by Rj Barker
It did not sit well with anyone that a man had died for a crime he was innocent of. But at the same time they respected bravery and his decision, but whether they accepted it, or rejected it and with that, rejected Farys? Well, that could all depend on what happened here. On his success.
Joron left Meas on the rump, and went to walk the deck, passing Black Orris, sat on the bone handles of the great capstan in the centre of the deck. The bird watched him with beady black eyes.
“Hag’s arse!” it said, and Joron wondered if that was a good or a bad omen, though in the end it did not matter. He had set a course and now he must fly it. At the beak of the ship he found Fogle, the seakeep, with the topboy Bearna. They had untrussed the for’ard seaward gallowbow and were working on it with carving tools. When he approached they tried to hide what they were doing, looking shamefaced as they hid their tools behind their backs.
“What are you about there, Fogle?” said Joron to the much older woman, surprised she felt the need to hide anything from him. He wondered if Fogle was drunk, if so this would be the last time he cut them some slack.
“Don’t punish Bearna for this, D’keeper,” she said. “It were all my idea, swear it by the Mother, I do.” Joron stepped forward. The old bows – now abandoned at the bottom of the sea – had been covered in an elaborate filigree of scrimshaw and kept in exquisite condition by their proud bowcrews. These new ones were kept in the same condition but had not yet been covered in carvings. The name of this one, “Keyshan’s Jaw”, had been removed. Now, along the barrel of the bow, below where the great bolts would sit and where the bow’s names were traditionally carved, an area in the elaborate scrimshaw had been cleared by careful sanding down. The bow had a new name and it was plain for all to see, freshly carved there in the clear space: “Solemn Muffaz”. And around the name were already the markings for a new set of the most fine and elaborate carvings Joron had ever seen. He knew that Bearna had talent but she must have pushed herself harder than ever, though now the woman stood, shamefaced and unable to look at Joron, keeping her eyes on the deck.
“It is beautiful work, and fitting,” said Joron. “Carry on.” He left them to the bow and went to stand in the very point of the beak, looking out at the unceasing sea over the bowsprit. He wondered if Solemn Muffaz was out there now, denied a place by the Hag’s bonefire because of his crimes. Wandering the cold darkness at the bottom of the sea, forever alone. He hoped not, he hoped there was no such thing as the Hag, the Maiden and the Mother. He hoped they were simply the inventions of women and men, and when you died – what? You ceased to be? His mind rejected such an idea.
How could one simply cease to be? How was that possible?
Maybe the gullaime had it right, and women and men were part of some eternal cycle, born and reborn and never learning. Was it likely there were no gods? Was it likely that Skearith never flew? That it was not the godbird’s eye that warmed his skin?
He had heard some talk that way. He doubted Indyl Karrad believed in such things, how could he do what he did if he believed the Hag would one day come to judge him? Tide Child juddered as he hit a crosswave, a creak coming from the hull, and Joron had to reach out to steady himself on the bonerail. No, he could not discount the Hag, or the Maiden or the Mother. How could he when he had seen gullaime change the wind with only a thought? When he heard the song of the windspires and saw the majesty of the arakeesians as they woke from slumber? He felt like he was the plaything of the archipelago’s spirits sometimes, that he was dragged hither and thither into peril so often he must be part of some bigger plan. For if not, then what was it all for?
“Jo-ron Twi-ner.” He turned at the soft articulation of his name. Found the Gullaime, and for all her finery she looked beaten, her head low, the shining eyes only half open. By her stood Madorra, the windshorn in contrast looking proud. Further back on the deck the gaggle of acolytes. Madorra had fed well on the decks of Tide Child and filled out. Though physically smaller than the Gullaime he was stockier, stronger-looking and more aggressive. His one good eye twinkled in the light.
