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Prologue
A
Mere Century Ago
Goddess
she was, Panthera roamed the lands of Komori with a wide breadth. She traveled
like a spirit through mossy enclosures dappled in moonlight, her silver pelt
melting into the landscape. All creatures knew that she ruled the land. Her
prey halted in their tracks, risking their very lives for a glimpse of her. Her
fellow predators bowed their heads to her and welcomed her to their unfinished
kills; even flies on a hot summer day dared not buzz in her ears. It mattered not
where she set her paws; heated gravel or lush greenery, it made no difference since
the grounds belonged to her. And no one questioned her authority. Even if it
inconvenienced them, they accepted it . . .
until the kills began.
The
humans constructed a village on her land. The pretentious two-leggers asked no
permission, just went about cutting trees, ending their lives only to stack
their husks in unnatural positions to hide their furless bodies from the sun. The
whole situation set her fur on end. Humans had always used the earth’s
resources as their own, but now they were reproducing faster than the plants
and animals on which they thrived. They were careless and it filled Panthera
with a red-hot hate. Revenge bit at her conscious like a poison. Once exposed
to the dark thoughts, she couldn’t be saved. It spread through her coat, down
her legs to the daggers on the ends of her toes, from her mind to the ram-like
horns that protruded from her head. Another creature from the village, a mere
serpent, had in the meantime journeyed to a special location, a large untouched
tree that stood on the outskirts of the villagers homestead like a Guardian, and
was returning to the village to warn the Komorian people of what she now knew,
warn them of a threat that would devastate them. But despite the speed she
possessed on her lowly belly, she couldn’t arrive in time.
Panthera
bore her fangs and sent out a growl so deep that it rippled the land directly through
the village. The tree shelters that the humans called ‘cabins’ crumpled into twigs
under the force of her assault and she laughed, cackled away as the humans that
were too slow to run fell through the earth with the trees’ skeletons. As far
as she was concerned, they had gotten what they deserved. However, the humans
didn’t see it that way.
The
humans saw no reason for Panthera’s onslaught; none they could deduce made
sense to them, except that things like this happened, often without warning. Peaceful
Gods and Goddesses grew relentless and let down their guard enough to allow
malevolent souls to cling to them like parasites. In humans, they were the wise
gone insane, the gentle become killers, the living grown stone-cold. Death
floated in the air, was breathed in by the careless, and collapsed lungs,
caused bodies to decay like loaves of moldy bread. Their Goddess Panthera
tainted, she became the very symbol of Death, a creature that wore disease and
sorrow over her furry coat like a shawl. No longer did her silver pelt
represent the intensity and softness of the moon’s glow; instead it conjured
images of morbidity, the gray pasty skin of a drowning victim, the pallidity of
a tongue that hangs from the lips of the dead like a limp fish. Panthera was
not a being to be glorified, but something to rid the world of.
“If
she thinks she can rule our land, control whether we live or die, she is no
longer fit to be a Guardian Goddess,” the village chief proclaimed.
A
ritual was conducted to exile Panthera into the sea. With its onset, she could
no longer set her paws on soil or rock, not in her physical form. She developed
an ability that would allow her to look in on her beloved land—a phantom cat
form that lurked in the shadows like a third eye. The villagers meant for Panthera
to live out a short life in the waters surrounding Komori. They figured that
the large cat could only swim for so long, that her wadding paws would soon
tire and she would sink like a rock into the depths below. But Panthera was no
mere creature that they could be rid of so easily. As the ritual cast over her
made her paws itch for the water, she became to run to Komori River, her teeth
clenched not in a snarl of defeat, but in a grin. A twisted, sadistic grin.
Once
in the waters, her body got to work, adapting itself to her new environment.
She was a survivor, a predator, not something that could be killed off like
vermin. She adjusted to climate by growing a thicker pelt within hours, grew
horns for self defense against her arch nemesis that she had spent more than
half her lifetime dueling in her home realm. So why not should she undergo
change when going from dry land to wet waters? The humans truly were
incompetent if they didn’t see their error, and if they had meant to sentence
her to death, then she would be sure that they paid for their insubordination.
Her paws became webbed to give her more speed. Gills formed in the chest cavity
of her pelt so she could breathe under great depths. But her most lethal
adaptation was given to her tail; once just a long shaft of bone and flesh
covered in fur, her tail become a scale-covered mass of muscle, a python that
acted on her every whim. Churning it, she could manifest winds that rivaled the
most powerful of hurricanes, create whirlpools with the strength of quicksand,
form thunderclouds of heat and rage in the heavens. Vengeance would be hers.
The
village resumed their daily lives—building homes, raising and collecting food,
fighting the elements just to get by. The threat of Panthera was over in their
minds. Like a storm that devastates and moves on, Panthera left broken lives
and frightening memories, but the people carried on with her representing only
a small shadowy figment of their past lives. Panthera was symbolized as a
creature of the Underworld, and her arch nemesis—the Thunderbird—was alighted
on the top of the Komorians’ totem poles, raising their new creature of worship
to the sky. From their ancestors’ notes on the two creatures of legend, they
knew of the Thunderbird’s mighty abilities and knew that if any enemy were to
attack them again, the bird’s majesty was all they would need. They hoped that
there wouldn’t be any more threats. They expected that their dark days were
over. They couldn’t have known that the panther lurked in their river, reborn
as an even more heinous being, and that she was planning vengeance.
