Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill)

by Wellhauser, David S.

  Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.

  Gnostic Dementia Press,

  Guelph, Ontario, Canada

  https://www.facebook.com/GnosticDementiaPress

  Cover Art & Interior Book Design: Indie Designz (http://www.indiedesignz.com/)

  “This?” his voice a frog marching over a bed of coals.

  “Thranig, we need to find something that can be traded for food.” He looked at him without a glimmer of understanding. There wasn’t much by way of understanding in Boru Dortmund’s eyes either, but they knew what could be traded and what they’d no prayer of trading on, though neither of the sots had much acquaintance with prayer, which was as well since the docks weren’t a place for anyone with any hope. In a city that had lost the least acquaintance with the wind-headed siren, this was no place for existential extremists.

  “Someone will trade for this, or wished they’d traded,” Thranig Qinkop answered, a smile cracking his dry lips.

  “You forgot who we’re trading with,” Boru Dortmund answered.

  “Barbacoa?” The pair had been years foraging on the docks, so when the city had lost itself, they were already so lost there was hardly a change in the pair’s lives. Today there was more drama than what the pair took to be the day before the last; that was about all the theatre that could be offered to memory. What could be said of the autism of time while the pair had been wandering about the docks picking up odd jobs and scavenging was little enough. However, the disabling of the concept of their linear jaunt along time’s arrow had not save the pair from the cost of the years and the consequences of living rough.

  The men carried rough, unkempt beards heavily infiltrated by grey. Where the original hair color remained, it was black. Scars covered Boru’s face left over from the time his face had been pushed through a window just after wandering into the docks from a home he’d lost up north. The memory of his family was not much more than a few snapshots of fighting with his wife—of whom he had no memory beyond anger and spotty experiences of self-abuse—and the baleful look of two children whose faces had been mostly erased. Boru still dreamt of these, but their faces had been scrubbed of definition and history. All memory had been reduced to elemental particles that never entirely aligned; so what could be said of them wasn’t history but perhaps a family album goggled at by a dementia patient. Here you would recognize you should have a reaction to the faces and places, but all which remains are niggling concerns that what you are is, or has, faded into a past that is no longer accessible.

  Boru and Thranig were beyond emaciated, had been for years. What remained of their flesh, which was not encrusted with scabs and scars, was a petit mal of what had been in the time before the temporal autism. Wasted but wiry, the pair had come together to create their own survivalist dyad within the space of the docks. Thranig had been happier than Boru because he had sacrificed more of reason and memory. However, the sacrifice had led to more violent responses to his nonviolent resistance. That, nevertheless, had always been the intent of nonviolent civil disobedience, and on the docks, this was offered with the least provocation.

  Raising his face from the gnarled hand, Dortmund spoke in a quiet but meaningful voice. “Moon. Remember Simon Moon? You have to remember last night—when you got that leg,” Pointing to Thranig’s right leg, which, even now, the derelict was favoring. “Told us not to come around again unless we’d something to trade that he needed.”

  Thranig’s face tightened, and there was a memory burst. In the burst, the rusting nut he’d been holding fell from his fist and he stared down the line of docks jutting out into the bay.

  “We need to eat.” Eyes blinking away the encounter with Moon behind the Penny Whistle. “I’m hungry. I need food. If we don’t find something soon, we’ll have to go to Dragon Bone.”

  Boru’s hand snapped out and caught Thranig on the side of the head. “We go there and we die—worse than dead, maybe.”

  “They could take us in,” Thranig’s voice an unconvinced whine.

  “The DH wouldn’t.”

  “They’re not the only ones out there. At the bottom of the hill...”

  “Fodder for when times get tough.”

  Silenced, Thranig turned away and walked back along the dock, toward the shore. “Where you going?”

  “There’s nothing here. Let’s try the next dock over. Keep going until we find something Moon will take,” rubbing his leg as the brief snapshot of last night filtered through the haze of hunger. Though desperate, Qinkop wasn’t about to show up at the Penny Whistle again without something that would get him a meal and not a beating. He wasn’t entirely certain of surviving the next disappointment Simon Moon suffered.

