Senda and the Whispering Sea Shells

By H. de Mendoza

Synopsis: Senda and the Whispering Sea Shells

“Don’t talk to strangers,” Senda says to herself as she walks the streets of Santa Cruz, California, otherwise known as Weird City – a good name for the place where she was born. After all, she, with her illness, is among the weirdest. What Senda never imagined was that she would find her life turned upside down, where she becomes the main character in an unbelievable adventure in an apocalyptic world. Here, Senda will have to face her greatest fears.

The night it all started, as she walked aimlessly down the strangest ocean-side walkway in California, began when a homeless man gave her a sea shell. A sudden earthquake (if they aren’t all sudden, this one surely was), and Senda found herself splashing helplessly in the waves. Everything that followed seemed like a dream, with spirit animals, Native American Ohlones, the fall of civilization, and the inexplicable senility of the adults. This tale of frightening adventures runs from the escarpments of the Pacific Ocean to the grand and mystical Redwood Forests of California.

What if humanity’s destiny really was in your hands? What would you do? What would you be willing to sacrifice to save people that never showed any interest in you or your problems?

Follow along with Senda in her journey and discover the talking sea shells, find what causes the strange behavior of the adults, hear about the incredible history of the Ohlone children, travel back to the pirates and conquistadors of the Old World, uncover the identity of those mysterious men hidden behind space-men-like masks, and especially, be part of the most advanced scientific breakthrough that neither Jules Vern nor Elon Musk could have predicted.

Now translated from the original Spanish by ecologist and conservationist James J. Roper, Ph.D. (who also enjoys good adventure), this second novel by H. de Mendoza is a magical story of preadolescent friendship and adventure, between the science fiction of Stranger Things and the fantasy and adventure story of the Goonies, which will reel you in from the very beginning. “Don’t look back, just keep running.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Apr 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071517635

Book preview

Prologue

DON’T LOOK BACK.

That voice echoed in my head and each echo made me run faster and leap farther. I wanted that voice out of my head, but it was stuck there, in the sack I carried over my shoulder, and somehow that voice got stuck in my ears, repeating itself like an echo: Don’t look back. I could see them a little way back behind me. Spectral figures were chasing after me but though they never caught up, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep running and leaping like this. There was still very little morning light inside the forest and the huge Redwoods weren’t the best hiding places, even though the space between them let me leap like never before and I felt like I was flying. But there always seemed to be more of them after me and while zigzagging between my flying leaps I counted at least ten. I wanted to hide, but couldn’t figure out how to stop quickly without being seen, much less where. Suddenly, mid-leap, a strong shove forced me back down to the ground. I couldn’t see, but I could feel him dragging me by my feet. Then I rolled over and saw his face. As if in slow motion, I saw the end coming while watching that man bringing his wooden staff slowly towards my head. I calmed my breathing and, again, I heard voices, many voices this time, saying a bunch of disconnected things that I couldn’t figure out. So, I just closed my eyes and tried to forget that I was about to die.

Unusual people

The night took over the city and pushed back the light from every corner, every alley, every hole and there, where its dark shadow settled, it awoke with wrinkled hands, all the tiny sleeping souls. Every time we passed a curve to the west, along the cliff trails, we saw the last rays of the afternoon sun, as the orange, red and pink rays fought to light up and rescue the last vestiges of good sense from a chaotic city about to reach its own climax. Weird City, as its proud inhabitants called it, was reborn every night without quite ceasing to exist during the day.

We arrived early in the morning and spent the day at the beach of the Natural Bridge State Park, where we walked below through the winding maritime walkway to the Mark Abbott Lighthouse, built in memory of the 18-year-old surfer that drowned here, now emblematic, almost a shrine, for surfers in California. On such a nice day like we had, one can see many members of that colorful human fauna that confuses everyone who tries to define this city. Here, a group of hippies parking their VW vans with their characteristic smell (and cloud of smoke) left behind and which is easily confused with skunks. There, a group of unicyclists rolling down the way as they distribute propaganda leaflets calling for impeaching the president. Over there, a rainbow of hula-hoops moving anarchically over the body of a young woman from her rapidly swirling sinuous waist to her neck, when she suddenly tosses hoops from her right arm that caught mid-air by a muscular sample of local body sculptured man who with a smooth snake-like motion took them in his leg and tossed them into the air in an acrobatic leap. Everywhere you looked, you could go person to person taking in all the people there, moving in an endless rhythm that filled with color the fields around the lighthouse, contaminating with joy the astonished and fascinated tourists as they tried to get warm in the cold Pacific wind that blew across the way. Suddenly, some surfer dude, annoyed with a street musician, takes off running towards the escarpment in his neoprene wet-suit, with his beautiful long blond hair swinging rhythmically as he ran in the wind with his surf board under his arm, just like Patrick Swayze as Bodhi in Point Break, causing a frightened shriek from a passerby as he dove from the rocks onto the first wave.

