Shen kneels before his tiny shrine, his skin still warm, fresh from the shelter of his bed sheets. His head hung, his hands pressed against the course, wooden floor boards, Shen breathes deeply. The gentle whisper of morning spills through the splintered bedroom window of his small, stone cottage. The warm, tender glow is caught by the contours of a collection of ornamental figures. As the clay statues loom over him with unabated gaze, Shen peers down at the ground. The sting of his many bruises and the lingering taste of blood serve as comforting reminders. Today is nothing more than the leading edge of his journey. Surrounded by a still silence, a suffocating monotony weighs heavily on his shoulders. An answer to his prayers remains a hope long forgotten. Pressing his jaw tightly shut, a defeated, yet committed purpose floods his vision. While he pleads with the god’s, Shen is tethered to his guilt, in the knowledge that his desire does not wane, but grows. He means not to betray his people, only to reach beyond them. Confused by their continued compliance, and unwillingness to ask the many questions that crowd his fragile beliefs, Shen’s bright future drifts further and further into the shadows.

Slowly lifting his head, he scowls at the imposing stature of the mighty Sacred Tiger. His once ineradicable faith now hung by a thread, Shen clings to the memory of the noble character he thought he knew so well. He glances at his many books either side of the shrine. The way of the tiger. An eagles Eye View. Bear, Word and Valour. Need he learn much more? Need he pray any longer? Need he apologise? For what?

Having washed his body and adorned his labour robes, Shen treads lightly down the stairs. As he creeps through the hallway, Shen glances into the sitting room. He had hoped his father would still be asleep. Instead, the narrow glint of his father’s doleful gaze peers back at him through the shadows. Shen holds still for a moment. He knows his father won’t speak a single word. A stranger to his father’s voice, Shen cannot remember the last time they had spoke. Yet, in this static moment of silence, Shen extends yet another open invitation. 

Shen pulls the cottage door quietly shut. The click echoes across the silent street before he makes his way to the labour block. As the sun continues to rise above the horizon, doors click open and closed as villagers trickle out into the streets.

Ducking beneath the giant petals of an emerald flower, a tall, elderly man scoffs as his hat lands on the ground. Lifting his long, braided, white beard, keeping it away from the dirt, the old man picks up his hat. His huge muscles flex beneath his robes as he mutters under his breath, patting the sand from his decorative embroidered headwear. Carefully repositioning his hat and straightening his gown, the old man continues through the corridor of giant flowers.

The winds whistle over the enormous village of High Water, dampened by the tall stone wall that surrounds it. As shadows fold over the hillside, a moment that promises to bring about a callous and inescapable change is captured in the eyes of a young boy. 

Standing on a small wooden bench, Pimbé leans over a twenty foot wide, stone counter-top. Busy laundry labourers rush by back and forth. Feet tap as clothing racks rattle, and voices chatter all around him. Like a hungry cat prepared to pounce, Pimbé remains perfectly still. Beneath his furrowed brow, the boy’s eyes are a glow with a narrow slice of the morning sun. He gazes fixated upon the long white gown adorned by the elderly man wearing a folded white hat. 

“Master Galma?” says Pimbé, unaware that he was holding his breath. Pimbé leaps down from his laundry station. His dry feet skid over the hard, stone floor as he darts through the doorway out onto the street. Leaving a sparse cloud of fabric dust falling through the air behind him, he races through the tall, dark passages of the labour block. 

Shen leaps down from the third stacking shelf, high up on the back wall of the laundry sort. He lands with a dampened grace, his bare feet almost silently clicking against the large floor tiles.

He plunges his hands deep into a full, steaming basin, splashing hot water onto the ground. Moving swiftly with an effortless precision, Shen shakes the water from his hands and wipes them on the towel hanging from his waist. He glides one hand beneath a large stack of crisply folded, dry robes, flipping them onto his other hand. Striding purposefully to the end of the room, Shen leaps into the air and tosses the robes onto a shelf above him. Returning to his sorting station, Shen glances over his shoulder while still folding the laundry with well rehearsed efficiency.

“Shen! Shen!” calls out a subdued hurried voice, as a young boy skids to a stop before the doorway behind him.

“Do not come in here, Pimbé,” insists Shen, “Your brown fibres will dirty my whites.”

“Sworn Elder is coming!” says Pimbé, leaning his hand on the doorway, struggling to catch his breath.

Shen stops folding, and peers down at the clean white fabric. “Here? Now?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Pimbé, “It’s Master Galma. And he’s coming this way!”

Shen lifts his brow, his eyes glazed by the echoes of his prayers. His fleeting dream cut short, Shen swallows the bitter taste of familiar and inescapable doubt. Why else would a sworn elder come here? Why come directly to a labour station, and without the labour master?

“You should hurry back to your station, Pimbé,” says Shen, “It could be an inspection.”

“Of course. You’re right,” says Pimbé, clutching the doorway as he scurries away, leaving a scattered trail of fine dust behind him.

