Stories for Chip (14 page)

The new first mate is standing near, slicing a piece of apple away from its core with a long knife. He tosses the rest of the fruit away and replaces the blade in the sheath on his boot. “Aye, sir.”

“Prepare to get under way.”

Deck gunners prime their weapons. There is the click of artillery shells locking into place.

“You know, Brother,” says Hautalo, “if we are boarded I doubt that cage would stop a determined man. I take no responsibility for her. Or the boy.” He walks off.

The boy utters a deep trilling sound. He does this when confused or frightened. He does not understand the sounds of our common language any more than I do. But at least he can make these few sounds. I was taken far too young to remember how.

The breeze tugs at my cassock. Pulling my robes about me, I glance at the darkening sky. The wind does not carry whispers now; there is no song in its currents, only a deep hissing.

“The past is a dead heart, my son,” I say. “We make the sounds of Citymen now.”

His voice shakes: “Forgive me.”

I place my hand on his shoulder. “Faith teaches us strength. And how do we approach faith?”

“Trust in the church.”

“And?”

“Fealty.”

“These bring us peace of mind.” I pinch his arm gently. “You would do well to remember your catechism.”

Despite his lapses he is a dedicated boy, eager to please. More than what he had been when the authorities in Faulk brought him to me: a street urchin, an orphan of the Hinterlands, living hand-to-mouth like an animal. Much like I had once been, before Abbot Diyari had taken me in.

And I want to encourage him, guide him with a more gentle hand than I ever knew. I bristle at the memory of my tuition, and the scars of penance that still live in deep pink lines across my torso.

“What's wrong, Brother?” The boy is peering at my face.

I realize I'd been staring at him, and my eyes are filled with tears. “Nothing,” I say. “Just tired, that's all.”

He stands, gazing up at me, considering my answer. I tousle his hair, and he smiles. It makes my heart sing to know that soon, when he completes his first catechism, I will give him a name, just as the Abbot had named me.

He casts his eyes to the hatch that leads down into the ship, to the hold, and to the caged woman waiting below. That strange woman who does not speak, or cry out in her pain.

It is forbidden to give a Cityman's name to a nonbeliever, to someone who has not passed through catechism. But she must have an identity. Secretly, I call her Rydra.

“What we bring the Abbot is a great prize,” I say. “The faithful will read about what we've done for ages to come.”

He says nothing but leans closer to me, as though true comfort lay not only in my words but in my close physical presence. Like a son to a father.

◊

…many mornings I would stand at the back of the great hall in Rik-Tarshin to watch the faithful crowd into the sanctuary, watched closely those who would hope to touch a scrap of the robes of Theosis, the First Abbot, and acquire wisdom. For a small tithe some are granted an audience with the Skulls of the Sacred—remnants of the first, great Citymen—in the hope of obtaining vitality.

I was envious that the Abbot had been brought such wonders of the ancient world by Brothers who had proved their devotion. And they had been rewarded in various ways, as true sons would by a proud father.

And so forsaking comfort and all aid—and with the blessing of the Council—I left the cathedral, and Rik-Tarshin, and set out on the Pilgrimage.

I walked the deserts and prairies of the Hinterlands, suffered many hardships, lived frugally, prayed relentlessly.

But I never found any holy relics…

Day 6

Rydra spends most of her time sleeping. During her semi-conscious moments, I feed her bread dipped in condensed milk. Sometimes she gazes out through half-opened eyes, irises the color of desert sand.

I pull the blanket back ever so slightly (and true to his tuition the boy turns away, and does not look upon her exposed flesh). The gas lamp suspended above highlights a network of cuts and bruises. Her skin is pale, ghostly. Her hair, as fresh and as clean as white linen, flows softly about her shoulders.

Without turning his head, the boy hands me a cloth dabbed with ointment. As I clean her arms the boy begins to chant the Creed of Theosis. I listen carefully as I work. When he is finished I smile with satisfaction. He's remembered every line. Every word.

Reaching behind Rydra I brush the grazes there, careful to avoid the two distinct folds of skin that run the length of her back on either side of her spine. They look like layers of calluses, folded in on each other. The wounds bleed a little as the scabs come free.

