by Rj Barker
It was strange, that thoughts of the Gullaime were like a stab in the heart. He missed it. When they were back on land he would be commander once more and alone; Cwell and Mevans would look to him. Back aboard ship even Aelerin deferred to him, would never be truly what he could call a friend, the same with the other shipwives. The Gullaime was the only thing in his life that did not care who he was, treated him no differently despite his rank. It was rude, dismissive and somehow that was a comfort to him, and he felt in need of comfort. In need of direction as well, but that he would find with Meas, he was sure of it. Like a ship with a broken rudder he had gone far off the course she had set him, but he would find her and bring her back and she would set him right and straight and, somehow, fix their world. Find their people a place.
A sob broke from him.
What am I? he thought. What weak creature am I? You judged me worthy of this burden, Meas, and all I wish to do is place it back on your shoulders. Was that his real reason for being here, was it entirely selfish? Was all his talk of duty and promise simply a cloak with which to mask his cowardice? He did not want it to be, felt sure it was.
But if so, he must wear that cloak again, must stand tall and be ready. He was not finished yet. She was there, somewhere. He was so close. And whatever happened, find Meas or die here, the Black Pirate would end on Bernshulme, and Joron was glad of that, for his command was heavy, his mask was heavy, and his hands were heavy, weighed down with blood.
Joron had little to do but wait then, long hours listening to the sounds of the ship, and he took some sleep and used the time to pad the cup of the varisk leg he was using. Trying to make some better comfort of it until he was on land, and could once more strap on the bone spur his stump had learned the shape of in such a way it had almost become part of him. On some days he did not even look down and feel surprise that his leg was not there. Just like on some days he did not look over the deck of his ship and expect to see old friends and lovers walking toward him. So much had been lost and here he sat, on the cusp of finding out if it was worth it.
“Servant.” He turned. Cwell at the door. “We are coming in to drop the staystone,” she said, “you and Mevans should bring up the sea chest and we will load it on the flukeboat to be taken ashore.”
“Ey, mistress,” he said, and moments later was joined by a grinning Mevans who took most of the weight while they pulled and pushed the heavy sea chest up the steep and slimy steps of the hold of Keyshan’s Eye, the hatkeep cursing the thing all the while.
“I do hate a chest, damn things seem built to make life difficult for an honest deckchild,” he muttered under his breath and Joron smiled to himself. At least some things were familiar.
On deck, Skearith’s Eye was falling, dipping beneath the brightly coloured top of Shipshulme Island, and all around him were ships and boats of various sizes. Tall spines casting long shadows, reaching out across the sea like grasping fingers eager to close around him. He heard a splash as the staystone was dropped and Keyshan’s Eye came to a full stop. It was poorly executed and he staggered a little with the heavy chest as the ship jerked at the rope. The deckmother shouted at someone and Joron heard the crack of the cord and a groan as it made contact with some poor soul’s flesh. He would be glad to be off this ship, away from its crew of slaves and the constant reminder that no matter how hard he may sometimes think his life had been, others had it far harder. He looked back to the island. Shadows lay across the deck, making a cage of stripes around him and he thought how apt that was, for he knew deep down, in the depths of his mind, that he was unlikely to leave this place.
Then he was awash with guilt. What had he done? Brought Mevans and Cwell to this place to die. He and Mevans put the chest down by the bonerail and Cwell came over to stand with them. He lowered his voice.
“Listen, and listen well,” he said. “I free you both, you understand? Cwell, your debt to me is paid in full. Mevans, you need not follow me as your deckkeeper; you are both free to stay on this boat and return to the fleet. Or go other ways, if that is your choice.”
“Stay?” said Cwell. “On this leaky tub? I think not.” Joron turned to Mevans.
“We have a job to do,” said Mevans. “And I’ll not leave it undone.” Then he grinned. “Besides, I cannot bear to think what trouble you would get yourself into without me and her to look after you, ey?”
