Island of Echoes by Roman Gitlarz Read Free Book Online Page B

objects attached to them, none were the pistols or swords that I would have expected.
    Several dozen individuals, all attired in pastel green cloth, stood waiting for us at the outskirts of the crowd. They were musicians. Most of them wore drums attached to their torsos by leather harnesses. The instruments varied in length and width but all were wooden and beautifully carved with intricate patterns and symbols. The remainder of the group held long silver trumpets, which resembled the great building before us.
    The musicians lined up in front of our approaching carriage; they would be leading us to the tower. As if reading each other’s thoughts, the drummers all struck their instruments in perfect unison and a thundering rhythm pierced the air. I do not know what tricks of sound they used, but the uproar was much louder than nature allowed. The cheers of the crowd were drowned out by the rapid percussion. My shipmates and I jumped up in surprise. The drumming was intense and more suited to a savage ritual taking place deep in the lost jungles of the world than among these smiling foreigners. The trumpeters soon joined the percussion with long powerful blasts which balanced the dominant beats with a hypnotizing melody. It was an entirely unparalleled presentation.
    The locals went wild with excitement, smiling, cheering, and throwing flowers at our passing carriage. I noticed that they came from a mixture of hereditary backgrounds; I could discern every complexion among the group. It was most difficult to tell the men apart from the women. Both genders displayed varying lengths of hair, from extremely short cuts to shoulder-length locks, with flowers and braids as common embellishments on either.
    Their clothing, likewise, was very similar in appearance. The tunics had a few folds, but with extremely simple silhouettes. Most ended just above the knee with short sleeves at the top, though several individuals, men and women alike, wore white trousers beneath the colored cloth. Everyone appeared to favor pastel colors: yellows, greens, pinks, and blues. The more I scrutinized them, the more I realized that I had already seen the garments before. They were chiseled into the decorative marble panels surrounding the roof of the great temple. What I mistook for poor workmanship was actually a representation of the simplified pseudo-ancient robes before me.
    Accessorizing appeared to have no particular rule. Some people wore jewelry, everything from complex metal necklaces which spread wide across the shoulders to simple bracelets, while others wore none. Large ornamented broaches were clasped to the shoulders of most of the garments. I spotted a handful of odd hats with no brim but with silk sheets hanging off the back. Others wore purely decorative scarves, for the warm weather did not necessitate them, adorned with streaks of metallic thread. There were even a few silken capes fluttering in the breeze.
    The wild presentation continued as we approached our destination. I was rather frightened at the time, for the display of the locals was the last thing I had expected to see. It was nearly impossible to pick out single voices among the group but many individuals seemed to be shouting the same two words that the woman Yawa addressed us with earlier: “Er thelón.”
    I looked to my companions, who appeared just as startled as I was. Lady Pearson was attempting to say something but it was impossible to hear her over the din. Our laps were soon covered with countless flowers and the words “Er thelón” had become a chant. They were shouted over and over in unison until we reached the base of the great silver tower.
    The smooth cone continued straight down to the grass, so that the building looked like a colossal metal spike which had erupted from the deep recesses of the Earth. The circular base, hundreds of feet in diameter, was only broken by a large doorway at the terminus of the cobblestone road. It was reminiscent of the