Category: Arn

There was a place on the south side of the sandy island where one couldn’t see tell if they were looking at water or dirt.  The beach there was so gradual and long that the waves rolled in gentle and thin.  By the time they reached the middle of the beach, they were just a layer of crystal-clear liquid.  The sand looked the same with and without water over it.  This was a place where there could be no truth—only the possibilities of wetness and dryness.

This was Arn’s favourite place on the island.  He lay on the sand for hours on end—bored, sick, starved.  Here, all of his maladies seemed to drift away with the tide.  Here he could be both alive and dead.  Or maybe good and evil. Continue reading Arn 53

In the space between the dry sand, where the tide didn’t reach, and the swirling fog of sand beneath the surface of the ocean, there was an entire land of seashell mountains, torrential storms of seafoam rain, and monstrous leviathans with crustacean claws.  Arn prowled that land, following the bird that blocked out the sun.  The hazy limits of this fictional world were his destination, but on the way he fought the boldest crabs with a bright shining sword. Continue reading Arn 52

Sand scrunched between Arn’s toes and wind whipped at his stiff black hair.  His parched lips parted uncomfortably.  All he could see, on any side of the sandy bluff, was a bleak, straight horizon.  His left foot was lifted, set on top of the beached log—one of the only things Arn had left of Razaad.  He had dragged it out of reach of the tide.

“This one is ready.”  The other inhabitant of the island spoke with a gruff voice.  Arn turned around. Continue reading Arn 51

There was a man on the island, Arn realized.  He had only a few dozen feet left between his battered branch and the sandy beach of the shoal, but he had been paddling his legs with his eyes closed and his chin tucked low against his makeshift buoy.  One glance, to check how close he had been after hours of trying to swim, had nearly shocked him enough to let go. Continue reading Arn 50

The next wave heaved harder, shaking the raft and jostling the two bodies on the deck.  Arn stirred—he had seen what lie ahead and had decided to close his eyes to it, as long as he could.  Shar lay next to him, stuck to a pool of dried blood.  If they ever found land out here, respite from the Deep, Arn would give his friend the proper burial rites.  Arn was no embalmer, but how hard was it to bury and consecrate a heart?

The next wave shook Arn hard, and sent the smaller of the their two oars skidding.  He grabbed it, pinned it firmly under his knee, and looked up at the nightmare on the horizon. Continue reading Arn 49

Arn glided across an endless water.  He peered outward from his raft at the familiar landscape—the water was a pale ichor, covered in hand-spans of black smoke and the eerie hum of the spirits beneath.  A bird with monstrous wings glided over his head, never flapping or croaking a single utterance.  Despite its uncanny silence, Arn was thankful for its presence; its wings blocked out the enormous blood-red sun. Continue reading Arn 48

If only Arn could drink the flakes of skin that fell off his neck.  His burns had finally tanned, though Shar’s progress was a day or two behind.  The burned skin was peeling off now, reminding Arn how thirsty his throat was and how dry his skin was.  He lay on the raft and felt the tug of the water churning around them.  They drifted across the Deep slowly, sluggishly.  The raft was close to death, it seemed, or they had neared that part of the Deep. Continue reading Arn 47

For a disconcerting moment, Arn’s eyes fluttered open and stared at the wide expanse of blue overhead in confusion.  Where was he?  When he sat up and looked at the bright blue waters all around them, his disorientation did not immediately fade.  It simply changed from the question “Where am I?” to a different question altogether. Continue reading Arn 46

The whispering of the camp had changed again, as it had changed many times around the cookfires on Razaad.  Arn lifted a roasted chop of screecher meat to his nostrils and inhaled its oily smell.  It was his third slice.  Jorik’s blend of spices did wonders for the meat that Arn had once lived upon for a few Moons.  He chewed on the meat and tried to listen to what they were saying. Continue reading Arn 45

A hush fell over the hunters and fishers and warriors, and they listened to the jangled words of the Scoa tribe.  Arn sat on an old window sill, an opening in one of the rocky ruins.  Shar stood close—he had spent their time on the isle seeking out the solution or object to any thought Arn voiced.  On Arn’s other side, Logern stood, with burly arms folded across his bare, muscled chest.  Together, the trio overlooked their fellow tribespeople.

And across the open moss-claimed yard a force of fighters in intricate wooden masks and bone jewelry stood and bristled armaments toward them.  One man stood in front of their spears and bone knives, like Trakak had during Arn’s first arrival on Scoa. Continue reading Arn 44