Joron stood a while. Then nodded, and a great tightness that was within his chest seemed to unwind a little.
“Thank you,” he said, and had to fight to keep the emotion from his voice. He had not realised how much he wanted them to stay, how much he feared going to his death alone.
“Are you ready?” They turned to find Shipwife Ansiri stood behind them. “For I’d have you off my ship.”
“Where will I find my uncle?” said Cwell.
“Bernshulme.”
“He did not flee the plague?”
“At first, ey, but it seems the plague knows its place and it leaves the houses of the rich and powerful alone. If you see a rope go around it, they rope off the plague zones.” She turned, watching as her deckchilder pulled up an A-frame and started to heave the flukeboat off the deck and transfer it to the water. “When you are on the docks,” she said, “hire a porter is my advice; the way over the island is a hard enough walk without carrying a chest, the porters are strong and used to such journeys. Honest too, most of ’em.”
“How do we know which ones are not honest?” said Mevans.
“Well, you’ll have to judge that on meeting ’em,” she said. With a splash the flukeboat landed, sending up a sheet of water that soaked Joron, Cwell and Mevans. Ansiri strode off, shouting at her crew and demanding the deckmother “teach ’em some lessons”.
“I will be glad to be off this ship,” said Joron.
“Ey, me too,” said Mevans, “’tis a miserable place. But from what is said, Bernshulme is not much better. Now come, Servant,” he grinned at Joron, “let us get the sea chest aboard the flukeboat and us off this tub before it sinks in the harbour. If I’m going to die on Shipshulme it would at least be polite to give the Thirteenbern a chance to do it.”
29
A Homecoming
The makeshift port at the rear of Shipshulme was neither well planned nor comfortable. Merely a collection of gion and varisk huts connected by paths made muddy by their proximity to the sea and the constant wading ashore of deckchilder and their officers. There was no water deep enough for a true harbour on this side of Shipshulme, just a gently sloping shingle of sharp shells, and the ships were forced to sit far out in the bay and send their flukeboats to the island. In the bright light of morning Joron stood on the sand and watched as a snake of brown boats, painted with all manner of symbols – some familiar, some not – moved through the water bringing cargo and people. Behind him Cwell argued a price with a porter to take their sea chest over the island to Bernshulme. Joron felt faintly resentful at any price paid as the chest was more for show than anything else, and would be discarded once they reached Bernshulme.
That aside everything seemed so beautiful; the sea was placid, catching the light of Skearith’s Eye and transmuting it into a lake of shining silver. The air full of the plaintive calls of skeers and the shouts of deckchilder going about their tasks – mostly happy, occasionally irritated, often singing. Beneath the sound of human voices, rising and falling on a warm breeze, he could sense the deeper song of the island. Joron felt more than heard that song, the call of the beast buried far beneath it.
“I have known your song all my life,” he said to himself, and he wondered how many others heard it. If it was the constant background of their thoughts, and they never gave it a moment’s more reflection than breathing or the flow of blood through their veins. Could they all do what he did? Could they all be what he was?
For a single, golden moment the world before him shimmered and he felt as though he looked through a glass at the same scene in almost the same place. But it was no
t. There were no ships, instead keyshans wallowed and upon their backs sat strange devices, as if woven of air, and women and men moved about within those devices. Above, vast winged creatures flew and the same devices hung beneath them, and all around him stood women and men but taller and fitter than any he had known, dressed strangely too. No sign of the sick, the lame or unformed. As if all were Bern, and none were Berncast here. Then, these strange and wondrous people heard some signal, silent to Joron but loud to them; they turned and looked to the sky and those beautiful, strong, healthy faces twisted in fear and all was brightness and heat and a cloud, rising and rising…
“Joron?” He felt a strong arm grab his elbow. “Are you all right?” He turned to find Mevans, dear, kind, worried Mevans. “You stumbled, and for no reason I could see.”
