South Coast (Shaman's Tales From The Golden Age Of The Solar Clipper Book 1)

by Nathan Lowell

  Jimmy hunched down into his coat as a gust blew in off the ocean. Pulling on his heavy gloves, he muckled onto the mooring line and helped drag the Sea Horse along the quay. It was always a shock to him when he watched three people man-handle a vessel like the Sea Horse, using nothing more than human strength. Sure, you didn’t do anything fast, but it was amazing what a solid body leaning against a hawser could accomplish if you just kept the tension up. Murcheson’s fuel boat waited at the end of the quay. All they needed to do was get a bit of fuel. By long tradition, Murch would give every new launched boat the first hundred liters free. Launch day was always a kind of celebration as boats and crews thronged the bay. The first hundred liters was enough to get the boats started and moving off to the various moorings around the Inlet, and it might seem to be an unexpected largess.

  Of course, the reality was that it was all company money. Murcheson’s operation was part of Pirano Fisheries. Ultimately, at some higher level, having the boats pay for fuel was really just transferring credit from one ledger page to another. But it was also a good way to keep track of who was fishing and whether or not any given boat and crew was profitable. When each vessel was, for all intents and purposes, an independent profit center, it tended to give the skippers a yardstick for measuring performance that they otherwise wouldn’t have had.

  Jimmy pondered that situation as he was considering how the Combine’s rules were written, and how Pirano Fisheries fit into it. Was there leverage there? Ultimately the boats, the yards, the fuel, and even the moorings were Pirano assets on one ledger or another. Everybody on the planet was either a Pirano or Allied employee, or direct relation to one. As he was tugging the heavy boat along the pier, he thought of Barney and the contributions that those direct relations made. The Beanery was one of the local businesses that was not a Pirano asset. Barney was the spouse of an employee, so he was eligible to live and work on planet under the corporate charter. The paperwork that everybody had to sign as part of their employment contracts held a lot of legal non-competition clauses. Spouses, contract-partners, and significant others had to sign those agreements to get a business license. Enforcement fell to local control and market forces were as effective as any to manage it.

  The Sea Horse finally made it to the fuel barge and Murch was there with a big smile and a fuel line.

  “Gonna hit ’em big this season, Jimmy?” he asked with a grin. It was his standard seasonal greeting.

  “We’re gonna give it a helluva a shot, Murch,” he said, as he looped the line around a cleat on the pier. He swung neatly over the side, following Murch aboard and getting ready to fire up the engines as soon as the hydrazine fuel got pumped aboard. The wheelhouse felt cold and stale, and smelled faintly of the plastic that had cocooned it for months. He dropped the windows and latched the door open, preferring the fresh cold breezes to the stale, plastic frost. It only took a few ticks for Murch to pump in a hundred liters. He jumped clear, waving Jimmy off.

  “I’ll send the gang around to top you off tomorrow, Jimmy,” Murch shouted, as he dragged his fueling hose back onto the pier in preparation for the next vessel.

  Jimmy hit the igniters and the engine groaned once, twice, then caught with a low rumble. He watched the temperature gauge until it started to shift up out of the ‘stone cold’ range at the bottom of the dial, then waved to Casey and Tony. Backing down against the spring line, the bow slid smoothly out and, in a few ticks, they were motoring across the Inlet to a mooring near the Pirano offices. Tony, Casey, and Jimmy crowded into the wheelhouse as the boat skipped across the bay.

  Jimmy looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Casey had her head stuck out the window on the far side of the wheelhouse grinning like an idiot into the wind stream. Her hat was pulled back and wisps of brunette hair were fluttering in the breeze. Glancing back at Tony, even he had a big grin as the infectious optimism of the fresh new season overflowed the grinding worry that they’d been fighting for the dark months.

  “Casey? Can you and Tony check out the running tackle? Make sure the nets are ready and the deck bearings are all greased up?” Jimmy asked, raising his voice to be heard over the thrumming of the engine.

  She nodded. “No problem, Skip.”

