The Roaming Sea - 6. Shattered Beliefs, Pt. 1

The journey north to the front lines entailed two more days of travel. At first, being free of the rope leash felt wrong, but that subsided a few hours into the hike. Callum’s earlier comment about them simply being travellers seemed prophetic. It felt good walking side by side as equals.

The friendly warmth Rym had shown Callum back at the outpost, however, had dissipated. He wasn’t ornery or cryptic with his words as before. Instead, he pulled from a narrow emotional palette, sprinkled with moments of private sulkiness—the consequence of Callum’s decision to return home. That the pactrid was so greatly affected showed what Callum meant to him, and given the strange pull Callum felt for Rym—feelings he still couldn’t put into words—he contemplated stopping more than once. But he had to remind himself it simply wasn’t feasible. There were too many unknowns to consider staying.

Rym remained tactful, never broaching the subject again, at least not directly. Nevertheless, his silver eyes did little to hide his disheartenment. Even after the second day, Callum could sense the pactrid’s anticipation in hopes he’d change his mind. It pained him to disappoint Rym, but being so close to their destination had settled his decision.

Roads narrowed to footpaths the closer they reached the line. The forest seemed never-ending—their thick trunks attracting Anberans like a moth to lamplight. To know they’d been trespassing onto pactrid territory, killing them and cutting down their trees, brought yet another wave of shame over Callum.

A platoon of pactrid troops, huddled in the bush a dozen metres from the path, caught Callum’s eye. His arrival brought several frowns from the soldiers—some confused, some angry—but Rym’s salute in greeting acted as a pacifier. Some soldiers wore the protective scale armour all Anberan infantry feared.

“Are we getting close?” Callum asked.

“Yes. These soldiers are a mix of scouts and fighters.”

“Are they preparing to attack?”

Rym shook his head.

“But why are they wearing armour?”

“It’s a precaution.”

They continued north another five minutes until reaching a break in the treeline. Scouts, hidden behind stout trunks, sat at regular intervals along the line. Rym approached the closest scout.

“Report.”

The scout eyed Callum with suspicion, then turned his attention to Rym. “Nothing to report. It’s been quiet all day.”

Rym nodded. “I’m returning this human.” He turned to Callum. “Show him your pass.”

Callum stiffened in surprise at the request, then jammed a hand in his pocket to retrieve the silver token, giving it to the scout. It was tiny in the pactrid’s enormous hands. After a cursory look, he returned it with a nod in greeting.

“I wish more humans were like you,” the scout said.

“I do, too,” Callum replied.

“Come, now,” Rym said, ushering Callum with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

They walked side by side at an unhurried pace. All the while, Rym’s hand never broke contact. Callum welcomed it, but couldn’t help feeling torn again. Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Rym crouched before him.

“Goodbye, Cal’oom,” he said, resting a palm upon Callum’s chest—his heart. He’d never done that before. The act expressed the sentiment of farewell better than words ever could.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

Rym closed his eyes, his deep voice full of sorrow. “I understand your reasons, your concerns. They are valid. However, that does nothing to hush the turmoil within me.”

Callum’s throat tightened, and he blinked away the burn in his eyes. Nothing he could say in reply felt appropriate. Rym saved him from the hesitation by opening his satchel and rummaging inside.

“This belongs to you,” he said, presenting Callum’s knife in its sheath.

Callum scoffed, causing a rogue tear to fall. He abruptly wiped his eyes and accepted it. “I’d forgotten about it. Thank you.” Glad to have some else to focus on—to conceal his emotions—he strapped the sheath to his belt and tested its stability.

“There’s one more thing I want to give you,” Rym said, pulling out a rolled-up sheaf of parchment, its edges frayed and ragged. From a small pouch, he retrieved a stick of charcoal. “Turn around and remove your bag.”

Bearing a confused frown, Callum followed the request. Rym spread the parchment on his back and wrote something.

“What are you doing?”

Rym finished before replying. “In case you do return, remember to have your pass clearly in hand and held over your head. Either approach any pactrid soldier you encounter, or, more likely, you will be ambushed.” While he spoke, he used his knife to cut the parchment, carefully folding it, then handing it to Callum. “A warning: even with the pass, you may be treated poorly, but you will not be harmed. You will be taken to the nearest refugee village.”

“But—”

Rym crouched and tapped the note in Callum’s hand. “This is a request for the soldiers that take you into custody, asking that a message be sent to me informing of your arrival.”