Shen can think of no reason a sworn elder would waste his time visiting the laundry block. Unless, something serious had happened. It couldn’t be him. He might be end of the line, but Shen’s laundry only ever leaves his station clean and dry.

The morning sun floods the roof tiles of the huge stone village, spilling plumes of vapour high into the sky above. A gentle murmur of villagers greet each other as they cross paths, eager to begin their daily tasks. Holding his chin proudly aloft, his footsteps hidden beneath his long cloak, the sworn elder, Galma, glides towards the open doorway of the laundry sorting station. Shen turns and immediately kneels before him, bowing his head.

“Sworn elder,” says Shen, a hastened alarm in his voice.

“You need not kneel,” says Galma, peering down at Shen as he stands. “And, please… do not call me Elder,” he says, folding his arms behind his back. “Come, walk with me,” says Galma, turning and walking back the way he came.

Shen pulls the towel from his waist and quickly folds it before laying it down on the counter. He steps outside, pulls the rolling door shut and jogs up the street to catch up with Galma.

From the shadows of recessed windows, ever enquiring eyes set upon them as they pass by the labour stalls on their way to the Great Northern Gardens.

“Galma, may I ask…” says Shen, glancing side to side at his wide eyed, curious colleagues.“Have I done something wrong?”

Galma’s gaze remains fixed upon the path ahead. “Should you not know of your mistake had you made one?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” says Shen apologetically.

“I see my brother’s pessimism lives on,” says Galma. “In two hundred and thirty years he too never learned that worrying accomplishes nothing.”

“I will keep that in mind,” says Shen, his shoulder brushing past one of the huge, dinner plate sized petals of a Giant moon flower. The enormous plant hums as it rocks to and fro as a blanket of small bees flap their wings, attempting to cling to the stamen.

“Worry not,” says Galma. “There is something that we must discuss. I simply wish to show you something first.”

They pass through the giant splendour of the gardens and arrive at the steps that overlook the school courtyard. Shen stops for a moment, caught by an image from many years past, standing where he and his classmates once celebrated their final day. He breathes deeply, glancing skyward, when, without warning, a single footstep scratches against the hard stone. Shen turns sharply, immediately leaning back as an outstretched leg fizzes across his face, narrowly missing his nose.

Shen twists his body, thrusting a roundhouse kick at his assailant, but he too misses by an inch.

“What in the gods?” snaps Shen, leaping back and landing in his defensive monkey stance. He glances over his shoulder at Galma who continues down the steps, appearing unaware of his attacker. Shen has no time to call out as once more the assailant leaps towards him. He steps back, assuming his humble panda stance. Quickly Shen adjusts his feet, parrying and blocking a rapid succession of punches and kicks that snap and thud against his palms and forearms. He should fight back. These kicks are beginning to sting. But when? Where’s the opening? 

Forced back to the edge of the highest step, Shen crouches and spins around, attempting to sweep his assailant’s leg. The attacker narrowly evades Shen’s kick, leaping back, allowing Shen the ground to move forward. 

Galma stops and smiles. His hands tucked into his sleeves, the old man turns and makes his way back up the steps.

Shen tries to subdue his assailant, switching to his cobra stance, snatching the shoulder of their black robes and wrapping his leg around their’s. Unable to position his body weight quick enough, Shen cannot plant his foot. Struggling to achieve a firm hold, Shen is flipped over and thrown to the ground. Overpowered and out of breath, Shen lies face down in the sand of the garden path, his arm held twisted behind his back, and a sharp knee pressed heavily on the back of his neck.

“What is this?” cries Shen, in a panic. “What’s going on?”

“That’s enough,” says Galma, calmly as he steps before them.

“I’m sorry, Shen,” says a young female voice, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The attacker lets go of Shen’s wrist, climbs off his back and immediately scurries away, leaping over the garden wall out of sight.

Shen rolls onto his back, still catching his breath. He stands, dusting the sand from his robes. 

“What under the gods just happened?” asks Shen.

“I apologise,” says Galma.

“You did this?” asks Shen, wiping sand from his face.

Why would a sworn elder do such a treacherous thing? It is, after-all, their law Galma has just broken. It had to be a test. But then, hasn’t he just failed? Could this be part of a herald trial? Surely nobody would arrange an ambush like that for anything less. Perhaps that’s exactly what this is.

“I had to be sure,” says Galma.

“Sure of what?” asks Shen, still shaken by disbelief.

“Sure that I had chosen correctly,” says Galma.

Shen rubs his stinging forearm, perplexed and lost for words. This has to be the moment. There’s no other explanation. So, why does the old man look so disappointed?

“Come,” says Galma, as he turns and continues down the steps.  

Shen follows close behind, vigilantly checking his surroundings as they approach the entry.

“Time spent here is always fleeting for a child,” says Galma, his deep voice echoing around them as he leads Shen inside the school. “All but few accept that truth, once that time has past. I know you enjoyed your time here more than most,” he says, pushing open the classroom door.

“This is… Erin’s class,” says Shen, glancing at his family crest hung above the doorway.

