Tales of Noreela 04: The Island (18 page)

Now, it was time to hear the visitors’ story.

A TALL WOMAN,
made taller by the machine she stood upon, Keera Kashoomie wore sadness like a cliff hawk wore the wind. She looked over the heads of the assembled Noreelans at the destruction that surrounded them. She gazed northward first, past the broken bridge and across the river, then turned slowly until she was staring at the washed-out foot of Drakeman’s Hill. She might have been crying, or perhaps it was the sun casting curious shadows across her eyes. From where he watched Kel could not be sure. What he
was
sure about was the weight of expectation that held the crowd—perhaps three hundred people in total—in rapt silence.

“This has happened before,” she said, “and we can never
be more sorry than the last time. If you’ll allow me to tell you about ourselves, and why we’re here, and how it happened, I hope you’ll then accept our offer of continued help and support. This is a dreadful day for Pavmouth Breaks, and a sad day for Komadia, and we Komadians are so sorry for what has happened. But before I say anything else, I want to tell you one thing. I want you to be
sure
of it. This was not our fault. There was no intention in this.”

“An accident?” someone called, scoffing.

Keera blinked, then shook her head. “No accident,” she said. “No act of the land, no slip in the balance of things. But not our fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?” the same voice called. The speaker was keeping himself hidden, perhaps looking at the ground so that he could not be singled out.

“We no longer know. The past for Komadia is a hazy place at best. There are scholars among us who attempt to transcribe our history, from stories passed down through families, parchments discovered in abandoned dwellings in the deepest parts of our island, and vague memories from our oldest people. But history does not like Komadia. Once recorded, it seems to change. We are never at peace, and who or whatever cursed us so long ago seemed to desire that.
None
of us are
ever
at peace.”

She brushed both hands back through her hair, the sun casting a halo around her head. Kel gasped; she was beautiful. He’d never let himself see that before, even when he was cutting the shirt from her back in his search for a Stranger’s proboscises. He sighed angrily. He could not let himself be distracted by that beauty. Was she using it now? Fanning her hair to bewitch the men in the crowd, and some of the women, too? But after running them through her hair she cracked her fingers, an unbecoming gesture, then looked around again.

“From the best of our knowledge, our island’s origins lie beyond the farthest extremes of what you now know as The
Spine. We were once the last island in that chain, before endless seas stretching west, north and east. We were the northernmost tip of Noreela, and there’s a place on our island now, on the coast, that we call The Outlook, which used to be the most northerly tip of land in our world. It has the ruins of a lookout post, and on those ancient walls are paintings of deserted, lifeless seascapes. It’s a much-studied place because it hints at our origins. But even the wisest amongst us knows little. There is writing there that cannot be read, and images of things that cannot be understood.”

“Land’s End is the last island,” someone said. Kel stretched to see who was speaking, but the crowd made single voices anonymous. That was good. It meant that people could speak their minds.

“It is now,” Keera said, “and it has been for much of history. Sixty years ago, we were situated to the south of that place for a time. Thankfully, it was all but deserted then, as now, I suspect. The ripples of our arrival spread out and touched land, but there was no one there to see.”

“Ripples?”
someone shouted. Other voices rose, angry and disbelieving, but Kel also saw a few people looking around quietly, perhaps embarrassed or uneasy in their belief of the woman’s outlandish tale.

Chief Eildan raised his hands and slammed the harpoon down onto the harbor stone. “We will let Emissary Kashoomie speak!” he roared, and the crowd shuffled their feet, voices lowering and mumbling in apology or acceptance. “There will be time for questions later if our visitor will entertain them?” He turned to Keera, who smiled and nodded her assent.

Eildan stepped back again, and Keera Kashoomie waited until the agitated audience settled.

“Your loss tears my heart and tortures my soul. But I wish you to hear these words, because Komadia suffers also. It is a land cursed with uncertainty. The periods between our shifting from one place and being deposited elsewhere can be a
few moons, or sometimes many, many years. I have lived through five shiftings. My mother, still alive back on the island, has seen twelve.

