Chapter 4: The Waters of Menehune

Jin clears his throat and asserts, "The lantern leads us back the way we came." Holding up the lantern with a glance at Khyree he continues, "This will lead us to Lady Oceana and my troupe's ship. That is why my troupe is here. The more time we spend wandering around in this jungle the more chances the fey have to hinder our cause with their 'hospitality' as Regan put it as well as their antics."

Khyree elbows Rowan. "See." She says to him. "I told you I would lead us to Ocean Lady."

Cordey, still standing at the edge of the slab and listening to the wind while clutching his amulet, protests. "Lelay told me in the tavern that in her dreams I deliver this group to something very important. I trust her dreams. I can hear the voices of the Old Ones here. They call us to their temple."

"You all make very good points," Admiral says, diplomatically, although the tip of his tail begins to flick to-and-fro in suppressed frustration at the thought of passing up the opportunity to captain his very own flying ship. "Perhaps we should put it to a vote."

Mischa and Tasya both vote for following the lantern to Lady Oceana.


Taresh expresses interest in the temple and feels the the Old Makai may have something to offer that is very important.

Khyree of course wants to go to the wreck and is okay with exploring the temple.

Rowan and the boy will follow Khyree's lead.

"And I, of course, vote for the flying ship," says Admiral, very pleased with the outcome. He grins. "So that settles it, aye? We’ll get some rest and then set out for the ship and the temple in the morning."

"I’ll take second watch," Admiral volunteers, shrugging off his coat and laying it out on the ground to sleep on. "Wake me when it gets dark, aye?"

Regan will stay up and take the first watch, so long as he has a second.

Regan gets a second (and more than that) to eat and relax before everyone settles down to light chatter and preparations for rest. No fires are made.

It is windy around the slab. Tree tops wave back and forth. Low mists shift and blow below the ledge. But oddly the wind doesn't seem to affect the slab at all. Some comment on that fact. Cordey seems to believe the slab is protected by the Old Makai.

As the others settle into quiet conversation or curl into makeshift bedrolls, Regan takes watch. The late-day light fades slowly, the sky dimming into deeper greens and dusky golds. From his vantage, the jungle below begins to soften into shadow, the mist thickening as night breathes into the valley. As the light fades, Regan notices that everywhere he looks--when scanning the jungle below--the mist seems to part giving him an open view below. Eventually, when there is little left to the light of day, he notices the mist does not part where he looks, but instead where the mist is, it provides vague outlines of nocturnal creatures moving below. They seem to be harmlessly going about their mundane business.

An hour into his watch after sundown while all others are asleep or in immersive meditative states, movement catches Regan's eye—not from the canopy below, but high in the air. A cluster of pale shapes drift above the treetops, carried on slow, spiraling currents. For a moment he thinks they’re birds, but they move without flapping. Then one turns just enough to reflect the last orange rays of the sun off its wings—manta-like creatures, translucent and ghostly, gliding in complete silence.

They make no sound. No threat. Just a quiet, deliberate patrol across the distant sky, veering slightly toward the river before vanishing behind the mist.



Regan eventually feels himself fighting to stay alert.

Regan will fight to stay awake. "Is it just because of how long we've been up, or is something helping us try to fall asleep?" He will move over to one of the sleeping members of the ship's crew and shake them, speaking to them (although not loud enough to cause alarm). "Hey... I don't know how long I'll be able to stay awake. We might need shorter shifts."

Taresh, who was sitting crossed-legged with his eyes closed, opens them just as Regan begins to try to stir Tasya. She doesn't budge.

"Yes. No one should stand watch alone, unless there are fewer than four. That clearly is not our case." Says the monk calmly. He looks around at the slumbering party.

Taresh reaches in his robe and pulls out a palm-length strip of something that might, at first glance by the emerging moonlight, be mistaken for smoked meat. Yet a second look betrays its plantborn nature: the strip is thin, compressed flat as parchment with ridged bark-skin. Hair-fine rootlets spider along the edge.

Regan catches its aroma—damp forest floor with acrid tang of dried chicory. The smell prickles the back of the throat and hints at a bitterness so sharp it might jolt a weary mind awake.

The monk holds the root out to Regan.

"For those who have the fortitude to handle its bitter spirit, it will chase the fog from your mind, sharpen the edge of thought, and hold drowsiness at bay for a watch and more. It is no sorcery—overuse will leave the tongue like leather and the pulse too quick—but in measured draughts it grants clear sight, steady breath, and the wakeful calm."