Water to Water

By Karen A. Wyle

Two young Vushla questioned what everyone knew about death. What should they do with the answer?

Two young Vushla questioned what everyone knew about death. What should they do with the answer?

When the time comes for Vushla to die, they go into the ocean and are dissolved away. Or so Terrill has always believed, and still believes after taking part in his father's final journey. But when he meets a young Vushlu who lives by the sea, Terrill must confront information that calls this fundamental belief into question. Will the two of them discover the truth? And what should they do with what they find?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oblique Angles Press
• Release date: Oct 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998060446

Karen A. Wyle

Karen A. Wyle was born a Connecticut Yankee, but eventually settled in Bloomington, Indiana, home of Indiana University. She now considers herself a Hoosier. Wyle's childhood ambition was to be the youngest ever published novelist. While writing her first novel at age ten, she was mortified to learn that some British upstart had beaten her to the goal at age nine. After attempting poetry and short stories, she put aside her authorial ambitions and ended up in law school. There, to her surprise, she learned how to write with ease and in quantity. This ability served her well when, after decades of life experience, she returned to writing fiction. Wyle is an appellate attorney, photographer, political junkie, and mother of two wildly creative daughters. (It was, in fact, her elder daughter who led her back to writing novels, by participating in National Novel Writing Month in 2009. In 2010, Wyle joined her in that pursuit.) Wyle’s voice is the product of almost five decades of reading both literary and genre fiction. It is no doubt also influenced, although she hopes not fatally tainted, by her years of law practice. Her personal history has led her to focus on often-intertwined themes of family, communication, the impossibility of controlling events, and the persistence of unfinished business. In 2015, Wyle brought together her careers as a lawyer and an author to produce a fairly massive reference work, Closest to the Fire: A Writer’s Guide to Law and Lawyers. While initially intended to entice her fellow writers into exploring the many dramatic possibilities awaiting in the legal landscape, it can also be a useful resource for law students, students in general, or anyone who would like to know more about the surrounding legal environment. In addition to Who, Wyle’s novels consist of the Twin-Bred science fiction series, now at three books (Twin-Bred, Reach, and Leaders); two other near-future SF novels, Division and Playback Effect; and one mixed-genre novel, Wander Home, which could be called anything from women’s fiction to afterlife fantasy to family drama. Both Division and Playback Effect have earned Five Stars seals from Readers’ Favorite, and Awesome Indies has awarded Playback Effect its Seal of Excellence.

Book preview

Preface

This planet has no name. Without astronomy, there is no need for one. Humans, if any had traveled there, would have marveled at the multi-colored sky, and the more scientifically inclined would have studied the age of the mountains and determined whether the single continent had come together out of many. But no one has asked such questions, and the sky is simply the sky.

––––––––

When a Vushlu reaches the age of adulthood, its family, or if it has none, respected community members, take it to the ocean. Traditionally, it will never have been there before, unless its family catches sea creatures for a living. Often many families will travel together, a pilgrimage of celebration.

On its last day of life, a Vushlu swims out to sea, or if too weak to swim, wades in and lets the waves carry it. The ocean swallows its front legs, its rear legs, its back, its torso, its arms, its shoulders, and finally its head. Immersion in the water softens its living armor, its exoskeleton, until the plates sheet off and wash away, followed by the soft flesh within.

No Vushlu has ever returned to its home with this process incomplete. But Vushla splashed with seawater report no pain.

Part One

Chapter 1

Terrill stood in his room, his travel pack ready, trying desperately to think of a way to avoid the journey without regrets that would prove even worse. How could a trip he had longed for all his life have become such a dreadful prospect?

Ever since he could remember, he and his friends had imagined their journey to the ocean. As the time approached, they would begin their preparations, while the younger Vushla looked on in envy. They would spend the required hours in meditation, some complaining, others openly welcoming the chance to ponder the experience to come. Terrill would probably complain too, for the sake of privacy. He might not tell anyone how important it all was to him. Or that it frightened him, a little . . . .

