The War of the Four Isles

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘Captain,’ urged the pilot, ‘we must turn north – before it realises we are here!’

  ‘Aye,’ repeated the captain, but still he stared, and still he gave no order. And anyway, Dow thought, how could they flee? There was no wind to propel them.

  He could not take his eyes from the probing line of green. Before it realises we are here, the pilot had said. For that was another terror of the Miasma: the way it hunted after ships. Survivors told of the luminous tendrils purposively tracking after them, matching their every turn and attempt at escape, as if guided by an eye, as if indeed the mist had a will, and was not merely a thing of vapour.

  Dow had never credited that. It must surely be some trick of the wind, or of narrow currents in the sea itself. No mist could be alive. But all that certainty fled from him now as he gazed at the thing unrolling across the silent waters, in the absence of all wind or wave, slowly turning this way and that in the night, as if sniffing for a scent, a hint of any ship . . .

  ‘Captain!’ demanded Emmet Bone.

  Fletcher snapped upright and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Aye. Aye, Pilot, that’s more than close enough.’ He raised a hand to his mouth and called the order. ‘Ready all attack boats! Ready the cables! We will tow ourselves north, out of its path!’

  Relief galvanised Dow. Of course. The boats. The Snout was not utterly defenceless, even without a wind to fill its sails. Already he was turning away to go to his boat’s launching station, when Emmet Bone stepped close to his side, his bald head bent low.

  ‘A moment, Young Admiral. I would ask a favour. I’ve had scant chance to familiarise myself with these attack boats of ours, what with my pilot duties in the Labyrinth. Certainly I’ve never ridden one upon the open sea. May I accompany you now on yours?’

  Dow hesitated, wanting for some reason to say no, but for all its politeness the tone of the pilot’s request brooked no refusal. Dow gave a wordless nod, and together they strode down the stairs and through the readying chaos of the main deck to the Sponge’s davits.

  Dow’s crew was already at work under Nicky’s guidance, old Gordon busily getting up steam in the engine. But for all the din across the ship – launching four attack boats was no quiet matter – Dow was still aware of the vast silence that surrounded the Snout.

  And in that silence, away in the blackness, the Miasma heard them; or so it seemed. The probing finger of green suddenly slowed in its seeking, twisting motion and appeared to pause – almost as if to listen the better – and then began to move again, extending itself now with awful deliberation directly for the ship.

  ‘Hurry now,’ Dow muttered to his crew, though they needed no urging.

  Emmet Bone, however, was looking elsewhere entirely. He gave Dow a sudden nudge, and nodded towards the forecastle. There, sailors were busy playing out the cables with which the boats would tow the Snout. Overseeing the process was the first officer, Agatha Harp. But for the moment she was over by the rail, staring out at the Miasma. And with her was Jake Tooth, the harpooner, their heads bent together in apparent whispered conversation.

  Even as Dow looked, the two straightened, as if aware suddenly of being observed, and glanced about sharply for a moment before separating; Commander Harp returning to the cable gangs, the harpooner striding off towards the stern. At this, Emmet Bone gave Dow a meaningful look, one eyebrow raised. Dow had no idea why. It seemed a surreal distraction, with that creeping green finger bearing closer all the while.

  ‘Ready for launch,’ Nicky reported.

  ‘Go ahead then,’ Dow said, in some relief. In moments they were aboard and the Sponge was lowering to the water. The sea greeted them with a languid splash and a scatter of phosphorescence. They waited only to connect the cable that was dropped to them, then at Dow’s command the Sponge motored carefully forward to take its position off the bow, the other three boats doing likewise.

  There was a pause as all was made ready on the ship. Dow gazed south once more. From water level the speed of the oncoming Miasma – two miles off now at most – seemed all the more dreadful. And the size of it too was more apparent; what had looked like a probing fingertip from far off was in fact a rolling forefront of sickly green cloud, high enough and wide enough to encompass the Snout entirely. It might not have been so terrible, somehow, if it had made a sound, like an oncoming wave or a hurrying storm gust. But it moved in utter silence, as soundless as the wheeling stars overhead.

