The Voyages of Trueblood Cay

by Suanne Laqueur

  “The kepten doesn’t want you to suffer,” Abrakam said. “But he won’t be able to prevent your suffering if he doesn’t know what’s causing it.”

  “Pardon us,” a crew member said, approaching the main mast. He and a mate both wore a harness of straps around their waist and legs and had massive coils of rope criss-crossed on their chests. Fen backed away, bumping into Abrakam and nearly toppling onto his ass. He stared, open mouthed as the two sailors hooked their harnesses onto the rigging and began to shimmy up the impossible vertical danger.

  I wouldn’t be afraid to fly up there, he thought. Why can’t I stand to…stand and look up there?

  Because I fly no more.

  And neither do they.

  “They’re crazy,” he whispered, shielding his eyes to follow the ascent.

  Abrakam chuckled. “Many are called to sail on the giantships,” he said. “But only those who prove they can handle its size are chosen. So.” He patted Fen’s wingless back. “You weren’t chosen, but you were called. Let’s find the kepten and find your place onboard.”

  As Fen followed Abrakam toward the back of the ship, a little bird swooped in circles around their heads.

  “Good morning, my beauty,” Abrakam said. “Yes, I see you. You’re lovely. Out of the way, please.” He looked back at Fen. “We seem to have acquired a mascot.”

  “She’s a lark,” Fen said.

  “Lejo believes it’s a sign. She’s the newborn soul of the Kaleuche.” The centaur chuckled. “If you ask me, Lejo’s just thrilled to finally have a pet of some kind.”

  The lark landed on Abrakam’s withers and tilted her head at Fen, her expression curious.

  One wonders why you are not happy. One cannot be happy until you are. Please be happy.

  “I’ll work on it,” Fen mumbled.

  They found Trueblood in his study, writing in a large notebook.

  “Kepten, our friend is not enamored of sea voyages,” Abrakam said. “Where’s the best place for him to sleep?”

  Trueblood looked up, blinking a moment, as if he forgot who Abrakam was. His mouth set in a straight, tired line as he marked his place with a small white feather and closed the book. “Come with me,” he said.

  Fen followed the mariner on deck, straight into the lark’s aerial antics again.

  “Khe l’khe,” Trueblood said. “You have a whole sky to fly in. Get out of my way.”

  Fen dodged the enthusiastic bird and skirted the flurry of furious activity as they made their way below.

  “Is it the motion that bothers you?” Trueblood asked.

  “A little,” Fen said.

  Trueblood stopped on a tread. “A little or a lot?” he asked, not looking back. “Plenty of the crew get seasick, even I do. You won’t be thought less of or made fun of. Not on my ship. Just say what it is.”

  “A lot,” Fen said.

  “All right then.” Trueblood set off again at a brisk pace, leading them down further and further into the belly of the vessel. “You’ll want to be below the waterline and near the center of the ship. Next to the main mast is the most stable place. Problem is…” He opened a door to a cabin. The light from the corridor revealed a trim, neat room with a bed, chest of drawers, a small desk and a chair. “You have no window,” Trueblood said. “So it’s dark and it can feel tight and closed-in. Some sailors like that. Others not so much.”

  Or not at all, Fen thought.

  Trueblood looked back at him. His eyes were shadowed, but direct. “You?”

  Every cell in Fen’s body screamed No as he stepped into the dim cabin and pretended to take an appraising look around. “Well, I…” His hands closed over the chair back as he cleared his throat. “The dark kind of bothers me, too.”

  Trueblood’s gaze fell on the white, strained clench of nine knuckles. “I see.”

  Fen let go and put his hands behind his back. Already the walls were inching closer to him. Breathing on him. In the dark, it would only get worse. Too small and tight and filled with vomit and screaming and dead bodies, all of it heaving and rolling in the pitch black…

  “How long were you on the slave ship?” Trueblood said, pulling the corner of a pillow straight.

  Fen pried his tongue from the dry roof of his mouth. “Month.”