“Twiner,” said Madorra, and even in the saying of his name there was a challenge, as if Madorra was aware that Joron would always do his best to stand between him and the Gullaime. “What want, Twiner. Busy. We busy. Do gullaime things. Why interfere?” Why why?” Joron pushed himself away from the bonerail. Behind the two gullaime Bearna and Fogle were still working on the bow while trying to listen in on what they spoke of. He stared down the ship. The crew hard at work. The six great gallowbows, all but Solemn Muffaz, well trussed up. The three thick spines. The great capstan, the central square that could be opened to allow access to the hold. Past that the stairs that led down into the underdeck, the covering hatches open to let in a breeze. Behind that the rump. Where Meas stood with Aelerin and Farys. Farys pointed at the sandglass and said something, Meas nodded. He was proud of the girl, doing her duty though only the day before Meas had been ready to send her to her death.
But death was the destination of them all. Why would Farys be upset when she had lived the majority of her life on this ship, under threat of death every day? He brought his attention back to Madorra, noticed that the ship’s gullaime was limping. The slate deck below her spotted with blood dripping from a wound somewhere and Joron was filled with anger. An anger he had to fight back, lest he lash out prematurely. Was the anger his? Or was the rot working, and as if in confirmation every sore and lesion on his body started to itch and if he had been alone he would have been set to dancing, trying to scratch at his body. But he was not. He focused on the Gullaime’s dripping blood. Banished thoughts of itching. He had a duty. He had a ship to protect. A friend that needed looking after.
“Madorra, is the Gullaime bleeding? I would have Garriya look it her wounds if so.”
“Her wounds, ship man?” said Madorra, and he wondered if he had slipped up in saying that, giving away he knew which gullaime were “he” and which “her”. But no matter, not now. “Gullaime fine. Have accident is all. Madorra fix.”
The Gullaime nodded her head sadly. “Madorra fix,” she breathed into the air.
“Madorra, it is my responsibility to make sure that the members of my crew are well cared for. Garriya saw to the Gullaime before you came on board and is well versed in wounds of all kinds. Kindly go back to the cabin and I will take the—”
“No,” said Madorra, and he put himself between the Gullaime and Joron. His feet clicking on the slate deck, and though he had not spread his wings in a threat posture, Joron noticed the long fighting claws on his feet had extended. “Man not interfere,” he hissed.
As if a breeze blew through Tide Child, filling the air with word of confrontation, Joron noticed that the crew’s attention was drawn toward them. Heads were turned, put together and whispers were exchanged. Like the deckchilder could sense impending violence the way they could sense a coming storm.
“It is my duty,” began Joron and then the Gullaime pushed Madorra out the way; still keeping low she stepped forward, slowly, carefully, as if afraid Joron may attack her.
“No, Joron Twiner, no,” she said. “No trouble. All good. All fine. Gullaime foolish, hurt self. All good now.”
“Gullaime…” he began.
“No no. All good. Please, please,” she said, And Joron felt the situation slipping away from him. He needed Gavith to show up with the Gullaime’s egg, to free her from Madorra’s influence. Until then he felt almost paralysed by how clearly terrified of the windshorn the Gullaime was. He had lost Solemn Muffaz, and it was plain that Madorra was not afraid to use violence against the Gullaime, he would not lose her. She stepped slightly nearer, whispered only for him. “Not bring fire,” she said. “Not be Windseer for Madorra. Die first. Be safe. Joron stay back. Be safe.” Then she stepped away. Turned and began to make for the rear of the ship and back to the underdeck. For a moment Joron was paralysed, his friend’s fear had left him unsure how to act. What if he made things worse? What i
f he made Madorra push harder for the Gullaime to act as Windseer, and begin whatever the windshorn believed needed to happen to burn the world, to bring about the terrible prophecy Madorra believed in? What if the windshorn killed the Gullaime because it would not do as it wished? Joron watched them walking away. The Gullaime stumbled, almost fell – and what decided Joron was not that it happened. It was that Madorra paid no mind to it. Made no attempt to help her. Only walked on. When the Gullaime righted herself and continued to limp down the deck one of the deckchilder tried to help and Madorra bit out at him, hissed at him.
