An Otherwise Silent Sea: A Fairy Tale

By Todd Towers

Keahzztaoom and Doômess are two young Rajë who are about to embark on a fool’s errand to rescue the town of Rishkai from claws of the ancient Baaleks. With only their gifting and the Inner Silence to guide them, the men know it is their duty as Rajës to extinguish the dark and save who they can. But they just don’t want to die trying.

To reach the town unseen they must cross the dreaded Wundrain forest, a dangerous place full of magic, mystery, and beasts. Although time is of the essence, the Wundrain does not respect time or space. After ignoring a warning from an aging farmer living on the edge of the forest, Keahzztaoom and Doômess plod on horseback into the Wundrain where uncertainty awaits. As they meet creatures of glory from the unknown, both men know that no one approaches the world of fairy and remains unchanged. Now only time will tell if they can rescue the people of Rishkai before it is too late.

An Otherwise Silent Sea is the tale of two young men and their dangerous journey of prayer, hope, and uncertainty as they embark on a quest to save a town from an ancient evil force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823023450

Todd Towers

Todd Towers converted to Christianity when he was a teenager. He earned a BS in ministry leadership and has been the pastor of a house church congregation in Cincinnati, Ohio. Todd believes that fairy tales are lost in our culture, and that we can benefit from their wisdom which shows us that what we see is not all that there is. This is his first book.

Book preview

An Otherwise

SILENT

SEA

A Fairy Tale

TODD TOWERS

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2024 Todd Towers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/19/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2343-6 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2344-3 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-2345-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024904909

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Matt Denzer

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Prologue

1    A New Day

2   Danger on the Breeze

3   The Pesky Crow

4   Unrest of the Storm

5   Blackened Waters

6   A Fool’s Errand

7   Wisdom of the Wundrain

8   Captives We

9   Heart of the Wundrain

10  Friend and Foe, and Tunnels Below

11  Belly of the Wundrain

12  Song of the Wundrain

13  Bloodletting

14  Out of the Wundrain

15  Revelation and Consternation

16  Of Trees and Revenants

17  Dark Machinations

18  New Friends

19  Did You See the Stars?

Epilogue

Èyümian Language Guide

Author’s Notes

Preface

The story recorded in this book is, I hope, both familiar and peculiar; it is written as a poetic recording of another world’s historic event. The characters herein started as archetypes but quickly took on lives of their own, leaving the author as little more than a scribe with some artistic license. It is my hope that their journey may be a reflection and aid to your own, for to steep ourselves in other worlds allows us to make sense of our own, to find metaphors and images for things we cannot see but know to be real—sometimes too real for our liking. I hope that some parts excite you and that others bore, sadden, confuse, and even disgust you. Life is no different, and fairy stories remind us of that and more.

I have many people to thank for this book, because this book is in many ways a reflection on spiritual journeys, prayer, and the Holy Spirit, and such things don’t progress in isolation. So, thank you to my family, ever a bedrock of support. Thank you to my friends and mentors; without you, my spiritual growth would have stalled long ago, and I would have nothing of heart to write about. Thank you to the Inklings, their philosophies and imaginations have been a great inspiration as have the likes of L’Engle and Horwood.

Last, but not least, this book is dedicated to Yeshua, the great I Am, the lover of our souls, who sat and wrote this book with me. At the end of the day, this book was written for Him and for me, and then for the reader. May it bless you as it has me.

Prologue

There was once a boy who sat on that lonely cliff where Demmah meets the shores of eternity. Èyüm sat beside him. Together, they watched the billows roll over the deep ocean blue and crash against the cliff, the wind gently nudging at their backs.

Without shifting His glaze, Èyüm spoke, It’s a long way to cross this sea you know … storms, rocks, and cragged isles beset the way. The boy’s eyes dropped, and his mouth quivered as he judged his shaking hands. The Eternal Whisper turned to the boy and gazed upon him with a deep and gentle longing that only ageless eyes would dare to betray. But, I will be your captain through it all.

The wind shoved, and the boy’s countenance ascended into a determined confidence; shaking hands gave way to dancing eyes as he followed his captain to the little red boat. And set sail.

