BEYOND SEA AND SONG

BEYOND SEA AND SONG

BRYNDIS

of the Seaonna

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Chapter One

I sink into the music of the sea’s soft bones. The waves above lap and curl like many tongues craving a taste of shore. Immersed in my hunt, I plunge below the singing whitecaps, cascading into the coral reef’s arms. As I pass vibrant fish and layers of undersea plants, a splashy gleam strikes my eyes. A pearl. Only a glimpse from an oyster, but I’m sure.

I smirk at Lyra, who is diving nearby. As she kicks, her azure legs peek from her sealskin and kelp swimsuit. She weaves out of the shallows, graceful as a manta ray. Lyra doesn’t notice the yawning oysters beneath that sea sponge. Which means I may gain the lead.

Breathing saltwater as though air, I submerge deeper into Rettah Ocean, my true home. With strokes smooth as whale tails, I dive and turn my hands to tame an updraft into a whirlpool propeller behind me. Increase my speed. In my rush, my turquoise hair billows in the water tunnel I spellcasted—my small rain drum, ink, and healing waters bobbing against the tie at my waist.

I’m about 70 feet below the dawn-kissed surface now, closing in on the pearl. The ivory sheen twinkles up from the oysters. I slip through the reef’s crevices faster, my swimdress skirt fluttering. Hoping Lyra side-stroking to my left doesn’t notice my hurry.

At last, I grasp the rough-shelled oyster from its colony on the rock formation. Although Lyra and others of my tribe sing oysters open, I tickle the creature’s ridged underbelly, and it parts its shell as if to say good morning. Inside, a pearl large as a turtle egg sits like an offering. I pluck it gently from the oyster’s mouth, admiring the tooth-white glory.

I raise my fist with the giant pearl victoriously, waving at Lyra. I imagine it being used for jewelry, fishing lures, furniture, or boat inlays. A future purpose uncharted. Later, I’ll write this as score number 528 in my log, the highest in our tribe. Pearl collecting is one way I can still be useful—if not extraordinary anymore.

With my free hand, I smack my rain drum open-palmed; the instrument’s popping boom creates bubbles.

Lyra smiles at my sound. “One for the record books! What a beauty,” she praises, soft voice rising. I stow the pearl in my sea-silk swimdress’s zippered pocket, a design from my mother, while Lyra digs beneath rainbow seagrass. Her paint-stained hand shoots up with a precious black pearl. It’s dark as a shark’s eye. “Another one, Bryn. Black pearl for double points!”

I’ve never found a black pearl, a rarity used for the finest jewelry. I raise my eyebrows and pout my powder-blue lips.

Lyra throws her head back with laughter, her smile aglow as the streaks of sunshine weaving in the undersea. “Don’t give me that jealous look,” she teases, knowing my expressions well. “I’m lucky today.”

Quickly, I uncap my enchanted ink bottle from my belt, and the navy liquid swirls around me in the tepid currents. With precise finger movements, I waterbend the ink into cursive letters, scribing a note on the ocean’s palm: You’re cheating somehow. Admit it.

Lyra laughs bright as a lighthouse—becuase she’d never consider trickery. She snorts when she really laughs like this. I love that my best friend is outspoken and giggly with me, saving her true watersoul for a select few. Otherwise, she’s shy as a goby, barely able to answer questions in class without blushing.

“Quit it, or I’ll cheat some more,” Lyra jokes.

I laugh with her, wishing we could stay in this underwater sanctuary all week, though everyone would notice us missing from the Maiden Ball. Except for my piano solo, I rinse away thoughts of the insipid ball, and we circle the reef again.

As every morning before, we’ll likely only harvest pearls, seaglass, and underwater plants from our waterbed gardens—but that doesn’t dampen my hope. For the thousandth time, I wonder if I’ll find the conch piece. Though it’s been years and no one has recovered my treasure, I could still find it, reclaim what was lost, what drifted leagues away and returned.

Don’t get distracted, I chastise myself, concentrating on our pearl search again.

I trail my hands through silty sand between anemones, crabs darting around my fingers. Touching mossy boulders that may hide mussels, oysters, salt crystals, or our renowned seaglass.