“It was,” says Galma, “It is no longer. However, I asked the school master to maintain the family crest, in faith that it may be required.”

“Required? For me?” asks Shen, the tingle of anticipation falling from his grasp like tiny shards of shattered glass.

“I’m asking you to relinquish your post as a laundry labourer,” says Galma, “To resume your commitment to your final vow.” 

Shen steps inside the classroom, admiring the many models and paintings of the thirteen gods that decorate the walls. He remembers standing before his fellow students in the great hall, his hands shaking as he held onto the crinkled piece of paper on which he had written his vow.

“Teach these children all that you have learned, and I will bestow upon you the knowledge that you still seek,” says Galma.

Shen peers down at the ground in disbelief. He’s never had any intention of becoming a school master. Further responsibility will reinforce the emotional ties that confine him to this inescapable village. But, he still has so many questions. This could be his only chance to have them answered. Shen walks slowly into the middle of the classroom and turns to look Galma in the eyes. “Everything?” he asks.

“No,” says Galma, “Only what I am authorised to share. But, if you accept this role… you will become my student. But, you will no longer be eligible as herald.”

Shen peers over at a statue of the mighty bear. 

“I know…” says Galma, stepping into the classroom, “It was not your final vow. But I also know that you’ve wanted to become herald since you were a small boy.”

“That was a long time ago,” says Shen. “But, deep down I knew I would never be chosen.” Shen walks towards the statue, admiring the human like expression carved into the bear’s face. “I have neither the speed, the strength or the courage to pass even the first of the trials. It’s not my path.” Shen slowly hangs his head, tightening his belt with a reassuring firmness. “I know that now.”

“Then you accept?” asks Galma.

Shen turns to Galma and bows in gratitude. “I would be foolish not to, and treacherous to ignore such an opportunity to finally fulfil my vow.”

Galma steps forward and rests a hand on Shen’s shoulder. “You must be sure,” he says.

Shen lifts his head and looks Galma in the eyes. “I have no doubts,” he says, with relieving honesty, his heart saturated by nothing but regret.

“Then it is done,” says Galma, turning and making his way to the door. “You will make an exceptional school master. Erin herself tells me that your knowledge is second only to the elders. 

Shen smiles. “My sister is as kind as she is modest. And what of my sister? Why is she no longer teaching this class?”

Galma’s eyes narrow to a stern and meaningful gaze. Alarmed by the momentary silence, Shen is held hostage by a temporary paralysis. He knows only too well what the old man is going to say.

“Erin… was chosen for trial,” says Galma. Shen’s breath empties heavily from his chest. An unexpected cloud of despair takes hold and envelops his every thought. 

“She will take her exam on the first day after the work fall,” says Galma, “The same day you will begin your first class.”

Searching for his next breath, his mouth hung open, Shen cannot find the words to express his urgent and obvious desire.

“Go,” says Galma, “Speak with her. I will see you both at the Gratis Opa this evening.”

His mouth still open, Shen nods at Galma and hurries past him. He races through the school, up the steps and through the gardens in desperate search of Erin. With the school closed, and only the labour staff at work, there is only one place she could be.

At the northeast corner of the village square, two large doors swing open as a tall, muscular young man strides into the village infirmary. Medical staff stop and stare as the man marches through the hallways, crashing through each doorway with confident authority. All those able turn to watch as he bursts into the recovery ward and marches urgently towards one of the beds. Lifting his head from the pillow, another young man smiles before dropping his head back down into the warm, thick fibres.

“Clay,” says Travern, his leg hung aloft and wrapped in a hardened fabric. “I’d look surprised but the whole world can hear you coming.”

“Is it broken?” asks Clay, stopping at the young man’s bedside and taking gentle hold of the rope attached to his suspended leg.

“Ahh. Of course it’s broken,” says Travern, through gritted teeth. “In two places. My trial is over.”

“Curse the gods for this twisted fate!” snarls Clay, squeezing his fists.

“Clay!” whispers Travern, looking around nervously. 

“No, Travern,” says Clay, shaking his head, “This is not your path.”

“But it is,” says Travern. “And you need not find yourself guilty of contempt because of it.”

Clay turns his head away from Travern in denial.

“Have they replaced me yet?” asks Travern.

“I don’t know,” says Clay.

“You’re a good friend, Clay, but don’t waste your time worrying about me. I accepted my fate long before this happened. You and Maon have been steps ahead of me for many moons. Only one becomes herald. You know this better than any. It’s about time you fulfilled that vow of yours. This is my chance to fulfil mine.”

Travern reaches out in wait before Clay takes reluctant hold of his open hand.  

“Just promise me you’ll come home,” says Travern.

“I only make promises I can keep,” says Clay. Taking a long, deep breath, he lets go of Travern’s hand. Clay turns and storms out of the ward, crashing through the doors once more.

“Erin?” cries Shen as he hurries down the steps and through the door to his family cottage. “Erin,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. Shen’s father remains seated at the table while Erin stands and embraces her brother. Shen wraps his arms tightly around her with a congratulatory warmth and a foreboding farewell. Towering above him, Erin rests her cheek atop Shen’s head before they let go of each other.

