Ocean of Dust

by Graeme Ing

  She met his gaze. "I want to fix your book, sir. I allowed it to get wet, and I intend to make it good."

  "The blasted book again? Didn't I tell you to leave me alone? And what ridiculous thing have you done with your hair? It's a complete mess."

  Her lip quivered and she stumbled against the door, as if struck. She blinked away a tear.

  "My father told me to take responsibility for my actions."

  "Did he?" He pursed his lips, and waved a hand toward the low table. "All right, take the book and get to work."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you."

  She kneeled beside the table, upon which sat a fresh globelight, a stack of paper, pen and ink, and the damaged ledger. Had he expected her to return? She stared at his back and chewed her lip. Her eye was drawn to the measuring device he used on his chart. Mampalo’s book had stated that the instrument could be used to estimate time and distance.

  "I don't hear work being done."

  She snatched up the pen, opened the damaged book and wrote on the top sheet of paper. Thunder drummed above the ship, and she caught glimpses of lightning through the rear drapes. His cot squeaked as it swung with the movement of the ship. Her globelight slid from one end of the table to the other and back. The ship was really heaving.

  When he commanded her to stop, she had completed six pages. She wiggled her cramped fingers and stretched.

  "Bring them here," he said. "Return tomorrow."

  She placed the sheaf of pages into his outstretched hand, curtseyed, and hurried out before he could scream at her again for filling in the smudged numbers.

  The walkway and deck were dark as night though it was barely mid-afternoon. The ropes above her lashed back and forth, whacking against the rail or the mast, empty of their usual globelights. Only a couple remained to illuminate the open hatches. She descended slowly, probing each step carefully, slipping in the piles of dust.

  "Who goes there?" a booming voice challenged. A globelight bobbed toward her, and she craned her neck to look up at Sam, the crew chief. Even his beard had gathered dust.

  "Tonight's a bad time to be on deck," he shouted above the shrieking wind.

  She nodded.

  "Sorry about what happened to ye."

  She blinked and looked into his eyes. They held her gaze for a long moment and his lips parted in a thin smile.

  The sky thundered. She jumped and tripped on the hatch cover, teetering on the edge. As lightning lit the deck, his arm snapped out and lifted her to safety.

  "Thank you," she said, and took a firm grip on the ladder.

  "Nothing but trouble, that Alice. Not you, you're a hard worker." He shook his head. "Bad business."

  * * *

  Lissa awoke, screaming.

  Searing pain tore through her head, like a wild tusk-solag bashing its horns against her skull, trying to break out. The burning feeling lanced down her body. Now it felt as though the creature had squatted on her chest. She snatched short, sharp gasps of breath and then rolled out of her scheepa onto the floor. There she lay, shrieking, eyes flicking around the dimly lit storeroom.

  "Lissa," Branda cried, sprinting into the room and crouching beside her. "Are you hurt? What happen?"

  "Help her up," Cook said, appearing in the doorway, dressed in sleepwear and holding a globelight aloft.

  Lissa saw them as blurry shapes, and their words had a dream-like, hazy quality.

  "The pain," she moaned. "Please stop the pain."

  "Fetch the physiker, child. At once."

  Branda ran from the storeroom.

  Time to be strong.

  The whispering voice cut clearly through the swirling mess of pain and confusion in Lissa's head. She closed her eyes, wincing each time her body spasmed in reaction to the stabbing pain. The single whisper became a humming chorus, which seemed to spread out within her, calming the fire, roping the wild beast inside her head.

  What's happening? Help me.

  You must confront this. We can guide you, but we cannot do it for you.

  She dug her fingernails into the wooden deck, sucked a breath through clenched teeth, and sat up. The room blurred and tumbled, a grey world washed clean of color. She heaved and threw up her dinner over Cook's feet.

  The woman jumped back. "What's wrong with you, girl? Where's that damn physiker?"

  Fight the pain, the chorus said.

  I can't!

  You must get out of the belly of your nest that moves. There is something you must see.

  She focused on a shimmering post, crawled the few feet and pulled herself up it and to a standing position.

  "Don't try to get up," Cook cried. "Lie back down. You must rest until Criandor gets here."

  No. Keep moving.

  Lissa trusted the whispers. They had saved her life. Her arms and legs tingled, and her mouth tasted of warm sick. She blinked hard and color returned to the world. Her surroundings sharpened.