Callum closed his hand around the parchment. “But Rym, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

The pactrid smiled, his silver eyes sparkling in the afternoon sun. “Maybe not, but is there any harm in hoping?”

Callum smiled back, his own eyes itching again. “I’ll never forget you.”

“Nor I.” Rym held a palm to Callum’s cheek, caressing it a moment before standing. “Safe travels, pup.”

Although Rym’s hand no longer touched his face, Callum could still feel it, like an echo. He wanted to say goodbye, but his throat had seized up again. Rather than risk his voice cracking, he gave the pactrid a reverent bow of the head, then slipped the parchment into his pocket and shouldered his rucksack.

Stepping across the treeline, he shielded his eyes from the sun. The field was a mess of roughly hewn tree stumps. Beyond, perhaps a kilometre away, tents from a garrison camp jutted out on the horizon. Refusing to fight the urge, Callum glanced back to Rym. The pactrid remained where he stood—hidden just within the forest—imparting a hint of a nod. Callum offered a wistful smile in return, finding it difficult to pull his gaze away. Not because he couldn’t, but because he hated to.

Refusing to put it off any longer, he marched toward the camp. Whiffs of freshly cut lumber filled his nose as he travelled amid the tree stumps. The treeline to his left and right wavered in the distance, with many trees felled but not harvested—telling a story where lumberjacks had to retreat in order to escape advancing pactrids. Callum still found it difficult to believe Anberans were the invaders. That so many of his kind had died believing the opposite.

Out of the protective shadow of the trees—something Callum had grown to appreciate—he found the sun oppressively hot. A sliver of the moon, barely visible in the blue sky, was near its apex. The Roaming Sea would be at its fiercest. He longed to be at the cliffs near his home, the city of Anbera, mesmerised by those ponderous waves following in the moon’s wake. The crisp, cool breeze they brought. Soon.

The thought of Rym by his side, enjoying the experience of the sea tides, brought a knot to his stomach. He dared to look back. The pactrid was still there, standing at the edge of the forest, watching him. Callum held up a hand timorously—after all, they’d already said their farewells more than once—but he refused to hide how he felt. Rym returned it—a deliberate raising of the hand, holding it there for a time—and then he retreated to the shadows. Callum couldn’t help thinking he’d just made the worst decision in his life.

Rym’s note came to mind, as well as the silver token. Both were in his trouser pocket. If anyone found them, surely that would arouse suspicion. He emptied the contents of his rucksack onto the ground. Retrieving the note and token from his pocket, he placed them at the bottom of the sack, and then repacked his belongings on top.

He continued his trek through the destroyed forest toward the camp. A sentry walking the perimeter caught sight of him and rushed to his position.

“Where’d you come from?” the sentry asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Callum said. “What company is this?”

The sentry gave him a queer look before replying. “632nd. I need to know where you came from, though. Show me your identification.”

Callum dug out papers from his jacket’s inside pocket. “I’m with 174th. I managed to survive a transport accident. A pactrid attack interrupted—”

“You’re with 174th?” The sentry’s face lit up in surprise. “You’re damn right those ’trids attacked. They hit the line hard.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. Six companies were decimated. Command tried to tamp down the news, but man, you can’t keep that kind of attack quiet for long.”

It took a moment for Callum to process what he was hearing. Were all his fellow comrades dead? What about his friend, Oren, who’d just started his tenday shift. “Are you saying no one made it back alive?” he stammered.

The sentry handed back Callum’s papers. “I mean, some made it back to headquarters, but the numbers were pretty low.” Seeing how Callum was reacting to the news, the sentry planted a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I gotta get back to headquarters. Get debriefed.”

“Sure, sure.” The sentry pointed northeast. “The transport tent is that way.”

“Thanks.”

Callum shook the man’s hand and then ran headlong into the camp, dodging soldiers between various tents. Despite his best efforts, he bumped into a few men, earning vulgar insults for his recklessness. He barely acknowledged them. All he cared about now was to get home. His mother came to mind again. Most likely, she would’ve been told Callum was dead, disregarding the fact his body would’ve never been recovered.

The telltale sign of a transport tent, much taller than any other, poked out ahead of him. He knocked aside the entrance flap and ran inside, huffing from the exertion. The transport circle was empty.

“Hello?” he called out.

“Yes?” The voice emerged from a hidden partition on the opposite side.

Callum peeked around the corner to find two men sitting at a desk. “I’m Hidaro. Medic from 174th Company. I need to get to headquarters.”

