The Ewer
A boy fleeing across the desert comes upon a mysterious pot that could be the key to his escape.
The boy stumbled at the top of the dune, tumbling head-over-heels down the scorching sand. He flailed against the searing grains in the trough between the hills. The sun over the deserts of South H’vraan blazed unforgivingly, and the boy had no opportunity to prepare for its wrath in his flight from the village.
“Find him!” a voice bellowed. Its owner was not far, and he and his lackeys would be upon the boy in moments.
He clawed at the sand of the next dune, praying to whatever might be listening that his pursuers would not see him before he could clamber over the top. At the crest, he paused. His heat-fried brain could not understand what he was seeing.
In a sandy pit below, surrounded on all sides by high dunes like the walls of a caldera, was nestled a small set of ruins. Scattered pillars supported nothing but air, the roof long eroded away or fallen. Amidst the pillars, partial walls crumbled from one chamber into another.
The boy blinked hard, wondering if this was a mirage. It would not be the first he had seen, having grown up in the arid region his whole life. But when shouts came from behind and an arrow whistled past him, he opted to believe in the ruins as his only hope.
“Hurry, you swine!”
The boy slid down the slope toward the collapsed building. He darted between the columns, squeezed his small frame under one that had fallen onto a low wall, and turned the only corner remaining to find three-quarters of a room. It had been camouflaged from the top of the dune by the windblown sand piling on the partial roof.
The voices chasing him dimmed as he entered the cool shade of the chamber. He was tempted to conjure light into the space, but he feared that would attract the attention of his pursuers. Besides, he was rubbish at magic and it would require too much of his waning energy.
So instead, he waited while his eyes fought to focus, the blinding brightness of the sun still showing spots in his vision.
Once he had adapted to the shadows, he realized the room was a small storage area. Broken shelves lined the two walls that met in a dark corner, and the pottery that must have once been stored there littered the ground in broken shards.
But there was one intact pot still remaining. It was large, almost as tall as the boy and more than twice as wide. Odd symbols encircled its clay surface, blue swirls reminiscent of waves. In fact, hidden beneath the earthy scent of the ruins, the smell of cool, quenching water drifted to him.
This had to be a mirage. But could mirages be smelled?
He was enticed closer to the pot. The sides of it had large handles, which looked almost like the ears of the elephants living in the northern jungles. The lip of the pot had a scooped-out divot, and the boy realized this was not just a pot: it was a ewer. But it was much larger than the ewers he had seen before, and he could not imagine someone, or even several men, being able to lift and pour it.
With another step and then another, the boy approached the ewer. The smell of water grew stronger, and not stagnant water. Fresh, like spring water found in an oasis. He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked, and his tongue felt tacky. He placed his hands on the rim, put a sandaled foot on one of the handles, and lifted himself up to peer inside.
The interior of the ewer was cast black as pitch, but the boy’s movements created little ripples in the darkness. Water! He reached a hand down into the jug and touched the cool surface, then excitedly splashed handfuls of it into his mouth. It was sweet, pure, and easily the best thing he had ever drunk in his life.
As he leaned further into the pot, slurping noisily, a little parcel he had tucked into his tunic slipped from its hiding place.
“No!” He swatted at the bag. It plunked into the water. He fell in after it.
The world of sand, sun, and ruins vanished, replaced by a vast dark sea. The boy sank deep, pawing at the water to pull himself in any direction, but all sense of up or down vanished as well. Fear seized him, and the water he had just been guzzling gratefully now threatened to fill his lungs instead.
Where am I? Someone, please! Help me!
A current swelled against him, spinning him through the darkness. Something swam past him, and his fear ratcheted into terror. He kicked and clawed at the water, and his mouth opened in a suffocated scream.
He knew it. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Be still.
The command cascaded through not just the water, but through the boy’s mind itself. The voice eclipsed his panic, and even though his drowning was imminent, his body obeyed the direction and stilled.
The massive presence returned, brushing alongside the boy. It felt of both warm fur and cold scales. It carried the boy through the dark waters, rushing in some direction. To rescue or to oblivion, the boy could not know.
Then he breached the surface, spluttering and gasping in the small headspace between the water and the top of the ewer.
There you go. Take your time and catch your breath, little one.
The boy reached up and gripped the edges of the pot’s rim. The impossibility nearly broke the boy’s mind. The pot, the storage room, and the desert were above him. But his torse and legs floated in an expanse of water below, and somewhere down there was something huge and unknowable.
Not entirely unknowable, the voice corrected the boy’s thoughts.
The boy slowly turned to look into the water below him. It was still black as night, but far below, a pair of luminous eyes watched him.
It’s all a mirage after all. Or I’m insane. Or dead. He pictured himself collapsed in the blistering sand, an arrow in his back. But the cool water lapped against his legs. The smooth clay of the pot’s lip slipped against his wet hands. His lungs ached from their near-miss with drowning.