“When did they tell you?” asks Shen.

“This morning,” says Erin, her smile interrupted as her father stands. Refusing to look at them, he leaves the room. Shen stares in his father’s direction, squeezing his jaw tightly shut in frustration.

“Do not judge him,” says Erin. “He has already given me his blessing. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been.”

But, why should it be difficult? Any other parent would be bursting with pride had their child been chosen. 

“That’s it?” says Shen, “He gave you his blessing, that’s all.”

“He worries,” says Erin, picking up a small jug of water.

“Worrying accomplishes nothing,” says Shen.

“I know,” says Erin, pouring water into a small cup. “But father needs us.”

“Needs us?” says Shen. “Anybody would think he doesn’t like us. I mean, what about Lady Feather-stone, her daughter never came home. She was overjoyed when her granddaughter was chosen.”

Erin pushes the water across the table to Shen.

“I understand what you’re saying,” says Erin, “It just isn’t as simple as that.  He clearly doesn’t want to lose anybody else. I’m sure mother would have felt the same if it were father that we lost, and you who had been chosen?”

“It is not wise to fear what has gone before…” says Shen.

“…Only to prepare for what is coming forth,” says Erin, “Yes, I know. But, you need to understand something. What our father lost, we may never suffer the misfortune of knowing for ourselves.”

“You don’t know that,” says Shen. “Father is not the only one who suffers.” Why should they be trapped in a cage forged by guilt and fear. How could a father be afraid to lose that which he doesn’t know he has. Could he be so selfish? Is that really their father’s only rationale?

Erin lets out a short, heavy sigh before briefly lifting her gaze skyward. “Little brother,” she says, gently placing her hand on his. “I know it can be difficult sometimes. We might always be seen as outsiders among them. Even father still yearns for a love that can never be replaced. But do not mistake the guise of hatred for the envy that lies beneath. I speak mother’s words when I say; there is no different, only unknown.”

Shen hangs his head in reverence of his mother’s word. His fight is not with Erin. Does an opponent even exist? A fury within him urges to lash out. But what for? And at whom? 

“You can become herald,” he claims, lifting his gaze. Looking deeply into his sister’s eyes, Shen leans forward across the table. “You will see the new world… You will live a new life. Children will study the places you reach. The foods that you eat. The people. Their clothes. The languages they speak.” 

But why would she come home? Why leave a world that has everything they have here and more? Would she return for their father? Would Shen?

“You have to come home,” says Shen. “You have to make it home.”

“That’s if I am even to become herald,” says Erin. “To do so I will have to best the chosen one himself.”

“Clay,” says Shen, curling his lip, repulsed by his former class mate.

How could he forget that muscle bound, pompous brat and his massive head?

“Even the elders themselves have said they’ve never seen a more favourable candidate,” says Erin. “And yet, if offered his life, I wouldn’t hesitate to decline.”

“Neither would I,” says Shen, taking a sip of his water. Just the mention of that  arrogant rat had left a bitter taste in his dry mouth. 

“It’s a heavy enough burden to be the son of a herald, without proclaiming that success would be your final vow,” says Erin. “Do you really think he meant it?”

“I know he did,” says Shen, “It’s all he ever talked about. He claimed it’s the reason he was born, so his mother could send him out into the world, to see what only the heralds have seen.”

“He has his father’s pride,” says Erin.

“And his mother’s eyes,” mocks Shen, wiggling his fingers in front of his face.

Erin fails to contain her laughter, quickly composing herself as she notices the dirt stains on Shen’s robes.

“What happened to you,” she asks. “You’re usually the cleanest of the clean while you’re folding and sorting?”

Shen proceeds to tell his sister how he was attacked by an unknown assailant on Galma’s order.

“All that just to make sure? That sneaky old man,” says Erin, grinning as she leans back in her chair.“Who d’you think it was?” she asks.

“It was Kaide,” says Shen, rubbing his forearm.

“How could you tell?” asks Erin.

“Her kick speed…” says Shen, “Punch rotation…”

Erin curls her lip and nods in admiration of Shen’s keen observations.

“She over rotates,” says Shen, carefully manoeuvring around the fact that he had recognised Kaide’s voice when she apologised. “Her foot faces away when she sets to kick. Fortunately she doesn’t kick as hard as you.”

Erin smiles at her brother, hiding her deep and sympathetic disappointment. “I always wanted it to be you,” she says.

Shen smiles back at her before hanging his head over his chest as he takes a long, deep breath. “Me too,” he sighs.

“You’d be faster and stronger if you’d have trained,” says Erin. “Just think how vast your collections would be if you went out there.”

“Just bring something home for me,” says Shen.

“I would… if it weren’t forbidden,” says Erin.

Many days south of the mountains upon which High Water remains hidden, the busy city of Kershall hums with the continuous echo of trade. Capital city of the Han Bosa, the largest country in the Makanoa Kingdom, it boasts the largest and most abundant of all markets across the eastern region. Nestled in the clouds, high up in the hills, south of the Grand Han Bridge, the palace of Bandun looms large.