  “There are some boats tied up down here.” Boru pointed to a stairway leading toward the sound of surf breaking on pylons.

  Thranig turned halfway toward his partner; there wasn’t much hope in the glance. “How often have we found anything on those boats? Last time there was even a watchman. I almost got knifed.”

  “We can count it lucky they weren’t carrying a gun.”

  “Not much ammunition left in the city; and what there is, the government and gangs got.”

  “True ‘nough, so I brought this.” Boru pulled out a rusty pipe about half a meter long. Thranig looked at it a moment, and a half moon opened the filthy face. Several of his front teeth were gone, and those that remained were grey and some black along the gums. Dortmund’s were hardly any better.

  “You sure you can take the watchman with that? What if they got a pike or a gaff? Gaffs hurt,” rubbing a shoulder as one more snapshot came back.

  “What if they don’t even got a knife?”

  “We take everything.” Boru smiled and turned to the stairway. Thranig followed, warming to the idea.

  “Shit.” Boru’s voice not more than a shallow hiss. Thranig looked around the shoulder of his friend. The stairs leading down to the water were narrow and slick with wear and the slime left by the day’s catch being off-loaded. There had been times, not distant, in which the two men had been reduced to scraping these for what satisfaction their bellies might get. What they ended with was a greater hunger than they had before and a foul taste in their mouths. Dortmund had developed a bad case of the trots which took days to pass. The worst part of this was his gut had long since expelled anything it could find in his stomach, but that didn’t mean the impulse didn’t tear at his ass and bite at his piles.

  The pair had sworn never to do that again, but never was seeming a long time when a hollow belly filled all your thoughts every moment of the day. Hunger will drive a man far harder than an appetite for sex, especially this pair. Boru and Thranig used each other mercilessly when their bellies were full. Thranig had started out passive enough, but in time, he’d come to ride Boru’s face when he’d been blind drunk. Always the drink made Boru passive and masochistic. The next day Dortmund never claimed to remember what had happened, but he did—bits of it. The truth was he enjoyed his moments of passivity more than the rape of Thranig. Thranig preferred anything that took the edge from the day and left him feeling not quite so alone.

  “What is it?” Thranig couldn’t see much in the shadow of the wharf. There was a full moon, and there were few clouds scudding over a sky filled with stars. Yet, down here there was only the reflected light of the moon and stars. If they made it down to where the boats were tied up, they’d be open to the evening’s light again, but for the moment, they were sheltered from it. At the angle they were looking, the light was not helping Qinkop see.

  “No boats—skiffs and rowboats is all. Fuck, what are...”

  “There might be something in them—left over cheese, old boots, fishin
g line, something we can eat or turn to food—even scraps would be enough.” The desperate whine was heavy in his voice. If it had been anyone but Dortmund listening, they’d not have heard this, but it was nails on a chalkboard to the man. He elbowed Qinkop and the whine vanished in a woof of air.

  Continuing, carefully, down for fear of the Watch—they’d be here, somewhere. Not close. The Watch should be another five minutes away along the quayside and then above the pair. If quiet, the two men could turn the boat over and be gone with the Watch just above them. If worse came to worst, they could always swim down to the beach with whatever they found here. Generally, it helped that most of the watchmen were drunk half the time and didn’t always keep to the scheduled patrol set by the Dockmaster. If they’d pay better, which these days meant food or barter goods, they might be able to attract better watchmen than those a rung or two above Qinkop and Dortmund. As it stood, the ones standing watch were somewhere between drunks and thieves—sometimes they were both.

