The One-Hundred

ｆｏｕｒ

Sand clings to my body as I shift, staring out at the horizon. I watch as the sun awakens from the dark shell of night. Different shades of pink, orange, and red reflect off the never-ending waters. The string of my bow makes a low musical thumping sound as my fingers pick at it. My insides feel twisted and heavy.

We lost so many.

A tear tumbles down my cheek as I'm reminded of what is forever lost. Now is the time to mourn, when no one is around to see and no one can think less of a future Tribe Leader. It is, though, harder to mourn when I didn't even glance at our Wall of the Dead. It doesn't feel real unless I see her name up there.

Nan-ah.

The Wall of the Dead is a large block of wood that stands tall behind the Tribe Leader's houses. When one of our people die, someone who had been close to them carves their name into it. The wood is worn out and thinning with each name chipped onto it. There's only one name on there that would send me into a spiral of sadness. I don't want to believe it's true. Not after how I treated her...

I scratch at my leg, making the sudden itchy feeling disappear as I push the guilt-stained memories from the forefront of my brain. The water ripples, rolling peacefully onto the sand. The ocean dances with the colors of the sunrise; a dance of sadness and a dance of rebirth. Last night's terrors seem to worry the sun not, but it's as if it calls out to me that everything is okay and this is the circle of life, that it's natural.

Yet it is what I loathe.

I stand and wipe the dripping water from my cheeks, ready to turn back and hunt for food to get my mind off everything. The wolves would be used for clothing and weapons, but won't be eaten. They're almost sacred to the island, an unspoken promise with the wolves. However, it seems we taste the best to them. The attacks aren't always like this; we never have had that many people die from the wolves. That being said, I can't go home without bringing something back with me, especially after the confrontation Tani-mah and I had last night.

The water makes an unnatural moving sound behind me. The splash is too random in the water's patterns of pushing and pulling the sand on the shore. It can't be nothing, and, for a moment, my heart leaps into a frenzy in my heavy chest. What if it's the boy?

A high-pitched squeal sends a chill up my bones.

That doesn't sound like him.

I spin to see a large, slick-looking fish stuck in the shallow, waves smashing into it as it slaps the surface with its tail desperately. Its gray-blue skin shines in the sunlight, a squeal escaping from it like it's calling for help, calling for me.

I can't help myself when I take a few steps toward it, my urge to protect guiding me. I slip the knife at my hip from its sheath and hold it at arms-length, worried this animal might just be dangerous. I've heard of animals that come from the sea that can also move on land, but I've never heard of an animal like this one.