I don't know where she was found, or how she came to be in a slaver's market. But I understand for what purpose she would've been sold.

I first set eyes upon the woman while travelling back to my parish in Faulk. Taking a short route through the valley, I passed through the town of Mordia. The slave market bustled and stank of blood and faeces; slavers shouted above the din.

And there she was, a Hinterland woman, lying on a slaver's cart, naked, unmoving, bruised body chained to the wooden flatbed, wrists bound. Her breathing was so shallow I'd almost mistaken her for dead.

And something stirred within me. A deep pain I had not known before. I hadn't thought of my mother since being sent away to Faulk. But I thought of her in that moment: a slight woman, flowing yellow hair and a smile like rays of sun.

What I did next shocked even me. I took my leather purse, pregnant with the tithes of desperate believers, and dropped that hefty bag of coins at the slaver's feet.

It was only later that I came to recognize the type of binds that tied her wrists together: numinous cords from ancient days, fashioned by the First Citymen to bring low the people of cloud and air.

Our ancestors.

The People of the Hinterlands.

As I finish cleaning her wounds I am struck by a sudden awareness.

She is awake.

Sitting back on my haunches I stare down at her face, her ethereally beautiful face. She is looking beyond me, to the boy. She tries to lift herself up on one elbow, and flops back upon the floor of the cage.

“It's time, my son,” I say.

The boy sighs heavily; then passes back to me a small ceramic demitasse. Taking a small bottle from my satchel, I pour out the correct amount of sedative. As I bring the cup to her lips she turns her head, and her whole body convulses violently. I pull back, spilling some of the sedative on my robes.

“Brother…” The boy wants to turn around.

“Stay as you are.”

Her chest heaves and she pushes herself into a sitting position. Swaying like a drunkard, she holds out her bound wrists to me.

Can she see the fear in my face? I cannot tell. Her expression is unreadable.

She collapses to the floor again.

Hands shaking, I pick up the sedative bottle and pour out another measure.

The boy, back still turned, has become anxious and whimpers something, some tonal phrasing.

The woman looks to him and puffs air from her mouth, a series of subtle breathy sounds, as if trying to respond.

Day 9

We lost another ship in the night.

In the morning the cramped mess hall heaves with boatmen lining up for breakfast. The men do not speak. Silence lives between them, a reflective, solemn quiet.

Receiving our bowls I lead the boy to a long table, where Hautalo sits at its head. He motions to an empty space near his end of the table and I sit, the boy squeezing in next to me.

I ask about the missing ship, the
Sea Dawn
.

Hautalo chews his food but does not look up. “Brother Sunde, if our aid would've changed the situation I would've ordered it so. That ship was hit hard with concentrated weapons fire. A generator was knocked out, the engines were a hopeless pile of scrap, and they were bleeding fuel.”

“What of the men on that ship?”

Hautalo looks into his bowl. “I gave the order to cut loose.”

“You mean you fled?”

The men stiffen, spoons frozen in mid-air.

Hautalo fixes me with an icy glare. “And what would you have me do, Brother, with these simple cargo carriers? Attack raiders? Survival is the first order.”

“Captain never would've left comrades behind,” says a man named Crist. A few men mutter amongst themselves.

Hautalo points his spoon at the man. “You are here, mister, for one obvious reason: lack of space in the skiff. You would do well to keep that in mind.”

“And I am grateful you spared my life by allowing me to remain aboard,” says Crist. “But he
was
our captain. By
law
. His brother died on one of the ships we lost. He was mad with grief. If given more time we could've talked him down. He was almost ready to listen.”

“Almost is too late,” says Hautalo. “We needed to act. And I will not waste any more time explaining that simple fact to you.”

There are voices of agreement, prodded along by Jenko's agitations.

The boy speaks: “But you have bigger ships. Theirs are small.”

“And built for speed,” says Hautalo.

The boy nods, slowly.

“Ships that small need a supply chain way out here, boy,” says Jenko. “Our former captain said he knew of a depot in this region, at the Uvalu Atoll. He wanted to storm it, break the chain.”