Panthera
made a vow: when the old that remembered her ceased to exist and the young had
grown to forget, she would reclaim her land, destroying any and all who stood
in her way.
Chapter
1
AMAYA
Even through the walls, the waves in the
distance hitting the rocks on the shoreline sounded ominous and deafening, like
bones being manipulated in a sack.
But the ruckus died down.
Amaya didn’t dare to breathe lest she was
heard. She scrunched herself against the door, hands clutching the sphere that
was the doorknob to her bedroom. She eased the knob around its pivot and slid
the door open without it releasing so much as a groan. She had to be careful.
The walls had ears.
A squeal sounded behind her, stopping her
progress through the doorway.
“Hush up, Mizuki,” Amaya hissed to the orbs
of light behind her. Eyes. The eyes moved closer until the face that they were
set in began to take form—snout, muzzle, ears pointing to the heavens. The
components made up the face of a dog; one that appeared to have a world of troubles
on its mind. “I’ll be back in a jiff, girl. Don’t worry,” Amaya reassured the
dog until it bowed its head and it backed up into the confines of the dungeon
of a room.
Alright, that was the easy part. Now to get out the front door without
alerting the presses. . .
Her bare toes tickled the floor as she
crept to her home’s main entrance. This
wouldn’t be so difficult if I hadn’t grown accustomed to sprinting everywhere
like a marathon runner with his pants on fire, she thought, cursing her
habits as she continued moseying down the hall. She grabbed the bull by the
horns, the handle of her exit, and braced herself for the click that
accompanied the unlocking. What she had dubbed the Summons. Her hand pressed
down on the lever.
Click!
She waited.
Nothing changed. There was no sound from
the next room, no movement. The door hadn’t beckoned its owner. Her mother
remained asleep.
“Don’t stay up too late, if you know
what’s good for you,” her mother had said before retiring to bed. “No
television tonight. And I mean it.”
“I know, mom. I won’t,” Amaya had
answered, not daring to put up a fight. Yet here she was, sneaking out late
after midnight. She couldn’t help it. She had to get out. Her life . . . no,
her very sanity, depended on it.
It wasn’t until she had stepped outside
and shut the door behind her that she uttered a sigh of relief. Then, she armed
herself with the accessories she needed for her expedition. That’s right, her
journey wasn’t over. She still had to remain cautious.
Her eyes swept the buildings of her
hometown; some dainty, some towering over her like Gods belittling her very
existence, all colored shades of blue. Periwinkle, ultramarine, azure . . . And
just as the walls of her house had ears, the buildings had eyes. Through the
windows casting iridescent light onto the cobblestones, the eyes of Amamizu
citizens took in the secrets of the night.
Amaya had her secrets. Seriously, who doesn’t?
But nothing that truly warranted her sneaking about at night. Her secret wasn’t
even so much a secret as a weakness that hounded her self-conscious day and
night. Thus she went to the beach.
She slinked along the shadows, the
awkward feeling of being a fugitive in her own land pressing against her mind.
She noted just how silent the night was. Not even the cooing of late night seabirds
penetrated the hush.
She could now see the greatest obstacle
that stood between her and her destination. A figure engulfed in shadow,
peering with beady eyes and chastising with its grin, made up the image of her
school. The school’s face was a spell caster warding off any and all who dared
to trespass on the hallowed ground. Amaya wasn’t deferred. She had defied the
warden once and she would do it again.
Behind the school was the beach where she
came to practice her surfing, where she was headed now; a rather long beach
with a few sand dunes and a rocky shoreline. After school many students went to
that beach to improve on the maneuvers they had learned during class. There
were other jobs in Amamizu—bankers, doctors, even lawyers. (Although lawyers
didn’t get much business. No one sued and marriages rarely ended except by
death of a partner.) But there wasn’t a single citizen of Amamizu that didn’t
thrive to be a master of a water sport. There was no occupation with greater
prestige, greater fandom, greater glory. Practice makes perfect so the waters
were frequented by kids trying to harden their skills, sweating the saltwater
of the sea as they worked themselves like mad under the beating sun. Not many
came after dark which was just fine with her. She didn’t want anyone to witness
her in her most feeble state.
Surfing gave her wings like nothing else,
and it also made her fall flat on her face seconds later. What was the point if
she would only suffer defeat and humiliation? The chance at victory, to do
something she couldn’t do days, perhaps even minutes, before. She was looking
for that breaking point, the point when fate, destiny, or whoever was in charge
gave her a freaking break and allowed her to do this one simple thing.
