Rafts, p.1
Rafts, page 1
Rafts
Utunu
Rafts
Copyright © 2023 Utunu
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 979-8-9876189-2-9
First Edition, 2023. All rights reserved.
Cover and Illustrations by Maricela Ugarte
www.maricelaugarte.com
Mapaku Village
Pflugerville, TX
mapakuvillage.com
For all those who yearn for a simpler life, and who sometimes seek an island to escape to.
Content Warning
The following work contains scenes of explicit male/male sex and deals with topics such as injury and loss. This book is intended for adults only, and reader discretion is advised.
Table of Contents
Storm
Shore
Dreams
Exploration
Shelter
Starwatching
Decisions
Gods
Ceremony
Divination
Raft
Years
Hut
Arrival
Changes
Departure
Landmarks
Chapter
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Notice
Table of Contents
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Body Matter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Chapter
Acknowledgments
Contributors
Storm
“When the gods fight, it is the mortals who suffer.”
Tumari proverb
Û, goddess of the sea, was pleased.
The waters were calm, glittering in the sun, and my catamaran bobbed gently in the waves.
I sat astride the rough-hewn logs that served as a bridge between the two slender hulls, and peered over the edge. The water was clear and bright, and refracted caustics played across the ocean floor far below. A deep breath, then another, as I recovered from my previous dive. The water that had beaded on my bare skin quickly succumbed to the sun’s gaze, and it was but moments until I was practically dry.
Out here the depth was nearing my limits, but I prided myself on my diving. I could go deep and stay there for a hundred heartbeats with little difficulty, providing me plenty of time to find and collect the oysters I sought. Gripping my small net, I calmed my heart, readied my breath, and dove in once more.
I had much to prove. The catamaran above, now just two dark lines against the bright backdrop of the sky, was small and old. Its wood, once bright and sharp-cut, was now darkened and mottled with the years, smoothed by countless excursions. I liked to think its age brought wisdom—this was a boat that had been through much and would carry me well, protecting the new generation as it had done for those before me. Its use had been entrusted to me, for which I was proud.
And that is what made it feel real. It had been several moons since I’d come of age, and there had been the rituals and traditions and celebrations that transform a boy into a man. But being out on the ocean, alone, with the responsibility of bringing a catch back to the rest of the village—that is when I truly felt like I had grown, in both my own eyes and those of my tribemates.
A clump of oysters nearby caught my eye, and I swam easily over to gather them in my net. They were plentiful out here; few in my village could dive these depths, so there was much to pick from. I might need hundreds for even the smallest pearl, but that didn’t matter. Without a pearl it was still an oyster, and would be a welcome addition to any feast.
The pearls themselves, well… we traded those. There were many other human villages inland who were more than happy to trade us copper, spices, and fabrics. Fishing, as always, was our most important occupation—it kept us fed, after all—but the desire for pearls helped us obtain all the things that were rare in our lands.
It was important, and I knew it. The ocean spread out before me laden with promise, and here I was with the freedom to do what I did best.
Another outcropping provided further oysters, and I grabbed those—always leaving a few behind, so that they might multiply, and so I wouldn’t anger Û. I was nearing my limit, so back up to the brightness above I swam. I broke the surface and set off towards the catamaran, pushing myself up to sit back aboard its bridge. I dumped the oysters into the large, clay bowl brought along for that purpose, resting for a moment while I recovered my breath.
It was then I noticed the smudge on the horizon.
I doubted it heralded anything good, for if Aea, god of the sky, was angry, Û would get angry too. I did not wish to endanger my newfound status by taking foolish risks, and so I brought the sail to bear and let the woven web of reeds and palm fronds catch Aea’s voice, setting me on course back towards the shore and my village. I was not far—I could see it in the distance, the splash of colour setting it apart from the stretch of coastline. Yet it was worrying how quickly the grey smear in the distant sky extended and expanded, resolving into churning clouds that roiled angrily as they drew closer. The sea responded in kind, my catamaran jumping as I sped shoreward, all while the clouds stretched, dark and furious, enveloping the sky until it was thick with them. The clear blue of earlier had fled, retreating into the distance, leaving only the anger behind.
Û and Aea both were stirring, and I did not want to be in the middle of their arguments.
By the time I had reached the shore and pulled the catamaran up onto the sands, the wind and waves had doubled and doubled again. I rushed up the banks to the village proper to help the others make sure all were accounted for. I myself quickly checked my mother’s hut—I saw her rarely now, having undergone the manhood ritual—and she was safe, my little brother Kana in her arms. Once we confirmed no one was missing, the elders summoned those of us who were most able-bodied to the village centre.
The wind made their words hard to hear, but their declarations came as no surprise. It was clearly a ghaftu, one of the rare swift storms, a vessel of Aea’s rage. Unlike the normal storms which could spend days in their passage and visit destruction over a huge swath, a ghaftu would strike suddenly, small yet easily as furious as the typhoons that sometimes struck our shores. None knew why Aea could be this angry, but we did not know the whims of the gods.