Striding through the hallways of the inner sector, two young chamber maids carrying sealed ceramic pots follow closely behind the princess of Makanoa. Resembling the haunting statues of the Grand Gardens, the many armed guards that line the hallway maintain their vacant gaze as the princess passes by. Only the tall feathers upon the golden trim in their green helmets sway in the gentle breeze that follows. 

The guards at the end of the hallway open the large double doors, revealing the huge royal suite. With a maid behind each shoulder, The princess marches inside. They approach the bed set into the wide platform at the back of the room while the guards close the doors behind them. The loud click of the polished gold door latch echoes around the high painted ceilings. Her gaze fixed upon a gaunt, withered old face, the princess steps beside the bed. Covered up to his neck in white sheets and a highly decorative heavy velvet blanket, the king wheezes through his dry lips and tangled white beard. He struggles to lift his shaky head from the folded blankets beneath it as he tries to lay eyes upon his daughter.

“Father,” says the princess as she beckons another maid from across the room. The two maids behind her place the pots down on the two tables at the foot of the kings bed. As the third maid begins to turn a large wheel set into the wall, the top half of the king’s bed begins to incline. The princess struggles to lean over the side of the bed before kissing her father on his forehead. She nods at the two maids who immediately begin cleaning the king’s face as the princess climbs up on the platform and kneels beside him.

“How are you feeling?” asks the princess.

“Old,” says the king, “Fortunate. But, why do you arrive so early,” he asks, his deep, fractured voice rumbling at the back of his throat.

“Because I require the word of the king!” insists the princess.

“To what end?” asks the king, “Hyru’s word is now mine. You know this.”

“Yes, father,” says the princess, bowing her head slightly, “But Hyru’s word has given my brother permission to bring all of Makanoa to the brink of war. He must be stopped father, before the other kingdoms become concerned.”

“Then you must speak with your brother,” says the king.

“I cannot,” says the princess, “He has already left for the north, and deployed an entire unit. We do not need more soldiers Father. Our land is at peace.”

The king’s eyes glisten as he turns his head away from his daughter, and gazes at the tapestry of the eastern lands that hangs upon the chamber wall.

“Jieda… my white moon flower,” says the king. “No matter which story the gods may tell, I will soon leave this world behind. When I am gone, all that will stand between our family and our lands will be the loyalty of another man’s word, and the strength of another man’s kingdom.” 

The king turns his head to look upon Jieda once more. “Your brother does what he thinks is best. Not for himself, but, for those I leave behind. My blood is in the water, my child. And, it is drifting out to sea.”

“Are these weapons that we built not enough?” asks Jeida.

“My only hope…” murmurs the king before he coughs, “…is that we will never know.”

A tall shadow creeps across the High Water village courtyard as the sun begins to fall behind the Great Mountain. Up on the huge raised half of the courtyard, the villagers laugh, sing and dance as the alluring aroma of hot freshly cooked food fills the brightly coloured skies.

Shen, Erin and their father sit at a table near the steps. Erin gazes into the fire that burns in the large pit at the centre of the courtyard below. 

“What?” asks Erin as she is nudged by her brother. Shen raises his brow, turning his gaze to the steps beside them. As Erin turns, she is met by a fleeting glance from Clay as he follows his parents towards the steps. Villagers begin to turn towards Clay’s mother, bowing their heads in excited appreciation as Clays father holds tight to her hand, a proud smile across his face.

“She still looks so strong,” says Shen.

“Mother was… was taller…” says Erin, “Wasn’t she, father.” 

“Stay out of trouble,” says their father as he stands. Shen and Erin watch as their father approaches Clay’s family. He bows as he passes, and continues towards the first of the food stalls.

“I guess he’s hungry,” says Erin.

“Why do you always do that?” asks Shen.

“Do what?” asks Erin, turning to face him.

“You always give him some kind of excuse,” says Shen.

“I do not,” says Erin.

“You know you do,” says Shen. “He barely speaks. He never smiles. He should be proud of you!”

“He is proud,” says Erin, “Of both of us.”

“Of course,” says Shen. “I’m sure he’s so proud of having the smallest, weakest laundry labourer for a son.”

“Oh, stop Shen, just stop,” says Erin. “Stop wallowing in your own guilt.”

“Guilt?” says Shen, raising his voice. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” says Erin, leaning towards him. “You can’t accept the fact you failed to fulfil your vow. You walk around with a rock on your chest because you convinced yourself you could never be a herald. And father still loves you, just as much as he loves me. Just as much as he misses mother.”

“Sure,” says Shen, climbing off his seat. “I only wish I could!”

Erin takes a deep breath as she watches Shen walk away. The growing intent in her heart to go after him is quickly quelled as she watches Clay and his family approach her.

“Erin of Tiger-moon house,” says Clay, reaching out an open hand. Erin spins off her seat and stands, immediately takes hold of Clay’s hand and bows her head. 

