Black Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  “Lord Balam provided the food. I didn’t get to choose.” He sounded morose. “Said we had to sail today, no time to go to the market.” He stopped long enough for another round of wet coughing, and Xiala waited him out. “But he gave me an inventory. I imagine it’s all maize. Enough for cold porridge in the morning, maybe a flatbread for supper with a little salted fish. Standard fare.” He pulled a sheet of bark paper from a bag on his belt and unfolded it. Someone had marked it well in ink, pictures and hash lines by each. Xiala could not read the picture language of the Cuecolans, so she waited for Patu to tell her what was on the list.

  The man let out a sigh. “So there’s maize.” He gave her a look that conveyed his lack of surprise. “In balls for flatbread and porridge, of course. But also fruit. Papaya, melon, and lime. Salted fish, maybe more than one kind.” He straightened, wide eyes getting wider. “Fowl soaked in vinegar, musk hog dried and cooked, mangrove oysters…” He smiled. “I do believe Lord Balam has given us some of his private food stores.”

  Xiala patted a much-cheered Patu on the shoulder. “Good, then. Make us a meal. A feast. Well, perhaps not too heavy, but the things that won’t last as long. Fruit and oysters, yes? Maybe there’s some balché on that list?”

  Patu grinned. “There’s better than that. There’s a crate of xtabentún.”

  The anise and honey drink she’d had so much of the night before that she’d ended up in jail. Part of her wanted some desperately. But the rest of her, the captain part of her, knew better. “Ah, let’s hold that. First day, after all.”

  “Of course.” The man stood, clearly refreshed. “I better get started. Callo’s got us almost to shore.”

  Xiala looked, but she didn’t have to. She could tell they were getting closer to land by the rocking of the canoe under her feet, the feel of the swell that changed as the waters shallowed. But she didn’t explain, only nodded in agreement and started to walk back to her place at the helm.

  She stopped in front of the door to the single enclosed space on the ship. Most of their cargo was in wooden crates or wrapped in woven fiber cloth and stacked beneath the thatched reed roof, but there was this small room, probably no more than ten paces square. Big enough for a bench and a bed and a scribe’s table, perhaps. Usually it was used as a captain’s quarters or for a cargo too precious to trust to the open sea air. On this voyage the precious cargo was a man. A man who hadn’t shown his face in the six-odd hours they’d been on the water.

  Xiala wondered why not. Balam had said the man was blinded and scarred. A religious recluse of some kind. Some old and wrinkled monk, she assumed, from some obscure Obregi order she cared less than nothing about. She inevitably didn’t get along with religious types. Always so dour with their prayers and their morality that they felt the need to force upon others. And never did their theologies have room for her, be it her Teek heritage that proved to be the abomination, her fondness for drink, or her sexual preferences. The more she thought about some old pruned-up Obregi in there, no doubt ready to press her to conform in the name of his gods, the more annoyed she became. Until she was feeling ready to throw him overboard on principle, promise to Balam or not.

  Stop it! she told herself. He is not here to sit in judgment of you. He is your guest. Your only job is to deliver him to Tova.

  And so she would. Although she had to admit she was curious. She had not met many Obregi in her travels. The country was deep in the high southern mountains and did not produce many sailors or have cause to participate in much sea trade. Even though she had met people from dozens of cities and places on the Meridian continent, Obregi was a landlocked mystery.

  She decided she would introduce herself, see to his comforts should he need anything, and keep matters professional and polite. It was her duty, after all.

  She reached her hand out to push the door open, but before she completed the act, a shout went up from Callo. She felt the gentle thump of the hull against soft sand. They were on land.

  She sighed and withdrew her hand. The Obregi would have to wait.

  * * *

  She was the last one off the ship. Callo had led the crew of two dozen to the sandbar. It was a wide, gently sloping cay perhaps an eighth of a mile long and fifteen paces wide, set off from the mainland shore by half the length of the ship itself. The water was shallow enough to be a chest-high walk at low tide and an easy swim at high. The water on the ocean side went from drop-off to sand in a matter of seconds, making it a perfect place to anchor. Easy to get the canoe back in water deep enough to row without the aid of a dock.

