Riverkeep Page 18

  —Gentling Norbury, The People’s Sea

  “What’re these, First Mate?” said Samjon. The morning’s low sun caught him through the porthole, and he screwed up his face.

  Ormidale glanced at the cabin boy and then continued unpacking the crate.

  “I shudn’t be surprised you dun’t know,” he said. “Where’s you from again? Coll?”

  “Clell,” said Samjon, indignant. “I’d rather drown meself than be a Collander.”

  Ormidale gave him a sideways glance. “Clell and Coll are less’n a mile apart. They’s almost the same place.”

  “Heavens above, that ain’t so! We’s goat farmers in Clell. In Coll they farm sheep,” said Samjon, shuddering.

  “I’m sure they’s both the same at nighttime,” said Ormidale. “Leastways, it’s no kind o’ fishin’ life. ’S a wonder then you ended up on a whaler an’ no wonder you ’in’t seen these afore. Mind you, ’s only the cap’n uses these. It’s a secret o’ his—’e had ’em made special.”

  “So what is they?”

  “Gongs,” said Ormidale, running his hand over the huge brass disk. “You puts them in the water an’ pull the rope—see how the beater’s hinged there?—an’ the gong bangs under the water. There’s six of ’em all round the ship.”

  “Why?” said Samjon. “So’s the whale thinks it’s dinner an’ comes lookin’ for the bait?”

  “Not quite,” said Ormidale. “They finds the noise confusin’, like the cap’n’s talkin’ to ’em. With this mormorach thing, he reckons it’ll cause it all manner o’ problems—might even kill it.”

  “How’s he know that?” said Samjon, eyes wide.

  “I dun’t know. It’s the cap’n, ’in’t it? He jus’ knows things. He’s been listenin’ to it shoutin’ an’ reckons these’re the way to go. He’s a genius. Mind you,” Ormidale added, looking about the hold, “if you asks me, he’s—”

  “He’s what?” said Murdagh, stepping around the galley.

  “Too handsome for his own good,” finished Ormidale. “C’mon now, cabin boy. Help me up on deck with these.”

  “Too handsome?” said Samjon, confused. “You know, by the tone o’ your voice, I thought you was goin’ to say something more negati—”

  “There we go, lad!” shouted Ormidale, heaving the first gong onto the pulley’s platform. “You jus’ pull on that rope there, an’ I’ll be off upstairs to load it overboard. Aye, Cap’n, aye,” he added, saluting Murdagh as he passed, pressing against the wall and sliding onto the main deck.

  “We’s goin’ to talk to the mormorach, Cap’n?” said Samjon.

  “In a manner o’ speakin’,” said Murdagh, flashing a brown smile and running his stump-fingered hands over the gong’s surface. “We’ll be givin’ it some noise to deal wi’ anyway. When these gets in the water and sets to ringin’ you’ll feel it in your sheep farmer’s bones.”

  “Goat farmer’s,” said Samjon.

  “Same thing,” said Murdagh, stamping off into his quarters and slamming the door.

  “’In’t the same thing at all,” muttered Samjon, “lest a pickerel’s the same as a gutback, an’ I don’t think that’s true. . . .” He rapped the gong with his knuckle. Its bong resounded in the hold, deep and long and inside everything—wood, men, and metal—so that it rang through his bones and quivered the eyes in his head.

  It’s the sound a god would make, thought Samjon, and flicked its surface again.

  The gong lifted in steady bursts, chiming as the swell moved its hammer, ringing like approaching thunder as the hatches opened and the rain dappled its polished surface.

  “Send the next one, lad!” shouted Ormidale once it had been unloaded, his face a black dot against the brilliant, pouring square of sky.

  “I can’t. . . .” started Samjon, looking at the other gongs. Each weighed several times more than he did. “I—”

  “Hurry up, cabin boy!” shouted Trehv, the bo’sun.

  “But I can’t. . . .” Samjon glanced at the captain’s quarters. “Hang on!”

  He took a few steps and opened Murdagh’s door.

  “Cap’n, I can’t load up the—”

  “What business has ye bargin’ into my quarters?” roared Murdagh, naked but for his johns.

