by David Salvi
“Our blades will slice right through them.” Lavik noted at one meeting while miming the action with an imaginary saber across his body.
Despite Chris’s warnings, it was unanimously stamped with approval. Chris did not have a vote. He was merely a consultant. He viewed it as a courtesy invitation coupled with a neutered opinion.
But now Chris could only participate because the deliberating was over. He choose to join Lavik’s team, though he wanted Riley.
He was left with his notes and thoughts in the ship’s lieutenant quarters, except the Nina’s was smaller than Santa Maria’s. The droning of the pull line with waves filled the void around him, as it did on his journey to the island.
***
When evening fell, Lavik entered Chris’s quarters, which Chris happily welcomed. The day was wrought with loneliness and monotonous clinking of the chain deep in the hull. Thanks to the Nina’s smaller frame, every plank in the hull vibrated up through the deck. A light rain sprinkled outside. Sleep was surely more a nightmare.
“Here, have a swig, Sir Christopher,” Lavik said. He held out a glass of whiskey. He assured Chris it wasn’t rice whiskee, but made from a hibara plant on Motus Island. The grain was smooth and tasty, so said Lavik.
Chris obliged and felt a warm sensation at the back of his throat. It traveled down his esophagus and burned his belly with a thousand needles poking around for fun. He coughed out spittle to the wood plank at his feet. Lavik gleefully guffawed.
The bear of a man said, “Puts hair on your chest, as they used to say, eh, Christopher?”
“I guess so,” Chris said as he cleared his throat of the punishing spirits. It hit him right in the head like glitter bouncing around his cranium. “Wow, that is strong.”
“Anything to numb the pain waiting for us at the other side of the world. Funny, ain’t it, kid?” Lavik said. He took another rip from the bottle. “This whole war will be for naught if we don’t come back with something to share with our folk on the island.”
“Then, I guess we better win the war,” Chris said. He snatched the bottle out of Lavik’s hand, gave him a wink, and whipped another piercing gulp down his gullet.
Lavik curiously looked at Chris. “How’d you really escape the treacherous stranglehold of Canaanite City?”
“Sort of just happened.”
“How so?”
Chris’s eyes stared into nothing. His voice went somber. “Riots broke out. Then they came after my mother. When I finally got there, it was too late. I watched her die in my arms.”
Chris took a moment and held back tears. He cleared his throat.
“And after that, I had little choice left. I knew I had to leave. Then they chased me with bi-copters through the Valley, right into Lake Albertrum.”
Surprised, Lavik’s eyes got giddy, “You mean you jumped into Lake Albertrum from the Valley?!”
“Yeah.” Chris remained still, thinking back on the weightless feeling of falling off the cliff before plunging into the lake.
“How in Eros name did you survive? You should have been eaten. Or you could have broken your neck from the fall!”
“Lucky, I guess. Very lucky.” The image of the grotto now burned in Chris’s brain. An enchanting place, but nothing more than a hollow chamber of eventual death. “I climbed out and made my way up the mountain. And then they came after me again.”
“Wait, wait, wait, Sir Chris. You’re telling me all this for the first time?”
Chris shrugged. “Eh, it’s not a big deal.”
“You’re damned wrong it’s not a big deal!”
“I don’t like talking about myself.”
“You better tell me more!” Lavik demanded playfully. He slapped Chris’s knee and kicked back for a pull of the whiskee bottle.
“I don’t know,” Chris said. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling the buzz of the whiskey again. It lightened his mood.
“Come on…” Lavik said in a droning urge.
“Once I reached the summit, which is what I had to do in order to get to the other side without jumping hundreds of feet down a cliff into a rocky death, a bonzo cat found me at the exact same time…” Jack entered Chris’s mind for a moment before he brushed it off. Instead, the sound of the bonzo cat’s roar reverberated in his head. Flashing images were in Chris’s head, but Lavik leaned forward with childlike anticipation.
“…exact same time? Yes, yes?” said Lavik.
“The exact same time that Canaanite forces found me again.”
