeping the people of Passerine safe from everything that stands to disrupt our hard-earned peace.” The words felt rehearsed, but the formalness of the occasion could not hide the wild energy behind the hunter’s eyes. Ashra caught the flash of amber, the demand for something beyond appreciation fueling his joy.

  Ashra did not begrudge Robin working the crowd, or his indomitably high spirits. If he had not climbed his way up the hunting ladder, become a fox-chasing dog for the Royal Guard, then he and his partner would more than likely be dead.

  “The tradition of hunters,” continued Robin, “is one dating back to the original hunter. Eagle, who, just when chaos threatened to overtake our homes, crossed enemy lines and joined the Royal Guard in subduing the creatures invading the civilized world.”

  It’s a matter of politics which side of that word you landed on, thought Ashra, noticing the relish Robin put on the word ‘creature.’

  What Robin alluded to, in so many words, was that the hunters had negotiated peace at the point of a blade. The first hunter, the one depicted in eagle mascots, had been a Chryssian native unremarkable enough to pass for human. Predicting the tide’s turning, Eagle approached the Royal Government with a proposition — he would hunt down his one time allies using his insight as a Chryssian and his own unique abilities in exchange for immunity.

  The government, to everyone’s surprise, had agreed to the proposal, and the profession of hunter was born. Learning that the Royal Guard was preparing more elite, private hunters to maintain their newly acquired peace, mafias, cartels, and political factions from both sides opened their bank accounts to fund their own response to this threat. Through self-promotion and a flair for the theatrics, fame-hungry mercenaries from both sides of the overlap found themselves in the limelight of a new industry. Passerinian hunters, lacking the mysterious abilities of their Chryssian counterparts, turned to the curious technology of the war era, refashioning weapons of defense into profitable offensive measures. Like Robin, none of these famed mercenaries used their real names — adopting fashionable aliases to protect their families and add to their personas.

  As with all stardom, branding was security — meaning the fight for survival was found as much in media followings as it was in the sponsoring organizations. Skirting the moral gray area of civic duty and outright murder, bounties would be placed on hunters by rival organizations in response to their solicited killings, marking them as ‘at large’ for anyone willing to risk an assassination. Hunters, like the two on stage, existed on a razor’s edge of job execution and insurance. Being a hunter meant making enemies — killing those who would either reap a healthy bounty or else satisfy their sponsors. Skirting strict legality, sponsoring groups became the insurance of their solicited hunters, creating a symbiotic relationship built on the tenuous power struggle of a post-overlap world.

  Ashra knew the bounties placed by opposing organizations were often massive, ranging in the tens of thousands of bills. That number, a point of pride for these new-era celebrities, could easily become their undoing if a fickle sponsor decided to drop them. Hence, the public image. No mugger with a scrap of sense would dare catch themselves in the hailstorm of backlash that would come from killing a beloved figure who appeared in newspapers weekly. This was, of course, disregarding the fact that each hunter was a trained killer in their own right, possessing unique, deadly skills to beat the odds of their profession.

  “As representatives of the Royal Guard,” concluded Robin, bright smile still fixed, “Dove and I promise to uphold the virtues of peace, protect the innocent, and establish the foundations that will carry us into the next hundred years.”

  The final roar of the crowd went up, already hoarse voices shouting their approval as both hunters departed the stage together. Food trolleys surrounding the venue opened their windows, letting the aroma of fried food waft over the crowd. Ravenous attendees, anxious to be the first in line, shoved away from the stage.

  Douglas’s hand found Ashra’s in the clamor. “Come this way,” he said, smiling at his anxious son.

  The relief of Douglas Swallow’s grip would not last, however. Just as Ashra thought the crowd showed promise of thinning, his father’s hand was wrenched away as Ashra’s body collided with a stationary obstacle in the flow of people. Falling hard to the ground, Ashra’s eyes shut tight, responding to the stinging pain as his bare palms caught the pebbled pavement. Reorienting himself, Ashra found the eyes of a towering man peering down at him, wrapped in a heavy robe despite the warm weather. Eyes, obscured by the glare on his glasses, laughed at the sight of Ashra sitting like a child before him. Dark, rich hair had been tucked under a wide-brimmed hat, its shadow obscuring everything but the man’s grin.

  “You’d be best to watch where you’re going. You’re likely to stumble over and over at this rate,” said the grinning man.

  Ashra pushed off his scratched palms, standing inches beneath eye height of the man. The figure’s gaze, hidden by those thick glasses, made Ashra uneasy — leaving him guessing if the man was studying his face, or else taking in the surprise of the encounter.

  “It’s not like I meant to,” said Ashra, already looking over the man’s shoulder for his father.

  “I’d be careful, then. Best not to make the same mistake again.”

  Now decidedly uncomfortable, Ashra pushed past the cloaked figure, slipping through a parting in the crowd and out of sight.

  Also by Carter Bowman

  Part-Timers (Available Now)

  Calm; Decay (Available Fall 2018)

 

 

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