Slow Turns The World

by Andy Sparrow

  The wind was against them and the paddle wheel churned relentlessly. The crew was tired and dispirited. They had been long at sea and now found themselves in this gloomy twilight world struggling to return to warmth and sunlight. Supplies were dwindling, the food they ate was stale and meager; fresh water was rationed. The overseers ate their share but did not offer manpower to the ship. The converts prayed three times each day. They would gather on the deck, face northwards to the holy land of Etoradom, and then kneel, hands raised as if in surrender, as they chanted verses from the Text. Both the crew, and those of their number who had not converted, eyed them with distaste. When told by the Captain not to obstruct the decks, they were defiant, pronouncing that God's word compelled them to pray three times each day. It struck Torrin that he had never seen His Lordship being so devout.

  The hourglass on the upper deck emptied. As the last grain of sand fell through it was quickly turned and then the bell rang out. The sands leaked again from chamber to chamber, then again, and again. Weary, thin and thirsty figures filed up from the treadmills and looked westwards hoping each time to see the rim of the sun burning on the sea. The top-most mast became bathed in red light, but the bulk of the ship stayed in shadow, and the west wind still blew against them. Torrin was with Valhad at the bows looking out across the endless sea. Valhad, just emerged from his duty on the treadmills, lay stretching his tired muscles on the deck. They talked of their tribe, of the strange things they had seen and of what might lay ahead of them. Then, there was a great commotion and many voices shouting from the deck behind them. They jumped up and went to see the cause.

  The religious overseers were scuffling with the crew. One was already knocked down with a bleeding nose, another had drawn a sword and was holding his attackers at bay, while a third did likewise with a crossbow. There was much angry shouting and cursing from both sides. Torrin drew his sword and pushed his way between them. All drew back a pace and were silent when they saw the blade in his hand.

  “What's happening here?” demanded Torrin. There was much shouting again from both sides.

  “Enough! You,” said Torrin to one of the crew, “tell me”.

  “Some of us were gathered below in worship of Jilkes, God of the sea. We prayed for a new wind to speed us home, and out of darkness.”

  “Did you offer sacrifice?” asked Torrin sternly.

  “No, no, only prayers and some small tokens. Then these swine came down and threatened us with swords. They said we were heathens and took our statue of Jilkes. They threw it in the sea! In the sea! They've put a curse upon us now…”

  There was an angry murmur from the crew and many stepped forward again to vent their fury on the overseers.

  “Stay where you are!” ordered Torrin and turned to the overseers. “Is this true?”

  “He who kneels before idols or offers prayer to false gods shall be cursed. So it says within this holy Text”. The overseer who replied spoke out loudly with all the confidence of one who knows without doubt that he does God's work. His companions shouted out holy praises and waved their Texts in the air, the crew surged forward again. It was at this moment that Valhad stepped out with a far away look in his eyes that Torrin had come to recognise. He raised his hands palms outward in a gesture of conciliation.

  “Friends,” he said, “Is it the will of God that we shall…”

  “Don't you say a word!” barked Torrin and he waved the sword angrily in the air between them. Everybody on deck stepped back in frightened silence except Valhad, whose mouth curved into the slightest smile as he watched his friend caught between the arguing factions.

  “Valhad,” said Torrin, “collect the weapons.”

  Valhad took the swords and crossbows from the overseers. One look at Torrin's burning eyes and glinting blade dissuaded them from too much complaint or resistance.

  “Throw them overboard.” The disarmed men mumbled bitterly as the weapons vanished with barely a splash and were gone.

  “Now collect the Texts.” This time there was more resistance and calls of blasphemy as the books were unwillingly surrendered.

  “Throw them from the ship.”

  The books fell with pages fluttering and were left in a bobbing trail on the water.

  “Now,” said Torrin to the crew, “get below. And as for you….” He turned to the overseers, “Get to your quarters and if any more trouble is caused you will join your weapons and your blessed Text. Go!” He waved the sword again and in a few moments he and Valhad were alone on the deck. He turned to Valhad who now smiled broadly.