Amaya walked hunchback over the
pint-sized bridge leading away from central Amamizu. Saltwater air hit her
nose, ran over her tongue palate when she cracked open her mouth bringing her a
taste that reminded her of the saltwater taffy she used to indulge in as a
child. Oh, the savory goodness of sweet and salty stickiness. Those were the
days.
The hiss of the waves greeted Amaya as
she ran to meet the sea, her salvaged accessory, a surfboard, in hand. She
still had to hold caution over her head like a banner of white, not because of
wondering eyes that may spot her in the night, but because of the predators
that lurked below the surface. Namely, the dolphins that’d developed a taste
for human flesh.
The creatures had once been known for playing,
leaping about with everlasting smiles on their faces, but the dogs of the sea
had become wolves. Rabid wolves. With a town full of people competing with them
for fish, it seemed the animals’ had decided that enough was enough and began
attacking humans. Sharks could be fooled; staying motionless in the water,
allowing your body to float to the surface, easily deterred them. Whales were
slow, cumbersome, and large enough to be spotted miles from far-off, if you
kept your eyes open. But the dolphins…they were deadly, agile as torpedoes with
the strength of a bulldozer behind their curved beaks. There was just no
stopping those suckers.
She had never witnessed an attack with
her own eyes (Thank the stars above!) but she didn’t have to. Parents didn’t
just take their unsuspecting toddlers to the ocean without first giving them a
fair warning of what was out there. And with kids a simple, “Don’t do that!” or
“Be careful!” isn’t enough. So what did the parents of Amamizu do before their
children could even walk? They told them bedtime nightmares, err . . . stories.
Stories that their children would discover, when they grew older, were all
true. The images that had given Amaya sleepless nights as a child had followed her
like a foul fishy odor, clinging to her even when she got out of her pajamas,
haunting her even when she was miles from her bed.
One tale still plagued her today, got her
stomach rolling, twisting itself in knots if she thought about it too much. A
respectable young wake boarder went out with a few of his bros to celebrate a
competition victory. Sounds innocent enough at this point and kids will still
be smiling, hugging their stuffed animals, eyes wide and expectant for the
details of a happy party. But this was no tea party, and there was no happy
ending. The boys got drunk, and although he knew better, their main champ went
out into the light-deadened sea. He didn’t get far. It happened to be dolphin
mating season so the sea creatures were extra rowdy. One grabbed the man by the
arm and shook him about, the others joined in the raffle, the win/win of fresh
meat without a challenge, and the man was singing out in agony until one beak
of teeth finally, mercifully, found hold in his neck. The young man’s friends
said that they could still see his body parts flapping through the air an hour
later as the dolphins had really learned to love playing games with their food.
The moral of the story was: watch your
back, use your head, and don’t go out in the ocean alone. But the real one, the one that everyone really
picked up was: beware of night. Dolphins did come out to play during the day,
but night . . . Night, when they came out in hordes to feed on the
unsuspecting, was particularly when you had to keep an eye out. And since she
wasn’t keen on giving up her ghost tonight, she would do just that.
She wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t
for that blasted competition, her one chance to demonstrate her water skills to
her fellow classmates and impress the swimsuits off of them. She had entered
the competition in hopes of gaining some popularity among the citizens since
swimming was the one thing she excelled at. That way when she seriously took up
surfing she would be recognized and acknowledged despite her lack of ability to
ride the waves. She had been practicing her strokes for weeks now and she felt
more prepared for the competition than she had ever been for anything in her sixteen
years of life. But she couldn’t fight the nervous jitters that came from the
pressure to exceed; they were the insects that came to bite at her insides. So here
she was again, at the beach in the middle of the night, the one place where she
could free up her mind and let bygones be bygones.
Amaya relaxed her body against her board
as she paddled her way further out into the ocean. When she felt a wave forming
under her body, she gathered herself up and braced herself for the push. The
push was her wings, her accelerator . . . But the push was greater than she
expected and the wave capsized her board and sent her toppling headfirst after
it. Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth. This was always how it went; she
could hardly catch a wave let alone ride one. The thought of her as a
pro-surfer was starting to feel like a joke with a sour punch line in her mind.
Her dream of becoming a pro-surfer
stemmed from her father, Shuichi Kiyomizu, who was a renowned surfing champion.
Before she was born, Amaya’s father had won five surfing competitions. He
displayed his trophies in his study, a part of her house that was seldom entered.
Many days when Amaya was feeling discouraged, she would go stand by the study
door and gaze at the trophies, praying that some of her father’s raw talent had
been passed on to her.
Amaya collected her board and pressed her
arms around it, letting her body float in the water that churned as if the
ocean was planning to regurgitate her. Just when she thought the water was settling
down, another bout of waves stirred into action. She wasn’t ready for the
impact that landed upon her; the air was pounded out of her body and water was
forced in. Panic coursed its way through her as her body sunk further and
further away from the surface, dappled in moonlight. An anchor with a soul was
she. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. And for an instant she was
seeing herself sliding through the infinite blue as if traveling backwards and
inverted down a playground slide. She could see shadows drifting toward her. Dolphins!
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