Lost at Sea Bk. 02 Ch. 31

A symphony of beautiful chaos filled the air. The swirl of colors was stunning. Twenty or more voices, each a supernaturally gifted singer with an instinctive grasp of harmony, layered their wordless songs together in a breathtaking choir of cooperation and improvisation.

The sirens circled their island home in lazy swoops and dives, flying for no reason other than the sheer joy of it. Occasionally one would skim the surface of the water and snatch a fish with the huge claws they had in place of human feet. Without bothering to land or stop singing, they would fold their legs in an impressive display of strength and flexibility, transfer their catch to their hands, and use their claws or small makeshift blades to dress their catch in flight. With a few practiced slices, guts and refuse fell back to the sea. They only stopped singing long enough to stuff their faces with raw meat.

Loops of braided hair or old bleached leather were tied around their waists or wrists, holding pouches or rudimentary tools. The knives they carried were made of sharpened bones, or the claws of their dead. The matriarchs carried battered metal tools stolen from captured sailors as symbols of their status. Those primitive satchels were as close as any of them came to clothing.

Each was gloriously nude, with trim, tanned bodies that human dancers and acrobats would envy. All had flat stomachs, pert breasts, powerful thighs, and muscles on their flanks and backs that gave their torsos a stocky, wedge-like appearance. On a human, their shape would have seemed a bit odd, but with their massive wings and large feet, their proportions balanced.

Instead of hair, they had thin, downy feathers on their heads that matched the colors and patterns of their wings. Some had simple fluffy layers. Others had expressive tufts or plumes. Those fine feathers narrowed into a stripe down the back of their necks, widened into a cape across their upper back, then blended into their wings. More feathers wrapped their calves, decorating the area where human legs became avian talons.

The island they lived on was little more than a group of pockmarked spikes jutting from the water like great gnarled fingers. The shallow reef made food plentiful for the winged women who called the place home, but was a graveyard for human ships. The husks of three old vessels still stood half out of the water waiting for the waves to slowly pull them apart, acting as a stark warning to any vessels that happened upon them.

If a ship was shallow enough and skilled enough to navigate the reef, the fingers themselves were still a hazard. Any ship large enough to traverse the oceans was too large to safely fit between them. There was nowhere safe to anchor or dock. The reef broke the waves somewhat, but frothy water still battered the stones hard enough to dash any nearby ship into that giant, gnashing hand. Climbing the slick rock would have been impossible. All of that was before one considered the mind-addling effect the beautiful chorus song had on half the human population.

For good reason, this cluster of rocks near the mouth of the wide strait between Malahara and Nival was known as the Devil's Talon. Its presence slowed nearby seatravel to a careful crawl, protecting both nearby coasts, and ensuring the strait was very difficult to contest. Rounding the malaharan or Nivalese coast into the strait was considered a right of passage by sailors all over the Five Seas. Many considered it to be the most dangerous stretch of sea in the known world. During the warm seasons, any nearby ship risked being raided by the sirens, so all sailing had to be done at night with an elaborate series of signal fires and lighthouses. It was always a race in the dark. During the day, there was rarely a sail to be seen for miles around Devil's Talon. The sirens did not know they were a lynchpin in the uneasy peace between neighboring kingdoms. To the feathered beauties who lived there, it was simply a perfectly defended home.

A local legend had begun some years ago, spread by fishermen and naval merchants, of the King of Sirens. A man, who they swore lived atop the tallest Talon. Incredulity was met with a hunt for anyone with a spyglass, who would be asked to take a closer look at the distant cluster of spiky rocks. Sure enough, with a good enough lens, they could make out rope bridges connecting the stone spires. Everyone knew sirens didn't build things. Some sailors even swore that they had seen a lone figure walking on the bridges.

There hadn't been reports of a ship being raided by sirens in years now. There were always stories, of course, but nothing credible. Sure, there were still occasional ships who heard the song and were lured in by their own desires. That's why there were still so many broken hulks in the reef. There just weren't stories of the sirens actively hunting ships and carrying sailors away anymore. The change was making some ships bolder, but most knew better than to tempt fate.

