by Laura Gill
Twenty yards away, his men continued work on the second ship, now close to completion. It matched Dolphin’s dimensions exactly: ninety feet from bow to stern, outfitted with fifteen thwarts that served as rowing benches. It had room for fifty passengers crammed close together, and, below the stern, the men had constructed a wooden pen that would hold the livestock. The men were at that moment crafting the oars, using antler bone chisels and stone scrapers to shape the pine wood. Wood curls and dust mingled with the sand and gravel around their feet. Astaryas was helping construct the mast. Knos had to admit, his son looked more content working among the sailors than his father had ever seen him.
The women had finished the sail two days ago. They had worked as hard as the men, trimming the hides Rauda provided, piercing the edges with bone awls, and stitching them together with bone needles and sinew. Rauda stored the sail in his dwelling. Thank the gods the arsonists had not torched his house and destroyed that work.
Young Knos ran to meet his father. The eleven-year-old had been running errands, sweeping shavings, and fetching tools and drinking water for the men. “Can I pull an oar when we go?”
Knos chuckled, ruffled the boy’s flyaway dark hair. “Drawing an oar takes a man’s strength. You need a strong back and arms, and a long reach. Look at the men, and see how strong they are. Maybe you can try when you’re a little older.”
“But I’m strong now. Look.” Young Knos insistently flexed his biceps. “If Astaryas can do it, so can I.”
“So you’re competing with him, are you?” Knos refrained from laughing too hard, so as not to offend the boy’s sensitive pride. He leaned closer, taking his second-born son into his confidence. “Listen. Your brother isn’t going to be so glad when the time comes. Pulling an oar is hard, sweaty, painful work. The men just make it look easy.
“Now then,” he continued, “I have a very important job for you. You go to Uncle Rauda and tell him that I want you to help choose the animals to go aboard.” Dolphin and the new ship would not hold nearly as many livestock as the departing people were entitled to take, and there would not be enough time to construct a third ship.
Young Knos liked animals; he would probably make a far better herdsman or farmer than a sailor. As for Astaryas, time and a stint at the oars would determine whether he had the spirit and endurance to devote himself to Marynos and make a successful life at sea.
The carpenters worked into the long summer dusk. As the moon rose, many people camped on the beach where there was safety in numbers. Knos ate his supper by the bonfire, and then, bidding good-night to Menuash and the other sailors, retired with his first wife to their tent. He would have been content lying on the sand, but his first wife wanted shelter. The tent was comfortable enough. Fidra and Hariana had done an excellent job making the bed, and Urope was a warm and familiar presence snuggled against him.
For a time, they lay under the blankets, listening to the sailors murmuring down below, and to the crash and ebb of the waves. Finally, Urope spoke, “Abbek says the ashes will have cooled enough by tomorrow.”
“I heard you talking before with Fidra and Hariana. You know there are certain things you can’t bring on the ship,” Knos said carefully. He meant the babies, a stillborn daughter and a son who had lived only two weeks, who were buried under the earthen floor. It was customary to bury infants in the house, where the household gods could protect their fragile ghosts.
Urope said nothing about that sad business. “Hariana hopes to find the house snake,” she said quietly, “to release her.” House snakes belonged to the hearths where they settled. People did not carry them from one dwelling to another, but prepared a place by the threshold of the new hearth, set out a bowl of milk, and petitioned the goddess Ashrah to bless them by sending one of her messengers.
“I doubt it’s still there.” Knos’s eyelids were growing heavy. He was glad his first wife had stayed, but nevertheless he hoped she did not intend to talk for much longer.
*~*~*~*
“What does Rabbas want with me?”
“His messenger says he wants to discuss a death in his clan. A herdsman found lying dead in a ditch.” Rauda shrugged, threw his older brother a puzzled look. “I find it strange, too, Knos, but the messenger insisted that you come.”
