Blue Dolphins, Green Spring

If you saw the sun rise over ultramarine waters of Grue, you’d think residents of the humble fishing village to be the richest in the world, such was the diamond glare produced by the reflection of light on the horizon.

To the younger inhabitants, this natural wonder inevitably became etched in their minds as a sign of hope, of divinity. But the elder masheras of Grue were immune to such beauty; their life had been hard-lived, a constant struggle to live off of the bare produce of the Illarean Ocean.

Travelers to Grue, as few as they were, would’ve thought it wise to find other sources of sustenance, like foraging the Sporaggi, the lush forest which bordered the beach. Yet the travelers did not know that the Grues considered the forest to be veyran, a simple word meaning abandoned, yet hinting at a loss in translation.

The Sporaggi served as winter home for the Grues when the tide and gale winds made it impossible to live on the beach, it was for this reason that the settlement looked perpetually young, always in a constant stage of rebirth. Every winter end, the Grues would return and start the slow process of rebuilding their beach homes. Most would be washed away, the ocean making driftwood and flotsam of homes built with sweat and toil. And those few left standing, would be mere husks of their prior existence. The Grues would only rebuild as much as necessary, recognizing the inevitability of seasonal change that would make them immigrants once again.

All the wooden huts sparsely separated along the beach line and its denizens milling about in the midday sun made Grue resemble an ant colony, hustling and bustling in frenzied activity. The men would bring in the morning catch; the younger women would clean it out, preserving some with liberal amounts of ambaki salt and seasoning the rest for afternoon meal. The work was efficient even without any hierarchy amongst the masheras, with most important decisions being deferred to the elderly more as a sign of respect than need for guidance.

This was a community that depended on each other for survival, everyone was bound together by cords stronger than family, they were bound by need. Everyone knew each other practically since birth, because if travelers were a rarity in Grue then outsiders who settled were an anomaly. Little surprise then that is what the Grues came to refer to her as Anomalia.

Though they were careful to call her Lia in person, lest she actually understand their tongue, a mash-up between the local Silian and some foreign language she could not decipher.

‘Was it precaution against outside ears, that two such distinct languages have been blended together?’ Lia mused. If so they had done well, for it all but veiled their minds to her. A faint guffaw escaped her throat at that thought. As if, their thoughts would be of much use to a person whose own thoughts were strangers?

In some oddly reflective way, she could see what they thought off her. Always speaking in hushed tones when she was around, smiling warily when it made her uncomfortable and yet doing all they could to meet her base needs; food, shelter and privacy. She felt as if she was a guest who had overstayed her welcome with a host of bare means.

“Bono oitre reiro, Lia sahiba!” exclaimed an innocent yet energetic voice.

And then of course there was the boy, who had singly-handedly undertaken the responsibility to make her feel at home. She watched him spring into the sparse hut carrying several large mushrooms, undoubtedly uprooted from the forest, in his arms and a big smile on his face.

He stopped himself a respectful distance away from her, waited to be given permission, then came closer and laid down his burden on the floor. The mushrooms were peculiar indeed; various shades of brown with a foot long stem and an equally proportionate cap. She felt their skin with her fingers, letting the texture talk to her, softly tearing the flesh and sniffing the scent.

“Edible.” she declared at last, pleased with herself, her body still remembered what her mind had blurred. She smiled at the boy who took great pleasure at having pleased her. She liked the obedience and adulation; she faintly recalled being used to it.


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The great mushroom forest spread out on all sides beneath him, vast and forbidding to most Grues. But to Phino Juegos, it was sacred; in a way that only family could be. For this was where he had laid her to rest, deep within Muerten Blanco. The White Death, he found it a strangely dark name for a place which, if Tani was right, had been home to Grue’s ancestors. Tani…he hadn’t thought about her for some time, consciously at least, and it made his eyes moist.

‘Women cry for the men life gives them, then by what right men do the same.’

Repeating the old crone’s words made him feel better, as it oft did. He continued along the stone-path which led deeper into the ruins of the cliff city. It was a sinuous trail, winding and cutting its way up the marble and granite face of the mountain, eerily called Muertes Caminor, lest there be some mistake about the mountains association with the city. The Grue were thoroughly morose people at times. He smiled at that thought.

‘Morose? Bah! Fools, who would sooner kill their children at birth than tell of glory lost.’

The path was well-maintained despite centuries of neglect, alternating slabs of white and brown marble creating some kind of giant staircase to the Gods. It seemed to agree, with what he had been told of these people. Powerful and majestic with the necessary pride that always accompanied those two qualities.

‘Evil likes company, the more the merrier. Not much like good, always needing individual strength before it will share its own.’

