The Bells of Norkey
Part 1 of The Squalling
They rattle fists. They jiggle unmentionables. The only time they remove their attention from the stalking demon is when they do a full one-eighty, drop their trousers, and scream with delight as they display their backsides for the razer's approval.
N
othing good ever comes from a midnight rousing. My brain is currently too foggy to assess whether this time may be the sole exception. The early signs don’t look promising. Karis shakes me with a steady determination that somehow mixes courteous deference with unyielding urgency. There are times, when being awoken, that it seems feasible to simply roll over and go back to sleep. And there are others when it’s clear that sleep is no longer an option. This feels like the latter.
Karis: We have to go. Now.
She hovers over my makeshift slab – a cruel edifice that these people somehow have the gall to label a “bed”. I'd wonder how she managed to get into my room - but these people don't seem to believe in locks. Only the most formal (or private) of edifices even have doors. It’s much warmer than usual – steamy, even – and that’s saying something when you’re already trapped in the swampy sauna known as Poglia. The draperies hung across my windows (“windows” that are nothing more than crude holes bored through the spherical coquina walls) dance and strain against their moorings. A foul wind pelts the room. The gale carries an inharmonious cacophony of distant bells. An unsettling glow washes over us from some unseen source on the beach.
Me: What…? What’s going on?
Karis: The Bells of Norkey are ringing. There’s a razer on the horizon. We need to get you out of here as fast as possible.
Me: We’re getting up? Right now? For a storm?
Karis: Not a storm. A razer!
And the distant bells reverberate.
I’m only interested in arguing with her because I desperately need to buy time. Even if it’s only a few precious seconds. I need time to process those damned bells. Their low growl resonates in my chest and agitates my skull. My head vacillates between the breadth of a canter nut, then down to a pop pea, then back to the canter nut again. The pressure in my temples threatens to blow out an artery. The viscous residue of mouldmilk cakes around the corners of my mouth and coats my tongue. The mere memory of it threatens to turn my stomach. I realize that Karis is holding some of my clothes, but I seriously question my ability to stand.
And the distant bells reverberate.
Kee Jzhu had some grand notion that I should “mingle” with the local population. He thought It would do me well to “integrate” with our hosts. He urged me to head down to the local pit to make a few “connections”. I’m quite certain that he promoted this strategy because he was thoroughly unwilling to establish such diplomatic relations himself.
The Hinterfolk start drinking at noon. Granted, I’m sure that somewhere in the country there is someone who doesn’t tip their first flagon so early. But as near as I could tell from the bacchanal taking place in the pit, damn near everyone was there. And they were all slurping down generous portions of mouldmilk.
Mouldmilk is the only thing they drink. And it justifies every legend I’ve heard about it. It’s as thick as snot. But it doesn’t taste nearly as good. It emanates a musty, abrasive odor reminiscent of dung and fermented fish. And the stinking goop clings to every shred of real estate on your teeth, your gums, and even in your throat. It's only benefit is its ability to scramble every bit of synaptic tissue. Karis seems to recognize my disorientation and unceremoniously shoves a handful of dank roots in my face.
Karis: Chew on these. It will help.
And the distant bells reverberate.
They seem barely more palatable than this afternoon’s mouldmilk. I really have no desire to allow them past my lips. But there’s a tone in her voice that conveys something I haven’t witnessed in her before. She’s nervous. Anxious. Almost… desperate. I start chewing on some of the “fresher” stems and reluctantly reach for my longboots.
Me: Where is—
Karis: My men are waking Daus Kee Jzhu as we speak.
I can’t help but chuckle at this response.
Me: Good luck with that. If you think he’s ornery in the daytime, you should see what he’s like when he’s denied sleep.
I believe I’ve made a wry and insightful comment. But her near-panicked retort leaves me regretting my snide attitude.
Karis: We don’t have time for this! Hurry!