“Tired is all, I think, Mevans,” he said. “The bailing of that Hag-cursed ship took more from me than I realised and I still feel it.” He tried to smile, but the after-images of that light were laid across his vision, ghosts of those beautiful faces, and he felt like he had the answer to some vast and great puzzle, but that the puzzle was so vast and great that he did not even know it existed. Had it existed? He grabbed Mevans by the forearm, holding him hard, feeling the solid muscle beneath the skin. The realness of him. “If I lose myself, Mevans, if I go like Coxward and the rot overcomes me, you will not let me suffer?”
Mevans, usually so stoical, so dependable and quick to joke, froze. For just a moment, a terrible sadness distorted his features, chased away a jolly reply, and he locked eyes with Joron.
“I would not let you suffer, D’keeper,” he said softly. They stood there, locked together for a moment. Then Joron let go, stood back. Straightened his filthy clothes.
“Has Cwell agreed a price with the porter yet,” said Joron, “or have they come to blows?”
“A price is agreed and the woman has already set off. Truthfully,” he leaned in, amused, “I reckon they both enjoyed the verbal sparring.”
“Well, Cwell has always loved a fight, it is true.”
“You talk of me?” She approached them grinning, belting on her bone knives and holding a curnow for both Mevans and Joron. “I did not really want to trust your straightsword to that porter, they are all thieves, but I reckon she was the most honest of the lot and if I handed it to you now there would be talk.”
“My spur too?”
“Even more talk with that.” She spat on the shingle. “So I have put them both in Mevans’s pack, if they steal the chest now it will be a favour to us. Do you wish more rest, D’keeper, or shall we make our way over the island?”
“We may as well start, the day is young so let us not waste it.”
With that they set off into the gion forest, always making their way up as that was the quickest path over the island, and with every step Joron winced as his stump complained at the rough treatment meted out by the ill-fitting peg leg. A day of this, at least, he thought. Maybe longer if I cannot make the pace. Ahead of him Cwell and Mevans worked methodically, cutting down the forest, weaving a path around heirthrews and the more vicious vegetation, and all the time the air was full of the noise of the forest life, sounding out its fury at these creatures pushing their way through a domain that was not theirs. But the noise did not stop Mevans and Cwell, and biting insects did not bother them the way they seemed to beset Joron. About midday they strayed near the nest of a pair of birin and the vicious birds ran out of the undergrowth, wings outstretched and slashing claws at the ready. They reminded Joron of the Gullaime, their aggression totally out of proportion to their size, as they were no higher than Mevans’s waist. The birin’s desire to protect their nest only served to provide food for the pot and draw attention to their eggs. The two deckchilder cut the birds down out of hand, blades falling, squawking quickly stilled. Mevans swiftly gutted the birds, spraying blood on the base of a gion palm as if it were paint on a ship’s spine. Then he tied the birds’ legs together and draped the corpses round his neck. Cwell vanished into the bushes, returning with a clutch of eggs and the birin’s nest.
“We shall eat at least, and these nests make fine sun hats,” she said, placing the eggs carefully in her bag and then, after brushing what filth she could from the inside of the wide nest of braided stalks, she placed it upside down on her head. They stopped for lunch, more hard bread, eaten as they sat on rocks while Mevans plucked the birin, saving the primary feathers which Cwell placed in her bag as they were valuable. More than anything Joron wished to inspect his leg, but that would be to show weakness.
“You should check your leg, Deckkeeper,” said Mevans.
“Ey,” said Cwell. “The porter will meet us at the top of the island, they will set up a camp there and we’ll cook them birds. The less damage done to you now the better, cos we may have to fight in Bernshulme.” Joron nodded, oddly touched by her care for him; even though Cwell made her interest a gruff thing he knew it was more. Their silent relationship was as odd and as close as any other he had, and because he often simply forgot she was there she knew as much about him as any other alive. He undid the peg, unwrapped the stump and tried not to seem bothered by others seeing it. Mevans inspected it.
