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“Washington’s Ridge. The ‘rise furthest to the east, near the Anacos river.”
The villages clustered over deeper water, where the foundations of the old high rises had been put into the water. ‘Rise, the abbreviated form, echoed the abbreviated height of the vertical buildings in the settlements: three rooms, rarely four, each stacked on top of the other and accessible by rope or various forms of ladders.
She huffed a laugh, then poled with deliberate speed. Muscles rippled in her arms and shoulders as I sat in the middle of the boat to minimize any risk of tipping. My stomach clenched as she engaged the engine to cross Old River. It would take about an hour to get to the Ridge from here, perhaps a little more if she were chary using her fuel.
Below us, concealed by the water, eight-foot pike swam, needle teeth lining long jaws. Largemouth bass, engineered to grow to ten feet, were also lurking: solitary, aggressive and voracious predators. The deeps sheltered demon crabs, which didn’t like the day, but might still hide in the shadow the boat cast.
I hunched even smaller in the middle of the boat. I hated demon crabs; they were huge, four to five feet across, their grabbing claws slicing at prey—everything was prey to them—and with venom dripping from their short stabbing legs. The last time I came to the Ridge the people had been fighting off an infestation of demon crabs. Tourists savored the meat, but they didn’t know what demon crabs ate. How crabs became venomous I didn’t want to know.
We passed the first of the southern ‘rises, their round outlines marking the edge area where the swampers settled. Far enough from land to make banditry a little more difficult, and over the water that supplied their needs. While the frames were made of plastics that had been traded for and scavenged to make use of their longer life span, the walls themselves were braided from the dense reeds or made of thin wood, the easier to replace when hurricanes came through.
When the storms came, the swampers risked the cypresses for shelter. They’d made agreements with the spirits there for safety during the great storms and paid for it with loads of shellfish and hours of music played at the forest’s edge.
A splash made me jump as a heron dipped low, skimming the water, and rose with its prey wriggling in its mouth. Lucky bastard, it’d managed to get one of the small fish without being eaten by the mutated big fish. This place was equal parts beautiful and frightening. Cattails signaled even shallower water, and I breathed easier. Ahead, a ring of ‘rises rose above the water. Too deep for rushes to grow, but a sea of cattails framed the settlement.
The stilts reared another fifteen feet above the rising tide. No boats bobbed at the mooring points; everyone was out. This was a prime time for fishing and checking pots—afternoon was the least dangerous time of day.
The wind shifted: a thin cool breeze from the north, a whisper of a familiar voice. Perhaps the spirit hunted close by, perhaps the wards that defended Capitol had kept it away. Regardless, the spirit I’d fought sent the cold north wind to find me, even this far south. The damn Wendigo, or whatever the hell it was, clearly wasn’t done with me yet.
I remained still, let it wash over me, didn’t answer. The boat driver poled to a line of plastic stakes driven into the stilts that served for a ladder. I handed her the sealant before I wordlessly started climbing to my room. Because this ‘rise was owned by the government, all I had to do was speak to an employee, and they assigned me a room. It was always the same one though, because few government officials came to a place like this.
It wasn’t far; my room was closest to the water, since I was the newest resident. I pulled myself inside and my eyes focused on the interior, becoming accustomed to the dimness. Lumps of items wrapped in plastic were secured to the floor, reinforced by netting tacked the same way. Uncovering them, I found a variety of pots. I opened them to find mosquito salve, pickled fish, and preserves, and a glass container of water, stolen from one of the tourist traps.
The timing made me roll my eyes. Silver must have sent word I’d be here soon. The last of the gifts puzzled me. A stone bowl, hand chipped, filled with leaves. I sniffed them. The pungent scent reminded me of newbacco, but this was a leaf and not an additive.
My eyes widened. Tobacco? So very illegal it made me want to laugh, especially since I didn’t even smoke. I set the pot aside. A gift was a gift, and something about tobacco tickled the edge of my memory.
I pulled off my sticky, stained pajamas and changed into leathers, rolled tight in the satchel. My hammock beckoned, and I fell into it, a stray thought of Dmitri trying to wake me into regret. I’d have to go to Silsprin to comm Elise or Kara and find out if he was okay, and if they’d be visiting Silsprin during my exile.
Voices woke me, the thump and rattle of people returning from their day’s business.
“Hya! Alys!” Followed by a loud blast from a horn. I rolled out of the hammock and peered down.
Monique, from the next ‘rise over, her newest baby slung around her neck. Tiny, strong, no-nonsense: she’d been the first to talk to me after I gifted her with the breast pump I’d used for Dmitri once he was weaned. I’d gifted a minor solar generator with it, too small to be more than a toy in Capitol, but enough to provide power for the tiny chiller they’d had in her room.
She ruled her family with an iron fist. When she decided to talk to me, the others followed.
“Why you keep pissing your man off? I like what you bring, but you got no sense, girl. There’s stew, flatbread and greens, so you don’t try to set fire to your ‘rise again,” she called up.
“Not. My. Man.” I swung down the hand holds as she laughed. The boat wallowed as I jumped in. I sat down fast.
“Girl, you not hitting that yet? Silver’s connected and built well from head to toe,mmm.” Monique wrinkled her nose at me and laughed harder. “Still scared? Just fish.”
“No,” I answered. “Cautious. Man-eaters are out this time of day.”
She rolled her eyes, skimming the boat the twenty feet to where her ‘rise rose from the water. The slung baby stared at me with big eyes, blowing bubbles.
Monique’s ‘rise boasted a rope ladder. We climbed up, the smell of stew drifting down, intermixed with conversations. Most of her family gathered at her ‘rise for the evening meal. Her grandmother climbed down from her room at the top to do the cooking, supervising the children too young to work but no longer breastfeeding.
The conversation lulled, then rose again when I entered, those who didn’t care to interact with me ignoring me. People sat on the floor, finishing their meal. Those already done eating played dice in another corner of the crowded room for unknown stakes. Others waved, but the children were subdued and tired.
It must have been a big run of fish.
Monique and I headed for the remains of the food. Greens, still steaming though more liquid than vegetable by now, a few lonely pieces of flatbread, and a three-quarters empty stewpot.
I spooned greens on top of a flatbread and found an open spot to eat near the old woman, Monique’s grandmother. She didn’t acknowledge me, but she didn’t shoo me away either, and it was one of the few available spaces.
Halfway through my meal, I relaxed and leaned back against the wall. It gave a little under my back. I pulled a bag of hard candies from my pocket and set it out by the greens. Within minutes, only a few wrappers remained. I heard a breath of a laugh, but the old woman’s face remained solemn when I glanced up.
