The Solitary ArrowPart 13
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Heartside free porn video
Muemen opened his eyes and lay enjoying the familiar and constant roll of the sea. The hazy gray light of early dawn seeped into his dark cabin through the cracks and edges of the door and thin brown curtains of the lone, paneless window. He rolled from his hammock and stretched his stiff muscles, scrounged through his bare pantry for a quick breakfast of blue tubers and a few sardines, and sat himself at his small table before the window. He peeked outside as he ate, the sun had not yet broken the horizon, and a thick fog blanketed the world beyond. He finished his food and donned a pair of close fitting swim-shorts. He looked around his cabin, patted a rhythm on his compact belly, and with no other excuse for delay and much work to be done in the day, he opened the door and stepped out onto the main deck.
The Heartside Pyfin Farm had been built by Muemen’s grandfather and then passed to his only son, Maxen. He, too, bore a single son, and was killed defending the shoal from a massive Jiggerdart that had breached the Womb. And so at fourteen, Muemen had become squire of Heartside, and for eight years he had tended the shoals well, as his father and his father’s father had done. Heartside’s womb covered some 150,000 cubic feet, ten fathoms at its deepest, and his shoal now numbered sixty-two adults, some hundred fry of potential, and produced approximately five hundred pounds of caviar annually. Muemen Heartside was by no means a wealthy man, but he owned much, and was content.
He strolled across the main deck through the dark, warm fog to the hatchery and juvenile tanks: smaller wombs sunk right through the deck itself. Each morning, he checked the hatchery for newborns, which birthed in the pre-dawn hours and must be moved to the juvenile-tank, for they were born ravenous and would devour their egg-kin. With sharp eyes he leaned over the hatchery and with a small, delicate net, he carefully mixed the eggs to free any fry born near the bottom, he then netted the inch-long, pearl-white Pyfin fry and transferred them to a small bucket. He repeated the process with care, until he was certain no fry remained, then added a few drops of vitamin solution to the tank and moved on. He carefully drained the newborn fry into the juvenile tank, watched with a smile as they mingled peacefully with the ones already there. Pyfin were highly intelligent and social creatures, and the odd violent individual needed to be purged or he might spread his violent behaviours. From a waterproof sack next to the tank, he pulled a few handfuls of granular feed and tossed them in, left the fry to gorge happily on the sinking pellets.
The sun had risen, fire and blood red, and the morning fog had begun to burn away. As he headed back to the cabin to retrieve his gill, a heavy thump sounded from beneath his feet.
‘Patience, old friend. I’m coming,’ he hollered.
He walked out along the thin north dock, and there was Londorox, the oldest, largest bull of his shoal. He was massive, even for a Pyfin, close to fifteen-hundred pounds now and eight feet long. His body was a powerful knot of dark brown muscles that pumped his wide horizontal tail-fin. Delicate, feathery, transparent fins sprouted from bulbs behind the head and trailed along his sides. His luminous blue eyes, three in a row and each the size of a mans head, gazed up in placid expectation as Muemen sat on the dock’s edge and put his gill in.
Londorox, now almost seventy-years old, had originally been spawned and raised by Muemen’s grandfather, and in his own way, was the true squire of Heartside. Muemen slipped into the water and was met by the gentle, probing fingers- the Pyfin ‘beak’ was made of three stubby fingers that could be opened to filter near microscopic sea creatures and vegetation into callused, purple, grinding gums. It was also known that they used them to communicate, stroking each other or tapping rhythms on each other’s thick sides. Through long association, Muemen had learned and was able to simulate many such gestures with his own hands, so that, in a simple manner, Londorox and he could communicate.
After a warm greeting, Muemen pushed off Londorox’s body, diving deep into the brisk blue water to make his rounds. The Womb itself was a marvel: a great sack of cellular lining which allowed fresh sea water and the tiny sea life that the Pyfin lived on in, and keeping most dangerous predators out. If not regularly treated with stimulants, the tough cell walls contracted, flow was stopped and the waters of the Womb became stagnant. Londorox and many others of the shoal followed casually as Muemen sought out the graying areas that indicated contraction and treated them with a small injection device. When this was done, he tapped a rhythm on Londorox side, and with a tremendous rush of water from his thrashing tail, the bull raced off to seek out any straying Pyfin and bring them under the dock for inspection.