  “What are you laughing at?” Torrin snapped, before marching off the deck.

  Later, he reported the trouble to His Lordship. When asked if it was likely to recur he replied:

  “No my Lord, I think not. All offensive items have been removed from the ship.”

  Despite any offence made to the opposing deities, the wind did change, allowing both groups of devotees to claim some vindication. The sails on the two surviving masts billowed full and drove the ship onwards into sunlight. They passed Gradala again and set course northwards. The Captain ordered the crew and passengers to assemble on the deck. He addressed them, while His Lordship stood silently bedside him.

  “The ship needs repair and provisions and we are entering the waters of Nejital.” His Lordship coughed slightly and the Captain rephrased his words. “Waters claimed by Nejital. The port and city of Hityil lie to the north and we shall make landfall there. His Lordship reminds you that you are not to speak of our voyage or our cargo, and…” he looked at the overseers, “that emblems of Etoradom and its faith must be concealed. His Lordship also wishes to reward each man for his service.”

  Every crewman was given a few small coins, and later, as the crew bedded down upon their litters, there was much wistful discussion of what delights awaited them.

  To the east a coastline could be seen, distant hills bathed in red light, broken into craggy ramparts by the beating waves. There were other ships now, single sailed fishing boats darting nimbly in the shallower waters and further out to sea taller masts silhouetted against the sun. Torrin joined Trabbir who was standing by the balustrade, gazing at the passing coast, with a distant look upon his face.

  “These are your people then?” he said and Trabbir nodded.

  “Yes, and this would have been my home. When I last saw this coast all the colour was burnt from the land for it was just past noon in the long day of the world. It has been green and has blossomed since then, and now it fades and dies once more as the sun sets.”

  He sighed deeply and shook his head.

  “What did we do that made the gods set the world spinning? Why did they punish us thus?”

  “I cannot say, Trabbir. We of the Vasagi have our own tale that is told at the campfire of why the world must turn.”

  Trabbir turned to him with a small sad smile upon his lips.

  “And what do the Vasagi say?”

  “That in the beginning,” said Torrin, “the Maker of all Things created the world and the three moons. Then he set the tribes upon its face, onto desert, plain and mountain, there to dwell, each according to their custom. And at that time the sun stood still upon the sky and there was no cold nor darkness and the tribes prospered and multiplied. Then Maker of all Things returned and gazed upon the world that he had made and saw the people fat and lazy from the bounty of the bright lit lands. And The Maker of all Things laughed, and because he is the maker of all things he is also the maker of mischief; for so it must be. And then he breathed upon the world and it began to spin slowly, slowly, so that one full turn might last a man's long life and then he laughed and said, ‘I made you and gave you life and now I make you more alive my children.’ And he strode off to make mischief in all the other worlds that he had made.”

  Trabbir laughed.

  “That is a fine tale Vasagi. What a strange God you have! To make the world spin and then leave you to yourselves.”

  “But we also be
lieve,” said Torrin, “that he left a little part of himself in each of us. A quiet voice that speaks to those who listen.”

  They cleared a final headland and before them lay a sight like none that Torrin had gazed upon. Spires, towers, domes rising above a chaos of roofs and alleys. Ships great and small moored in lines against many stone piers, wooden jibs and derricks sprouting in a forest above them. Carts, pack animals, and, everywhere, people busy moving here and there, loading, unloading, carrying, hammering, and sawing. There was a smell too, emphasised by the long period at sea, of open drains, animal dung, of fresh cut timber, of herbs, spices and cooking food.

  Already a small boat sailed alongside carrying dark skinned youths who waved fresh fruits above their heads. Some of the crew threw small coins into their boat and then eagerly caught the fruits that were thrown back in return. Driven by the paddle wheel the ship slowly slid into a berth and bumped gently against the harbour side. They were overwhelmed at once by sellers of sweet juices, pastries, and smiling women dowsed in scent. The crew welcomed all aboard and set at once about satisfying their most urgent cravings, gulping down the delicious juices, devouring the edible delicacies or leading the women eagerly to the sleeping litters below deck.