One man stood, a corporal. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. What are you saying?”

After taking a deep breath, Callum repeated what he told the sentry.

“That was—what—six days ago? Where have you been all this time?” the corporal asked.

Callum faltered at the question. He hadn’t considered how he’d explain what had happened. If he was to tell anyone the truth about the war, he couldn’t hide everything. “I was caught, taken prisoner, but then they let me go.”

The corporal stared at him. “They just . . . let you go?” His tone was one of doubt and disbelief. “Let’s see your papers.”

Callum handed them over, glimpsing the other man still seated—likely the transporter—listening in on the conversation. Each transporter had a corporal with them at all times, acting as a bodyguard of sorts. Given their importance and worth, Callum was surprised a larger detail wasn’t assigned to protect them.

“So, medic Hidaro, did these ’trids give any indication why they let you go?” the corporal asked, returning his identification.

“Sir, I’ve learnt a great deal while I was in their custody. I hate for this to sound grandiose, but it could change the outcome of the war.”

The corporal snorted at the proclamation.

“I need to get back to headquarters to give my full report,” Callum continued. “I can’t wait for the next scheduled transport.”

A sigh escaped the corporal’s lips as he contemplated the request.

“Please,” Callum pleaded. “My mother likely thinks I’m dead. My father’s already gone, and I’m her only remaining son.”

This knowledge broke the corporal’s resolve. “Very well.” With a snap of his finger, the transporter stood and followed them to the other side of the partition.

“Thank you, sir,” Callum said, followed by another thank you directly to the transporter, who offered a smile in reply, but otherwise remained mute.

Callum took his position in the circle while the corporal stood guard at the tent’s flap. The transporter closed his eyes, and the glowing yellow barrier immediately rose from the transport circle. Given the man’s age, there was no doubt he was a seasoned professional, and before Callum could think of the transport accident that had incited the entire ordeal, he was standing in headquarters.

The stone-walled room was empty. Its sconces were unlit and cold. Unsurprising, given it was an unscheduled transport. But it was then Callum realised he had no clue where to go to provide his report, and his training never covered such a circumstance. He knew where administration was, so he figured that was the best place to start.

The admin building was on the far side of the military precinct, so the walk took nearly twenty minutes. Inside, there wasn’t any kind of reception area or admittance desk, only a series of large offices. Most of the desks were empty—after all, it was getting late into the afternoon. Callum’s patience was wearing thin. He risked appearing like a fool and approached the nearest clerk, a woman about his age. Stacks of paper covered her desk, and she was engrossed in her task, not noticing Callum draw near. He cleared his throat to catch her attention.

Without looking up, she raised a finger. “Just a moment,” she said while writing something down. Once finished, she glanced up, then gasped in shock.

Callum supposed she was expecting a colleague, not a soldier wearing a filthy uniform and a scraggly beard. He took a step back and raised his hands in apology. He didn’t know how to start. “My name’s Hidaro, a medic of 174th Company. I was there when they were attacked six days ago. I was captured and detained by pactrids—”

“Wait. Hold on. I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

Callum let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know where to go, who to talk to. I need to be debriefed. I’ve got important information.”

She shook her head in regret. “I’ve no idea how to help you.”

“Is there someone here with a higher rank? Someone must know how this works.”

“I’m sorry. Ranking officers have already left for the day.”

Callum swore under his breath. This was ridiculous. He imparted a curt thank you and turned to leave, but the woman called out to stop him.

“Please tell me again, your name and company?” she asked.

“Hidaro. 174th.”

She wrote it down. “And you were a prisoner?”

It felt strange to hear it spoken aloud by someone else, and Callum could only nod in reply.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I’d recommend returning in the morning.”

He thanked her again, trying his best to be courteous, but undoubtedly she noticed his frustration. Stepping outside, he considered who could possibly help him. Was his sergeant still alive? Where would he be? If the company’s losses were too high, surviving members would likely be incorporated into another company.

He pushed the frustration from his mind. There was something more important to contend with now. His mother.

● ● ●

By the time he’d reached the residential quarter where his mother lived, long shadows from the setting sun were drawing across neatly arranged apartment units. This time of day was always beautiful in the city. The red clay roof tiles almost glowed in the sun’s warm rays.