—Parables of The Prophet Zak’deed

SY29MV3, Èyümian Calendar

62 CE, Piscelian Calendar

A black boat sets sail into the west, following after a red sun, leaving a yellow mirk in the waters of its wake. A Baalek warlock stands erect, proud, on the bow of the creaking ship. She grins with dark pleasure as triremes filled with half-turned spies sail on ahead of the frigate. On her map, a town is circled in feathered red ink: Rishkai.

Arch-Rajë Salinik awakes from a living dream. The twins of prophecy have awoken; the Rajës must be summoned to the citadel.

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1

A New Day

It was a breezy fall morning in Rashkaan City of Gēphōs Province. The sun dawdled over the mountain peak, giving decadent light to the Torrent. Such was the name of the hollow mountain, which ascended as though into the heavens—as some believe it once did—and housed Lake Cochiel, holiest of waters. The collective feature was referred to by the Èyümians as Afukeezdo. The peak normally appeared a pale blue, blending with the sky, but this morning it was a pleasant maroon with a deep-purple aura. From this beauty flowed the three rivers, now dry and nameless but for the Catravane.

Two coal-blue eyes looked out from a convex window situated in a small upper room fixed with a stone-domed roof. These eyes kept a steady gaze on the spot where the Torrent seemed to become one with the atmosphere, a tear conjoining two horizons. Transfixed and unwavering, a young man grasped his violin and played a soft melody, grumbling and clenching over each scratch and off note. The bow danced along the strings with a somber rise and fall, coaxing the chords to whisper a song of distrait hope, which strolled through the streets below.

The violin spoke roughly, reverberating off winding, brick streets and the rounded, moon-grey Quarstral stone of Rashkaanian dwellings. People dressed in robes of varying colors and patterns weaved in and out of their silo and bubble-shaped homes carrying the various instruments of their trades. The smell of dirt and crushed tomatoes filled the air as farmers less familiar with the footpaths were shouldered and ignored on their way into the city to sell their produce. Few ears stopped to listen to the young man’s attempt at music in the bustling city of roughly eight thousand people.

Just below his window across the street by Lorain’s bakery, a bass-voiced Piscelian priest waxed eloquently the tale of Sol and Lun. "In the deep Aether was the pool of life! In this pool were two mighty fish, Sol and Lun, who we know to have existed long before time crept to a start. Long they swam around and ’round one another, the might of their fins keeping them apart as the waters swirled and splashed. The droplets from this dance spilled unto unformed earth and slowly formed Demmah, our home. As the waters settled, and Sol and Lun grew weary … they embraced! From their eggs came the plants and animals of the world. Then it was here! In Gēphōs! Man was born. Thus, it is that we do not fish nor sail. Ah, but the tale does not end … One egg rotted in the isles, giving birth to dark things and poisoning the waters of our own souls as well. Sorrowed to mar their world, Sol and Lun can’t bear to watch at all times. Thus, it is that Sol will swim before us in the day and Lun at night, descending below into the deep waters when their eyes can take no more. Keep watch, then, for those Èyümians, rotten as they are!"

The priest bowed his head and sprawled out his hands like an actor for applause, the cape of his gold-and-grey robe bellowing in the wind. The people gave him gifts and waited in line for blessings from his hand. A mortician was carrying a pack of fresh boat-making tools through the crowd. Her escort of soldiers promptly brought her to the front of the line, and they behind her.

The young man finished his own speech and put the violin back in its case, smooth red sequoia with silver inlay; it was a gift from Matana, and he always told her that he didn’t deserve it. Fingers gliding over the expert varnish, he thought of her soft smile, gentle soul, and piercing, amber eyes. Of course, you do; you’ll grow into it! she would say before jabbing his rib cage with a well-placed finger.

Perhaps Cordivus will allow a stop at Rishkai on our trip to the citadel; it’s been too long since I spoke with Matana, he whispered aloud, still gazing at the tear in the sky.

His mind wandered to her then, as it so often did. He recalled their young years in the temple at Rishkai, playing together and hiding from Drail and his dreaded chores. He reveled in memories of protecting her from bullies and shook at the absence of her wildflower scent, which he had snuggled close when he could barely hold on to any hope that his parents would ever return from the sea. He recalled the long summer nights when childhood waned and adulthood blossomed, counting the stars together, guessing at the length of the year. When adulthood bloomed in full, Keahzztaoom nearly got his wits about him, realizing that her eyes saw into him more than any other, and his to her, and he was afraid. Before leaving for his final phase of training with Cordivus, they had spoken of marriage, but instead of proposing and promising to return as promptly as he could, Keahzztaoom left without a word. He had written, sure, but never mentioned it or apologized. He left her heart to reside in a grey ache. His heart panged over it.