“What!” Lavik hadn’t heard a story this good around the campfire, and all of those were fiction and elaborated tales. This was the real thing.
“They followed me up the mountain. Then the bonzo was part enemy, part ally. A little fighting and I slid down the mountain so fast, I don’t know how I survived.”
“You’re kidding me,” Lavik said in utter disbelief. His mouth was agape. His hands lowered to his sides.
“Nope. Sort of wish I were kidding. Wasn’t exactly a fun ride down.”
“Travel across your world with nothing but yourself. Sounds like a tough man to me. Sounds like a Menas.”
Chris forced a weak smile. He wondered what his father looked like. Did Chris have his features? Or mostly his mom’s? People in Canaanite City always said he was a spitting image of his mother, but that was when he was a little boy.
Lavik had a wide grin on his face as he settled back into his chair after Chris’s riveting story. He said, “A fine story. Shows me one thing: We got good lads and lasses in our company. The finest, I’d say.”
Chris snatched the bottle out of Lavik’s hand and ripped another swig. He saw starry spots, then reverted back to clearer view. He started to develop a taste for the whiskee. Then he said, “Well, that’s because you’re our leader, El-Vee.” Chris had a more jovial tone to his voice. The alcohol kicked into his veins. He felt tingles build in his extremities, as well as a severe lightheadedness.
“El-Vee? I like that!” Lavik sounded it out to confirm to himself.
Chris cracked a smile. The drinks flowed and laughs continued. He was happy to have a person to talk to without feeling his hormones kick in like a prepubescent version of himself. More so, it was good to have a friend.
They spoke of Motus. Some of the people. The dignitaries. They were getting drunk together and bullshitting. A bond developed that was unexpected but appreciated. Drinking does that.
Feeling saucy, Chris raised his voice and asked, “What’s your story, El-Vee?”
Lavik smiled.
“Unlike most of the folks on Motus Island, I was a transplant. Like you,” Lavik said.
“Something tells me you were treated better than I was on both sides of the world,” Chris said.
“Not quite, lad. I was a fisherman on Canaan. Born to a fisherman and a farmer. I knew the water and the dangers it held. Toughed me up. Made me brash and unapologetically callous toward my fellow Canaanites.”
“A gentle giant though, I’d say.”
“Don’t you say that to my company! I’ll whip you. Even you, Sir Chris!”
“Then why’d you join Motus?”
“For the same reason you did. Fell into my lap. Too much bullshit and injustice, lad. I hated seeing what I saw. The waters free up a man’s time to think. After a while, most of Canaan didn’t care for me. Started fighting the military, then Motus busted me out before the stockade held me for weeks.”
Chris was clearly impressed by the man’s gumption.
“That’s why Riley has me leading part of the army. I’m a guy who knows how to pick a fight and win it!”
“I may have had the opposite problem.”
“Ah, how so, Sir Christopher?”
Chris took the next sip slowly, let it burn on its way down, and cleared his throat to talk. He said, “I was a gardener. My mom worked in the tower in some administrative role that was more like indentured servitude. We were on the bottom floor licking people’s boots. She always s
aid we had to watch our step. We avoided conflict.”
“And don’t you see why?” Lavik interrupted, swiping the bottle out of Chris’s hand. He added, “They were gonna kill you if you didn’t. Your dad, bless him, gave it up so you guys could live.”
“I know. But the only reality I’ve ever known is one of an outcast. Someone who doesn’t belong.”
“And that’s why we became Motus members, eh?” Lavik winked and brought the bottle back to his lips. Another gulp of goodness.
Chris’s stomach started to feel queasy. A rocking boat mixed with potent alcohol proved a deadly combination on his greenhorn stomach. Waves splashed against the side as they normally did, but felt like a drum beating around his body. The pull line provided a monotonous tone in his head as it usually did. The alcohol bubbled and shot an acidic pain into his throat.
And then up it came. All of it.
“For Eros sakes, lad, keep it down!” Lavik said through his own belly full of alcohol and laughter. Molecules of spittle spewed forth onto the hull.
