Calenture

Quote: A new world seemed to open before her longing gaze—a world, or a calenture, a mirage? for would she cross the 'wandering fields of barren foam,' to reach the green grass that did wave on the far shore? the dewless desert to reach the fair water that did lie leagues beyond its pictured sweetness? Robert Falconer by George MacDonald

Maren learn to recognize patterns at a young age.

The Tidelord’s sea, with its thousand currents, seems to be an odd place for this. Nevertheless, it is part of their training. “Look closely,” their elders tell them. They hold up what seem to be, to all intents and purposes, just slabs of lime, such as the waves might batter from distant cliffs. The pieces are held out to Maren children, who take them with webbed hands.

“Which of these is dragonmade? Can you tell?”

The answer, without fail, is the piece that bears a pattern. It could be zigzags carved by careful claws, or rows of dots painted by dragon artists. Patterns, all of them, signs that whatever made them is intelligent — and therefore dangerous.

As the Maren children grow, more patterns are pointed out to them. That distant reef, in the twilight with its regular crenellations...actually the rampart of a sunken dragon lair. This hollow wooden rod with holes drilled into at intervals...some musical instrument used by the drakes, perhaps. A piece of metal with a serrated edge, rags embroidered with interlocking triangles...

And at times, the beasts themselves.

A sunny day. A rocky islet rises from the waves; below the water, its sides are deeply scored with crevices. They teem with fish and shrimps, and the Maren children draw near to play.

One of them glances down — and he notices the pattern. He pauses, and as he realizes what he is seeing, a chill creeps through his veins.

Dark blotches against the pale sand...and circles. Circles within circles, ringlets overlapping each other. More blotches in a neat row: spots bordered with stripes.

Dragon. The word spreads like an electric shock through the school.

The Maren flee into deeper waters, minutes before the Guardian rises from its resting place on the reef floor. Pale sand cascades in clouds from its sides. Its eyes roll in its head, vast and blue and empty. They fix upon the school, but mercifully, it does not pursue.

As night falls, the school regroups. They are still shaken, but they will live to see another day. The boy who raised the alarm is praised, and again the elders repeat the necessity of recognizing patterns in the world.

~ ~ ~
At times, diving deep beyond the reach of the light, the Maren come across spheres that glow faintly blue. Some are small enough to be carried, others as large as a whale. Some may be encrusted with barnacles, others smooth and pristine...but all are beautifully oval, and shed that soft blue glow.

“These are the beasts of the Water God,” the Maren whisper to their children. “That which you saw on the reef was one of them. They know no mother, no father. They are created by the Water God from the waves themselves, from seafoam and coral and sand. That is why their eyes are empty — just bottomless sinkholes of blue.”

And out on the islet, a vast form rises from the sea. The Guardian shakes water from her wings...

“Don’t they form groups called ‘clans’? What of those things you showed us? Aren’t they clever enough to make those?”

“Most of them, yes. But some, like the empty-eyed beast you saw, are just as empty inside. The voice of the Water God thunders in their soul, and they answer to him alone.”

Sand crunches beneath the Guardian’s feet. In response, she turns a little bit darker, more yellow, to distinguish her scales from it. More chromatophores pool in her wings, making them dark as thunderclouds. Blotches on her golden skin, spots and stripes. Tinges of cream and blue.

And in her head, the Tidelord’s command: “Go forth, Guardian, and raise a new clan.”

---

---