Most of the older, higher-ranking bulls and heifers spent their time near the egg and juvenile wombs where they hung beneath the main dock, and when they saw Muemen coming, moving like a fish himself from a life spent underwater, they queued readily for inspection. One by one, he swam round and round them, cleaning their rubbery brown skin, picking free stringy bloodsucking parasites, checking fin and beak and eyes for damage and disease, and each was rewarded after with a small salt-candy, which they savoured and tucked into the folds of their gums greedily. Each seemed to enjoy the attention, the gentle, efficient care they received. In their massive, bulging blue eyes, Muemen saw intelligence and kindness, and it warmed him to his tasks.
A sudden rush in the water behind him spun Muemen round. Londorox had gushed past, so close that Muemen felt his filmy fins whip against his skin. He had come rushing up from the darkness directly below the dock, where the Womb was deepest, and he tugged at Muemens ankle now with a rough urgency that startled him. He sheathed his small cleaning knife at his side and let Londorox take his hand in beak. Muemen in tow, the bull arced sharply and dove fast and deep, straight to the bottom, and Muemen saw instantly why.
Directly below them, a Jiggerdart had breached the Womb. He could see the long, sharp black horn and small, ugly head working at the tear, trying to open it wide enough for it’s oily black, eel-like body to writhe through. Muemen tapped a signal on Londorox tough skin, and he disappeared. Muemen swam furiously towards the ever-widening whole. Just as he reached it, the Jiggerdart’s horn ripped the womb wide and the thing slithered in. It was a big one, nearly twenty feet long. It swam a great, wiggling circle, wild with the smell of Pyfin eggs. Its darting black eyes spotted Muemen and it turned sharply and rushed him. He kicked it aside at the last second, and the five-foot impaling horn slid mere inches past his cheek. The Jigger circled and charged again.
Londorox, who Muemen had sent to fetch the spear he kept attached to the underside of the dock, came straight down from above and rammed the Jigger to the bottom of the womb, furiously and futilely trying to crush it with the fingers of his beak. Pyfins had no natural weapons, and Londorox could do little but grip the wriggling creature’s body while it stabbed at him viciously.
Londorox had brought the spear, but had let it drop to the Womb floor while grappling the Jigger. Muemen saw it, cut through the water to where it lay. He grasped the thin, ten-foot, barbed spike and thrust it at the furious Jiggerdart. He punctured a hole below the eyes, then another under its tiny, tooth rimmed jaw. Suddenly fearing for its life, it fought even harder to be free, but powerful Londorox held it fast while Muemen speared the thing till it writhed no more.
Together they grasped the long, lank corpse and hauled it to the surface, the younger of the shoal schooling about them curiously. Muemen tethered it to the dock, retrieved a repair kit, and
dove down again to repair the tear in the womb, stapling it shut with sutures and applying a salve. He then tended to Londorox, who had sustained a small stab wound in his thick hide. Muemen cleaned the wound and stitched it closed. He gave the great beast a firm pat and snuck him a few more salt-candies as reward, then headed back onto the dock and winched the heavy, long Jigger on deck. Almost all it’s parts could be used for one purpose or another, and the smell of their own blood was known to discourage them. But, the sun had already crossed the sky, and the day had been long and tiring. He rinsed in the deck shower, ate a small meal, and lay in his hammock. Within minutes, he drifted off to sleep.
**********
Muemen awoke with a start. A ferocious mechanical roar, which steadily grew louder and more offensive, tore apart the silent night as he lay there frowning. He leapt up and grabbed his old, heavy StormSpitter from atop his wardrobe, burst out onto the deck and looked about, there, coming in from the west-shore, an off-world make skimmer. The Pyfin were sensitive to vibration and sound, and any local made boats had sound shielding around the engines or used quieter, simpler propulsions systems, like Muemens own PulseForce. He grabbed a spotlight and lit up the approaching vessel. The engines were cut and the boat drifted, the driver and his passenger shielding their eyes with their hands.
‘Ho there, turn off that light!’ called the passenger. He was a squat man with no neck and a mean look about him, even dressed as he was in a finely tailored charcoal suit. The driver was thinner, taller, but dressed the same and no less unpleasant. Muemen flicked a switch on his spotlight and the beam shone even brighter. ‘Blast it, what’s the matter with you?’ cried the passenger.
‘The hour is late,’ Muemen answered, and though they could not see, he trained the StormSpitter on them. ‘You trespass on private waters with that noisome contraption and upset my shoal. Declare yourselves, or I’ll open fire.’