“Eagles-nest,” says Erin, grimacing briefly as Clay tightens his grip.

“From school-master to herald candidate,” says Clay, “Your family must be extremely proud.”

“They are,” says Erin, lifting her head and smiling at each of them.

“You certainly have a head start,” says Mr Eagles-nest, “Given your previous position.”

Erin chuckles, deterred by the intense gaze in Clay’s narrowed eyes. “Uhm, I’ll… Do my best,” she says, pressing her lips together.

“You will have to,” says Mrs Eagles-nest, through her wide smile, “These boys will stop at nothing to prove theirselves superior.”

“Just try not to break your arms and legs,” says Clay, squeezing Erin’s hand even tighter.

“I’ll try,” says Erin, pulling her hand free of Clay’s grasp.

As his parents smile and turn around, Clay looks Erin up and down as he wipes his hand on his robes in disgust. “I will see you first day,” he murmurs before turning and making his way through the crowd.

Erin sits heavily in her seat, dejected by Clay’s obvious disdain. Seeking strength, she takes hold of a small, carved wooden bead that hangs from her braid. Rolling the bead between her finger and thumb, Erin lifts her head and inhales deeply.

At the back of the courtyard, before the elders tables, Clay sits down beside another young man.

“Maon,” says Clay, continuing to nod and smile in feigned appreciation for those who bow their heads.

“Clay,” says Maon, “I see you’ve welcomed Travern’s replacement.”

“I had no choice but to welcome the half-breed,” says Clay, “For not to embarrass my parents.”

“Of course, of course,” says Maon. “She shows promise though, no?”

Clay turns to Maon with a look of startled disbelief. 

“Physically she is larger than most females,” says Maon. “You must also consider; she has been a student of the elders since our final vows.”

“She won’t make it through the first trial,” says Clay, peering across the courtyard at Erin. “Believe me!”

Erin remains still, enveloped by a succession of contrasting presumptions. Each one vividly depicting the various potential outcomes of the days to come. Holding tightly to her tankard, peering down into the clear elder-water within, Erin is startled as a plate taps against the table before her.

“Thank you,” she says, glancing up at Shen as he sits down opposite her. Shen pushes the plate of food across the table towards his sister before setting his own plate down in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” says Shen, glowering across the table with a resentment in his eyes.

“I understand,” says Erin. “I wish you could have known mother as I did.”

Erin lifts her head. Shen’s scornful gaze is not for her, but directed at somebody over Erin’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong brother?” asks Erin.

“It is always those who have not earned respect who do not deserve it,” says Shen.

Erin glances over her shoulder, only to see the bustling crowd of villagers delivering their food plates to their tables. “Why d’you say that?” she asks.

“Because I grow tired of showing favour to the, so called, chosen one,” says Shen. “He does nothing but disparage you before you have even…”

“Look closer, brother,” interrupts Erin to Shen’s surprise. “He’s afraid.” 

Her gaze still fixed upon her beverage, Erin lifts the tankard and takes a sip. “For Clay, I am a new and unexpected obstacle he must overcome in order to find purpose in the world that he’s created. If anything, his hostility is nothing more than a complement.”

Shen looks upon his sister with bitter disappointment. “Even you…” he sighs. “Even you allow him favour. While he disparages our name and calls us half-breeds.”

“And are we not?” asks Erin. “Are you not proud of who and what you are?”

Denying his compulsion to answer, Shen averts his eyes before tossing a piece of fried fish into his mouth.

“What would you have me do?” asks Erin. “The only thing I can do; is everything within my power to succeed. Is that not why I’m here? Was that not my final vow?”

“I just don’t like to see you mocked, is all,” says Shen.

“And I appreciate that, little brother, I do,” says Erin, “But I do not wish for you to fight for me, I only hope you’ll believe in me when I do.”

As the Urdin Drums begun to rumble above the crowd, the band stop playing and the villagers fall silent. Odalere Falcon-blade, Chief of the Sworn Elders, rises above the crowd as she steps up onto the stone podium at the edge of the courtyard. Abandoning their food plates and turning to face the podium, each villager stands and bows.

“High Water,” says Odalere, her voice ringing through the empty streets. “This Gratis Opa is truly bountiful, thanks in part to the continued efforts of our harvesters and cooks. Of course this would not be Gratis Opa if we did not give thanks to those who have made it possible for you and I to share in this blessed and abundant paradise we call home. May we remain forever beholden to our gods.”

“May we remain forever beholden to our gods,” says Shen as the entire village recite the words in unison.

“Now,” says Odalare, “Let us pay tribute to those who bring pride to their families and honour the gods in our name.”

Shen turns to his sister and smiles as she smiles back at him. They gaze up at the Chief as she honours the villagers. Some have made significant contributions to the seasons harvest, and others to recent community developments. 

Shen’s attention begins to drift. His eyes amble among the crowd until he’s met by a scornful glare as Clay looks over his shoulder, a self-satisfied smirk on one side of his irritating face.

