Ash for Uncle Yick

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Photo by zoe meeuwens on Unsplash

Rocks on the Cannyar shore hosted sunbathing skeletons of fish. Wrukka birds on low branches of salt blasted Gsetta trees looked fat and menacing.

Their low, echoing calls that often sounded like the belches of sodden men in taverns sounded even more so like them now, when Reygyd was just footsteps from the bloated birds.

Reygyd set down his small shoulder pack and looked at his bleeding foot, a victim of a sharp stick jutting from the ground in the Vsyll Forest.

As tough as Tyrynn skin was, they weren’t entirely immune to lacerations.

Reygyd tore a strip of rough spun cloth from his sweat soaked shirt and wrapped the wound.

A plump Wrukka belched a call. Reygyd wondered if the bird smelled the blood.

Tying the makeshift bandage he laughed through a wince and stood. As he suspected, human skeletons lay on the lower level of rocks stretching out into the Cannyar Sea, tattered clothing still clinging to clavicles.

There would be no way the Wrukka had gotten as fat as they did eating just fish.

Reygyd climbed down the rocks, hissing light, non-blasphemous curses.

He wasn’t afraid of the skeletons, but he didn’t want to risk saying something that might reanimate one.

He felt, even saw, his Uncle Yick spit in amused disgust.

Uncle Yick had no patience for superstition, supernatural, or ritual adherence to the gods, any gods.

Reygyd wouldn’t be standing in this spot if it were not for the lessons Uncle Yick taught him.

He dove in the water, pushing himself downward.

Feeling the seafloor only three lengths of his own body deep, he pawed around until his hand felt a Slykefish.

Oiling his hands with the blue scales of the fish, he swam to the surface, breached, oiled his eyes with his fingers and swam back down.

Blinking, he smiled as the oil brought the murky, roiling water into focus.

No one knew the currents of the Bays of Cannyar like Uncle Yick. While men leagues to the North fought and died over diving territory searching for the treasure of the wreck of the Lyntoria, Reygyd studied his Uncle’s charts of currents and tides.

If the ship had wrecked three sun cycles ago at Martyr Pointe…

Reygyd’s calculations had been correct, based on Yick’s maps.

It was almost magic, though Yick had only believed in the magic of stiff drink.

In a crevice in the small cove there were three large crates.

Reygyd surfaced and surveyed the land.

He didn’t expect to see anyone, he was being overly cautious, but there to the south was a man with a long spyglass placed to his right eye.

He could just be a hobbyist boat watcher, though no boats were visible, or an alchemist weather predictor.

So many had died in the search for the bounty of the Lyntoria that Reygyd couldn’t discount that this man was searching for signs of the wreck.

It was even possible that the man was a drinking companion of Yick and was privy to some of the maps Yick had drawn, though most people considered Uncle Yick to be loonier than paying for duck eggs with Destiny stones.

Reygyd felt the saltwater creeping into his wound, as though it was being sucked in. Then a sting like jumping from a tree onto hot coals.

Treading water, he reached down and felt the sickening squish of a muckleech attached to the bottom of his foot.

Reygyd flipped, holding his foot above the water into the hazy sun. Within seconds he heard the agonized squeal of the muckleech and felt it splash down near him in the water.

The teeth of the muckleech had shredded the bandage and widened the wound.

Blood poured from it, making crimson ghosts in the sea water.

“Finish the job,” he heard Uncle Yick say.

Yick had lost both arms in the Battle of Kourdryd, drew maps with a pencil in his mouth and raised tankards to the same mouth with his foot.

Even if blackeyed trance sharks showed up, Reygyd would somehow finish the job.

Blood trailing behind him, Reygyd swam to the nearest crate.

Wedged awkwardly in a sea floor crevice, some of the planks of the crate had begun to warp.

Reygyd snapped a waterlogged plank off the crate and reached in.

Yick had often marveled, out loud, about the follies of men and their treasures and prizes.

Something brushed Reygyd’s wrist.

He grasped it and yanked.

At the same time he felt flesh of some sort on his neck.

A Cannyarr covesnake.

