by B R Crichton
“Kellan Aemoran,” Ganindhra said in that deep voice that Kellan felt in his chest.
“Yes, Sir,” he replied nervously.
“Come nearer, I wish to look at you.” Kellan edged closer. “Nearer.” He reached out a huge hand that looked as though made from a fusion of wood and leather, and beckoned for Kellan to come closer still. The big hand settled on Kellan’s shoulder with unexpected lightness, and Ganindhra leaned forward to bring his face to within a hand span of the boy’s own. The giant creature stared hard into his eyes and Kellan found himself unable to break away from the ancient gaze that studied him.
“You are getting older, Kellan,” he finally said, “and you must learn to be on guard.”
“From what?” Kellan asked.
“For the most part, from yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All Men struggle with themselves as much as they do the rest of the world,” Ganindhra said, lifting his great hand from the boy’s shoulder and leaning back. “You must learn to control your feelings before you can control events around you.”
Kellan wondered if all boys got this talk with Ganindhra. He had never heard of such an audience but perhaps this was some sort of test too, a rite of passage.
“Anger is your greatest enemy,” he continued, “but harnessed, can become your strongest ally. Sit.” The Lythurian he had seen on his way in had entered unseen by Kellan and placed a chair behind him, and was retreating from the cavern. “I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“I need you to try to clear your mind. I need you to think only of one thing. I need you to focus on the most peaceful image or memory you have. Do that.”
Kellan shut his eyes and tried to think of his most peaceful memory. He thought of his family, his home, he thought of his father working in the fields and splitting logs. He had been very happy. He thought of his mother.
“No,” said Ganindhra. “Those memories invoke too much emotion. You must detach yourself from such things.”
Kellan wondered if the creature was able to read his mind. He tried to think of something that put him at perfect ease, and reached with his mind for the knowledge. It came to him. That moment when he had been washed down the torrent and over the waterfall. He had hung in space then, falling with the water, bound as they were by the same forces, yet detached and invulnerable for that instant. He allowed himself to be enveloped by the memory.
“Yes,” Ganindhra rumbled like an avalanche, “that is it. Hold onto that moment, use it to remove yourself from the internal struggles of the mind.”
Ganindhra’s words soothed him, nudging him towards a place of sanctuary and stillness. The passing of time became an irrelevance. Kellan floated free; carried by the words of the creature and the memory of that moment in his past, he felt as though he was watching himself from without. Not looking down at his own body sitting in the chair, but rather, seeing his innermost thoughts from outwith his own mind. He saw the emotions boil in the cauldron of self-awareness but was shielded from their heady effects. Everything was clearer to him, understanding so much simpler to achieve without the babble of a myriad feelings vying for attention.
“Good,” Ganindhra said slowly, “now come back to yourself. Come back.”
Kellan reluctantly released the moment and sank back into the miasma of his emotions, that seemed at first too complex to understand or master, but as they settled on him, familiarity returned. He became himself again, but still had the vague memory of that detached state and the route he had taken to it.
“Good,” Ganindhra said again. “That was far better than I expected for your first attempt. You have a gift for this; we have hope yet. I wonder, I have one more task for you today. I hope it is not too far to go, but I will ask you to return to the memory you reached for. Find your ‘Calm’. But before you do, listen to me. I want you to look at your surroundings, look at me, yourself, this tree, and tell me what you see.”
Kellan nodded. He shut his eyes again and slowly forced his way out of his psyche, and into that place of Calm. Now that he had found it once, the path was clearer.
“Tell me what you see.”
He looked around and saw Ganindhra, no longer forbidding, but simply a wise teacher to be observed and obeyed.
“Look deep.”
Kellan searched but could see nothing beyond what he had seen the first time.
He returned to his normal self and shook his head. “What were you hoping for me to find?”
“In time you will find it. Of that I am certain,” he replied. “Now go and practice what you have learned. We will meet again soon.”
Chapter Nine
A few hours into the voyage, Granger called Truman below. Most of the Mercenaries were lounging in the sun or rolling dice on the deck. Blunt snoozed in the shadow of the quarterdeck, his garish hat tipped forward to cover his eyes.
Truman followed into what passed for the galley, where Granger was grinding a collection of herbs with a mortar and pestle.
“What are you up to?” he asked Granger.
“You may have noticed,” he replied, not taking his eyes from his task, “a certain lady looking a little green.”
“Valia? She is suffering from sea-sickness.”
“She certainly is, and it has not put her in a good humour,” Granger said, transferring the powder into a mug.
“No, she threatened to drown me when I offered my sincere sympathy.”
“Of course she did,” Granger said, pouring hot water into the mug.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“This,” Granger said holding the mug triumphantly, “is your salvation.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A cure for sea-sickness.”
Truman still failed to grasp the thread of what Granger was offering.
“For you. To give to her,” Granger spelled out.
“Ah,” realisation dawned, “does it work?”
“Of course it works,” he replied, hurt. “At least, I have seen it work. Come, quickly, offer it to her.”