“History has hazed the reason for such a curse, or who or what caused it. But as with any facts lost to the vagueness of time, there are stories. Some tell of a storm that came in across the sea from the north, driven by an insane water-god. The god was doomed to eternal drowning, and it craved life on land. But it could not breathe the air, and the touch of soil on its flesh was a torture. So it coveted what we had, and drove waves at the island that were so tall that they almost touched our highest hills. When the tempest abated, the island was moved into the middle of an endless ocean. Komadia’s survivors sailed out, and those that found their way back had traveled a moon in every direction without seeing land. Our people felt exiled, banished by the land, and they developed a very strong sense of community in order to survive.

“Other tales tell of an ancient magician who tried to tap in to the land, many centuries before the Year of the Black gave true magic to Noreela. He opened doorways that should have remained closed, and—”

“Your machines aren’t driven by magic!” someone called. Kel saw Mygrette stepping forward, her tatty robes muddied where they dragged along in the silt. “And I see no magic in you, Emissary.”

“That’s true. And if you’ll let me finish my story, lady witch, more will become clear.” A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd and Mygrette turned away. Kel was amazed at how easily Kashoomie was playing her audience.

“Back then, so it’s said, this magician practiced magichala with things from the sea: creatures, spices, rock salts and toxins from some of the more poisonous inhabitants found in the waters around The Spine. He suspected a great power in the land, and he yearned to learn its language. But when he tried to speak that language, the land reacted. Komadia was cursed by magic even before magic showed itself to Noreela.”

“Cursed by magic!” Mygrette spat.

“There is no magic on Komadia, you’re right,” Kashoomie said. “At least not as you know it. We cannot speak Noreela’s language; it remains silent to us. Instead, there is technology that our engineers have developed over time, and the heat of steam drives much of what we use.”

“The heat of steam?” Mygrette said. “Sheebok shit! How do you even know of magic if you’ve been cursed to live without it for so long?”

“Because we travel,” Keera said, and her voice dropped so low that the audience had to hold their breaths to hear. Her words appeared between the hush of waves, as though singing a song in concert with the sea. “Komadia has seen many parts of Noreela down though its long history. And it has also been beyond.”

She trailed off, leaving those last scintillating words hanging in the air.

Beyond
, Kel thought.
Where the Strangers come from?
He shook his head. She was fabricating these tales, blinding Pavmouth Breaks to her island’s real aims… and yet, if that were the case, why attempt to do so with such outlandish stories? Some would believe, because incredible legends had the power of entrancing many who saw or knew of them. But many more would go to their beds that night even more suspicious of the visitors.

Maybe it was because the truth was even more incredible.

“What’s beyond?” someone asked.

Keera Kashoomie sighed. “Sea,” she said. “Oceans so wide that they cannot be crossed in a lifetime. Places where islands of living creatures are the only things breaking the watery monotony. Sea, sea and more sea. You should remember, the history that I’m relaying to you can never be known for sure. Each shifting seems to distort the past, as it twists the geography of our place in the world. All but two of the shiftings I have lived through have found Noreela’s coast within a moon’s sailing of our own. Those remaining two … just water.”

“And why would that be?” Kel called out. He stepped around the wall, exposing himself to the stares of hundreds of people, yet remaining focused on Keera. He saw Namior turn to face him but he did not acknowledge her, not yet.

“Ah, the admirer of my clothes,” the emissary said.

“Why, when there is endless ocean for you to be shifted to, is Noreela more often than not so close by?”

“We can’t know the reasons for sure,” she said. “But our belief is that the curse is finally fading. With every shifting that happens, we begin to hope it may be the last one.”

The last one
, Kel thought.
And if that’s the case, and any of this is true, they’ll want to ensure their safety out there. Make sure there’s no competition from the mainland
. He looked at Namior and returned her unsteady smile. He nodded gently, and mouthed,
Soon
.

“So we might be neighbors for a long time?” someone said.

Keera nodded. “We hope forever.”

