Tides of Maritinia by Warren Hammond Page A

help heal any breaches. All I needed was time, just six more weeks of the status quo. Six weeks before the Empire made its glorious return.
    â€œVery well,” she said with a slight bow of her head. “I will afford you time to consider. The ceremony will begin very soon.” She stood and clapped her hands.
    Two attractive young women entered the tent, dressed in traditional Jebyl sarongs, their hair tied with thick ribbons made of eel skin.
    â€œWash him,” said the Falali Mother before exiting.
    Stepping up to me, one unwrapped the flag around my neck while the other worked the buttons on my shirt.
    Outside the tent, I heard the slow beat of a lonely drum. Then a voice. A coarse, grating wail.
    Oh, Governor
    You better run
    Run for the sea
    Cuda goin’ get you
    Fly for the sky
    Sky goin’ poison you
    Coaxing me upright, the women took off my shoes. My pants. My underwear. Resisting the urge to cover myself, I kept my eyes looking straight ahead.
    Outside, more drums joined in, each beat a unique pattern, all the patterns interlacing into a textured whole. I felt the vibrations in my eardrums. Under my feet. In my rib cage. The voice again. I’d never heard anything like it. So harsh. So abrasive.
    Oh, Governor
    Run, governor, run
    Run for the rocks
    Rocks goin’ crush you.
    Run and hide
    Machete goin’ cut you.
    I spread my arms wide as I could in the cramped space as the women ladled water over my head and shoulders, causing my skin—­still caked with powdered dye from the parade—­to streak with rivulets of inky water. They scrubbed me with wet cloths, excess water draining back into the sea through the bamboo slats underfoot.
    The drumming stopped, followed by the same haunting voice, its scraping wail sounding like a throat full of broken glass.
    Governor goin’ burn
    Governor goin’ burn
    Governor goin’ burn
    Voices joined in, thousands of them, the crowd bellowing the repetitive chorus. A chill tickled my wet skin as the gravity of their animosity toward the Empire sank into my bones. Perhaps the Empire’s return wouldn’t be so glorious.
    One of the women pulled a waistwrap from a bag on the floor. Silk the color of thunderclouds. They wrapped the cloth around me, once, twice, then tied it in place with a cord of cobalt blue. A second song started, and the young women left.
    Alone, I tipped my stool forward to run the water off the seat and noticed the carvings in the bamboo. Fish swimming through kelp fronds. I tapped the lantern to get more light and ran my fingers over the etchings, remembering a time when I was a boy, a time when I used to carve birds and turtles, a time when I wanted to be an artisan.
    A time before I fully understood the trappings of family expectations.
    The etchings were expertly done, the rounded surface of bamboo adding to the difficulty level. Hard to imagine how such fine carvings were created without metal gouges or chisels.
    One of the young women poked her head in. “We’re ready for you.”
    I ran my finger across the carvings one last time, across the fins and fishtails, the scales and teeth.
    So many teeth.
    It was time to face the cuda.

 
    CHAPTER 11
    â€œA mission like theis requires tyou commit all theway.”
    â€“ J AKOB B RYCE
    I knelt at center stage, my waistwrap hugging my thighs, a sleeping mat under my knees. Dugu watched from a few feet away, his camera transmitting a live feed to the skyscreens. The Falali Mother stood before me, her voice firm and sturdy. “Falal weaves our hearts into one cloth.”
    Nearby, a man echoed her words, his voice a sharp holler that triggered the holler of another and another and another, her words traveling on the breath of one crier to the next until they reached every ear around the caldera.
    The Falali Mother lifted her hands to the night sky. “Falal weaves our hearts with the souls of every creature on this world. She threads us