Knos did not find it strange that Kardunas’s body had been discovered, for that had been the point, to make the death look like an accident, and to ensure that the herdsman received proper burial rites. He scratched the back of his neck in an attempt to appear nonchalant, because Rauda knew nothing about the incident. “You’re sure he wants me to come? I don’t see what an Octopus herdsman’s death has to do with our clan.” He exhaled, and glanced over at the carpenters. “I’ve really no time for this nonsense, but since he insists... Send someone to fetch Aramo, would you? I would rather not go alone.”
Rauda frowned. “You don’t want me to accompany you?”
“Aramo always knows what to say.”
Rabbas’s house was two stories high, but due to his difficulty climbing ladders, the Octopus Clan’s chieftain lived entirely on the first floor. He received Knos and Aramo in a colorful annex attached to the main hearth; the walls depicted black octopi floating amid yellow, orange, and brownish sea plants. Rabbas settled his bulk on the floor with a grunt, offered the figurines of Potidnu and the Great Goddess occupying that space a libation of beer, but he took his time about ordering his unmarried sister to bring his guests any refreshments. Knos understood the omission. He and Aramo were there strictly to answer questions, not as guest-friends being encouraged to make themselves comfortable.
Following the libation, Rabbas edged aside the bull and goddess figurines, signaling to his sister to put them away. “Now why was Kardunas found dead lying in a ditch half a mile from your brother’s farm?”
Knos did not feign surprise. That he was here meant Rabbas suspected him. “What was he doing near Aramo’s land to begin with?”
“Kardunas’s kinsmen found him on Octopus land, but that wasn’t where he intended to go the last time he—” Rabbas started to flush. Catching his mistake, he muttered under his breath and lamely tried to correct himself. “His first wife said that he’d left his house after dark, far too late for him to be heading out for his herd’s grazing.”
“And this has what to do with us?” Knos was not going to come out and admit any wrongdoing. Let Rabbas make the accusation.
“I think you know,” Rabbas said. “Kardunas was struck in the head and left lying.”
“You called this meeting,” Aramo added calmly. “Are you accusing us of something?”
Rabbas silently measured them. By requesting their presence, the Octopus chieftain had backed himself into a corner, for he could not accuse them of murder without also incriminating Kardunas, and therefore himself, of attempted arson. Hazarding a guess, Knos suspected that the dead man’s kin, knowing where he was bound that night, had made the accusation and were now demanding action.
He weighed the situation, and decided then that there was nothing to lose by breaking the impasse. “Come on, Rabbas, you and I both know what Kardunas was doing out of doors that night.” He leaned toward the chieftain, extending his neck and bracing his elbows on both knees with a conspiratorial air. “And he didn’t come out alone, either. He just had the great misfortune to be the only one caught at what he was doing.”
Rabbas made a noncommittal noise. Knos knew it must be awkward for him, inviting the man who had ruined his wife into his house.
“Are we really going to play this game?” An edge of frustration crept into Aramo’s voice. “He was trying to burn down—”
“Gently,” Knos urged. “Rabbas, listen, you and I are friends. We’ve broken bread and done business together. There’s no reason for deceit. That business with your wife...” He allowed himself a breath. Dangerous ground to tread. Rabbas’s mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. “That was all a mistake. I valued our friendship and would never knowingly abuse
your goodwill.”
Rabbas’s face did not change. Knos suddenly felt as though he had said too much, and at precisely the wrong time, so he turned the subject back to the matter at hand. “There’ll be no material compensation, no payment of goods or livestock. We were considerate, under the circumstances. We offered a libation of milk to the dead man’s ghost. We left his body where it would be discovered and given a proper burial. That’s all we intend to do. Now you tell his kinsmen that if they want to protest, that’s their choice, but you might also add that they might want to hold their tongues considering why he was out and about that night.”
“And does Dravan sanction this stance?” Rabbas asked cautiously. “I feel I should point out that you’ve taken quite an undue amount of authority upon yourself these last few weeks, Knos, when you haven’t been sanctified to lead your clan as an elder.”
“I’ve never called myself an elder,” Knos answered. “As for my authority, circumstances warrant that. I command the ships and the expedition. Dravan is not accompanying us.”