Keahzztaoom! Cordivus yelled from the bottom floor, Get dressed. We’ve an important meeting today, if you remember, he said rhetorically. He began to walk away but threw back his head to add, Don’t think I didn’t hear you playing! You know our instruments are promises and not something we are blessed to use just yet. With patience, you will come to the harvest.

On my way, teacher! Keahzztaoom placed the case and its cargo gently into the corner of the room where no sunlight could dull the wood. It was a small room with a walnut floor and solid stone walls. He had a small, birch footlocker at the end of his blue twin bed, which kept his weapons and accessories. There was also a rather plain four-drawer dresser adjacent to the door. The floor creaked in his otherwise silent room, haunted by the ghost of the lingering melody, as he took wistful steps from his window to the dresser.

The dresser doors, freshly oiled, glided open without a sound. The light in the room began to dim as Keahzztaoom pulled out his armless robe and mantle—jet black but for the chest where a red sun rose over Lake Cochiel. Keahzztaoom held it in his hands. He never ceased to be surprised by the hidden weight gifted by the leather armor, which had been sewn between glued layers of armor-weave linen. He fidgeted with the material, rubbing it in his fingers. He lay it gently on the nightstand beside him and put on the tunic and trousers, since it was a bit cooler this time of year. He looked at them, worn and rough, but he had yet to find another green dye that would provide such a deep, stark accent. Next, he donned the armless robe, fastening each button down to his waist before bringing the belt together. Below the waist, the robe tapered and split into four pieces at the mid-thigh down to the ankles. Carefully, he donned the mantle, making sure every strap and band was properly laced and tightened at key points, especially the leaf-patterned leather that lay over his arms. A bad adjustment could be the difference between life and death against a keen opponent.

Next, he fastened his cuffs, violin bows on each wrist. Then a gold brooch about his neck, resembling a pair of wings, which served both as ornament and the final adjustable fastening between the robe and mantle. He let his drop hood lay split open, one half laying on each shoulder until he had need of the hood and face net. Most Èyümians referred to the entire outfit as the mantle, rather than just the upper piece.

On his right hip, he tucked away a single edged short sword, Presbeuō. Her grip was made of smoothed ebony wood with leather strands inlaid for grip. Her s-shaped cross guard and ram’s-head pommel were made of moon-cured Quarstral, a spectral gray stone with crimson waves. The dark-washed blade was thin but a little thicker on the spine and back than others made like it. She was sharp, straight, and tapered to a point. The hilt was a family heirloom, deceptively sturdy, and the blade a closely guarded secret of the Rajës. Untraditional as his sword was, and his being left-handed, the swordsmiths referred to Keahzztaoom’s blade as the horse-hand blade. He would have it no other way. At his lower back, he slid a small punch dagger, yet to be named, into a hidden sheath.

Keahzztaoom closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath, trying to taste the silence. He couldn’t hold it—tried again—but could not find it. He grunted and opened his eyes. I’m already running late as it is, he thought.

He made his way down the narrow stairwell. The floorboards on the landing creaked under his weight as he stepped into the kitchen, where Cordivus was already eating.

We’re out of butter, Cordivus said as he bit into a slice of molasses bread.

Keahzztaoom took a handful of fresh pomegranate seeds as he walked past the table to the hearth, stuffing a handful of them into his mouth to enjoy the cascading pop and gush of seed flesh. The coals of the hearth were still hot and glowing a bright orange. He cracked a couple of eggs into the iron griddle that lay nestled over the radiance. The eggs sizzled and popped in the oil.

Collecting the finished eggs, Keahzztaoom sat at the table with Cordivus. Utensils clinked and clacked on plate and tooth as they ate amidst that comfortable silence formed through years of companionship. He glanced up from his meal at Cordivus, who was—predictably—reading while he ate. Cordivus was no longer the young mentor who’d taken Keahzztaoom under his wings at the Èyümian temple of Rishkai. There, under the discernment of Cordivus, he had entered the order of the Rajës. Now Cordivus was an elder, though no less dangerous in body or mind than he ever had been. His hair was shoulder length, wavy, and gray. His beard was stubbled and peppered with the red hue that once dominated his scalp. He had a soft, oval face with bushy brows and veiled hazel eyes, ever so squinted from decades of deep thought. Cordivus was a thin, healthy man, and his navy-blue mantle hid his lanky frame. That mantle was adorned with olive-wreath cuffs and a dragon’s-head brooch.

