The fraulein’s right arm was ripped off ragged at the elbow. Her jaw was askew and her right eye was gone. Her black dress seeped blood. Sally did not cry until she saw that the fraulein’s shoes were missing from her otherwise unharmed feet. When Tom, Barnabas, and Sanford arrived, they found Sally bowed over the fraulein’s body, crying and reciting over and over again the names of the churches in Hamburg.
They had no choice but to bury the fraulein that morning. At the graveside (a hastily dug pit for a dozen other bodies, including that of the Marine who had died protecting the Rehnstocks), Malchen held her mother’s and Sally’s hands. Sally knelt before Malchen and said, “Take this as a memento, a little Fussnickel, and I will do the same.”
Sally handed Malchen a half-finished needlework picture, one of several Sally found under the fraulein’s bed. The picture was of a ship sailing on a sea strewn with roses. Sally had never seen it before and realized the fraulein had contained mysteries that Sally would never be able to discover. For herself, Sally kept the picture of the house on Mincing Lane.
“Oh Quatsch,” said Barnabas as they left the funeral, and burst into tears.
That night the McDoons gathered at the quay on the canal where the Gallinule lay ready. On the landside of the quay, opposite the ship, was a building used for the fitting out of ships. On the ground floor a table had been set, amid crates, barrels, and pallets of supplies. The Queen and Chamberlain were there, with a dozen Marines.
“I come myself to mark this most desperate cast of the die,” said the Queen. “We can spare only thirty for the crew, and no Marines to guard you, but that may be a good thing since we can only supply the ship with enough rations for a reduced company.”
“War or no war, siege or no siege,” said the Chamberlain, “we will hold the sending-off supper as we always have, for all the centuries that we have sent tough ships on the voyage to Pash. Come and dine!”
Round the table the dishes were passed, from the Yountians to the McDoons to Jambres and the Minders. Dorentius explained the meaning of each dish, the order of its presentation, the prayer to be said each time. The Minders and the Marines ate with gusto but no one else had much appetite, least of all Sally.
From the hills came the constant mutter of gunfire. Periodically the volume grew. Each time it did, Nexius would smile, take out his watch (made in London, a gift from his brother), and say, “Right on time, that will be Srix and the Tenth Foot” or “Very good, we are holding the bridge in Duchmennaney.” Tom and Afsana would nod, sometimes adding comments.
“They would not recognize you in the coffeehouses back home, Tom,” said Barnabas. “I am so sorry not to have you with us on the voyage.”
“I am sorry too, Uncle. But I think my duty keeps me here this time.”
Afsana put down her fork and said, “Duty only?”
Tom opened his mouth but no words came out.
Barnabas did his best to rescue a floundering nephew, saying to Afsana, “I hear that you are like the Lady Fiona fighting with Palmerin. You know, against the wicked knight.”
“Actually, no, I do not know,” said Afsana. “I do not know that story since no one has bothered to tell it to me. Perhaps instead I should tell you about the archer Srikandi, who married the warrior-prince Arjuna in the stories my mother told me, that she heard from her Hindu nursemaid in India.”
Barnabas opened his mouth but no sound issued. Sanford rescued a flailing friend, saying to Afsana, “I have some recollection of that tale, from evenings in Bombay. I would like to hear it in full sometime from you, upon our return.”
Afsana smiled, “Then so you shall, over a hara masala — better made this next time, so I promise! Only now you are committed to returning, no matter how short the rations or how terrible the foes you face.”
Sanford smiled, that rarest of occurrences, “The thought of hara masala and the story of Srikandi and Arjuna will raise my spirits even as our rations run low.”
Even Sally smiled at this exchange.
Talk turned to the voyage itself. A Yountian unknown to the McDoons stood up and said, “Your Majesty, and all assembled guests, especially those from Palipash, allow me to introduce myself. I am the new captain of the Gallinule, and my name is Aynellian Limmilanax, formerly serving on the Murrelet. I am sad to say that I must replace the old captain, who was killed in the fleet-battle while serving on the Pratincole.”
Everyone raised a glass and toasted the dead captain.
“I can only promise you my utmost dedication and my unswerving attention to the execution of the mission,” said Captain Aynellian.