Truth be told, none of this really makes any sense to me. But her acute urgency is contagious and I’m almost beginning to feel… guilty. Guilty at not having moved fast enough to meet her wishes. Guilty at being more concerned with my splitting headache. Guilty at… I don’t know. Just, guilty.
And the distant bells reverberate.
When I finally rise, properly clothed and ready to follow her desperate imperatives, I’m shocked by how quickly my head is clearing. Standing upright is not nearly as challenging as I’d feared. The bitter, gritty roots actually seem to have some kind of beneficial effect on my cognitive abilities and motor skills. The vibrato of bells stills echoes in my ears, but it doesn't set me on edge as it did just moments ago. I pause at the door, trying to decide what to grab. This spreads a new display of emergency across her face.
Karis: We have to go!
Me: But… my papers.
Karis: I’m worried about something much greater than your contracts and your treaties.
She says “contracts” and “treaties” in the same tone that others say “child molester”. We’re only here because of those documents. But with every passing minute I become more convinced that, just maybe… I should listen to her. She is relieved when I finally follow her out the door of my diplomatic suite. Despite the chaos that seemed to be floating through the windows of my grim accommodations, I’m still taken aback when I finally step out onto the beach.
And the distant bells reverberate.
A steady armada of boats makes its way across the bay. Their lanterns serve as twinkling beacons in the night. There are modest skiffs. Larger pontoons. And grand, seafaring katamarans. Even from my position on the beach, it’s clear that every single one of them is dangerously overloaded. And every one of them is moving in the same direction: soroasterly, out of the harbor, and (presumably) toward the open sea. Presumably, away from the bells.
The noroastern sky is boiling. A cauldron of cloud and lightning and twisters and whatnot is evident against the inky atmosphere. The entire conflagration glows because, at any given moment, there are at least a half dozen separate intracloud lightning bolts dancing through the marauding giant. They furiously compete to illuminate the titan. Each lending its own unique pastel hue. I’m struck by just how... pretty it looks. Radiating a majestic palette that will soon paint the entire Hinterlands with sorrow. Karis nudges me onward. My feet numbly follow, but my eye is trained on the razer – and… on the Hinterfolk.
And the distant bells reverberate.
In the light of the approaching storm, I can easily distinguish a scattered line of burly townsfolk, stretching along the beach in both directions, as far as the eye can see. For a fleeting moment, I’m convinced that they are simply continuing the afternoon’s festivities from the pit. The mouldmilk knocked me out long before the locals were ready to stand down. So it doesn’t seem all that crazy that their inebriated merrymaking continues right up until now. But a few seconds of casual observation makes it clear that they’ve now turned to something else entirely.
They are every bit as raucous as they were this afternoon in the pit. They jump. They yell. They slap each other at odd intervals that make no sense to foreign eyes. But they’re no longer raging against their dreary lives or their scant prospects or the plebian standing next to them at the bar. Their attention is keen and focused. Their rage is directed at the horizon.
They’re roughly arranged in a single-file flank, all of them facing out toward the bay – ultimately, over the Aequin Ocean and straight out to the oncoming tempest. They do their best to affect a continual scream – yells, boasts, chants, curses… whatever jumps to their minds.
Most of them are in some state of undress. Not that they ever seem too concerned with fashion in a “normal” scenario – but the present occasion seems to have piqued their bawdiness. Droopy bits hang and shake where they should neither hang nor shake. They rattle fists. They jiggle unmentionables. The only time they remove their attention from the stalking demon is when they do a full one-eighty, drop their trousers, and scream with delight as they display their backsides for the razer's approval.
Me: What… in the world… are they doing??
I fully expect to be abandoned. I have stopped, ankle deep in the glowing sands, utterly fascinated by the absurd theatre playing out before me. But I’m even more shocked to realize that Karis has actually halted and come back to me. Even in the midst of the looming catastrophe, my query has apparently thrown her for a loop. She stands beside me for several moments, trying to grasp the nature of my confusion. Finally, she responds in a completely practical tone.