  “And they had you down in the hold.” His voice was extraordinary around the words. Factual. Dry. Yet wrapping them in silken respect. Honoring the horrible ordeal in the spaces between.

  Fen drew his breath in and let forth a confession. “I’ve been afraid of the dark since.”

  Trueblood nodded, tight-mouthed again. “Then we won’t have you sleep here.”

  Like many Alondrans, Trueblood sometimes tacked a tiny, breathy E before words that started with S. We won’t have you esleep here.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see where we can put you.”

  We, Fen thought, following him out.

  Valtourel and Zeuxis lay two thumb widths apart on a map. What looked like a week’s journey would take a month.

  “A month?” Fen said.

  “Where the North Channel meets the Gulf is a graveyard,” Abrakam said. “Full of shoals and rock formations and undertows. Sailors say whatever gets chewed up in the Teeth is swallowed by the Gullet and spit out between Sanpago and Nyland.”

  “In other words, the Channel is the asshole of the ocean?”

  The centaur’s laugh bellowed across the decks. “Well-played, lad. Indeed it is. Passage straight across is too dangerous. Instead, Trueblood will sail toward Pellandro, hug the edges of the Gulf and come into Zeuxis from the Northwest.”

  The geography lesson was lost on the miserable kheiron. He was sure he’d be dead of seasickness before they reached Zeuxis. In his first week, he slept in four different cabins. Nobody remarked on it. In fact, they did their best to be helpful. “Try sleeping on the floor,” one said. “You’ll feel the roll less.”

  “Keep the curtains drawn,” another said. “You want the light to come in but you don’t want to see the horizon going up and down out the window. That’ll make you puke like nobody’s business.”

  “Always puke on the leeward side,” a minoro named Melki said. He took a green-faced Fen by the hand and led him to the opposite side of the ship. “Upchucking into the wind only makes you twice as miserable.”

  Miserable had a new definition and Fen wouldn’t have been surprised if he saw his boots tumbling out of his mouth and falling over the lee side. He was going to put a permanent dent in the rail from leaning his arms on it, trying to hang onto his stomach.

  “Here,” someone said, handing him a cloth bag filled with squares of ginger root dusted with sugar. “Keep one of those tucked in your cheek.”

  “Here.” Another bag was pressed in his hand. “Preserved lemon peel. The sour keeps your mouth wet.”

  “Mint leaves. Chew on those after you eat.”

  “No, chew them before.”

  “Both. Before and after.”

  “Drink, lad. Even if you can’t get a morsel in your stomach, keep drinking water. You’re better off pissing all the time than barfing.”

  “Barf off the lee side,” Melki reminded him.

  Fen tried anything anyone suggested. He chewed the mint leaves before attempting to eat, and afterward, but nothing stayed down. He was sick day after interminable day and sick long into the night. He kept drinking. Cold water, warm water and hot water. Water poured over the mint leaves, or steeped with the lemon peel. Or the ginger. Or both. If someone suggested drinking tepid piss, he would and ask for seconds.

  What if I die?

  The foreboding thought was soon followed by a worse one.

  What if I don’t die?

  “Fen, come with me,” Trueblood said. It was the evening of a particularly crippling day and Fen was starting to wish he were dead.
His head floated far above his body and Death’s presence trudged behind as he followed Trueblood to the aftercastle. They passed the lark, who perched upside down on the mizzenmast, industriously pecking at it.

  “Ŝuo,” Trueblood said, flicking his hand at her. “Shoo. Quit poking holes in my ship.”

  She ignored him.

  They went through the small foyer into the grand sitting room with its giant-sized chairs and couches. Fen knew the crew gathered here each evening to tell stories. He hadn’t attended because he was always busy puking.

  Trueblood’s study was at the rear. It glowed honey-warm with polished wood and a dark orange rug. A large desk with cubbies to keep objects and instruments from rolling away. A rack of charts. A separate table with two chairs, where the Ĝemelos sat waiting.

  “You look like shit, my friend,” Raj said, not unkindly.

  “I look better than I feel.”

