Tides of Change
I pity Jain, but more so all the lives he has touched. He is a man imprisoned by his own relentless battle to find his worth in the world.
Danan. The Third Great Age. 3031.
black void. There is hope, there is life.
“Welcome back, Jain. Your fever has broken.” Lord Varesh wipes cold sweat from Jain’s drenched brow.
A blast of warm, fishy air washes over Jain as he rubs at his dazed eyes. His world spins, and words falter on his stuttering lips. His groggy eyes scan through a bobbing world of creaking timbers and blinding light.
Tight leather binds hold Jain's red-raw wrists and ankles to the sweat, sodden cot bed.
“Allow me.” Lord Varesh leans over Jain’s body and unbuckles the taut restraints. The leather tears away from his skin, leaving lines of bloodied bruises.
Jain sits up, hanging his head as he gazes down at his feet, which peek from a filthy cloth rag covered in stains of blood, piss, and shit. Tears well in his shamed eyes, red with sorrow and regret.
“You’re clean now, Jain. It won’t be easy to forget the past, but time will heal.” Lord Varesh places a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you.” Jain’s gratitude catches in his throat as he holds back his tears.
Danan enters the ship’s cabin and stands at Lord Varesh’s side. “Danan has tended to you the best he could, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Jain’s words trail off.
“The past is in the past; we restrained you not only for your own safety but also for the safety of others.” Lord Varesh places his hand on Danan’s shoulder.
Danan winces and rubs a purple-blue bruise on his neck.
“Danan, I would never—" Jain’s words fall into silence.
“Drop withdrawal is an obnoxious experience for all.” Lord Varesh fixes Jain with an uncompromising stare. “You suffered, as did Danan, who tended to you, day and night. Do not forget this kindness.”
Danan steps forward and passes Jain a bowlful of steaming chicken and vegetable stew.
Jain nods in silent gratitude, and with a loud slurp, he takes his first burning mouthful. The hot, salty, and fatty broth scalds his lips but brings a broad smile to Jain’s face.
“How is it?” Danan leans forward, his voice eager.
“Bloody good,” Jain says, through a loud slurp, blowing and sucking the air, fanning his mouth through a puff of steam.
“I told you.” Lord Varesh pats Danan on the back. “Danan’s working in the ship’s galley.” Varesh raises his gray brows. “Not much of a seaman, but it turns out he has a dab hand with the cooking pot.”
Jain glances over his steaming bowl at Danan and looks him up and down. “What in The One’s good name are you wearing? You look like a bloody pirate.”
Danan stares down at his knee-high block boots, then fumbles with his white linen shirt and rubs his soft hands down his brown britches.
“Danan has honed quite an array of new skills. It turns out he’s a natural with a blade, too.” Lord Varesh chortles.
“What?” Jain chokes on a mouthful of tough shredded chicken.
“Captain Sorana took it upon himself that Danan should be capable, at least, of holding a blade.” Lord Varesh gives Jain a pat on the back. “After all, Heb is not a place to be taken lightly.”
“Heb?” Jain clunks his wooden spoon down into the stew. “Why in The One’s name are we going to Heb? It’s as dry as a camel’s cunt.”
Danan snorts a laugh.
“Eloquent as always. We’re waiting for you, Jain. We dropped anchor before sunrise.” He places a firm hand on Jain’s shoulder and fixes him with a steely, uncompromising stare. “Do not fail yourself again.” The mage turns and then strides out of the ship’s cabin.
The door squeaks to a slow close as Danan perches on the cot’s edge next to Jain.
“I don’t know if I can do it.” Jain hangs his head in shame as his nervous legs bounce up and down. “Danan, I cannot fall again, but even now, I still long for the touch of the night.”
“Trust in The One and trust in me. I will not let you go astray.” Danan wraps an arm around Jain. “I am sorry for you.”
“You pity me?” Jain’s scoffing words come out sharper than he intended.
“Yes.” Danan fixes Jain with a sorrowful stare. “But I pity more the lives you have ruined.” Danan kicks at his meager bedding laid out on the floor of the ship’s cabin, then wrinkles his nose with a loud sniff.