  Patu had been busy. The crew sat on the ground crowded around blankets spread with the wealth and variety of food Balam had provided them. Patu’s corn cakes were there, cooked over a pit fire with bits of squash. Oysters had been cracked open and drizzled with melted avocado and pepper seeds, and there was a plate heaped with fish, their dead eyes and orange scales glimmering in the fire.

  Someone had popped the lid off a clay barrel of balché. A cleaned bowl-shaped seashell was being dipped in the barrel, filled with the milky alcoholic drink, and passed around. Laughter and low peaceful talk filled the air, the sound of a crew who had worked a hard day under the sun and were being rewarded for it. They would have more hard days ahead of them, but for now, in the cool darkness in front of a fire and a spread of food fit for a merchant lord, all was proper and right.

  “Captain,” a voice called to her as her feet touched the sand. “Come join us.”

  A solid cheer went up from the crew. She slipped off her sandals to dig her toes into the still-warm sand. The balché shell was filled and passed her way, and she tipped the bowl back, draining the cup in one long swallow. Another cheer and a laugh, and someone called out, “Teek!”

  She grinned and gave a small bow, which elicited more laughter. A few of these men she’d drunk under the table in times past.

  She passed the shell back to the man who had handed it to her and dropped down in front of the blanket piled with food, folding her legs beneath her. Patu offered her an oyster and a small black blade that was no longer than her maimed pinkie finger. She used the blade to pry the meat out and sucked it down, the pepper seeds burning her mouth in a pleasant way. She used the same small blade to fillet a fish, a quick and practiced slice that bared the spine. She tossed the guts and dug her fingers in to pull flesh from delicate bone. It was delicious.

  The conversation flowed easily around her. Stories of the day and how far they’d come and what good weather it was for storm season and how it was because their captain was Teek and good luck, and through all of it she ate and smiled and worried about what she would say once all had full bellies and the balché had run out. Would all this camaraderie vanish, all this goodwill disappear like it never was? Would she still be good luck, or would she be a curse, a bad omen, when the waves rose and the rain fell, as they undoubtedly would before they reached Tova?

  She held off telling them just a bit longer, basking in the moment as the sun settled behind the horizon and the moon rose to take its place. And then she held off a bit more as one of the crew, Loob was his name, regaled them with a story of a swimming jaguar that chased him across a river and up a tree until he had been rescued. He turned his back to show the scar as proof, a place where claws had gouged a chunk from his flesh.

  “My house cat has done worse,” another man, Baat, said.

  “Hells, your wife did worse to me,” Xiala added, and Loob was the first to laugh.

  “Loob’s wife is from Tova,” Callo said. “That’s where we’re headed. Maybe you can bring her back something from her homeland.”

  “Do you mean Loob or the captain?” Baat asked.

  More raucous laughter that Xiala joined in. She motioned for someone to pass her the balché shell, and she drank deep again. And then she was ready.

  She stood and waited for their attention to turn her way.

  “Let’s talk about Tova,” she said. The fire on the edge of their gatheri
ng flared as the driftwood Patu had used to make it shifted, sending small orange sparks into the light breeze. The air smelled of cooking spices and ocean, and the waves lapped a soft rhythm behind her. She cleared her throat and did her best to make eye contact with each man as she spoke. “Lord Balam hired us all on, gave us our commissions for the voyage. And he’s paying us well,” she said, gesturing around at the remnants of the feast. “In cacao and food.”

  A cheer went up. “To Lord Balam!”

  “To Lord Balam,” the rest called back.

  “To Lord Balam,” Xiala agreed. “Who has tasked us with a difficult mission. Difficult, but not impossible.”

