Deeper Waters

Solwara‐Liklik knelt in the sand, watching a baby crab.

She thought the crab was adorable.

The crab felt differently about her.

It kept trying to pinch her toe with its glassy blue claws, each no larger than a smooth pebble.

“Hello,” she whispered, dropping down on her stomach. “Are you lost?"

The crab scuttled down the shoreline, into the open sea. Solwara couldn’t help but follow after it. Who would leave such an adorable crab alone in the big wide ocean?

“Pikinini!” Her father called. “Stay close to the shore!”

She nodded, stumbling over her chubby little feet as she rushed into the waves.

Where are you little crab? Solwara thought.

The waters grew colder as she dove down, down, down, to where large rocks caught lumps of drifting seaweed. With neither fish nor crabs in sight, her dive had failed.

It was so very cold this far down.

She should hurry back up.

But then again, her father would surely scold her. She had gone too far down. Should she perhaps find him a gift? Father loved gifts.

A sparkle caught her eye.

Wedged between two of the largest rocks, there was a bright orange and red shell, adorned with a rippling gold pattern brighter than the flickering sun above.

A Wailu.

Old magic.

Hesitantly, tenderly, she pulled the shell free.

As expected, her father was furious when she returned. And yet, that anger disappeared as he laid eyes on her shell.

It was, in simple terms, gorgeous.

Beyond even its inherent beauty, the shell had a powerful effect on the air, strengthening the salty smell of seawater and fresh-cut wood.

The daughter blew down one end, and the ocean erupted with life. The waves crashed and foamed in joy, releasing all sorts of crabs and shellfish onto the beach. Fish flew from the water, smacking the father across the face.

He fell down, shocked.

Then, slowly, he and his daughter began to laugh, then roar, drowning out the waves.

It was a good day.

Her father cast the nets, reeling in more fish than their family could eat in a whole month. It was abundance on a scale utterly beyond comprehension.

Father and daughter laughed loud, hanging the shell high, as a surprise to mother. And she was surprised.

“What is that doing in our home!?” she shouted. “We should not have dealings with old magic!”

“It was a gift,” father chuckled, holding his family close. “What kind of family would turn down a gift like this?”

And so the family prospered! All other fishers on the island became obsolete overnight. For the first time in all of recorded history, one family provided for the entire village. In return, they were given gold and pearls and shells and honor above any other household. Such things were never asked for, but given free of charge.

For a long time, life was good.

The Liklik clan gave fish and pearls and crab and all manner of wonders to the rest of their village.

They gave too much.

Other families learned the Liklik’s secrets. They learned of the old magic. And some wanted it.

Not all clans have it easy. Not every clan is so blessed. Who calls it fair, to bless one family while another rots in vain?

Of course, everyone knew there was no worse luck than to steal old magic. Everyone knew it.

And yet.

Screams started and ended seconds after.

The entire Liklik clan was killed in one night, their shell stolen by Nambis.

These thieves laughed, raising the shell over the bodies, blowing it proud, beckoning the sea.

But something was wrong.

Few things can make the sea so terribly angry. So horribly, terribly stormy, furious with rage. It descended in a flood of unimaginable proportions, removing chunks of the coastline, gouging into even the island’s foundations.

The village woke the next morning to find a bay where there was once forest, and a shell, lodging in the hand of a skeleton.

The fish had stripped the robbers clean to the bone in no less than an hour.

And yet, the village did not fear the shell. Old magic was not to be taken lightly. Everyone knew such a thing.

The shell was passed down through the village chief, providing food and prosperity for another hundred years. The cautionary tale of the Nambis was a favorite among children. They’d pretend to run from the hungry hungry waves, until their teacher caught and tickled each and every one of them.

One day, there was a boat.

Of course, boats were common. Even though little fishing was done in those times, everyone understood a long boat was for the river Videa and flat boats were for checking weather.

But this boat was…huge. Enormous. No less than twice the size of the Chieftain's house, and built with far more expensive materials. Shimmering materials lined their seams, sparkling in the sunrise brighter than the ocean herself.

It had two masts and sails, with a crew of a hundred people.

Naturally, the residents were skeptical of this group, particularly of the language they spoke.

Fortunately, the sailors meant them no harm. After a bit of figuring out the gist of one another’s form of speech, the islanders discovered many things. They were but a speck in the world.

The Chieftain learned of these other global superpowers sending explorers to take smaller countries.

Apparently their island was too small—whatever that meant—and too poor—whatever that meant—to bother with. Instead, their Captain explained in simple terms that they would rest for a night, share some knowledge in exchange for some food, and leave.

But he stuck around for a little longer.

As time passed, Captain and Chieftain became close friends.