They would embark, finally, rambunctious and elated, drawing a few mild rebukes from the elders accompanying them. Many of them, Terrill included, would have new cycles for the occasion, the kind with room for a spare wheel underneath, two rear wheels ideally sized for power up hills, and the more efficient auxiliary motor. With the larger main compartment, the rider’s rear feet wouldn’t knock against the back with every turn of the pedals, the way they did in the older cycles. And the top could be adjusted up or down to fit the rider’s or passenger’s height.

(At least Terrill had the new cycle. Da had bought it early. Had he known, or suspected, even then?)

The cycles of their fathers or mothers would weave between theirs, the adults keeping things under control but — at least some of them, surely his father among them — sharing the excitement. After all, his father knew all the other Vushla children in town close to Terrill’s age. Of the many teachers who rotated among the clusters of children, Da was one of the busiest and most popular.

If it was cold season, their breaths would hang in the air, and they would have contests to make the largest cloud, or to form shapes. If it was the height of hot season, they would bring the small water balloons to throw at each other and cool each other down. And all the while, they would be straining to catch the first faint sound, the first elusive smell, that would mean the sea lay just beyond the bend or the horizon.

Unlike some of his friends, he had not tried to imagine the ocean itself. When his brother and then his sister came back from their voyages, he had fended off their offers to describe it. If he brought expectations, they might be disappointed. And he did not want this most momentous occasion to be scarred with disappointment.

But he had imagined the journey home. The young people, at least, would be more thoughtful, except for the few die-hards who never knew when to quit joking and calling attention to themselves. With his friends more preoccupied, he would have the chance to talk to his father. Da would find the right answers, quiet, thoughtful answers, to all Terrill’s questions, even the questions he did not know how to ask. Terrill would ask what it had been like for Da, this second encounter. . . . No, third. Da had gone with Terrill’s grandmother, many years ago. Had he accompanied anyone else, perhaps a friend, on the final journey?

Terrill could ask. But he was almost out of time.

As if to prove it, from the next room came his father’s voice, thin and weak. Terrill. We can’t wait any longer. If you’re coming, come now.

His sibs, living in the cities where the factories were, would not make it here until days from now. Da would not want to wait that long. He wanted to wade into the ocean, not be thrown or carried or whatever happened to those who died on the way. And Ma, grieving in deathly silence in their bedroom, would not be traveling — mates generally said goodbye at home, in privacy, not at the ocean. It was up to him.

Terrill slung his pack under his belly and trudged out of the room.

* * * * *

Honnu squatted by the campfire, all four legs comfortably sunk in the sand, his lower armor sealed tight to keep sand out, and watched the procession approach the sea. It was a small group, with only one young Vushlu among the older ones. A funeral, then. The young one must be the son or daughter of the Vushlu, aging or ailing, whose funeral it was.

Honnu turned away before the group reached the edge of the water. He knew, of course, what would happen, but he had no wish to watch. After all, he lived with the ocean, lived from it, rode out every day to toss the nets and haul them back. He and his family depended on the ocean. But he often thought he must feel like a farmer with a very, very large and powerful bull. Such a useful animal — it sired strong beasts like itself, and it pulled plows through earth too sticky for pull-cycles. But it could, any time it chose to, trample the farmer into jelly. The farmer could hope that the bull would never turn on its master. Honnu lived with the certain knowledge that one day, the ocean would reveal itself as the largest possible beast, and devour him whole.

No, he had no need to watch it happen to others, not when he would be paddling the boat out again tomorrow morning.

And it would be hard to see anyway, with dusk falling, and the reds and greens and purples of the sky fading into the nighttime range of dark purples and blues.

He focused instead on the Weesah peddler, Kititit, perched on the stool Honnu had brought for him, on the other side of the fire. He could barely see Kititit through the flames, though once in a while the fire reflected off some of the shiny particles in the peddler’s skin. But he could hear the peddler’s voice, strange and familiar both. Weesah who spoke the Vushlu language, as any peddler would need to do, tended to speak it faster than any Vushlu would, unless they remembered to slow down. Kititit rarely remembered. Honnu had learned to listen faster, and to strain his ears to catch every high-pitched syllable.

Honnu’s father poked the fire, and a tongue of flame leaped up and showed Kititit’s face, his mouth stretched to each side and upward in the strange Weesah smile so unlike the rounded mouth of the Vushlu expression.