“I stink?” Jain sniffs himself. He shakes his head at his shit and piss-stained rags, barely covering his groin.
“The ship’s seats of ease smell better.” Danan shakes his head, holding his nose with a snorting laugh.
“Fuck, that’s bad,” Jain says back, snorting a laugh.
“We have endured enough together, but even I cannot tolerate your stench anymore.” Danan points to a barrel of water in the cabin’s corner. “It’s not much, but it’s enough to wash. Fresh water is scarce. You’ll find your clothes in the chest” He stands and steps towards the cabin door.
Jain peers up at Danan, who stares back at him with a long, weary sigh.
“Jain, don’t fuck this up.” The cabin door squeaks closed behind Danan as he leaves.
The Red Flower bobs on a clear blue-topaz ocean, and loving tides lap at its shallow hull as silent gulls glide overhead.
Lord Varesh stands, vigilant, on the quarterdeck, looking out over the bay to the rolling red desert.
The mountainous red conical dunes climb up to a clear blue sky, then slope down to the bright blue bay of the sea. In a great swirling depression between the dunes sits the bluest of blue lagoons. Beyond the lagoon, mature mangroves thrive in the shallow tidal waters.
On the main deck, small drums knock and beat, while strings pull and nimble fingers pluck and weave. The shanty song of sailors fills the air, harmonizing with the tapping and dancing of their feet.
Jain’s shaking legs climb from the hatch and onto the main deck.
The musicians’ fingers wane, and the jolly chorus fades. Two dozen able seamen and boys fall into a silent standstill, their unified stare fixed on Jain with mixed expressions of curiosity, hostility, or nonchalant disregard.
Jain raises his proud head, his sea legs wobbling as he steadies himself. A chorus of chuckles bursts from the crew. To Jain’s surprise, Danan stands amongst them, mop in hand. “We all earn our place on The Red Flower.” Danan says it with a shrug.
“The pretty boy has joined us,” the Quartermaster says, giving Jain a whacking slap on the back.
Jain turns to face the quartermaster and does his best to pick up his slack jaw. The quartermaster is as black as coal and ripped with chiseled muscle as hard as black basalt. He stands before Jain, towering over him, beaming the brightest, whitest smile he has ever seen.
“This pretty boy has never seen a black man,” the crew bursts out in a chorus of disdainful laughter. “Now then, pretty boy. Let’s get you cleaned up.” The quartermaster runs a massive hand over his bald, inked head. “Barber-Surgeon!”
Abe, a short and wiry man with gray hair cascading in braids, perches on the starboard railing, his face inked with tattoos depicting stars, moons, and a key and compass sigil. He whistles to himself with bird-song notes as he steps onto the main deck, swaying in skipping, elaborate strides. With a deep bow and a hat flourish, he addresses Jain, "My lord."
The crew bursts into laughter as Abe, the ship's Barber-Surgeon, performs a merry jig.
“Sit,” and invites Jain to sit on a wooden stool slid forth with a casual sweep of his foot.
Jain smooths down his green trench coat as he sits; he looks dead-ahead, attempting to rediscover his legendary confidence as the motley crew gathers around him.
“Let’s see, shall we?” The Barber-Surgeon parades before Jain, holding a small wooden box in his arms. His fingers dance over the box as he beams a cheeky smile and dives in. His hand emerges with a pair of heavy, rusted pliers. “No, these won’t do unless you have a rotten tooth, or an arrow stuck in you." He places the heavy pliers back in the box and retrieves a mid-sized saw with blunted teeth. “No need to remove any limbs,” Abe’s words sing through his missing teeth. “Ah, here we are.” The Barber-Surgeon presents what appears to be a massive cigar cutter in front of Jain's eyes. Peering through the wide, rusted, round opening, Jain watches as Abe squeezes the handle, causing a guillotine blade to cleanly cut through the circle. “This little darling is for cock rot,” the crew roars with laughter. “It’ll have your member off in a single slice."