He approached her front door and gave it a tentative knock. It was at that moment he realised he should’ve gone to the baths, shaved, and changed into something clean first, but the idea of waiting any longer to spare her the grief felt wrong. Footsteps from within drew near, and the door opened. Casting a weary face, she didn’t look up at first, instead staring at his boots.

“Mum,” Callum said.

She glanced up at his voice—her eyes tired and red, looking to have aged ten years in a day. He recognised that face. He’d seen it before when his dad was killed, and again with his two brothers. Her lips twitched before she spoke.

“Callum?”

The shock of seeing his face caused her to step back, losing her balance in the process. Her arms flailed helplessly.

“Mum!”

Before she hit the floor, Callum vaulted forward and caught her in his arms. He helped her up, but had to hold her weight. Her legs refused to work.

“Callum,” she whispered, touching his face. “They said . . .”

“Come, let’s sit down.”

He closed the door and helped her to the couch in the lounge. Once she was seated, he unshouldered his rucksack and sat beside her. Without a doubt, his dirty trousers would leave a mark, but he felt it was a small price to pay to console his mother.

“What did they tell you?” he asked.

Time lingered as she collected her thoughts. “The ’trids attacked your camp, destroying everything. So many dead, Callum. So many. They never found your body, but assumed you were killed.”

“Did they mention the transport accident?”

She frowned in confusion. “No.”

The attack must’ve been so tumultuous that it was never reported. He pondered if the corporal and the young transporter ever made it out alive.

“I was in a transport bubble when the attack happened. It was interrupted.”

Terror filled her eyes. “How did you survive?”

Hating to see her in such pain, he hugged her close. “It doesn’t matter. I’m okay. I’m here. I’m alive.”

She sobbed against his shoulder, hands gripping his uniform as though to confirm he was real. “How did you get home?”

He recounted his ordeal in detail. It took time, but once he was done, she’d recovered from the worst of her grief.

“I still don’t understand why the ’trids let you go. You mentioned this go . . . gotac—”

“Gotachi, yeah. She said I was a rare human, and I could be freed.”

“But why?”

Callum bit his lip. His secret belief had been withheld for so long, he had assumed it would die with him. Now, with everything that was possibly at stake, it felt like a trivial matter. “Because I don’t believe in this war, mum.”

The stare he received was as though he’d grown a third arm. “How can you say that? Would you spit on the graves of your father and brothers?”

“Of course not!”

She glared at him from the corner of her eye, indignation written on her face. “And would you let them take our land? What’s rightfully ours?”

“That’s the worst part, mum. The land we’re fighting for isn’t ours.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “What have those ’trids done to my son?”

“The pactrid who found me showed me the truth. There’s a giant ridge of mountains to the south. They act as the border between our lands.”

“What mountains?”

“That was exactly my question. But he’s been alive since the war began. He witnessed it firsthand. We instigated it when we crossed into their territory. They told us to leave. Instead, we killed them and started harvesting their trees.”

“How could you believe such lies?”

“He showed the mountains to me.”

“What? How far did you travel?”

“We didn’t travel there. He—” Callum swallowed. He knew this wasn’t going to end well, but he was in too deep by this point. “Pactrids have an ability to show others what’s in their minds. He laid his hand on my head, told me to close my eyes, and I saw his memory of it.”

Soured lips pursed taut, she shook her head and a single tear dropped to her cheek. Callum’s chest tightened at the sight.

“Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?” she asked sullenly, her voice shuddering. “Whatever you saw was a lie. This monster’s touch has poisoned your mind.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Please don’t be angry, mum.”

“You misunderstand me. I’m not angry at you. I’m disappointed.”

Those words cut like daggers in his heart. “But mum—”

“I’m disappointed you would believe their filthy lies. That you don’t believe in the importance of this war.”

Unable to meet her critical gaze, Callum cast his eyes down. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. I never did. Even as a kid, I wished we could find peace, somehow.”

“With the ’trids, there is no peace. All they bring is pain and suffering.”

“I’m upsetting you,” Callum said, nudging her hair aside to kiss her forehead. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling better, okay? And we won’t talk about pactrids or the war.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she gazed into her empty hands.

“I love you, mum.”

He waited, but barbed silence was the only reply he received. Shouldering his rucksack, he left her sitting in the lounge, and stepped outside. Late evening air—accompanied by the subtle hint of salty tang from the Roaming Sea—drifted against his sweaty face. What just happened?

What should’ve been a joyous reunion ended in a heated argument. He’d never seen his mother so upset before, and being the cause brought a lump to his throat. After everything she’d been through, she didn’t deserve more anguish.