He handed the steaming mug to Truman and bundled him up the steps onto the main deck, where Valia was leaning over the gunwale. Her head was bowed as she leaned her elbows on the wooden surface. When Truman got nearer, he could hear her groaning softly.
“How are you feeling,” he asked as he approached cautiously.
“Oh, Fate, not now Truman,” she said just before dry retching.
“I have something here to help ease the sickness,” he said.
“If it is another ode to my beauty, I’m not in the mood.” She emphasised the statement by turning to face him. Her skin was pale and her eyes bloodshot and red rimmed, and there were flecks of vomit still on her chin.
Just then, Foley arrived and sat upon the gunwale with his back to the sea.
“Not feeling our best are we?” he said cheerfully.
Valia withered him with a look.
“The trick is to keep your eyes fixed on the horizon,” he said. “My Grandfather was a fisherman you see, and suffered terribly from sea-sickness.”
“You are sitting precariously for one so witty,” she warned, nodding to his position above the water. He looked down at the fast rushing surf below and dropped onto the deck as a precaution against her ire.
“No, really. I can remember it as clear as day,” Foley persisted. “‘Keep your eyes fixed on the horizon’, he used to say. Try it.” He returned to his game of dice on the other side of the ship. Truman was about to offer the mug when Foley shouted over, “Or maybe it was ‘never look directly at the horizon’. I’m not so sure now that I think on it.”
Valia slumped and groaned.
“Here, drink this,” Truman said insistently. He took her hand and pressed the mug into it. “Drink,” he repeated.
She sipped at the mug, and made a face, but continued taking larger and larger gulps.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Just a little something I cooked up to ease your discomfort,” he lied, hoping to Fate that Granger had enough of the herbs to last the voyage.
“That was kind,” she said, tipping the mug back to swallow what was left.
“It was the least I could do,” he said, smoothing his moustaches with a thumb and forefinger. “It saddens me to see you distressed.”
“Really?” she said doubtfully.
“It is said that when a bond forms strongly enough between two people, they can feel each other’s pain,” he said. “They know each other’s joy and sorrow; they can share agony and ecstasy, as surely as warmth or wine. In fact, it is also said that no emotion can truly be experienced unless shared.”
He found that he was holding her hand in his, her calloused palms belying the soft cream of her skin. He did not remember taking it, but there it was. He felt a fire in the touch that he would take to his grave, yet it was a fire that demanded more. There was a delicacy within her battle hardened body that Truman felt he could almost touch; behind her physical strength and stature, a fragility. Her fragrance overrode the salt in the air and her presence obliterated the vast loneliness of the sea. The desire to embrace her was almost too much to bear.
“Bollocks,” she said, retrieving her hand and sniffing the mug. “Could go another one of these though.”
Crestfallen, Truman returned to the galley.
Granger had appointed himself ship’s cook. Normally the crew would take turns to cook for themselves as well as the passengers, but he had insisted on taking on the mantle. They had adequate supplies on board for the voyage, mostly breads, dried meat and eggs with some fruits to supplement their diet. However, Granger was intent on cooking as much fresh fish as they could catch. They trawled with nets and baited lines, hauling in all manner of fish which he set about with herbs and spices and varying techniques. Baking, broiling, poaching and frying, in all sorts of marinades and sauces.
Not every attempt could be called a success, but he enjoyed the diversion.
It also reminded him of something he had discovered shortly after becoming mortal. There was a drive he felt that had never before affected him. A desire to achieve and experience. It seemed that with a finite amount of time allotted to mortals, they strove to make the most of their lives. Some did this through building wealth or stature, whilst others simply tried to see and do as much as they possibly could before the inevitable. Some were driven to extremes by this obsession, whilst others were more sober in their ambitions, but he had begun to understand the impulse behind Man’s urgent struggles.
Life was not to be squandered or taken for granted, and this was the sole cause of Man’s greatest achievements as well as His most deplorable atrocities. For in their pursuit they frequently put aside the needs or rights of others and rode rough-shod over anything that stood in the way of their own single aims. But in the here and now, in the relative isolation from the rest of the world on this ship, Granger set about the task of savouring the flavours on offer. Observation was a pale shadow when compared to participation. He raised his goblet to toast the unseen Emissary he knew to be there, before taking a mouthful of the wine and tossing the rest, sizzling, into the large skillet. It bounced and spat in the pan, binding its aroma into the fillets of choi-fish. Then, he eased the delicate slices onto a serving dish.
“Truman,” he called, “another serving.”
The poet appeared a few moments later with an empty platter, and exchanged it for the freshly cooked offerings.
“How is the appetite up there?” Granger asked.
“This should about do it,” he replied. “Come up on deck, the sun is setting.”
Most days, the weather was fine and the crew and mercenaries had eaten on the deck, enjoying the air, winds had been light but constant and their progress over the last five days was steady. Evenings were spent listening to Truman play his lute, or Granger telling his tales of far off lands. He enjoyed the storytelling, found that his ego craved an audience, and would pace the deck with their eyes fixed on him as he spun legends for their delight.
