Ocean Builders
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
“We are the Ocean Builders, we are the Sea-Gulls!” they sang in their own language. The captain of this ship was called Moloq’ar; he had built it himself with his own hands from kelp and wood that washed up on the beach.
It was a long boat made for two oars only: no mast or sail. They did not know how to build these things at all. This was why they could never leave, as they were always looking for new materials. But the ocean had been kind to them—the kelp grew back again every year.
Moloq’ar’s people lived here for thousands of years, and now there were other people living on the island too. One came to the shores sometimes; they looked different than the others, but they ate fish, which was good.
Sometimes they killed some of the seagulls and ate them, and then one-day Moloq’ar heard a man saying he would kill him when he got older if he did not get out of the way. Moloq’ar knew what this meant so he ran away, down to the shore where he built his boat and sailed across the waves until he came to the other side.
He found an old man there and told him what had happened to him. The old man said he should go back across the waves, and he should find another man there who was like him, with long brown hair and big black eyes.
This is how Moloq’ar became friends with the first man who came ashore on the beach, and together they started building their boats and sailing over the water. They met more men as they went along. There were many different kinds.
Some had very short hair and dark skin, and they all wore clothes like Moloq’ar’s people had once worn: long tunics with belts around the waist and trousers beneath. These men had never seen kelp before; they took off their shoes and climbed up on the beach to look at it, and one even tried eating it. “No,” said Moloq’ar, “that will give you terrible stomach pains.”
But one man had long white hair, and Moloq’ar thought he might be important because of his white hair. This man asked about the kelp and then showed the others how to climb on top of it without hurting themselves, and then he said, “Come here to me! I’ll show you something.”
And he took Moloq’ar down into the boat and tied his hands and feet and put a bag over his head. He threw him overboard, just like he used to do with the dead birds, and then jumped in after him. When Moloq’ar opened his eyes again, he was sitting next to the first man, the one with the long white hair.
“You’re my prisoner,” said the white-haired man. “I have to take you back home with me, to the land where all your people live. You don’t want to go there, trust me.”
Moloq’ar said nothing.
The white-haired man turned to the others, who were still watching from the top of the cliff above them. “Bring him here, let’s see what we can do with him!”
Two men lifted him off his feet and carried him through a tunnel that had grown out of the rock face. The others followed behind, singing as they walked. Moloq’ar could feel himself being pulled toward the ground by their weight and by the force of their voices, which sounded like rocks falling down the mountain.
But he did not fight. He knew if he resisted they would hurt him much worse.
They came out of the cave at the bottom of the mountain onto a beach covered with seaweed and broken shells. A small stream flowed between the stones. In the distance, a large green forest covered the sides of the mountains.
“This is our land,” the white-haired man said. “And this is our city, with tall buildings and wide streets. We’ve been here for hundreds of years.”
Moloq’ar tried to look around but his bag was still over his head.
“Where’s the man with long blond hair and black eyes?” the white-haired man asked.
“He was supposed to help us find the treasure,” one man said. “It must be somewhere nearby—the one who was looking for it is usually the last to leave.”
“Let’s take a closer look at him,” said the white-haired man, “so we can decide whether or not to kill him. Then we’ll take him to the palace and ask the king to release him.”
As soon as Moloq’ar was able to stand upright, one of the men picked up a stone and hit him on the back of the head. The bag fell off.
“What are you doing?” cried Moloq’ar. “Why did you do that? What have you done with my friend?”
The man with white hair laughed. “Your friend isn’t here anymore. It’s only you left.”
“Then why did you bring me all this way? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“If you had known where you were going, you wouldn’t have come. Now you belong to us. You will become one of our people.”
“One of your people?” cried Moloq’ar. “No, I’m not one of yours. Not any longer.”
“You know, we could make an exception for you.”
“An exception for me?”
“Yes. Your people will love you, no matter what color your eyes are or what shape they are.”
Moloq’ar shook his head. “Never. If you think I will betray my people, you are mistaken.”
“Very well, then, you won’t be going anywhere,” the white-haired man said. “In fact, you will never see anyone again.”
Moloq’ar looked at the forest again, then started walking toward it. He knew he must not get caught.
After walking for more than two days, Moloq’ar came across the ruins of a large stone building and sat down on the edge of a pool. The air was cold and clear, and the water tasted fresh, like the sea. There were many birds flying high in the sky above him.
Some of them were blue, others yellow, some red, others black. Moloq’ar had always dreamed of having his own bird; someday he hoped he might have a falcon. Now he realized how foolish that hope had been: no bird would ever return to him after it had flown away. No, his life had ended the moment he saw the island with his own eyes.
He lay on his side near the pool and fell asleep, and when he woke up, the sun had set. It was getting cold. Moloq’ar got up, brushed the sand off his body, and continued walking until he found the ruins of another stone house. This time he decided to spend the night inside.
The roof had collapsed, so he crawled into a dark room. When he closed his eyes, all he could think about was his friend, the man with long blond hair and black eyes.
“Where did you go?” he whispered, feeling tears come to his eyes.
“I don’t know,” the man replied softly, just as he had done before. “Maybe the ocean has swallowed you up already.”
“My name is Moloq’ar,” said the young man, his voice quivering with excitement. “My father is a fisherman and my mother is a seamstress. They live on the edge of the desert.”
“Do you miss your parents?”
“Of course,” said Moloq’ar. “But they’re happy here, and I’m going to be too. My father told me the king was sending a messenger to our village, to ask for new warriors.”
“A warrior?”