  Most cheered at that. They knew they were sailing in storm season and expected some challenges, but others, those sailors with more experience, understood she was leading them somewhere and exchanged uneasy looks, not sure they were going to like what was coming next.

  “We’re set for Tova,” she said, “but Balam needs us there in twenty days. Nineteen now, when the sun rises.”

  A small moment of shock followed by protests of outrage. “It’s too far!” someone shouted. “It’s thirty days, maybe more if the seas are choppy or a storm comes in and we’re forced to wait it out on land.”

  “I told him that,” she said.

  Loob scratched at his head. “The only way to make it in nineteen days is to sail the open water. And to row double shifts.”

  A groan went up.

  “We don’t have enough crew to row double,” Baat said. “We already ran double today, and my back is aching.”

  “Shoulders, too,” someone added.

  “The men would be hard pressed to keep it up for twenty days,” Callo agreed.

  “But it can be done,” she said, over them all. “I told Balam that with this crew, these men, it could be done.”

  They paused, unsure how to process her words, appreciating the compliment, but not liking what it implied.

  “And I’ll be there,” she added. “I’ll be there to calm the waters, to make sure your luck holds.”

  Her meaning was obvious, and they sat with it, absorbing what amounted to a promise to keep the seas friendly for them. Which was foolish, a lie, even, although they didn’t know it. She had her Song and her Teek power to calm or agitate the sea, but she wouldn’t be able to do much if a shipkiller hit. But what else could she say to convince them? Anything else, and she’d lose her crew before she’d started.

  After a few moments of quiet grumbling, Callo raised his hand.

  “Speak,” she said.

  “When I speak, I will speak for the crew,” he said.

  When no one gainsaid him, Xiala said, “You will.”

  He stood and rubbed his chin. Two dozen pairs of eyes moved from her to him, waiting. Xiala held her breath. Callo had seemed genuinely remorseful over Huecha’s treachery, but he’d also admitted he thought she was part fish. She realized now his superstition might work in her favor.

  “I’ve sailed the open sea before,” he said, his words slow and measured, “but not this time of year. This time of year, careful men stay in port and grow fat.”

  “Poloc’s already fat,” someone said, which earned him a push from the man next to him, likely Poloc.

  “But we are better than careful men,” Callo said, ignoring the teasing. “We are brave. I say we do it, not just because Balam has paid us all well, but for the adventure.”

  “I want to be alive to enjoy my riches,” a voice called from the far end near the fire. “Can’t do that if a shipkiller gets me and makes me food for the fishes.”

  “You heard the captain,” Loob said. “She’ll keep the storms away.”

  “Smooth sailing across the Crescent Sea! A story to tell,” Poloc said, a note of awe in his voice.

  “Our captain can do it,” Callo agreed, which made Xiala blink in surprise.

  “We’ll be legendary!” That was Baat.

  Xiala exhaled, but her shoulders stayed tense around her ears, and she folded her hands behind her back to hide the fact that they were shaking. Callo’s support had been unexpected but gratifying, and the way the other men had fallen in line behind him was both good and bad. Good on this day because it went in her favor, but she wondered what would happen if she and Callo came to differences. Which way would the crew split? A shudder of foreboding rolled across her already tense shoulders. She hoped she never had to find out.

  “Teek!” Loob shouted. “Teek! Teek!” And then someone else joined him. And then Callo and Poloc and Patu and Baat, too, until everyone was chanting, “Teek! Teek! Teek!” like her heritage was a talisman that would keep them all alive. Dread curled in her belly, knowing it was her own fault for suggesting the truth in their superstition. Part of her regretted it, but another part exulted in their acceptance, no matter how precarious.

  “The crossing will be hard, but my Song will get us there safely. And, as Callo said, we might see wonders.” She looked at Baat. “Become legends.”

  “Tail to tip, straight across to the Tovasheh river in nineteen days!” Loob marveled.

  “Sixteen,” Xiala corrected. “It’s three days upriver, so that gives us sixteen days to reach the river mouth.”