Honnu’s younger sister had never seen a Weesah before. She kept moving closer to the fire, staring, until their mother pulled her back. Honnu couldn’t remember his first encounter with Kititit, but he dimly remembered being afraid for him, sure he would topple forward or backward or sideways as he moved about with only two legs to hold himself up. It was as if some strange and violent magic had sawed a Vushlu in half, taken the front half — the forelegs and torso, the arms and shoulders and head — and then shucked it of its armor and stretched it . . . . (And the Weesah’s wagon beast, that was as if the same force had sawed a Vushlu in half the other way, horizontally, leaving all four legs and not that much else, and then made it bigger and stronger and heavier.)

Even now, years later, Honnu found it a little unsettling to look at the peddler, his long thin body folded in a sharp angle onto the stool, his long thin legs folded just as much, the sharp bony knees pointed toward the fire.

The last taste of dinner was fading from Honnu’s mouth. Even food was different when the peddler came. This very night, around this same fire, they had roasted and eaten plump sausages spitting with juice, made from some crawling creature that pushed through underbrush and rooted in the earth of far-off forests.

Honnu stretched his arms and upper body to soak in the warmth of the fire, welcome as the end of hot season brought cooler night breezes. Which of the peddler’s tales might actually be true? Honnu had never traveled farther than the nearest market town — far enough away from the shore that the sea could not be seen, but not too far for its smell to carry, competing with the smell of the fish he sold and the pastries and spices and flowers in the stalls all around him. Were there really trees so tall that a Vushlu would have to rear back on its hind legs and lean against something sturdy in order to see the tops? Did mountains soar even higher? Did rivers of water pour out of those mountains? Did the mountains rise above the air itself, so that the air strained and grew thin, and one could look down and see the thicker air below? Did fountains of fire leap up from hidden places to consume travelers? Did birds, glowing as bright as any fire, swarm over the fields in springtime, keeping farmers from sowing seed until the birds had flown away? Did a species of giants, giants who never came near the ocean, giants with two legs and two arms like the Weesah but each limb twice as thick as a Weesah’s trunk, raise beasts for farmers, never leaving their ranches, requiring farmers to come to them? Were there places where the sky was always red, and others where the sky was always black?

Honnu’s family must know the answers to those questions, or to some of them, but his aunt never wanted to talk about it, and his grandfather changed his story from one time to the next, and his mother said none of it was true. Honnu refused to believe that.

Unless he found a way to go see for himself, he would never know.

Now he heard sounds of movement and conversation, and tires pushing through sand. The procession must be leaving, with one of its members gone forever into the sea. They would probably not go very far in the dark. There was an inn serving such travelers in the market town. But by morning, they would be on their way back to wherever they came from. To one of the many, many places Honnu had never seen.

* * * * *

Kititit looked at different Vushla in turn as he told the story about buying a beast from a giant and tricking the fellow into lowering the price. The Vushla’s armor mostly left their faces bare, so you could see them drink the story in, especially the young ones. All right, maybe his mate’s uncle’s cousin wasn’t exactly a giant, but he was big enough that none of his neighbors gave him any backtalk. Kititit had come out of that exchange well enough to enjoy bragging about it, even if he did embellish the details a bit for effect.

It was a fine way to spend an evening. It would have been, even if the breeze hadn’t been a trifle nippy. He’d always liked campfires, but he particularly enjoyed them in villages like this. Vushlu armor wasn’t exactly reflective, but almost, enough to catch the firelight and play with it a bit. And while he always liked the smell of a campfire, it mingled especially nicely with the unique tangy smell of the sea. As for the traces of fish odor, he didn’t mind them. He did wonder, looking around at the Vushla, how much of it all they could smell with those small holes in their faces. His big mesh-covered nostrils had to do a better job, unless they somehow didn’t.

He caught the fisher lad’s eye for just a moment before the lad looked away. A bit shy, that one, but with thirsty ears, always soaking in whatever story Kititit chose to tell. Kititit’s oldest son had been like that, when he was a good bit younger. And when the boy and his sister had come with Kititit on his journeys, there had been plenty of time for telling tales.

