The Pearl Diver (Seven Worlds Saga Book 1) by S. Elliot Brandis

Author:S. Elliot Brandis [Brandis, S. Elliot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aberrant Minds Publishing
Published: 2015-05-24T04:00:00+00:00

Brothers

Ulysa doesn’t disappoint. He guides me to a place where two ridges meet. The rocks crop out, forming a makeshift cave. There’s a flurry of activity inside. I see the tails of a range of fish, the trails of scrib and other bottom feeders. The cave is alive with life.

He points toward me and then gestures towards the cave. I figure he wants me to swim towards it, stirring up the sea life. I’m not sure how he’ll catch them, but he gives me a gentle nod, and I can’t help but give it a go.

I do my best at being a disruptor. I wave out my arms as I swim, humming a menacing tune in my throat. It reminds me of a game we used to play as kids. Octoract and the scrib. They cloud up around me—a mess of species scattering in all directions. I turn and sure enough, Ulysa is there with a small net, catching what he can. I have no idea where he got the net from. He must have brought it with him. Either way, tonight we’re going to eat.

I search around the cave, wondering why so much activity would be centred around one small patch of ocean. I’m about to give up when I see it: a mostly eaten pile of flaking fish. I taste a piece of out curiosity, using pressure to force the seawater from my mouth. I know the taste. It’s wentfish. And I swear I can taste a lingering note of spices.

Ulysa saved his rations and used them as bait instead.

I’m smiling as we return to the surface, and not just from the prospect of fresh seafood.

“You didn’t?” I say.

He nods.

“I guess the quiet ones always are the smartest.”

We float together quietly, eating the spoils of our dive. I’ve heard people from some planets find our approach to food strange, but it’s really not. If it’s from the sea, it's best eaten fresh. Plus, we get most of our water from our food. Our bodies have adapted to use whatever fluid is available. When you’re at sea for days, it’s the only source of fresh water.

There’s nothing like tearing into soft flesh with sharp teeth. The flavours pop off your tongue, the taste of the ocean. It’s who we are. Then, of course, anything left over usually gets dried or cured, to help it last. Which isn’t possible out here in the middle of the ocean.

“Try the bolok,” Ulsya says, handing me a shellfish.

Its two shells are clasped together tightly. I float on my back and rest it on my stomach, prying my nails into the gap and forcing it open. It comes apart with a sudden slurp. The flesh is pink and meaty, with a white bead in the middle.

“No way,” I say.

Ulsya cranes his neck, his curiosity peaked.

I pull out the bead and show him. “A baby white pearl,” I say.

“Can I see it?”

I hand it to him. “You can keep it. For providing dinner.”

He starts to protest but he’s quickly learning I’m not one to argue with when I’ve made a decision.

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