There was no time to prepare, of course. But we did what we could; several of us set out to pull the village boats further in. During past storms the sea had overflowed its banks in anger, and sometimes the swell would feast on any boats left too close.
We paired up, for it would take the strength of more than one to pull the boats far enough. Paka joined me—he was older than me by two summers and had the strength to show—and together we dragged my catamaran well up onto the banks, tying it down. Another boat followed, and by the time it was secured, the storm was fully upon us. I dimly noticed wind tear thatch from one of the huts as I went to pull a third boat to safety—there were several still loose—but Paka gestured wildly up towards the huts.
“Kunet!” he called, but the rest of his words were snatched away and lost in the fury of the wind and rain. He started towards the village, beckoning me to follow, then turned to scramble up the nearest bluff.
Uncertain, I watched him go. Glancing back at the remaining catamarans, I could see the waters pushing at them eagerly. Like the other human tribes dotting the coast, fishing was survival, and our boats were our livelihood. I thought I could do more—I could pull up another, perhaps two—so, like a fool, I stayed.
I look back at it now, that point where I stood balanced between the village and the additional boats. A decision point. I wonder sometimes what that other path held.
It was a struggle. Even though I had come of age, unlike Paka I had not gained my full growth yet, and the turbulent sea mocked my efforts. Û had grasped the third catamaran and was unwilling to part with it. It was much heavier without another to help, and as the wind and waves increased, it became clear that it was a losing battle. I was stubborn, though. It was not until the boat was torn from my grasp that I realised the futility of it.
I hugged my abraded palms close and looked around. I was alone, and the howl of the storm and the torrential downpour isolated me. Stumbling over to the nearest bluff, I gripped the sodden seagrass and pulled myself up, battling my way over to huddle against one of the larger boulders near the beach.
I soon discovered there was no true leeward side; the rain and wind seemed to come from all directions. Cowering there, the storm whirling around me, I saw how unprepared my village truly was. Even had the elders divined its approach and we had had time to plan, it would have made no difference. Something had truly angered the gods, and the storm was powerful and unrelenting, far greater than any of the storms I remembered. Above the noise of it all, there was the occasional crack of a hut’s supporting post as it gave way, accompanied by faint cries, quickly snatched away by the wind. It was as if the village itself were splintering, yet I could see nothing and so could only imagine the huts' frames being ripped away, my tribemates and family dragged and torn free. There was nothing I could do, so I gripped tight to the rock as best I c
My entire world had shrunk—it was only my body pressed against the stone and the wind and rain around me. There was nothing else. My muscles trembled with the strain of holding on, yet the storm went on and on until my arms ached from gripping. The torrents of rain blasted clean the smears of blood my fingers left as I held on until, inevitably, I was torn free. One moment my cheek was pressed wet against the cold rock, and the next I was in Aea’s grasp, to be tossed dismissively into the sea. I hit hard—the suddenness of it was bright in my mind, and I must have lost consciousness briefly. A reflexive swallow of seawater brought me back and animal panic took over, driving me to stretch frantically for the surface. I had no idea which direction it was, the churn and chaos of the waves adding to my disorientation, so I went the wrong way at first. It was not long until black spots started to press upon my vision, but finally, choking and gasping, I reached air.
I am a strong swimmer, and that helped me for a time, but the blow when I had struck the water had left me stunned and dizzy. I tasted blood flowing down my face and had trouble moving my arms; all I could do was weakly kick to keep myself up, for the water churned too heavily for me to do much else. The storm brought a darkness with it that was like night—or perhaps it was the knock I had taken, or the blood and water in my eyes. Bits of debris swirled around as well, and something scraped by my face, a hot sharpness, and I felt new wetness there. I had no concept of direction; I was being pulled and tossed, and could do little else but desperately keep myself near the surface. Dimly I could make out something in the water nearby, something large floating atop the sea, and I struggled towards it.
It was a raft, that much I could tell, and I somehow got my arms atop it. I was exhausted, and the tossing of the water caused the raft to jump and surge beneath me, knocking my chin and scrambling my senses. Kicking feebly, I tried to push myself further atop it, but I could no longer feel my arms—it was if they belonged to someone else. They would not move, and as I watched, despairing even as I flung my thoughts at them willing them to obey, they slowly slipped, sliding uselessly off the raft as it bucked beneath me.
I had come so close, only to feel the raft gradually push me away. There was nothing else I could do.
A large swell rose beneath me, but I barely noticed until I felt weightless for an eyeblink, and then my head cracked against the wood of the raft. Immediately, all went black.
—
I awoke, slowly, to brightness.
With awareness came pain. My body hurt all over—my head ached abominably, and my exhausted muscles clamoured for attention. The sun was intense, painfully stabbing my eyes, and I squeezed them shut against it. I was lying on my stomach, cheek pressed against something hard, rough, and damp. With some effort, I managed to lift my hand to shade my eyes.