It was the Siren King, the believers swore. He was the reason the sirens had stopped raiding. Ever a creative and superstitious lot, local sailors had a dozen different stories about who he was, but the most salacious and widely accepted theory was that he was a deaf man, marooned in a shipwreck, taken captive by the winged savages. With no hope of rescue or escape, he was living among them like a one man harem, somehow managing to keep the entire flock satisfied.

They were very nearly right.

"I cannae believe you live here!" Belita said in awe. She lay on her back atop one of the stone spires, letting the sun soak her nude body while she watched the glorious dance of the circling sirens and lost herself in their captivating song.

"It is not always pleasant, but the scenery is hard to beat," the man next to her said with a gravely chuckle.

She rolled to her side and propped herself onto her elbow to raise an eyebrow at him.

He was called the Sandman. A legendary N'madi witch doctor. Famous on five coasts for his medicinal skill, and brutal philosophy. He had given her nearly all of the golden rings that decorated her body, one for each time she'd passed the Devil's Talon.

Twenty times she'd risked death at the claws of the feathered temptresses that now surrounded her. Five rings in each ear. One in each nipple. Four on each side of her outer labia. As far as she knew, she'd made that trip more than anyone alive, but it was still awe inspiring to see it from the top.

There was no one she would rather see it with. No one else could understand how much it meant to her. He had saved her life, and her ship more than once. He'd healed her body, and her mind on many occasions. He'd been her ship's witch, her bosun, her ship's doctor, and her first mate. A few times all at once. He was the literal man of her dreams, the love of her life, and she would probably never see him again.

He had his hands behind his bald head. He was naked as well, save for the macabre skull-like mask on his face. His skin was dark as boiled leather, and covered in blue scars. He was nearly two feet taller than she was, and powerfully built. In spite of his fearsome appearance, Belita knew him to be gentle and kind, which was why he was here in the first place.

"Not always pleasant?" Belita teased. "This is paradise! Yer own personal tropical island, with a harem of gorgeous musicians who do nothin' but sing tae ye, fuck ye, an' feed ye!"

The big man shrugged. "They are terrible housekeepers, and they fight among themselves constantly."

Belita snorted. "Aye, over yer dick."

His chest shook with a silent laugh. "Often yes."

"So which one's the one ye want me tae take on?" she asked, looking past him to the circling flock again.

"She cannot reach this far," Sandman explained.

"Aye, but ye can still show her to me," Belita insisted. "I want tae get a feel for her."

Sandman didn't move or speak, but a siren peeled off from the chorus and swooped towards them. Her feathers were white, gray, and bright blue. With a powerful flap, she stalled her descent, reached out with her long legs, and landed gracefully on a taller bit of stone near where Belita and Sandman were sunbathing. Then she settled into a crouch with her knees spread wide and her hands clasped together hanging down in front of her. She was clearly nervous. She had wide, uncertain yellow eyes. She didn't make a sound. Belita stood up and took a few steps, approaching carefully. The siren's feathers rippled nervously and she shrank back a bit.

"She is no danger to you," Sandman said reassuringly.

"Oh, I know," Belita said. "Looks more like she thinks I'm a danger tae her."

"That is her way," Sandman said. "Or as close to it as I can approximate without her being present."

"I've seen ye dream up a damn convincing double of me," Belita replied. "You say this is what she's like, I believe ye. Can she talk here? Like the other blue and white one that's so sweet on ye?"

Sandman went quiet for a moment. "Belita, she is the same one."

Belita's eyes widened. It had been years, but she remembered this siren. She'd been the most adventurous, most confident of the entire flock back when they nearly wrecked the kestrel and carried off most of the crew. It was only Sandman's magic and willpower that had seen them through.

The siren in front of her was nothing like the vivacious, curious girl she remembered. This one was scared. Lonely. Quiet. The years had not been kind.

"Can she still talk here?" Belita asked softly. "The real her, I mean."

"Yes," Sandman said. "She rarely does anymore. After losing her voice in the waking world, she slowly stopped speaking in the Dreamtime as well."

Belita looked at the nervous siren with eyes full of empathy and heartbreak. At the time she had agreed to help this mute siren mostly for Sandman's sake, but now she wanted to. She needed to. "I know that kind'a lonely. I dinnae speak for months after da' died. It felt like everyone else was a thousand miles away. I might never hae said another word either if I hadn't had my ma."

The siren watched Belita with cautious curiosity. Her feathers rippled as the blond woman approached.