  They stayed several turns at Hityil while the mast was replaced and the ship re-provisioned. Not all the crew were allowed to go ashore; those who were recently bought from slavery were held below. But even they were rewarded, with ale, fruit and the visitations of the scented smiling women. It unsettled Torrin to hear the whores at work, the rhythmic thrusts of bodies joined, the gasping of breath escaping through clenched teeth and the false endearments whispered to spur some wretched drunken sailor to his conclusion. To Torrin, a woman’s touch was a precious gift that life bestowed, like the sweet milk still warm from the barak, or delicious honey freshly stolen from the angry bees. Sensations, memories, from across an ocean; simple pleasures lost. Milk turned to brackish water, honey to stale biscuit, and the joy that was Varna to a lying smile and a sickly perfume that could not hide the smells of sweat and sex. He missed a woman’s touch, but not so badly or so desperately yet, not enough to pay his coin and take his turn. He hurried instead onto the deck and found Valhad working.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “To where?” said the younger man rising from his deck scrubbing.

  “To ask our beloved master if we can get off this hulk for a while.”

  His Lordship reluctantly accepted their entreaties and pledges that they would not abscond. So, accompanied by Trabbir, they stepped onto the stone jetty and found themselves in a new world beyond all imagining. They passed many ships being loaded with personal possessions while carts stood alongside bearing tables, chairs, sacks of clothes and bedding. One ship was set to leave; there were emotional partings, sad faces looking back to the spires and domes that they would not see again, that would pass now into cold darkness, until the sun rose once more and their children's children returned. The ships were of many kinds, crewed by many tribes, who had come here to carry these people over the sea in return for payment.

  They left the quay and followed winding alleys between tall buildings. Many windows and doors were already boarded and sealed while others were having the last items loaded onto carts. Trabbir led them through the maze of narrow canyons that were the city streets. He was silent and distracted as if weighted under some burden that grew heavier with every step. He was like a man remembering a dream, looking here and there, every gaze filled with haunting memories. Upon the quay, and through the city streets, he studied each passing face, trying to peer through the mask of passing time, seeking those that he had once known. But the ghosts of his earlier life were elusive, and though many stared back, discomforted by his attention, none showed any sign that he was recognised or remembered. He stopped before a narrow dwelling that rose above them in three floors, each overhanging the other and set upon its own angle, like an untidy pile of books. The doors and windows were shuttered, the occupants departed. Trabbir scanned it silently and sighed deeply.

  “This is the house that my family has owned since it was built three turns of the world ago. It is where I was born and lived as a child. Then the sun shone always through the upper windows and that room was full of warmth and golden light. But as I grew taller so did the sun rise in the sky until it became cruelly hot. We had to go, with all the people of the city to Iranthrir, and there we stayed until I was a man full grown, until the time came when we could return here to Hityil.”

  He drew silent and his lip trembled slightly. They waited for him to continue.

  “It was an officer of the King who stole the house. I can see him now standing before this door in the black and silver of Nejital. He had been a brave soldier, done some valiant act and been rewarded, told to choose any house that he liked to be his dwelling. It was my brother who fought him. My foolish younger brother who hardly knew one end of a sword from another. He was laying here in the street, already bleeding, I saw the officer raise his blade for the final blow, and then I threw the knife that pierced his heart. This fine officer of the King had his soldier friends around him and I could not flee in time. They had me and took me to away, first for their own sport, and then before the King’s judge who condemned me to death. But why kill a man when you can sell him? I was soon laying in chains and filth in the hold of a ship while my jailers counted the money they had been paid. I guess they gave a share to the executioner too, to say that he had done his work with me.”

  “Then,” asked Torrin, “did your family never know that you lived?”

