Tales of Noreela 04: The Island

by Tim Lebbon

  “Was Mygrette down there?”

  “Yes, with one of her machines.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She was ready to fight. Eildan had to calm her down.”

  Namior nodded. Kel stepped closer but Namior turned her head away from him, only slightly, but enough to send her message. It pained her, but the reaction was natural.

  Kel sighed. “There are lots of dead,” he said. “And probably many more injured. Pavmouth Breaks… it’s been on hold since the waves. Waiting. But now they’re here …” He nodded down at the harbor, and the boats holding position beyond. “The time’s come to start licking our wounds.”

  “You’re not going to run off, then?”

  “I haven’t, have I?”

  “I’m sure you tried,” Namior said, and stared at him, seeking the truth in his eyes. Tell me you didn’t, she thought. Tell me you changed your mind and came back for me. But it seemed he could no longer lie, even to please her.

  “I couldn’t reach my rooms to fetch what I needed. There’s so much destruction. So I went to the harbor instead, and what I saw… changed my priority.”

  “So you don’t want to track and kill them all, now?”

  “No. But …” He frowned, looked over her shoulder and out to sea toward the new island.

  “We’ll be careful,” Namior said, and she realized she was talking about Pavmouth Breaks as something separate from Kel. He had become a visitor there again, even after living in the village for five years, falling in love, and changing her life. She wondered how long it would take for that to change once more.

  “We have to be.”

  “We should go down there and start helping,” Namior said. “I’ll tell my family. And then you’ll come with me?”

  “Yes.”

  She brushed past Kel and, from the corner of her eye, saw him reach out for her arm. But she shrugged his hand aside and walked up the path, feeling him watch her every step of the way.

  NAMIOR’S GREAT-GRANDMOTHER slept in the corner by the groundstone, twitching in her sleep and mumbling words none of them could make out. Her good eye was red, and her mother had bathed it while the old woman slept.

  “Whether they’re from beyond Noreela, or somewhere remote in Noreela itself, they’re strangers to us here,” her mother said. “Be careful, Namior. Mind everything you’ve learned. Weird times, these.” She nodded, grunting to confirm her own pronouncement. She seemed more intense than she had in a long time, and yet her eyes were distant, as if there was more to be said.

  “And?” Namior prompted gently, respectfully.

  “Weird times. And in these weird times, I think you’ll become a full witch.”

  Namior smiled and could not help the swell of pride that ran through her. She kissed her mother, promised she would return before nightfall, and closed the door softly behind her.

  I think you’ll become a full witch. The words hung with her, and the sky suddenly looked bright, the sea calmer. Her heart mourned dead friends, but her mind was thrilling with the thought of what might come.

  She walked back down to Kel and leaned next to him on the path wall. He was looking out to sea again, and she followed his gaze.

  “It looks like a normal island,” she said.

  “When’s the last time you saw an island?” he asked, laughing softly.

  “In books. Paintings. Images when I commune with the land.”

  “What images?”

  “Part of my training, Kel, you know that. I stretch my mind to seek stories from across Noreela. A year ago, I spent some time stretching to The Spine. An amazing place.”

  “Never been there,” Kel said.

  “I can’t make out much detail, but it looks …”

  “Like it belongs,” Kel finished for her.

  Namior shrugged. Yes, it looked right. Not out of place at all, even though it had appeared from nowhere in the open sea. “I wonder where it came from?” she mused. “I wonder where it was before?”

  “If it was somewhere close to land, we’re not the only place facing this today.” He nodded down at their ruined village. “We should go. I can lift and dig, and you can heal.”

  Namior turned to Kel, suddenly desperate to heal something between them before their brief moment alone was over. “Kel, tell me things will be all right.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “I mean between us.”

  He smiled. “I want them to be. And if you want them to be as well, then they will.”

  “Whatever your story might be?” Strangers, she thought, tracking and killing strangers.

  “I never want to be a stranger to you,” he said.

  Namior smiled, but his choice of words unsettled her. She had many questions, and they had far to go. But Nerthan came to mind again, the pain on his face and the breaks across his body, and she was suddenly angry. Everything she was feeling was far greater than Kel and her. It was about her village and people. She closed her eyes tight, leaned against the stone wall. If she really concentrated, she could stretch and sense blooms of painful heat all across the hillsides, and down into the wave-ruined valley.

  “I’m frightened,” she said. “There’s so much to do.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, Kel. I love you for that. But I think I’m frightened of you as well.” She started along the path, heading for the Moon Temple and the many who needed help.

  THE MOURNER WAS still at the Moon Temple, and the line of bodies outside had doubled. There were at least twenty dead, and Kanthia looked tired and drawn, her old face made older, her skin gray as though leeched of life. She turned to Kel and Namior as they approached through the Temple’s ground. She was still obviously blind, but her eyes were even more haunted than usual.

  “So many confused wraiths today,” she said. “A lot of them died in their sleep.”

  “But you’re chanting them down,” Kel said. “Putting them at peace.”

  “It’s never easy breaking the news of death to the dead.”