  Stepping onto the tie-off pylon with one foot, Boru looked out over the bay and toward the freighters anchored there. These were little more than shadows now with the moon behind them. Both men would have liked to swim out to them, but if caught—and they almost certainly would be—it would mean death. None of the niceties of trial either—shot to the head and over the side. There was, both had heard, paperwork afterwards and a period of quarantine to make sure that the Sweats would not break out in the crew. He couldn’t be certain how often this really happened, but Dortmund thought not very. The captain would want that hushed up so they’d not lose the opportunity to fatten their wallet. Quarantine meant lost revenue; lost revenue normally ended a captain’s tenure.

  Still, the ships were tempting targets, and one day they’d not be able to resist; anything was better than Dragon Hill. Boru trembled at the thought—dying would be bad, but taken on by the Hill would almost certainly be worse. Once they’d gone down that road, it would not matter whether or not they survived the city’s quarantine—afterwards they’d not be allowed back on the docks. The pair, literally, would be marked men—hardly worthy of the term, as was the case with those branded on the Hill.

  Stepping down into the boat, Boru pulled the tarp back.

  Doing so, there was a muffled whoomphing. Boru looked back to Thranig. “What...” There was the rending crackle of metal giving way to a great pressure. Boru fell back in the boat, startled by the eruption of noise. Lying on his back, a fiery plume burst from the vessel near its main stacks. Thranig, terrified, skittered backward too far and fell into the bay with a loud splash. A moment later, Dortmund could hear him thrashing about, seeking purchase. Qinkop had never been a strong swimmer. Even when they’d last swam to the beach, it was a dog paddle all the way, several times having to stop to rest his arms and legs. Eventually, he got a hold on the dock and dragged himself out of the water as Boru pulled himself to a seated position.

  Several smaller whoomphs followed, and the vessel bucked, gently, at anchor then settled back to the gentle bob of the other vessels farther out.

  “What was that?” Thranig asked, kneeling beside Boru.

  “Don’t know. Couldn’t have been fuel—had to have been something in the hold—but why the fireball?”

  “Doesn’t matter. When it goes down, there’ll be salvage all along the docks—beach too.”

  “Maybe, but we’ll have to be...” He stopped and stared hard at the stern of the vessel. “Is there someone in that dinghy?” Even as he spoke, the boat was loosed from its moorings. Thranig smiled. “Barter.”

  “Food.” Boru answered.

  “How do you know they’ve food?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But...” an imprecise look took Qinkop’s face. “You can’t mean?”

  Dortmund smiled low and unhealthily.

  “But you were just saying ‘bout the Hill.”

  “We’re not on the Hill; don’t have the tattoo; don’t have the brand. Who’s to know? We get them salted away and who’s to know.”

  Qinkop wanted to protest, knew he should protest, but it had been days since their last real meal, and that hadn’t been much of a one. He gave Boru a nod, and the pair faded back into the shadow of the stairs and watched. The lights began to go on over the other ships, and spotlights were turned on the burning freighter. But because the dinghy was blocked by the freighter, none saw it making for the wharf.

  “What the fuck was that?” he wondered. “There was nothing in the hold that should have gone like that.” The dinghy rocked back and forth in the bay’s chop. Looking back to the shore, he knew there’d not be a lot of time—lights were already going on all along the shoreline though not yet on the dock. That blast should have woken the entire city, and they’d be calling coastal patrols. Whatever, he couldn’t be called to answer questions about what had just happened; couldn’t answer questions about anything—not now. As he turned back to rowing and watched the fire rising up out of the freighter, there was a sound from the approaching dock. Turning to this, he could hear shouts of men on the ship. The rower did not turn back to this; whatever was on the shore was now going to be more important to him.

  While concerned with the shadows along the shoreline, a figure broke from the other sailors and dashed for the bow. Jumping for the anchor line, they slipped down about halfway to the bay and then dropped into the water. As they did so, there was a shattering explosion that briefly lit up the whole dockside in a red-orange glow. Snapping back to the vessel, the man in the dinghy had missed the escapee. What he did see were others dropping into the water on fire. This was followed by another explosion, and the freighter began to sink—fast. In less than a minute, the man in the boat had stopped rowing and was watching. The freighter was gone, and the light of search lamps snapped back and forth over the bay. There was no sign of survivors. At least he’d be spared answering any questions they might have raised.