The voice chuckled playfully, but the boy found it more ominous than comforting. Do not be afraid, it told him. I intend you no harm. Perhaps we could start with introductions? What is your name, little one?
The eyes below tilted. The boy imagined the thing’s head cocked to the side like a dog’s. That image calmed him for a moment, but he pushed it out of his mind. He would not be tricked into letting his guard down by whatever kind of monster it was that lived in pots containing an ocean’s worth of water.
“Tell me your name first,” he bargained in a hoarse whisper.
The eyes narrowed. My name is not given freely. One must earn it.
“Then you can’t have my name either.”
Then we are at an impasse. A shame that we cannot know more about one another, what with us both being alone together in this little pot of water.
“I can leave whenever I want.” The boy pulled his body up toward the lip, but he lost his grip and slipped back into the water when he heard voices outside.
“Find that little rat!”
The boy scrambled to grab onto the rim of the pot again, but he did not try to lift himself out.
Are you not leaving? Who are those men?
A merchant and his guards, he thought reflexively.
Would they have anything to do with the bag of rocks you dropped?
He remained silent, dipping his mouth below the water line and listening for the men who hunted him. His mind, however, raced with jumbled images recalling a small satchel of priceless gemstones, a swarthy merchant preparing to exchange the bag for coin at the bazaar, and the boy darting in to nab the prize.
Thievery, little one? It is wrong to steal, you know.
A kid’s gotta eat. I deserve those gems more than some stuffy, rich, old merchant.
‘Deserve?’ the voice in his mind rumbled, sounding less like a voice and more like a rushing river.
The boy glanced down to find the eyes had grown much larger. They hovered just beneath him.
On the gods, you aren’t going to eat me, are you? I’m sorry! Really!
The eyes squinted again, this time in glee. You are a curious case, little one. Most divided. In one thought, you believe you deserve your stolen gains, yet in the very next, you are most repentant. What to do, what to do…?
I’ll release you! the boy threw the thought at the creature, pulling from fairytales he had heard of monstrous spirits trapped in vessels. He had never heard of one in a giant jug of water, but perhaps he could still strike a deal with it.
But the presence below laughed, a great current rushing from it and buoying the boy upward, almost out of the ewer. For a brief moment, the boy glimpsed a great maw yawning open beneath him.
PLEASE!
Stow your panic, boy. It is just that I find it most amusing you believe I am trapped here. The Font of Respite is certainly a most blessed item, created by Berian the Artisan millennia ago in service to my Master. But there is no vessel in all the realms that could contain a Herald of Som.
The word “Som” was familiar. He recognized it as a name that passed through the lips of travelers from afar, heretics who did not worship any of the eight gods but something altogether… else. It had always struck him as an odd word when said by men, but when the creature in the ewer spoke it, the name rang in the boy’s head like a clarion.
However, I will still accept your deal with a modification, the voice continued. Pour out this ewer and I will rescue you from those that pursue you. I have seen into the hearts of those men, and though you should not have stolen from them, they too are most vile in their intentions.
They mean to kill me, don’t they?
They will do worse than that. The merchant is a slave trader. Enter into this deal with me, and I will protect you accordingly.
But how will I pour this out? It’s impossible!
The voice did not reply. The boy looked down into the water, and the eyes were gone. But he was not entirely alone.
“Spread out. There aren’t any tracks leading out of here, so the rat has to be nearby.”
The boy kicked mightily against the water and pulled himself up onto the rim of the ewer. He heaved himself over the edge, sliding down the pot on his belly and failing to brace his fall onto the broken pottery littering the ground.
“Did you hear that? I think it came from other there!”
At the front of the pot, he used a bit of broken shelving to dig at the floor, breaking the foundation under the edge of the ewer and clearing it away quickly. There was no time for quiet.
“This way!”
“We’ve got ‘im now, sir.”
“Come out, come ouuuut!”
He scurried around the pot to the gap between it and the corner. He braced his back against the smooth clay, walked his feet up the walls until his knees were against his chest, and then he pushed.
The ewer moved, but it did not teeter or tip. It merely ground down into the ditch he had dug.
I can do this, I can do this!
“I think there’s a room over there!”
I can’t do this! The boy’s breath hitched into hyperventilation. His mind struck out for a name to cling to, anything to latch onto.
A sweaty face leaned around the edge of the ewer and leered at him.
“Found you, little rat.”
“Som, help me!” the boy cried. He kicked with all his might against the wall and flung himself against the pot one last time, his head snapping back to strike the top lip and sending stars flaring across his vision.
I wondered when you would ask. Som will always answer, little one. Always.
The ewer tipped over.
A great gush of water spewed from its mouth. The merchant was shunted to the side, and his men yelped in surprise as they were rocketed from the room by the blast.