“And of course…” continues Odalare, “We must pay special tribute to our brave and talented candidates for the coming herald trials.” 

Odalare is forced to pause as the crowd applaud and cheer, many of them turning around to pay specific attention to Clay and his family.

“Treacherous worm,” mumbles Shen, loud enough to earn a stern glare from Erin who glances down at him and nudges his shoulder.

“While there are some fantastic candidates in this cycle of the herald,” says Odalare, “It is safe to say that if one were to look for an outlier, none need look further than the son of the wonderful herald herself, Destina Eagles-Nest and her son, Clay.”

As the crowd cheer and applaud once more, Shen does nothing more than claps his hands, his eyes fixed upon Clay as he smiles and waves.

“And finally,” says Odalare, raising her voice above the crowd, “I feel it fitting to mention one more special child of High Water on this beautiful evening.” The crowd fall gradually silent. “This individual has continued to serve as an important member of our community from a very young and tender age. Not only have they given their very best at every opportunity, and become an exemplary and invaluable example to our young. They have also proven to be brave, talented and extremely resilient when called upon .”

Confused and frustrated that he will not be the final tribute, Clay turns his twisted brow to Maon who shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head for lack of explanation.

“This Gratis Opa,” says Odalare, “It gives me great pleasure to pay final tribute to…”

“Erin Tiger-moon,” says Odalare, proudly holding out her hands before her, a wide smile across her wrinkled face.

Erin peels open her mouth, suddenly aware of the warm blood coursing through her body. A deathly silence falls among the crowd before all at once the villagers erupt into rapturous cheers and applause. Erin looks down at her brother, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. Shen attempts to restrain his elation, pressing his lips together before pushing Erin softly towards the centre of the crowd. Erin steps through the crowd until her father stands before her. Taking a deep breath, Erin looks into her father’s eyes as he lifts his chin with pride. Erin lifts her chin, and no sooner than she does, her father wraps his arms around her, lifting Erin off the ground and holding her tight. As her father lets her go, Erin wipes tears from her face. She turns and continues to the podium where Odalare beckons her up the steps. 

Shen glances over at Clay who stands clapping much slower than everyone else.

Erin climbs onto the podium and glances out across the crowd and to the horizon beyond where the suns glow still creeps into the night sky. Odalare points her open hand at the crowd and steps back, inviting Erin to address the village.

“What should I say?” asks Erin.

“Speak only of what feels right” says Odalare, placing her hand gently onto Erin’s shoulder.

As Erin turns and approaches the front of the podium, the villagers fall silent once more. Erin searches through the crowd to find Shen smiling back at her, lifting his father’s tankard aloft.

“It is with great pride, and unexpected fortune, I stand before you all here tonight,” says Erin, taking a deep and unsteady breath. “Were it not for the misfortune of another, I would not have received such favour. And so I feel I must myself pay tribute.” Erin quickly turns to Odalare. “If I may?” she asks quietly.

“Go on,” says Odalare, her wide smile still stretched across her face as she nods.

“Travern Saola-Cliff,” says Erin, returning her attention to the crowd, “I… We… Pray that you make a full and swift recovery. For the mercy of the gods.”

“For the mercy of the gods,” recite the crowd.

Erin glances over her shoulder at Odalare once more. The Chief simply opens her hand, urging Erin to continue.

“I have not many words,” says Erin, “But there are faces that I cannot forget. None more so than my father… who has also been my friend, and held me together in difficult times. My brother, who inspires me still to find and embrace the very best of all the gods have to offer. And…”

Erin looks once more towards her father, but she cannot find him amongst the crowd. She searches frantically, while the crowd waits. Her search is interrupted by the concern in Shen’s eyes. Most likely worried that Erin may be lost for words, Odalare steps toward her.

“And to you, Great Honourable Galma,” says Erin, looking down at the Sworn Elder who turns to glance up at her. Galma smiles and nods in appreciation.

“Were it not for you,” says Erin, “I would not have pursued my role as a school master, nor a student of the past. And thank you, High Water. Second only to my final vow, I promise to do everything in my power to make you proud.”

As Erin bows before the villagers they burst into rapturous applause once more. Odalare steps forward and invites Erin to step down.

“Let us close this Gratis Opa with food, song and dance,” says Odalare, her resonant voice dampening the crowd. “For our Next Opa… we will hail our new herald.”

As the crowd celebrates, Erin returns to her table, encouraged by the applause and warm smiles that surround her. Still searching for her father, Erin joins Shen and sits down at the table.

“Where did father go?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” says Shen. “Did you know you would be last tribute?”

“No, of course not,” says Erin, “How could I?”

“You speak so well,” chuckles Shen, taking another bite of his fried fish.

“I’m going to make sure father’s okay,” says Erin before she quickly stands and makes her way through the crowd.

“Of course,” says Shen, “Great. Don’t worry about me, I’ll just celebrate for the both of you,” he sighs, leaning over and taking hold of Erin’s tankard. Shen gulps down Erin’s drink in one go, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He picks up his father’s tankard and makes his way through the crowd, disappearing into the shadows between the west commune houses.