  There was surprisingly little to do to prepare the boat for the new season. It had been a new boat and barely got a good shake-down in the fall before it was time to wrap it for the winter. Jake and his crew knew their stuff when it came to winterizing a fleet. They’ed stowed the running tackle and secured it against the weather before the boat was even lifted from the water and placed in the cradle. The crews all washed out the holds and cleaned out the small galleys. The heavy winter cocoons were nothing more than heavy shrink wrap and sealed the topside against drying winds, snow, and dirt. While it seemed a bit silly to outsiders to cover a boat from something as innocuous as snow and wind, the practice had drastically cut down on startup time. The boats were built to operate for months out of the year in the caustic salt water environment, but not to sit idly for months while slow accretions of crud gunked up the running tackle. It was amazing how much damage sitting idle and unprotected could do to a working fishing boat.

  Within a stan of launch, the Sea Horse lay snuggly moored just off Quayside, less than a block from Pirano’s main offices. Tony and Casey set to on the deck fittings with lubricants that wouldn’t gum up in the cold conditions, while Jimmy ran through the diagnostics on the newly warmed engine. He sighed when he saw that he had a voltage leak somewhere and, pulling out his toolkit from under the bunk, walked around to the engine room hatch to start tracking it down.

  It took the rest of the day, and most of the next to get the boat ready for the rigors of fishing, but at the end of the day, the three of them–dirty, tired, and jubilant–pronounced the vessel ready.

  “Okay,” Jimmy said. “Depending on the weather, we’ll take tomorrow off and wrap up stuff ashore. Day after?”

  “All right!” Casey said, a huge smile pasted across her face to keep the smudges of grease company.

  Tony grinned, nodding, and Jimmy thought he looked more like a kid–and dirtier–than Casey. The “you aren’t really going to make me go fishing” Tony from the previous fall had been replaced by this grinning stranger.

  Jimmy chuckled and went to secure the wheelhouse for the night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Callum’s Cove

  February 28, 2305

  Alan Thomas sat across the table from Richard and frowned into his coffee. “But it’s traditional, Richard. You’re the village shaman. You have to bless the fleet.”

  The irony of having the company man putting the arm on one of the few people in the village who didn’t work for the company–at least in capacity as shaman–wasn’t lost on either of the men.

  “I know Alan, but doesn’t it seem odd? I’m part of the fleet now.”

  “Not at all. You’d say a prayer at dinner in your own house, wouldn’t ya?” Alan asked.

  “You think it’s the same thing?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Richard stopped arguing. “I don’t know,” he said after a few moments.

  “So, you’ll do it?” Alan asked, relief heavy in his voice.

  Richard sighed. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Great! I’ll pass the word for the parade of boats tomorrow morning.”

  Richard finished is coffee and slid out of the booth. “Okay, Alan. Okay.”

  When he stepped out of the diner, he glanced down to the harbor and saw his son standing at the end of the pier, looking down at something in the water. Curious, he walked down to the length of the dock to see what was going on.

  As he approached the end of the pier, Otto turned and smiled, somewhat distantly. “Hello, Father.”

  “Hey, Otto. What’re you doing?”

  Otto looked back down into the water at the end of the pier. “Looking at the water. You know, it’s different from the water out at the point?”
/>   “Different? How?”

  “Less salty.”

  “I see,” his father said. “Are you feeling okay, Otto?”

  In the short pause that followed, a stray breeze jingled the shells on Otto’s walking stick. “Yes, Father. I’m fine. I’m glad you’re going to bless the fleet tomorrow.”

  “I feel funny doing it but it is one of the duties of the shaman.”

  “It will be fine. And the day after, the fishing can begin for a new season.”

  They stood there, looking out over the harbor and the boats gathered there for a few ticks. The wind rattled the shells and bits tied to Otto’s stick. The sound irritated Richard for some reason, but Otto cocked his head as if listening each time they clattered.

  After a time, Otto said, “Well, I suppose we should go home and have some lunch.” He looked up at his father. He didn’t have to look up very far, the growth spurt over the winter had added almost two centimeters to his gangly frame. On a human scale, suddenly noticing the two centimeters in your son felt like a lot.

  Richard turned, and headed back up the pier as if his Otto’s comment had carried the weight of command. Otto followed along beside, his staff thunking and rattling as he walked.