Each had the most fabulous stories to tell. The Captain stretched his arms wide, talking about thunder beasts and ocean spirits and these great magical beasts fighting endlessly in the sky, creating all sorts of phenomena.

“Incredible!” The Chieftain hollered, extending his hands to show surprise, followed by a writing motion on the wooden floor. “Names?”

“No, no, no. They’re just stories. No such things as magic, Chieftain.” He had another swig of that curious strong drink from his ship.

Once the Captain's translator finished explaining, the Chieftain smiled. “No magic?”

“No real magic,” The Captain said with absolute certainty.

“Then, my brother, I have knowledge to share with you.”

The Captain and his crew were led to the sea, where the Chieftain blew into his shell, summoning a great number of fish.

“Meet our Wailu!” The Chieftain thundered, laughing proud. “We have no fishermen on this island! We have no need! Our fish will come to us!”

“Well I’ll be…” the Captain whispered. “May I have it?”

“No, brother,” the Chieftain said, handing the shell to his most trusted advisors. “You see that bay?” He gestured to the ring of water, punching through the coastline. “The shell caused that.”

Both the Captain and his translator took a long time to understand. But when they did, they bolted upright in shock.

“It’s dangerous,” the Chieftain said. “Too dangerous for our new family.”

The Captain frowned. “Danger is fine. What’s your price?”

“None. For the sake of me and my people, I must protect this shell with my life.” The chieftain stood tall. “I hope you are not offended.”

“Not in the slightest!” The Captain said, laughing in good nature. “I’m overjoyed!”

On the night of their departure, their crew killed every fighting man on the island, seizing the shell for one of the world powers. All women of age on the island were also taken along, though the Captain left the children and elderly.

He wasn’t a monster, after all.

Naturally, when the Captain returned to his home country, he and his descendants were made equivalent to royalty, enjoying a season of prosperity unlike anything anyone of his status had ever received.

There was just one small issue.

Try as they might, nobody could make the shell work right.

One night, three weeks after the treasure was delivered to the king, one of the treasury guards gave it a blow.

That entire building was swept away to the sea.

At the time, it was fourteen miles from the nearest coast.

Despite the attempts of many skilled alchemists, not one scientific mind could get the shell to bring back its harvest of fish and sea life. Instead, the waves would rise up, up, impossibly high, stretching out like an arm, tearing the facility from its foundations, crushing everything and everyone inside. What little remained was torn to shreds by a flood of bacteria, like a film.

So the king returned to the island, making a single, simple order. The residents would blow the shell three times a day, and they would all get to live.

The current chieftain—but a boy—blew on the horn.

Rather than bring a harvest into the king’s ships, a storm of gargantian proportions was called, and the entire island, swept away.

There was not a trace remaining. Not a skeleton. Not a speck of rubble.

Soon, all hope of catching fish with the shell was erased.

And yet, it would have been better for the shell to do nothing at all, for the king was watching on that day. He saw the power of the storm, declaring that he and he alone would wield its power.

He had one of his men head into a rival country, blowing the horn at a specific location, putting the capital city between the horn and the shore.

That day, a hundred thousand soldiers, staff, and civilians, not to mention the king and three generals were all swept to sea.

That day, the name Wailu was synonymous with ultimate power.

Thirteen empires claimed it. Thirteen empires lost it.

It was not until the late eighteenth century that scholars began to observe an increase in the shell's power.

Though algae and smaller fish were a common effect in ancient texts, the radius of effect was only a few blocks wide. Such a thing was ludicrous, for everyone knew that a single blast from the shell could erase a city. Then two cities.

Then more.

Where land had been pulled down, superstorms formed, circling and circling around the globe in a constant cycle.

By that point, people had realized how dangerous the shell really was. They just didn’t care.

A war could be won in an instant. The countries without the shell feared nothing more than it, and the country with it, had no choice but to keep it, for it was simply too valuable.

And so, the world sank.

Down.

Down.

Down.

City by city.

Country by country.

Continent by continent.

Past any point of restoration.

“Papa?” The girl asked, tilting her head. “What do you mean by all of that?”

“It’s history, sweetie,” Her dad said with a warm chuckle. He scratched her head. “Sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

“Land. Land.” She smacked the wooden floor with her little foot. “But we’re on land.”

“Real land, dear.” her dad corrected. “With trees.”

“We have trees.”

“Some. Few.”

He stood from his chair, raising his arms to the east and west. “Don’t you wonder what it would’ve all looked like?”

His daughter laughed. “Not really. I like it here!”

“That is good. Here is what we have.” He smiled with that wrinkled old smile, the one that always made his daughter so happy. “Well, I’m getting tired. Get some rest today, won’t you?”

“Okay papa.”

