Riven Isles

2 | A Helping of Help

I don't recall ever falling asleep. I must have, at some point, however, for here I am, squinting in the morning light. What's more, as the waking blur leaves my vision, I find that, I'm sure, I am very far from my rock. I don't panic, no, because my first thought at finding myself propped up in a steadily trundling haycart is that the lawmen found me in the night, and I must be safe, and must surely be on my way to the Oswald estate.

Of course, here I come to realize that, no, lawmen don't typically drive haycarts. In fact, lawmen don't tend to have anything to do with hay at all. This was concerning, though the shrinking sign at a distance before me, reading a warm Amity welcome, was far more so. I turn to look for the faces of my drivers. I do so slowly, so as not to stir a great deal of noise from the dried grasses beneath me.

My breath sounds before I can stop it. A sharp intake, loud enough to draw attention to my sorry self. Their eyes bulge- not out of force or shock, but because it is simply the way they are.

Heathens.

Fish people.

Aquians.

"By Laod!" I cry, with a great deal of alarm, for I never imagined I'd be kidnapped by the people of the sea. Frankly, I never thought I'd see one, let alone two.

The one with the thick, cloudy glasses, that take up half of her squashed old—I think she is old, I think she is female—face, startles me with a quick hand to my shoulder. Perhaps it is no threat of a gesture, but it's more than I am comfortable with. I recoil from the brittle green-gray fingers and stagger to stand. With thought of escape, my gaze finds the road, but I hesitate.

I'll tell you why. The road is fresh gravel, and my feet are bare and bruised.

I gather my wits about me. Bloody soles aren't going to kill me.

A clicking behind me serves as distraction, and I, curious as I am, can't resist a look.

"Don't jump," says the other heathen, the one that may have been pretty had she skin of a natural color, or proportionate eyes. It comes as a surprise to me that my kidnappers speak my language, and, in a way, it calms me.

"Take me back to Amity," I demand. I'd like to think I sounded fierce, but I can't forget how my voice is... still maturing—that was how mother and the doctor always put it. By which, I mean, my voice often cracks.

"We help."

The elder begins to make noises again. I can see from the movement of her wrinkled, sallow cheeks that the noises come, predominantly, from flicks and pulls of her tongue, while other syllables to her apparent speaking are produced by the gnashing of her near toothless gums, and the grinding of her remaining seven teeth.

The somewhat pretty heathen takes a breath, and I, interested, squint to catch a glimpse of her teeth. I find only eight, one more than the other lady, which confirms that few teeth must be a trait of their species, rather than of age, as I had first assumed. Her clicks come lighter and faster than her partner's.

I wish I understood them. As I listen, and ogle, I find myself recognizing hand gestures, expressions, and tones. Are they speaking of me?

I can't help but wonder.

Then the old one holds up my safe, and I don't wonder any longer.

"Hey!" I admit, I'd forgotten it. "That's my property!"

They stare at me, as if I am in the wrong. As if my actions confuse them or disturb them. Their jaws lock, their eyes bulge further, and the flaps on the sides of their heads- flaps where their ears should be, but aren't- stand out. I straighten my back, and look down at them over my nose. With them sitting down, and me standing up, wouldn't you reckon I've got a firm standing in a position of power? I would.