Rabbas frowned and started to say something, then reconsidered. “Setting the fires was not my idea. Women and children burned in their homes.” Grimacing, he shook his head. “I want no more trouble between our two clans.”
Knos saw his moment. “Do you know who set fire to Pashki’s house?”
“That, I couldn’t tell you.” Rabbas stared at the floor between them, where Potidnu and the Great Goddess had stood. “I was sorry to hear about the old grandmother and the young children.” The crease between his brows deepened, as though he was wrestling with something. “I believe they may have fired the wrong house.”
“Who fired the wrong house?” Knos pressed.
“Whoever set the fire,” Rabbas said, too quickly. He knew their names, yet simply did not want to say. “I heard that the men lived outside the village, and didn’t know the houses as well.”
“And you can’t remember their names?” Aramo sounded incredulous. “You know everybody around here.”
Rabbas raised his head, challenged him with an irritated look. “Maybe, but I don’t pry.”
Knos waved that aside. He could easily find out the identities of the malefactors, for nothing happened that the clan’s women did not notice. It was more important that he and Rabbas part on friendly terms. When the time came, however, Rabbas would not shake his hand, and did not offer more than a cursory grunt of dismissal. Knos knew not to press the issue. The wound of Sinopi’s betrayal was too recent.
Upon returning to the beach, he heard an interesting bit of information from Hariana. On the day after the fire, Shobai had laid a steep fine on one of his own people, a herdsman named Orzu. “Orzu just got those animals, too. A gift from Shobai. Gives with one hand, takes with the other. His wife wouldn’t stop complaining.” Hariana shook sand from the blanket she was carrying. “Urope finally told her to shut her mouth.”
“Is that all Urope did?” Knos knew his first wife well enough to suspect she had slapped the errant woman, too.
Hariana hemmed and hawed a bit before admitting the truth. “Can you blame her? The stupid cow kept whining about the theft and wouldn’t tell us what her husband did to be fined, only went on and on about doing the wrong thing.”
The phrase struck a nerve with Knos. Did the wrong thing. Rabbas’s earlier words came back to him. Fired the wrong house.
Orzu.
The name was unfamiliar. As a mariner, Knos did not know many of the herdsmen or farmers outside the Bull Clan. Aramo would definitely know more. Had this Orzu been the man who fired Paskhi’s house? Had Shobai ordered it? If so, then he would die for what he had done, except... Knos shook his head. An outright revenge killing would precipitate a clan war, something he could not afford.
“Is something wrong?” Hariana asked. “You have a distant look in your eyes.”
He managed a reassuring smile for her. “Nothing.” Divulging the truth to the women would be tantamount to unleashing disaster. The Bull Clan women were more than capable of exacting their own vengeance, and he preferred to avoid open conflict. “I have some business to discuss with Aramo.”
When Aramo heard about Orzu’s possible involvement, he counseled caution. “You’re absolutely right about not taking immediate action. We can’t afford that kind of conflict now.” Pausing, he glanced surreptitiously over at his first wife to make certain she was too busy to eavesdrop. Alit was kneading dough with her sturdy hands and pounding it into flat circles. Otherwise, the two brothers were alone. “And considering the difficulties, it’s possible we may not be able to do it at all. There would be accusations, violence. People might abandon our endeavor.”
“But Pashki must be avenged,” Knos insisted in a low voice. “It’s my responsibility as his captain. I take it personally. Besides, I swore a sacred oath to his ghost that I would see it done.” The thought that he might not be able to fulfill that promise gnawed at him.
For a moment, Aramo said nothing, but stared into the embers of his hearth, contemplating the situation. Then, drawing a breath, he leaned forward and further dropped his voice just to be sure Alit could not hear. “Then it would have to be done on the very eve of the voyage. We invoke the gods, pour a libation to silence his ghost, but his body disappears so it’s never found. We don’t want his kinsmen cursing us while we’re at sea.”
Knos thought that was an excellent idea, even though he would have preferred public vengeance. “I want to know who the second man is, so we—”
“What’re you two plotting over there that you’ve got to be so hush-hush about it?” Alit huffed, and got to her feet with a basket of flatbread that was hot, fresh, and crispy brown around the edges the way her husband liked it. “Are you staying to eat, Knos?” He nodded. “Aramo, call the children in.”
