Sea Dweller (Birthstone Series) by Melanie Atkinson

themselves on the ground,
leaving the center of the village empty. I looked around and spotted Corla, Faema,
and Sai across the circle, surrounded by the rest of their friends. Ignoring a
pang of loneliness, I took a seat on the ground alone where I’d been standing.
    I trained my eyes on my
friend and watched as Faema whispered in his ear, her fingers gripping the firm
muscles in his arm as she leaned in closer. Engrossed in imagining what Faema
was telling Sai, I hardly noticed the elderly man making his way through the
crowds. It wasn’t until he reached the center stone and called out a booming
welcome to the festival goers that I looked at him.
    I’d noticed him in the
village several times but, like most of the town elders, had never spoken to
him. He was tall and his features were harsh, creased, and aged by the sun. His
straw colored hair was shorn close to his head and his brown eyes were crinkled
deeply at the corners. His lips were a solid, taut slit, as though someone had
simply sliced a mouth into his face with a blade.
    “Tonight,” he began, “we will
relive the plight of our ancestors. We’ll learn of their struggle for freedom
and their bravery as they discovered the land where we now reign.” He paused
for a moment, allowing us to soak in the drama of his words. Then, he cried
out, “We will relive the history of Vairda!” He pumped his fist in the air and
the crowd cheered. Torches around the square roared as their flames burst
bigger and brighter for a moment and the audience shouted the name “Vairda”
again and again. The storyteller smiled at this, enjoying the frenzy of his
listeners. It was many long minutes before he held up his hands to silence the
crowd.
    “Centuries ago,” he
continued, “our ancestors came to Vairda. But before our great land was
discovered, our people were forced to flee from. . .” he stopped speaking
abruptly while the audience leaned forward in anticipation, as though this was
a new experience for each of them. I stayed still, waiting and expecting.
Suddenly, the fire behind him exploded into a giant inferno and he finished his
sentence in the same moment, screaming, “The Land of Magic Stones!” The crowd
gasped, booed, and cheered while many jumped to their feet and shouted the
island’s name again. As they did this, the man slowly left the center of the
village.
    As the cheering died down, a
new performer took the center, his skin the texture of dried seaweed. The
glassy film over his dark eyes left me wondering if he had enough vision to see
the audience. Moments later, as his gaze roved back and forth across the group,
I realized he didn’t need sight to imagine the crowd. He’d done this too many
times to forget where to look.
    Behind him, several people
took their places, adorned in costumes. Most wore clothing similar to Sai’s but
none looked as strong or handsome as he did carrying a phony sword and wearing
long pants. The performers stilled, waiting for their cues but as soon as the
old man began to speak, they jumped into action.
    “Long ago,” he began, “in a
land far from Vairda was a great kingdom of peasants and warriors. The warriors
worked for the evil king who ruled the land.” Numerous audience members booed
and Sai stalked into the center of the stage, glaring as if expecting all to
bow to him. Instead, more people jeered. “The king was a man of great strength
and magic and many people feared him.” Sai lifted his sword and swung it
around, nearly hitting the crowd sitting inches away. Baring his teeth, he
thrust his face in the front row and growled menacingly at his audience. I
couldn’t help releasing a small snort of laughter. The person next to me
glowered when the sound left my throat.
    “In this land were magic
jewels and stones,” the storyteller continued, “that could grant the desires of
anyone who held them. Everyone would have been equal if all could’ve had a
stone.” Vairdan actors began pulling rocks from