The first thing Belita noticed was that she was tiny. It hadn't been obvious. Her wings had made her seem massive as she'd landed. Now that she was settled and crouched she seemed half Belita's size.

Sirens were odd shaped. They were skinny things with wide chests and strong muscles all over their torsos. When Belita had first seen this one, she'd been a brawny lass. She'd wrestled Sandman to the deck, stripped him bare, and climbed on top of him tae claim him as a prize. Now she looked practically waifish.

"She innae been eatin' enough," Belita said quietly.

Sandman stood as well. "The others no longer share food with her. Some go so far as to steal her catches. She has to fly quite a ways to hunt in peace. Past the reef, where fish are more scarce. That is where she was nearly caught. If there are any ships on the water she does not eat. I feed her what I can."

"Catty bitches," Belita muttered, looking up at the other circling sirens.

"It is their way," Sandman rumbled.

"It's a shitty way. Ain't her fault," Belita said protectively. She tilted her head and shielded her eyes from the sun to look closer at the siren's neck.

"You can touch her," Sandman said.

"Oh, right. Ye're so good at this I keep getting drawn back in. If I dinnae focus, I forget none o' this is real," Belita said with a self-chastising scoff.

"Lucidity is a skill like any other," Sandman said. "It gets easier with practice."

Belita put her fingers beneath the siren's chin. The winged woman smiled at the touch, and her wings fluffed and rippled. She lifted her chin obediently. Her neck was a mess of blue-tinted scar tissue. A thick, ropy line circled her throat. Thinner, irregular gouges were scattered beneath it.

"Saints alive," Belita said in horror after taking a closer look. "Her neck's worse'n yours!. What happened?"

"From what I have managed to piece together from her nightmares, and the few descriptions I've managed to get out of her, she nearly managed to dodge the Malaharans' net but the edge of it caught her around the neck. She was hung as they reeled her in, She fought, and tried to fly, which twisted it further and tore the skin. She somehow managed to claw free of the noose, but in her panic she scratched herself quite badly as well."

"Clawed free with her feet?" Belita asked, wide eyed, looking down at the siren's massive claws.

"Yes," Sandman confirmed.

Belita was impressed. "Damn. I dinnae think I could get my foot tae my neck if my life depended on it. She's bendy."

The siren touched her beneath the chin, mimicking what Belita had done earlier. Belita pulled her head back in surprise. The siren retreated a bit, looking worried and rejected.

"Oh I dinnae mean-" Belita began, reaching out to reassure her.

The siren once again reached out and quickly stroked Belita beneath the chin, and then raised her own chin hopefully.

Belita laughed and started gently stroking the happy siren beneath the chin. She looked back at Sandman. "Are ye doing that?"

"I am doing nothing," the big witch doctor said. He hadn't moved. He was still laying in the sun with his hands behind his head, watching Belita and the siren.

"Don't ye play innocent," she said in an accusatory tone. "I know ye dinnae have tae move tae make things happen."

"You are referring to her?" Sandman asked.

"Aye!" Belita said, exasperated. "Are ye makin' her do things? Be playful an' the like?"

"No," Sandman said with a low chuckle. "You are."

"The hell I am," Belita said, giving him a dirty look.

"This is your dream," Sandman reminded her. "I shaped the surroundings, and yes, I created her to the best of my ability, but it is your mind that filled in the gaps. My control here is never absolute. It is like helping you create pottery. I can add my hands to the wheel, and help create the shape, but it is your wheel. Your foot is on the pedal, controlling the speed."

"I thought your dreamwalks were like shared dreams," Belita said.

"Some are," Sandman said with a nod. "This one is not. The dream is yours. I am simply influencing it."

"Doesn't seem like much of a difference," Belita said. "Ye can still control things either way."

Sandman crossed his ankles, relaxing more in the sun. "The difference would be very hard for you to spot, yes. For me, the difference is that doing things this way requires a great deal more skill, and much less effort. This way, I can be a passenger rather than the helmsman."

Belita still didn't understand. "I thought you created all this."

"You have been here before," Sandman said. "Yu have seen sirens before. You remember her."

Belita shook her head. "Aye, but I've never been up on top of the fingers like this. I dinnae know what any of this actually looks like."

"You're guessing," Sandman explained.