Naturally the boy, or rather the proud young father, had started staying home now that he had a mate and little ones. And Kititit’s daughter, once proud to be included, had lately been more like willing. A good-hearted lass, ready to help her father in case he was too old and feeble to handle things alone; but it was time for her to live in the center of her own life, and Kititit to go back to how he used to travel, enjoying his own and the beast’s company.

Still, it was nice to have a youngster or two around the campfire.

* * * * *

Honnu watched Kititit fasten some sort of wooden framework to the top of his wagon and sighed in envy. It must be nice to be so tall. You hardly ever need a step stool, let alone a stepladder.

Kititit chuckled in his easy way. I could say it must be nice to have four sturdy legs. You hardly ever trip and tip over. I’ve sprawled in the dirt often enough for the amusement of passersby. He cocked his head and looked Honnu over from end to end. And I’ve always admired that armor of yours, how it protects you so well — even in the rain! — and still lets you flex and bend. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Vushlu straighten up and have one plate catch on another. And you can just open the plates around your faces wider to say yes and shut ‘em to say no, instead of nodding or shaking your whole head like we do. Not to mention that the armor’s sort of pretty, with just enough color to set me puzzling for each Vushlu what the color is. He stopped and looked harder at Honnu. Son, I have the feeling I’m talking and nobody’s listening. Something on your mind?

Honnu stammered an apology. It’s just what you said about protecting. When it comes to water, we have to make our own protection. And our armor doesn’t protect us in the end.

Kititit ran his long fingers together in a trilling motion, as if his hands were instruments playing each other. No, it doesn’t. But what if it did? Where would that leave you? Withering away inside, going nowhere, part of nothing? Doesn’t sound like much, does it? He tossed a crate into the back of the wagon, then stretched his long torso backward until it creaked. I’ll do the rest in the morning. Let’s find ourselves a bedtime snack before we turn in. I reckon a lad your age can always use a snack.

––––––––

Honnu woke up early, when his brother next to him snorted loudly and retucked his head into a different position. He didn’t much mind. He would have a few minutes to relax, and to think, before he had to go prepare the boat for the morning’s fishing. His brothers or his sister could have got the boat ready, but as soon as he had grown big enough, the chore had fallen to him. His younger sister might inherit the job soon.

Honnu straightened up and stretched. He may as well —

The tinkle of bells caught his ear. The peddler had spent the night, but he must be getting ready to leave. Honnu padded out of the sleeping room to the front door and eased it quietly open.

Yes, the peddler was packing up. He had already hitched his beast to the wagon, and was heaving barrels of fish into the back. Why did Kititit buy so much fish? Was it all for Vushla, or did Weesah eat it? Honnu dimly remembered hearing somewhere that some town-dwelling Vushla were squeamish about eating seafood, because of the chance it had fed on what was left of Vushla after they went into the water. But someone else had said no, they wanted it that much more for the same reason. Which was true? Another question to which he might never get an answer.

The sun was not yet up, so none of the gaily painted slogans and flourishes on the wagon stood out clearly, but Honnu could catch a letter here and a swirl there. The beast nosed Kititit’s shoulder, then shoved harder. Kititit laughed and dug into the many-pocketed vest he wore, pulling out a root vegetable, breaking it in half and sharing it with the beast. Then he headed back into the house, probably to pack up his things. He would wait until Honnu’s parents woke up, to thank them, before climbing up onto the wagon and leaving the shore behind.

The beast knew Honnu well enough not to flinch or bare its teeth if Honnu approached it, even without the peddler present. He could stroke its wide forehead and smell its sour breath before he got to work on the boat.

Or . . . .

The idea swam into Honnu’s head, swimming round and round there as if caught in a pool, wriggling and flashing its scales.

He could grab some food and a water jug and stuff them in a sack. Oh, and a mat to sleep on. And his fishing suit. He probably wouldn’t have a use for it, but the thought of leaving it behind made him feel hollow inside.

He could climb up into the wagon and hide among the barrels. He could keep quiet, so quiet, until the peddler climbed aboard and clucked his go-ahead order to the beast. And they would be off to parts unknown. Honnu would finally learn the answers to his questions. He would see for himself. The wagon even had windows. They might be partly blocked by the piles of trade goods, but he should be able to see at least some of the countryside . . . .