Keahzztaoom, by comparison, still had wide, stern eyes set upon sharp cheekbones and a soft, dimpled, square jaw that framed a hooked nose. His hair was cut short, but long enough to be messy, thick and jet black, juxtaposed by a long beard that was braided down to his collar. Keahzztaoom’s body was neither thin nor stocky. His muscles were unassuming but taut as sailors’ rope. By appearance alone a soldier would think little of him, but the speed and precision for which he had trained, and had been gifted with, made up for anything lacking. Realizing that he was eating too fast again, Keahzztaoom put down his utensils.

"Ha! We’re not in that big a rush dear boy. Always so aggressive," Cordivus said without looking up from his book.

He always spoke slowly and with great intention in his diction, as though his attention was always pointed inward and needed to be unearthed. That is not at all to say that he was unaware of what or who was around him at any given time. In fact, he usually seemed a step ahead.

Cordivus scribbled something in his notes and mumbled, Oh, what’s the date? Ah, yes, SY729MV3, 33rd of Stasse. Would you look at that? According to these charts, the month of Ullahs starts in a week, if the Pypki-sages were trained well. It’s been a while since I saw an autumn Ullahs.

Keahzztaoom cleared his throat and pointed at Cordivus with his fork. The people distrust us for so many reasons, but I think our calendar is why they laugh at us; there’s no standard length to our months or years, and it barely even keeps with the seasons! Cordivus didn’t look up from his notes. Keahzztaoom poked again, "I see you finished Klarsmon’s Exposition?"

Yes, yes, I did. His interpretation of Zak’deed’s parables is certainly thought provoking, though I’m not sure I care for this new hermeneutic process coming out of the northern hills.

What are you reading now? Keahzztaoom asked. He was hoping to move on quickly to a conversation he knew something about.

"An exegetical commentary on The Lay of Augistass. It was a collective effort from our brothers at the Wonteial temple. Ten star years of research, finished last month."

Keahzztaoom’s eyes opened wide in youthful surprise. You managed to smuggle in a text from Sulqeer?

Cordivus had a knowing twinkle in his eye as he smirked, looking up from his book. Our providential magistrate, Lord Thelios of Gephes Province, cares little for the embargo on Sulqeerian trade imposed by our great King Orbelus, he said with sarcastic flair. Returning to his normal tone he added, I judge that Thelios has purposefully been slack on inspecting trade goods coming in from the Kingdom of Achtonee in the south.

Keahzztaoom stroked his braid thoughtfully. He’s risking quite a bit with that isn’t he? Gephta Province will be hosting the Gēphōsian throne starting this upcoming Piscelian year, and I hear that Lord Blent has it out for Thelios after that territorial squabble in the southern farmlands. The king decreed in Thelios’s favor, sure, but not without a good measure of food and drink first.

Well … such bickering and maneuvering is nothing new, and I would reason that Thelios is wise enough to surmise that this upcoming loss of proximity will also be the loss of his influence over a sensual man like Obelus anyway. So, why not get all he can while he can get away with it?

And Lord Croox … well, she is probably just happy that Obelus will be dead before Gephan Province hosts the throne! Keahzztaoom’s hands were white from gripping the utensils and absently scratching the plate under his food.

I would think so, but you know how politics frustrate me … children wielding power not their own. He swept his hair back behind his ears and meticulously cleared his breakfast. Let us be going, then, Keahzztaoom.

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2

Danger on the Breeze

Amber eyes dashed back and forth surveying a vast ocean while the waters licked at the woman’s chilled feet. A storm was gathering on the looming horizon, the air off the waves heavy with salt—and something that burned. Her eyes strained as she reached out to see, to hear, beyond the horizon. Sweat limped from wavy, chocolate hair. A gust of wind made her white mantle ripple and clap. "Do you see it, Matana?" someone from within the wind of her belly whispered to her.

Yes. There’s a ship. Hidden in the gathering tempest, she said,