No, thought Joron. He walked forward.
“Madorra!” shouted from the rump, by the shipwife. Making their confrontation inevitable. The windshorn turned. The Gullaime paused and it turned also. “What are you at there?” Meas shouted.
“Please. Joron Twiner. Please not. Stop ship woman,” the Gullaime said, and Joron knew he could not look on any more. He had looked on for too long while Madorra controlled his friend. Today he would act and it would not be because of any prophecy, it would not even be to improve the mood of the ship. It would be because it was right.
“I did not give you leave to walk away, Madorra.” Joron made his voice as harsh as Meas’s, spoke in the most officerly fashion and now he had the attention of every woman and man on the crew. “Kindly stay on deck, as I believe the shipwife wishes to speak to all,” he said, and on the rump his shipwife watched him and the crew began to gather.
“Listen to me,” shouted Meas. “For I have been away and many of you do not know me, so I would address you, and introduce myself. Bring up those who sleep and work below to hear me!” She stood before the rearspine, hands behind her back, straight and unapologetic as more crew appeared on deck. “I am Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding. Some of you know me, and some of you only know of me, and all of you, I know, are proud to serve on this ship.” She looked over the assembled crew. “My ship!” Some nodding, a few quiet “ey”s. She began to pace, landward to seaward and back again, and Joron saw she held something tightly in her hands. “Well, you may be proud of that,” she said more quietly. “But not as proud as I am of you! Every one of you!” she shouted, coming to a stop in the centre of the deck. “More proud than you can believe, proud of your deckkeeper for finding me when I thought all hope gone, proud of the way you have kept this ship while he and I were away.” She stared down the deck. “Though the ship has suffered a little, I see. But that is the nature of a warship.” Some laughs. Women and men looking to one another. Some tentative smiles. Meas tried to smile, but did not quite manage it and he wondered whether this was some physical damage she had suffered, or some other damage, the type that could not be seen. If he had not known her better he would have said she was nervous. “I commend you all, each and every one of you. I cheer you, and call you the best of the sea.” She raised her head and spoke quietly, so they had to strain to listen. “Tide Child has suffered many wounds. As have I, as has Joron, as have you all. And with the loss of Solemn Muffaz we are wounded again.” She let time slip by, meeting the gazes of the gathered crew, some puzzled, some approving, some unsure of this woman they only knew through stories. She lifted her seaward arm, and in it she held Solemn Muffaz’s cord, the tool used by deckmothers to whip those who transgressed as long as there had been a fleet. “We come into this world expecting pain, and yet, I think we should not. Solemn Muffaz knew that. He saw an injustice in the way our lives are lived. And he gave his life to make us see.” She shouted the last two words, used the cord to point at the crew then let her hand fall back to her side. “He died to make me see.” Meas took a deep breath, raised her voice. “And I see!” She lifted the cord. “Today I draw a line!” she shouted. “I want an end to a world that crushes us underfoot! And I would rather die than give up on that dream!” She let her words settle, watched the crew. “There will be pain,” she said, and she spoke into a silence that felt so profound even the wind dare not disturb it. “But that pain…” Her voice almost broke. She took a moment, gathered herself. “That pain will not come from me!” And with that she threw the cord overboard. Stood there, breathing as heavy as she would after fighting an action, staring out full of defiance and energy. “So,” she said, her voice only just loud enough for them to hear, “what say you, my girls and my boys?” She looked at the crew, gaze flicking from one to another of them. “Do you commit to my dream? Do you commit to me?”
There was nothing at first. Just a shifting of feet on the slate. Joron watched, knowing he could not be the one to lead here. Meas needed her crew, and it was them that must make the decision. Farys was the first to step forward.
“I commit,” she said.
Then Fogle.
“I commit.”
And Bearna.
“I commit!”