He would be leaving his chores undone, and for who knew how long? But his siblings could manage, especially the older ones. They had managed just fine when Honnu was younger.

Could he squeeze in the time to write a quick note? He must. It would be cruel to leave his parents wondering and worrying.

Though his mother, at least, would probably guess what he had done. But he would leave a note anyway.

Chapter 2

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The procession started well after sunrise and moved slowly. The others were no more eager than Terrill to return to a home without Terrill’s father in it. And there was little talk, just as there had been little talk on the way to the sea.

Terrill had tried to find things to talk about as he and his father rode, Terrill doing most of the pedaling, his father only occasionally managing to use the pedals on his side. This would be the very last time Terrill would speak to Da. Surely he had a lifetime’s worth of things to say! But everything that came to mind sounded absurd, pointless.

He did ask whether he should watch as Da swam out. His father waited, as he had been waiting lately, for the strength to respond, and then said softly, The water won’t be clear. You won’t be able to see much. But look if you would like. A pause. I don’t know what you’ll see. I didn’t look when my mother went in.

He had looked. And his father was right, as he usually was. Had been. . . . All Terrill could see was Da sinking into the surf.

He would probably dream about that moment for years.

It had felt so strange . . . . A sort of longing had welled up in him as Da limped toward the waves. He had thought at first that it was longing for the parent he was about to lose. But he had been feeling that already, and this was different, added. It had something to do with the sound of the waves, hissing forward, gurgling back. The sound seemed to call to him.

It wanted him. It wanted to dissolve him, the way it would dissolve his father, the way it had dissolved his grandmother, and all those that came before her, all the Vushla back through all of time.

But he hadn’t been afraid. He should have been afraid. Fear would have been better than that pull.

What was it like for the fishing folk who lived by the ocean, who were born hearing that sound and heard it day and night? Did they even hear it? Did it call to them?

––––––––

One of Da’s cousins started chanting a poem Terrill had never heard. The language was so ornate — Terrill would call it pretentious — that at first he couldn’t identify the subject. But soon enough, he could. The poet had described the dissolution process, comparing it to the caress of a lover, to a wind carrying the scent of first fruit, to this and that and the other lovely thing. Another cousin, riding with the first, started humming an accompaniment.

Terrill waited for the inevitable objection. Such songs were considered decadent, shocking, by the more traditional Vushla. Sure enough, Terrill’s uncle pulled his cycle next to that of the cousins and muttered a few terse words. The one who had been humming looked embarrassed and stopped. But the other ignored the uncle and finished the verse he was reciting. That might have been the end of the poem, or it might not; but if not, the cousin seemed to feel he had sufficiently demonstrated his independent and progressive character. He nudged his companion, pointed to the pedals, leaned back, and closed his eyes as if to nap.

––––––––

Terrill should spend this time remembering his father, calling up all the memories he wanted to preserve. What was his earliest memory of Da?

His earliest memory of any kind . . . he would have liked a more pleasant one. Someone had smacked his hand, on the unarmored palm, for making some mess or other. But he couldn’t remember who had done it. It wouldn’t have been Da, not for such a young child making a mess. Ma, maybe, in a moment of exasperation. Or his uncle, visiting.

Terrill might have been a couple of years older the time Da gave him a ride, telling him to put his arms around Da’s torso and hold tight, Terrill’s baby legs splayed wide across Da’s broad back. Da had put just a little bounce in his gait, enough to be thrilling, but not enough to loosen Terrill’s clasped hands . . . .

What arose next was from a few years later, but still from childhood. A hot day, the hottest so far that year, with the end of the season seeming forever away. Da going from creek to creek to find the coolest one, and pouring a bucket of almost-cold water all over Terrill, Terrill gasping in pleasure and relief . . . .

Another memory, very different, almost as far back: Terrill standing outside, watching the sky colors shift from day to night, wondering if the sky looked the same everywhere, even in the far-off cities where his older siblings wanted to go. He had turned to go back inside and only then seen Da, walking back and forth, slowly, in the road a few paces away, his shoulders slumped, a posture Terrill could not remember having seen before. Something was wrong, and Terrill had no idea what it was. He had never had the courage to ask about it.

He would never know.

