My feet tread lightly along the stone streets, buildings towering on each side like the walls of an enormous labyrinth. Promises of I’ll meet you at morning bells nag the back of my mind. But there was no time to meet Nico when there was bait to steal and fishing holes to get to.
Faster still, I wind my way through alleyways and over bridges. Despite the cool morning, escaped hair sticks to sweat dewing the back of my neck. Not daring to slow my pace, I gather and twist it all into a thick rope, tucking it back under my knit hat.
I don’t stop until the alley opens into a large square. It’s nothing but a bit of open space, all cracked stone and an old, dried-out fountain, vines growing up and over it. A tunnel, its mouth wide and dark, closes the other side into a dead end. I stride across the square, standing tall, readying to face what every Basso fears: this damn tunnel.
Like a grim warning, two altars flank the entrance. One is a Sun altar, no different from any of thousands filling corners and crevices all over Bellona. Piled on top of the stone pedestal is a framed image of the Sun; an hourglass; and a small bouquet of sunrise flowers, the red-yellow petals browned, long dead. Mounds of candles, many of them lit, are stacked atop melted wax that flows the length of the altar like a waterfall. Various types of shells have been stuck into the wax as if barnacles on the rocky shore of the Great Sea. At the base, several offerings have fallen—a couple of soap carvings, a large rusty nail, a walnut still in its shell, and a ball of string.
I kneel before the altar, close my eyes, and ask the Sun to guide me through unharmed.
I search my pockets for something to offer. With nothing but lint, the hourglass quickly sifting, I hastily take off a glove, ball up the pilled wool, and make a small bead of beige fleece. I leave the blessing next to one of the shells. Then I scoop the rest of the trinkets—discarded prayers—up off the ground and pile them back on the altar for good measure.
I try to ignore the other altar, but my curiosity gets the better of me. It’s an altar to the missing. These have been popping up on more and more corners as the Night grow increasingly aggressive. Photos, scraps of paper, personal mementos, and other items overwhelm the top and are nailed and pinned up and down the sides of the wooden structure. Hanging above it is a fresh missing persons bulletin, several names scrolled beneath the large red block letters that read BEWARE THE NIGHT!
The tangled black yarn of a doll’s hair catches my eyes before I force myself to glance away and refocus on the task at hand. The tunnel. Fishing.
The tight passage snakes through the bottom of the old housing building like a dark secret, the entrance a crumbling mosaic archway.
I light my lantern, take a deep breath, and enter.
Several paces in and it’s already pitch black save the flickering of my lamp. The lights mounted along the walls are out, meaning one of two things: The unpredictable generator is down or they’ve been destroyed again, the bulbs busted by the Night.
Lantern in hand, I try my best to be as quiet as possible, but my boots squeak with each step as lures and hooks jingle from my belt.
One third of the way through, I round the corner, and the opening at the end of the tunnel pops into view like a heavenly beacon sent down from the Sun himself. I’m desperate to make my way there, but it’s still so far.
Before I can bolt toward the light, quick footsteps dart between the tunnel walls and my chest. “Who’s—” I bite my tongue and a bit of metallic warmth blooms inside my mouth. I skid over gravel and run toward the exit.
The footfalls get closer.
I run faster until the steps are on my heels and heavy breath hits the back of my neck.
I skid to a stop, pivot, and punch whoever it is straight in the stomach, their momentum helping me out, but stinging my knuckles something fierce.
There’s a groan of pain and the shadow doubles over before my lamplight.
“Gah … Blessed … Sun…,” he coughs.
“Nico?”
He glances up at me, dark eyes watering.
“What the hell?” I say.
“I…” He pauses to catch his breath and slowly stands. “I was just … trying to catch up with you.”
“Well done.” I fail at holding in a small laugh.
He glares.
“What? You don’t get to be mad. You scared me!”
His expression softens. “All right … It was stupid.”
“Not to mention mean.”
“Fine … Mean and stupid.”
“Indeed.” I won’t admit I’m comforted by his sudden presence. And not only because my chances of meeting my end decrease exponentially with a Dogio by my side.
“Speaking of mean…?” Nico holds up his hourglass so it dangles in my face from his forefinger.
“I was detained.” I wiggle my mud-caked fingers in his face.
“Come on, Veda…” He breathes my name as a disappointed sigh, eyebrows slanted into an exaggerated V. “Again?”
I shrug.
“You promised you wouldn’t anymore.”
I lift an eyebrow. “No, I didn’t.”
His jaw goes slack. “Yes, you did.”
“No … I promised I wouldn’t leave during the night anymore. And I didn’t. I left in the morning.”
“Before the Sun was up.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I told you I can get the beetles for you. Jars full.”
“And I told you no.” He glowers, but the way he works at the corner of his lower lip, I know he wants to smile too. “Hey.” I take a step closer and adjust my gear over my shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you. It’s just…” I pause to choose my words carefully.