And then a raucous, shouting mob erupted, so many voices calling out their belief in their shipwife. At some point someone shouted, “For Lucky Meas!” and that was taken up, then, “An end to pain!” was shouted. Meas stood on the rump and he watched her. The smile on her face real. Her muscles taut, the better to hold in her emotions. She held up her hands for quiet. Now it comes, thought Joron watching from the back of the crowd. Now it comes.
“And what of you, Madorra,” said Meas, pointing down the deck. “Do you commit?”
Joron turned. Looked at the two gullaime. “Well,” he said, “you heard the shipwife. Do you commit, Madorra? No more pain?”
The Gullaime stood stock-still, then started rocking back and forth, like a flightless bird caught between a predator and the edge of a cliff, unable to choose which death was preferable. Madorra did no such thing. He walked back up the deck, now his wings were out, his head slightly to one side so he could use his open good eye to study Joron. When he was nearer, not near enough for Joron to lash out with his sword, but near enough for Madorra to leap on him with his vicious fighting claws, it stopped.
Madorra hissed at him, beak wide open.
“What ship man want? What ship woman want?” it said. “Madorra not part of your rules. Madorra not of the ship. Not do as ship man say.” It yarked twice, the sound angry, and threatening. “You obey ship woman rules. Gullaime obey gullaime rules. Gullaime obey me.”
“Maybe that is true,” said Joron. “Maybe it is not. I believe you struck her, fiercely enough to cause her to bleed.”
“What if,” hissed Madorra, “what if? what if? Gullaime lazy. Gullaime mad. Must know place.”
“So you do not even deny it?” said Joron. “That you struck the Gullaime?”
“Not part of your rules,” it hissed again. “Not crew. Not fleet.”
“So you will not commit,” said Joron, and as he spoke he continued to move back down the deck toward Meas. Drawing the two gullaime with him. “I had planned to separate you and the Gullaime, as I believe you are bad for my friend. But no longer,” said Joron. The Gullaime relaxed a little, its shuddering lessened, its crest of feathers opened, just a little, to show the bright red within. Madorra nodded its head, beak moving up and down as if it had always known this would happen. A gleam of triumph in its one brown eye. “But fleet or not, part of this ship or not,” said Joron, “this crew and its officers, we have committed to ending the pain.” He looked about, saw the entire crew were watching, many holding makeshift weapons.
“Not officer,” said the windshorn. “Not crew. Just windtalker.”
“Now, Madorra,” said Meas from the rump, “surely you must be aware that some time ago I made the Gullaime an officer on this ship.” The Gullaime froze. Madorra froze. “Barlay,” said Meas, noticing the big woman near the front rank of those assembled, “kindly arrest Madorra and place him in the brig until he can be put off the ship.” The crew surged forward. With a screech Madorra spun on the spot, vicious claw lashing out and it was only by luck that none were caught on it. The Gullaime let out a tormented screech and Madorra moved, swift as wind. Launching himself at Joron. He heard Meas shout, “Move!” The c
rew split and she stood, small crossbow extended, and loosed a bolt at Madorra. The windshorn dodged without breaking stride and before Joron could draw his blade it was on him, smashing into his upper body. Maybe if he still had both his legs he would have kept his balance, but he did not and he did not. He fell backwards and hit the slate deck, the air knocked from his body. Felt Madorra’s claw at his neck. The windshorn keeping low, his wings out to cover Joron.
“Come near, I kill!” he screamed. “Come near, I kill!” Further back on the deck the crew stood paralysed and the Gullaime ran backwards and forwards, screeching and yarking in panic.
“Quiet yourself, Gullaime!” shouted Meas. She did. The shipwife strode down the deck, and if she had ever been worried about losing her authority Joron could not see it. She stopped near enough that Joron was sure Madorra could reach her if he wished and stared at the windshorn. Madorra blinked once. “Well,” Meas said, “we appear to have ourselves a situation.” The Gullaime appeared from behind her, just its head peering around her and it was almost comical. Joron had to fight not to laugh, to dissolve into a fit of giggles, and only the sudden fear that it was caused by the insidious tentacles of keyshan’s rot reaching into his mind stopped him.