  “Doesn’t racket bother you, Otto?” his father asked after they’d walked a few meters.

  “Sometimes, but mostly, when I’m out on the beach or the point, there’s so much wind rushing by my ears, I don’t really hear much, except my own heartbeat.” He paused and glanced at his father before continuing. “Sometimes when I stand and listen, though, it’s as if there’s a voice trying to talk to me.”

  “That sounds a little spooky.”

  “Yes.”

  When he didn’t add anything more, Richard asked, “Are there any other spooky things you’d like to share?”

  They walked a few more paces before Otto answered. “No. I don’t think so. Becoming a shaman is very odd.”

  Richard smiled. “You’re becoming a shaman then? I thought you didn’t want to be a shaman.”

  “I don’t seem to be able to help it.”

  “You don’t have to be the shaman if you don’t want to.”

  “Really?” Otto asked. He looked up at his father. “Can I decide not to breathe?”

  “Yes.” After a couple of steps, Richard ruffled his son’s hair. “But only for very short periods of time.”

  Otto smiled at the joke, and they rounded the last bend to the cottage.

  Lunch wasn’t ready when they entered the kitchen. Rachel was still chopping carrots for a lamb stew they’d be having for dinner, but there was fresh bread and cheese along with some dried winter-fruit. Otto smiled at his mother and readied tea for all of them. By the time the tea was done, they were all able to sit together while Richard talked about the blessing of the fleet.

  “Will you do anything different this season?” his mother asked.

  “People seem to expect the same thing,” Richard said. “Alan’s going to have a podium set at the end of the pier and there’ll be a parade of boats. I’m to bless each as they sail by. Afterwards, they’ll all tie up again and everybody will probably party at The Gurry Butt until it’s time to get underway.”

  His mother laughed. “Well, wear your long unders. Last year you almost caught your death standing out there in the wind. And don’t get any ideas. We’ll be coming home after the ceremony. And you know the Murray’s will be closing early tomorrow, too!”

  Otto smiled at the banter, as the image of flocking birds flew through his mind. He ate his bread and cheese quietly, thinking about the ritual blessing of the boats. It had been a special day in the household for his whole life. He’d been shocked to learn that his father thought that it might be inappropriate to do since he was now crew. It wasn’t like the boats had crews for the parade. Usually it was the skipper and one other person driving the boat around. Some families made it into a kind of picnic with the whole crew and their families all dressed in their finest, the boats wrapped in colorful bunting and ribbons. Every boat that could float took part in the parade. As one grizzled old fisherman that Otto once met had said, “Sonny boy, I doesn’t know if there’s anything to this shaman business, but I doesn’t see the harm, and I doesn’t care to take the chance that I mights be wrong.” He’d winked and laughed as if he’d made some big joke.

  “Will you be taking Otto with you to bless the fleet?” his mother asked, bringing Otto’s attention back to the table.

  Richard appeared to think about it, but Otto knew the answer, and only waited to hear how his father would say it.

  “I don’t think we need to freeze him out on the pier. Maybe next year.”

  Rachel shot a look at Otto. “Did you want to bless the fleet with your father, hon?” she asked with just a tinge of concern mixed with fear in her voice. It was as if she were afraid of what he might answer.

  “Father is the village shaman. He’s the one who has to do it.”

  Neither of them seemed to realize that he didn’t answer the question, but it solved the immediate problem. Otto followed up with, “Any more news out on the ’Net?” to further distract them.

  “Jimmy Pirano has put out the word quietly that people aren’t gonna lose their boats. They all know the landings are ridiculous and they’re trying to get it cleared up in Dunsany,” his mother said. “Apparently, they’ve got a similar problem with the Allied Ag’s quotas. They’re impossible, but the Combine is threatening to fire and deport anybody who doesn’t meet them.”

  Richard asked, “And nobody knows why?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Nobody who’s saying. The best guess is that it’s some kind of stock manipulation scheme. Nobody on St. Cloud is falling for it, other than those who are packing up and leaving.”

  Richard grimaced. “Holly and Harve Bennet left over the weekend. You’ll have to find somebody else to cut your hair.”