My seaglass bracelet matches some indigo seaglass tucked beneath a starfish; the gems on my right wrist shimmer as I poke through eely seaweed. Searching. Scouring. Sometimes, I feel like the lobsters and crabs, the bottom-feeders surviving on leftovers.

Before melancholy seeps in, I twirl past porous sponges and alabaster calcium deposits to a quiet cove. Soon enough, my favorite cobalt blue sea-bunny hops into her den, fin ears twitching, her lungs like gills, same as we Seaonna. We’ll share more stories, I mouth with a smile, and the docile animal wiggles her ears like she remembers.

I leave the sea-bunny’s cove, release myself to the brine. Wrapped in the reef’s seascape, I look and listen and feel the sea within me like a song, like my pulse. Breakers rumble above as background singers. Loose shells ripple beat, brittle stars hug kelp beat, and a bubbling pufferfish floats through a lotus bed beat. A chorus I’ve memorized. With my daily swims around Saraine, I’ve learned our island’s environment better than the Tide Knights.

So I easily spot the difference today: a pocket of broken coral.

A staghorn coral’s branch is snapped off, leaving a jagged edge. Another branched finger coral is cracked beside it. Those are durable species…strange they’d be smashed. Perhaps sea creatures were fighting and collided into the plants.

Dark spots stain the two broken corals, as if they’re diseased. The seabed-black oddity is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

My mind tunnels. Did someone pull these corals apart as they were wrenched into the depths? Seaonna can stay submerged for days, unable to drown…but we can also be overpowered. I should know.

My parents have cautioned me and my brothers about the ocean’s temper for years; though the sea is our lifesource, it harbors dangers too. Fierce serpents can strangle you to death, sudden riptides can pummel you into sharp rocks, unseen enemies can ambush you, just for starters.

Judging by the severed coral, maybe someone was hurt here. Imagining a scuffle comes too easily…creatures fighting to survive…or Seaonna retaliating with waterbending…

I swim among the curious structures and study the reef’s ecosystem. Seahorses curl tails along seagrass; crawfish dig for food; a turtle sleeps beneath an algae-crusted cove, reminding me of Ripple.

Nothing suspicious. Nothing adrift but the broken, discolored corals.

I lift my rain drum from my hip and strike it three times. The thunderstorm-like booms ring out, and Lyra’s head pops between kelp. I motion her over, pausing our pearl contest.

Lyra joins me and bites her lip at the sight. “Did you spill some of your ink?”

I shake my head, then write, No, it’s different. Look closer.

She stretches her fingers–rust colored from her latest painting–near the coral. “Someone could have knocked an anchor into them. Or maybe an animal hit them?”

I thought the same, I write with floating lines, but the spots? Dark and thick as squid spray, the smears coat over half the marine plants.

Lyra and I discuss theories. Maybe a king octopus, hungry mermaid, or other captor tugged prey down. Could a rare disease be affecting the plants? A Truwen might recognize the plants’ ailment with their botany skills. Not like we have an Earth bender handy.

We have only guesses…until the wave’s melody shifts, and dark fragments ascend from the dropoff ahead. Let’s explore, I tell Lyra in ink and point to the depths.

Lyra furrows her brows, blueberry lips downturned. “Bryndis, are you sure?”

Perhaps I’m one of the few who doesn’t question the sea, doesn’t dread or avoid it after misfortunes. I can’t blame the ocean for hurricanes, monsoons, or even my past.

So I shake my head yes. I’m compelled to follow the darkness—a hooked fish on a line yanked taut. A Tide Knight wouldn’t cower, I write, squaring my shoulders as we tread. Like Caspian, I can protect our island with endless courage and duty. Prove to myself and my family that I’m more than my history. No longer that helpless girl, not a victim but a victor.

Lyra searches my face. “I’m not trained like a Tide Knight,” she whispers. Leaving unsaid that she can’t protect me, though we run circles around classmates when we spar in school. And I’ve practiced with Caspian and Mother for years.