  “I’m here to fix the living,” Namior said. The Mourner always unsettled her. She came closer than anyone else to talking with the dead, and chanting them into the Black seemed to leave a bit of the Black in her soul.

  Kanthia gestured toward the Temple. “The lucky ones are in there.”

  Namior passed by the dead and their Mourner, and as she neared the Moon Temple she smelled blood and shit, and she heard the groans of those in pain, and the screams of those in agony. Kel touched her arm and held her hand, and she gave him a thankful squeeze.

  “Namior,” he said, “this is your place, not mine. I can’t do any good in there, other than carrying out the dead, and I’ve seen enough of them already today.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Yes, Kel. I’m sorry …”

  He came close then, and she let him. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he said. “That’s all up to me. I’ll come back later, and we can talk. I’m going back to the harbor, to see if I can find Mell and Trakis.”

  When she leaned her head on his shoulder, it felt just like before. He even smelled the same.

  Kel kissed the top of her head and pulled away. “Take care,” he said, his face stern.

  It’s a disaster, not a war, she almost said. But she nodded instead, because she could see the seriousness in his eyes. “Of course.”

  He touched her cheek, then turned and trotted down through the Temple grounds. Namior watched him climb the wall and disappear onto the washed-out path, and as she entered the Temple she saw everything she could smell from outside, and knew who was doing the moaning, and who screamed.

  KEL LOOKED DOWN the swollen river for a while, past the ruined bridge at the masts spiking beyond the harbor. They were still at rest. The mast of the boat moored at the mole was just visible, and there were several militia milling around it, apparently talking to someone still aboard.

  Beyond the harbor, beyond the masts, the new island basked under
the Noreelan sun.

  The sight was amazing. And for the first time since the previous night, Kel experienced his first doubt that it was anything to do with him.

  There were a group of men and women working at a house upriver from where he stood. One whole façade had collapsed when its footings were washed away, bringing down the roof and internal floor structure as well, and the people were digging at the ruin with their bare hands. A machine stood to one side. It was as tall as a man, square, resting on three spherical wheels, and was lifting heavy stone blocks with its several flexible appendages. Kel wondered which one of the rescuers was its Practitioner. A woman glanced up and saw him watching.

  “My father,” she said, and though they were thirty steps away he still heard the pain in her voice.

  He considered going to help. He could add one more set of hands to the rescue; more blocks removed, more timber beams shifted aside, more injured people or corpses uncovered and carried to the Moon Temple. Or he could try to protect Pavmouth Breaks from dangers yet to come. He had seen no gills or spine-limbs, but he still had difficulty finding any trust for Keera Kashoomie and her visitors.

  Doubt was no good to anyone. He had to be certain.

  Kel looked up at Drakeman’s Hill. Mell and Trakis, he thought. But he could look for them on the way. He would remain in Pavmouth Breaks, for Namior and for himself, but to do so there were precautions he had to take and preparations to make.

  The woman was still looking at him as she dug for her father with her bare hands. She was sweating, turning the dust on her face to dirt, and her eyes held a silent appeal.

  Kel pointed across the river, as though indicating someone else he had to help. Then he turned away, and did not look back as he trotted along the ruined path toward the stone bridge.

  THE RESCUE HAD begun in earnest all across Pavmouth Breaks. The bodies visible in the river, on the mud plains on either side, and piled against the bridge were being left alone for the time being, because it was the living that needed help. But even as Kel picked his way across to the washed-out section of the bridge, he could see the things crawling through the debris to get to the fresh meat. There were crabs, some of them as small as his hand, a few the size of a small child, and their pincers were more than capable of stripping flesh from bone. Several varieties of sea snakes had left their slithery marks on the mud, and they curled through corpses’ hair in search of moist morsels. He could even see the prints of a sea wolf beneath the bridge, massive webbed pads splayed across the mud to offer the beast support. He could not see the dangerous creature itself, because if it was still up from the sea, it would be hiding away in shadows and ruins. But he could only guess at the damage it had already done to the village’s dead. He had heard about such animals; he feared that when the dead started to rot, it would move on to the living.

  Kel climbed carefully across and through the debris bridging the missing span, then followed his earlier route to the harbor. There were still many people gathered there, most of them digging around in the dozens of ruined and tumbled buildings, though he guessed that the chance of finding survivors was slim. A few machines dug with them, using limbs splayed into paddles to shift large clots of muck and filth from between any remaining walls. These were constructs more used to rolling nets and shifting crates of newly landed fish, and the hard work was already evidenced by the scrapes and bumps across their surfaces. Their Practitioners stood close to them, ground rods punched deep through the mud and between the stone blocks of the harbor.

  Several machines were at a standstill, their Practitioners sitting beside them exhausted, pale and bereft.

  A shout went up, and Kel dashed across to the wreckage of the Blue Ray Tavern. The front wall stood to waist height, front door opening still evident, but a sidewall seemed ready to topple at any moment. Two militia were there, along with several members of the landlord’s extended family, and as Kel drew closer he saw a little girl kneeling in the mud and tugging at a human limb. The fingers were clawed and stiff, and Kel turned away again before the inevitable wailing began.

