The lagoon below the cliffs where the tribe lived was accessed by a series of ledges and various hanging vine ladders. To descend, Arn simply dropped from tier to tier, his feet deftly absorbing his weight. He had chased an animal down a slope this sleep, without losing his footing. He purposefully slowed himself and used the ropes to descend the last few layers so that others would not see his skill. Today, like all days, he had a specific purpose.
He found three fishermen at the base of the cliffs, on the rocky beach of the murky water. Sand deposits were thick with gravel and strewn with seashells, making traversal cautious for fear of the dark rocks jutting upward where the tide had not yet worn them away. The fishermen looked at Arn in surprise. What was the Chief Hunter doing here? The hunters were only beginning to wake, for the sun had not found the horizon yet.
“Logern?” Arn asked.
One of the fishers frowned, his bottom lip jutting out far enough from his face to graze his hooked nose. “That way,” the weathered man, shoving a thumb out toward the southern point of the moon shaped cove.
Arn’s spear dug small holes in the homes of hermit grabs and beach spiders as he walked. Arn’s feet did not slide when a slope of sand and shells collapsed under his weight. Arn’s eyes scoured the western horizon, for, even though it was as dark as night, he could see the dim outline of Scoa Isle, blocking out the faint, pre-dawn stars. His uncle, Kaleb, had died on that rock, or perhaps in the salt between. His body had never been recovered. He had only taken a raft, so the journey would have been arduous. Scoa was part of the reason that Arn’s legs carried him through the breezy morning air to the centre of Logern’s power, alone.
And to the centre he went. Logern was prepping one of the rafts, with his second in command, Bravar, and his secret warrior, Taran. The three stopped their work when Arn approached and hands were placed on weapons. “What brings you down the cliffs today?” the Chief Fisher asked.
“A plan, if we could speak, man-to-man,” Arn said.
Logern shrugged. “You’re no fool, Arn. You’re more suited for this life than Crezik, than Torr, more so even than Loklar.” Arn saw Loklar hanging from vines on that slanted rock and sliding down to break his neck out of sight, all those months ago. “I’ll speak with you,” the fisherman said, and stepped away from his guards and friends. He led Arn along the beach and away from the lagoon. There was a small branch of land, covered in trees, before the cliffs reclaimed the waterfront.
“My plan involves unity.”
“Bah,” Logern said. “Unity. This is not a good word on Razaad.”
Arn inhaled. “Forget unity then. Ambition. I am tired of hunting on Razaad. Every day we must decide what to hunt. If we hunt too much, we see fewer animals and risk losing something we currently have. I want more.”
“More? What more?” Logern asked.
“Scoa, to begin. We don’t even know what creatures walk there.”
“Your plan is to ask me for one of my rafts?” Logern asked. “You’re a man of few words, but now spill them for this foolery?”
“I don’t want one of your rafts…” Arn murmured. “My hunters would be as likely to sink and drown in the Deep than to return with what kills they have made.”
“What then?” Logern demanded, and stopped walking.
Arn smiled. “You and Jorik once worked on boats of a different style. I would like to attempt this once more.”
Logern chuckled quietly and crossed his arms. He turned away from Arn and looked out across the water with the hunter. The clouds were more visible now, as the sun started to rise. They stood in the shadow of the cliffs.
“Listen to me,” Arn said. “If we find a way, we need no longer hunt separately. Hunters and fishers can travel to and from Scoa together. And we can see what lies beyond it.”
“Beyond Scoa?” Logern asked. He chuckled. “If Jorik heard you speak like this…”
The traditional beliefs on Razaad taught them that the two islands were the world. “Is that what you believe?” Arn asked. “If it is, I will walk away.”
“I believe in the Deep,” Logern said. “I believe it is like we are, but more treacherous even and more deadly. You want to say it can be travelled upon, it will betray your words and fill your mouth with salt. Do I believe the whole world is just these two islands and a lot of water? No. Do I believe the prize outweighs the risk of trying to bargain with the deceitful Deep? Also no.”
“Let me try,” Arn urged him. “When it comes to the first risk, my hunters will be the only ones making that bargain. If it works, then we work together. If it does not, it is my loss. In the meantime, I only need access to the lagoon and the advice of your fishers.”
“Do it yourself. Find your own water,” Logern said, and turned and walked away.
Arn felt betrayed. This man had played the politics of the tribe with brilliance. He had made himself look a fool, but remained the strongest of this kindred for he remained still at Stone Spear’s side. But now he acted like a fool again, a narrow-minded, stubborn fisherman. Perhaps the ploy had been Bravar or Taran’s plan?
Arn’s spear longed for Logern’s back in that moment. So easy to drive the blade through a few ribs. Arn’s eyes looked across the sea at Scoa isle. Arn’s heart resisted patience.
But his mind maintained it. He relaxed his grip on the wooden shaft and, with a scowl, began his journey back to the cliffs of Razaad.