A Q U A L A D
A Q U A L A D
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Colorful posters of Fortnite characters dotted the walls, while legos lay strewn across the floor like landmines in wait alongside Jurassic World dinosaur figures. The underwear-clad boy lay on the bed, the sheets spilling over the side where he’d kicked them off during the night. A Nintendo Switch was nestled beside him, its battery exhausted.
It was still dark out. The occasional flash of the lighthouse beacon overhead steering shadows across the room.
The boy’s eyes snapped open, bolting upright as though roused from slumber by a primal alarm, gripping the sheets in terror. His breath caught in his throat, blue irises scanned the shadows as if trying to untangle what he was seeing from what he’d expected to find amid a fog of sleep.
Slowly, his fingers relaxed their grip on the sheets and the child let go the breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Stretching his body across to the night table by the bed, the boy tilted the clock up to read the time.
It was the asscrack of dawn. He wouldn’t need to get up for another hour to get ready for school, but he didn’t feel like trying to go back to sleep.
Bare feet pressed down among the bits of molded plastic and discarded toys as he made his way from his room to the bathroom, stumbling around when he flipped on the lights in the bath and instantly regretted his life choices.
It was too early for lights.
The sound of the toilet flushing and the open faucet, as he ran his hands under the water. The view from the window caught his eye as he went to dry his hands. The horizon was starting to form from out of the darkness, a splash of pink and orange creeping up the sky.
And the silhouette of a man at the end of the lighthouse jetty.
The realization caught the boy by surprise, which didn’t change even as recognition set in. “Dad?”
He was still barefoot when he stepped out of the lighthouse, though he had put on a blue Fortnite hoodie so he wasn’t just in his underwear as he met the brisk New England air. Drawing the hood up over the bed-headed mop of straw-colored hair, the blue-eyed child made his way down to the pier where a man stood in a puffer jacket and beanie, nursing a cup of coffee in one hand and holding a cup of tea in the other.
As if he was waiting for someone.
“Dad?”
The sound of the boy’s voice caught Tom Curry by surprise, the tea splashing over his hand as he jumped. “Arthur,” the man uttered.
He’d been crying.
Clearing his throat several times, the man brought an arm up so that he could wipe his face on his sleeve before he composed himself and continued. “What are you doing up this early?”
“What are you doing out here?” Arthur asked, ignoring the question.
“Looking for Mom,” the man answered. A simple, blunt honesty. Gesturing with his coffee mug, he explained, “She came out here to watch the sun rise every morning. Said she’d never seen one before.”
The boy looked confused at the tale. “...the sun rise?” Who’d never seen the sun rise?
“I’d bring her tea and we’d stand here. Me, freezing my ass off and her about as dressed as you are.”
“I put on a sweatshirt,” Arthur noted flatly.
The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, the pink and orange giving way to brilliant gold and amber hues.
“Do you do this often?” Arthur asked, curiously.
“Every morning,” the man offered in a somber tone.
Tucking his hands into the front pouch on the hoodie, the boy looked up quizzically. “Really?”
“You’re always asleep,” Tom Curry offered with a knowing look down at his son. Then, the man looked down at the cup of tea for a moment, before tossing the contents into the sea.
“Come on. I’ll make breakfast,” the man remarked, giving another look at the empty mug before glancing at his son and then starting back toward the lighthouse.
The hair stood up on the back of the child’s neck. Blue eyes scanned the blossoming horizon for a moment. As if hearing a silent siren’s call.
“Dad, what’s over there?” Arthur asked, pointing off to one side of the jetty.
Tom Curry looked back, tracing the path of his son’s finger for a moment before answering, “Mercy Reef. Shoals. It’s why the lighthouse is here,” he answered, simply, before turning and making his way back up to the house.
The child’s eyes stayed on that spot on the horizon.
“You coming?”
The boy turned his head, sparing a glance back to the horizon before his bare feet started back toward the house.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
AMNESTY BAYLATER THAT MORNINGThe entrance to Amnesty Bay was framed by rocks and shoals. To provide adequate warning to sailors, the Curry Lighthouse had been built onto an island at the mouth of the bay, which was known as Amnesty Island. At the other end of the harbor entry was the Amnesty Bay Coast Guard Station.
Arthur had to take a boat in to town to meet the school bus. A bright orange lifevest hugged his small form as he stood on the bow as his father handled the commute over the waters of the harbor.
A pod of orca seemed to be following the boat.
Not an unusual sighting.
“Willy come to see you off again?” the man called out, shouting over the sound of the outboard motor.
The wind swept the boy’s golden hair across his face. Sweeping it back out of his eyes with one hand, the boy called back and answered, “This is Porca. Willy is..." the child trailed off for just a moment, before pointing to a spot of empty ocean as he stated, “Willy’s over there.”
Just like his mom. It was a heartwarming thought.
That still inspired no small amount of fear in the man.
As the dawn light brightened, a fishing vessel bobbing not far off from Amnesty Island caught Tom’s eye. “Damn lobster hunters been drinking again,” the man muttered under his breath, grabbing the radio near the pilot controls.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
FISHING VESSEL IN VICINITY OF AMNESTY ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE, BE ADVISED YOU ARE APPROACHING SHOAL WATER. OVER.
On closer inspection, the fishing vessel looked as though it had been hastily raised from the ocean floor. Barnacles and rust clung to it, from mast to stern. Patched and cobbled together so that it was barely seaworthy.
It was only by the grace of the surface technology that they’d been able to both salvage and comprehend that the crew aboard it were alerted to the fact that they had been discovered.
It was not a welcome revelation.
“Lord Vulko, the Surface-Dwellers have found us,” the sentry posted on the so-called radio announced.
The aged, greying figure at the side of the ship lowered the binoculars that he held. “The Surface-Dwellers are not looking for us,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “We do not know their customs. It is more like we have done something to draw attention to ourselves.”
The senty brought a fist to his chest and dipped his head in respect. “Shall we give answer, my lord?” he asked, not looking up.
“Shoal water. Shoal water,” the greying figure repeated, his eyes scanning around them as he tried to discern meaning from the words given.
There were jagged rocks in this area. Some close to the surface but not visible. These boats of the surface smashed up against them, causing them to sink.
“I think they mean to warn us of danger,” Vulko reasoned aloud finally, giving the senty a scant glance as he said, “Thank them for their words and state that we will heed their warning.”
The sentry pounded his chest a second time, before curtly turning to carry out his task.
A third sailor approached. Without word, Vulko passed the binoculars to him.
Peering through the device, the man soon found a large coral outcropping. Two figures were visible, using chains to strap down a smaller, child-like form that had been robbed of clothing as much as dignity.
“Great Poseidon,” the man swore. “Prince Garth lives.”
“The king is dead. Long live the king,” Vulko intoned, his throat tightening with emotion at the fall of Shayeris.
Lowering the binoculars, the man dipped his head. “My apologies, my lord. King Garth lives,” he corrected summarily, before taking another look. Passing the binoculars back to the High Mage, the man noted, “There are only two soldiers, my lord. We can overpower them.”
“It is not the soldiers we see that concern me.”
“It’s a trap?”
“It’s a trap.”
Orm Marius was baiting them. Dangling the slow torture of a child dying of exposure as the lure to draw them into his clutches.
He wasn’t just baiting them. He was taunting them. Making a mockery of the rebellion. “Bastard. I would see him burn in the undersea fires of Kaikata for this,” Vulko mused darkly.
The helplessness he felt was heard echoed as the man beside him asked, “Are we to float here and do nothing?”
The sound of the binoculars being crushed shattered the stillness of the morning.
Vulko didn’t have an answer for him.
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