THE POWER OF ANCIENTS, Chapter Ten
Midday heat penetrated young Satia’s tattered clothing, roasting his flesh as he navigated his jukung through the murky and turbulent channel. The low-riding watercraft of the Musi people was suitable for the delta’s peaceful currents, but not for his current risky mission. He paddled by thick reeds bowing under the pressure of mounting winds. His sun-baked arms and brow streamed with sweat, soaking his curly sun-and-salt-bleached hair and drenching his shirt. A wide-brimmed hat of woven reeds lay in the stern. Determined to save his crops from the looming storm, he strained against the contrary flow.
Musi fishermen supplied Suvarna’s coastlands and satellite islands with seafood delicacies like shrimp. But Satia farmed bumu, formerly considered river weeds. Healers had come all the way from Yavad seeking medicinal cures, and their visit changed what used to be considered a nuisance into a prized commodity. Quick to adapt, the twenty-year-old was reaping huge profits, his success drawing the attention of local elders and peers.
Paddling determinedly, he pushed through the network of connecting channels near the Bangka Straits. Could he save his crops? Invisible ghosts shadowed him, urging him on. Crashing sounds and the scent of upturned earth bombarded his senses, warning of destruction. An unexpected whirlpool gripped the bow, jolting Satia into stronger strokes.
Rounding a bend, the familiar chain of netted partitions loomed before him. His eyes shot from the buoys—hollowed, sealed coconut shells—to the darkening sky southward. He stripped to the waist and dove over the side to collect blossoms, knowing that if he didn’t, the rudder from his jukung would rip the partitions to shreds.
Skimming along the surface, he harvested the floating blossoms at a furious pace and herded them toward his small vessel. Rising waters and strange undercurrents lifted slimy objects from the channel base that brushed against his skin, sending chills to the marrow. Ominous clouds swept toward him from the north, threatening to release their fury. Streaks of lightning painted the skyline with brilliant fireworks, while rumbling thunder drove him into desperation. When the turbulence grew dangerous, he climbed back into his jukung, pulling his meager crop to safety.
Waves of sweltering humidity rushed inland, crushing him under blankets of oppression. Moments later, the sun concealed its face, and tiny droplets of rain lashed into his exposed flesh like fine needles. His hands fumbled, dropping valuable petals into the water.
Then, the channel’s currents stopped altogether. Waters surged, and the flow reversed direction.
“Getting home’s not going to be easy,” he whispered to the sky. More lightning flashed, blinding his vision. A numbing torrential downpour followed. To slow the boat’s intake of rainwater, he yanked canvases over the stern.
Black clouds burst open, creating a droning sizzle as they hurled their full hostility against the delta region. A boiling vortex churned up rotting wood and vegetation from the river’s foundation. The tarp covering the stern came loose, and Satia reached backward to secure it.
Thunder exploded overhead, and then lightning struck a nearby tapan tree, shattering its monstrous trunk. Satia lost his balance and plummeted toward the water. The current tugged him downward, tossing him in an angry tantrum.
From the depths below, he caught sight of his jukung spinning on the surface and stroked toward it. As his hand discovered air, the splintered tapan crashed downward, thrusting him back into the churning depths. His energy bled into the swirling waters.
I’m NOT going to drown!
Musi fishermen supplied Suvarna’s coastlands and satellite islands with seafood delicacies like shrimp. But Satia farmed bumu, formerly considered river weeds. Healers had come all the way from Yavad seeking medicinal cures, and their visit changed what used to be considered a nuisance into a prized commodity. Quick to adapt, the twenty-year-old was reaping huge profits, his success drawing the attention of local elders and peers.
Paddling determinedly, he pushed through the network of connecting channels near the Bangka Straits. Could he save his crops? Invisible ghosts shadowed him, urging him on. Crashing sounds and the scent of upturned earth bombarded his senses, warning of destruction. An unexpected whirlpool gripped the bow, jolting Satia into stronger strokes.
Rounding a bend, the familiar chain of netted partitions loomed before him. His eyes shot from the buoys—hollowed, sealed coconut shells—to the darkening sky southward. He stripped to the waist and dove over the side to collect blossoms, knowing that if he didn’t, the rudder from his jukung would rip the partitions to shreds.
Skimming along the surface, he harvested the floating blossoms at a furious pace and herded them toward his small vessel. Rising waters and strange undercurrents lifted slimy objects from the channel base that brushed against his skin, sending chills to the marrow. Ominous clouds swept toward him from the north, threatening to release their fury. Streaks of lightning painted the skyline with brilliant fireworks, while rumbling thunder drove him into desperation. When the turbulence grew dangerous, he climbed back into his jukung, pulling his meager crop to safety.
Waves of sweltering humidity rushed inland, crushing him under blankets of oppression. Moments later, the sun concealed its face, and tiny droplets of rain lashed into his exposed flesh like fine needles. His hands fumbled, dropping valuable petals into the water.
Then, the channel’s currents stopped altogether. Waters surged, and the flow reversed direction.
“Getting home’s not going to be easy,” he whispered to the sky. More lightning flashed, blinding his vision. A numbing torrential downpour followed. To slow the boat’s intake of rainwater, he yanked canvases over the stern.
Black clouds burst open, creating a droning sizzle as they hurled their full hostility against the delta region. A boiling vortex churned up rotting wood and vegetation from the river’s foundation. The tarp covering the stern came loose, and Satia reached backward to secure it.
Thunder exploded overhead, and then lightning struck a nearby tapan tree, shattering its monstrous trunk. Satia lost his balance and plummeted toward the water. The current tugged him downward, tossing him in an angry tantrum.
From the depths below, he caught sight of his jukung spinning on the surface and stroked toward it. As his hand discovered air, the splintered tapan crashed downward, thrusting him back into the churning depths. His energy bled into the swirling waters.
I’m NOT going to drown!
... Chapter to be continued in "The Power of Ancients" ...