They climbed the steps to the main deck to join the others. Most of the food laid out on the table of crates had been eaten, and a few diners were still picking at morsels from their plates in their various reposes about the deck. Truman added the final platter to the banquet and reunited himself with his wine goblet and makeshift seat on a small crate. He lifted his lute and began to lazily pluck at the strings.
The ‘Sea Raven’ was chasing the sun to its watery bed on the western horizon, clouds painted red through shades of pink and orange. He sang softly to himself, a song about the loneliness of the sea. It told of a sailor, doomed to be far from his betrothed as he drifted upon the oceans, and of how he would gaze upon each sunset, knowing that the woman he loved would be doing so too. By the end of the song, everyone on deck was silent, listening to the sad notes and thinking of those they cared about, wondering if they too gazed upon this sunset.
Only one of their number looked at the horizon without fondness. The Captain eyed the clouds ahead with an uneasy expression.
They did not know his name.
“Call me Captain,” he had said. “My wife calls me by name, in her more tender moments. Aboard this ship I am Captain.”
They left it at that.
“Trouble, Captain?” Granger asked, seeing his worried look.
The Captain chewed on a ball of tobacco. “Storm brewing,” he said without looking away from the horizon.
“Is that a problem for us?”
The Captain spat onto a stained patch of the deck behind the helm where he stood, holding the wheel gently, allowing it to waver a few degrees either way in his hands. “Is if it hits us,” he said plainly.
“Will it?” Granger could not help think of all the ships he had seen dashed by the great fists of waves, huge swells tossing sailors to their briny graves and sails ripping from their masts. He had always observed these events from his place of immunity, coldly committing to memory the deeds of the doomed. Now he stared at the horizon with an anxious feeling in his belly.
The Captain sent a stream of brown saliva onto the deck again, but said nothing more.
Hit them it did.
In the early hours of the morning, Kellan awoke to shouts from up on deck. He was in a hammock in the stuffy quarters in the bow of the ship with the rest of the mercenaries. A few others were stirring too as he struggled from the canvas sheet and dropped onto the rough wooden boards. The floor listed alarmingly under his feet, causing him to grab hold of the hammock again to stop himself from tumbling across the width of the low room. The floor righted itself slowly, but continued, to throw him the other way. He unsteadily made his way to the steps leading to the main deck, clutching what he could for balance. There were protests when he used slumbering mercenaries for handholds.
He reached the steps and hauled himself up to the door.
He was met by a spray of gale-driven brine. The crew were fighting to secure rigging and avoid being washed overboard by the waves that crashed onto the deck. The Captain heaved on the ship’s wheel, trying to turn the unwieldy vessel into the waves to cut through them rather than have them break across the sides.
They had reduced the amount of sail available to save them from ripping, but this made the ‘Sea Raven’ slow to respond, and the Captain heaped curses upon the crew and the sea at large.
Flashes of lightning froze the frantic efforts of the crew for the briefest moments and thunder cracked with a sound he felt as well as heard.
Then he spotted Blunt, already on deck, holding on to a cargo net that covered some barrels. He waited until the ship was approaching level, then darted from his doorway sanctuary across the listing deck, and slipped and skidded into the same net. Blunt grabbed at his clothing to secure him as Kellan scrabbled to find purchase on the rope.
“Bloody fool!” Blunt shouted over the storm. “What do you think you are doing?”
“
What are you doing?” Kellan gasped back.
“Checking the wine,” Blunt replied. “Had to be sure the buggers had it secured.”
A wave broke over the side, obliterating the mercenary leader from Kellan’s view for a few moments. When the water rolled away, they were still clinging to the netting, spluttering salt water.
“You risked this for wine?” Kellan laughed humourlessly over the noise.
“You find this bloody funny?” Blunt spluttered.
“That you would risk your life for wine? No.”
“This will fetch a good price in Ter’Arbis. Dashiyan wine.”
“If you had brought a little less, it would have all gone in the hold,” Kellan reasoned, before another wave broke over them. “Anyway, since when did you become a merchant?”
“There are more ways to earn an honest coin than killing Koratheans, young Kellan,” he replied.
Kellan laughed again, this time with a hint of real mirth. “You never cease to amaze me, Blunt.”
Another wave crashed over them, and the Captain continued shouting at his crew. Then they heard a splintering of timber and watched in horror as the mizzen mast at the stern was felled by the ferocious wind. It smashed the top of the quarterdeck just a few strides from the Captain as he wrestled with the wheel. The Captain bellowed at a crewman to cut the rigging that held it to the ship. Even as a crewman made his way across the deck with a hatchet, the ship listed alarmingly with the drag of the mast in the water. Kellan’s good humour drained from him.
“Cut that rigging man or we’ll be over!” shouted the Captain more urgently.
The crewman cut one of the stout lines with two strokes of the hatchet, and had just set about the next, when another wave broke over the side. It took the poor man by surprise and he vanished in the foam and into the roiling sea.
“Man over!” went the shout.
Kellan knew he had to act, but the helplessness of his position frustrated him to the point of anger. Now the waves were blows. Attacks on his person, trying to pull him from the ship or pull the ship down with him.