Jain does his best to look apathetic as Abe places it back in the box. “This will do.” Abe plucks a razor-sharp knife from the box, holding it up to the bold sunlight and reflecting the light onto Jain’s rough face. “Let’s see how pretty you are, aye.” The circle of crew roars with laughter, and Danan stands in their midst, grinning down at Jain. “Only the finest for my lord.” Abe’s fingers dance through his wooden box of metals until he finds a small pot. “Whale oil, beeswax, and honey. The strumpets can’t resist it.” He takes a handful of the oil and rubs it into Jain’s beard. He steps forward, and the shaving blade glistens before Jain’s eyes.
The first swipe cuts deep and true, and Jain sighs in the contentment only a bearded man can know when they take a close shave.
“Pretty, is he?” Abe steps back and admires his work. “A real breeches charmer.”
Jain, clean-shaven with a cropped haircut, shed the years in the clumps and knots of unkempt hair on the ship’s deck.
Abe rubs a delicate finger down Jain’s chiseled jawline, then plants his fingertip on his lips.
“Careful now, my love.” The quartermaster steps forward, flexing his muscles and flashing a mouthful of gleaming crescents of teeth. “Don’t be tempted by this little fellow.” He stares down at Jain and places a loving, giant, black hand on the Barber-Surgeon’s shoulder. “I don’t think this little man shares our taste.”
Jain struggles with his words, unsure of what to say or where to look. “Now then, fine gentleman, I don’t wish to cause any misunderstanding. It’s just that I’d like to make it very clear. I like, what’s her name? The fine lady from your jolly song. Salt beef. Yes, I believe that’s correct. I do like salt beef.”
“You can find salt beef on a man if you know where to look.” The giant Quartermaster leans down, leering at Jain.
“Oh, fuck me. I don’t mean literally.” Jain stands up and pats himself down, doing his best to look confident.
“Quartermaster,” a sharp command from Captain Sorana, booms from up on the quarterdeck.
“Just running a rig, captain.”
The crew falls into attentive silence.
“Enough of it. Smartly.” Captain Sorana’s voice barks in command.
The Quartermaster rolls his hulking shoulders, gives Jain a wink, then calls his commands. “You heard the captain! Empty the hold, bilge rats! Landlubbers to shore. All pay, no prey! Swing the lead! Strike the colors! Smartly then, mates.”
The Red Flower springs into action. “I said smartly, mates. Heb’s a calling. Get your land legs! Brace the wenches!” The crew ignites with cheers and swarms with activity.
Jain raises his quizzical brows to Danan, who shrugs. “Sea speak, something to do with drinking and women.”
“That’s the most sense I’ve heard all day.” Jain rubs his belly.
You’re looking like half your usual self, Jain.” Lord Varesh strolls over to meet them. “Now our journey begins.”
“Elim. Great Elim!” Over the starboard side, three rowboats bob alongside The Red Flower.
The dark-skinned oarsmen call up to the ship. “Welcome to Heb, Great Elim. Our mother sends for you. She has waited a long time for your return. There will be a feast in your honor. My sisters await you.”
Lord Varesh places his right hand over his heart and gives the oarsman a short, humble bow.
“Sisters,” Jain’s energy ignites with boyish enthusiasm.
“Good to have you back,” Danan says, shaking his head and laughing to himself.
“Captain, this is farewell,” Lord Varesh says to Captain Sorana. “Have your men load the rowboats. The rest of my belongings will remain in your care until we agreed.”
Captain Sorana gives an elaborate bow, removing his tricorn hat. His golden teeth catch the light. “Is this your desire? To travel ashore with these inbred sand flies?” He gestures over the starboard side with a disdainful sneer. “Great Elim, at least let me release able men into your service.”
“Thank you, Captain Sorana. The children of Anut are obligated to serve. No harm will come to us; besides, I am more than capable should the need arise.”
“Then this is farewell, my friend. I have business in Magreb. We will sail up the coast to the port,” Captain Sorana nods a farewell.
The rowboats sit heavy in the water, loaded with Lord Varesh’s heavy chests. The third rowboat leaves space for Lord Varesh, Jain, and Danan.
Jain slips down the woven rope ladder and collapses into the boat with a splashing thud.
