Saltwater Daughter, Coral Heart

By Brinda Phokeerdass

Saltwater Daughter, Coral Heart

In the sun-drenched village of Pointe d'Esny, Mauritius, Anaya has always felt the pull of the ocean, a connection deeper than just the tides. But when strange whispers from a mystical conch begin to haunt her dreams, and the sea inexplicably claims the village's young men, including her beloved brother, Ravi, Anaya is plunged into a mystery far older and more dangerous than any she could imagine.

Propelled by an ancient journal, she uncovers her family's hidden legacy as Guardians of the Sea and learns of Zil Mistik, a decaying underwater kingdom, and Mahran, a powerful, vengeful sea spirit driven to a destructive "cleansing" by humanity's neglect. With her loyal friend Zayn, and the enigmatic Lina as her guide, Anaya dives into the luminous, yet dying, depths. She must brave crumbling coral cities, face tormented ancestral spirits bound by living chains, and confront the very embodiment of the ocean's fury.

As Mahran's wrath escalates, manifesting as a cataclysmic waterspout and relentless storms threatening to obliterate her home, Anaya discovers the Heart of Zil Mistik and the forgotten Song of Harmony. But Mahran demands a price, a terrifying sacrifice that could cost Anaya everything. Can one young Guardian, armed with an ancient melody and her own courage, remind a raging spirit of a long-broken pact, restore balance to two worlds, and save those she loves before the sea reclaims all?

Dive into a world where myth meets reality, and one girl's journey determines the fate of humanity and the ocean itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keshav Kumar Phokeerdass
• Release date: Jul 9, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231883394

Brinda Phokeerdass

Brinda is a writer with a deep fascination for the mysteries of the natural world, the unexplored realms of science, and the untold stories hidden beneath the surface. With a background in engineering and pedagogy, she spent years studying the intersection of science and the human spirit. This passion is reflected in her work, which often explores themes of discovery, the unknown, and humanity's relationship with the natural world. When not writing, Brinda can often be found sitting by the sea contemplating the beauty of Mauritian relief, always searching for new inspiration to fuel the next adventure. The Silent Guardians is her third novel, blending the scientific with the soulful, and taking readers on an unforgettable journey into the depths of both the ocean and the human heart.  

Book preview

Chapter 1: Driftwood Dreams

The dream was a symphony of chaos, a maelstrom of salt and splintered wood. Anaya was suspended in an emerald abyss, cold seeping into her bones, while around her, a ship fractured. Not a modern vessel of steel, but an old, hulking beast, timbers groaning like a dying leviathan. She saw ornate carvings flash past – a mermaid with weeping eyes, a kraken’s coiled tentacle – before being swallowed by the churning dark.

Then, the whispers began. Not the gurgle of the deep, but voices, ancient and melodic, yet laced with a terror that clawed at her throat. A chorus of sorrow, a desperate plea, in a language that felt both utterly foreign and strangely familiar. It was Kreol Morisien, yes, but layered with something far older, a tongue that resonated deep in her chest like the thrum of a distant drum. One voice, deeper than the rest, pulsed with an immense, aching power, repeating a single, guttural word. It was a name, she was sure, though not her own. She thrashed, trying to surface, to escape the suffocating weight of the sound, but the whispers pressed in, cold and relentless, promising oblivion. A shadowy figure, vast and indistinct, coalesced in the deepest black, its form shifting like ink in water, and the whispers intensified, wrapping around her, calling to her. The terror became a living thing, a cold hand on her heart. She fought, kicked, screamed, but no sound escaped.

Anaya woke with a gasp, bolting upright in her narrow bed, the crisp cotton sheets tangled around her legs like seaweed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The whispers, phantom echoes of that ancient tongue, still prickled at the edges of her hearing, a low hum beneath the cicadas’ nightly chorus. Sunlight, already a brazen gold, spilled through the window, painting stripes across the rough-hewn floorboards of her small room. The scent of salt and drying fish, carried on the gentle sea breeze, usually a comforting aroma, now felt heavy, almost suffocating.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool, smooth stone. A shudder worked its way down her spine, not from the chill, but from the lingering tendrils of the dream. It wasn’t the first time. For months, disjointed fragments of shipwrecks and drowning cries had haunted her sleep, growing more vivid, more insistent. But tonight... tonight had been different. The terror had been absolute, visceral, and that voice... that impossibly deep, sorrowful whisper, calling a name she couldn't quite recall, yet felt branded onto her soul.

Her village, Pointe d'Esny, was a sleepy, sun-drenched haven on the southeastern coast of Mauritius. For generations, her family had lived in the same modest, brightly painted house, just a stone's throw from the lagoon's gentle lapping. It was a place of predictable rhythms: the fishermen mending their nets at dawn, the women weaving baskets under the shade of the mango trees, the children's laughter echoing from the turquoise shallows. A comfortable life, her mother often said, one to be cherished.

But comfort felt like a cage to Anaya. At eighteen, she felt an inexplicable, simmering restlessness that hummed beneath her skin, a yearning for something more than the familiar horizon. She loved her home, yes, the vibrant bougainvillea spilling over garden walls, the taste of fresh grilled fish, the easy camaraderie of her neighbours. Yet, there was always a part of her that felt like a pebble trapped in a conch shell, rattling around, longing to be set free, to be swept away by the vast, unknowable ocean.