Belita snorted. "Well how'd I do?"

"Fairly well," Sandman said warmly. "In the waking world, there are coconut husks and fish bones all over this plateau. Laying down like this would be unpleasant. I prefer your version."

The siren tilted her head and craned her neck so Belita's fingers were stroking her behind the ear. She made a happy sound in her throat, like series of fast clicks.

"See?" Belita said. "I'm not makin' her do that."

"You have an understanding of siren behavior. She acts the way you expect her to, or perhaps the way you want her to," Sandman explained.

Belita eyed him sideways. "This innae more of yer not-concious thought stuff, is it?"

"Subconcious," Sandman corrected. "And yes."

"I still think it's a load o' bollocks," she said wryly. "People dinnae think things without noticing they're thinkin' 'em."

"Of course they do," Sandman countered. "That is what dreams are. Deliberately choosing anything about a dream is rare."

"Aye, but people still know when they've had a dream. They wake up, an' know what they were thinkin' while they slept," Belita said, moving her hands to scratch the siren's head. The blue-winged woman opened her mouth and closed her eyes in shameless happiness.

"Do they? How often do you wake up and not remember dreaming anything?" Sandman asked.

"Sometimes," Belita shrugged. "I figure it means I dinnae have a dream."

"You did," Sandman said.

"Still dinnae mean I was thinkin' without realizing I was thinkin'," Belita continued to disagree. "Just means I forgot what I thought."

"Call it that then," Sandman said with a shrug. "Everything here behaves the way you expect, based on your experiences, and how you feel about them. You are simply forgetting about those impulses."

Belita gave him a wry look over her shoulder. "Now ye're humoring me."

Sandman chuckled. "Yes."

"So if I'm makin' all this up on accident, does that mean I can make it up on purpose?" Belita asked slyly.

"Perhaps," Sandman said. "Lucidity is one thing. Lucid reshaping is another."

"What's the difference?" Belita asked.

Sandman thought for a moment about how best to explain. "Lucidity is simply recognizing that you are dreaming without waking up. It is being conscious of your unconsciousness. Often the mind balks at the contradiction, forcing the mind awake."

"Aye, I remember that happening a lot when you were teaching me how tae do this with you," Belita replied.

Sandman continued. "Lucidity allows you to make conscious choices while dreaming, but you are really only controlling yourself. Once the mind becomes skilled and comfortable at accepting the contradiction of lucidity, it is possible to purposefully shape a dream. To control anything within it. First it starts simple, like flight, or choosing what is behind a closed door before you go through it."

"Sounds fun," Belita grinned.

"Quite," Sandman agreed. "In the future, we can practice if you wish. Now, there are other goals that take precedence."

"Oh right," Belita said, furrowing her brows. "Why am I so forgetful tonight?"

"It is the nature of dreams," Sandman said. "Memory is fleeting within them. Maintaining a sense of purpose within a dream is very difficult."

"Aye, that's true," Belita said, chastising herself. "I suppose we should get to it then."

Sandman stood up and walked closer. "You have put her in a good mood. Let me show you what I've taught her."

____________________________________

Caine's head was clearer now, but still foggy with fatigue and faint pain. He was sitting in the Old Man's chair with his elbows resting on his knees trying to think. The angel was a literal godsend when it came to soothing pain, but there were limits. His joints felt tight, and his whole body throbbed with his heartbeat. He was pretty sure he could feel his blood moving through every bruised and torn muscle. It felt like his body was angry with him. Without the angel, moving at all would still have been agony. As it was now, it was a tiring annoyance that made thinking difficult.

He'd locked the door to the study, but he could faintly hear people moving around outside and pieces of whispered conversation. The fight on the balcony had been relatively private, but had taken much longer than he'd planned for. It was a windy night next to the ocean, so sounds didn't carry far, but anyone with an open window in the manor below might have heard the clashing of steel and the Old Man's angry bellowing. The house was quickly waking up. Now was the time to leave, but he wasn't ready. He could trudge along, but he was nowhere near fit enough for a daring escape.

The Old Man had been a tyrant about his secrecy, which was working in Caine's favor, but he figured it was only a matter of time before someone was brave enough to start knocking on the door. After that, someone would find a maid with a key, or go talk to Mary. He needed every minute he could while the angel worked on healing him.