His thoughts shifted to Oren. He deserved to know Callum was alright, too. But Callum didn’t know if his friend had escaped the massacre, and wasn’t sure if he was mentally prepared to learn the truth. If he were alive, how would he react to Callum’s experience with Rym? Would he give Callum the benefit of the doubt, or would he shun him as his mother had?

Callum wiped his face with a hand. There were too many unknowns, and night was nearly upon the city. As wrong as it felt, he decided to wait. He could visit Oren and Greta tomorrow. Now, however, Callum felt lost at what to do. Having subsisted on travel rations the past few days, he should eat a proper meal, but his belly felt full of lead. Perhaps the baths would make a welcome diversion.

Before doing that, though, he wished to rid himself of his rucksack. The shoulder straps were digging in, and he had long grown tired of the weight. Upon entering his apartment and dumping his sack, his nose wrinkled at the stuffy air. Feeling his way through the dark room, he opened a window to let in the fresh breeze. He stood there, motionless, breathing it in. The moon—beaming high in the sky—produced stark, angular shadows upon row after row of apartments akin to his own.

He suddenly yearned for the trees, and their gentle rustling leaves in the wind. He longed to hear Rym’s baritone voice, to behold his mysterious smile, and yield to the firm touch of his warm hands.

Pulling himself back from his memory, the secrets hidden at the bottom of his rucksack came to mind. He lit a candle, emptied the sack, then retrieved the parchment and silvery token. Unfolding the note, he found the message written in charcoal had smudged a bit. But had he been able to read it—the text consisted of a series of intersecting lines—he believed it was still legible.

Pushing his bed away from the wall, he knelt down and dislodged a short section of floor moulding with his knife. Within the cavity sat a small leather bag—his savings. Pushing the bag aside, he stashed the parchment and token, and then carefully replaced the moulding, banging it into place. The fit was tight enough to hold the section without the need of a nail.

The hot baths were the restorative cure he’d hoped for. Sinking into one of the large pools, he lay up to his neck in water and placed a wet cloth over his face. The place was busy. Normally that would bother him with other bathers chatting and laughing nearby, but he found himself able to shut them away this time. He nearly drifted off after a short period—no doubt he was sleep deprived. The weight in his belly soon dissipated, revealing the truth that his hunger existed.

Having washed the grime from his skin and following through with a proper shave, Callum headed to his favourite pub for a late supper. The proprietor knew Callum well and offered a warm welcome. Of course, he had no idea what Callum had gone through, didn’t know his company number. That was fine. He was in no mood to discuss it.

The proprietor served a chicken pie with a delicate crusty top, filled with delectable vegetables, and oozing a thick gravy. There was a reason this pub was his preferred place to eat. However, after a few mouthfuls, his mouth turned dry in spite of the gravy. Each bite turned to ash once in his mouth. Swallowing was a chore. He managed to finish half the pie before he had to stop. Whatever appetite he had was lost again.

After apologising to the proprietor, who took no offence, Callum stepped outside. He knew he should return home and get some sleep, but the sea called to him. The walk to the high clifftops wasn’t far, and the moon lit his way along the well-trod path across a grassy field. No matter the occasion—day or night—the view of the sea always had an audience. This time was no different. There were a number of single folk, such as himself, as well as a few couples. Sparse conversation was hushed, not wanting to ruin the distant crash of the sea against the rocky cliffside. Myriad white peaks on the water reflected in the moonlight, producing a hypnotic pattern Callum enjoyed losing himself in.

This place would always remind him of his father. Callum longed for his company, wishing to receive a more levelheaded view of his encounter with Rym. But he couldn’t deny his mother’s words hadn’t affected him. It was true Callum hadn’t seen those mountains firsthand. He’d only witnessed an image—a memory—and that could’ve been a fabrication. Rym’s recount of the war’s inception was potentially a lie. Perhaps he used Callum’s disdain of the war to compel him to believe. But everything he said, and the way he spoke, felt undeniably true. While it was hard to believe, deep down Callum knew there wasn’t a moment he didn’t believe him. Was he a fool to trust his enemy so readily? Was Rym ever truly his enemy? Or did Callum want peace so badly that he would believe anything to fulfil that desire?

With all these conflicting thoughts swimming through his head, he couldn’t be sure what the truth was anymore. He longed for wisdom from a reputable source, but at this moment, he was clueless who could provide any trustworthy answers.