A few soldiers peered in to see about the commotion, but Lavik shouted them away.
“Sorry,” Chris said with pain.
“Pay it no nevermind, Sir Christopher. You took it in good, but let it out just as good!” Another hearty laugh from the man who wouldn’t stop drinking.
Lavik was used to this kind of alcohol. Strong, tasty, rustic, and a trusty companion. He nearly finished the bottle. He offered it to Chris as a septic for his mouth’s acidic aftertaste, to which was denied.
“What now?” Chris asked.
“Now we get to know each other better and maybe die beside each other with honor. Who knows? Maybe celebrate while drinking out of a Canaanite’s skull,” Lavik said matter-of-factly. Another swig, because why not?
“I can’t believe Seraph starts tomorrow.” Chris rubbed his thumb across the glass.
“Spring. Time flies.”
“It’s almost been a year since I left.”
“Wow, that long, huh? And I’m just starting to like you.” Lavik winked over at Chris, who had become blurry-eyed.
Then there was an extended silence between the two men.
Lavik said he had to go. He stood up and left to examine the rest of the ship. His body bobbed a bit with the boat, and he couldn’t tell if the lack of sobriety kicked him off balance or if the unsteadiness of the ship, thanks to weather, threw him off. He wanted to believe he could hold his liquor. So he mumbled to himself and blamed the weather.
Chris continued his scribbles with a faint taste of vomit on his breath. He ignored it and led his shaky hand around the pages.
The night went on and the waves crashed into the sides of the hull while the line did their job, ever so harmonious and rhythmic. Bobbing and swaying, the ship trekked behind the Santa Maria. And in Pinta’s rear were two other ships, crammed with their strong-willed force of belligerents.
The spirits were high among the group, but lingering thoughts, just as Lavik and Chris discussed, left a molecule of doubt in their hearts. But that was okay, since the ego of certain victory would be the sword on which they would fall if that doubt wasn’t there.
CHAPTER 14
MOTUS’S ARMY ARRIVED at the foot of the Albertrum Mountains without conflict, worry, or even the slightest medical issue outside of Chris’s queasy stomach days ago. The flawless voyage actually irked Riley. She believed if you were blessed in the beginning, you’d be cursed at the end. Wishing for early struggles for future victory was preferred, but anything could happen. This was Canaan after all.
The army’s presiding commander was first off the Santa Maria. She fell several feet, slinked her legs and rolled forward to absorb the force of her fall. Her eyes shot up to scan the area. A hazy mist surrounded the base of the mountain. Then she turned to see the rest of her compatriots. A ladder was lowered to make things easier. She directed hordes of men and women departing vessels to set up an assembly line to unload the supplies. This is a beautiful sight to behold, she thought.
Back on the line, Chris made his way from the Pinta to the Santa Maria by way of a wooden bridge built to connect the two ships. He hurled his bags downward to a fellow soldier and climbed down the ladder to that same rocky shore. He was back for the first time in months. Once he stepped foot, he felt lost. Like all the progress he had accomplished in the last three months had resulted in nothing, because here he was, back on the mainland, headed to Canaanite City with angst in his heart.
Chris saw Riley several yards ahead. He snagged his bags and walked toward her.
“The ants go marching one by one,” Chris said to her with a sly grin. He approached her from her left where the foot of the mountains were. On her right was the Ocean of Antiquity, still spraying salty sea pellets into the group’s eyes and faces.
Riley smiled in reply to Chris’s attempt at a pithy remark, without saying a word. Her focus was on the mission.
Instead of saying anything else, Chris marched off with the rest of his company.
As he joined the ranks, Chris readjusted the shoulder strap on his knapsack with one hand. In the other was a long bag made of hide. Inside were his rations for the trip. Chris knew, as did the rest of Motus, that rations and supplies were abundant on Canaan. But these were safety measures in case the army was forced to disperse and fend for themselves, as they usually did in sticky situations—and what they were best at and trained to handle.