The boy flipped onto his stomach, laying prone on the side of the ewer. The water did not stop flowing. It quickly rose to fill the chamber floor.
“What have you done, little rat?” the merchant snarled. He drew a dagger and waded toward the boy, but he stopped suddenly and looked down into the water that had risen to his waist. “What is th—”
Something in the water dragged the merchant into the stream from the ewer, and he was swept from the ruins.
The boy was soon engulfed by the rising water, and the presence from the ewer returned. The boy caught only glimpses as he tumbled in the current: teal-colored fur, glistening scales, fish-like fins combined with claws.
It swam around him as the water level rose higher and higher, flooding the valley where the ruins sat. Then the creature came behind the boy and grabbed the scruff of his tunic, whether by claw or by tooth he was not sure. It carried him up and up, toward the dappled surface where the sun shone across the top of the crystal-clear water, and then they emerged.
The boy landed on wet sand, coughing and spluttering. Across the new oasis, the henchmen dragged the bedraggled form of the merchant away from the water’s edge. They shouted over each other and hefted their boss up the sandy hill back toward the village. The merchant stared at the oasis and the boy in abject terror until he was carried over the top of the dune.
The boy’s coughing turned into a fit of hysterical laughter. “I did it! I can’t believe I did it!”
Did you, now? All by yourself?
He scrambled back from the water’s edge. The sunlight played across the water’s surface, obscuring his vision of the creature within the oasis.
“Th-thank you,” the boy managed.
You are most welcome, little one. Is there any more that I, or my Master, can do for you?
It was a leading question. The creature’s tone indicated an offer of some kind, but the boy did not care to spend any more time with the thing that had nearly drowned him. Twice.
“No, just give me back my bag and we’ll call it square.”
‘Your’ bag? Do you not recall that you stole it?
The boy countered, “Won’t you be stealing it if you keep it to yourself?”
The water rippled as the creature chuckled. Another deal, then. Your name for the jewels.
“Tyruc,” the boy responded immediately. “Now cough up my bag.”
So impatient, it teased. But a wave lapped at the edge of the sand, and a little brown parcel washed up onto the shore.
Tyruc inched toward his prize, reaching a shaking hand out and eyeing the water’s edge. He snatched the bag and pressed it to his chest. A giggling breath escaped him, and then he turned to run.
One last deal, Tyruc.
“No more deals!” he called back, racing up the dune opposite from the direction of the village.
The voice flowed to him on an invisible river. Tyruc, you have spent your ten years in this world striving for survival. You have been failed by parents and leaders. You have experienced only danger and harm, and you have learned only to care for yourself.
Tyruc paused at the dune’s top, glancing back at the water below.
There is a better way, little one. If you desire to find that way, take the parcel of gems to the chief in the seaside village east of here. He is a good man who will give you a place of safety. He is another follower of Som.
There was that name again.
Som.
It rang in Tyruc’s head for the entirety of his journey through the desert. The water from the ewer, or the Font of Respite as the creature called it, had energized him. It somehow kept him hydrated for the three days of travel.
By the time he reached the port city of M’tiethay, he had made up his mind. He ducked through the busy streets, soaking in the exotic smells and sights of so many different people and their wares in one place. Eventually, he stepped onto the planks of the harbor.
“Excuse me?” he approached a heavy man loading cargo onto a well-built ship.
The man, a drake with mottled green scales dotting his face and bare torso, grunted and looked down at Tyruc. “Whaddya want, kid?”
Tyruc pulled one of the gems from his pouch. “Will this get me onto that ship?”
The drake man squinted at the boy. “Do you even know where we’re headed?”
“Nope,” Tyruc replied with a smile. “But I wanna go wherever it is.”
When the ship launched from the harbor with a brand-new cabin boy, Tyruc believed he had finally made it. He was out of H’vraan, away from the place where all the terrible things in his short life had happened, and now he was on a true adventure.
It would take some time for the name of Som to stop ringing in his ears. It would take even longer for him to convince himself that the events of the ewer were just a mirage, the product of the blasted desert and its heat.
But even when the day came that Tyruc forgot the name of Som, forgot the voice of the Herald in the ewer, forgot all about his opportunity for a second chance that day, Som did not forget him.
Som would send another Herald to Tyruc in his time of most dire need, this time a Herald of flame and fierceness to offer him a deal once more.
That deal would launch Tyruc on the adventure he had been destined for all along.
It would begin the tale of Tyruc, the Herald of Som.
This piece is a prequel story to “The Herald of Som” - my current fantasy novel in progress.
It developed out of a random three-word prompt: Pot, Desert, Departure. I wasn’t sure at first how tightly it would tie into the plot of the novel, but as I went along with it, it became clear that this was a bit of background for my main character, Tyruc.
If you would like to see more stories like this one, stay tuned! More prequel pieces are planned, and the novel is also coming along and should be readable… sometime. Until then!
Blessings,
S.M. Osborne