Tundra

It was the call of the longboat steersman, pain turned rabid with the froth of the waves, sweat harnessed by the beat of the drum, sealskin taut and stiff with years of salting. Muscle filament glided like wavelets sliding under and over one another in the fervour of the brooding storm. Shoulders and bare backs rippled with the latent power of the fathoms the long boats skated over, oiled with tattoos that twisted agony into the shapes of serpents and kraken.

The pounding quickened. Oars hefted out of the brackish black, casting arcs of spray, before plunging back into the deep. Permanent grimaces marked the oarsmen as clearly as the motifs they alone wore by right. There were no seals here, as the softer land-dwellers bore. There were likewise no earthy boars, cunning wolves or ancient mammoths. There were only ferocious, submarine beasts. Men of the sea survived on an affinity with water. Their air hung lank, manes teased into strips like tough kelp. Their eyes were always the chipped onyx of choppy waves. For this, among other things, they were selected.

The oarsmen of the tundra were as unlike as possible to the mages who sometimes stood at the prows of their tusked vessels. These mages were appointed by the clan’s commissioned high druid when storms seemed closest. Though there remained much animosity between the long-rooted druids and the mages who had only in recent centuries traversed the barren plains, it was said in books that a druid could not descend further than the pebbled beach towards the sea. Salt stung the oak that was his garland, and tarnished the copper of his torque. It made roots shrivel, and roots were the Mossen Grove’s only concern. Without them, it would be impossible to return to the Dreaming of a Solstice, let alone to be reborn.

Thus, I had secured my place on one of the longboats rowing north. I had also thereby secured my first invitation to meet with a druid, for when the ride was over, the boat would return to the village where the druid stayed throughout the fishing season. The men heaved, pulling our boat out into the open ocean, where snow was falling directly onto the water. Perfect weather, as I well knew, for casting nets. The fishermen knew where to find the vast shoals, and what would lure them to the surface. As the snow fell and kissed the surface of the peaking waves, the fish would mistake it for food and rise to the bait, thus eliminating the need for lines with lures. I was learning quickly.

Meanwhile, the severity of the weather meant I was necessary as a safeguard against blizzard. My position was symbolic. Any kind of mage would do, for the Seafarers did not distinguish between Runecasters and Wavecasters, Aircasters and Geomancers any more than they made sense of druidic behaviour. I was simply the person at the Tower who had volunteered first. Nobody else relished the prospect of the gnawing air and biting snow. Nobody else shared my interest in the druids.

Far from it, they warned me away from contact, saying that the druids were deadly. It sounded like superstition to me. After all, how often had druids and mages communicated? The annals were written down in books for all to read. Every summer, the mages and the druids shared a bonfire celebration. Thus, the druids, while mysterious, could not have been malevolent.

‘You,’ I said, addressing a fisherman from the prow of the ship when we stopped. ‘You wear the wrath of the kraken. You bleed his ink.’

‘Yes,’ the man replied, answering with a net in his hands, ready to haul it aboard. ‘I am an experienced rower.’

I wanted to let him know that I understood the status his society had afforded him. ‘Your markings say that you are a wise man,’ I told him. ‘You take to the seas often. You must, therefore, have seen the druids on the shores at celebrations, up where the cliffs grow jagged.’

‘I have,’ the longboatsman affirmed, a knife between his teeth. It seemed the usual place to keep a tool or weapon when one’s hands were full of nets or oars.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what are your impressions of them?’

‘The druids make no sense to me,’ he responded, with a shrug that involved a nearly tectonic movement of knotted muscle. ‘Sometimes they are friendly, and sometimes hostile. Their attitude seems linked to the season, for in mid-winter we see the druids of the Mossen grove not at all. We only hear stories. And yet, we only have only one druid in my village, so beyond that, I do not know.’

‘You have a druid of your own?’ This piqued my interest. It ran contrary to everything I had read about the Grove.

‘But of course. All tribes do.’

‘And so, this druid does not live with any conclave?’

‘He lives in a hut, down by the shore, with the rest of us. He is Cleaved Tide as any man you shall find. His spirit animal is the octopus, so is ours.’

‘And so,’ I wondered, ‘is that what brought you together?’

Again, the man shrugged. He seemed to be growing annoyed. One thing I was coming to understand about the Seafarers was that they were not altogether comfortable with too many words. They were not a verbose people. ‘That’s all I know,’ the Seafarer said.

I decided to leave him alone, and resumed my silent vigil at the prow, which was a clever carving of a kraken with tentacles raised in a hissing manner. I did not have desperate need of answers for the time being. After all, I would be seeing a druid for myself soon enough.