We continued towards the wharf, where I saw my father restrain my enthusiastic brother near the escarpment as they waved at some dark blobs that were huddled together near the columns holding up the wharf.

Sea lions! I shouted as I recognized their scandalous barks that reminded me more of those plastic obnoxious trumpets that people blow at football games, and that, as my dad assured me, I learned to imitate before I learned how to bark like a dog. Some sea lions were together in the water, waving their fins in the air, almost like improvised synchronized swimming. Others looked like they were straight out of Disney World doing a typical clown show where one, much stouter than the rest, tried over and over again to jump up onto a platform, and just as he finally made it, another skinnier one pushed him off all the while seeming to crack up with laughter looking at the one that fell as he shouted and clamored for vengeance.

The grunts of the sea lion, who got their name from the sounds they made that were like the roars of caged lion, became confused because of another melody that I barely, yet distinctly, heard. A man in colorful red shorts and a yellow Hawaiian shirt walked between the houses as he blew into his saxophone playing one after another the notes of a song that would later be known as the Recado Bossa Nova. The ecstasy that he felt as he played was reflected in his face even though he constantly changed his expressions, each just as absurd as the other. I still can’t figure out how he managed to walk and play with his eyes closed and without bumping into anything or anybody. Without a single misstep he arrived at the escarpment, where another, apparently normal, man was waiting and playing another saxophone. Together they fused into a jam session that gave me goosebumps. In the background was the highest roller coaster in the world.

When it got dark, we went to dinner in an Italian restaurant in downtown Weird City. As we walked, I lowered my eyes every time I crossed paths with those people that were so, so.... different, as they shouted all kinds of improprieties at all passersby. But my curiosity was too strong and I couldn’t help but look out of the corner of my eyes at each movement of the hundreds of outlandish caricatures that lived on Pacific Avenue. I felt like Blade going into a nightclub full of vampires. On the one hand, so much eccentricity scared me and I gripped my dad’s hand tightly, even though I felt a growing, tickling sensation with each step, as if a part of me felt that I belonged to this world, the world of weirdos. Maybe all those stories my parents told me about the city where I saw the light for the first time made me feel at home. Or, maybe, being the carrier of a genetic mutation and belonging to a select group of people with a rare and incurable illness made me feel a kind of kindred spirit or pity for all those poor souls disconnected from normality. My parents, my little brother Nicholas and I had traveled to that corner of the world for – as my father said – work. But I didn’t come to work; I came to rediscover myself. To live each moment and not lose a single detail of what was suddenly my world. The street opened up with an indescribable vitality where half the local men had long beards and looked like pirates that just got to port, ready for a night of action, and the rest was a motley collection of people of all sorts. Younger people were beating on the doors of the nightclubs while families walked hand-in-hand (to keep from losing anybody) and sat to eat in the restaurants that always bubbled with activity this time of evening. People passed by on skateboards and all kinds of bicycles (both manual and motorized), some strangely shaped and some recumbent bikes with huge speakers designed for listening to music while traveling, with sounds machines that cost ten times more than the bicycle. Cars more than 100 years old were gathered on the avenue just to be seen and admired by the passersby. Nobody was in a hurry. One man, walking as slow as a snail, approached us and, if we take his word for it, my dad called him the pink man or the umbrella man, who was dressed as a woman in a tattered outfit, his party dress adorned with multicolored feathers. His face was covered with white makeup, like a geisha, except with stronger blush that made him look sort of like a clown. Some people said his only goal was to get a smile out of the stressed and sad people he noticed on the street. The pink man held a parasol in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other, and he shared his mime-like smile to all whose path he crossed. For some reason, with him I could maintain eye contact. He also stopped to take a look at me and extended his hand to offer me a rose that I didn’t even hesitate to take, and I gave him back a smile. Maybe that was my reward for my sincere, kind eye contact. His expression didn’t change when he saw the hand that took the flower, nor did he seem to notice my strange way of walking. On the way to the restaurant, in a little park in front of an organic supermarket, a group of backpackers frenetically beat their djembe drums in a desperate attempt to get the passersby to empty their pockets. A group of old people, worn out by life, alcohol and lost hope, danced to the African beat. Finally, we arrived at the restaurant. By my tenth birthday my illness was not as bad as it would become, but still it often caused people with my condition to use crutches or wheelchairs. My joints were beginning to hurt, so I wanted to sit down, and we did. I had my favorite meal - macaroni and cheese. After dinner, I asked if I could look around the restaurant. But, the street pulled at me like a magnet and so as I passed the door, I stepped out, unknown to my parents, curious about the unknown. I froze when I saw a couple of Argentinians dancing a tango, moving with rhythm and steps that were impossible for me, and with their eyes one each other, they moved in a way that was both fun to watch and chaotic. Suddenly I heard someone calling my name.