  “Sit down,” Lejo said, getting up.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m less nauseous on my feet.”

  “Stand then,” Raj and Trueblood said together.

  “I’d hate to ruin your nice rug.”

  “Have you gotten one decent night’s sleep since we left Valtourel?” Trueblood said.

  “No.”

  “You need to,” Raj said.

  “Here are the options,” Lejo said.

  Trueblood crossed his arms. “We have fadara on the ship. It’s—“

  “Illegal,” Fen said.

  “Yes.” The kepten glanced at the twins before looking at Fen again. “The Altyns gave it to us. Or rather, they gave it to my father when he rescued you. In case you needed it on the voyage home.” Trueblood smiled. “In a manner of speaking, it belongs to you.”

  “Oh,” Fen said, not knowing what else to think.

  “It’s kept locked up and for obvious reasons, it’s not administered without consent.”

  Fen drew a shaky breath. “Did they actually give me fadara on the Cay? Or they just had it in case?”

  “My father gave you one bead while you were still up in the tree,” Trueblood said. “I don’t know if that was the only dose.”

  “Well, this is the first I’m learning of it. So for the record, I didn’t give consent.”

  “This is true,” the kepten said.

  “But I was dying and none of you were born and I’m grateful. So it’s a moot point.”

  “Not really,” Trueblood said. “The record should reflect what happened.”

  “I don’t consent now,” Fen said. “It’s tempting as fuck, but I’ve seen the addiction first-hand. And the withdrawal. No thank you.”

  Remembering those wretched addicts in Arcodolori made the gorge rise up in his throat. Death chuckled at the back of his neck, a gang of Fen’s worst nightmares laughing along.

  Make this easy. Just come with us. No more suffering. You’ll love it.

  “So, the alternative,” Trueblood said. He pushed a paper-wrapped object toward the center of the table. “This is kyrrh. Also given to you by the Altyns. Typically you don’t ingest it. It’s a salve for gashes and burns. Or grotesquely broken bones.”

  “Take a bow, Fen il-Kheir,” Raj said.

  “After projectile vomiting, broken bones are my specialty.” Fen didn’t know how he was making jokes right now, but it seemed to have something to do with Trueblood smiling at them.

  “When the three of us were…” Raj turned a hand over in the air. “Going through whatever the fuck it was, Abrakam shaved kyrrh into a nychet and made a tea out of it. Seemed to help us.”

  “The point is it certainly didn’t hurt,” Lejo said.

  “It might do something for the seasickness,” Raj said. “Or it might not. It could help you sleep, or not. But unlike fadara, it’s not going to fuck your life. Best case you feel better. Worst case you feel the same.”

  “It’s up to you,” Trueblood said. “You’ve tried all the tricks and home remedies. This is what we have left.”

  “I’ll try it,” Fen said. “Thank you. For offering and for asking my consent.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Raj said, getting up.

  Trueblood got up as well and went to his desk. “While the water’s heating up, I have one more trick.” He came back with a length of linen bandage and a small stone. He pressed it below the heel of Fen’s fourhand and wrapped the linen around and around to hold it there.

  “What’s this do?” Fen said.

  “I’m not sure what it does or how it works, but sometimes the pressure on the inside of your wrist takes the edge off seasickness. Sometimes. No guarantees.”

  “I’ll cut my nose off if it helps.”

  When Trueblood was finished, Fen obediently held out his fivehand. The moons of his fingernails were blue-gray. He was so cold inside his skin. Ice in his bones and in his heart and stomach.

  “Too tight?” Trueblood said, his touch deft and gentle.

  “No.”

  “Come here, Fen,” Raj called. Crouched by the hearth, he swung the hook back from the embers, wrapped a cloth around the handle of the kettle and poured hot water into a large mug.

  Fen sank into a corner of the large couch, tired to the point of slight psychosis and his pride in shreds. Death took a step back but left his malevolent offer on the table.

  I could make this go away. Come with me and it will all be over.

