Lost or Found chapter 1

At first light, Corryl left his shelter and made his way through the narrow winding passage through the grassy dunes until he stood barefoot at the very edge of the cool blue water.  Tiny wavelets lapped over his toes before retreating to their place of origin, there to be created anew and to be sent out once more on their mission of gradual destruction.  As he tied wriggling, living bait to the barbed hook on the end of his line, he reflected on the nature of the hierarchy which placed his need for survival above that of the struggling creature which would otherwise have lived its remaining life beneath the stones and dry dirt until some other predator had found and eaten it.  Once more, hopefully, he scanned the water’s surface all the way to the horizon and back but there was no sign of manmade activity or of a higher life-form other than himself.

He was preparing to cast the hook into the water when he  became witness to a strange spectacle.  A large object seemed to appear in the sky and plummet into the sea, thrashing wildly in a frenzied manner.  It was no fish which so disturbed the placid surface.  He became one with the creatures of the waters of the world as he sped towards the struggling figure but by the time he reached it, it had ceased moving.  He took good hold of the exhausted creature and began the long shoreward journey with no thought other than to get his catch onto dry land in order to better examine it.  When he hauled it onto the beach, he was surprised to discover it was a woman, unconscious and early in her childbearing years.  Her thickly tangled black hair hung loose, held back from her eyes by a wide band of green metal.  Beneath the band her face was ashen, as if the blood had fled from her dusky grey skin in order to conserve heat elsewhere in her body which was concealed from neck to ankles within a long modest robe of emerald green silk.  About her neck dangled a delicate silvery chain.  Her breathing was shallow and animal-quick and, watching the rise and fall of her narrow chest, Corryl was convinced she did not have long to live.  He carried her, effortlessly, into the warmth of his shelter and laid her on his sleeping-bench.  Lying beside her, he realised he’d been alone too long.



Waking in the later, sun-warmed morning, he was puzzled to find her still alive beside him.  She still lacked conscious movement and a bluish tinge had begun to suffuse her but her breathing was quieter and her skin felt warmer to his touch.  As he allowed his eyes to wander over her pale, delicate face framed by tresses so coarse she could only have originated in a far-distant country, he wondered at the carelessness of the pirates or traders who had skillfully evaded his watchful gaze but who had nonetheless allowed their captive to fall overboard so close to fair Nariq.

He examined the craftsmanship of the broad metal bracelets which held her wrists together.  The metal was like no other he had encountered so far in his life and the engraved patterning was so regular and so even that he was certain no living person could have produced it.  But it was when he caught sight of her fingers that he drew in his breath in fear.  He had scant knowledge of the markings which scholars used to record information but he knew how to number objects and the woman had an unnatural reckoning of fingers.  He was horrified to discover he had used the dying body of a witch.  His gentle appreciation of her feminine beauty changed to astonishment that, not just she, but he himself was still alive.  As carefully as he could, he covered her body with the warm, soft furs which had served him for blankets before his morning’s activities had condemned him to slow and painful death.



When he returned with his fish, he hardly dared to enter his shelter.  However, his cooking vessels were within and he didn’t appreciate the flavour or the texture of uncooked flesh-meat of any kind.  The witch was still sleeping, bluer than ever, and her skin seemed to burn him without him needing to bring himself close enough to touch her.  With luck, she would be dead before she discovered what he had done.

He lit his ready fire and focussed all his attention on cooking the fish.  He was careful to avoid glancing in the direction of the dying witch.  Perhaps, if he allowed her shelter and warmth during her last few hours, she might reckon it in his favour when she came to punish him for his transgression.  Automatically, he began to prepare the kind of thin and relatively bland-tasting soup which might be acceptable to an invalid but he hoped he would never have the mixed pleasure of offering it to her.



“Slōwtaff?” he heard presently, in a voice which had the multi-toned quality of a musical wind-instrument.  The sound startled him and he turned to see the witch lying on her side, facing him and watching him.  She had a calm, impassive expression and seemed, as yet, to bear him no hostility.

“Good evening, Kind Mistress,” he greeted her nervously and forced a smile.  She didn’t return it but continued staring beyond his face and into his soul as he filled his bowl and brought it towards her.  He held out the soup and reached around for the remnants of the previous day’s bread.  It was stale but the soup would make it soft enough.  When he turned back, she was still lying on the bed, waiting for him to feed her like a weak and helpless mortal child.  He sighed thinking, if his punishment was to serve her, she had let him off lightly indeed.

At the end of her meal, as she wiped her lips on the cloth he held against them, he asked:  “Do you feel a little stronger?”

As if in answer, she attempted finally to sit but Corryl could see she was hampered by the pirates’ bonds.  He put out a hand to assist her but drew it back when her feverish heat threatened to engulf him.  He was relieved she didn’t seem to notice his offer or his withdrawal.

“Betrihrlafothec het tsōwlāta?” she asked, in the same musical voice as before, and Corryl mentally tested himself to check she hadn’t turned him into any non-sentient life form.  He watched her, hardly daring to draw attention to himself by breathing, as she pushed away the fur covering and drew her knees up under her chin.  He waited for her to spring at him but, instead, she began to pull at the metal bar with which the pirates had hobbled her.

Realising her purpose, Corryl tried every one of his meagre supply of tools but in vain.  The witch’s bonds would require more equipment and expertise than Corryl could muster in his lone encampment.  Disappointed, he sat on the end of the bed, wondering how long it would be before she was strong enough to cast them aside by magic.  Far from dying, the witch was regaining more and more of her strength by the minute.  He knew it was only a matter of time before she would hold him accountable for violating her during her period of unconsciousness.

“Forgive me, Kind Mistress,” he found himself repeating, like a mantra, as he swayed gently back and forth in the praying position his mother had often tried to persuade him to adopt.  “Forgive me for the deed I have visited on you.”

“Kind Mistress, Slōwtaff?” the witch’s musical voice interrupted at last. “Ob samina Kind Mistress elanfil amisand?”