The Yountians closed the dinner with the Song of Return, which Tom translated for the Minders, and which ends:
Witness the bonfires on shorelines,
Rime-stippled strandlines,
Glad flames on spithead, the finisterre
Awakens to ship’s wheeling turn.
In the ember-weeks and
Cricklewood gloaming,
Sun harvest home rowan, stripped birch and willow,
A magpie skates light, bright slate, white hillow.
Stone-corbies on quays shake frost from their feathers,
Cold-drakes in furrow slit eyes open and listen:
Rook the leaper
Salutes the ship’s
Return
Return
Return.
“By old Peg Tantrum, that had a ghostly feel,” said Billy. “‘Return, return, return’ . . . very solemn. Not that I don’t like it, but I wonder if we need to stir our blood somewhat. I think we might offer something a bit more lively for the company, with your lords’ permission.”
“Yes, but be swift,” said the Queen. “The ship must leave within the hour.”
“Oh, we will, ma’am, we will,” said Billy.
Tat’head said, “Fair gillicks and filthy straw, said the sherehog to the farmer, let’s get this over with! Where are we going, Billy?”
Billy chanted back:
We’re off to skin the devil, boys,
We’re off to flay Old Nick.
We’ll scorch him in a frying pan,
We’ll beat him with a stick!
Booriley booriley booriley, boys,
Rooriley rooriley rah!
The Minders clapped and stamped their feet in time. Billy waved for Tom to join them, which he did.
“What shall we do with that little madge-owlet, Billy?” asked Tat’head.
“We’ll spatch-cock that wicked bird,” sang back Billy. “We’ll cut him into collops.”
“What else, Billy?” said Tat’head.
“His eyes we’ll sweat like day-old cheese, them we’ll crush like lusky peas. Come sing with me now: We’re off to skin the devil, boys . . .”
By the end of the second refrain, all the Yountians had joined in, if only for the “rooriley rooriley rah!” which they roared at the tops of their lungs.
“Is there more, Billy?” shouted Tat’head.
“Yes! We’ll pillow our heads with his liver at night, and his ears we’ll fly as a flutt’ry kite. His nates we’ll use to strike a light, his claws we’ll use to rake our shite. Oh, come sing with me now: we’re off to skin the devil, boys . . .”
“Oh Billy, what I would not give to have you with us fighting the Ornish,” said Tom, as the song ended.
“Oh, that you shall, little Tommy, just wait a spell and we’ll bring you back an army,” Billy said, and then added, “I shall miss you, Tommy Two-Fingers, and your fightin’ bride — now, now, don’t deny it, she’ll make you a handsome wife, a spirited one. Well, lad, we’re off again into the great Midwhere.”
Everyone made their goodbyes in the lamplight by the ship’s gangplank.
“Take this letter to my brother in London,” said Nexius to Reglum.
“Float light as an emperor’s wing and then shred your enemies into gubbings,” said Billy to Tom. “And never forget Pinch, who shan’t make the voyage home with us.”
“Find t
he door of hope,” said Jambres. “But beware the many angels trapped in the seams of purgatory. Now then, where is Isaak? I must wish her Godspeed in trucial grace.”
The gangplank was drawn, the hawsers thrown and the Gallinule warped away from the quay. Dawn was two hours off. Sally, Barnabas, and Sanford, together with Reglum, Dorentius, and Mineous and joined by the Minders, stood at the ship’s railing. Tom, Afsana, Nexius, and Jambres looked up at them from the quay, with the Queen and Chamberlain a few paces behind.
“Halt!”
A troop of Sacerdotal Guards ran out of the darkness and down the quay, just ahead of the Arch-Bishop and a clutch of Optimates and Learned Doctors.
“Halt!” shouted the Arch-Bishop. “Halt now!”
The Gallinule drew away from the quay, the steam engine beginning to chug.
Jambres turned, looked up at Sally, his red coat blazing in the lamplight, and yelled, “Go, don’t stop!”
In her mind, Sally also heard words that no one else heard, a plea from the Cretched Man: Find her, find the master singer, the African girl!
A second later the Cretched Man turned back towards the quay, took a step out of the light and was gone.
