Amethyst Isles

By Jen Booth

“You’re about to see wonders none of your friends back home will believe.” The old sailor wiped his sweaty brow with a stained cloth. “Y-e-p.”

He dragged the word out to three distinct syllables, and Daryn gritted his teeth. That dingy, smelly codger danced daily on what nerves remained in Daryn’s control, but he had to put up with Sorel long enough to make his fortune. Then he’d never hear his grating voice again.

“I’ve sailed these waters for years—know every nook and cranny. See those cliffs ahead?”

“Yes.”

Daryn gazed at the towering, gray stone, identical to the ones they’d come upon yesterday. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were the same ones.

“Once, after we were stuck in a storm and ran out of food, we stopped here. It was early spring, just like it is now. Me and the mate climbed to a ledge over that’a’way,” he pointed to an undefined spot that no normal man could reach, “and stole a sea eagle’s eggs. Wasn’t much for an entire crew, but it was something.”

Sorel’s tales grew bigger and more ridiculous by the day.

Daryn forced a smile. “When will we see the Amethyst Isles?”

Sorel grinned. “Soon, boy.”

Daryn rolled his eyes and trudged back to his work. He may have exaggerated his ship experience to get this job, but now he’d learned enough to sail himself back home once he delivered the crew to the scrim.

The scrim only bartered in flesh, after all, and Daryn had no intention of selling his own.

“What is it yer wanting so bad from the Isles?”

Daryn jumped at Sorel suddenly standing next to him. Could the man be any more annoying?

“Just to see the sunset over the purple stone, maybe take one back for my mother, if we port.” He flashed a smile too innocent, but Sorel seemed to take his word.

“We won’t be stopping for that, I’m afraid. Impossible for a simple sailor such as yerself to wrest an amethyst.”

That was untrue, but scrim always demanded a sacrifice for the stones. Daryn dropped his smile and bent over his work.

“Shame.”

“Indeed, boy. But you’ll see the sunset over them this night—nothing prettier than the first of spring on the Isles. Listen closely, and you may hear the Isles sing to you.”

Daryn coughed. Sing? You mean scream.

“I have heard that there are monsters.”

Sorel laughed and walked away, and Daryn smiled to himself. Tonight. And Sorel did not know about the scrim.

Daryn would sail home a wealthy man. It was too easy. As soon as the Isles came into view, all he’d have to do was call the scrim—a simple task, since he shared their blood.

Only scrim-kin knew that ancient language. None of the crew would comprehend—until it was too late. None would expect because the scrim remained hidden when ships sailed past, emerging only in times of starvation or invasion.

Or when called.

Daryn imagined their sinewy bodies, wrapped with feathers, soaring through the air like birds. A pleasant chill went through him, and he began to hum a sea tune.

He finished his work and went below-deck to grab a bite of supper. The other sailors greeted him with warm aplomb.

Fools, all. Sailing past the Isles year after year and not once attempting to win a prize?  He took a chair at the table, overwhelmed by the stench of unwashed men and salted beef.

He could almost feel his blood rushing, and the tingle on the edge of his consciousness told him he was near. So near. Minutes felt like hours, but he passed the time dreaming of how much a giant amethyst would bring.

“The Isles!” A voice bellowed down the stairway. “All men on deck!”

The hair on Daryn’s neck rose as a thrill washed over his body. He leapt from his seat and raced to the foredeck, only briefly considering how strange it was for them to have arrived so soon.

He walked to the edge and stared at the horizon. Against the sun’s final glare, three deep purple islands shone like the amethyst they were named for.

His chest tightened with anticipation. The ship moved with unnatural speed as if pulled through the water, and the Isles grew before his eyes.

“Time passes faster here. None know why exactly.”

Sorel was at his side again. Why did the old man follow him around?

“The last time I sailed past, we’d been in a terrible storm. Wind rocked the boat back and forth so violently, I thought she’d have hit the rocks. But something kept her steady.”

“Oh?”

Sorel rubbed his grizzled chin. “Yep. But that was after the crew had been lost—everyone but myself. Had to sail home alone and explain that to the investors!” His voice took on a new, almost amused quality.

“Did you see what helped you?”

Sorel’s eyes twinkled. “Yep.”

More tall tales.

Daryn feigned enthusiasm. “I wish we could get closer.”

“I told you that you’re about to see sights you’ve never seen before.”

Something about the way he said it made Daryn study him more closely. An otherworldly glow emanated from him. Sorel smiled, then lifted his face to the sky and began to sing, a rasping that changed into a cry. A call.

Terror flooded Daryn. He knew that song.

It was the sacrifice offering call to the scrim—the call he was about to make himself. He leapt toward Sorel, but the old man sidestepped him and ended the song with a grin.

“They only listen to one of us, boy. First come, you know.”

Panic flowed through Daryn’s veins as he slowly turned his face to the Isles. Winged shadows rose from the purple cliffs, black against the fading sunlight, and Daryn heard the Isles scream.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jen Booth is a speculative fiction writer and homeschool mother living among the rolling hills and lazy bayous of north Louisiana. With a background in social services and over a decade serving in a recovery ministry, Jen believes every story can have a new beginning. She is currently querying her epic Fantasy novel, Rensong’s Call.

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