  Fen’s teeth chattered on the rim of the cup. A warm swallow, bitter at first and then a sweet aftertaste and a lingering heat in the corners of his mouth. His trembling stomach wrapped curiously around it, then asked for more. He took another sip, closing his eyes as the tea slid down his throat.

  I want to go home, he thought. He was twelve again. Chained up in the dark hold, being taken farther and farther from his home, his people, his land and his father.

  He’ll take the world apart to find me.

  He’ll find me and then he’ll kill you.

  You’ll beg my father for mercy when he gets his hands on you…

  “Drink it all,” Trueblood said, in a father’s firm tone.

  “I don’t want to dream.”

  “You won’t. I give my word.”

  But words were so easily given and taken back. The proof was on Fen’s face. In the healing gash of his eyebrow where his moonstone once hung. More proof in the smooth, whitened skin of his thumb where his ringos should’ve been. It shone on Trueblood’s index finger now. He sat opposite Fen, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, hands interlaced, the silver horse head peeking from between.

  Give it back to me, Fen thought. Let me fly from here. I’m begging for mercy, put your hands on me and give me back what I left in the dark…

  “I think he’s nodding,” Trueblood said from far away.

  A second voice murmured from even further off. “We’ll carry him down?”

  “No, leave him be. If sleep finds him here, let him stay.”

  He’ll find me, Fen thought, drifting. He’ll take the world apart and beg me for mercy when his hands find me all filled with silver in the dark…

  …In the dark…

  …All filled with silver…

  …His hands will find me…

  He woke.

  The great sitting room of the aftercastle was empty and dark. A tiny lamp burned on the table by the long couch where Fen lay, covered with a quilt.

  Did I find me? he thought stupidly.

  Beneath the quilt, his body was warm and relaxed. His stomach smooth and his chest wide-open for air to pass through unobstructed.

  I found it.

  He folded back the blanket and sat up carefully. A little light-headed but the crippling nausea was gone. Or it was still asleep. He noticed the mug on the table, covered with a small plate. A note lay on the plate, in beautiful, precise penmanship:


  Drink the rest if you wake up. Even if it’s cold. Sleep here if it’s comfortable. Amatos. —Kpt. P.T. Cay

  Fen didn’t drink yet. He got up and walked around, holding onto the backs of chairs and the edges of tables until the stiffness was out of his legs. He peeked through the half-open door to the kepten’s bedroom. It was empty, the giant bed still crisply made. Not even a dent in the blankets.

  Is he still awake?

  He left the aftercastle, stepping onto the deck and drawing the cold, taut air into his body. He remembered to judge the wind and pick the leeward side to take a long, vigorous piss, one hand on the railing and the other aiming carefully. His stride was a little more confident as he walked the length of the Kaleuche. As the deck leaned and draped beneath his feet, his stomach adjusted. He played with the newborn courage to lean into the motion instead of fighting it.

  I’m getting better at this.

  The silence of the night was magical. He passed a few crew members on night watch, who only smiled or nodded, unwilling to break the holy quiet.

  Fen was almost sorry to go back within, but he was cold now, and the cold was waking up the nausea again. He needed to drink the rest of the tea.

  He walked around the aftercastle with his mug, looking at things. Two bedrooms lay within the foyer. Abrakam’s on one side, its door firmly closed. The other belonged to the Ĝemelos. This door stood ajar and Fen, being human, peeked inside.

  All the beds on the Kaleuche were big. Some minoros could comfortably sleep feet-to-feet along their length. The twins’ room had two beds. One was empty. In the other, Raj sprawled on his back. Trueblood lay beside, arms crossed over his middle and forehead pressed to Raj’s shoulder. Lejo curled against Trueblood’s back, his arm slung across the mariner’s waist and his hand on his brother’s heart.

  Three chests expanded and contracted in unison, perfectly timed with the rise and fall of the ship beneath Fen’s feet.

  It was a painfully intimate scene. Flirting with the boundary of something sexual. But all three men were clothed. The door was open. They weren’t hiding. Their sleep was blameless.