The air was thinner up here, dryer and colder, Phin squeezed his cloak tightly around him to stop the shivers. It was almost high-tide now, far below the masheras would be securing their boats and rafts, while the women prepared the last meal of the day. It had taken him all morning to cross the Sporaggi and most of the dwindling had passed during his ascent.

Finally, he was near the end of his fortnightly toil, little blessing for his aching legs. The city was truly a marvel, carved my artisans, constructed by engineers and dreamt by a seer, such was its mystique and aura. The city itself was nestled within the mountain, hollowed out by ungodly power to be sure.

The city was laid out in concentric half-rings, each ring taking the seeker into a different aspect of life with the Caminor bisecting each ring, in its journey to the heart of the city. Phin could envision it, if only because Tani had described it so often, the outer ring mounted as a fortress in defense of the city.

Then, through the inner gates, the market ring thriving with commerce and thick with aromas of spice and sea mingled with sweeter fragrances of fruit and exotic sweets. Carvings etched in the marble floor separated the market into sectors, dividing the necessity merchants from the purveyors of luxury goods.

Finally the Caminor paved its way into the Ascencilla Prima and it is here that the spell that Tani had cast over him in those childhood stories broke, too real was the scarred marble resonating crimson, as if bleeding even now at some deep lament.

‘Imagination always grand, actions always brave but truth at end, always infallible.’

It had been four journeys into the Sporaggi since Tani had not joined them. Four journeys, since he had laid her to rest in this cursed city. And since then, every half-moon, he had honored her wishes.

He left the Caminor now, following a branch eastwards, where the crimson glow became less pronounced with each passing minute. The branch road gradually dwindled in width until it was just wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

As always, he heard the Ascenjar before he saw it. Faint voices, gentle yet surreal, greeted his approach. He closed his eyes and followed the voices wherever they lead him.
“The lost prince returns…”
“…to a kingdom lost…”
“…in a time forgotten…”

Each verse recited by a different voice then echoed by the rest, with changing inflection and tone. Each voice, angrier then the last until Phin could sense the thinly veiled malice.

“…the Throne usurped…”
“…by the False King of Blood…”
“…in timeless patience we bind ourselves…”
“…you test us with unfulfilled promise…”

The voices finally fell silent, as he arrived at their source. And after an eternity, a single voice broke the silence. A familiar voice. Tani’s voice.

‘Nothing left here, but blood and ashes.’


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The memories surged within him once again.

He had been crying profusely when he had carried her into the voices. She had smiled at him and then overcome, hugged him with all her might.

“What do you cry for, young dolphin? There’s nothing left in this world for me. I lived to find you, and then I lived to prepare you. And at the end, all that’s left for me, indeed all that’s left for anyone in this world…is blood and ashes.”

“Don’t say that, Tani! I’m still left here…I’ll be so al…”

“No you won’t. For some time, yes but not for long. I promise you that. And in return you must promise me, never to falter in what I ask of you now.”

“Anything Tani, I’ll do anything. Just don’t go!”

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‘I am yet left, blood and bones. The promise will be kept.”

With that, he opened his eyes and all around him was dull green. Tiny grass shoots were now surfacing in a once dead garden. Some of the tree husks now had creepers struggling to reach their summit. The ambience was a stark contrast to the rest of the district, and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the different hue before he could make out her final resting place, what had once been a mound of dirt and was now something very different.

He took off his sandals, and approached respectfully. Slowly he drew out the jute pouch which had been reason for his journey. The pouch contained a thick herbal mixture, herbs, flora and fungi mixed together in precise quality and form. Every visit, Phin was afraid that he had not prepared the mixture correctly, a fear that would not subside until the next visit when he would be able to see the dramatic effect the mixture had.

He could scarcely believe the results; a single seed planted into the mound had grown into a shoot of silver-hued bamboo. Each visit Phin had been surprised how eagerly the shoot had grown even in such desolate environs. Four journeys into the Sporaggi later, the silver cane towered over Phin and so he had named it, Pratani, Tani’s Silver.

Several other Pratani canes had sprung up by now, surrounding the first. The canes had in turn sprouted golden leaves, which gave the Ascenjar the look of something he vaguely remembered out of Tani’s bed-time stories. The leaves emanated a soft glow which intensified and dampened periodically, as if the cane was breathing. There were visits on which Phin would go to sleep in that glow. But this was not such a visit.

He loved all the stories that Tani had told him, but until her dying moments he had not considered that there was any truth to them but Lia’s arrival had changed all that. He grabbed hold of a cane, three-quarters his height, with both his hands and then instinctively, twisted and pulled.