The Journal of Dreams (The Tales of Tahana - Book One)

Chapter 2: The Song of the Winds

19-2-2-4012 DM, Arang, Telama, Hilaraya

The sun blazed in all its splendour high up in the sky, bathing the after-midday air with its unforgiving heat. Dari felt the sun on his skin even as he sat in his small folding chair under the shade of his favourite spot at the port of Arang. He had always favoured that low wooden shed near the western edge of the beach. It was about fifty arms away from the first of a dozen floating docks that lined the white sandy beach, and it gave him a magnificent view of the entire port.

Dari had his sketchbook propped on his knees and his right hand was busy sketching an image of the port as he saw it that day. The coconut trees along the beach were unusually still but there's still a hint of the briny scent of the sea in the air despite the absence of the wind. There were no sea birds flying around, not even the usual appearance of a lone sea hawk hunting for prey. Long wisps of thin white clouds floated eastward against the intensely blue summer sky. The long whitestone dock at the eastern end of the port looked like an enormous arm as it held the thirty-arm high whitestone beacon like a candle standing on the horizon. The sea was almost as smooth as a looking glass, reflecting the sky above, disturbed only by the momentary appearances of sea creatures near the surface of the water.

There were a few small colourful fishing boats moored at the port, which was a normal scene at this hour, but the sight of all twenty of the great machayari, the huge Arangi fishing vessels, silently anchored by the whitestone beacon was very unusual. The tall masts of the machayari stretched high towards the sky, but their heavy white canvass sails were rolled up and useless on that windless day. Their sharply pointed bows rose about fifteen arms above the water and their huge hulls were brightly painted in colourful and ornate wavy lines. These ships should have been filled with activity by now. Fishermen should have been preparing the machayari to set out to the deeper parts of the Melaku Sea, but nothing moved in the ships. The port was almost desolate, except for a few fishermen lounging lazily in their small boats. The scenery before Dari was too quiet that he felt as if he was looking at a colossal painting.

With his eyebrows almost touching in concentration, Dari continued to work on his drawing. His mouth was slightly ajar while his lips pouted as he drew. He felt sweat forming in his scalp, but he was certain that his sweat wouldn't fall on his drawing because of the crimson marapi head band that was tied around his head. He carefully studied the details of the scenery before him, and, with his pencil, he skilfully drew light sweeping strokes here and there to give the clouds form. He made broad and deep strokes to outline the shapes of the boats and their masts, drew quick short strokes to enhance the detail of a tree or a rock, and smudged some lines with his thumb or pointing finger to add depth to the two-dimensional image. Now and then, he would blow a gust of air from his mouth onto his drawing to expel the accumulating pencil dust on the paper. The minutes silently went by as he added details to his sketch and felt more satisfied with the result as he progressed.

The high distant toll of the bells from the Garalahi, which was about a field away, reverberated in Dari's ears, momentarily breaking his concentration. It was just like hearing the sound from their timekeeper at home, but the bells of the small temple had a deeper and more powerful quality to them even at such a distance. He paused abruptly, cocked his right ear to the direction of the Garalahi, and listened to the heralding music that came from the bells. They announced the coming of the fourteenth hour of light.

"Amyi would be here soon," Dari thought as he bent down to his drawing once again and made the finishing touches.

A few minutes later, Dari decided that his work was done. He picked up his sketchbook with both hands, held it at arm's length, raised it to the level of his eyes, and regarded his latest masterpiece. He nodded to himself as a mark of self-approval and carefully folded his sketchbook. He tied it with a piece of brown linen cord to keep its contents from falling, and placed it inside his satchel that lay on his feet. He placed his charcoal pencil in its wooden case and slid in inside his satchel. He stood up from the bench and started to walk towards the closest floating dock where Amyi moored his old fishing boat.