The following is the first chapter of a novel I am writing. I'm offering it as a serial while I write both to stoke my ego and to get feedback. I would like to hear from everyone who reads it would you keep reading, is it dragging (hopefully not in chapter one), is it boring, etc. etc. Happy reading.
~The Author
Chapter One: The Singer and Prophetess
The tiny craft was no more than a drop amid the immensity of the turbulent waves. It seemed to sit still in the chaos of sea mixing with sky as the mountains of water rose and fell beneath it. The boat’s narrow, low profile meant that water easily breached the sides and only the feverish fury of the men kept the gaping sea at bay. Four men handled the oars but could do no more than aid the helmsman steer into the rising crest to ensure they met the wave head on and were not overtaken. The remaining crew bailed the water with helmets, boxes, buckets and quiet prayers to the spirits of the sea. Only the helmsmen wore a face of stolid confidence as he shouted orders only to find the words torn from his mouth and swallowed by the storm.
It did not matter that they could not hear their captain; the crew knew what needed to be done to stay alive. They tossed what could be spared and steered into the waves that rose and fell with mechanical regularity. They rode up the mountain and tipping at its crest they fell into the trough where the sea opened like the jaws of a beast to engulf them.
The wind howled, the water boiled, and the blood of the men ran red on their limbs. In the momentary gloaming of the lightening, the predators of the sea appeared silhouetted in the mounting and falling waves. At times, they floated ominously above the men as the ship sank in the waves, but as the bronze sprit was buried in the bottom of each trench, the sea and her angry gods claimed another sailor and soon only three remained clutching the ship with any further hope of helming her.
The tiny ship was now given over to the elements. On board, the remaining crewmen were surrounded by water and wind and blood that stained the ocean surface and drew the predators closer. All but the captain stared down, not daring to see their coming deaths, but hoping where there was no hope to avoid their crewmates’ fate.
The ship rode up the monstrous wave and hesitated at the precipice of the yawning gulf before spilling down the wave where the sea floor awaited them. It crashed into the exposed reef, shuddered, and splintered. One man was impaled on the rugged rocks and where he sank as the sea rose. His blood reddened the water, but the sharks dared not come here where land and sea and sky mingled threateningly. The two survivors clung to the flotsam and jetsam and rode the next wave which pulsed toward the tar black land. The waves rose faster and broke in shimmering foam and surf that surged forward dragging the men under and throwing them forward once more in its relentless agony.
In the tumult, one more body was dragged under and did not reappear. Only one was tossed ashore, the sea and sailor both spent from their labors. The storm moved on and the sea quieted to a gentle rhythm. Each rumble of thunder moved farther and farther afield until, at the horizon, it melted away.
* * *
The little village on the bay looked as it had since their ancestors had first settled here between the sheer red cliffs and the opalescent sea. The shelters were sturdy, but pliant, as were the people. Each house consisted of a stone and mortar foundation, which the village as whole helped to construct whenever a new one was needed, but the upper portion, including the roof, was made of reeds and poles and the leaves of Taytay tree which grew nearby.
As the storm abated, the men of the village emerged, leaving their families and livestock inside, to inspect any damage and to consult on needed repairs. There had been worse storms, as the Singer reminded them, when the whole village was destroyed and every stone overthrown, but this storm had done only superficial damage to the houses, but the real danger was the crops.
The elders consulted, and after the Singer sang about other storms and what the Brave Ones had done during them, it was decided that the he would take the young boys to the shore to collect the best Taytay leaves to re-weave the walls so he could show the youth the best ones to select and how best to prepare them. The remaining elders would inspect the fields and determine if any lasting damage needed to be addressed for this was still spring and the plants were tender, but there was still time to replant if necessary.
The Singer’s name was Ghaysan. He sang the songs of how Antar had killed the demon Tamar and from his blood he made the life-giving sea, from his flesh the fertile earth and from his bones the protecting cliffs that kept the fearsome raiders out. The raiders were Elat’s children, too, but born of his bile instead of his tears and were demons who in the dark could make themselves like smoke. But Elat’s favor fell on the people of the village, because he had given them knowledge of how to hunt, how to grow food, and what plants could calm fever and ease illness. He taught them what plants were good to eat and what to do when the rains came.
It was the singer who remembered this wisdom and Ghaysan was renowned, not only in his village, but for many miles around for his knowledge of the Days of the Brave Ones and how they made the world safe from demons who spat fire and gathered the children of Elat for his slaves, but Antar had made them free and given them knowledge obtained from Elat and his Daughters with which he founded the village and drove out the dangerous boar and the wild raiders banishing them behind the bones of Tamar. Antar tamed the river and taught the people knowledge of Elat and what plants to grow and how to build houses.