Before I can get out the thoughts I’m struggling to form, Nico takes my hand, brushes off a bit of the mud, and finishes the sentence for me. “… You had more important things to do.” He looks straight at me through the dim lamplight, his eyes near-black, lashes thickly folding above them. Despite the darkness, I can distinctly make out the indent of the dimple on his left cheek. It shows deepest when he’s happy and when he’s disappointed. Pretty sure he’s not happy.
We’re both silent a beat too long, the wind howling in the background.
Nico places his hand on my shoulder. Layers below, my skin tingles with welcomed warmth. “You could have asked me to come along.” He always says this. “Let me help you.” He says this even more often.
“No.” And I repeatedly refuse his offer. “We’d both be in trouble if caught.” Nico’s brow furrows. “Actually, I’d still be the one in trouble.” I tap his Dogio badge.
“Veda…” His voice trails off because he can’t begin to argue.
But I’m sure to change the subject before he tries. “Why are you wasting your time at the Hole anyway?” I continue toward the exit.
“I told you…” He leans in, reluctant grin dancing at the corners of his mouth. “My Sun, Veda, don’t you ever listen?”
“What’s that?” I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a smile.
He shakes his head but laughs under his breath. “I’m going because James is assisting with the hourglass. I promised him I’d watch, say hi after.” Ah, right. Nico’s young protégé. Dogio are assigned a mentee as part of their training or something. As if going to school nonstop through their sixteenth year isn’t enough, then they mentor (basically more school), and eventually either join the Imperi or apprentice and take on a profession. So, basically, school from birth to death.
“We definitely don’t want to miss that, eh?” I say.
“Exactly. A promise is a promise.” He eyes me, but instead of the disappointment I expect to see, Nico takes the burden of my fishing basket off my arm and clasps my hand in his.
I hesitate at his touch. The fact that I want to hold his hand and the fact that I know I shouldn’t wage a small war.
But here in the dark, not a soul around, I close my fingers over his.
And for the first time all morning, I breathe.
OPENING INTO THE Great Sea, the Hole is a water-filled cavern, the shape of a crescent, tall ridges rising up around its perimeter allowing for a natural platform for fishing.
Just to our left, the Crag, a peaked, dormant volcano, rises out of the ground like a hooked claw, shading one half of the Hole so it appears to be a quarter moon. The dormant volcano is off-limits, forbidden after the first war and the mines the Imperi buried in the sand surrounding it to protect their weapons cache inside. Supposedly many mines were never found and might still go off if stepped on just right.
“The boundaries are this,” Poppy would say. “If the Crag hits the sand with its forbidden shadow, you’re too close.” The rule was further hammered in at school when we went on that side of the island to collect clams: Never step in the shadow of the Crag. As if the moment your toes hit darkness the entire world would erupt in flames. Still, no one ever dared.
Bodies cram from one end of the horseshoe-shaped fishing hole to the other. Like small strokes in a smudged, heavily layered painting, faces blur and blend until they’re only stipples of color. A sea of variegated, earthen hues. My fellow Basso.
The tide is high, but the water is calm, glassy, with one blinding line of light streaking through the middle as the Sun strikes down from the cloudless blue sky. If I squint just right, I can make out the dark silhouette of the Island of Sol; the tall arches of the Coliseum are dark, empty cavities, a series of large jaws yawning toward the Sun.
We arrive and an Imperi soldier slams the gate closed directly behind us, the bolt locking with a loud click of finality, announcing no others will enter. He then rings a loud bell to announce fishing will soon commence.
Nico and I immediately part ways. With a slight nod and a smile, he moves toward the viewing pier above, where Dogio and Imperi officers sit, as I find a good place to fish.
Once settled, I look for Nico, but he’s blended into a sea of black, red, and gold.
Above the fishing ridge where the Basso stand, suspended from an iron frame is an hourglass. It towers no less than twenty feet in height. Positioned before the hourglass, fists at her hips, is the Imperi Regent of Fisheries. She’s tall, slender, with a long, slick braid that stands out over the shoulder of her crisp black suit. The Imperi government crest, similar to Nico’s Dogio badge, a gold embroidered sun, is loudly emblazoned over her heart, setting off the delicate, golden thread that webs her crimson sash.
As the Head of Fisheries counts down, four Imperi soldiers—all wearing black uniforms and boots—tip the hourglass. From high atop ladders, they heave a rope and pulley, sending black sand spilling down the glass bulb.
This is when I spot James. He’s in a similar uniform, but with a flash of red round his waist—an officer in training—and all of twelve, he proudly coils the rope into perfect circles. Nico sits in the front row, eyes intent on his mentee, red scarf piled high around his neck. When James steps away from the rope, hands tucked behind his back, Nico stands and says something into the boy’s ear. Nico seems so proper, so important, standing shoulder to shoulder with the other Dogio. At the same time my stomach spins at the sight of him, my hands squeeze into fists around my pole. This version, while strangely alluring, is at constant odds with the Nico from the tunnel moments ago. The Nico I know so well.
And who is this version? Truly?
I’m both dying to know and terrified to find out.