  Stunned silence, and for a moment she thought she might have lost them. But Baat yelled, “All hells, we’ll make it in ten!”

  “Nine!”

  “Seven!”

  “We’ll be there tomorrow by supper!”

  And then they were laughing and passing the balché around again.

  Xiala motioned Callo over. He came, plaintive eyes wary.

  “My thanks, Callo.”

  He shrugged. “I meant it enough. And I need the pay.” He looked down. “And it’s not a lie I told, is it? You’ll get us there, Teek.”

  She bristled at the name but only nodded. Nothing but confidence would do now.

  “Make sure the balché runs dry in another half hour whether the barrel is empty or not. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, and they’ll need their stamina. There’s a freshwater chultun not too far in on the mainland.”

  “I know it,” Callo said.

  “Send two of your most sober men to fill as many water pots as they can.”

  “And firewood? There wasn’t much here to gather.”

  “No wood. We’ll only eat cold and burn resin on the open water.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll stay with the ship tonight. You stay here bunked with the crew, enjoy land while it’s under your feet.” She cared little for a few extra hours on land, but sleeping on the ship had a more practical purpose. A drink and meal shared was good leadership, but she was still a woman and the only woman among two dozen men. She was a hedonist at heart, never shy about loving men or women or any other gender, but she drew the line with her crew. She had a rule to never mix business with pleasure, and it served her well. Best to sleep on the ship to avoid even the hint of availability. Besides, she liked the gentle rocking of the waves under her head. She worried about Callo forming a stronger bond with the crew in her absence, but that could not be helped. She would have to trust her first mate.

  “All right. Then up before dawn tomorrow, and we— Callo?”

  Her first mate’s face had gone pale in the firelight, eyes huge and staring at something behind her shoulder. Her senses prickled in alarm. The voices of the crew quieted. And she turned to see what stood between her and her ship.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE CRESCENT SEA

  YEAR 325 OF THE SUN

  (20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)

  Crows are highly sociable creatures. They form family units with mothers and fathers and even siblings. I have seen the solitary crow, but even they might gather with another to look for food or ward off a predator. I once saw a crow befriend a kitten and protect it with its own life.

  —From Observations on Crows, by Saaya, age thirteen

  The distant sounds of voices and laughter called to him. The crew had been a constant companion th
roughout the day, the measured count of their strokes a meditation, the bawdy songs they sang to keep rhythm as they sliced through the waters his entertainment. It was a pleasant way to pass time, something new and unusual.

  He was used to spending most of his time alone, but that did not mean that once he had the choice of joining the others, he did not want it, it did not beckon. And then he heard them chanting “Teek! Teek!” and his curiosity got the best of him.

  He thought to call on his crows and let them tell him what there was to see, but the truth was that a secondhand experience would not be satisfying. He wanted to know what was beyond this small room—put shape and size and person to the sailors’ voices, and to the ocean and the island, and especially to the Teek woman, the captain.

  He stood and smoothed the wrinkles from his robe. He had not removed his boots or any other item of clothing, save the strip of black cloth he wore tied around his eyes. He didn’t need it, of course. The flesh of his eyelids had long ago sealed shut like a healed wound around the gut his mother had threaded through them a decade ago, but covering his eyes seemed to comfort others, so for their sake he wore it.

  Even with the cloth on, he could still see some. A little in the normal way if the light was bright against his eyelids, but he also had his other senses, touch and taste and smell, that his tutors had honed to impressive performance. It was not magic, but countless hours of practice. Practice told him where a person was standing from the movement of the air around them. Practice taught him to listen to a person’s breathing and whether it was steady with calm or short and panicked with lies. Practice had taught him the myriad smells of bodies and rain and heat and what they said about a person and the weather and the time of day.

  And of course, he had his birds that let him borrow their eyes when he took the star pollen.

  And he had something else. The crow god.

  But none of it replaced what he ached for most.

  The company of people.