Often elders came from other villages to consult with Ghaysan about their troubles. He would listen as he and the elders sipped teas and then he would sing the songs. Once a tribe came because a plague was killing their young children. All the other tribes would not let them in, but Ghaysan knew it was okay. He listened to their tales and then retreated to the cave in the red cliffs where he sang to Elat. Then Elat’s servant, his Daughter Tahi came and sang him a new song about the hero Tayza who had saved his village from an angry spirit that lived in the spring. Realizing that he could not overpower the demon in the well, he sealed it off and placed stones there with powerful enchantments and dug a new well farther up stream. The plague never recurred. Ghaysan sang this song to the visiting elders and they concluded that they must do as Tayza had done and when they had finished their work, the plague stopped.
Ghaysan took the boys with him to show them how to select the best leaves and poles for their homes. He told them to look for the straightest poles and not to disturb the younger ones in their play so that these could grow and be used later.
As they walked, a young boy named Mahur brought something strange. It was hard like a rock and sharp like a spearhead, but smooth like a fired pot. He had seen such things before from traders and travelers who occasionally happened on the village, but few outsiders save those from neighboring villages ever came to Antar’s cove.
“Uncle,” Mahur cried, “I found more of them over their by the cove.” He led the old Singer to the debris which lay scattered along the tidal zone where small waves lapped gently. Ghaysan looked closely at each piece which looked shattered from the storm. Bits of wood and cloth lay along the length of the bay. He picked them up, examining each in turn. It was, he thought, a boat from one of the traders who occasionally sailed by, but who never stopped at the little village in the nestled cove. The sheer cliffs and the prominent reef kept all but the smallest ships from entering and none of those who could ever tried.
He searched for larger pieces that could be used around the village: a large block of wood to repair a house, more smooth spear-like objects for hunting. He called the young men to him.
“My sons, Elat has given us this bounty to compensate for the storm. We must gather it up and take it to our village.” They began to search the shore and placed all the useful objects in a large woven blanket to carry back. There were large square pieces of wood, others that were narrow and smooth like reed poles. There was cloth woven so tight that Ghaysan thought it could hold water if needed. It was soft like a new leaf and the Singer could only see the web and the weft when he held it up to the light. As he ambled along the rocks and the sand, he found a curious piece. It was smooth and hard like the spear-like items they had found, but was more like the idols in the Cave. He examined it closely. It was the size of the palm of his hand and had on one end two circles that interlocked. Each circle had spines that protruded on one side. Below that was a single eye with lines that radiated from around it. Below that was a disc surrounded by wavy lines. There were two long poles on either side like palm trees without leaves and below all that were scratches.
He placed the totem in the leather pouch he always carried with him and continued searching. The boys continued to bring more and more items, many, Ghaysan thought, of no real value, but they needed to learn. Out beyond a large rock that protruded into the bay a voice rang out:
"Uncle, uncle!” It was Tamam’s son, Tamamhah, a young boy not 10 years of age. Ghaysan turned and despite his many years, ran with his shuffled gate.
“My son, what is it? Why do you yell?”
“Uncle, I have found a man.”
“A man?”
“Yes, uncle. Mahur thinks he is dead, but I do not think he is dead. I think he is alive, but sleeping.”
“Show him to me.”
"Yes, uncle.”
Tamamhah lead him along until they reached a smooth stretch of beach bestrewn with shattered bits of wood as well as seaweed and other items tossed up on the shore by the storm. In the middle of the beach, and so covered in sea weed, moss, and blood as to be unrecognizable as a man from far away, was a figure surrounded by prodding boys all crouched on their haunches to inspect him.
“Away with you young scamps! Away!” cried Ghaysan. They scattered obediently and Ghaysan drew up close. The body was covered and where skin did show through it was purple and blue from the mass of bruising and blood. Ghaysan rolled the figure onto his back and saw that he was naked. He looked young, not nineteen years, but he did not have a beard save for a few wisps of growth such as young boys have. Kneeling down and leaning over him, Ghaysan placed an ear to the man’s bruised and bloodied chest. It was indistinct and muted, but he heard a heart and felt the chest rise.
“He is alive, young fools. Bring me the cloth, we can return later for the leaves and the wood. Elat has sent this man to us and we must help him.”
The boys ran and returned quickly carrying the large cloth among them. In their absence, Ghaysan cleared the moss and kelp from the man’s body carefully examining his wounds. Under the dried moss that clung to his body were cuts and gashes where there waves had tumbled him against the rocks and the coral. Small stones and debris were lodged in many of the wounds. He would not treat them here, but would bring him to Amamah, the Prophetess. She had outlived all her children and lived now with her grandchildren who had children of their own and while Elat had taken much of her vision and left her wrinkled and stooped, he had given her wisdom to heal.