“These days,” the dad whispered. “Those days. When do you think it’ll end, I wonder?”

He walked to bed, up the steps of crooked driftwood. Up the plastic bins. Up the canisters and steel beams and copper plates, streaked with rust. They live, the two of them, on Plato, built from the husks of fallen countries, as all megarafts are.

“This place is a dump,” he said. “But this dump is mine.”

That night he went to sleep with a bad cough.

He did not wake up.

Years passed, as years tend to do, and the girl became a woman, known as Everbell. She went on to live her own life and do her own things.

Though raft life was difficult, it was manageable.

Everbell had only ever one job she wanted. She was neither especially clever nor beautiful, and she could hold her breath for at least a couple minutes, so diving was a perfect fit.

Besides, everyone needed divers.

Rafts of this size needed constant materials. When a board broke, it had to be repaired or replaced.

The solution was obvious.

Years of ruined human creation lay just beneath their feet. Piles and piles and piles of creation, from modern plastics to greek stone, a competent diver had only to grab things and move them. An excellent diver just grabs the right things.

“What do we need?” Everbell asked, dipping her feet into the brisk ocean water.

“Two wooden beams and a steel pipe of any shape and size,” Manager Heave stated. “Time to dry wood had to be less than four hours.”

Everbell whistled. “Thin?”

“Thin.”

“Thin boards break too easy.”

She slid the glossy goggles over her eyes, bending down into the churning water.

A moment passed, and she was in another world.

Dark blue swept up around her, mixing, twisting, tumbling as it crested over a mound, extending endlessly down, out of sight.

Where are you? Everbell asked, paddling lethargically to save oxygen.

Sea monsters drifted in the lower light, but up here, it was safe. Or, at the very least, safer.

A shadow blotted out the sunlight, sending shock waves through the water, churning the piles.

And then, a pulsing, thrumming sound, like a heartbeat.

Slower.

Faster.

Faster.

The waters darkened as algae bloomed, rotting and expanding in the same instant.

No.

She screamed, pushing up from the darkness with all of her strength, burning through her oxygen in an instant.

NO!

Her head burst above the water, in time to watch the storm as it built, engulfing the raft in winds that’d shame a hurricane. People dove helplessly for the waters, disappearing in flashing teeth as the greater monsters rose from the depths, soon fighting one another for claiming over the ship.

Beside her Plato, another raft had taken anchor, firing waving into the larger buildings. A round of ammunition hit the plastic refinery and everything went white.

Plato was burning.

Dying under the weight of scarlet fire, licking the sky, almost taunting her weakness.

The waves pulled her under, down to watch the wreckage puff with smoke, breaking into strands, drifting down, down, down, where it would join the rest of the trash.

She started to see people too, and that was too much.

It was all too much.

Somehow, she lived.

Somehow.

The raft that destroyed Plato was actually much smaller, in desperate need of divers. She was given a job on the spot.

So she dove. She did her job. She found her parts.

“Land,” Everbell muttered, tapping the deck with her foot. “Trees. Bushes. Freshwater. Can you imagine that?”

Her friend was asleep, not to mention drunk.

“I guess a guy like you can imagine anything,” Everbell chuckled.

That chuckle broke something inside her.

Someone very important used to chuckle in much the same way.

Everbell walked to the very top of the mega raft, showing the fullest scope. She saw everything.

And it was smaller than she remembered.

“We’re dying out,” she whispered. “We’re running out of material to use. It’s only a matter of time.”

what was the point?

Humanity's screwed.

Not that she cared. A diver sees nothing but breaking pieces. Everything fixed breaks eventually. Everything.

She tapped her foot against the deck.

Her father once told her, ‘any half-decent diver has a single duty. To make their supplies last their community as long as possible.”

“Oh…” Everbell grimaced. “This is gonna be so stupid.”

The shell was the single most carefully guarded object in any place, anywhere.

It was also on a rotting ship with materials supplied by the thief. A few bad pieces in the right places, and she could swim underneath, breaking through the floor, up several sets of buildings, up into the central cage, plucking the shell from its stand.

And there it was.

The most powerful artifact in the world, stolen by a total amateur after a few months of planning.

As she left, alarms were raised.

But by that point, she had already thrown herself into the sea.

It was just a shell.

Magical, yes, but just a bunch of protein and calcium lumped together.

It broke apart in her hand, like powder.

More like glitter, really.

She drifted further down. Deeper. Deeper. Until the pressure pressed against her head and the air burned in her lungs. Until her whole body screamed that she was about to die.

If she tried to come back to the raft, she would be killed. Her friends would likely disown her. For all she knew, whether she broke the shell or not, humanity was too far gone.

That was fine.

For once, it felt like she did something right.

Her eyes flickered open, open, shut.