  ‘Take up the slack!’ came the cry from the ship. The four attack boats eased forward and the cables behind them rose slowly from the sea, streaming water. Then, ‘All ahead full!’ came the order, and as the engineers of each boat opened the steam on their engines wide, the cables came taut. Green froth thrashed about the Sponge’s stern, but for a long moment it seemed the Snout was unmoving, fixed upon the sea, and that the boats might as well have lashed themselves to a rock.

  Emmet Bone gave nonchalant commentary to Dow. ‘I see that these boats are more like thoroughbreds than draught horses; built to run fast and light, not slow, with a heavy load behind.’

  Dow said nothing. It was true, the Sponge and the others had not been designed for towing. Nevertheless, as the cables groaned and cracked and shed more water, the Snout began at last to move, a ripple of forward motion rising around the ship’s bow.

  The pilot noted it too, and nodded. ‘But they do have power, no doubt. More than boats driven by oar, at any rate, no matter how strong the sinews of the rowers. We are fortunate to have engines, Mr Amber. A ship is a deadly weight to drag by hand.’

  Again, Dow gave no answer. The question was, were they moving fast enough to escape? The Miasma was directly astern of the ship now, and no more than a mile behind. Was it just his imagination, or had it begun to hurry on with increasing greed and urgency, as if realising that its prey might slip away?

  Emmet Bone sounded unconcerned. ‘We have speed enough, don’t worry.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I have seen such a thing before, of course, and have outrun it myself.’

  Dow stared. ‘When?’

  The pilot smiled. ‘I told you. Long ago I voyaged far, in company with the War Master. At times, in exploring the southern limits of the Labyrinth, we strayed into the outer Doldrums, much as we have now. Once, he and I and some others were becalmed there for several days, and a Miasma happened upon us. We escaped because our boat was small, and we could row it swiftly enough to outpace the cloud – briefly at least. But briefly is all that’s needed, for the Miasma is a wayward phenomenon, and does not hold its course for long if its target is too quick and elusive to catch – there, see? Already it turns from the chase.’

  Dow looked back. The oncoming front, after its sinister burst of speed, had suddenly slowed again, and as if uninterested had turned to one side, seeming to resume its random, questing way. Cheers rose from the boats and from the ship. But the shouted order came too. ‘Hold speed, boats, till we’re well clear of the damn thing.’

  The four craft toiled on, propellers thrashing, and for a time Dow only watched the twisting serpent as it dwindled behind, hunting still in the night, but now for some other, more helpless victim.

  ‘The Doldrums,’ he said to the pilot finally. ‘Did you ever try to cross them?’

  Emmet Bone’s laugh was wise. ‘I have seen enough of the Barrier to know better than that. There are too many unpleasant things in those lifeless waters, the Miasma by no means the worst.’

  ‘And beyond?’ Dow had to ask. ‘In the southern half of the world? What do you think lies there?’

  But the pilot shook his head. ‘What does it matter, when it cannot be reached? Many said we were fools to dare the Labyrinth, and it was hazardous indeed, but at least there we had wind and clear water at our disposal; we remained masters of our own fate. But the Doldrums; with no wind, and waters that cling to a ship like mud? There are no masters there, only those that are trapped. So dream not of the southern world. There are dang
ers enough here in the northern half of the globe.’

  Dow nodded, staring southwards, hearing the truth in the words. And yet . . . had they not just moved their own becalmed ship without the help of any wind? Didn’t these boats and their marvellous engines change things fundamentally? Might not the unbreachable Barrier be breached after all, with engines, if only a ship and crew were willing to take the chance?

  The pilot interrupted his thoughts. ‘Dangers indeed!’ He had turned to face west. ‘We are barely begun. Ahead of us still lies the darkest and deepest heart of the Wilderness, of which grim tales are told. We will be favoured indeed to cross safely. And beyond lies Banishment and the Banks, even greater dangers again.’ But here his far-flung gaze returned to Dow. ‘And yet there may be threats even closer at hand, Young Admiral. Treachery is ever a hazard too, in war. Do you hear what I’m saying, lad?’