“See, no harm comes to the Great Elim, pretty boy.” The Quartermaster flashes his crescent of gleaming white teeth at Jain. “Or I’ll come and find your salt beef.”
The crew of The Red Flower stand shoulder to shoulder, covering their hearts, and give a deep parting bow, in unison, to Lord Varesh.
“A delightful man,” Jain mutters under his breath as he gives an elaborate departing wave.
“Yes, quite charming once you understand the man,” Varesh muses to himself. “We found him washed ashore on the Dead Coast. He was just a boy, but even as a child, he had a knack for commanding men.”
Lord Varesh nods a farewell to the Quartermaster as the oars splash through the shimmering azure-blue lagoon where rainbow-colored fish dart between bright corals beneath the boat. White-tipped reef sharks dart in hunting patrol, and spiny sea urchins cover the white sand seabed.
Jain shuffles around to face the oarsman. “By The One,” he exclaims in shock.
The oarsman offers Jain a broad smile, revealing hand-carved, serrated, needle-sharp teeth. His tanned face stares at him with eerie, bright purple eyes. A man of flesh-made bird with ink stares back at him. An owl's face is tattooed on his weathered face; the owl’s inked round eyes overlap with his own eyes. The tattooed beak runs down half of the bridge of his nose. The oarsman licks his lips and runs his forked tongue over his sharp, filed teeth.
“How is your mother?” Lord Varesh eases the awkward tension.
“She is well, Great Elim, although age catches up with her.” The oarsman's deep voice comes from a wiry, slender frame. His thin arms bulge as he rows through the narrow mangrove channels.
Lord Varesh pulls at his collar, the humid heat bringing streams of sweat.
Danan stares in wonderment as tropical birds sing from the treetops and small saltwater crocodiles dart into the water and linger on the surface.
“This is not a place to go swimming, master monk,” Jain says, sweeping a deluge of sweat from his face.
The oars splash over the bay and venture deeper into the mangrove channels. Crystal blue waters turn into shallow brown streams. Treetops are thin, and the dense undergrowth withers away into the roots of dead mangroves.
The rowboat comes to a sudden stop in the river of red sand. The oarsman hops out of the boat and gives the mage a helping hand.
Danan and Jain clamber from the boat and sway on uncertain legs. They hold each other for support as they step onto solid ground.
Lord Varesh scoops a handful of red sand in his right palm, and from his clenched fist, the sand falls back to the desert floor as he mutters words known only to him. He scoops more sand and then flings it over Danan and Jain. “The oath is bound by the sands of time, acknowledged by the first dwellers.”
“Wise, Great Elim.” The wiry oarsman licks his razor teeth. “His eyes blink as an owl would blink, eyes within eyes. ‘Anut’ has borne witness.” The man scoops up a handful of sand and casts it over the trio. “The oath is bound for as long as these sands dwell.”
Jain spits out a mouthful of sand, brushing it from his hair and clothes, muttering profanities under his breath.
A chorus of loud guttural, groaning grunts fills the air as the heavy chests are unloaded from the rowboats.
“The One blesses us. Look camels.” Danan bursts with childish excitement. “I have only read about them.”
Beyond the sparse tree line, a convoy of camels kneels in waiting. Half a dozen men load the heavy chests onto the camels’ backs. Their faces are all inked with the same owl tattoo. The tattooed men stop and bow as Lord Varesh strides through the deepening sand toward the caravan.
“There is one camel for each of you, Elim.” The oarsman gives a nod for them to approach. His eyes once again blink, eyes within eyes. “Anut is watching you, Jain Adair. She likes you.” The man beckons for them to mount the camels.
The camels stand in an awkward, jarring motion. Jain and Danan hold on to life as Varesh moves his body back and forth in schooled anticipation.
The camels stride forward, roped together, their broad hooves cushioning the jolting footsteps on the sandy terrain. At the head of the convoy, a single man leads the procession of camels. They ascend the first high dune, and a breathtaking sight unfolds before them.
A vast ocean of red desert stretches as far as the eye can see, the dunes rising and falling like waves frozen in time.