Anaya! You'll be late for the market! Her mother's voice, firm but warm, drifted up from the kitchen, punctuated by the rhythmic thump of chopping.

Anaya sighed, dragging herself off the bed. Duty. Always duty. It was the anchor that kept her moored to this patch of land, while her spirit longed to sail. She pulled on a faded sarong and a simple cotton top, her dark, unruly curls pulled back in a quick knot. In the cracked mirror, her reflection looked back: wide, dark eyes that often seemed to hold a distant gaze, a strong nose, and lips that were usually pressed into a thoughtful line. Today, there was a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, and her eyes held a haunted glint from the dream.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already buzzing with activity. Her mother, Ma, a woman with hands calloused from years of tending nets and gardens, moved with practiced efficiency. She was preparing the day's catch for sale – gleaming parrotfish, crimson snapper, and a pile of freshly caught crab. The aroma of strong coffee mingled with the sweet scent of ripe mangoes.

Rough night? Ma asked, not looking up from scaling a fish, but her tone was laced with an unspoken understanding. She always seemed to know.

Anaya hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her sarong. Just... dreams. The usual. She kept the terrifying details of the shadowy figure and the echoing name to herself. Ma worried enough already. Her mother had a quiet, almost melancholic air about her sometimes, especially when Anaya spoke of the sea, a subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight tremor in her hands. Anaya had always felt a strange protectiveness radiating from her mother, a desire to keep her tethered safely to the shore.

The sea has many voices, child, Ma said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, as if she could still hear them too. Best to listen to the calm ones. She wiped her hands on a cloth. Take these to Monsieur Pierre. He's waiting for the best of the catch.

Anaya nodded, grateful for the distraction. She gathered the basket of fish, the cool, slick scales brushing against her fingers. As she stepped out onto the porch, the early morning light seemed to shimmer off the lagoon. The water was a dazzling, impossible blue, calm as glass in the sheltered bay, stretching out to the darker, more mysterious indigo of the open ocean.

She walked the familiar path to the village market, the sand warm beneath her feet. Children were already playing, splashing in the shallows, their joyful shouts a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of her dream. Elderly men sat under the shade of ancient banyan trees, playing dominoes, their weathered faces etched with tales of generations. Life here was simple, predictable, safe. So why did it feel so... small?

The market was a vibrant tapestry of sounds, sights, and smells. Vendors hawked fresh fruit, aromatic spices, hand-woven fabrics. The air thrummed with the lively chatter of Kreol, punctuated by laughter. Anaya navigated the throng with ease, exchanging greetings with neighbours, her basket balanced expertly on her hip.

Anaya! The early bird gets the freshest fish, eh? Monsieur Pierre, the village’s oldest and most respected fishmonger, boomed, his eyes twinkling. He was a man who knew the sea in his bones, his face a roadmap of sun-creased wrinkles.

And you, Monsieur, always know who has the best catch, Anaya retorted, a small smile playing on her lips. She laid out the fish on his iced stall.

As Monsieur Pierre inspected the snapper, his gaze drifted past her, towards the open sea. His expression grew serious, the lines on his face deepening. The tides are restless, Anaya. Old Man Pierre feels it in his joints. Not just the winds. Something... else.

Anaya's breath caught. What do you mean?

He shook his head slowly. Just a feeling. The sea has been... taking more than its usual share lately. Young Ravi, for example. Good boy, he was. He lowered his voice, leaning closer. People say the tide is taking what it’s owed. The old ones, they have stories, you know. Stories of offerings, of forgotten debts. He glanced around conspiratorially, as if the very air might carry his words. Some say the curse has woken up again.

The word curse hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Anaya felt a familiar prickle of unease. She'd heard the whispers among the villagers, seen the sideways glances. The curse was often tied to the village's recent struggles, particularly the decline in fish stocks. Some whispered that it was because of industrial overfishing, the massive trawlers that scraped the ocean floor, leaving barren wastes in their wake. But others, the more superstitious, pointed fingers, eyes flicking towards her family home.

Years ago, her grandfather, a fierce protector of the lagoon, had led a desperate, ultimately fruitless, protest against the trawlers. He had organized the fishermen, rallied the community, even traveled to the capital to speak out. He’d warned them that you cannot take from the sea without giving back, or it will take from you tenfold. When the fish numbers plummeted, and illnesses swept through the village, some had begun to whisper that her grandfather, in his defiance, had angered the sea itself, unleashing its wrath upon Pointe d'Esny. Her family, by association, carried that shadow. Her mother had never spoken about it directly, but Anaya had felt the weight of it, the quiet ostracization that settled over them like a fine dust.

There's no curse, Monsieur, Anaya said, trying to sound firm, though a chill ran down her spine. Just big boats with big nets.

Pierre shrugged, a mournful look in his eyes. Perhaps. But when the sea grows quiet, it's often holding its breath for a reason. He handed her a handful of rupees. Thank your mother for the fine fish. Tell her to keep you away from the deeper waters, eh?

The familiar warning, echoed by her mother. Don't go looking into deep waters. Anaya nodded, picked up her now empty basket, and turned away, the conversation unsettling her more than she cared to admit.

As she made her way home, the sun climbing higher, the whispers from her dream began to feel less like a memory and more like a premonition. She found herself drawn, as she often was, to the secluded stretch of beach near the mangroves, a place where