“You don’t… understand.” Tokela tried to say it, couldn’t bring it to life through voice. I won’t be that. I don’t want it. I want to be here, of my tribe, belonging!
“I’m trying to.” It was like shade from hot Sun, or a roof against hard Rain.
Trying. To understand.
With a half smile, Anahli leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. Then she turned and left him there, with Rain and River and…
And Ilhukaia, lying in deeper water, bobbing gentle in the current.
Tokela watched Anahli go.
For long, halted breaths, he thought to follow her.
Instead he dropped his blanket on the strand and raised his bare face to Rain. He toed from his boots, started to shuck from his leggings and tunic, left off. He was sopping; it didn’t matter. As he walked forwards, River tickled his bare toes, made many promises, swore cool, clear bond.
Riverwalkers have scant ties with any but their own kind—and even that lies questionable.
He didn’t want to remember Inhya’s talk, but it rose behind his eyes and hissed at him like venomous, tiny avatars of serpentKin. “Shut it.” The growl went deep, shivered back upwards. “I will not hear you.”
Their own kind.
A’io. Better to be outlier. Outcast.
Better than being Other.
Tokela took several running steps and dove forwards.
Well used to the undertows and currents lying beneath Her surface, Tokela was pleasantly surprised by River’s accord. He swam, fleet and nigh-silent upon Her undertow, and reached Ilhukaia with ease. The trading galley rose over him, wet and sleek as a breaching Sea-wolf, her sides too slick to scale. Lapping Ilhukaia’s circumference, he found a length of rope knotted into a ladder.
River clung to him as he rose from Her, tonguing his spine like a lover; Tokela gritted his teeth, shuddered against the rope. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.
It seemed, to his overwrought senses, She answered. I know. Still, you are missed.
A shudder, an exhaust of heated breath, and Tokela resumed his climb hand over hand. The rope made a soft creak in his palms. Reaching the railing, he quickly scaled it, coming to a soundless crouch on the deck.
The clouds parted for several breaths, allowing a rising Brother Moon to reflect against the wet decks, with His siblings to add a skim of bronze and blood to bright silver. Tokela padded across, dripping, his feet leaving wavering outlines on the wooden planking. Rain also left patterns, small circles of strike melting into gloss. Other than his own breaths and the wet patter, Ilhukaia lay quiet.
Too quiet. Deserted, almost. Surely some of her crew would have returned by now? And the old one, Našobok called him uncle… Munro was his name. Surely he would be here, at least. But Tokela saw no one.
Našobok had forgotten.
That’s what it was, and all it was, and with the realisation came a drowning misery as merciless as River. Tokela wanted to kick the railing, hiss curses, weep with frustration.
My own. So clear, vibrating, a rush of hum and heat that skimmed his skin and stoppered his breath. Do you truly believe you are so easily forgotten?
Tokela whirled about. No one was there.
Clouds cloaked the Moons. Tokela paced over to the railing, quiet but worried—hurried—and looked down. Still no one. A sharp call echoed from a neighbouring craft against the cliff face, was muted beneath a sudden gust of Wind and wet. The deck rose and fell beneath Tokela, River slapping and tossing against Ilhukaia’s hull. It sounded like… laughter.
“I…” A hoarse whisper as he tottered back. “I don’t—!”
He bumped against something. Tokela tried to shove it away; instead strong hands laid upon him. Reaction came instinctive and instantaneous; he twisted, and when the hands didn’t let go he writhed downwards. His feet slipped on the decking as he lurched sideways, trying to yank free. The grip tightened, shook, and finally shoved Tokela up against a bulkhead.
Tokela panicked, letting fly with a hard kick. It made solid impact. His attacker staggered hard against him and cursed roundly in Našobok’s voice.
“Yai!” Pain, and real aggravation. “What ails you, Tokela?”
The breath slipped from his lungs in a long sigh of relief. “You’re here.”
“She’s my craft; where else would I be?” Nigh wet as Tokela, Našobok grimaced, bending down to rub at his right shin. “You kick like a mare defending a new-dropped foal—whatever have I done now?” Našobok’s glanced sideways, eyes glossed by a torch held against the murk. “You’re right, Uncle, you heard someone. Only this one was actually invited.”
Old Munro, bald, tattooed scalp glistening beneath the torch he held, padded up beside Našobok. He’d a thick spear in his other gnarled hand. “Then next time offer the oških a canoe, ’stead of him sneaking up smooth as otterKin and nearly getting spitted by an old Riverwalker.” He spoke Rivertalk, with all the slurs and stops.
It had been overlong since Tokela had heard such. It gave him focus upon something other than Rain on his skin and River filling his heart.
Munro peered at him, face cragged further in a frown. Našobok said something Tokela didn’t understand—perhaps couldn’t, because his own senses were set to overflow—and Munro shrugged, turned, ambled away.
“…is it?” Našobok’s voice overrode the hum and heat. Tokela slumped against the wall. “You’re white-eyed as if shadowlings are after you.”
You’re not far wrong. Hysteria narrowed itself into a hiccup of not-quite-laughter; once again Tokela tossed the sodden hair from his eyes. “I thought—” It was a croak; he tried again. “I didn’t mean to kick you.”
Našobok propped one hand just above his shoulder. Belatedly, Tokela realised they were against the front wall of the den leading belowdecks. “When I said you were welcome on Ilhukaia,” Našobok chided, fond, “I didn’t mean you had to swim here.”
“I… I like swimming. I didn’t mean to… to intrude.”
“You aren’t. Don’t mind Munro—he’s had a few try climbing aboard without an invitation. He’s quite good with his spear, is the old one; gave them a poke. Not quite the same sort of poke or spear, mind,
