![]() ![]() My grandfather would tell us about how the cold ocean water sprayed up on his face as they crested waves, how he could not get the smell of the Tulan-ik he used for bait out of his paws, and how he fished with a bone spear made by his own father rather than using one of the carbon composite shafts you could buy in the city center. At this point, it saddened me to know that they were taken away from me before I had ever seen them. ![]() I dreamed of those skies with longing when I was younger. He’d tell us about how the sky was as clear and as deep a sapphire, and how you could see the ghostly shadow and glaring crescent of Mekon-Sul as our little watery world orbited around her. He admitted that Sula did all the skilled work on the boat, and at times he was perhaps more of a hassle than a help. White sand and breaking waves marked dangerous waters, and he had said that what he lacked in sailing skill he made up for with his aim. He recounted the cold air and the gently rolling waves, how Sula and he would fight the wind and the rigging as they made their way towards the safe shallows some two leagues out into the shoals. Tears he held back with the experience of age. I could see the glimmer in his eyes when he spoke of the tale. Sometimes I could feel my blood boil as he told our holt village about the time he had gone out to fish just before this grand typhoon he had gone out with his friend, Sula, for one last spearfishing sail before the Season of Storms. Honestly there were times where I wish he would have just stopped. ![]() It was something my grandfather dwelled on and squaked on about for hours on end. A simpler time, so sweet sounding it may as well have just been a story. I had only heard stories tales of a time where there were weekly fishing reports, not weekly lists of those who had gone missing. I had never seen a Mekon free, but the memory of a time where the sky didn’t burn and when the holt village gathered in the monastery grounds for Harvest Festival without fear haunted my father and grandfather like the spectre of a lost lover. It was in the Season of Storms, back when I was a mere fourteen, towards the end of the Rothaki Occupation. Those were among the final words my father ever said. ![]()
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