“Treason!” shouted the Arch-Bishop, waving a piece of paper. “The House of Optimates voted this evening to dissolve the present government. The House has authorized the Arch-Bishop to form a new government for conduct of the war.”
Nexius and the Marines took positions around the Queen and the Chamberlain. Tom and Afsana drew pistols and stood flanking Nexius.
“The Queen is the Queen,” said Nexius. “You cannot touch her.”
The Arch-Bishop shook his head, and said, “Captain Nexius, you are out of your reckoning. This entire operation is unauthorized. The Queen has no right to send out a tough ship with the House’s approval even in peacetime, but to do so in war, when we need every ship and every soldier . . . Far worse to do so under the guidance of him — the enemy of our people for time immemorial.”
The Arch-Bishop looked to the spot where Jambres had been but did not seem alarmed to find Jambres gone, smiling rather at the confirmation of his words.
“You see,” said the Arch-Bishop, pointing at the Queen. “She allies herself with a demon. She twists the loyalties of her soldiers, and consorts with Karket-soomi who have filled her mind with deceit. Thus the House has passed a vote of no confidence. You shall remain a queen, Your Majesty, but a queen without a government, a queen under the direct and firm protection of the House and of the Gremium.”
No one moved for a moment and then Afsana calmly stepped in front of Nexius, pointed her pistol at the Arch-Bishop, and said, “No.”
As the Gallinule moved down the canal towards the harbour, the last thing those onboard saw before they passed out of the lamplight was the eruption of gunfire and Afsana being shot down.
Afsana lay on the ground unmoving. Tom lunged forward, firing blindly. Marines and Guards battled hand to hand. The Arch-Bishop led Guards to the edge of the canal, where the Guards knelt and fired on the Gallinule.
Afsana lay unmoving — that sight was the last thing the McDoons saw as the Gallinule slid into darkness. Barnabas tried to leap overboard to swim back. Sanford, shouting “Afsana!”, restrained his old friend.
The ship reached the harbour. Nexius had arranged for the shore batteries to fire on the Ornish blockade as a diversion, but not all the batteries fired and many fired only once, another sign that news of the Arch-Bishop’s coup was spreading. The Ornish heard the Gallinule’s engines during the pauses in the shore barrage. The Gallinule broke through the blockade but was hit many times. The crew stoked the engines to the highest level and the tough ship sprinted away from Yount Great-Port and from the Ornish. In the dark behind them, those onboard the Gallinule saw lines of fire ringing the city.
While the sun rose, the Gallinule faced nothing but empty ocean as it raced towards the gates of the Interstitial Lands. Sally sat in the bow, staring ahead, clutching her St. Morgaine’s medal. She heard the voices in her head, whispering “In the sickle sinny drift,” and she saw in her mind dozens of bodies floating in long, strangling strands of kelp. One of the bodies was that of the Specimen, or someone just like the elongated body preserved at the University, his stork-nose covered with barnacles and whelks.
Reglum came up behind her. Sally did not want to see him. She saw the bandage on his face covering the wound from the explosion that killed the fraulein, and she hated him for his bravery. She hated him for not saving Afsana. She hated him for not being James.
“Sally, I don’t know what to say,” said Reglum.
Sally suddenly realized that Reglum’s hands were bloody and that he had blood smeared across his clothes.
“Reglum, are you hurt!?”
“No, no, it’s Dorentius. He was hit by shrapnel. A cannonball smashed onto the deck, showering him with splinters. His leg must come off or else it will go gangrenous. He is feverish and in great pain.”
“Oh no, not Dorentius! I cannot take more of this, no more!” cried Sally.
Reglum held her and said, “I know, dearest, I know.”
The Gallinule surged ahead. As the dawn proceeded, the damage from running the blockade was more evident. Two bodies lay near the forecastle.
“To think that I might lose my hatmoril right here in Yount, not out there in the Places-In-Between,” gasped Reglum. “I cannot bear to think of that. Do you know what I told him? I said that he could not die first because he is a Cambridge man, and Cambridge always comes second to Oxford!”