“But these men are merchants, boy,” Hautalo adds, “not military.”

“Tis true, dat is,” says Marl, the fat Northern man. Other men raise their voices in agreement.

“You are men of Rik-Tarshin,” I say. “Appeal to the Council. They will provide you escorts.”

Crist scoffs. “Just like that, hey? You've been away a
long
time, Brother.”

“And this conversation is over.” Hautalo glares at him.

Crist thrusts his spoon into his bowl, stirring its contents rather violently. “The Abbots once raised armies to subdue the new lands, and to apply and uphold the law among Citymen—”

“Crist.”

“—and what do they do now? Collect remnants of ancient days to remind themselves of how impressive they once were. And while they brood on past glory, the world they built collapses upon itself.”

Hautalo slams his fist on the table. The boy flinches. I place my hand upon his leg, to calm him.

“Master Jenko,” he says, “take this man into custody. Assemble the crew on deck in one hour to watch Crist receive punishment for insubordination.”

“Aye, sir.” Jenko rises from his chair, hand on his holstered weapon.

Crist glares at Hautalo across the table. Then he puts his spoon down gently and gets up. Jenko escorts him from the room.

Some men exchange hard glances; others continue eating, slowly, cautiously, as though waiting for something. Utensils scrape bowls. The ship gently rocks. No one utters a word. It remains like this for some time.

It is the boy's voice, soft and melodic, that first breaks the silence. “The raiders. How many are there?”

“If we are vigilant,” says Hautalo, “and disciplined, we shall make it through.”

“Not ta worry, lad,” says Marl. “Da Brother will pray ta da Everlastin' for us. Maybe dose raider bullets will simply pass urs by.”

Some of the men snicker.

I clear my throat. “I am always happy to offer prayer, individually or corporately.”

“See here,” says the fat crewman. “Ya really want ta offer sometin', why don't ya rouse dat girlie ta give urs a dance.”

The men, seemingly revived by the jolly spirit of this fat man, whoop and clank their spoons to the sides of their tin bowls.

“The seminarian never dances,” says the boy, indignant; he looks to me. “She processes.”

“Ah!” The fat boatman chuckles. “Well, ya think, Captain Hautalo, ya can give me permission ta go down dar? I got some of me own processin' I'd like ta do.”

The men roar with laughter.

“Take no notice of our bloated comrade, boy.” Hautalo leans forward. “After pulling a double shift and enjoying half-rations tonight, Marl is going to scrub the sanitary closets.”

The men jeer loudly at the fat boatman and bang their fists on the table.

Day 11

The wail of the siren penetrates through the body of the great ship, and down into the hold. Guns rumble overhead. There is a muffled explosion and the vessel shudders.

The boy looks uneasy, as he did in the early days of our journey, before he found his sea legs.

I'm pouring out a measure of sedative when Rydra utters a discordant note. I drop the cup and throw myself back against the bars of the cage.

“She speaks!” I whisper. “By the Everlasting, she speaks.”

Another explosion, this one nearer and louder. The ship rocks violently, and the boy utters something. It is the sound of fear.

Rydra reacts to the boy, calls to him in a long, drawn out wail, a sound so lamentable gooseflesh rises on my arms.

The boy cocks an ear and wraps both arms around his chest. He is terrified, of her, the guns, or both. In this mad rushing moment I cannot tell.

The ship pitches to one side. I grab hold of the bars in an effort to remain upright. The boy falls sideways, howling as he hits the deck.

And Rydra reacts, letting out a riotous screeching, like a bow dragged across the strings of a violin. It's so loud and so terrible I'm almost deafened by the noise as it slices through my head. The boy claps hands over his ears.

She does this several times, until she falls unconscious again.

Day 12

“All right,” says Hautalo. “I want to know who you
really
are, and what the hell you've brought aboard my ship.”

Wisps of black smoke roll across the deck in slow, phantom motions, strangely illuminated by the orange and gold of the morning sun. A ship, the
Marigold
, is badly damaged, and sits close to our port side.