“That’s right, a warrior. And I’m going to be one of them.”
“Are you excited?”
“Very much,” Moloq’ar said, smiling broadly.
He felt something warm and soft against his neck, like a bird sitting on his shoulder. His heart raced. “Don’t wake up!” he thought. “Please don’t wake up.”
Moloq’ar held his breath.
The warmth moved to his head, gently caressing his cheek. It went behind him and ran along the edge of the roof until it disappeared. Moloq’ar stood up slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast, it would fly out of sight again.
There were no more birds that day.
When morning came, Moloq’ar decided to continue on his journey. As he walked along, he heard someone calling his name.
“Moloq’ar!” called a young boy.
It took Moloq’ar several minutes to realize it wasn’t the voice of a stranger but that of his friend from the beach. “Is it really you?” Moloq’ar asked in disbelief.
The blond man nodded and jumped over the wall of the ruins, landing on top of a broken statue. “Yes, it’s me. Are you coming to visit me?”
“How did you find me?”
“I followed your footprints.”
Moloq’ar looked around carefully. “Where are you now?”
“Over there. Behind the statue,” said the man, pointing at a spot between two columns.
Moloq’ar hurried across the rubble and through the garden of dead trees. Suddenly he stopped, staring at his friend, who was sitting beside the statue. “What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked.
His friend stood up and pointed at a place on the statue where the face of a girl had begun to melt off. “Look! The princess is crying because I didn’t follow her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because she turned into an ice giant.”
Moloq’ar smiled at his friend. “Well, let’s go back home.” He started walking, then turned around suddenly. “Wait…do you remember when we climbed that tower?”
The other man shook his head. “No.”
Moloq’ar sighed. “I climbed all the way to the top,” he said sadly. “And I saw the sun rising from the east. It was beautiful…”
When I first entered the city of Zaytuna, I noticed that most houses had balconies with glass windows looking out onto the courtyard. This was unlike anything I’d seen in other cities. It gave me the impression that those people were proud of their homes; even though they were simple and plain, they seemed to exude happiness and comfort.
On the other hand, I also wondered how they could afford the expensive glass panes—it must have cost them dearly. But I was wrong. These weren’t ordinary windows. Each one was a portal to the next world, leading to the afterlife, where spirits were born to wander around the endless white streets forever.
This was my first lesson on the mysterious power of the soul: It can leave one’s body, move to another place, and still exist inside someone else.
I spent three days exploring the city with my master. We visited the palace and learned about its history from a guard. He told us that Zaytuna’s ruler was called al-Nasir, and he ruled the entire desert region from this very city.
We also toured the market, which was filled with merchants selling spices and perfumes, fabrics, leather goods, and everything else a person might need. At night I wandered by myself. The narrow alleys were quiet and smelled like incense. I could see the silhouettes of people walking silently as if they were ghosts.
I was scared but curious. How could I not be? Everything that lived in this city was either a spirit or a ghost, and that made it different from the others I’d seen before.
One afternoon, I heard the sound of a flute coming from a house. I walked toward the noise and saw two men playing a game on a small patch of green grass surrounded by four columns. One man was dressed in bright colors and had dark hair tied back into a ponytail, while the other wore black robes and a turban.
Both wore long white aprons that covered their clothes from their neck down to their ankles.
The musicians began playing the same song. The melody was soothing and calming, like a lullaby for lost souls. It seemed to come from somewhere deep within my soul. My fingers itched to reach out and touch the strings of the flute, so I started moving toward the musician.
Then something hit me hard on the back, making me lose my balance and fall to the ground. Startled, I scrambled away and looked over my shoulder. There was no one there.
That’s weird, I thought. Then I remembered what the guard had said about the city being filled with spirits and I understood why I fell. I knew then that I wasn’t safe here. I needed to get away, quickly. Before anything else happened to me.
After the attack on the ship, I stayed in Port Nyanzaru for almost a month, hiding out with friends and family until things calmed down. I had no idea that the incident would change the fate of Zaytuna forever—or that it would become an oasis for people who wanted to leave their bodies behind.
It happened one night when I was sitting alone in my room. A woman came to my door and knocked. She appeared to be around forty years old and wearing a long black dress with a golden belt at the waist. Her hair was short and gray, but she had large eyes that reminded me of the moon shining through clouds on a rainy day.
She wore gold bracelets and rings on all her fingers and a gold chain around her neck.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been trying to find you,” she said to me in a soft voice.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
She hesitated before answering. “Do you remember the woman who helped you escape?”
My heart skipped a beat. “Who is she?”
“She was killed.”
That couldn’t be possible. “How did that happen?”
Her expression softened. “I was there. She was murdered by pirates who attacked her ship and kidnapped her. You know that the pirates are now attacking ships passing through the Red Desert?”
Of course, I knew! That was why I decided to stay in Port Nyanzaru instead of sailing on one of the trading boats bound for Al-Rassan.
The woman took my hands into hers and looked up at me. “I’m afraid that the worst has already happened, Arjan, and it won’t stop without your help.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You must go north and destroy the spirits.”
“Destroy them? How am I supposed to do that?”
The woman smiled sadly and patted my hand. “That’s easy for me to say. I can guide you. I have traveled this world many times before, and each time, I was able to help people who are lost to return to their bodies.”
“Why haven’t you done it before?”
“I was afraid to.” She shrugged. “But you have been given such great power. Now it’s time to put that power into action.”
“How is that even possible? Spirits don’t have bodies.”
She nodded solemnly. “But you do. And so does every other person living in the universe.”