  Trabbir shook his head.

  “Much time passed before I had earned enough freedom to send a message. Too much time, Torrin. I was married just before they took me, and my wife believed herself widowed. I had told her often that if ever I should perish, that she should find another good man, and this I hope that she did. The dead should remain dead, and not return to haunt the living. Yet I cannot help but seek her face amongst the crowds here, or any of those that were my family, or my friends. But, enough now, let me show more of the city.”

  He shook away the sadness and led them onwards. They soon emerged into a square set before a huge building bristling with towers. Valhad gazed in wonder at the carved marble edifice.

  “It is the temple,” said Trabbir.

  “Who do they worship?” asked Valhad.

  “Many Gods,” answered Trabbir. “A God for everything; God's of anger, of love, of land, sea, trees, war, peace…”

  “They are a religious people then,” said Valhad, “like the others on our ship…”

  Trabbir laughed. “In my experience,” he said, “the more gods a tribe worship the less religious they are.”

  Valhad laughed.

  “What does that say then for the Vasagi?” he asked, “the tribe who do not worship?”

  They looked about and saw pathetic, haggard people begging miserably, and in the far corner of the plaza several bodies hanging from a gibbet. A company of soldiers dressed in black leather with silver clasps and buckles watched over the square.

  “Many of the poor cannot afford passage,” said Trabbir. “They will be left in the city as the light dies and the cold begins. And those that steal to pay their way… “ He nodded towards the dangling corpses.

  Valhad looked at the ragged figures and walked towards them.

  “Hey!” shouted Trabbir, “don't you want to see the temple?”

  Valhad stood amongst the huddled figures. There were several families, gaunt exhausted men and pale-faced women holding sickly infants to their bosom. They looked up at the young man who stood amongst them dressed in sailor’s rags little better than their own.

  “Why do you have no passage across the sea?” he asked them.

  For a moment no answer came; it was a strange question, for the reason was well known.

  “We are poor. We cannot pay.”

  “Are you good people?” It was another strange question but they g
ave an answer.

  “We worked hard to feed our children. Much of what we had was taken in tribute to the king, as is his right. We saved a few coins but not enough. Do you have a ship? Take the coins we have, take just the children and their mothers.”

  One of the women began to cry and sob.

  “What will happen then? We will be alone and with nothing. Better to stay here and let the darkness come.”

  Valhad turned to Torrin.

  “You still have that which we found upon the mountain?”

  Torrin nodded and then opened the hidden pouch. The three glittering coins lay in his palm. Valhad took one and gave it to the beggar.

  “How many persons will this buy passage for?”

  The beggar stared, astonished, at the gift.

  “Twenty, perhaps thirty.”

  “Then this you will do,” said Valhad. “Share the passage with those who are most needy, and with this…” He gave the man a second coin, “prosper and be fruitful in the new land. If you are good people, and I believe you are, you will know in your hearts what is right, and you will do truly what I ask of you.”

  The beggar held the coins in his open hands and looked up into Valhad's blue eyes, which were both stern and kind, then with tears beginning to wet his cheeks he reached down and kissed the feet of this strange benefactor.

  “May the god's bless you,” he sobbed.

  “We can be good men without the need of gods,” said Valhad as he knelt and laid his hand upon the man's head. Torrin saw the soldiers looking towards them, watching them curiously. Trabbir noticed their attentions too. They both took Valhad firmly by the arm and led him briskly back to the ship.

  The shipwrights finished their work, the new mast stood proudly, and the hold was stacked high with provisions. All was ready to sail on, but they stayed moored at the quayside. What they were waiting for only His Lordship knew and he stayed within his cabin, did not go ashore, or even show his face upon the deck. Rain came from the southwest, constantly drumming on the decks under a gloomy sunless sky. Then there was a call for Torrin to come aloft. On the rain drenched quay stood a solitary figure, cloaked and hooded. One of the crew spoke quietly to Torrin.