đ§ Press play above to listen as I read Chapter 6 to you!
MAY WE PLEASE THE SEA is a dystopian sci-fi about a girl on the flooded worldâs only surviving island, sent out past the atoll into the forbidden ocean to find the sea gods to save her starving village. What she finds instead is an underwater research station full of other humans â and they have their own plans for survival.
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đ First time here? Start at the beginning: Chapter One
đ Previously in MAY WE PLEASE THE SEA: Easla survived the unholy waters and learned the Holy Crone had always known they werenât deadly. Her grandmother ordered her to find the godsâ home and steal three of their silver jaws (one each for the Holy Crone, Easla, and Elly) by killing the gods who wore them. Then she cut the rope and left Easla on the sunken atoll, the same way sheâd left Easlaâs mother. At sunrise, Easla chose to seek the gods and beg them to save the whole village, and she dove into the unholy watersâŠ
Chapter 6
In exchange for the Offering, the Gods promised never again to send a Great Flood.
As these words were spoken, the sound of flowing water could be heard,
and the Chosen People found within the village a freshwater spring,
rising from the Sea, never-ending in its gift.
As long as we Offer, we will never thirst.
This is the Godsâ promise.
â Ocean Law
THE HOLY CRONE
The Holy Crone crawled from the canoe onto the empty dock, her weak arms quivering pathetically. She hadnât lifted a paddle since sheâd risen from apprentice, meaning the journey from the atoll had taken much longer than sheâd planned. Stupid.
But even stupider would be to rush this. She stayed on her hands and knees, catching her breath and waiting for the shaking to stop.
Through the gaps in the boards, dead fish knocked against the pilings, pale bellies up, and the unholy watersâ rot hung over everything. One missed Offering, and this was the outcome. As though she were the one responsible for the stillbirths. Bah. How could they blame her for that?
She had done everything she could. She had pushed the primes for bigger shares for every pregnant matron. Pulled those women off barkcloth duty. Squatted at every birthing herself, pressing more blue coral onto their tongues than even a birthing matron was allowed.
But with each dead newborn boy, she knew more surelyâthere would be no Offering, which meant no harvest.
The knowledge of the villageâs fate had loomed over her, and still, she had fed the villagers hope, even when she had none. What else was she supposed to do? Fulfilling the Ocean Law was the Holy Croneâs duty. So with no other option, she had offered a girl, knowing they didnât want one. It was better than doing nothing and letting the village tear itself apart.
But they had killed the lagoon anyway, and the chaos she had worked to avoid would now happen. Damn them.
She leaned on Easlaâs paddle and forced herself upright. Her back cracked with the change in position, and pain twinged down her spine.
Once she had turned the canoe toward the village, she hadnât allowed herself to look back at her granddaughter cowering on the failed atoll, not even when Easla had cried out across the ruined lagoon. The Holy Crone had heard that begging before, from that same ring of coral, and she had survived it then. She would survive it now.
Let the girl hate her. She already did. This was what needed to be done.
She guided the canoe under the dock and secured it with ropes on both sides, hiding it out of sight. As far as the village knew, the Holy Crone had not come back from the atoll. Let it stay that way. She needed to find Elly.
With careful steps, she crept along the villageâs walkways, avoiding every creaking board. She had memorized them over these past moons of dwindling births, on nights when she couldnât sleep, which was most of them, learning which planks would betray her and which would not. Now her paranoia had become her preparation.
Light flickered through the palms ahead. Not the cookfires of what should have been the Offering feast. No, these were torches, jammed crooked between the Gathering Placeâs boards. Voices shouted over one another, the Cowrie Primeâs booming loudest.
The Holy Crone stopped at the edge of the fireâs light.
Primes who had never held a paddle before tonight now held them crosswise, a wall of wood barring the way to the Harvest Hut. Behind it, girls hauled out every basket of last Offeringâs red algae, every string of dried fish, the last of the catch from the fish traps, and dumped it all at the Cowrie Primeâs feet.
She watched as his blue-stained fingers split the meager remains into piles. Not enough piles for everyone. Not for long.
She had known this would come one sun, that the primes would take control once the harvest failed. She had prepared the best she could, for an overthrow, for long moons of hunger. Not for the lagoon itself to die in a single night. No one could prepare for that.
Something else was wrong, too, something beneath the shouting. She couldnât place it, but did it matter? This problem was bigger than her now.
She searched the huddle of crying girls and matrons, a mix of red and undyed barkcloth. Her eyes passed over Relfy, sitting apart from the rest, her arms wrapped around nothing. She didnât let them linger there.
At the groupâs edge sat Elly, knees to her chest, the cowrie shell that fool of a prime had thrown at her clutched beneath her chin.
The Holy Crone stared until Elly felt her gaze and looked up. Then she leaned into the torchlight. A breath of visibility, and no more.
Elly bolted toward her. Too fast, too obvious.
The Holy Crone caught her by the arm and pulled her into the darkness, pressing a finger to her granddaughterâs lips. They waited, hearts pounding, listening for footsteps. None came.
The primes were too busy counting. The matrons were too busy waiting. Waiting to be saved by someone tired of saving.
In the Holy Hut, she and Elly would be safe. As safe as anyone could be now. Its ceiling was stuffed with red algae, and beneath its floor lay a hutâs width of bamboo tubes filled with freshwater.
Since the first Holy Croneâs death shortly after last Offering, she had been siphoning from the villagersâ supplies every few suns, refreshing her stores every few moons. It wasnât enough to feed everyone. But she and Elly would hold on. Until Easla returned. Or until there was nothing left toâ
Wood creaked, though neither of them had moved.
