Elaine Cunningham - The Best of the Realms, Book I

Still, the old fisherman continued his lecturing. Itwas not fair, really. Morgan had lived nearly eighteen summers-and had sailedfor most of those. He was no land-bred lackaday, ill-prepared for work upon afishing boat, nor was he a pampered merchant's son come to the Alamber coaston holiday. He was a fisherman, born into one of the oldest fishing families onthe Inner Sea. Yet his fascination with the sea seemed to frighten hisgrandfather-and the close-knit inhabitants of Mourktar.

Thinking back, he knew the reason why. The superstitiousvillagers had never really accepted him. His mother dead from the strain ofchildbirth, his father lost in grief so deep that he sailed out into the InnerSea one winter night, never to return, Morgan had grown up wild, spending manya sunset running across the rocks and cliffs that jutted out over the water,listening to the song of the waves and breathing in the salty musk of the wind."Sea-touched," they had called him. Changeling. Pointing to his blackhair and fair skin, so different from the sun-golden complexion and reddish hairof Mourktar's natives, as outward proof of the very thing they whispered softlyto each other in the deep of night, when the wind blew hard across the shore.Even now, Morgan knew that many still made the sign of Hathor behind his backif he gazed too long out at sea or sat on Mourktar's weathered quay in deepthought.

He searched for signs of bitterness, for someresentment of his reputation, but found none. He had grown up with the simplereality that no one understood him. He had friends, conspirators who were happyto while away the time between childhood and manhood by stealing a mug or twoof frothy ale from old Borric's tavern or playing at war amid the scrub-chokeddunes, and there were evenings enough of stolen kisses beneath the docks. Butno one truly knew what went on in his deepest core, that silent part of himthat heard the measured beat of the sea's heart, that felt its inexorable pulllike a vast undertow of need. No one could know these things-except perhapshis father.

Morgan shuddered at that thought and shook himselffree of his reverie. His frustration and resentment drained out of him, leavingbehind only emptiness and a numbing chill. The sun had nearly fallen beneaththe horizon, and he looked up to find his grandfather staring expectantly athim in the purplish haze of twilight, his discourse apparently finished.

"I said, 'tis a fierce storm'll blow tonight, andwe'd best be finishing soon." The old man shook his head and mutteredsomething else under his breath before opening the waterproof tarp they used tocover the boat.

Morgan hmmphed guiltily and moved to help hisgrandfather, threading a thin rope through the small holes around the tarp'sedge and running it around the metal ringlets attached to the sides of theboat. In truth, not a single cloud floated anywhere in the twilit sky, but thecoastal breeze had picked up, bringing with it a sharpening chill. He had longago stopped doubting his grandfather's ability to guess the weather.

Once he'd finished securing the tarp, the old man spatand walked down the quay toward Mourktar.

"Come lad, we've a fair catch to bring home, andthere's a dark tide running in. Besides, I've a yearning for some of yer gran'sfish stew."

Morgan bent and hefted the sack of freshly caught fishover his shoulder, thanking the gods that they had sold the rest of the day'scatch to the merchants earlier. As he turned to look one last time at the dory,rising and falling to the swelling of the waves, he caught sight of afurtive movement near the boat. He was about to call to his grandfather,fearing the mischievous vandalizing of a sea lion, when he caught sight of ahead bobbing just above the surface of the water. Morgan couldn't make out anymore of this strange creature, but that didn't matter. Staring at him in thefading light, he saw the face of his dream.

In a moment, she was gone, and he turned back to hisgrandfather. Though the two walked back to the village in silence, Morgan'smind was a jumble of confusion and disbelief.

The storm raged throughout the night, battering therough thatch of the simple hut. Morgan tossed fitfully under his thick quiltwhile the wind howled like a wolf through the dirt lanes and footpaths ofMourktar. His grandparents slept deeply in the main room. He could hear theirthroaty snores, a rough counterpoint to the storm's fury. Sleep, however,refused to grant Morgan similar relief. Instead, he lay there curled up into aball, feeling lost and alone, and very small against the night.

It had been like that the entire evening. When he andAngus had arrived at their family's hut for supper, storm clouds had alreadyblotted out the newly shining stars. Morgan had barely noticed. The vision ofthe sea woman's face had flared brightly in his mind since he'd left the docks,and his thoughts burned with her unearthly beauty. Everything else seemed dullin comparison, hollow and worn as the cast off shell of a hermit crab.

He had sat through supper mostly in silence, distractedby the rising song of the wind. Several times he had almost gasped in horror,for he heard in that mournful susurrus the slow exhalation of his nameushering forth from the liquid throat of the sea. His grandparents had bornethis mood for as long as they could. Morgan's muttered responses to his gran'squestions, however, had finally earned him a cuff from Angus. Though even that blow had feltmore like an echo of his granda's anger, a memory of some past punishment.Frustrated, the old fisherman stormed away from the driftwood table, cursing.Morgan mumbled some excuse soon after and staggered to his cot, seeking reliefin the cool release of sleep.

He failed.

Thoughts of her consumed him, and his skinburned with the promise of her touch. She wanted him, called to him in a voicefull of moonlight and foam and the soft, subtle urging of the sea. He lay therefor hours, trying to hide from her, trying to retreat into the hidden places ofhis mind. But she followed, uttering his name, holding it forth like a lamp.

Morgan, come!

Come, my heart-home!

Come!

Briefly, irrationally, he wondered if his father hadheard the same voice on the night he stole a boat and, broken by grief, sailedout to his death on the winter sea. Perhaps, Morgan thought wildly, thismadness was hereditary.

Come!

The voice. Stronger this time, driving away allthought except obedience. With a cry, he flung himself out of the cot, nolonger able to resist the siren call. The compulsion took a hold of him now,drove him out of the hut into the gray stillness of false dawn. The storm hadspent itself. Wind and rain no longer lashed the shore. The world held itsbreath, waiting.

Waiting for what? Morgan thought.

In an instant he knew. It waited for him. Rubbing hisarms briskly to ward off the predawn chill, he followed the dirt road down tothe docks. Every step brought Morgan closer to her. He ignored thedowned branches, shattered trunks, and other detritus that littered the road,and began to run. He had no choice.

And yet, there was a sense of promise to this call, ahint of mystery unveiled. If he was going to end his life sea-mad like hisfather, he would at least receive something in return, a gift from the darkwaters that had been his true home these past eighteen seasons more trulythan the insular huts and close-minded folk of Mourktar. He understood thatnow, and the notion filled him with equal parts terror and fascination.

At last, he reached the end of the dock, sweat soakedand gasping for breath. He cast about desperately, hoping to catch some glimpseof the mysterious creature that haunted both his waking and dreaming, proofthat he had not simply lost his wits. She was there, floating idly tothe left of his family's dory.