The calendar does not lie. It has served me, my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, without fail. The stone carvings on its face prepare us for every ill approaching. Drought, famine, disease.
Today it warns of death.
I do not believe the calendar so I realign the circular rings. The Moon spins. The Sun spins. Once again they meet above the hideous face carved into the calendar’s center.
Neither annular nor partial, the coming eclipse shall cast a complete shadow, and I have not the heart to warn the others. In the marsh they rake the evaporation pits. In the village they stoke the smokehouse fires. Further down the coast they cut great chunks of crystalline salt from the pock-faced rocks.
I do not tell them what the calendar says. I cannot stand to put the fear in their otherwise peaceful minds. I cannot tell them that today one amongst them shall die.
My hand grips the outermost ring of my calendar—the Sun. I spin and spin and spin, but She always comes to rest above the Moon. Above the scaled face.
The total eclipse is coming. To the east the Sun rises over the opaque sea, and to the south the Moon, a pale gray shadow against light blue skies, rushes after Her.
The calendar never lies. Today someone will die.
I cross my legs and set the calendar upon my thighs. It’s heavy and cold and the designs on its surface are as familiar to me as the lines on my palm. The celestial engravings point towards the empty sea as we watch the undulating waters together. Milky whiteness, salt pillars, and the gentle ripples of perch finning.
Nothing lives in the Sythian Sea but fish and monsters. Nothing grows on the sea’s banks but rubber weeds, their chewy red cases swollen with salt water. The breeze from this morning has departed with its cool, fresh air, and now nothing remains but stillness and dread.
The Moon catches the Sun. She swallows the light, and the revolving sky slows to a stop.
The Sun vanishes behind the Moon. My chest itches and the hairs the back of my neck stand on end. Static energy without a storm, darkness without night. The shadow follows, engulfing the coast and skating out across the still water.
Minutes pass, but my heart has slowed and time pauses. The Sun and the Moon lock together, and I watch their intimate dance.
The eclipse is beautiful when it has no right to be. The craterous Moon is an imperfect fit for the Sun’s perfection. Beads of sunlight peek around the Moon’s rough edges, but the Sun vanishes. Left in its place is a black void framed by drops of light.
My family, my friends, my neighbors. They will be watching. They will realize what it means. Has the void claimed someone already? Could it take me?
My hand slides from the calendar’s dials to the harpoon at my side. I curl my fingers around its wooden shaft and force myself to take a few measured breaths. The moment will pass. The Sun and Moon will break apart. Then I will gather my people. We will bury the dead. Together, we will curse the cruelty of the Moon and the apathy of the Sun.
I wait for the eclipse to end, but it lasts minutes, many, many minutes.
I am still watching, waiting, when the first sound draws my attention away from the drab skies: a ripple, a splash, a gurgle.
Harpoon in hand, I spring to my feet. The calendar, my calendar, lands upside down on the salty shore.
Rising from the water, gray skin drooping, fanged mouths slack, are the creatures we fear above all others. They come in pairs, gills flapping, webbed-fingers flexing, and lidless eyes staring at me.
They advance on spindly legs. They unsheathe knives and swords of black glass.
Only a few at first, but then more surface from the lapping tide until hundreds crowd the shallows. They stagger from the water and gulp down their first breath of air.
I don’t wait for the end of the eclipse. I am not a fighter, and my salt magic will not stop the horde. I wish I could claim bravery, but what I do next is not an act of bravery. I run for the animal pens. I run for the protection of villagers bigger, stronger, and more courageous than myself.
Behind me, they clamber over the rocks and teeter on wet fins. An army of them march on us, on our little village perched on the top of the bank. Our little huts made of elk hide and mammoth bones will not stop them. Our men are too few and our weapons too weak.
By the time I’ve reached the village, the cry is echoing down the street. My friends and my neighbors and my family are racing for safety.
The eclipse ends, but it’s taken far more than it was ever due.
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