‘First shut that light off and let us…’ began the now very angry man in the suit. Muemen cut him off with a shot from his weapon, sending a thin beam of cloudy, whirling blue light into the waters to create a hissing geyser of steam off their bow. The men bellowed and spun the skimmer around, sent it tearing away. Muemen kept the light on them for as long as was possible, watching the squat man glare back, bushy eyebrows low over cold black eyes. A dangerous face, thought Muemen, and one he would not forget soon.
**********
In the morning, he loaded his skiff with the weeks yield, sacked in a temporary preserving fluid, and with the flaming sun barely skimming the ocean’s horizon to the north-east, he set off for the nearest port-town, Dobbyton.
Heartside lay near the center of Bottomless Bay, and between it and Dobbyton was Ratoi, a great mountainous isle, and Dobby Bay, where were located the farms of Jotan Muddywater and Tom Rundey. The two, while amicable, were boisterous to the extreme, and their decks swarmed with wives and children. Muemen, used to a solitary life of routine work, found their company irksome, though he and Solar, the second oldest of the Rundey sisters, had been somewhat intimate in the past. Still, this day he cruised at full speed along the south shore of Ratoi, turning at the Shallows and into tiny Jigger Bay, where the young Jiggerdarts came to breed in porous, volcanic caves, and finally to Dobbyton, and thus avoiding any chance encounters.
Muemen docked his boat and hauled his yield-sacks ashore. He delivered them to the rotund and pleasant, if somewhat stingy, Bahdin, of Bahdin’s Imports and Exports.
‘What’s troubling you?’ Bahdin asked, huffing to hang the heavy sacks on a hook-scale. Muemen, unaware his pre-occupation was noticeable, took a long moment to answer.
‘I was awoken late last night by some uninvited guests. I did not sleep well after.’
Bahdin said nothing at first, and counted out Muemen’s payment with a slow, painful, thumb-licking pace, as if it hurt to let go of each bill.
‘Go to the Carbony Crab Inn,’ he said as he finished with a wince, ‘Jotan and Tom were just in complaining of something similar, though their encounters were not so late.’
Muemen did not truly wish to see them, but it would be worth a drink with the lads to satiate his curiosity. After retrieving and loading his usual supplies of stimulant, nutritional supplements and so forth, he sauntered up Carbony Way to the Carbony Crab and pushed through the saloon-style doors, which had been crafted to look like crab legs. As soon as he entered, he was met with a loud round of greeting and jeering. He replied in kind, the Crab was for farmers only, and though many of his community found Muemen presumptuous and distant, he was generally well liked, and somewhat pitied for the death of his father.
He went to the bar and ordered a Salty Sour, which he slugged back with a shiver while surveying those present. Pyfin Farmers were a strange lot. Simple, independent, friendly with each other and untrusting of strangers. They were uniformly slim-hipped, hard bodied, barrel-chested, even the elderly, from lives spent at tough underwater tasks. The average Pyfin Farmer could hold his breath seven minutes before needing to surface for air.
He spotted Jotan and Tom, with their sons Prator and Peter, both slightly older than Muemen, and also Tom’s wife, Susceny. He was lured over by a beer mug in the air, and he dragged a chair over. He was forced to down a whole mug of the potent, local brew in order to ‘catch up’ before he was allowed to speak. He let loose a particularly loud belch, which met congratulations from most of the Inn.
‘So, my boy? How fare things at Heartside,’ asked Tom scrunching his pinched, red little face happily.
‘Well, indeed, save for unpleasant, late-night visitors disturbing my rest,’ he answered, pouring himself another mug of beer from the three-gallon pitcher on the table. Toms gray eyes sharpened.
‘That so? What’d you do?’
‘It was dark, so I put a light on them, gave them a taste of my Spitter and sent them packing.’
Jotan, who had stopped drinking to listen, patted Muemen on his shoulder. ‘Good for you, lad. They came by our place -not so late though- and we gave ’em some of the same. And did you hear that clamorous contraption they came in on? M’shoals still edgy today, eh Prator,’ he said, and his son, who was like a replica of his plain looking father, nodded.
‘Tom talked to ’em!’ blurted out poor, intoxicated Peter, who’s father turned him a glare that quelled him.
Muemen contained a smile and acted unaffected. ‘And what did the man in the natty charcoal suit have to say?’ he asked casually.
Tom, who Muemen knew secretly loved attention, took a moment to pack a little wooden pipe with tobacco and look around the table.
‘Mr. Gamble said he was from the BrightFuture Corporation, or some such thing. Said he wanted to buy Rundey: Pyfin, fry and all. He offered me one-hundred thousand for the farm and the fry, and four for each fertile adult.’
