Thirteen Veins :Book Two
[The Thirteen Veins: Roots and Flow]
Volume 2 · Chapter 15
Strangers on the Tide — Scar Meets Scar
The sun hung warm and bright over the cove, turning the fine white sand hot underfoot.
The sharp tang of salt water blended with the sweet, green scent of coconut fronds, wrapping around the group of naked men as their laughter and jibes drifted far and free.
Some rolled over to bake their backs in the light; others rubbed the salt and sweat from one another’s shoulders.
Their talk was blunt and unpolished, but carried nothing but open affection — the sort of cheek only true brothers share.
“Alim, that bruise across your side from slamming into the gunwale hasn’t even faded yet, and here you are throwing yourself straight back into the waves!
Don’t come whimpering to me when it throbs through the night!”
“Better than you, hunched over like an old prawn left out of water!
Look at Nai Wen — stands straight as a ship’s mast, smooth‑skinned as he may seem, but just now he hauled that anchor firmer than any of us.
There’s strength hidden deep in those bones, mark my words!”
As they teased one another, the quiet was broken by the soft, steady dip and pull of oars — light as ripples brushing smooth stone — followed by a loud, easy call that cut clearly across the shore:
“Now there’s a proper spot!
Sheltered from the wind and warm under the sun — looks like the gods set this cove aside just for men who know how to live!”
All heads turned.
A small skiff drifted over the shallows like a fallen leaf.
At the bow, a man pushed off lightly, twisted his hips in a smooth, balanced motion, and landed steady on the hot sand without even a splash.
He stood taller than average, broad‑shouldered and thick‑backed, solid as an old coconut tree rooted deep in the coast — the kind that never bends in gales or shifts under heavy swells.
His skin bore the fair base of mixed Malay‑Siamese blood, warmer and richer than Nai Wen’s pale porcelain; under the sun it flushed only to a healthy, glowing pink, never turning dark or leathery.
His build was firm and dense, like hardwood seasoned and soaked in brine: a high, open forehead, a strong, straight nose, a neck thick and sturdy enough to bear heavy loads, a chest deep and full, a back broad and ridged with muscle, a waist thick but trim, hips solid and powerful, and legs heavy and roped with the strength of years of labor.
A long, pale knife‑scar slanted across his back, running from his left shoulder blade all the way down to his waist — a clear record of storms, brawls, and hard voyages.
Smaller marks crisscrossed his arms and wrists: rope burns, blisters from heavy cargo, and the wear of a lifetime spent working and trading.
He wore only a faded length of dark cotton, tied loosely around his hips with an old, worn cord and a brass buckle polished smooth by decades of handling.
Glinting faintly in the sunlight, three curved lines — like ripples on water — could just be made out, carved deep into its surface.
A blade of tough grass stuck from the corner of his mouth, hands resting loosely on his hips.
His gaze was bright and shifting as open water under a breeze; he swept it over the group of naked men without flinching, without leering, without feigned surprise — then grinned wide, showing a row of strong, even white teeth.
“Look at you all — cast off your wrappings and let the sun reach your bones!
Afraid the clothes block the wind, or just hiding what you are so no one can tell friend from foe?”
Ali Khan pushed himself up on one elbow, sizing the newcomer up from head to toe, his gaze settling on those broad shoulders and thick, calloused knuckles.
“And who are you, sailing in here talking big?
Should we tie you up and toss you back out for the fish to feed on?”
“Toss me?
First you’d have to find out if my flesh is worth eating!” The newcomer took two steady steps forward, his feet planted firm on the hot sand.
His hands were thick and rough, built for gripping oars, heaving hawsers, and manhandling heavy cargo.
“Name’s Azhar — Malay‑Siamese blood, born and raised along these coasts.
I’ve sailed every stretch of water from Perlis down to Songkhla; I know every reef hiding under the waves, every harbor that tucks away from storms, every honest trader and every cheat between here and the border.
Speak six or seven tongues up and down this shore, and I know where to find the oldest goods and the oldest stories.
My larger vessel ran aground outside the cove; I came in only to fetch fresh water and wait out the blow. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Do me this small favor, and any time you sail these waters, just speak my name — you’ll save yourself three turns of trouble!”
Anda narrowed his eyes, first at the brass buckle on Azhar’s waist, then at the thick, weathered skin of his hands.
He spoke carefully, testing the stranger’s words: “You talk bold, and you keep more cloth on than we do — yet you act as if you have far less to hide.”
Azhar spat out the grass blade with a sharp, hearty laugh and tapped his buckle, which glinted again in the sun.
“Cloth is only good for covering modesty.
When the waves rise and the hull cracks open, can cloth hold back the sea?
Can it stop falling timber or slipping rigging?
I’ve sailed long enough to see brothers strip bare and drag each other ashore to safety — but never once saw a coward saved by fine silk or fancy coats!”
The words were rough, simple, and honest — like a stone dropped into still water, clear and true.
Nai Wen sat up slowly, raising a hand to shade his eyes, his fingers brushing lightly over his own forearm.
He spoke in the soft, steady tone of old lessons passed down through generations:
“To know what a man is made of, you have to look back through his line.
My father’s people were Shan from the highlands of northern Siam — bred to stand heat and humidity, their skin naturally fair.
My mother was Hakka from Dabu, Guangdong, who crossed the South China Sea and settled here in Songkhla and Kedah.
Her people carry mountain‑tough bones; his carry pale, cool flesh.