Reygyd felt it begin to tighten as he shoved himself toward the surface.

The sun and air would not be enough to lose the snake.

Reygyd knew he’d have to get to shore and hit it with a rock, if he was even conscious by that time.

He swam rather than claw at the snake, speed rather than strength.

By the time he fell onto the rocky shore, his breath was tiny tendrils squeezing through his snake flattened airway.

It’s a very odd thing to beat one’s self in the neck with a rock, but Reygyd did just that, his vision clouding, his lungs begging.

Reygyd heard multiple belches.He dragged himself up the rocks and collapsed underneath the Gsetta trees, one hand vainly digging at the snake.

He heard unknown noises and felt movements, knowing he was in the final delirium of dying when he felt his throat expand and take in air, as if for the first time.

He rolled up into all fours, mouth gaping, both breathing and almost chewing air as next to him a Wrukka happily devoured the covesnake.

Slowly Reygyd stood, staring back out at the water.

A white wraith on the surface of the water waved at him.

The contents of the first crate.

If Uncle Yick was correct, the contents of all the crates: Huvvian spider linen. The softest fabric in the world. The cloth of Kings. The treasure of the Lyntoria. The cost of a bolt was so much men had killed for it, died for it.

Except they were doing it in the wrong part of the sea.

Yick had been right. The storm that took the Lyntoria pushed the contents of the ship south.

“Yaii !!!”

Reygyd looked toward the sound, the standard greeting of the Dunae..

It was the man on the hill with the looking glass. He was hurriedly making his way down.

If he was truly Dunae and not a Stortyn Cliff Diver, it would take him til midday to get through the edge trees if the Vsyll, then around the shore to where Reygyd was.

Reygyd dove into the water.

He swam at the surface, having developed a fresh appreciation for air, before diving to the crates.

He pulled the linens one at a time, placing them on the rocks on the shore.

“Yaii!! Ruuganti!!! Kaila Ruuganti” the man called.

Reygyd didn’t speak Dunae but he was pretty certain the man disapproved of his actions and expressed it by suggesting Reygyd do something illicit to his own family member.

Reygyd dove back in the water.

In four trips he had enough Huvvian spider linen on the rocks to make him wealthy for life.

But that, as Uncle Yick would say, was theoretical.

Reygyd was resting cross-legged on the last of the linens, pulling muckleech teeth from his foot when the man scurried from the southern end of the cove.

His knee bled. He had obviously fallen in his haste to speak to Reygyd. And the only reason Reygyd could think of is that the man knew the value of the long bolts of white fabric.

He may even think to challenge or harm Reygyd over the ownership.

It was no matter.

The quest for the treasure of the Lyntoria was something Yick took on to prove that even unable to sail, he still had a special bond with the sea.

When Reygyd continued Yick’s search, Yick stood at his maps, railing against the greed and stupidity of those who would value cloth over a human life.

As the man approached, his voice dancing back and forth between aggressive Dunae and butchered common tongue, Reygyd hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the man defending himself.

Reygyd walked across the rocks and knelt at the first cloth he had brought out of the Cannyarr.

Wrapping a few twigs of Gsetta wood on the driest corner of the linen, he struck the flint from his pack. A small flame took hold.

As the Dunae man came around the Gsettas and saw what Reygyd was doing he bellowed “Stoppnesses!! That is Huvvian!!” Followed by a string of what could only be Dunae curses.

He abruptly switched expressions and smiled sweetly and falsely.

“If master doesn’t wish the simple cloth, Curkiuan will take it and put it to uses.”

“I am no one’s master, certainly not yours. And even if you could take all this cloth through the Vsyll by yourself, what makes you think someone wouldn’t kill you for it before you got it to market?”

The Dunae stared.

“If you know its value, golden friend, why do the burningness?”

Reygyd pointed at the skeletons.

“I believe these men knew the value of the linen as well.”

The Dunae glanced briefly at the skeletons, one with a shred of burgundy sash clinging to its spine, then looked back at the slowly smoldering cloth at Reygyd’s feet.

