Halliodera Falls

1: Halliodera's Lake

I stand in the small coracle, surveying the water around me.  Fishing nets, woven from the supple feather strands of my lacrye, form soft mounds around my feet.  

The fish have been hiding in new places lately.  Two years ago, I fished a very reliable spot: the wind-sheltered side of the Island of the Acaries.  But that was before Ara Starvale took all that was rightfully mine.  Before Ma died.

There.  Under a swarm of gnats hanging at the water's surface, a quick, sharp silvery angle, darting away from the shadow of the coracle.  

The fish were unusually easy to find today.

I pull the leather-strip handle of a net up from the bottom of the small basket-boat.  It unfolds softly; with the practiced toss of a five-year fisherwoman, I throw it into the water.

Fish dart forward at the sudden splash.  Their bright scales glint in the water; hundreds of little sparkles moving quickly forward.  

They are beautifully futile.  

Swimming against the net, they flash frantically toward the rapidly closing edge.  I allow most of them to slip through, keeping only the ones I will need for the coming three days.  Six or seven, maybe.  And a few minnows for Haetak.  The small lacrye eats only the innards of the gutted fish and the minnows I catch occasionally with the larger fish.

The mouth of the net fully closed, I tie the two leather handles to the back of the coracle.  I will tug the fish behind the little boat.  Best to keep them fresh in the water as long as I can.

Rings push out from the paddles as I quietly bring the boat toward shore.  I am not too far from the village; usually, I cannot find fish so close.

It was a very good day today.  Three days of fish caught in one morning.

I have not been so lucky in a very long time.

I steer the coracle toward my little dwelling, off a ways from the main village.  It's little more than a hole in the cliff, barely tall enough for a short woman to stand in.  Two old, torn fishing nets shield the circular entrance from mosquitoes.  My mother's emblem, the emblem of the healer, is deeply carved into a smoother part of the soft limestone cliff near the entrance to my dwelling.

I am not a healer.  I cannot stand the sight of blood.  But I keep the emblem because of my mother.

When the coracle scrapes the sandy bottom of the lake, I hop out and pull it the rest of the way.  The water laps gently at my knees, washing away the hot, itchy sweat.

"Urilatha," I murmur.  It is a thankful word to be said when a coracle reaches shore.  A way of recognizing the gift that is the fish.  

After tying the coracle to a low-hanging tree branch, bark worn smooth from years of use, I pull the net in.  The fish, gleaming in the sun, flop frantically against the net.  I quickly pull the net to the small pond near my fire ring.  This is where I will keep the live fish for the next few days.

I gut and cook one small fish right away.  I haven't eaten since last night, and a morning on the lake in the sun has awoken my hunger.  

Stuck on a skewer and roasting on the unearthed coals of last night's fire, the fish cooks quickly.  I devour half of it voraciously, then force myself to stop so I can have an afternoon meal.  I'll cook another for tonight.

With my hunger mostly sated and the fire once again going, I sit for awhile and watch the lake.  A few termarots swoop the lake, long tails flowing in the wind.  They're probably snatching surface-skimming snails from the water.

It is a very still day.  I watch the lake Halliodera; boats sending ripples across the water, termarots, fishnets.  Across the lake, a green line of shore and the Falls.  Behind me, the Ahz.  

There is a boy I want to find.  I squint my eyes, looking into the glaring water.  His coracle has patterns burned into it; those viney swirls are its distinguishing feature.  

There he is.  Holding a long pole, he paddles his coracle through the reeds on the other side of the village.  

Rice picking? 

Usually, the rice isn't ready for another few weeks.  Maybe he found an early-ripening patch.  I sometimes look for early rice, too.

He paddles around for a while, peering into the water grasses.  When he disappears into the taller reeds, I turn back to the lake.

I watch as the number of dancing termarots slowly dwindles to one or two hungry birds.  I watch as fish make rings on the water, feasting on the termarots' leftover prey.  I watch as clouds in the sky blow past, bringing the clearest of blue days.  The sun shifts higher in the sky;   I watch without a sense of time.  

These moments of peace were rare in the hard days after Ma's death.  But I've been finding more of them.  More security.  Fish are harder to find than they were when I fished that old spot, but I almost always have enough to eat.  My little hole is feeling more and more like a home as I slowly chisel away at the walls to make them smooth.  My lacrye, sickly chick that it was, has grown into a fine young bird with fast-growing feather strands.  It reached egg-making age two moons ago.  

Two years ago, I was orphaned and alone.  But today, I can enjoy a hard-won moment of peace.

I watch Halliodera until the villagers start chanting for midday meditation.