I pat her arm, then shorthand, You’re more than enough. She half-grins. Don’t you want answers? I add with a wink, since Lyra loves solving mysteries, though usually in books.

As my writing dissipates in the teal waves, she glances around the reef like a hermit crab craving a shell. When I smile reassuringly, she says, “Okay, I am curious. But if anything makes us feel too uneasy, we should head back.”

Deal, I write. As Lyra nods, I stick my pinky out, and she wraps hers around mine in the gesture we made as kids.

“Strong as waterfalls,” she chants our catchphrase, born from our habit of riding wild inland waterfalls. My inner tides swell while we smile and release our pinky fingers.

As if to finalize our decision, the eddies propel against my back. More urgent, summoning us to chase the unknown. I front-stroke forward while Lyra hesitates, then hurries after me. The unsettling shadows lead us farther from shore, then deeper—about 120 feet down, to the reef’s barnacled sides and a dropoff to the chasmic sea.

We swim to the point where an oozing, black slime sticks to the rock face. Just like on the corals. Once-thriving plants like kelp, seaweed, and urchins in the murk’s path are now shriveled, darker than orca skin. Lyra gasps at my side.

I wonder if the residue reaches the ocean floor, where sunlight never touches. My chest tightens with nerves. Still, I track the blackness and dead plants down the cliff, Lyra swimming near. Barnacles and urchins that cling to the reef’s foundation have been swept aside, leaving a tentacle-long streak shady as witchcraft.

Something slipped like a waterfall down the rock’s side. A beast? A body?

I inch toward the shadowy remains, but Lyra warns, “We’re getting close.”

She’s right. We’re nearing open water, past the reef’s edge. The limit of how far I’m allowed to travel. I shiver. Visions rise from years ago…the phantom’s beckoning through the mist…my silver blood curling in the waves like a living treble clef…afterward my parents imprisoning me within the reef’s natural border.

As badly as I want to surpass my boundaries, these tainted waters feel unsafe. Am I making a grave mistake? I’ve never been this near my invisible barrier either, uncertain of the consequences. The risks wash over me like the chill of the surf.

“We don’t have to go farther,” Lyra says. Her tone is soft as otter fur. Like my mother, she’s always been able to read me, and I her. “I mean, I’d prefer it if we didn’t. We should get your parents, or Caspian, or Freya.” Lyra twists her sky-blue hair. She’s afraid too.

Like Lyra, I wish Aunt Freya was here. As our librarian and scribe, she would have more ideas based upon our findings. I can almost picture Freya telling me to think deeper, to consider each word in my songwriting, every water molecule in training. Much like my mother Queen Ēlin’s teachings.

Mother wouldn’t approve of tracking this eerie darkness, but her punishment wouldn’t be as severe as Father’s. If these black spots are treacherous, I imagine Father throwing me in the dungeons for disobedience—or Guardians forbid marrying me off. He’d never understand a choice to venture near the barricade after my incident.

But I can’t refuse the ocean’s call forever. Can’t pretend this is enough when I crave the whole sea, instead of a slice. Today could be my chance.

Besides, if I uncover this mystery plaguing our reef, I should be pardoned. Even Caspian and the other Tide Knights should thank us.

I ink-write to Lyra, We can do this alone, with more confidence than I feel. We need to, I think, but write, What if this clue never comes back?

Lyra’s expression softens, perhaps due to my words or desperate look. “Let me go first,” she says, swimming toward the burnt-looking plants. Her artist instincts take over, and she touches the black substance. “It’s almost like paint,” Lyra whispers. She rubs the sticky residue between her fingertips. “Slippery, more solid than I expected.”

Following her lead, I reach toward the gloomy waters, but a mahi-mahi fish careens in front of me. The fish whips his tail fin so sharply, I fling away from the substance. A sudden current swirls me backward too. Sea creatures and the ocean itself must be warning us…

…that this ooze is a danger brewing in our midst. A danger now on Lyra’s skin.

Pulse floundering, I bang on my drum and scrawl as quickly as I can, Get the darkness off! If I could shout, fear would lace my words.