  “I’m sorry!” said Samjon. “Oh, Cap’n, I’m sorry!”

  “Take yer hands from yer face, boy,” said Murdagh.

  Samjon did so. Murdagh stood very still, his weathered skin bathed in the thin light of the cabin, his damaged, ruined eyes burning into Samjon’s.

  The captain’s body was decimated, cut and withered like a steak left to sun, its internal threading pressed to the surface in purple tangles of thick veins. His back, crooked and pained-looking, was caged by pale baleen struts, sagged through by loose skin like trussed putty. Below the waist, emerging with a frightening round tightness, was Murdagh’s half leg, a thin finger of grubby, ribbed skin.

  “Take a look at the sea’s price, lad, if that’s what ye’ve come to gawp at,” said Murdagh quietly, holding his arms to his sides.

  “Cap’n, I’m sorry,” said Samjon, feeling tears in his eyes. “I’s jus’ lookin’ for help with the gongs. It was the gongs was all.”

  Murdagh snorted and sat on his bed. The small, gloomy cabin smelled of peppermint and lakoris, and, more overwhelming still, of stasis—the ingrained grime of decades lived in a narrow rhythm.

  “Gilt’s not to be gettin’ his nap time, it seems,” he muttered. He lifted his terrifying, pale bone leg, its tip ground by wood and stone, and began to strap it to his stump.

  “You’s not a whaler at heart, boy. It’s there in the swing o’ yer legs an’ the pallor o’ yer face. Most men who find themsel’s aboard a ship like this is runnin’ from somethin’ on land: coin, crime, disgrace—maybe you’s touched up the wrong sheep? Ye’ll find no judgment here on . . .”

  “They’re goats,” said Samjon before he could stop himself.

  “It’s the same thing, lad, an’ ye’ll be served well by no’ interruptin’ yer captain. The point is”—Murdagh stood, tested the false leg, began to wrap the joint in thick linen—“there’s another group who’s been called to the sea from the moment they wriggled out their mammies’ trenches, an’ the longer the first group sails, the more they realize they’s always been part o’ the second. All of us are called to sea; jus’ some of us has better hearin’. You miss the land, but you’s not yet realized what it means to live on the water.

  “Think on the respectful, dignified, hidden violence o’ the sea, all its monsters floating, graceful as angels, all those masses o’ death-bringin’ teeth and tusk as smooth in that world as heavenly bodies in the sky. Think about the messy predation o’ the land, all its beasts chargin’ an soilin’ an’ matin’ in noisome lumps.”

  Murdagh hefted a flat strip of bone and pointed it at Samjon before splinting his right forearm.

  “Think on the beautiful tints of the sea, the loveliest tints of azure an’ emerald, as rich a spectrum as sky could muster an’ such as could never be glimpsed in a precious stone dug out the ground. Think on the sea’s livin’, glitterin’ body, then think o’ the mud o’ the docile soil, an’ tell me ye don’t feel like spittin’. Why did the old tribes o’ the north or the Sadani or the ancient Poogs hold the sea to be holy? Why are there gods in their hundreds for its care an’ worship but only a han’ful for the land? Think o’ your reflection in the surface o’ water: only the sea can show ye to yersel’ an’ tell ye who ye really are. The land shows naught but its own muck.”

  A tear escaped and ran down Samjon’s cheek. Murdagh shifted the baleen on his ribs with a grunt, then started to wind the linen over his waist and onto his torso.

  “An’ think on the whale,” he said. “The thing about a whale is, he knows when ye moves alongside him, he knows ye’re goin’ to try an’ sp
ear him, an’ he challenges ye to kill him. He looks at ye, an’ if a shark’s got lifeless, black eyes, a whale’s got warm eyes, warmer’n cragolodon or mairlan or anythin’ else. He looks at ye with eyes as deep as yer own soul, an’ he chooses to fight ye. There’s dignity in that fight, that desire to fight, an’ you’s not goin’ to find that on the land. I’m not sayin’ your sheep don’t struggle—”

  “They’re goats, Cap’n, an’ we don’t . . .” said Samjon, his words out between his tears before he knew it.