Knos returned to the beach with a full belly, but deeply unsatisfied. Cutting Orzu’s throat would placate Pashki’s ghost somewhat, yet there could be no justice without also shedding the second man’s blood. Perhaps, Knos mused, he could take Masar into his confidence, and have him cast the oracle bones.
*~*~*~*
It was harvest time. As farmers and their seasonal help worked in the fields to reap Mother Raziya’s bounty, the window for leaving grew shorter by the day. Soon the seas would be too rough for travel. Knos willed himself to remain calm. Early autumn was still good sailing weather, and the new ship was practically finished. The voyage would take place as scheduled.
To those naysayers who fretted that an autumn voyage would leave them without food or shelter for the coming winter, Knos explained that the new land was not that far away—less than a week’s travel—and that there was ample timber to build dwellings before the first frost. “There are fruits and nuts to gather,” he added, “goats to tame, and we’re bringing food and seed with us. The first thing we’ll do is build a new house for the gods and brew beer.”
Despite his best efforts to keep spirits high, some who had committed to the voyage began to have second thoughts when it came to giving up their homes and bidding farewell to friends and relations. Knos exercised his persuasion where he thought his words might have effect. Otherwise, he calculated how much extra cargo the ships might take on without those passengers. Once the settlement was established, he reasoned, he could return and enlist more colonists.
The final stages of preparing the new ship were a time for excitement. Menuash drew lots to select the lucky sailors who would paint the apotropaic eyes below the ship’s prow.
“You take a brush, too, Knos!” Menuash insisted. Pots of black, scarlet, and white pigment sat on the ground beside a half-dozen reed brushes the men had manufactured that morning.
Knos took a step back, shaking his head and waving his palms in good-natured refusal. “It’s your ship, Menuash.” The sailors had consulted the oracle bones, and based on the favorable omens had elected their former first mate as the new ship’s captain.
“Ah, but she’ll be following in Dolphin’s wa
ke!” Menuash thrust a stick of charcoal at him. “Just trace the lines, and we’ll fill them in.”
Knos had not sketched Dolphin’s initial eyes, but every year since his father’s death he had refreshed the paint and blessed the talisman with libations of milk and honey. To be asked to do this was a singular honor, and there was no harm in another captain, an elder, or even a woman bestowing an outline of eyes upon a ship, for the talisman did not come alive and open its eyes until the pupils were finished and the offerings made.
So Knos accepted the stick of charcoal, strode over to the new vessel, and crouched in the gravel to sketch the sweeping eyes on both sides of the bow where the hull would meet the water. The sailors crowded around, almost blocking his light, to watch and voice their approval.
When he stepped back, satisfied with his efforts, the chosen men fell to with brushes and pigment. They worked carefully, slowly, as they had done during every stage of the construction. Masar began chanting an ancient sailing song, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, encouraging the rest of the crew to join in. Knos saw Astaryas, who stood among a knot of young oarsmen on the other side of the crowd, hesitate because he did not know the words. Then Sirouk, caught up in the rhythm, nudged him, urging him to take part, anyway.
Knos glimpsed his first wife observing from Dolphin’s deck, where she was airing out their blankets. He waved to her. Urope knew better than to interrupt this sailor’s rite by coming down, but even from twenty yards away he saw her wearing a joyful look, and she was clapping her hands to the rhythm.
Amid this celebratory chanting, Menuash accepted a brush to add the whites to the pupils. Then a pair of older sailors barged through the crowd with a jar of goat’s milk. “Make way for the blessing!”
Menuash handed off the brush, took the clay jar, and held it aloft to the cacophony of thunderous cheers. Knos remembered the day his father had performed the ritual, and how he as a youth anticipating his first voyage had roared and stomped his feet, and called for the ship to come to life. He envied his first mate a little. Menuash was a very fortunate man to be made a captain so young, and to be able to awaken and name his own ship.