Lyra’s gaze moves from her blackened fingers to me. She seems puzzled, like she didn’t realize the fish and undertow dragged me away.

Wash it off NOW! I write, pounding my rain drum.

My lifelong friend scans me, but she doesn’t move. As though I’m writing in a foreign language.

In a single blink, tendrils of darkness cloud the water. Like tangible nightmares entered the ocean.

Before I can react, the darkness swells toward Lyra. Her sapphire eyes shift to charcoal, crazed and disturbing. Down to my blood, to my bones, to the bottom of my watersoul, I feel like a ship torn apart by a tempest.

BRYNDIS

of the Seaonna

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Chapter Two

“What’s happening?” Lyra shrieks. Her soprano voice is frantic. Attempting to escape the pollution clinging to her. She flails and casts water spells, but they fizzle into trickles instead of purging the shaded waters.

I gape at my trapped friend. My fingertips turn numb, as if my powers are hibernating. My heart throbs, lungs pausing, hands shaking. Mind hurricaning, building, yelling at me to move. To feel more than this debilitating horror.

“Bryndis, help!” my sea sister yells. She rinses away my shock.

I swim nearer and soothe, Don’t fear; I’ll cleanse you. Somehow.

Open-mouthed and petrified, Lyra observes the shadows engulfing her azure skin. The shaded force leaves grimy spots on her fingers, then wrists. Spots that spread like a tidepool.

Though I’m unnerved by this ghostly gloom, I try to purge it away. Lyra squirms as I chant and flare my magic, bathing her with the clean ocean. Dousing her with pure tides should work. I swish my arms with the ocean’s rhythm, splashing her with our life-giving brine.

I glance around to ensure the sinister presence won’t reach me—and count eight areas of water so dark, they could convince me we’re at the bottom of a well. Each section is about three feet round, slinking through the clear sea like spilled grease.

“Hurry, it feels like I’m—,” Lyra moans in pain, closing her eyes.

With fast movements, I water cast precise strikes against this nemesis. Desperately working to shelter us from impurity, to wash the dread off Lyra’s skin.

But the spots remain on her.

My hands quiver, but I manage to ink-flare, The shadows won’t wash off…

At my words, Lyra’s eyes widen like a waxing moon. She groans, jerking and twisting in the sea. As if the pain is unraveling her.

The darkness looms over me but crawls toward Lyra like piranhas drawn to a wound. And I have no idea how to dispel this threat swarming upon my friend.

We can beat this, just hold on, I blast navy words, my magical ink pot refilling again. What does it feel like? If she can describe the pain, maybe I can free her from torment.

Only Lyra doesn’t reply. Instead, she cackles, her voice now mythic and chilling. Her booming bass rumbles into the combers, sending fish darting. She swings her arms and legs like weapons. Predatory. Though Lyra doesn’t appear in control. Her eyes flicker between blue and coal-black, a push and pull of high and low tides.

I waterbend frantically, sending fervent bursts toward her. My water lines seem to merge into the slinking, onyx waters. A dead end.

Another idea strikes me, and I reach for the bottle of healing water tied around my waist. I uncap the vial, and the golden liquid pours into the ocean around me. With focus, I send the shiny healing waters toward Lyra.

The dense, harvest-yellow waters glisten as they slide forward. I hold my breath, hoping hoping hoping. These sought-after spring waters can heal almost any physical injuries, but wounds of the heart and mind–grief or hallucinations–are beyond its capability. How deep has the darkness gone? The blots cover her arms, up her swimsuit’s top to her collarbone, dyeing her blue skin to charcoal.

Maybe the healing water will still save her. Please work, I’m begging you, I pray silently to Anahita.

But the healing remedy doesn’t reach Lyra’s skin—because she’s suddenly seized by the umbra. The shade snatches her away from me, spreading around her with hunger. Lyra howls, a sound like nothing human, born from tsunamis of misery.

I quickly retie the healing waters at my belt and surge after her. If only I could yell at her to fight back, to stay strong.

I reach toward Lyra, though I shouldn’t touch her, or I could be contaminated too. Why does this foe only want her?

Breathless, I cast water whips again. [...]