And now, all he could think about was the questions he would never get to ask. And the times he had been rude, or shirked some household duty, and never remembered to apologize for it.

He had told Da he loved him. But had he ever told him he respected him? Admired him? That was a memory he couldn’t find. It might never have happened.

He had to stop thinking about these things, or he would start crying — no, bawling, making a spectacle of himself in front of the whole funeral party.

If only the scenery could draw Terrill’s attention. But now that they had left the coastal region, the low hills with their dark blue ground cover and tall spindly trees looked much like the country around his home.

The cycle in front of his was pulling over to one side of the road, though not stopping. Some traffic must be approaching from behind, traffic moving at a similar pace to theirs. But what he heard wasn’t the hiss of cycle wheels but a heavier rumbling, along with a rhythmic clopping sound. He turned to see a wagon, a wagon painted all over with lively colors, enough color to lighten his heart. Among the swirls and geometric symbols, he could see words in two languages, the Vushlu reading: Fine Goods from All Over! Get Them Before I Move On! Two squares of some sort of flexible transparent stuff, windows, would allow passengers, if there were any, to look outside. A canvas flap hung down at the back. A wooden contraption below it, secured with straps, might have been a folding step to help younger Weesah — or Vushla? — climb in.

Perched on the driver’s seat was a being of a species Terrill had not seen since he was very small. A Weesah, that was the name, sitting easily upright with no support, its thin frame somehow needing none. Its two long legs and two long arms had no armor, only shiny skin. Its hands, with their many long fingers, held bright green reins to control a large four-legged beast, white with black splotches, its slobbery lower lip hanging down. The Weesah wore a vest with bulging pockets, and a belt around the Weesah’s middle had pouches strung on it, almost too many to fit.

And the Weesah’s boots! Terrill, like everyone in his party, wore sandals: sturdy, with tightly woven tops and thick mats wrapped around flexible wood. The Weesah’s footwear covered its long feet entirely and went up almost as high as its sharply bent knees. And like the wagon, the footwear was covered in colorful designs.

Did the Weesah, like the Vushlu, go into the water at the end? Or was there some other way to meet death?

Was every thought he had, from now on, to end with death?

Terrill wrenched his attention back to the beast and the wagon. The beast’s legs ended in some sort of hard cylinders, hitting the road with an audible clunk-clunk-clunk. The wagon looked quite fully packed. Terrill couldn’t see any of the contents, but once in a while, something seemed to shift against the inside of the canvas. The peddler must not have secured its goods very well. Terrill hoped nothing would shift enough to fall out.

Then he caught his breath, and his hands twitched on the controls of his cycle, almost sending it off to one side. When the wagon lurched just now, he had caught a glimpse of a boot in back. A boot with an odd texture, not decorated like the peddler’s boots, and the same size as one of Terrill’s sandals. As if someone, a Vushlu near his size, were standing in the wagon and had lost its balance.

Now Terrill had something interesting to watch for. Whenever he could safely take his attention from the road, he watched the wagon.

If he drove up next to one of those windows, might he be able to see inside?

There was just enough room on the road. Two cycles, his uncle’s and a neighbor’s, shared the road next to the wagon beast. He could only look to the side for the quickest of glances.

He looked. And saw, just inside the wagon, eyes looking back. The eyes of a Vushlu about his age.

Then his cycle jolted as it ran up against the back of his uncle’s.

And in the midst of the apologies and inspections and chastisements, the peddler’s wagon pulled ahead again.

––––––––

Rubbing his stinging wrists, one by one, with the other hand — why had he dutifully retracted his wrist armor, as if he were still a child to be punished? — Terrill looked up at the sound of the wagon coming alongside him. The peddler was looking down with what might have been sympathy. Got in trouble, did you?

If Terrill had ever heard a Weesah speak, he had forgotten; the high, whistling sound made it hard to hear the words. But he understood enough to open his face plates in gloomy agreement.

Well, it happens. Let me tell you a tale or two, to take your mind off — He looked at Terrill’s wrists and shook his large head — off whatever ails you.

Terrill stretched up as high as he could, the better to hear the peddler. And the peddler spun one tale after another, wild, ridiculous, hilarious stories of impossible (or