Fyskar

Chapter 10

"Dad! Dad, dad, dad, dad, da-"

Yes. Hi. Hello. I hear you. What? Eoin motioned his made-up signs for the two boys to stop clamouring for his attention. He blew out a puff of air, sweaty strands lifting in the humidity. His field lay partially fallow, the summer rains having flattened the leftover grain stalks from the harvest. The note in his sons' voices, though, edged on panic, drawing him from his questions of if he'd ever get the field set for growing a batch of root vegetables.

Callum grabbed Eoin's hand before he set his hoeing stick down. The boy's internal communication was faster than depending on his father to understand the village's language. "Water. Help!"

Broken images of a tree, a rock, a waterfall skipped through Eoin's mind. Small bugs, footprints, and frogs popped in through the unstrung information. Brightly patterned clothing flapped and whacked against the edge of the river. A crocodile sunning on an opposite bank held much of the young boy's focus for the memories he shared.

A shot of cold dread dripped from Eoin's fingers. Albin, always the more anxious of the two, grabbed his brother's hand and tugged for him to hurry.

Eoin dropped the stick, using a simple whistle words he had learned to make through his handicap. "Where?"

Albin let go of his brother and took his father's other hand. This was not the time to be wasting on village words. "Pools. Buhle and Cebisa. Clothes. Played with Khethiwe and Lindelwa. Lindelwa's left." Images of his two playmates building mud huts with sticks and helping their mothers clean small clothes tumbled from the boy in snaps and disorganized inversions.

"Is anyone else there?" Eoin scooped up Albin and let Callum dash ahead.

"Aunt Amina find help." Albin clung to his father. Not more than a few years from toddling, the boy replayed images of women's skirts and Lindelwa's name being screamed, almost blinding Eoin to the world.

"We'll find Lindelwa, Albin. We will make everything right. We'll have the whole village out looking for her." Eoin tripped over a tree root when another image from his son caught him off balance – a crocodile lunging up from the murky river. Albin clung tighter, shoving a thumb into his mouth. Eoin leaned his head against Albin's, the little boy tucking into his father's shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll find Lindelwa."

"Help?" Albin's forest-green eyes threatened tears.

"We'll find her." Eoin shielded his fears from the boy. Too many predators crept through the forest and sat beneath the water surface. He didn't need to be feeding those thoughts into his son's mind. The boys showed early signs of their inheritance, communicating through memory and image. Contributing fears and assumptions would not help their tangled concept of the world at the moment.

The pathway dragged at his bare feet. Mud from the first downpour of the season lay fresh that morning. Puddles filled with water flies and frogs created sticky hazards to be avoided. Fleeting clouds of tiny biting bugs swarmed them in the shadows and evaporated in the dappled sun. Eoin chased Callum, almost out of sight, scurrying along the riverbank path.

Panicked chatter rustled in the approaching deep vegetal undergrowth. Callum disappeared around a clump of shrubbery. Eoin skirted a tree to find several handfuls of the village already gathered. Tau motioned for Eoin to join him at the river edge. Buhle, her hair and skirts sopping wet, legs muddy up to the knees, held out her hands for Callum and Albin. They ran to her, exchanging worried greetings.

"Tau?" Eoin struggled with the Chief's name.

The large man, busy scanning the water's edge, held a hand out to Eoin. Furrowing his brow, the white-haired man set a hand in the leader's.