Through the scattered groves of swamp trees and across the scattered streams and tidal ponds of the salty marshes, Arn glimpsed something he’d never seen before. He could not be certain, from the rocky slopes where he had survived his first few weeks on Scoa, if they were cliffs or some form of tree made of rock. In the distance, near the opposite coast of Scoa, were tall, angular shapes, made of dark rock.
Yesterday, Arn had set out from his familiar crest of the isle to investigate. Today, he would reach them. He’d left the small highlands before during the evening, but as the sun rose this day, he realized that from the lowlands, the distant shapes took better shape. They were not trees nor stone ridges, but something else. They were structures.
He laid low for a few hours around noon, on a small bush-ridden mound surrounded by water. He’d heard a few shrieks from the dangerous screechers, but they lost his scent after a while and he set off again.
Arn was in better shape than he’d been when moon had first begun its waxing. His face was un-bandaged now, so he could see better, though scabs and scorched spots covered his cheeks and the stub of his nose still. He’d been forced to cauterize a few after removing the bandage or risk infection. He had no sense of smell and was still plagued by a pounding headache each morning. His muscles were weak and his foot still ached to walk upon, but he had enough energy to endure a full day of hiking and harvesting, and he’d fashioned the fur from his first screecher kill into a few useful items. He’d built himself a new sandal using a few pieces of heated and tanned leather, as well as a pack and a few straps for carrying meat and other supplies. He was shirtless, but he was used to it.
He felt a little defenseless without his dark face-paint. It was his fight-face, but he couldn’t risk infecting his severe facial wound.
The sun had made it part of the way through its setting before Arn finally reached the strange structures. He approached cautiously, eyeing two of the stone buildings that were taller than the trees around them and even, likely, taller than the pointed roofs of the settlement on Razaad. These rock structures on Scoa were in shambles, he soon realized.
A few walls adjoining the towers had been knocked or weathered down, and Arn could, when he was certain the place was uninhabited, walk right into the first area. He was surrounded on all sides by the rudimentary foundations of walls, but this particular space had been consumed by vines, moss and nearly overturned by the growth of a resilient mathhar tree. A narrow doorway led to a larger room, where the floor was still, in many places, covered in rock similar to the walls—interlocking stone pieces that were much smaller than the planks of wood they used to construct buildings in Arn’s home.
Arn spent a few minutes exploring the perimeter of these ruins, to further assure himself that there were no residents protecting this strange adobe. After that, he decided to find some spot he could use for shelter inside. His biggest goal right now was to survive on Scoa long enough to call it a home away from home. After that, he would start considering options to improve his raft design, and safely return to Razaad.
After a few minutes of searching, he had to mutter, “Do they ever end?” The ruins stretched around him, and in many places included a floor above the floor, unlike anything he’d ever seen. He even found one slanted stone building that had a basement area, like Stone Spear’s secret record-keeping room. It was in that small basement, scattered with rotted wood and loose gravel, that he found signs of more recent life.
There was a simple wooden spear amidst a discarded fur pouch. A small wooden hammer rested a few feet away.
Arn blinked. They could have belonged to his uncle, who had sailed to Scoa never to return. Or, they could belong to someone that still lived on the isle. Arn decided to make this his shelter, for the time being. He’d need to scour Scoa Isle to find whoever left these here—and he hoped he did. He would not confront them as an enemy, as he might encounter a stranger on Razaad. He’d speak with them as a potential friend… if he found them.
The sound of distant cat cries echoed down the small drop that admitted entrance to his basement home, muted and distorted by the angles. Arn fell asleep later that evening, listening to the twilight hunters finding their marks. The dreamworld he entered after that was much different than he was used to. Blood-curdling shrieks hounded him as he ran through those tree-trunk walls, sending him diving into water that was far too shallow.
He awoke that night, drenched in sweat after dreaming of more flesh scraped from his body. His fear of water was not being cured, but he forced himself to close his eyes once more. He dreamed of drowning all over again.