 

Still holding his father’s tankard, spilling Elderferm onto his hand, Shen ambles through the shadows of the narrow, abandoned streets. His lip curled and his head hung over his chest, Shen rejects the bitter taste of solitude as he continues to gulp down his father’s drink. Conflicted by contrasting memories, Shen can’t escape the echo of his sister’s voice. So often had she revered even the whisper of their mother’s name. So many hours have they spent longing for relief from the endless vacuum of their mother’s absence. Yet, after all her words, Erin had failed to pay tribute to their mother. Their father had spared no time in returning to his hiding place. And, once again, Shen is left alone, with only the absent dreams of a face he cannot remember, and the broken dream of a life he would never know. Unbeknown to Shen, while his intoxication lends nothing to his coordination, every unsteady step brings him closer to exactly what he’s been hoping for.

Shen stumbles around the corner, finding himself in almost complete darkness. Struggling to follow the stones that reflect the faint glow of the stars, Shen climbs the steps beside the reservoir. As he nears the high village wall, Shen gains a glimpse of the high tree line that obscures the mountain beyond. Eager for a clearer view of the outside world, Shen climbs up onto the edge and begins to walk around towards the wall. Regaining his balance as he sways and staggers, Shen falls forward onto the small platform above the stone seem between the two sides of the enormous water reserve. Climbing to his feet and inhaling deeply, Shen lets out a short sharp sigh. Suddenly, loud clapping is followed by a fluttering shadow as a large black bird leaps from the wall before him. Shen stumbles back, losing his footing. He falls from the platform, catching himself on the edge of the reservoir. Desperately trying to pull himself up, the echo of the falling tankard rings in Shen’s ears as he continues to slip. Shen’s fingers are snatched over the edge of the stone, sending him plunging to his death. 

Holding his breath, with no time for much more than a terrified grimace, Shen is caught by the ever decreasing gradient of the reservoir overflow. He slides to a stop in a shallow puddle, his foot kicking the tankard across the smooth stone floor. Silently thanking the gods for his life, Shen catches his breath before picking himself up. He walks across the overflow towards the tankard, noticing the stones set into the flat side of the overflow up ahead, giving him a way of climbing out. Leaning over to pick up the tankard, Shen turns toward a drainage pipe that emerges beside him. The huge pipe is almost half as tall as Shen, recessed into one of the tall columns on the inside of the wall. Shen makes his way towards the pipe and kneels down before it.

Is this really what he thinks it is? Could this be the only other way out of High Water? And, who else, if anybody, might know about it? While tempted to venture further, the commandments of High Water and the words of his elders ring clearly in Shen’s ears. Overwhelmed by a sickening gurgle of premature guilt, Shen picks up the tankard and tucks it into his robes. Without doubt, the person that built this overflow died centuries ago. The village architecture, plumbing and craftsmanship was way ahead of its time. Given that it’s impossible to see from above, it’s possible that Shen is the only person alive to know about it. He climbs the stone ladder, the cool and fragrant aroma of the outside world filling his lungs. 

If he has truly found a way out, he’d have to be sure, no, he’d have to be absolutely certain. Should he tell somebody? Should he go back? If anybody else were to find it, he’ll surely be responsible either way. This changes everything. Shen can feel the outside world against his fingertips. He leans on the precipice of a first taste of all he has yearned for. But, Shen knows that he must acknowledge exactly what this means. Like a tiny wooden boat, his opportunity floats in an unsettling fever of nauseating dread. 

Shen ambles through the streets, towards his cottage. His thoughts clouded by conflicted intent, against his better judgement, Shen’s senses are blunted. While he has only one thing on his mind, his are not the only eyes fixed upon his path. 

Gazing up into the night sky, seeking the light of the moon, the princess of Makanoa sits on a step within the royal gardens. Surrounded by guards who stand perfectly still in the shadows, the princess is joined by a chambermaid who kneels beside her.

“His majesty sleeps, your highness,” says the maid.

The princess lowers her gaze, listening to the patter of the waterfall in the distance. “As time passes… I grow more and more patient,” she says softly. “I have a new appreciation… for moments of peace.”

The maid remains still, peering down at the ground in anxious anticipation. Awaiting further instruction, her body weighs increasingly heavily on the ground, her knee pressed firmly into the course, cold stone.

“So quickly… my father aged,” says the princess. “Swiftly… goes the hand… reaching for the sword.” The princess follows the silhouette of an owl as it glides through the sky above, disappearing beyond the rooftops. “Is it foolish… to train a dog… with two masters?” she asks.

The maid remains as still as she is silent, painted by the moonlight as it begins to cut its way through the clouds.

“Kindly bring my brother home,” says the princess as she stands. “Before my father dies.” The princess turns and strides up onto the kawe, back into the palace, leaving the maid knelt beside the steps. As the door slides shut, a thin cloud of dust is thrown into the air as the maid disappears without a trace.