“And our dead?” someone else said. “What of our dead? Who will be their neighbors, lost in the Black?”

Keera’s face fell and she clasped her hands together before her chest. “We suffer every death with you,” she said earnestly. “And we’ve already started helping. You’ve seen our machines, and we promised you a share of our technology. This I will ensure comes to pass. If you will permit, more of our people can come across from Komadia with larger machines, able to dig faster and move more. And as well as technology, we have knowledge that can help. Ways to find those buried who might still be alive.”

“What ways?” Kel asked.

“Tame creatures, trained to smell out trapped people.”

“Because this happens a lot?” Chief Eildan asked.

Keera nodded. “We have experience and knowledge of such things, because this happens too much.” She slipped down from the back of the machine, holding up her hand to fend off the press of people and the rush of questions that filled the air.

She’s leaving?
Kel ran forward, still carrying the blanket-covered carving beneath his arm. But he saw the emissary’s guards, the women with long swords, and their eyes were on him. He had threatened Kashoomie already that day, and they would not let him close again.

“Let us visit!” he shouted. “Let some of us come to the island if you’ve nothing to hide.” And even in the commotion, his question was heard by the crowd, and by Keera herself. Some of the villagers gathered there shouted their agreement. The emissary paused, held up her hand and looked directly at Kel.

“That cannot yet happen,” she said. “Not until we’re sure it’s safe. We have no wish to share our curse.” She walked away then, Chief Eildan strolling quickly behind her. They headed back toward the mole, and the combination of militia and visitors’ guards held the crowd back.

Kel watched the emissary go. She seemed a sad figure, a woman of sorrow dressed in fine clothes.

“Kel!” Namior called. She shouldered her way through the crowd to him, Mell following, and he hugged her in with his right arm. “Kel, I wondered where you’d gone.”

“Up to my rooms to fetch some things.”

“That?” she asked, touching the blanket.

“For you. But later. Now, I want to see what happens next.” He smiled at Mell, then looked around at the crowd, trying to assess their mood, their fears, their beliefs.

An island from The Spine?
He supposed it was possible. He had once traveled as far as Rockfield during the long pursuit of a Stranger, and if he looked out at Komadia, he could see similarities in geography; a craggy coast, low hills. But an enraged water-god? A magician who had preempted the Year of the Black and magic’s introduction into Noreela, sixteen centuries before?

An island that moved itself?

“What do you think?” Namior asked. Kel heard excitement in her voice, as well as fear.

“I think her story is so unbelievable that many will believe.” And he hugged Namior tight to him, enjoying the feel of having someone so close.

MELL TOLD HIM
her story, and the three of them spoke some sad words about Trakis, shared memories, remembering their friend beneath the heat of the sinking sun. This most terrible day in Pavmouth Breaks’ history was drawing to a close.

“Dusk soon,” Kel said. “The tide’s coming in. We can’t dig through the night.”

“They’ll help,” Mell said. “If there’s anyone left buried alive, their animals will smell them out. Maybe even Trakis, somewhere under the Rettaro Market. They’re here to make amends.” Kel saw an almost zealous glow in his friend’s eyes, and he wondered how much of that was restrained tears over Trakis’s loss.

“We need to judge on actions, not words,” Kel said.

“So now you come here with your sword and you’re a hard man, wood-carver?” Mell said, but there was affection in her voice.

“Cautious.” Kel turned to Namior, huddled beside him and starting to shiver now that the sun was dipping toward the sea. “You’re cold. And your eyes… you need rest, Namior.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I want to think about what they’ve said.” He had watched the visitors and Chief Eildan conversing out along the mole. They had both glanced back at the harbor, as though trying to weigh how her words had been received, and the sight of everyone returning to their rescue efforts seemed to relax them both. Eildan handed his harpoon to his militia captain Vek to hold, and Keera Kashoomie climbed back down to her docked craft.

Namior leaned into him again. “And let’s not forget our little talk.”

Kel grunted.
Maybe. Or maybe I should keep my past to myself, as always
.