James West - Crown of the Setting Sun

As the storm spread across the sky, he went about gathering his breakfast. Munching a handful of waterbugs, thinking about another swimming lesson, an unexpected gust nearly toppled him into the river. That wayward blast of wind proved to be the first of many, and quickly became a steady gale that forced Leitos to sit with his back to the storm.

He remained that way until a streak of lightning struck the river a little downstream, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled his bones. The wind increased, as did the lightning and thunder. The sky darkened under purplish black clouds that billowed and swirled like living, malevolent entities. The first raindrops fell huge and scattered, and rapidly became a pounding deluge.

Shivering and bedraggled, Leitos huddled down and waited for the storm to pass, arms wrapped tightly around knees pulled close to his chest.

But the storm did not pass. Instead, it became more powerful, its thick cloak creating a premature nightfall. Erratic winds howled, driving the downpour first one way, then another. Through it all, Leitos did not worry too much, and only started when lightning struck close.

His first inkling that he might be in trouble came when, through the blur of driving rain, he noticed the birth of a dozen muddy waterfalls pouring over either rim of the gorge. Soon after, a hundred cascades were plunging into the river. Leitos told himself that the storm would pass in its own time. Instead, the tempest raged on, the battering rainfall stinging his exposed skin.

Alerted by a strange sensation, he looked through his dripping hair, startled to find that the river had risen high enough to lap at his toes. Where he sat, that meant the surface had risen a good two feet.

Leitos clambered to the highest point on his rapidly shrinking island, and there sat down again. Eyes narrowed, he watched with dread fascination as the river rushed by, its surface getting higher, wilder, muddier, and choked with swirling debris.

Soon the turbulent flow had covered the whole of his sanctuary, forcing him to stand up to keep his backside out of the water. Disbelieving, he watched it creep above his ankles. He told himself it could rise no more … but it did, until the flow tugged at his legs, upsetting his balance. He was a heartbeat from being swept away. Fighting for balance, he whipped his head around, searching for any place to go. In all directions, boiling spray marked drowned boulders. Of dry land, there was none.

The river inched higher, and the storm showed no sign of abating. Water surged against him, his feet slid. There was no more time. As he prepared to leap, he felt a strange trembling in the rock underfoot, and with that sensation came a sound out of the north that stilled his pulse.

He squinted against the sheeting pour. Upstream, through a nearly opaque curtain of rain, lightning flashed and thunder rolled. The river’s voice strengthened, and the sensation of quaking underfoot became a steady throb. Leitos blinked water out of his eyes, unsure what he was seeing. Out of that rain-soaked gloom raced a seething mountain of mud and raging waters, its boiling face riddled with deadly debris. He waited no longer. Leitos shouted as he threw himself into the river, but his voice could not contend with the raging fury racing toward him.

The powerful current snatched him from the air, eagerly, forcefully, as if it had been waiting these last days for just such a chance. He tried a few strokes, but swimming was useless. It took all his effort to keep his head above water. More than once, his feet scraped or slammed over rocks. Backward churning waves rolled him under, whirled him about, then vomited him farther downstream. He was at the mercy of the river as much as all the pummeling, water-black branches floating with him. After going over a low waterfall, he found himself facing upriver. The mountain of muddied water chased after him, falling over itself in great, exploding waves, gaining slowly; its immense power pushed him before it. He turned, doing his best to stay afloat.

The sides of the gorge narrowed at one point, flashing by, the river’s rage amplified by towering cliffs. Up ahead, the river took a sharp turn. In the outer curve, the waters crashed against the wall of the gorge, rising high before collapsing back over on themselves in a continuous, churning fall thrice the height of a man. All Leitos had taught himself about swimming fled his mind, and panic consumed his wits. He began clawing at the water, trying to get to the inside curve of the bend.

His efforts were in vain.

Thrashing and kicking, he flew into the base of the towering wave. Spray hit his face, and the river dragged him under. He struck the rock wall, the force crushing the breath from his lungs. All became a spinning, tumbling confusion. With malicious intent, the flow slammed him against the base of the cliff, set him free, then punished him again. Caught in an inescapable eddy, Leitos banged repeatedly against the wall before a squeezing force pressed in on him from every side. He shot up and up, feeling at once weightless and caught in a giant’s fist. Then, with stunning abruptness, he soared free. He pinwheeled before splashing into the river.

Bruised, scraped, and disorientated, he struggled to the surface and drew a sodden breath. All was a deafening roar, as the river thrashed him. Leitos fought as long as he could, but rapidly grew weaker and more desperate for a deep breath. His chest burned, but he dared not draw the river into his lungs. A part of him felt sure he was going to drown, but another part refused to accept the possibility. He had survived too much to let mere water destroy him. His anxiety gave way to his own fury, and he cursed the river and the storm, elements so much greater than he.

His anger gave him some little, momentary strength. He paddled and splashed with all the vigor he could muster, but his effort was short-lived. Far too soon, his arms and legs became leaden, useless. He sank again. This time, he failed to rise.

Knowing he had lost the battle, Leitos felt an unexpected acceptance surmount his fears. Lost in the swirling reddish murk, he went still and let the river take him. He drew in the extinguishing coolness of the river, quenching the fire in his chest. A suffocating pressure filled his lungs, but he soon moved beyond such physical concerns, as if his spirit and body were no longer one.

His consciousness drifted, rendering all previous apprehensions impotent. No more would he fear the bite of an Alon’mahk’lar’s lash, no more would he suffer hunger or thirst. In the wake of this release he found true freedom, and a sense of expectancy filled him, birthed a surreal peace in his soul. Only the sharp understanding that he had failed his grandfather haunted him. Yet even that concern evaporated, as points of light began dancing before his eyes, multiplying, until he floated upon an undulating sea of pearl white. As the white went to black he decided, with no small measure of relief, that death was nothing to fear.

Sharp, red pain drew him out of the serene dream and into a raucous nightmare of thundering waters, torrential rains, and driving winds. Something had caught the hair on his head in an iron-grip. It was pulling him from the river, carelessly dragging him along like a carcass over rounded stones, then through sandy mud.

He opened his mouth to shout a protest, but silty water dribbled past his lips instead of words. All the pain and fear he had so recently escaped crashed back down upon him, and he longed to return to that blessed void. He reached up with arms that refused to work as they should, and clawed with fingers that held no strength.

“Quit fighting, you damned fool,” a man’s gruff voice commanded.