a glance before looking seaward.
Pulsing white light burned a determined path toward the shore. It descended rapidly. The rain thickened and evaporated into steam around it. At last it touched the tumultuous waves, sending a fresh cloud of steam upward as it buried itself in the sea.
“Meteor,” the grizzly-bearded fellow grunted to the others. He returned to his net and began mending a tear.
His friends joined him, picking up the work they’d neglected.
Absorbed in his task, the fisherman let time fly around him. The rain lessened, the clouds thinned, and thinned some more, until moderate sunlight warmed his shoulders. It had to be at least an hour later. “Yimshi’s light is burning today,” one of the fishermen admitted, glancing at his red shoulders. He rolled his net into his wood boat and jogged into the surf.
“Yeah, ‘nuff work for now!” another man said, loosening his tunic and joining the first. “I can use a cool swim.”
The remaining fishermen stampeded into the water, grins brightening their tanned faces. The grizzly-bearded fellow laughed as he watched them, but remained by his net. He finished mending the tear and slung one corner of the tri-sided net over the bow of his single-masted fishing vessel. The prow of his boat rested solidly on the white sand while the sea water lapped at the stern. He held the rail and let his knees buckle, hanging on as his weight stretched his stiff back muscles.
Something knocked into his knee, and he glanced down to find a ghostly-white face glaring up at him. “Shivering timbers!” He jumped back. The other fishermen sloshed out of the water and stood in a half-circle behind him. He knelt and waved his hand across the face of the individual before him. The new arrival’s eyes seemed frozen open, and his shoulder-length white hair pulsed in sync with the incoming seawater.
“Who is he?”
“How should I know?”
“Would you look at those eyes! I thank God I don’t have eyes like that.”
“Yeah, would be a bit embarrassing—girlish, even.”
“Big fellow, though. I wouldn’t cross him.”
The grizzly-bearded fellow flipped their white-haired guest onto his stomach and pounded his fists into the man’s back.
Bile and water spewed from the new arrival’s mouth, and he coughed. When he could breathe freely, he rose to his feet and faced the assemblage of humble laborers. His pink—almost white—eyes made him seem soft and childlike, that is, until he spoke in a voice deeper than any present. “My gratitude to you all. You have, perhaps, preserved my life. Tell me now: what part of the world is this?”
The grizzly-bearded fellow stood in front of him. He crossed his arms in front and eyed the white-haired man up and down. No shirt, only loose-fitting blue-gray pants made of coarse fabric, but around his waist a belt of hammered steel. An assortment of heavy tools hung from it, including an anvil no bigger than a large man’s fists, tongs, a long narrow file, and a curious hammer with a wooden handle and shiny silver head. It was a miracle the stranger had washed ashore with those heavy items attached; they should have drowned him in the depths of the sea.
“Before answering your questions”—the grizzly-bearded fisherman held up his forefinger—“how about answering a few of my own?”
For a moment the man’s pink eyes flared, then he gently nodded his head.
“Good. What is your name and—”
“I am Linsair, a sword smith. My origin is harmless, though none of your affair, and I speak without guile. So you need not fear me.”
The grizzly-bearded fellow unfolded his very large arms and leaned against his vessel. “Smoothly spoken, Linsair the sword smith, but we know not you nor of you. And whatever cause would make you hide your origin concerns me. Well, rather, it concerns us?” He paused.
“Yes,” his fellow fishermen declared.
“So you see, Linsair, I do not desire to make an enemy of you, and I am not forbidding
Pulsing white light burned a determined path toward the shore. It descended rapidly. The rain thickened and evaporated into steam around it. At last it touched the tumultuous waves, sending a fresh cloud of steam upward as it buried itself in the sea.
“Meteor,” the grizzly-bearded fellow grunted to the others. He returned to his net and began mending a tear.
His friends joined him, picking up the work they’d neglected.
Absorbed in his task, the fisherman let time fly around him. The rain lessened, the clouds thinned, and thinned some more, until moderate sunlight warmed his shoulders. It had to be at least an hour later. “Yimshi’s light is burning today,” one of the fishermen admitted, glancing at his red shoulders. He rolled his net into his wood boat and jogged into the surf.
“Yeah, ‘nuff work for now!” another man said, loosening his tunic and joining the first. “I can use a cool swim.”
The remaining fishermen stampeded into the water, grins brightening their tanned faces. The grizzly-bearded fellow laughed as he watched them, but remained by his net. He finished mending the tear and slung one corner of the tri-sided net over the bow of his single-masted fishing vessel. The prow of his boat rested solidly on the white sand while the sea water lapped at the stern. He held the rail and let his knees buckle, hanging on as his weight stretched his stiff back muscles.
Something knocked into his knee, and he glanced down to find a ghostly-white face glaring up at him. “Shivering timbers!” He jumped back. The other fishermen sloshed out of the water and stood in a half-circle behind him. He knelt and waved his hand across the face of the individual before him. The new arrival’s eyes seemed frozen open, and his shoulder-length white hair pulsed in sync with the incoming seawater.
“Who is he?”
“How should I know?”
“Would you look at those eyes! I thank God I don’t have eyes like that.”
“Yeah, would be a bit embarrassing—girlish, even.”
“Big fellow, though. I wouldn’t cross him.”
The grizzly-bearded fellow flipped their white-haired guest onto his stomach and pounded his fists into the man’s back.
Bile and water spewed from the new arrival’s mouth, and he coughed. When he could breathe freely, he rose to his feet and faced the assemblage of humble laborers. His pink—almost white—eyes made him seem soft and childlike, that is, until he spoke in a voice deeper than any present. “My gratitude to you all. You have, perhaps, preserved my life. Tell me now: what part of the world is this?”
The grizzly-bearded fellow stood in front of him. He crossed his arms in front and eyed the white-haired man up and down. No shirt, only loose-fitting blue-gray pants made of coarse fabric, but around his waist a belt of hammered steel. An assortment of heavy tools hung from it, including an anvil no bigger than a large man’s fists, tongs, a long narrow file, and a curious hammer with a wooden handle and shiny silver head. It was a miracle the stranger had washed ashore with those heavy items attached; they should have drowned him in the depths of the sea.
“Before answering your questions”—the grizzly-bearded fisherman held up his forefinger—“how about answering a few of my own?”
For a moment the man’s pink eyes flared, then he gently nodded his head.
“Good. What is your name and—”
“I am Linsair, a sword smith. My origin is harmless, though none of your affair, and I speak without guile. So you need not fear me.”
The grizzly-bearded fellow unfolded his very large arms and leaned against his vessel. “Smoothly spoken, Linsair the sword smith, but we know not you nor of you. And whatever cause would make you hide your origin concerns me. Well, rather, it concerns us?” He paused.
“Yes,” his fellow fishermen declared.
“So you see, Linsair, I do not desire to make an enemy of you, and I am not forbidding
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