  “Sheep, goats, rhats, cats—whatever they are, they’re land animals, an’ they’ll never have the dignity o’ the whale,” said Murdagh, dressing in his trousers and boots and coat, growing bigger and more fierce in his wardrobe, the vulnerability of the thin man Samjon had found vanished by the fabric.

  “Yes, Cap’n,” said Samjon.

  “An’ sure,” said Murdagh, dropping his hat onto his head, “it’s whales’ve done this to me. They’s taken bits o’ me as they could, an’ they’s broken me down, but I’ve taken ’em in their thousands onto this ship, an’ I’ll take this damn mormorach if it’s the last o’ me that’s needed for it. When I have that beast’s skin, I’ll make myself such a cloak. . . . I’ll feast on his meat and throw bits o’ him to the birds. I don’t need his bounty—I want his title. I want to face the sea’s champion an’ crush him till he bursts. If it ends not here I’ll follow him thrice an’ more round the world to hold his dead heart in my hands, an’ you’s signed up to go too, young Samjon, until either me or him is dead by the other.”

  Samjon nodded. He hadn’t moved since entering the cabin and now stood in the open doorway, a fully dressed Murdagh before him, his dreadful crutch tucked into his arm, the familiar leer on his face.

  “You get on deck an’ send the bo’sun an’ his mate to get the gongs,” said Murdagh. “An’, cabin boy,” he added as Samjon fled to the stairs, his voice softer, quiet, “tell them I gave you three lashes for the delay.”

  Samjon smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Cap’n,” he said, then scrambled up into the light.

  Behind him, Murdagh glowered, ran his hands over his back, then closed the cabin door.

  The Danék Wilds

  Wull woke, drifting, dusted by a puff of fresh snow—little towers of it on his sleeves and head. He brushed himself off, compacting the powder into a smear. The seized claws of his hands held the Bootmunch’s gigantic oars tight to his chest, but without guidance the bäta was twirling through the floes across the river’s breadth, accompanied by the quietly slipping blues and grays of seulas. The banks were lined heavily by white trees, invisible against the white cloud, the land almost disappearing around them.

  He looked at Tillinghast sleeping under his hat, the gray strip of Pappa beside him—head heavy on his stringy neck, hung forward, drooling. Wull reached out, took the spit string on his glove, then looked over his shoulder, saw Mix and Remedie sleeping too, Mix tucked into Remedie’s chest, Bonn, his unmoving face puckered upward, clutched in Remedie’s arms.

  Wull took in the growing brightness of the sky, felt in its light the new day’s imperceptible warmth, and stretched the pain from his spine. High against the clouds spun the unmoving silhouettes of birds gliding on unseen thermals.

  His wrist was locked to stone. He tried to move it gently, pushing against the steel of his tendons as much as he dared, feeling it close to snapping. His face, too, burned painfully—less so now that Remedie’s smear of mud had worked into it, but still enough to pull the rest of his face in a permanent rictus of discomfort. Added to the ache of his shoulders and arms, he felt the fraying of the thin fabrics that held him together, every tiny strand of tissue that kept him from bursting apart screaming under the strain: a tension that started in his acid-boiled guts and moved out through his bones and his muscles into the innermost coils of his mind.

  He sometimes reflected that it was not, perhaps, a good thing to be so intimate with the tightly packed wonder of slippery mass that was the human body: it didn’t help his headache that he could picture exactly the brain’s jellied lump pulsing inside his skull, or know, when they screeched fire at him in the night, the miracle of compression that pressed the slick guts inside a human torso.

  Better to live in ignorance and deal with the outside, he thought as he drank from his pouch, looking at Tillinghast. An’ the gods know that’s bad enough anyway.

  The water was ice-crisp in the pouch’s skin. It hurt his teeth.

  He began to row with the ton-weight oars, found the current by instinct, turned the bäta’s nose into it and felt it kick gratefully ahead, like a horse loosed for play. He kicked the sole of Tillinghast’s boot.

  “Wake up, Till,” he said. “It’s mornin’.”

  “Hmm? What? Oh . . . what?” Tillinghast lifted his hat from his face and squinted at him.

  “We all fell asleep,” said Wull. “It’s a fair, bright, clear day. There’s seulas with us, an’ birds—look like faelkons.”

