Return of the Tidecaller

Change. It can occur without warning.

Run, they scream. They are all screaming, but I do not turn to ask them why. Their robes bristle and their teeth flash in the light of the setting, blood-stained sun, but I do not feel alarm. I can feel the rumbling of hundreds of fleeing feet hitting the sand around me, and a gentle roar steadily growing louder, and louder, and louder until it begins to drown out my own thrumming heartbeat. And yet, I do not move.

Change is coming. When the tide roars, so will she.

The salt riding upon the sea breeze becomes stale on my tongue. The wind picks up and lashes out desperately at my toga, urging me to move, to act, to feel. I do not do any of those things. My eyes are still locked upon the sun that is being swallowed by the ocean all too quickly, its wide, blue jaws coming up and over to embrace the crimson rays.

The water is never supposed to approach the sun. It is always the sun diving into the sea to replenish its life force, because the sea is the one who provides. The sea is life itself. Without it the sun would not rise in the morning and the land would never feel the cold stinging of the rain and the prey would die of dehydration and we…we would all die without the sea.

But the change hasn’t come. She hasn’t come to return the sea’s roar.

A voice cries into my numb ears. “Wylie! Wylie, please!”

Something isn’t right. Something is happening.

“Wylie!” The voice has turned into a screech, and then it is broken by a hiccupping sob.

She’s not supposed to cry.

“Brenna?” I whisper, ripping my eyes away from the horizon to look down at my small kid sister.

Her soft, rounded features are twisted in fear, her lips trembling and her blonde hair lying flat against her skull, wet-sleek and glistening. Her watery blue eyes are swimming with tears, tears that make me feel, tears that make me care. Her grip on my arm is tight and almost painful. She’s been trying to drag me away from the beach, and I didn’t even notice.

She wipes at her tears, her pale dress becoming darker as they fall upon the cloth. “The ocean!” she shouts. “The ocean is coming!”

My head whips back to the horizon, and reality comes crashing down upon me.

The sea has retreated, leaving tens of hundreds of feet of bare, wet sand exposed to the turbulent air. Beyond that, a large, white line is steadily approaching. Digging inside the memories and the stories I have preserved, I know immediately that this is a tsunami.

And we are the only ones left on the beach.

“Oh gods,” I gasp, adrenaline forcing itself through my dried up veins filled with sand and salt.

I don’t bother to keep looking at the approaching wave to calculate how long we have until it hits. I know that with how far back the ocean went it will be a big one, and it will be fast.

“Go, go, go!” I yell, pushing my sister to her feet and sprinting with her for higher ground.

My kid sister’s legs are short. She’s only six years old, so I have to slow down to keep pace with her. Her breaths are harsh and ragged. It doesn’t help that she’s been screaming and crying while I stood on the beach unwilling to move.

Why did I do that? Why didn’t I care?

“You have to run faster!” I shout at her. I don’t want to alarm her, but at the rate we are going, the wave will catch us.

“I’m trying!” she cries, her eyes wide with fright.

The line of palm trees comes into view along with the gently sloping hillside that signals our survival. If we can make it to the top, we will be safe.

But then I hear the sea’s roar. It is lurid and heavy in my ears. I can feel it sucking up all the water from beneath my feet, quickly taking any and all sustaining life force that it had given to our tribe. I can tell that it is angry, and it is hungry.

“Wylie!” My sister screams, looking over her shoulder. In the reflection of her eyes I can see the blue wave cresting over us. It has already caught up.

There’s no point. We won’t make it.

I grab onto my sister’s waist, pulling her to my chest and curling my body around hers, hoping I can use myself as a shield so that she might have a chance to survive, even if we are swept away.

“I won’t let go, Brenna!” I yell over the wave that’s only inches from us. My sister nods, new tears streaming down her face as she buries herself into my toga.

Change is coming. When the tide roars, so will she.

There is a sound then. A grand disturbance in the air, as if the wind itself had to part to make way for its presence.

It sounds like a low boom, like a giant boulder whistling through the air and landing in the sand. There is a crackling noise that follows, going higher, and higher, and higher in pitch until it is almost like a screech or the sound of many sea-gulls dying at once.

Water splashes onto me. A lot less than I was expecting. It only hits my sides instead of the front of my body where the wave should have already overcame me. This forces me to look up.

When she roars the sea will go silent. The water will part wherever she walks.

A tall, sea-foam haired woman is standing in front of me, her legs strong and straight, her toga dress stretched out behind her like a perfect wake. She does not look behind her. She looks straight into the gaping jaws of the sea which has halted before her. She does not fear it, because it goes around her, giving her space to stand and breathe. All around us, the ocean keeps rushing onwards, scraping away the sandy beach and any debris in its path.

The screeching sound is the water grating against the invisible barrier she has thrown up around us. From the way a small crater of sand has formed around her, I can only assume she made quite a landing.

She will be powerful and fierce. She will not bow, no matter how harsh the sea tries to break her down.

Within only mere seconds, the water calms around us and retreats back into the ocean as the woman lowers her arms, revealing the ruined landscape the ocean left behind.

Many of the palm trees have been ripped out by their roots. Even the hillside is eroded, the sand and grass all mixed and clumped together. The people that got away are safely at the top where the water never reached, but it is obvious it had been close. Many of them are still shaking and crying.

The sand is covered in sea-weed and pieces of coral. Among the scattered debris are a few unlucky fish flopping on their sides, their gills desperately searching for water.

“Wylie,” my sister murmurs, tugging on my arm and pointing up at the woman.

I look to where she points, and realize the woman has finally turned to face us.

She will protect and provide. She will be forgiving and merciful.

A bright white stripe of paint follows the bridge of her nose and splatters out onto her delicate cheekbones. Her hair, like sea-foam, has some faint color to it, like a wheat field going out of season. Her toga is plain but tightly fitted, her wrists adorned with familiar sea-shell bracelets.

The woman's swirling sea-green colored eyes bore into mine, as if they are waiting for something.

I know her.

I know her. I remember when the Water Bearer came to take her away. I remember those sea-green eyes looking over her shoulder as she was led away, a reassuring smile aimed directly at me.

Don’t cry! She had told me. I will come back for you, and everything will change.

But she had been the one shedding tears.

She will be hidden away from the world until she is ready to tame the sea.

“Ceto?” I say, my voice breaking as I stand, the sea-breeze ruffling my damp clothes.

She smiles gently, her eyes glimmering with sorrow and bliss. “Hello, Wylie,” she says softly.

Until she is ready to protect us.

I laugh, disbelief and pure joy sweeping through every vein in my body.

The change has come. Ceto has returned.

______________________________________

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Tidecaller is a book concept that has sat on my shelf for several years as I pursued other works. It's a story that still excites me, so I don't doubt one day it will be part of my published roster!

I hope you enjoyed this tense, but fun introduction to Wylie, Brenna, and Ceto! (: