Storm Strider

The desert hated Marisol. She felt the desert hated everyone, really, but no one more than her. Most of the townsfolk wore thick and sturdy sandals under the scorching midday sun—as they should if they wanted to keep the skin on their feet—but she was barefoot, twirling and dancing atop the edge of a narrow dune. One misstep and she’d land hard on her spine, never to walk again.

Her mama always told her sand-dancing would kill her one day, but if she couldn’t entertain enough people and earn sixty silvers to pay for her trip today, her mama would die.

“Do a double spin jump, Mari!” a little boy shouted from the crowd, all the way at the bottom of the dune she was dancing on. Her ears perked. Fulfilling a specific request meant certain donations, and the tougher the request, the more silvers tossed into her basket.

A double spin jump, huh?

I’ve got this.

Whipping her arms back, she leaped into the air with her legs crossed, teeth gritted—landing perfectly on her tiptoes after a graceful double spin in the air.

The little boy who’d requested her spin laughed and clapped, and now the small crowd of about fifty passersby below her were raring to go. She couldn’t resist an adoring grin as a drop of sweat beaded down her forehead. Each request was at least one silver on the ground, so, at most, she only had fifty-nine more requests to fulfil.

“Do an edge jump for my kid!” a man yelled.

“Do a backflip when you loop up again!” another man shouted.

“Do a double spin jump and then a backflip when you loop up again!” yet another man shouted, right as she backflipped onto the edge of the dune.

Over and over again, she jumped until her legs were sore, danced until strain reached even the tip of her fingers, but she counted everyone’s requests one by one. Soon, she was down to three requests. Just three more jumps until she could collapse and fall on her knees.

“Mari! Here, here!” a little girl shouted, the first man’s daughter jumping and waving as she did. “Do a double spin jump, then an edge jump, and then a backflip!”

Marisol suppressed a nervous laugh in her chest. That was three requests in one. Dangerous or not, it was bound to earn her a lot of silvers.

So she launched, spun twice, jumped quickly again, and then threw in a backflip at the end of the sequence—landing on the very tip of her toes, arms spread apart with perfect balance.

Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall!

The crowd cheered and whooped and became a sparkling blur in her eyes. Truth be told, she’d spun her head completely dizzy with that backflip, but now she began skating down the dune with a brilliant grin from ear-to-ear—she’d fulfilled exactly sixty requests, so now, she could end her routine.

Swinging her arms to build momentum, she narrowed her eyes on the ridiculously tall wooden sign she’d stabbed into the sand below. Everyone immediately knew what she was trying to do. The elders shook their heads, the adults couldn’t resist a series of sharp gasps, but the children were fired up like never before. They wanted to see her end her routine properly, even if failure meant injuring herself for the rest of her life.

Even if she was doing this for money, she still had her pride as a Sand-Dancer.

So, right before she reached the base of the dune, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a blindfold, quickly wrapping it around her eyes.

I got this, I got this, I got this!

Finish the routine with a bang!

Biting her tongue, visualising the invisible crowd beneath her, she leaped and did a double spin mid-air before kicking her right leg out, holding her breath—and something snapped under her incredible speed.

The crowd was deathly quiet as she skidded to a halt, kicking up a thin cloud of sand in the process.

… Then they exploded into a hurrah as she yanked her blindfold off, brushing sand out of her hair. She panted and gasped for breath at first, sweaty all over, but then pure joy took hold of her as she realised she’d done it—she’d kicked straight through the centre of the board to snap it in half.

She’d done it.

As the crowd tossed more coins into her basket and clapped, she crossed one leg behind the other and bowed, lifting the hem of her skirt. Eventually the crowd dispersed, and she remained bowing under the sweltering midday sun until every last one of them was gone. It was poor manners to leave before her audience, so it was only once she was sure there were no more requests that she finally lifted her head, biting her lips as she stared into her donation basket.

Twenty… Forty… Fifty…

Sixty-five! Yes!

Eyes aglow, she picked up the basket and the broken sign before rushing straight home. Merchants and caravaneers had already set up their stalls across the main streets, but she knew all the secret routes through the desert town. She flung herself onto low sandstone roofs, swung across palm trees between tight alleys, and skipped and jumped between mundane pathways until she reached the small squatter house at the edge of town.

She burst through the thick curtain flaps for doors, and the first thing she saw was her mama staring out the window next to her bed. Old miss Vellamira was afflicted with an illness that weakened her legs and lungs, so she’d stayed bedridden for the better part of the past decade; Marisol was the only one who could go out and work for scraps for the two of them.

Damn if some of the elders pitied her for having to sand-dance daily just to put food on the table, though—she loved sand-dancing, and there was nothing else she wanted to spend the rest of her life doing.

“... Marisol,” her mama said, turning to look as she skipped over to the table and started filling the last empty pouch with the coins she’d just brought back. “I told you not to work so early in the day, didn’t I? You need lunch first– no, breakfast. Breakfast and lunch. Skip out on any one of the two, and–”

“‘Your bones will start groaning when you’re twenty-five’, yes, yes,” she finished, tilting her head left and right as she glanced back at her mama, squinting softly. “And you promised you’d sleep until noon. Why’s the letterer here again?”

Her mama feigned ignorance with sucked-in cheeks. “Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about. The letterer? I don’t–”

Marisol darted over, pulled back the curtains, and standing shamefully with his hands covering his face was the town’s one and only letterer; the fourteen-year-old boy refused to look either ladies of the household in the eye as Marisol planted her fists on her hips, scowling at her mama.

“Mamaaaa. I said–”

“Yes, yes, ‘don’t call Lucas over until he’s let out of school’, but if I hadn’t called him over while you were out, he wouldn’t have finished writing my book for me.” Her mama waggled a finger, waving the boy out through the window and giving the letterer a loaf of bread for his time. “We both broke our promises. Fair trade. Let’s call it even and just pretend it never happened, eh?”

Marisol grumbled as she turned back around, waddling around the one-room house as she rummaged through the closet, picking out her travelling clothes. “I don’t know what sort of ‘book’ you’ve been having him write for you, but is it really worth waking up early for? You’ve yanked him out of morning school, like, every day for the past month? What do you think his mama would say if she knew her son ain’t attending morning school?”

“Oh, please. His mother and I go way back. I’m sure Lucas likes getting lettering practice in as well.”

“Not for a pittance! You ain’t even paying him–”

“–all a boy his age needs is hard bread and a loving auntie–”

“–bah.” Marisol sighed, grabbing all of her fashionable clothes—beige cloak, beige scarf, and beige everything else—before stuffing them into her satchel. “So? What’s he really been writing for you? What’s this book I’m being left out of?”

Her mama sent her a dry smile as she turned around briefly, searching for her comb. “It’s a book on job prospects. I thought you’d like to know about all the opportunities you have in this boring, little old town of ours, instead of leaving to sail to some water city in the middle of nowhere.”

Marisol paused. She wasn’t oblivious—the hurt and disappointment in her mama’s voice was more than palpable, and it made her chest ache. It didn’t help that Captain Antonio chose that exact moment to duck in through the curtain flaps, holding his wide-brimmed feather cap in one hand, carrying a leather rucksack in the other. He’d come to collect his payment; it was incredibly costly to travel to the Whirlpool City, so she’d promised him, when he’d first stopped by the town four years ago and she realised he was a captain who could ferry travellers back and forth from the city, that she’d have enough money saved up for her trip by today.

But her mama, who’d always been lukewarm supportive of her decision, was disappointed now?

“... I don’t need a different job, mama.” She sighed, slamming a cabinet close as she found her first comb. “I even worked construction in the afternoon and manned the bread ovens at night, so I’ll have you know I am, in fact, perfectly fine with sand-dancing–”

“You shouldn’t be,” her mama said, lips puckered, eyes sunken. “There’s no future in sand-dancing anymore, Marisol. It doesn’t have the same flair it once had. You see men flying on their butterfly wings and leaping across mountains with their cricket legs, and you think people will want to pay to see a desert girl dance pretty on the sands?”

“You’re one to talk,” she muttered, slamming a second cabinet close. “You were the steel-toed queen of the desert. People paid chests of gold just to catch a glimpse of you doing a camel spin in a sandstorm, with one hand tied behind your back… if it ain’t for your ailment, you’d still be–”

“And that’s exactly why you cannot make sand-dancing your life,” her mama said, clicking her tongue irritably as she pointed at her crooked legs, lips twisted. “You're twenty-four. You have energy. You have pride. The Great Makers know you love what you do and you’re all the more beautiful for it, but the desert is a cruel god. It knows in your heart when you think you can outrun it, and then it’ll swallow the ground beneath you, just like it did when I made my final jump. You wanna live the rest of your life on a bed?"

Marisol groaned, slamming a third cabinet close. “Your legs healed in a month. You were just… it was just pure misfortune you caught an ailment on top of that injury.”

“That ‘misfortune’ befalls all Sand-Dancers sooner or later,” her mama muttered. “There’s a reason why nobody does this job past thirty. It’s a child’s dream, Marisol. Why do you insist on sand-dancing so much? There are plenty of long-term jobs in town that’d appreciate how fast and acrobatic you are, you know? I heard from Lucas that the letterer’s guild is looking for people to dance on their inkpresses so ink settles on their parchment quicker, so I’m sure–”

“What’s this really about, mama?” she said, slamming the final cabinet close. That was all four of her combs found. “You could’ve stopped me at any time. Kidnapped me and forced me to go to school. Told people not to come and watch my routines. Why today?”

A pause.

Marisol didn’t stop packing up. She really didn’t have much time to waste; Captain Antonio would leave if she made him wait too long.

“... I mean, who knows how long you’ll be gone for?” her mama said softly. “It’s a long trip, ain’t it? First you’ll ride a week to the far western shore, then you’ll sail another two weeks, and then you don’t even know if they’ll let you into the city. Not accounting for mishaps on the road, it’d easily be half a year before you come back. Who knows when you’ll show your face in front of me again?”

Biting her lips, Marisol started rushing around the house, stuffing the rest of her necessities into her satchel: mostly combs, spare sandals, and sand-dried snacks for the road. While she did that, Captain Antonio slid her coin pouches on the table into a rucksack, counting the full pouches one by one.

“It ain’t that long, mama,” she mumbled. “It’s just a month there and a month back. Barely even a quarter of a year, right? Nights are longer in the wintry north–”

“It will be long,” her mama said, a sad smile twisting the old Vellamira’s lips, and with it, her heart. “Is it really worth it, Marisol? You’ve never been out of town, and your first trip is to somewhere so far away? Where nobody can help you if you get in trouble? You really, really don’t know–”

She whirled, knelt, and clasped her mama’s hand in her own. “I will be back, mama,” she said firmly. “The legendary ‘Whirlpool City’ in the middle of the far western sea, and its local healing seawater that is said to be able to heal all wounds and cure all ailments in the blink of an eye… when you were a kid, you ran from that city because it was incredibly dangerous, right? Corpsetaker was about to break out and sink the city, but it’s different now, right?”

Her mama looked at her in a way she’d never looked at her before, and she couldn’t for the life of her form a conclusion as to what that expression was trying to convey. Dilated pupils, mouth slightly parted, a quiver in her lips; Marisol squeezed her hands, nodding resolutely.

“Corpsetaker was re-sealed by those bug-slayers with magic ‘systems’, and then they stabilised the entire rest of the city, right?” she said. “It’s safe now, you know. Ain’t nothing’s gonna happen. Once I actually get into the city, it’ll be even more safe with all the guards around—I’d sooner trip on a cactus and land on my neck than get attacked by a giant bug!”

Captain Antonio dipped his head and pulled the brim of his hat down at her poor choice of words. Her mama frowned, and for a brief second she felt like wincing herself—maybe she could’ve made her point without alluding to an accident like that—but just as quickly she shook her head and clenched her jaw. She was right, and she knew it.

“... Ten years I’ve danced and saved up for this trip,” she whispered. “Since I was fourteen, I’ve danced and danced and danced—under your teachings, mama—all so I could save up for this once-in-a-lifetime trip to the city. Ten years. And I ain’t coming back until I have a bottle of healing seawater with me.”

Her mama still had her pinned under a worried gaze, so she had to make herself look away, else she might lose her resolve and start fighting Captain Antonio for her money back… but just as she picked up her satchel and slung it over her shoulder, nodding at the captain to take her away, she felt a warm hand snapping around her wrist.

She froze, throat clenching painfully.

“Wait,” her mama breathed, and she heard the blanket rustling behind her. “Take this with you. I… I’m serious, you little rascal. It will help you.”

Marisol glanced around slightly to see her mama holding out a leather-bound book. “My satchel ain’ endless, mama. And I ain’t gonna be looking for any jobs while I’m–”

“It contains the secret techniques of sand-dancing I never managed to teach you,” her mama interrupted, grunting as she swivelled off the bed so she could stuff the entire thing into Marisol’s satchel.

Marisol looked at the spine of the book, noticing no title.

“A child dances carefree, without a worry in the world,” her mama said, “and a teen starts to realise how inadequate their skills really are. As an adult, they start frantically looking to improve, so their movements become more refined, more controlled, and their dance changes.” Then she looked up at Marisol, smiling wistfully. “Even I have my own dance that only I can do, bedridden as I am, so the chapters won’t unlock all at once. The countdown for subsequent chapters will begin once you open the first chapter, so don’t open it until you’re bored out of your mind on the great blue.”

“... And how many chapters are there?” Marisol asked, sending a sly grin back. “It’s a pretty thick book. How long did you–”

Her mama pulled her back into a tight hug, and she was left breathless.

Wordless.

She felt she’d done so, so well keeping them in, but she couldn’t hold them back anymore; her cheeks were wet with tears.

“... Take care, Marisol,” her mama whispered, rubbing the back of her head softly as she teared up quietly. “Don’t forget: you are ‘Mar’, of the far western seas we came from, and ‘Sol’, of the far eastern sun we live in. A Sand-Dancer never looks behind her, because we ladies of the Vellamira household hold ourselves to the utmost standard. We are graceful, we are infallible, and we–”

“Dance with lightning snapping at our heels,” she finished, pulling away from the hug, sniffling, wiping her tears and doing her best to throw a brilliant smile onto her face. “I’ll be back with a bottle of healing seawater before you know it, mama. Love you.”

Her mama fixed her braid above her ear, smiling brilliantly in return. “Love you too, you little rascal.”

…

She took a step back and bowed—to both her mama and the house—before turning to face the broad-shouldered Captain Antonio.

Then she sucked in a sharp breath, following the man out onto the streets.

“Mister Antonio,” she said, clasping her satchel and hands before her back as she walked alongside him, “it really ain’t gonna be that long before we reach the Whirlpool City, right? What are we riding to the harbour anyways?”

Captain Antonio grunted, pulling down the brim of his hat. “It’ll take just a month, if we’re lucky. And we’ll be taking giant coastal ants to the harbour. Ever rode one before, miss?”

“What do you think?” she grumbled. “No, I’ve never rode a giant coastal ant before. You do know you’re the only outsider here who has ever sailed across the seas, right? As a bug-slayer captain of a mighty fleet, no less! You’ll keep me safe, won’t you?”

Antonio grunted again. “It’s just four courier ships to ferry people to and from the Whirlpool City, miss. You make it sound like I command a naval fleet.”

“... I’d rather hear you say you’ll keep me safe with more confidence, but oh well.” She sighed, before a small smile blossomed on her lips—just the thought of leaving the town for the first time in her life made her all giddy like a little girl inside. “One month there, one month back. It can’t be that dangerous, right?”

… The seas were stormy.

Lightning flashed all around. Waves the height of lighthouses rolled across the wooden decks. The sails were burning, the hull was breached, the masts were about to snap under their own weight—there was also one thing Marisol couldn’t have imagined when she’d first set off from her little desert town in the middle of nowhere.

Everyone was dead, and the ship was sinking.

What…?

Cowering behind a stack of rum barrels in the captain’s cabin, she jolted when lightning cracked four times in a row, the sky outside the round window flashing white for a brief instant. Right beneath the sea’s surface, a dark shadow slithered about, its forked tail poking out every now and then. All it took was that one leviathan to completely destroy their fleet, and now–

Someone banged on the door to the captain’s cabin and she freaked, whirling out of cover. Someone’s still alive? She was certain everyone had already been knocked overboard, or cleaved in half by the leviathan’s tail, or killed by the debris that’d been flung onto the deck by the storm. By the skin of her teeth she’d managed to duck into the captain’s cabin when the chaos started; she didn’t think anyone else had survived.

So, her eyes snapped wide open when it was Captain Antonio that kicked the door in, bleeding from head to toe, his coat torn and riddled with holes all over.

“... Fuck,” Antonio breathed, before falling flat on the wet floorboards, landing with a painful thump. She gasped and slid forward, turning him around as he groaned and reached for his nape. “I killed… all the other ones, though. It’s just that last leviathan left. You gotta… you gotta–”

“Hold still, cap,” she whispered, looking frantically around for anything she could use as a salve. “Don’t talk. You’re bleeding everywhere. If I can–”

“I’m sorry, Marisol,” he choked, wincing as he plucked something small and silvery from his nape. She whirled down and flinched herself; it was a tiny worm he was holding in his palm. “I’m a bug-slayer, but… shit. I’m done already. That’s why you… I’m not supposed to do this, but you have to eat this.”

She blinked, and reacted only when lightning cracked outside, the ship rocking hard to the left.

“You want me to eat the worm?” she snapped, shaking her head furiously. “Now ain’t the time for jokes, cap! You’ve got insect abilities, right? Use them! Heal yourself with your mutations–”

“It’s no worm, Marisol. It’s an ‘Altered Swarmsteel System’, and it’s the bug-slayers’ greatest weapon,” he said softly, faintly, light quickly draining from his eyes. He shoved the little worm between her lips mid-rant and clamped a hand over her mouth, stopping her from puking it out.

She gagged, reeling back, but the worm shot down her throat before she could manage to spit—Captain Antonio nodded only after he was sure she’d swallowed it. “It’ll start talking in a bit. It’s gonna be… bloody noisy in your head, I’m telling you, but endure it. When it gives you a class or tells you to choose one, pick something that’ll let you fly back to the shore. We ain’t… we ain’t that far off from land.”

Breathless, she swallowed a huge gulp and darted back forward, shaking Antonio’s shoulders, calling out his name—but when he breathed his last and his head went limp in her arms, she stopped shivering. She stopped trembling.

Something was burrowing under her skin.

It was gnawing on her spine, under her nape, and then–

[Please do not attempt to remove the worm while system integration is in progress,] a metallic voice whispered in her ears, making her freeze.

And then it happened before she could even blink.

One second there was nothing, and in the next—there was a small, six-legged black bug wiggling atop her left shoulder, trying to catch her attention.

[... Greetings, Marisol Vellamira,] the bug said, waving one of its legs at her. [I am designated ‘Archive’, your personal bug assistant, here to support your integration with the Altered Swarmsteel System. This ship will sink in thirty minutes, and if you do not leave before then, you will die. Would you like to choose from one of four insect classes?]