  Rachel just nodded. “Yeah, I saw the transit order. Holly filed a replacement request with the Combine. They should be able to get a new barber and hairdresser before too long. In the meantime, I guess we get a little shaggy or cut it ourselves.”

  Otto and Richard both smiled at the small joke—Otto, because his hair was already rather long, even by the standards of the village while Richard was bald as a billiard ball.

  After lunch, Rachel went back to her work on the ’Net, and Richard slipped his jacket on for the short walk out to the shop. Otto put the kettle on to brew some after-lunch tea.

  “Will you be joining me, Otto?” his father asked.

  Otto shook his head. “Not today, Father. I need to walk on Sandy Long for a time this afternoon.”

  “Oh,” Richard said, obviously surprised, but willing to work around it. “All right. Well, have fun.” He shot a glance at Rachel when Otto turned back to the stove. She shrugged silently and Richard left the cottage.

  “You didn’t want to go carve with your father, Otto?” his mother asked after the door closed.

  “No, mother, I can’t.” He turned to face her. “I can’t carve like he does. He gets very upset when I don’t, and I get very upset when I do. It’s better if we don’t carve together.”

  Rachel saw the conflict in her son’s eyes, but didn’t know what to do about it. “That’s okay, hon. I don’t think you have to carve like he does.” Her gaze flicked to the shark sitting on top of her monitor and back to Otto. “Your work is yours. Don’t let anybody tell you how to do it. Not even your father, all right?”

  “Thank you, Mother. It can’t be easy having a shaman in the house.”

  She gave an uncertain laugh as he said it, and released him from the hug. “No, honey. It’s not.” She wasn’t sure who she was talking about at that moment, but the sentiment was heartfelt.

  He smiled once more, collected her cup of tea from the sideboard and placed it next to her terminal on the stained piece of rubber that served her as a coaster. “You’ll be going out with the fleet?” he asked her, although it was more s
tatement than question.

  “Oh, yes. You’ll have the house and shop to yourself again in a few more days.”

  Nodding, he slipped his heavy coat from the peg by the door and shrugged into it. “Well, I’m happy you’re going fishing. You should be at sea. That’s where you belong.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to his quiet statements. It was as if he were speaking aloud so he’d hear what he thought. Each statement had a quality of discovery to them, as if he hadn’t really known what he would say until he heard it.

  “I’ll be on Sandy Long and back for supper,” he said as he headed for the door. “Send up a flare if you need me.”

  The comment was so unexpected that she coughed a laugh from surprise as much as humor.

  Next morning, after a breakfast and careful preparation, his father left to bless the fleet. He had to go a bit early to deal with the skippers and Alan Thomas on the final preparations for the parade of boats. At mid morning, Otto and Rachel followed. They could hear the engines before they even turned onto the waterfront. That many boats in that small an area made rather a loud racket. Alan used the flag pole on the Pirano building to signal the start. The milling boats in the harbor formed up behind Daniel Starling’s Louise B. Daniel had been fishing out of Callum’s Cove for nearly half a century and was, hands down, the most senior of the skippers in the fleet. He got the position of honor, as he did every stanyear since his father retired.

  Rachel watched the boats cruise slowly past the end of the pier in a spaced out line. It was quite a sight with the twenty odd vessels in the fleet all moving at once and with purpose. Richard stood on the raised podium at the end of the pier and, with each passing vessel, shouted the ritual phrase: “Good hunting, and safe return.”

  Stanyears before, Otto had asked his father about that. “Shouldn’t it be ‘good fishing and safe return’?”

  “Well, Otto, they have to find the fish first.” He’d smiled. “Besides, it’s what my father used to say and people value the familiar rituals.”

  This time, Otto didn’t say anything, standing still beside his mother and observing the parade of boats, as the long snake of vessels uncoiled across the end of the pier, ending with the newest boat in the fleet, Esmerelda II. Even his staff remained silent as the boats rumbled around in the harbor’s basin. It took the better part of a stan, but eventually, all the boats re-moored. The party began in earnest with a barbecue on the beach paid for by Pirano and an audio player blaring dance tunes from somewhere.