‘How many in your shoal, now?’ asked Jotan, poorly pretending not to know.
‘Seventy,’ answered Muemen flatly.
‘By the stars! That’s a lot of money,’ roared Peter, and slammed his mug on the tabletop.
Tom snorted. ‘Indeed it is, but it’s not enough. I’d sooner sell him my right eye.’
Muemen ruminated a moment, then asked, ‘What did he want it for?’
‘Said they are ‘a company interested in streamlining production for higher profits’.’
‘They’d have them crammed in like sardines and flood the market with inferior eggs,’ interrupted Prator.
‘But,’ Tom continued, ‘the only tame, breeding stocks in known existence are our own. They can’t figure out how to get wild-caught ones, even eggs hatched in captivity, to breed. It had never really occurred to me, gentlemen, but we ha
ve quite a monopoly going here. Better guard your shoals well.’
This last part he said with a meaningful glance at Muemen, who, realizing that with no family and no deckhands (he had tried once or twice, but found it difficult to work another, less able man into his schedule), his was the only unguarded Womb. He drained his mug and excused himself with a grateful nod to Tom, and headed back out to the docks. It was an a hour or two past high-noon, and he’d only been gone a few hours, still, he let the motor of his old PulseForce loose, barely touching the water. He passed between Muddywaters and the northwest edge of Ratoi, following its edge straight out to Heartside.
As he approached, Muemen noticed a figure bent over the hatchery. Cursing himself for leaving his StormSpitter behind, he slid his skiff quietly up to the main dock. He leapt on deck and slipped quietly through the window of his deckhouse, stepping through the paneless frame onto his chair. As he pushed the curtain aside, Solar Rundey, who had been looking with a sad expression at his pantry, screamed. Muemen, startled, missed his footing and collapsed through the window noisily. The second youngest of the Rundey Sisters, Mary, who had been playing with the Heartside fry, rushed to the door. There were five Rundey girls, Sarceny, Toms wife, a fine woman still strong and fit after five children, Murkinum who was married and gone, Solar, Mary, and Barbony, still just a tiny, strawberry-haired lass.
‘What are you doing?’ the girls asked in chiming unison.
Muemen, looked at them each, shook his head and stood. ‘What are you girls doing here, and where is your boat?’
Mary strolled in, a pretty, slim and sun-kissed girl, still a year too young to marry. ‘South dock,’ was all she said.
Solar, like her sister but fuller, with blond hair to her ankles, slammed shut his pantry doors and scowled at him.
‘Father sent us,’ she said, ‘for a bachelor’s cupboards are always bare, and he suspected your home might need a woman’s touch. He was quite correct.’ She was obviously upset with him, for it had been long since they had snuck off to Ratoi or had a drink at the Carbony Crab together. She likely suspected him of an affair. Though, he thought, their relationship did not have any official status. Still, they had apparently cleaned much of his home and stocked his pantry. He sighed.
‘You girls are lucky, I thought you were thieves from the SpookyFuture company, or whatever, here to steal my shoal. I might have harmed you.’
They both laughed wildly.
‘Oh yes,’ cried Mary, with tears in her eyes, ‘you are most decevious…most dangerous, my dear Muemen.’
His cheeks burned a little, but he simply offered them some rum punch he had just brought in with him and suggested they move out on the deck while he fetch it from the his boat.
He returned to find them examining the Jiggerdart he and Londorox had killed the day before, still hanging from the center crane by a rope around its middle, so that the tail and head sagged to the deck, this allowed Muemen to collect its blood in buckets at either end. A day or more in the sun had not helped its odour or appearance. Muemen passed round the clear plastic jug of peach coloured liquor.
‘It’s a big one, more then twenty feet,’ said Mary, peering close in disgusted curiosity. ‘That horn has got to be at least five. How big was the one that killed your father?’ she asked tactlessly.
‘Eighteen,’ Muemen answered.
Solar shuddered and grabbed his arm, staring with pouting lips and scared eyes at its grotesque head. ‘When did you kill it?’ she asked.”
‘Just last evening. Londorox can sniff them out, I swear, and fetched me. He came closer to death then I,’ he said modestly.
‘Poor creature!’ cried Mary and ran to the dock’s edge, where, as always, Londorox was near at hand. He happily popped his lumpy wet head from the water, accepted a few loving pats from the sisters and let them inspect his already healing wound. ‘You did a good job stitching him. No one I know understands these creatures more than you, Muemen. You could make a living as Veterinarian.’
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