  Thirty steps away, Mygrette was standing close to her machine, guiding its actions as it probed the deep silt with a long, thin limb. Its movements were jerky and hesitant, belying the old witch’s mastery of the machine and the magic that drove it. She touched its stone shell, frowning and mumbling to herself. Then she looked out at the mole, across to the base of Drakeman’s Hill, back again. He could see the swirl of tattoos across her cheeks stretched into a terse, tense expression. Some said the tattoos were reflections of a witch’s soul.

  “Mygrette,” Kel said as he approached.

  “Wood-carver.”

  “My name’s Kel.”

  “And what’s in a name, today?”

  “What do you mean?” Kel asked. The old witch looked at him, and there was a lifetime of experience in the creases around her eyes. Some called her mad, but Kel had seen plenty of mad people. She was no more insane than he.

  “The wind’s still blowing,” she said, “and the storm’s still here.”

  Kel looked up at the clearing sky, the stringy clouds, the seagulls and salt birds gliding on the subtle sea breeze.

  “Not up there,” Mygrette said, and her tone added, Fool! “In there!” She pointed to the foot of Drakeman’s Hill where Eildan, his council and the visitors were obviously holding their talks. “Out there!” She thumbed over her shoulder at the ships waiting patiently out to sea. “And here.” She stamped on the ground and looked down, and her machine gave a pained, creaking sound. “The language of the land is confused today.” Mygrette stroked the machine’s shell and gave it her strange commands. It probed the mud again, and Kel had never seen a machine that looked so unwell.

  “The storm did that?” he asked.

  “The continuing storm.” She glanced at him, then looked down at her feet again. “Like I said… ain’t over yet. Plenty more to come.”

  “Maybe,” Kel said.

  “Huh!” The witch turned and walked to the edge of the harbor. The machine sighed to a halt, and Kel followed her. She stared down at the filthy water swelling against the ancient stone, filled with broken parts of Pavmouth Breaks, human, animal and otherwise. “You think like me; otherwise, why did you come talk to me?”

  “I’m cautious, that’s all.”

  “Cautious, eh? Wood-carver?”

  Kel smiled. She knows more. On his travels with the Core he’d heard of witches who had learned how to supplement the innocent gift of magic with a combination of herbs, exotic minerals and animals extracts, giving themselves mysterious, sometimes unique abilities that they shared with no one else. He’d heard of them, but he’d never met one, not until he’d come to the quiet fishing village. Most there thought her mad, because they looked with eyes that had seen little else. But Kel had witnessed more than most Noreelans ever would in a lifetime.

  “It’s good to know not everyone will just accept this,” he said.

  “Right!” Mygrette laughed, surprisingly light and infectious. “Good that not everyone’s blind, eh?” She laughed again, and turned back to her machine.

  The Core often called their continuing mission the Blind War. Does she know so much more? Kel thought. He resisted the temptation to turn and watch the witch walk away. But he knew that, if things went bad, he had at least one ally.

  He started walking along the mole. He had not intended doing so, but it seemed the right way to go, taking his suspicions to the visitors. He watched his footing. There was immense damage there, with huge stone blocks cracked, crazed or missing altogether after the great waves’ impacts. The visitors’ boat had moored just before one large section of mole that had been washed away completely. There were two members of the militia there, and one of them came toward Kel.

  “Hello, Kel,” the militia member said. Luceel was a regular at the Dog’s Eyes, usually accompanying the militia captain Vek. Kel knew she and Vek were good friends, but nothing more, and he was glad it w
as she out there and not someone he didn’t know.

  The second militia member stood back, hand on his sword. I could take that and stick it up through Luceel’s chin before either of them could blink, Kel thought. He frowned, trying to shake the image. He did not like the way his past was surfacing, swimming up from the depths in which he had, for a while, believed it had drowned.

  “Quite a night,” Kel said, glancing past Luceel at the boat.

  “Not good.”

  “Are your people well?”

  She nodded. “Up on the farm at the top of Drakeman’s Hill. I saw Mell climbing the Hill on my way down this morning.”

  “Mell!” Kel felt a rush of relief, so fresh and wonderful as it washed away his concerns for a beat. “By the Black, I was sure that second wave got her. It should have.”

  “Dog’s Eyes regulars,” Luceel said with a smile. “Hard to kill.”

  “Trakis was with her?”

  Luceel frowned and shook her head.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay too. So …” Kel nodded past her at the boat. She seemed to stiffen a little, as though suddenly remembering her job.

  “I’ve been told not to let anyone close,” she said.

  “Why?”

  Luceel blinked but said nothing.

  “Can’t I see?”

  “It’s just a boat, Kel.”

  “Really?”

  She frowned. “Of course. They’re just like us.”

  “Their island appeared in our coastal waters and caused tidal waves that wiped out half our village. And you think they’re just like us?”

  “Kel, they’re devastated. Really. One of the women with the emissary told me, this happens to them once a generation, sometimes longer, sometimes more frequently. She said they live under a curse from before history. Usually the island comes to rest somewhere far out to sea, or close to uninhabited coastline. They can barely speak, they’re so traumatized and shocked by what’s happened, and what it’s done to us. And they’re going to help.”

  “Help how?”