For now, I’ll keep him at a distance. Closely observe the Dogio version as if he’s some other person and continue digging deeper to know the boy who holds my hands in tunnels and adores my grandfather almost as much as I do.
Surely, at some point, they meld into one.
Nico catches my eye, and my breath hitches like I’ve been caught thinking about him.
Which I have.
Then, subtly, so inconspicuous only I’d ever notice, he arcs his thumb over his heart, Ad astra, to the stars, no troubles, be well. Both my Nico and this version use the gesture to convey at least ten different expressions.
Ad astra … That sign … I’d never seen anything like it until the day I met Nico. We were tiny underneath the canopy of trees next to the pond behind his house. It was then, when he didn’t turn me in for illegally fishing on Dogio-owned soil, when he ran his thumb over his heart and spoke those two words, that I understood I could trust him. It was then I knew we’d always be friends. Always be together.
But that was a lifetime ago.
I give him a slight grin and quickly glance away, realizing I’m the only one down here paying any mind to the Regent and the Dogio. With everyone’s focus on their own poles and nets, finding a good spot, now is the perfect time to dig the beetle out of my bag and bait my hook.
Kneeling on the ground, surrounded by gear, I reach into my bag. When I find the small jar, I open it and pull the beetle out, skewering it with my hook.
Saying a small prayer to the Sun for one good catch, giving thanks for the plump beetle, I set my sights on a particular spot. I can tell it’s deep, the perfect home for a large fish.
As I pull back to cast, something cracks to my right, breaking my concentration. I know that gut-wrenching sound.
I turn to find the glassblower’s apprentice kneeling over what is now two pieces of a fishing pole.
When he glances up, our eyes meet. I see him around the island from time to time; we schooled together the few years Basso attend school before learning a trade or beginning work. Mostly, I remember him as the boy who threw rocks to scare the birds out of the trees in front of the glass shop. I yelled at him once to stop, and he sent a handful of rocks my way. I haven’t spoken to him since.
I glance back at the bird bully, and he’s actually trying to mend his pole with his line. He can’t be serious.
He looks back up at me. His knit hat slumps lazily down the back of his neck, and blond hair peeks out over his ears, but it’s his eyes that catch me. They’re brilliant. Like silvery-blue agate. “I’m not so great at this,” he says, holding the two sad pieces of wood up, clearly at a loss.
“Seems that way,” I say, smiling, wondering if he knows who I am. Remembers the child version of me yelling at him to leave the damn birds alone. That I specifically remember. Poppy wasn’t always the best influence. “Here.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a small ball of twine. “You can try to mend it and hope you don’t hook anything too heavy, or it’ll snap again for sure.”
Reaching for the twine, his hands are worn as if from hard work, the sleeves of his tattered muslin shirt rolled up to his elbows. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
When I glance toward the hourglass, Nico’s there. His eyes are already on mine and he motions toward the sand, how it’s quickly dwindling.
I’ve wasted several precious minutes helping the bird bully mend his probably hopeless fishing pole. Focusing back on that spot in the water, I cast my line and hit my mark.
“Should do the trick.” The bird bully breaks my concentration, but I don’t take my eyes off my line. “At least for today.” I watch from my periphery as he holds his fishing pole out in front of him and bends it back and forth so it bows without giving but still moans angrily.
“Dorian.” He shoves his hand out to shake mine.
“I’m Veda. Glad it helped.” Our hands only touch for a second when, without warning, I lurch forward, my line taut like wire. Dorian lunges and wraps his arms around my waist, keeping me from falling into the water. I barely get a second to catch my breath and say thanks when my line is jerked toward the edge again. Dorian makes to grab for my pole, but I dig my heels into the ground before he can try to help. “I’ve got it!”
He steps aside.
I skid closer to the cliff, but use my body weight to counter the monster of a fish. I will not lose this fight—Sun knows we need this beast roasting over our fire tonight.
My pole creaks and whines a painful cry, threatening to crack in two.
Dorian steps closer. “You still got it?”
I don’t have time to answer, but I know I’ve got it when I spot the creature flop at the water’s surface. It’s a true beauty.
The palms of my hands go raw, my legs are about to give, but I hold strong. Taking a long breath in, closing my eyes despite it going against every instinct I have at the moment, I heed the first lesson Poppy taught me about fishing …
I wait. I listen.
The sea stills and the beast finally tires itself out.
I open my eyes to find Dorian staring right at me, but I don’t have a second to spare on him because the fish is so heavy it takes all my strength and attention. The beast is a long-whiskered pantera, and as I pull it in, the line cuts into my palm. Ignoring the blood trickling from my hand, I drop the fish to the ground. It jumps twice before I snare it under my boot; I can’t stand to watch them suffer.
Long whiskers limp, near-black scales like inky ice, the beast is still. Jagged teeth poke up from its mouth, pushing its snout into a permanent snarl. It’s one of the loveliest ugly things I’ve ever seen.
I recite a silent prayer, thanking the beast for its offering, the Sun for his blessings. Gratitude is the root of all living, Poppy taught me. Take nothing for granted. Without appreciation, he says, all humanity is lost.