Together with the older boys who could be trusted to be gentle, Ghaysan rolled the man, whom the boys were called Lammam, or, the man from the sea, onto the cloth. As each who could lifted from a corner, they raised him up and carried him to the village while the younger boys scampered around and shouted:
“Lammam, we have a Lammam! Come see what we have found. Elat has sent a man to us from the sea!”
The curious came from the homes and fields and before they reached the house of Amamah, nearly the whole village was accompanying them.
“What is this noise?!” cried old Amamah from within. “I am old and while Elat has taken my sight, he has left me my hearing and you should leave me my peace!”
“But Grandmother,” replied a young boy, “Ghaysan has found a Lammam.”
“A Lammam? There is no such thing, foolish boy. Men come from the earth, birds from the air, fish from sea. Men do not come from the sea.”
“Grandmother has spoken the truth, but nevertheless, Ghaysan has found a man who is in need of your skill.”
“I will see him,” she replied simply and reached out her arm to lean on the young boy. She walked with careful steps, her glassy eyes looking nowhere, but seeing many things in her memory.
“Old Amamah,” said Ghaysan when he reached the small home she shared with her grandson, “Elat has sent us a guest.”
“Bring him in.” Amamah said, and turned around letting Ghaysan follow her. She began to run her fingers along his skin. “He is filthy. You did not clean him, Ghaysan. You never clean anything. Old Tayma when she lived was always cleaning up after you while you sang songs and saw visions. What good are visions, foolish Ghaysan, if you cannot do anything for yourself?”
“Do not argue now, old woman. We have a guest.”
With the young men’s help, they carried the sleeping sailor into the hut. Amamah quickly turned and with sudden energy she drove the men from the house to the waiting crowds. The presence of someone in need of her help had energized her and she seemed years younger.
The Singer and the youth joined the waiting crowd, only Amamah’s granddaughter, Narah, remained to assist. The entire village was drawn out by the news of something different. Already this week was memorable because of the storm, but a stranger was always cause for great excitement and led to people abandoning the hard work of survival and necessity.
Inside, Old Amamah quickly shuttered the few windows and lit the turtle wax candles which cast a flickering glow. She breathed deeply the aromatic scent that smelled of fats and the oils she had added to the wax. Narah was set to work wiping the wounds and skin with a damp cloth that had been soaked in water and myrtle oil. Amamah went hastily but carefully about her work arranging by memory the tools of her trade. In the east, where his head was pointed, she placed a drum on which she had, many years before, painted her healing vision of the Great Fathers and Mothers of her people. This would draw forth visions and dreams and help her see how to heal. Toward the west, to the direction of his legs, she placed totems of Elat and Marid with horrible, twisting faces that writhed in pain and horror. This would scare the demons as they left and drive them far away. On either side she placed a small row of dried, powered Taytay leafs mixed with the root of Zam plant and, for scent, several aromatic flowers. These would channel the spirits. This done, she knelt at his head and, placing her hands on his head, she looked toward the sky and began to chant.
“O Grandmothers, make me see his pain
O Grandfathers, make me hear his hurt.”
She repeated this over and over again until they ceased to be words, but became a series of sounds and silences. She felt them as they slid out over her tongue, between her teeth and across her lips and she let herself follow them until she left her body and her spirit walked in the shadowland with the stranger. She could see him, lost in a great wilderness, bewildered and afraid. He turned hurriedly in ever direction, but stumbled only a few feet through the parched and dying shrubbery before turning around. The land was vast as eternity but empty of every feature save the desiccated plant life. Every horizon burned the red of an approaching dawn, but it never came closer.
Eventually the man quieted down and collapsed to the ground. Old Amamah, now her youthful self in vision with long, sleek black hair and deep honey-colored eyes, drew closer to him.
“Child,” she said, cradling his head, “do not worry. Old Amamah is here to help you. Tell me who you are.”
The young man, now free of wounds, looked at Old Amamah with sorrowful eyes that welled with tears. He seemed to age before her getting weaker and weaker.
“I am lost,” he said. “And no one can show me the way.” He looked away toward the far horizon. In her hands, she felt him grow colder.
“What is that you are seeking? I can help you find your way.”
“I must find the one wise to show me the pearl. Only he can fight the dragon and take me home again.”
As he said this, he grew quiet and limp in her arms. About her the world was melting into nothingness and even the figure of the young boy grew less and less substantial until Old Amamah found herself sitting on the floor of her hut. She arose and began to clean and dress the wounds.