  ‘I hear you,’ Dow said, wary suddenly of what was coming. ‘What treachery?’

  The pilot pointed a gaunt hand back towards the ship. ‘I feel you have hard enemies upon that vessel, where you think you have only allies.’

  Dow looked to the great shadow of sail and lamp glow that was the Snout, drawn on by the taut cables. Only allies? No, he had never quite thought that. But nor had he ever felt that he had enemies there.

  ‘Heed me or not, Dow Amber, it’s of no matter to me. But if there is one thing we pilots are trained for, it is to detect subterfuge. As I can read undercurrents in the waters of the Labyrinth, so I have been reading undertones upon that ship. Something is not right. There are glances and whispers that signify ill.

  ‘Not among the crew! In them I read only a willingness to prove themselves in this venture. And they like you, I think. But the officers of the Great Cabin? There I detect unhappiness and resentments. In who, you ask? Ah now . . . that colonel is a black frost of a man; something dire lies in his heart. But even aside from him – who did we not catch, only moments ago as we launched, in covert and whispered conference?’

  Dow was frowning. Agatha Harp and Jake Tooth? Was that who the pilot was talking about? He was accusing them of treachery?

  Emmet Bone was staring at the ship. ‘Yes, those two in particular I’ve been watching. They share deep secrets that they do not want known, of that much I’m certain. And they do not like you, Mr Amber. You’d do well to be wary of them. This voyage is long, and there are always means upon a ship for someone to do someone else harm, even to the death, and yet make it seem only an accident of the sea.’

  No, Dow could not believe that. It was true that he’d received little friendship from either Agatha or Jake over the years, but to think them capable of murderous conspiracy against him? That was going too far. Besides, the two were virtual strangers to each other as far as Dow could tell. The recent incident aside, he’d hardly ever seen them in close contact. Both were taciturn and unsociable, and furthermore they stood different watches, so were not even thrown together in the line of their duties.

  Emmet Bone was smiling idly. ‘Yet who would suspect such a two; a dauntless harpooner, afraid of no man or beast, and a first officer whose loyalty dates back a lifetime? Well, I make no accusation and claim no proof. I only know that they are like troubled water on an otherwise calm surface. Something – a reef, a snag, a deadly current – lies hidden beneath.’

  After that, time passed without conversation. Within an hour the glow of the Miasma had been lost in the southern darkness, but even though they had made their escape the captain kept them pushing on, so reluctant was he to linger in the outer Doldrums. Thus it was another hour again, with dawn nearing, and with the tanks of the boats all but empty, before the recall came.

  And even as the boats cast off their cables and steered slowly back to the Snout, a truer salvation arrived – for a breeze sprang up in the morning airs. Wind, and a westward wind at that. Cheers rose from the ship, and sails were already being hauled aloft as the boats came alongside. The lines were quickly lowered to raise the Sponge, and Dow’s crew hurried to attach them.

  It was then that Emmet Bone sought him out to announce his final judgement. ‘Aye, these are fine boats, no question, Young Admiral. And now we have survived our second great trial of the voyage, and still without loss of life or harm to the ship.’

  Dow eyed the pilot cautiously. ‘Then we can only hope our luck holds.’

  ‘Luck never holds, lad. And trouble, they say, always comes in threes. I wonder, thus. So far the Wilderness has assailed us with wind and storm above the waters, and with deadly mist upon the waters. From whence, then, do you think the third trial will come? As pilot I say it again – beware what lies below!’

  He turned away, and then the ropes went taut and the Sponge rose dripping from the sea.

  6. THE SEA OF SONGS

  In the Snout’s Great Cabin, in a special cupboard, were stored the ship’s sea charts: the multitude of maps by which the captain and the other senior officers navigated their way about the world.

  Most of these maps were copies of Ship Kings charts, captured when the Twin Islanders had risen up against their overlords. They showed in varying detail each of the Four Isles and its surrounding waters; and also the Middle Sea between, complete with its many reefs and banks and minor isles. But few of the maps made any attempt to depict the Outer Ocean in full; it lurked forever on the edges of the charts, hinted at only by blank paper.