Karis: It’s the Squalling.
Her answer couldn’t be less helpful if it were spoken in Nokmeni. Backwards. Through a mouth stuffed full of envyranotts. But it’s clear that this is as much explanation as I’m going to receive for the time being.
And the distant bells reverberate.
Kee Jzhu’s suite is only 50 meters down the beach from mine. As we trudge through the sand, there’s enough light for me to actually recognize some of the cretins from earlier. There’s Salim, who spent most of the afternoon pointing at me, imploring his buddies to, “Look!” And then laughing uproariously. There’s Jeshuah, who wouldn’t stop reciting “poetry” (his word for a verbal diarrhea of nouns and adverbs, interjected with an impressive array of profanities). There’s Eirene, who kept staring at me and asking if I’m a “gorly man” (an apparent reference to the fact that most Poglians are built like livestock – and most Inqoans... are not). There’s Aiybner, who pulled me aside on three separate occasions, implored me to lean over so he could speak in my ear, and then proceeded to yell, “C’mon. You can tell me. What’re ya fishfolk really here for??” I don’t know if it was more unpleasant fraternizing with these people in the pit then, or witnessing them baring their woolly arses toward the razer now (and yes, even their women seem to be quite... furry).
My own personal game of Name That Savage is interrupted by the inconvenient fact that we’ve actually reached Kee Jzhu’s quarters. Like my own, his suite is stationed right off the beach. A small cadre of Karis’s aides buzz about the entrance. They are picking their spot, trying to find just the right time to enter, like a dracon tamer gingerly searching for the perfect moment to corral her charge. I don’t even have to guess what’s keeping them at bay. Waking Kee Jzhu is like poking a parrican. And once you trigger that particular stampede, the wisest move is to get as far away as possible.
Karis is clearly annoyed by the ineffectiveness of her henchmen. She was counting on Kee Jzhu being ready to move by the time we reached his hut. Karis still hasn’t managed to grasp the full bitchiness that is Kee Jzhu. She divides her hesitant associates and I follow her into the enclosure.
And the distant bells reverberate.
Kee Jzhu paces to and fro. He’s not just upset. He has worked himself into a tizzy. His long, straight, silver hair swings wildly to-and-fro as he launches himself to one end of the room, then to the other, then back again. His milky eyes dart across the walls like a caged animal. It’s all he can do to keep from slamming his forehead into the ceiling. We are both nearly a half meter taller than Karis - and most of the other Hinterfolk. When he sees Karis and me, it does not bring him relief – but it definitely provides an outlet for this angst.
Kee Jzhu: What exactly is the meaning of this?!
Karis: We have to go.
Kee Jzhu: Yes. I’m aware. The mush-minds out there have been telling me as much for the last 20 minutes.
This does not sit well with Karis. She’s not much interested in his careless insult. But she’s beyond-frustrated that he is not long-since ready to comply.
Karis: Then why are you not ready to leave?!
This slows his drama for a moment. It’s clear that he expected more compliance from her, and her forcefulness veers him toward indignance.
Kee Jzhu: It’s the middle of the night! The trade negotiations are expected to last for at least another fortnight. Why would we possibly want to leave? This is no way to treat diplomats!
Karis pauses – for only a brief moment. She’s collecting herself. She is, if nothing else, imminently respectful. But she’s also no pushover. I watch carefully as her intellectual machinations play out across her face.
Karis: Your eminency. Daus Kee Jzhu. I need for you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. Your presence here is an honor to our nation. To our people. But at this exact moment, it’s doubtful that there will be any more negotiations. Of any sort. In the next several days – at least. At this exact moment, there is only one concern that I have for you and your attaché. Survival.
She had him until “survival”. Her obsequious respect was bringing his anxiety down at least two notches. And for a fleeting moment, I could tell that he was definitely listening to her. But the utterance of “survival” sends him back into a dramatic fit.