I was lying on rough-hewn wood, and it bobbed gently beneath me. The edge of it was just out of arm’s reach, and beyond that was sea. Nothing else, just the calm blue of the water and the piercing light of the sun reflecting off it. The play and sparkle of the softly undulating waves was mesmerising, and I spent several long moments simply watching before I remembered what happened.
I was upon a raft.
I sat up quickly then, to which my head immediately protested—I felt faint, and had to close my eyes and breathe deeply until it passed. Squinting against the brightness, I winced at the sight of the bruises and lacerations that covered my body. Though any bleeding had long since stopped, the red lines of myriad scrapes glistened starkly against my dark skin. I looked around. Nothing but the sun blazing in the sky, and ocean in every direction.
And the gnoll at the far corner of the raft.
It took me a moment to process this last bit of information.
I knew what gnolls were, of course. There were one or two tribes of them near my home village; I had seen them from afar, but we stayed clear of them, and they us. All I really knew about them was that they were vicious, dangerous, and bestial.
He—I think it was male, but I didn’t know enough about gnolls to be sure—was sitting on the opposite corner of the raft, facing away from me, looking out towards the ocean. His form, like all his kind, was that of a large bipedal hyena, with short tawny fur covering his body, interrupted with dark brown spots. There was a distinctive mane of longer fur that travelled from the top of his head down his spine, gradually less prominent as it approached the base of his tail. He was also bigger than I was, but didn’t seem as fearsomely muscled or decorated as the gnolls I had glimpsed in the past. It made him seem younger—perhaps just reaching adulthood like myself—but I couldn’t be sure. Nothing adorned him except a loincloth of hide.
I honestly didn’t know what to make of the situation. The gnoll exuded a physicality that frightened me, and here I was, in the middle of nowhere with nowhere to go, and this gnoll was a stride or two away. Could I even defend myself? I was suddenly reminded, and checked my own loincloth at my hip—my waterskin was there, intact, and miraculously my bronze knife was still in the leather sheath at my belt. As I took stock of my belongings, I noticed the gnoll shift position, and his head turned my way.
His face was quintessential hyena: the strongly defined muzzle, the uniquely shaped ears, the amber eyes. I met his gaze nervously. He sat there, his arms braced behind him supporting his weight. His right leg stretched out on the deck in front of him, the other he had folded with its knee upwards. He nodded at me then, and spoke a few guttural words which I did not understand. I told him so in my own tongue, and though his ears twitched at it he shook his head, clearly unaware of what my words meant.
Taking the waterskin from my belt, I drank a little. Not much though, for I understood the danger of the situation. At my village it often rained in the afternoons, but it could not be relied upon, and I had been warned many times in my childhood of the dangers and agonising temptation of saltwater. The gnoll watched me drink, so after a moment’s thought I shifted closer and held the waterskin out to him. He took it, and the brief touch brushing against my skin brought back all the stories I had heard of regarding gnolls and their violent nature; it almost made me scuttle back to my corner of the raft. Nevertheless, I still retreated out of arm’s length, watching him warily.
He drank, but measuredly, and extended the waterskin back to me. When he tried to shift so that he could reach, pain crossed his features, so I leaned forward and took it from him. I eyed him curiously, and that’s when I realised he was hurt. Gnoll legs are shaped differently than human ones, more like an animal’s, and as I studied him I could see that his outstretched leg was damaged. There was a kink at his knee that shouldn’t have been there, and once I had pinpointed it I could see how wrong it was.
I looked up at him and saw him watching me. Staring at his injury was clearly not my best idea, as his lip lifted in a warning snarl. I attempted to look non-threatening, retreating once more to my corner.
I wondered how much time had passed. Clearly the ghaftu was long past—the sea was bright and calm—and the sun’s movement indicated morning. A day then? Perhaps longer, I had no way of knowing for certain. And all that time I had been unconscious within reach of a gnoll.
I assumed he was the owner of the raft; we did not use rafts in my village, just the catamarans, and the times I’d seen gnolls in the distance had been upon rafts near the shore. I had kept my distance, of course, so it was difficult to be sure.
The storm would have struck the nearby gnoll villages too, and based on his injury, he was likely a casualty of its fury. I glanced briefly over—not directly, so as not to anger him—but he was no longer looking my way. His head was lowered, muzzle open and panting softly, and his ears were flat. Occasionally a muted whimper would escape.
He had not tossed me from his raft, that much was clear. There could be a nefarious reason for that—was I food?—but I did appreciate still being alive, and I wanted to show that.
So I shifted closer.
His knee was dislocated, I could see that now. Much of the gnoll’s lower leg was swollen, and accompanying the injury to the knee was a severe, deep gash above it, where I caught a glimpse of white bone. There was little I could do to fix any possible fractures, especially on a bobbing raft with no supplies, but I could correct his dislocated knee. If he’d let me.