Senda!

I kept watching the dance and paid no attention to an unknown voice that might have been just a figment of my imagination, but then I felt a hand on my right shoulder. Startled, I jumped and turned to see who it was. I was speechless and perplexed at the old man with a big white beard, filthy skin and a long scar that went from his left eye diagonally across his flattened nose, obviously from getting hit very hard. His clear gray eyes bored into my brain and as if reading my thoughts, he said:

Don’t be afraid Senda, I read your name on your nice collar, heard you speaking Spanish and decided to loosen up my Spanish with a little conversation. My name is Severiano, but some call me Sevi and others, well, others call me a drunk old man. When he smiled I noticed his dentures were too well-cared for to be in a homeless man. He held out his hand and took mine and said, Pleased to meet you, Miss.

I didn’t say anything, not sure how to react when all I really wanted to do was run and call my dad. But I was frozen in place and felt the words of my mother checking me, as she said, don’t talk to strangers, and that she always reminded of with song Stranger danger by Patty Shukla.

Don’t worry, I’m used to kids running away from me, and if you don’t want to talk, that is fine. It is more important to listen than to talk. There are voices everywhere and only those that listen can find them. One only has to know when and where to listen, and to use imagination to interpret what they mean to say.

He sneakily put his hand in the pocket of his gabardine and pulled out a necklace adorned with a sea shell.

Take it, sea shells are the loudspeakers of the world, and you should listen to them because inside they hold all the wisdom of the ancients, and some not so ancient. and with a gentleness like a mother touching her daughter, he placed the necklace around my neck.

SENDA! SENDA!

My parent’s shouting surprised me and interrupted my carelessness when I began to enjoy listening to the old man’s voice, like when Mowgli fell under the enchantment of Kaa’s snaky voice and was almost eaten. I turned to see them coming, relieved, even though I knew I was going to be scolded. Instead of Bagheera I saw my dad running towards us, pushing people out of his way and staggering a bit, a little hysterical but almost comical. Just then, laughing would be the worst thing I did, so I just kept a straight face.

He grabbed me into his arms.

Why did you run off? We were looking for you all over the restaurant. Don’t do that to us, please, we don’t deserve to be frightened like that.

Dad, I replied as I turned, this man was telling me that... but, old Sevi, who just seconds before was chatting with me, had vanished into smoke, disappearing among the dozens of other old men, all with the same big beard. I nervously searched among the faces, but none was his. I looked at my hand where I held hidden the necklace that carried a tiny precious sea shell, just a little over an inch long. White on the outside, pink on the inside.

What man? Senda?

Never mind, Daddy, he has already gone. I put the sea shell inside my t-shirt, so they wouldn’t take it away from me as punishment.

We went back inside the restaurant and I kept on thinking about the old man’s words as I fiddled with the sea shell under my shirt as I nodded a lot to assure my dad that I was paying attention to his very long sermon.

When I got back to our room at the hotel where we stayed that night, I took off the necklace when nobody could see, and I scrutinized the shell and brought it close to my ear to hear the ancient world, as the old man said, and I fell asleep as I heard a soft sound that reminded me of the surf. Meanwhile, outside, noise from the surf also reached my ears mixed and confused with the sounds of the grunts and groans of the sea lions at the pier that were fighting among themselves for someplace to sleep that night.

Charonia lampas (Balearic Sea, year 1535)

One, two, three, four, five – the sea began to