“Bloody,” he said, “but clean, the cup could do with repacking.” He gave Joron a smile. “I’ll do it while we rest.”
When they set off again, Joron felt much lighter, better; he was not pain-free but he was not as pained as before and the way seemed easier, despite it being steeper now. They walked through the afternoon, the heat of the forest slowly abating. As Skearith’s Eye began to fall he smelled smoke on the air.
“Smell that?” he said.
“Ey,” said Mevans, “that’ll be the porter’s camp. Will allow us a view over Bernshulme and some proper rest. Hag knows we are sore in need of it.”
They stumbled into a clearing where several porters had set up tents, while around the edges of the clearing children were stationed with torches and behind them younger children were busily pulling up any vegetation that might trip the unwary. The air was full of a smell – something unpleasant and familiar yet also, and at the same time, alien and he found he could not place it. He wanted to hold his breath and he wanted to breathe it in. The strength of the smell waxed and waned with the breeze blowing over the hill.
“That’s ours,” said Cwell, pointing at a blue tent painted with the signs of the Maiden. Their porter, a haggard-looking woman with all the wiry strength of a deckchild, sat before a fire using their sea chest as a seat and turning a spit. She looked up, nodded at Cwell and returned to concentrating on the bird she was roasting. When they were near she looked up again.
“We sleep on the ground in the tent, it’s covered so you shouldn’t end up with a varisk vine growing through you.” The porter chuckled to herself. “Keep your weapons by your sides; ever since the plague came there have been tunir in the heights, that’s why we got the children round the edges, as lookouts. I don’t reckon the fire scares tunir none, but it gives some comfort as to those as choose to believe it does.” In the firelight Joron saw her eyes were different colours. “We’ll eat then sleep; nothing to see in the night from here and tunir seldom bother sleepers.”
Joron doubted that was true, and while he ate he found himself watching the edges of the forest, the vegetation writhing in the torchlight in time with the movement of his jaws. He did not sleep well either, and the thought of tunir preyed upon him. Mevans and Cwell and the porter showed that wonderful skill unique to deckchilder and fell deep into sleep as soon as they lay their heads down, but Joron found no rest. He felt as if he had somehow travelled back through time to the night after he was condemned to the black ships, felt the Hag standing at his shoulder, ready to pull him down to her domain in the depths of the ocean.
“Sentence is passed,” he said the words used to condemn a soul to the black ships to himself, “only the day is undecided.” He turned on his side, the sores in his face stinging and the night sounds of the forest fill
ing his ears. The muscles of his face starting to ache as he strained to hear more. At some point exhaustion overcame him and he fell into darkness.
He woke to a camp full of happy noise, the industrious sound of women and men going about their work and knowing that at the end of the day they would get paid for their labours. Cwell and Mevans were already up and out the tent, he could hear Mevans talking with someone about the rate the gion was growing this year, faster than usual, and whether this was a good or bad omen. He could not hear Cwell but then he so seldom did. No doubt she was nearby somewhere, near enough to keep an eye on him. He sat up, rubbed his bleary eyes. Saw that a scarf had been laid out – it was red, not his usual black, but he understood that. The less he looked like the Black Pirate and the more he looked like some poor unfortunate who had contracted keyshan’s rot the better.
And of course, that was what he was, Black Pirate or not.
He sat up, unwrapped the bandages from his stump and looked at his skin, raw and red where it was not hard and dry and cracked. Mevans pushed through the entrance to the tent with something wrapped in greased material in his hand.
“Here,” he said, handing it over. His hand was covered in red lumps, as was his face. “It will help keep infection away.” Joron took the wrapped package, smelt it before he opened it and then understood the welts on the hatkeep’s body. Honey.
“Thank you, Mevans,” he said, “it looks like you paid a high price for it.”
“Not as high as the price I charged some of the porters for the rest, we done all right.”
“He up yet?” said Cwell, pushing in behind Mevans and the hatkeep nodded. Cwell came around him and held out his bone spur, though it no longer gleamed.