  Indeed, there was only one map that was of any use to the Snout now. It had come directly from the War Master’s own archives, donated by him and delivered by Emmet Bone, and it was a chart that Dow came to study with increasing apprehension as the ship forged its steady way into the untenanted heart of the Wilderness.

  The document itself was not old, but it had been copied – to judge by its archaic style – from a map that must have been very old indeed. The pilot theorised that the original had predated the Great War, and had perhaps been drawn centuries ago, possibly even during the legendary Age of Exploration.

  Most apparent was the fact that it showed not a single landmass; it was a map purely of water. On the chart’s right hand margin was an arrow pointing further east, labelled To the Islands Twin; and on the left was an arrow pointing west, entitled To the Kingdoms Home. To the north and the south similar pointers indicated the direction of the Ice and the Doldrums. But in the body of the map itself there was only open ocean; more than ten thousand miles of it, from one side to the other.

  And yet the chart wasn’t featureless. It was crowded with lines, denoting not land or reefs but rather depth. Long ago, it seemed, the ancient Ship Kings mariners had roamed the Outer Ocean and with sounding weights and ropes had traced the contours of the very sea floor, lying dark and hidden beneath the water.

  What they’d found was fascinating – and disturbing. All about the rim of the Wilderness, north, south, east and west, the ocean ranged from two to three miles in depth. But inwards the ocean floor sank away. First to four miles, then to five, then to six.

  On the map, this was shown not only by the contour lines, but also by a subtle shading on the paper, from white to grey, growing darker as the depth increased; and towards its centre, the Outer Ocean descended into deep, deep shadow. Seven miles, then eight, and finally nine.

  But beyond that the Ship Kings had been unable to plumb. Perhaps they had no rope long enough, or strong enough to bear its own weight, but for whatever reason, the nine-mile line marked the limit of their investigation – and that line encircled a vast chasm that divided the Wilderness in two, east from west; a great abyss, over a thousand miles across, shaded almost black, where the ocean plunged to depths unmeasured and unknowable, ten miles down maybe and more.

  It was towards this gulf that the Snout now sailed; there was no other path across the Outer Ocean that did not lead far into the north and the Ice, or southwards into the Doldrums. The abyss must be traversed.

  But for ships that would do so, the ancient mapmaker had inscribed a warning within the great empty sha
dow on his chart, words that echoed down to Dow from half a thousand years before.

  They read:

  Here be whales in great number.

  And here be monsters of the deep that riseth to feast upon them.

  *

  But for all that, the Snout had fair sailing for several weeks after escaping the Miasma. The West Band winds blew strong and constant, the ocean remained free of storm or nightly apparition, and on the southern horizon at night the Dagger had vanished again below the edge of the world. As the end of their seventh week at sea approached, the navigators reckoned that more than a third of their journey now lay safely behind them.

  And yet there was little cheer on board the ship at the news; it only meant that they were further now than ever from any shore – and closer to the great abyss. Everyone felt it, officers and crew alike, as if they had been granted some extra sense that could reach through the planks of the hull and down through the water; as the weeks passed, the ocean floor was dropping away beneath them. Five miles, then six, then seven . . .

  Of course, the sea itself looked no different, and the ship sailed on as soundly as it ever had. Nevertheless, the thought of such a void growing deeper and deeper under the keel preyed on the mind. To Dow, it felt as if he was back in the mountains of his homeland, and that he was venturing out over some plummeting canyon, walking only on a tightrope . . .

  Then the first whales appeared.

  It was now the beginning of winter by the calendar, the traditional time that the great warm-blooded creatures arrived in southern waters, having made their slow way down from the north, where they’d spent the summer. Far behind the Snout, the Twin Isles whaling fleet would just now be venturing out of port to hunt in the waters around Whale Island and Red. Whales would be numerous there, no doubt, but not as numerous as here, out in the unvisited and unhunted wastes of the Wilderness.