“In fact, I believe they’re sailors from the very ship that carried the cargo.”

The Dunae’s eyes flitted to the linen, draped over rock and root, drying in the sun.

“We take and share the moneypower, yes?” the man said with a hopeful smile, like someone at a market trying to tell you his rotten fruit was a bargain.

Regyd began to shake his head no before he remembered that it was a Dunae mannerism for yes.

He bit his lip, thinking, then held three fingers downward. He was pretty sure that was the Dunae symbol for no.

The Dunae spit and held up a pinkie finger.

Regyd wasn’t sure what it meant., but he knew the man was displeased.

Reygyd scanned the far trees for any signs of more Dunae or anyone else.

As the linen dried, the intricate patterns began to emerge. The white cloth with silvery, translucent swirls and whorls would be unmistakable to almost anyone on this part of the coast. Hundreds had died fighting or been murdered in the quest to find it. A Huvvian ship sent to possibly reclaim the cargo had been boarded by pirates and sank, none of the recovered bodies of the sailors wearing the fine linens their tiny, rare spiders produced.

The smoldering section of linen near Regyd was a dim orange line of heat. There was no ash, the fibers too fine.

Reygyd blew on the embers and the orange line flared.

“You are fool person bird dropping thoughts having child,” the Dunae spat.

Reygyd simply smiled, but became acutely aware of his youth.

Most of the men two generations above him had died or been maimed in the Battle of Kourdryd, the last time the continent had fallen in love with the idea of wealth and riches. That time it was lamp and heat oil. Before that it was jewels. This time it was three crates worth of rare cloth.

Reygyd, in his village, was a grown man. He had to be.

“I will not silent sit while you destroyness great richly.”

“I will not harm you to stop you from taking it,” Reygyd said. “I am pledged to one dear to me to destroy this if I find it. And I did find it. So it belongs to me. If you take it from me you are a thief.”

“I am mostness happy to be rich thief than peasant vaizaniffkan.

Reygyd didn’t know the slur he was called, but knew that niff was Dunae for goat, so he had an idea what the man was trying to say.

“You might make it back through the Vsyll, but no way you can take that cloth as is to market alone. If you want it so badly you should go get strong warrior friends and something to carry it in.”

The Dunae looked suspicious and a bit shocked.

“You will do waiting so that I become with friends?” the man asked.

Reyged did the three finger Dunae no gesture.

“I will continue to burn it as I pledged to do.”

Reygyd wanted to tell the man about his Uncle, the maps, the promise, even the sheer good fate that made him get to the submerged crates.But he felt like luck would dissipate like sea mist and others would stumble upon this section of coast, plus the language barrier would make the tale a difficult one to tell.

The man muttered angrily in Dunae and stood, He looked around as though he might have friends hiding somewhere, then abruptly moved to run toward the second bolt of drying linen.

Maybe he would just take one, Reygyd thought. Just one single stretch of the linen, folded over on itself four times, had to be dozens of yards of fabric. It would feed four children from infancy to adulthood, probably even buy a nice stone cottage. If someone didn’t murder him on the way to market, which was likely.

The man hurried over the rocks, muttering. As he slowed to stoop and snatch the linen, he lost his footing, his head hitting the high rocks before he fell a stallion’s height to the lower sea stones, the wind from his own chest expelling a deep choof! Before his head lolled to the side and he went silent.

Reygyd immediately placed his right hand on a stone and vaulted himself to a sandy patch next to the fallen man at the edge of the Cannyar. His landing splashed the prone Dunae man, but the man didn’t react. Blood pooled from the back of his head and spittled from his right nostril. He was breathing, shallowly.

The man’s spy glass rested against a rock near where they had been sitting.

The man had no nautical tattoos, nor the tan of a man who spent much time outside.

He must have been another treasure hunter, searching for the wreckage as was Reygyd.

If he bled to death on this shore,he would be another victim of the spider linens, or maybe a victim of his own greed.

The man’s hand convulsed, spasmed.

Reygyd wondered if the Dunae was something like Uncle Yick, an amateur cartographer, a philosopher. He wondered if the man had a family.