Kee Jzhu: Survival? This is ridiculous! Are the Poglians so fragile as to perish under a little rain??
Damn, I admire her. If I were in her shoes, I’d just seal him into his crappy coquina hut and call it a night. But she has far more patience than I could ever claim.
Karis: This is not just some rain, Reverent Kee Jzhu. This is a razer.
He tries so hard to force an indignant response that a prodigious snot-bubble explodes from his nose.
Kee Jzhu: Razer? Is that all you have to rail about? A razer??? Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re Inqoans! We are one with Aequin. We only live on the coasts. Did you really think that we haven’t experienced a razer before??
She lowers her head and cycles through an overt series of breathing exercises. She makes no attempt to hide the fact that she’s centering herself. She’s finding some source of inner strength. Kee Jzhu looks annoyed. But I have to admit, she has my respect.
Karis: I know. You’ve experienced plenty of razers before. You’ve weathered great storms. But I ask you, with all due respect, when is the last time you endured a razer on Poglia??
Kee Jzhu sniggers so hard that he blows another snot bubble.
Karis: What do you hear?
Her non sequitur momentarily stuns him. He doesn’t know exactly how to respond – other than truthfully.
Kee Jzhu: Well... I don’t know. Wind? Yelling coming from the beach?
Karis: Do you hear any bells?
I didn’t notice this before her query. The bells... have ceased. I don’t actually know what that means, but they’ve definitely ceased.
Kee Jzhu: No... I don’t suppose I do. But what does that have to–
Karis: Once they’ve been struck, the Bells of Norkey cease for only two reasons. The first is when the razer turns away. Sparing us. Look outside. Does it look to you like the razer's turned away?
Daus is confused. He also looks increasingly admonished. He’s finally starting to sense that he might be out of his depth.
Kee Jzhu: No... It doesn’t seem so... What’s the other thing that makes the bells stop?
Karis: When Norkey is underwater.
Kee Jzhu: You mean, like... a storm surge?
Karis: I mean, like, when the entire island is submerged.
Kee Jzhu actually looks shocked. He takes several moments to chew on the idea before responding.
Kee Jzhu: How do you know the island has already been hit?
Karis: I don’t know. There’s no way to know. But I know the bells have stopped. And that’s a dire sign.
He indulges in a period of introspection that is entirely too long, given the circumstances. When he finally emerges from thought, his voice is quieter. Humbler.
Kee Jzhu: Then what do we do?
Karis: My only orders are to get you out of here. There’s still time to use the razer's own winds to blow you clear out of Marman Harbor, past the Reach of Mycah, and out into the Mouth of Charen.
Kee Jzhu: And what in the world would we do in the Mouth of Charen?
Karis: Sail clear across it. Keep going until you hit Prielia. Razers almost always head into the Sister Seia. There’s little chance that this one would chase you all the way to Islegantuan.
He glances at me for a moment. But I just shrug. I don’t know what’s about to happen to the Hinterlands. But I’m increasingly confident that I don't want to witness it firsthand.
Kee Jzhu: And we can flee this thing? Just run from it?
Karis: Not over land. The trails will soon be quagmires. But if we leave right now, you may still be able to make your escape over sea.
Daus swipes a handful of basic valuables from his nightstand and bolts out the door. The only thing slowing him down is his brief pause to give all of us the “What are we waiting for??” glare. It’s clear that he’s finally bought into the evacuation.
As for me, I'm not totally convinced as to the efficacy of Karis's plan. But I can't offer any better suggestions. She's probably correct in asserting that we want to be anywhere but here when this thing fully crashes into Poglia. The theory is confirmed as we start marching down the beach toward the docks. Every time we pass one of the Squallers, I can see in their eyes that their manic blustering serves as a thin veil for a much deeper emotion - raw, unadulterated fear. And if these people are afraid, I can only pray that there's a boat left for us when we reach the docks.
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