  Tillinghast shuffled uncomfortably. “Where are they? In the trees?”

  “No,” said Wull, “the sky. They’re miles away—nothin’ to worry about.” He laughed. “Faelkons nest on the ground anyways. You wouldn’t likely find ’em in trees.”

  Tillinghast peered at the sky until he found the faelkons’ shadows. “’S long as they stay there,” he muttered. “Dun’t like birds.”

  “What’s wrong wi’ birds?”

  “They’s dirty: horrible feathers, flapping noise, ticks on ’em. . . .” said Tillinghast. “I dun’t like the way they moves. It’s their bobbin’ heads when they gets close to you with their ugly feet. Faelkons is the worst an’ all—ugly blaggards: no beaks, dirty big teeth, bits o’ wood.” He shuddered.

  “I like birds,” said Wull. “Look at how free they are.” He watched the birds’ swoops for a moment, graceful specks whirlpooling like flotsam through an eddy’s funnel.

  “Free to mess on my hat, more like,” said Tillinghast. “You ever seen a faelkon’s mess? ’S like a bloody omelet, so it is.”

  “I wish we hadn’t slept,” said Wull. He puffed out his cheeks. “I don’t know how much time we’ve lost, but I’d rather have it back. This is why we should take turns rowin’.”

  Tillinghast dropped his hat back onto his face, snorted, and muttered something unintelligible.

  “What was that?” said Wull. “If you jus’ said the words payin’ customer, I swear . . .”

  “Well, I am a payin’ customer!” said Tillinghast, reappearing from under his hat. “Paid for those bloody oars, didn’t I?”

  “Untie the arms!” said Pappa, spluttering into life. “Untie the arms!”

  “I can’t!” said Wull. “And, sure, thanks, heaviest oars in the damn world—you could row a warship with these! If my wrist wasn’t sore before . . .”

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Remedie. She yawned and stretched, then flicked the swaddling from Bonn’s face and smiled at him. “Let’s not bicker like children, shall we? There can’t be far to go now, and it befits no one to debase themselves with gutter talk.”

  “Who’s got gutter talk?” said Tillinghast. “’In’t nobody had any gutter talk—jus’ him moanin’ again.”

  “I wouldn’t moan if you would jus’ bloody well row,” said Wull. He started the blades in the water again, his body popping under the renewed strain.

  “You know, it’s real funny how you’s been complainin’ about havin’ me an’ the ladies here with you, an’ yet you’d still rather I take a turn an’ help out. If you wants to do it all yourself, then do so an’ don’t be bringin’ me this rot all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t even need you to take a turn if the bäta wasn’t so damn full! I could row Pappa an’ me to the North End!” said Wull.

  “Well, we are here now, and we’re very grateful, Wulliam,” said Remedie. “Aren’t we, my love?” She ran
a finger over Bonn’s cheek. “After all that running through the woods I’m just so happy to be safe here, having a gentle journey downstream, without having to worry about any of the dangers of the road. And Mix is too,” she added.

  “Oh, sure,” said Mix grumpily, her face still sewn tight with sleep stitches. “Delighted. What a lovely snooze I had on the wooden boards, an’ bein’ woken by fightin’ is the most cheerful welcome.” She held out her hand for the water.

  “I don’t want gratitude,” said Wull. “I’m glad to help—I am—even if you just snuck onto my boat—it’s what Pappa would have wanted me to do.”

  “Good man,” said Tillinghast.

  “I wasn’t talkin’ to you,” said Wull, heaving against the water. A seula broke the surface and blinked at him, twitching its whiskers at the smell of fish heads.

  “Now, boys,” said Remedie, “you’re narking for the sake of it. I’m quite sure you wouldn’t even be able to tell me what started all this, would you?”

  “Wull’s annoyed Till won’t row, and Till’s annoyed Wull doesn’t appreciate his contribution,” said Mix without opening her eyes.

  Remedie sighed. “Thank you, Mix.”

  “That’s jus’ it!” said Tillinghast triumphantly. “My contribution! Money and strength is what I brings, an’ is it appreciated? Is it, hell!”

  “What about my contribution? I sewed on your damn hand!”