Behind Reygyd the smoldering linen flared.

He was startled. The sun had dried the linen to the point that it was more combustible.

The flame was the size of a small cookfire.

He could burn all the linens now.

A wave crashed among the rocks and diluted some of the blood seeping from the Dunae’s head.

In the Vsyll, not too far in, were bushes and roots that Reygyd could use to make a simple coagulant poultice.

The afternoon was getting late. Sundown fishermen might use this cove, there could be Dunae looking for their friend, even Ekall typhoon racers training for the next games.

Reygyd climbed up and tore a flaming piece of linen off and placed it on the next bolt.

When that took he repeated the process until every sheet of it was in flames.

Then he sprinted into the Vsyll.

Silla root was easy to find, a bit temperamental to pull from the ground, but Reygyd twisted enough loose.

Cannya Honey Leaves existed only at the edge of the Vsyll nearest the sea, the leaves from the high branches being the most effective in the poultice. Reygyd climbed.

To make the poultice work he needed Chakynn.

Uncle Yick had a rhyme about how to find Chakynn in a forest, but Reygyd was struggling to remember it.

Chakynn could also be smoked to ease the thoughts that illed one’s head, and Yegyd remembered rolling some for Uncle Yick on the days when the frustrations of the world got to him.

Reygyd ran south, not because he believed there might be Chakynn there, but because he hoped there might be more Dunae who could come help the one who lay bleeding on the shore.

The cut on his foot began to snarl angrily at him.

He stopped to rest and saw the tiny blue flowers peeking from the low grasses that indicated a Chakynn bush was near.

He found it, and peeled off the pungent brown leaves,taking far more than he needed to make the poultice. He would gift the rest to some of the veterans of the Kourdryd.

Reygyd turned and dashed through the Vsyll, briefly got lost, lightly cursed, then smelled his way closer to the edge, nearest the sea.

Finally he saw the flames he had created, having given no thought to what kind of attention they might stir.

The linen created only wispy white smoke, playful ghosts dancing in the hazy sky.

He saw the man’s spyglass, and the Gsetta trees.

The branches were deserted.

The first bolt of cloth was gone, barely discernible white ash blowing among the rocks.

The second bolt was almost gone, and the rest a progression of smolder and flame, some still damp and steaming.

A Wrukka with the Dunae’s intestines in his mouth stared at Reygyd.

A fatter Wrukka dragged some forearm flesh along the shore, gnawing and belching.

The man’s face was intact, expressionless, unaware that he had become lunch.

Reygyd looked away, out to sea.

A small fishing vessel coasted. They had to be able to see the flames, and Reygyd fully expected them to oar in and inspect what was going on.

Reygyd dropped the leaves and roots, climbed back up the rocks and consolidated most of the burning linens,using a large stick from one of the Gsettas.

The fire reached higher, consuming more linen, more sky.

Reygyd walked, limping now, to the very last bolt, and tore away the unburned portion.

He dragged it down the rocky shore clicking his tongue and whistling to shoo the Wrukka away.

They slowly complied, waddling across the rocks chewing on Dunae flesh.

Reygyd pulled back sand and pebbles and lifted the man’s shoulders, wrapping him in Huvvian Spider Linen.

When the linen made a full burial shroud, Reygyd stood.

“I know not what you believed when you walked this life, Dunae,” Reygyd said out loud, in strong voice, “but if you believed in another realm, I bid you a safe journey to it, and I hope it’s a place where men don’t suffocate other men for riches.”

Reygyd pulled the wrapped body into the water and sank it into the shallows with some rocks, then turned and climbed back to the second level of shoreline.

He wondered if the fisherman would oar in, unwrap the Dunae and sell what was left of the linen.

He wasn’t going to wait to find out.

Reygyd picked up the man’s spyglass, and using it as a walking stick, limped back into the Vsyll knowing that more men would die searching for a treasure that was now nothing but wisps of ash and a burial cloth.

***

This one was fun to write, cathartic in many ways. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Any appreciation thrown my way is cherished and treasured and at this point a lifeline: Help Me Pay My Rent