Sanford and Barnabas joined Sally and Reglum. The four stood close in the bow as the Gallinule raced for the Fences of Yount. Sally held tight with one hand to her Morgaine medal, and held Reglum’s hand with her other. Isaak, having already caught her first rat in the hold and offered her victim’s kidneys to Sally, groomed herself at Sally’s feet.
At last Sanford said, “If Dorentius cannot, who will fulginate for us?”
No one answered. The sun rose. As it did so, three dolphins burst from the ocean just in front of the Gallinule’s prow and began pacing the ship. In that instant, Sally saw a great brown eye peering at her through a wheel of gold, and heard in the pith of her bones a song that was the sine of love.
Sally said, “I will. I will fulginate for us if Dorentius is unable.”
She kept her eyes fixed on the three dolphins, glistening and black, as they leaped up and down, up and down, the arc of their bodies saying to her:
Return
Return
Return.
Coda: Introit for the Days of Lead
Maggie’s mother was dying. Her breath shushed in and out, as she said, “Chi di, there is still time, but not much, little eagle.”
“Mama,” said Maggie.
“Listen,” said her mother. “What’s my name?”
“Persephone Collins,” said Maggie.
“That’s what they called me in the big house,” said Maggie’s mother. “But not what they called me out back. Among our folks I was ‘Ada.’ The old women out back would say, ‘Little Ada, come here,’ and ‘You look like your father for sure, Ada-Eze.’”
Maggie had never heard this story.
“Sometimes,” wheezed her mother. “Sometimes, they’d say, ‘Ada, you’re just like your father was, but you got your mama’s eyes.’”
Maggie had never heard anything about her grandmother.
“So I would ask them, ‘What you mean, I got my mama’s eyes?’ but then nobody would say much, just shoo me along or give me a corn-husk to make a doll with.”
Maggie listened so hard her ears hurt.
“But by and by I found out what they meant, little bit there, little bit here, you know?” said Maggie’s mother. She paused. “My mama was a white woman!”
Maggie swallowed air.
“You heard me just right,” said her mother. “You’re grandmamma was white. Makes sense, if you think about it. Otherwise why are my eyes kind of green l
ike?”
The air in the cellar was close. Maggie heard the Irish family moving about on the other side of the wall.
“Never, ever did find out who the white woman might be, the one who was my mama,” said Maggie’s mother. “Oh, I looked and looked at every white woman on the plantation, and at the landing. Thought for a while it might be the woman who ran the little store at the landing, but it wasn’t.”
“I don’t understand, Mama,” said Maggie. “What happened to your father?”
“You know I never met him, child,” said Maggie’s mother. “He was gone long before I was old enough to remember. I was brought up by all my aunts and grandmothers, only they weren’t really my aunts and grandmothers, just the best and most kindly women in the world who took care of a poor orphan in the shacks out back.”
Maggie nodded.
“I tell you now before it is too late,” said her mother. “What I learned was that my father was a slave like all of us, tall and handsome and a prince from Africa, just like your father was. And my mother was a young pretty white woman, not long in Maryland, come from over here someplace. Well, you know that a black slave and a white woman . . . worst of all, she was already some other man’s wife, a buckra with some money they said. That buckra man was so angry, why, he . . . he . . .”
Maggie wanted to stop her ears.
“Story was, he had my father cut like they do with . . . with bulls and stallions . . . cut him bad, so he was no longer a man full and proper,” whispered Maggie’s mother. “And then that buckra had him hung up from a tree.”
After a while, Maggie said, “What happened to my grandmother?”
“No one rightly knows, child,” said Maggie’s mother. “The man, he wasn’t going to have such as me runnin’ around in his house, that was for sure! Couldn’t let me be seen anywhere, couldn’t let anyone back here know that his wife done got herself licked by the tar brush, now could he? Well, that ol’ plantation on the Choptank River was pretty far from anything, not even close to much else in Maryland, just lots of water and field after field of tobacco. So, he let my mama have her baby, only she had to give it over to the aunties in the shacks. And then he took my mama back to England. Neither came back again to Maryland, at least not so’s I knew of it. So, that’s how come I grew up an orphan girl, ’cept that I was happy with all my aunties and grandmothers. And then, by and by, your father came along and, well, you know the rest of the story, child.”
The Choir Boats Page 39