The lines of soldiers followed a direct path laid by the lieutenants as planned by the War Council, following previous routes in the mountain pass.
Riley held back with the ships until the last soldier climbed to shore and supplies thrown down. Many of those on the pull line stayed with the Santa Maria, Nina, Pinta, and Armada.
Unlike other trips to the mainland on Canaan, the ships were tethered to shore in the event of an escape. Based on past experience, the Canaanites rarely ventured beyond the Albertrum Mountains, so there was no immediate threat. The fear of a ‘cane scared off the bravest of brutes in the Canaanite ranks.
Riley called out the order. Her company took lead. Then Lavik’s. Then Timothy’s. Hundreds to each company.
Onward the army went, along the coast toting their bags. For the most part, the ranks were quiet, save for some private chatter. Chris kept to himself.
“Psst. Chris.” whispered a familiar voice.
He turned to find Wallock hustling to catch up, making noise with his boots and bags. Chris saw him carry bags awkwardly, like he did not have the strength in his arms, but Wallock managed fine.
Wallock said, “Fancy see you here, Sir Christopher!”
“Hey, Wallock. Good to see you.”
“Ah, the misty mountain hop awaits us, good sir.” Wallock drew a fiercely enthusiastic breath in his nostrils. He glanced at Chris and chuckled.
“You’re pretty chipper for so early in the morning.”
“Marching to battle as an army. For justice. For freedom. What an exhilarating feeling!”
“Sure.” Chris remained focused and unemotional.
“Why aren’t you excited, Sir Christopher!?”
“Lot on my mind,” Chris replied.
Wallock smirked, “I only have one thing on my mind. Freedom for all of Canaan.”
Chris for the moment envied the man’s simple disposition. Wallock believed in a cause and fought for that cause, even if it meant risking his life. That sort of narrow path in life was something he had always envied, no matter who he ran into. Like Jack back in Canaanite City.
He missed his old friend, but knew the days of their friendship were deceased as they turned into different people. Perhaps after hunting down Chris, Jack continued his Arch-Canaanite pursuit, which made Chris his mortal enemy in a way. He often contemplated what to say or do if he ran into him during the war. He also wanted to know how his old friend was doing. He hoped well, despite conflicting with Chris’s recently installed philosophy.
Wallock successfully broke Chris from
the temporary trance. He blurted out, “And that means killing some Arch Canaanites. The worst of the worst. The disease that carries their culture into generational suppression.”
How poetic, Chris thought. He assumed Wallock hadn’t seen battle.
With Chris’s silence, Wallock knew it was a time to shut up and march. Nothing else was needed. Find the man in front of you and follow. Those were orders.
And on Motus’s army went. The morning mist made it feel eerily early, like there was a long road to trek, which there was. Apollo had yet to eclipse the Albertrum mountain tops. Humidity was low and the mist felt cold with wind coming off the Ocean of Antiquity.
The trudge up the side of a mountain tested the army’s mettle early. Burning legs tired the rank and file of soldiers within a few hours. But their spirits remained, urging each other forward.
They had made startling progress in terms of distance, which pleased Riley, but the army already wanted to rest by mid-morning. Increasing altitude had tightened their muscle fibers and forced them gasping for breaths.
Chris pushed forward and joined Riley at the front.
“What are you doing here, soldier? Back with your company,” she commanded.
“Listen, I know you want to save the world on the first day of the war, but people are beat back there. They are wheezing for air for Eros sakes.”
She noticed Chris looked comfortable. Sweaty, but comfortable. She said, “And why the hell are you doing okay?”
“I’m used to it.” He said it convincingly. Plus, he wasn’t out of breath. Hiking the mountainside and setting off on adventures when he could proved to condition his body.
Riley eyed him with more skepticism, but relented. “Fine. I’ll call for rest.”
Before Chris could thank her, he covered his ears as she shouted backward. Rest for ten minutes she called to her army. She asked for everyone to hydrate and stay tight. Rest the legs, catch your breath, and refresh. Then onward. A collective sigh of relief could be seen and heard.