  Even so, there were others questions—his. What had happened in the hold—and who was he? Turning back to the shore, no one had made it to the dock yet. If he was quick, he could disappear before anyone had time to notice he was from the ship. Pulling, the man cleared his mind and tried not to think about what had just happened to all those men, and what had happened down in the hold. Whatever it was and whoever he was, the danger had passed. Still, not entirely convinced, he scanned the water hoping this was the case.

  Excepting flotsam, there was nothing—only the occasional body. One or two of these appeared to twitch, but there didn’t seem to be anyone attempting to swim ashore—or towards any of the vessels farther out. Nothing. The boatman was not a small man. The time on the ship had, however, turned what had been soft hands and an average frame into something much harder. The hands were now thick with calluses, and his arms would take a lot more effort to tire.

  Brown hair, a little long but not yet shaggy—not as shaggy as the story he’d have to tell to get over the rough patches his appearance would provoke—hung down over his eyes. The man’s face was clean-shaven and angular. Sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin emerged from the longish, dirty-brown hair. The eyes were a soft, almost milk chocolate brown. As he pulled on the oars, his chest opened on the moonlight. It was broad but not unnaturally deep. The man in the boat was stronger than he’d been when he boarded, but other than this, he could not say much had changed other than geography.

  Having left the North behind, there was a certainty that he’d slipped into the subtropics. Which of the islands of the archipelago he was on now was not entirely clear, but from the length of the docks and the number of lights that twinkled, still, in the city, it had to be one of the major ones. Now he wished he’d spent more time listening to what the others were saying about the islands and what had gone wrong. Everyone knew, in the North, that something had gone very wrong in the collective archipelagos of the middle sea and this was creeping slowly eastward to the mainland. It was for this reason that the eastern continent had put together a loose multin
ational task force to blockade the whole chain. All that was allowed through were human aid vessels, such as his. These carried medical supplies and food.

  Smiling, he tapped the side of his backpack with a foot. Whatever was waiting on shore, he had a fighting chance if he turned the pack to use. First, he had to get ashore and off the docks without being caught, or seen. Looking back over his shoulder, there was no one on the dock, yet—neither was any light snapping on.

  After several more strokes, he picked up the oars and dumped them into the dinghy with a clatter of wood on metal. The sound echoed beneath the upper dock and amongst the pylons as the prow of the boat gently bumped and glided along the slimy, sodden, and foul smelling wharf. As the prow pushed away from a pylon sunk into the muddy bed of the shore, the man reached out and grabbed the wharf and pulled himself back against it. Scanning the gloom of the landing, there was nothing to be seen, and all he could smell was the miasma of decaying refuse—he suppose this garbage, but it could have been bodies as well. The stories of the archipelagos had been common childhood fare—which was just one more reason he’d signed on. No one would think to look for him here, though here wasn’t where he’d meant to end up.

  He pulled his thoughts away from the past. There was no good dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. Here he was, and here the man would start to reinvent himself free and clear of all that had gone wrong back home. He’d not been the first to make the trip, and he doubted he’d be the last—not if his boyhood reading had been anything to go by.

  Reaching down for the bag, a grunt of pain escaped the dinghy, and he reached to his back on the lower right side. Pulling away a hand, there was some blood. It wasn’t a lot, and it wasn’t too dark. Whether the color mattered, he was not certain; nonetheless, he was going to have to do something about that, and soon. Bracing against the expected pain, he leaned back into the boat and picked up the backpack, this time with both hands, and tossed it on the landing. Another grunt escaped him, but the man didn’t pause to wait for the pain to pass. Standing, the skiff rocked, lightly, from side to side; then he was on the dock and kicking the boat into the bay. The tide was in, so he didn’t expect it to go far before drifting back onto the shore. He’d hoped the skiff would be a little farther up or down the dock so no one thought someone had landed here and would send out a search party.