When the sun burns hard, the heat only rises to the surface, turning the skin pink — but by dawn the warmth fades, and it returns to its natural white.
Not like those who live their whole lives under the open sky, their skin darkening like iron left too long in the fire.”
“Ha!
So you’re Hakka and Shan both?” Lao Hashan chuckled, reaching over to brush a grain of sand from Nai Wen’s back.
“You look smooth and lean, yet just now hauled anchor and pulled rope stronger than most.
That’s the way of it — the skin is what others see, but the bones are forged in mountains and rivers.
Strength is what counts, not the colour or the shape of your covering.”
“Exactly,” Lao Hashan added, rubbing a salve of crushed herbs and oil into his own legs while studying Nai Wen’s frame.
“Look at his build — a clear forehead, neck long and strong, broad shoulders, tight waist, long legs.
No extra flesh to weigh him down.
The old Hakka saying holds true: too much bulk slows you over hills and across waves; too little strength leaves you weak against storms.
This is the shape the land and sea hammer into a man — not bred for beauty, but forged for survival.”
Azhar’s eyes lit up with recognition.
He tilted his head and looked Nai Wen over again, that easy grin softening into genuine interest and respect.
“Hakka and Shan — that explains it all!
Your words never bend, your hands never shake.
The Hakka live by ‘rely on brothers abroad, rely on your own strength at home’; the Shan know ‘the mark is proof, and only sincerity brings kinship’.
Put them together, and you get a man who stays steady when the whole world shifts beneath his feet.”
Nai Wen smiled faintly, saying nothing at first.
Slowly, he raised his left arm.
The sunlight fell full upon his pale skin, and a faint, pale blue pattern rose clearly to the surface: half a crescent moon, half a straight arrow, worn smooth by time, yet etched deep into the flesh — missing only the three wavy lines that should sit beneath it.
He traced the mark gently with his finger, his voice growing deeper, but still open and calm:
“My father said this is no charm or lucky token.
It is the mark of our ancestors — to tell you that when you meet those who walk the same path, you must lay bare both your heart and your skin.
It does not ask your name, your faith, or the clothes you wear.
It only asks: will you strip away all pretence, and stand in the light just as you are?” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
The moment the words faded, Anda spoke.
He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the bronze token he had carried for years, holding it up to the sun.
There it lay complete: the full moon, the full arrow, and three clear rippling lines, glowing with the dull, warm shine of old copper.
Nai Wen’s breath caught softly.
He stared first at the token, then at his own half‑mark.
Then from a small, oiled pouch at his waist, he drew out a worn, flat piece of copper.
When laid next to Anda’s, the two halves fit perfectly — every curve and notch matched, closing the gap — leaving only the lowest section, which pointed directly toward the buckle at Azhar’s waist.
“Matches,” Nai Wen said, touching the pieces lightly.
“But only half the story.
My father told me: walk the road one step at a time, and recognise the marks one piece at a time.
Lay all your cards on the table at once, and what is left to discover?”
Azhar was no fool.
His eyes had been fixed on the joined marks, and now everything fell into place.
He looked again at the naked, scarred, straight‑talking men around him — then at Nai Wen, fair‑skinned and lean yet firm — and then at his own broad, heavy frame.
He grinned again, but this time without mischief, only honesty and resolve.
“I know the rule.
The mark alone is not enough.
To truly know brothers, you stand bare — scar against scar, heart against heart.
I’ve worn this cloth for miles and miles; now I’ll shed it too, so you can see if my bones are as hard as yours, and if what I carry is as true as my words.”
With a quick flick of his wrist, he untied the cord and let the cloth fall to the sand, where a gust of wind rolled it lightly against the rocks.
He stood fully exposed in the sunlight: broad, heavy, and powerful, crisscrossed with old silvered scars and fresh pink marks, yet radiating the quiet strength of a man who has faced every kind of hardship and lived to tell it.
His manhood hung thick and solid, heavy and firm — no different from the rest, yet as substantial as the trunk of a mooring post, strong and unashamed, resting naturally between his thighs.
The others looked on naturally — no staring, no leering, no cheap remarks.
To them, it was only the way of men: some hands are large, some feet wide; some frames lean and long, others thick and heavy; some are slender as a river fish, others stout as a solid log.
Shape and size mean nothing — only strength of spirit, clarity of eye, straightness of spine, and truth of heart ever truly matter.
“Good!
Honest and open!” Ali Khan roared, slapping his own thigh hard enough to send grains of sand flying.
“Fine words mean nothing if you hide your body and your soul.
White, brown, or bronze; fair or rough; lean or thick — stripped bare, we are all flesh and bone!
Hakka, Shan, Malay, or Siamese — if the marks fit, and the heart is true, then you are one of us!”
Azhar stepped forward to stand beside Nai Wen — one lean and supple, like a fish gliding through the current, holding the quiet endurance of mountains and rivers; the other broad and solid, like a sturdy piling driven deep into the sea floor, shaped by the raw force of storms and tides.
Still and moving, pale and warm, they were two different shapes, yet as complementary as the two halves of the token.
He unfastened his brass buckle and laid it flat on the sand — and there it was: the three full rippling lines that formed the bottom of the mark.
Placed beneath the joined moon and arrow, it locked the whole design into one complete, flowing symbol.
Three pieces of the Thirteen Veins had now come together.
The road north and west had only just begun.
But in this quiet cove, the wind was warm, the sun was bright, and their spirits were high.
A bond older than any language or border was already spreading out over the waves, ready to carry them further.
——-Looking forward to the next Chapter——-