  "Fresh air," she mumbled and lurched past Cook into the hallway, her hands following the wall. The humming increased its pace. She took one step toward the ladder and then another. The world flowed around and behind her like a dream, distorted and unreal. Time lost its meaning. Another step. She struggled onwards and upwards, not caring whether Cook followed. Where am I going again? Why? It didn't matter. Another step.

  She emerged onto the outer deck and froze.

  The entire sky shimmered in garish, violent colors; more shades of orange, blue and purple than she had names for. Jagged flares pulsed out of the clouds, some fizzling, others impacting the deck or rail, where they sprayed color in all directions. No sound or thunder accompanied them, but each sent a stab of fiery pain between her eyes. The sight was beautiful and terrifying all at once. As the flares danced about the ship, the clouds descended, bubbling over the rails. She imagined the ship afloat in the clouds.

  "Help her," a familiar voice yelled above the fury of the wind.

  The physiker hurried toward her, hunched over his cane. She squinted through showers of color exploding around her. Was that Branda and Pete too?

  "I must confront this," she heard herself say.

  He grabbed one of her arms and Pete took the other. Branda tugged on her skirts.

  "Isn't it beautiful?" Lissa said, tipping her head back and scanning the sky.

  "What?" Pete asked.

  "Let's get you inside and lay you down," the physiker said.

  "I have to see some-"

  You have seen. Go with them now.

  Why had they wanted her to see the flares of color? Why didn't the colors have the same effect on anyone around her? How could nobody else see them?

  She went limp and let them carry her into the infirmary. The navigator was there, perched on the edge of a cot bed. His face was pale except for his twitching veins that pulsed blue. With each aerial burst of purple, his eyes flicked to the window.

  "The colors-" she began, catching his gaze.

  "Drink this." The physiker pushed the tip of a vial between her lips and poured.

  She choked a little before gulping down the earthy-tasting fluid. He pushed her gently down onto the bed. Lightning flickered outside, and then a deafening boom shook the room. Pete and Branda jumped.

  "What was that about colors?" the navigator said.

  "Not now," the physiker told him.

  "Purples," she murmured. "Oranges and blues. So pretty..."

  Numbness washed through her body and she realized the humming whispers had stopped a while ago. The tingling and pain faded. The men's voices receded into the distance. Her eyelids drooped. Maybe she could take a short nap.

  "This is no time to sleep," the navigator hissed in her ear.

  His sweaty hands yanked her up. The black pits of his eyes bored into her. Two thick veins on his nose ballooned. She cringed and tried to pull free. Purple flashes etched on the back of her eyes, causing the globelights to flicker and die, only to brighten again.

  "Come with me," he croaked, and dragged her toward
the door.

  She resisted. "Where are you taking me?"

  He opened the door and the wind seized it, smashing it against its hinges. Dust billowed into the room. A whirlwind danced on the deserted main deck. A fork of purple lightning erupted from the low clouds and struck both winches forward of the mast. Torrents of purples and blues splashed across the deck, flattening the whirlwind that flung dust into a far corner. The ship heaved side to side.

  He stared up and she followed his gaze, marveling at the eddies of orange weaving through the clouds. The colors were so vibrant that she felt empowered with magic eyes. Each flare crackled and snapped, until she realized that there was no sound; it was all in her mind. Her body tensed and her teeth clenched, but only a dull throb tickled the back of her head and it no longer hurt.

  The navigator faced her and shook her shoulders.

  "What do you see? What do you feel? Tell me." He winced with each exploding flare. She chewed her lip. "I see what you see. It's the flux storm isn't it?" She clutched her belly. "And it makes me sick."

  "How is this happening to you?" He gave her another shake. "It can't be. You're just a little girl."

  He let go of her and stepped back. Why was he staring at her in horror? She wasn't a monster.

  "See me later," he said, walking away. "You'll work extra hard on copying those pages." His green robe contrasted the orange explosion above him.

  She turned toward the infirmary, its bright open doorway beckoning. Then she doubled over, gagged and threw up again. Spitting sick and licking her teeth, she lurched back inside and collapsed onto a cot bed. Branda and Pete had gone.

  The physiker appeared with another vial. "Sip this, slowly this time, or you'll bring it up again."

  "You don't see the colors, do you?"

  "No," he replied, and sat on the cot opposite. "Oban told me about them a couple of Sunturns ago."

  She drained the vial and rolled onto her side to face him. "You give him this potion too?"

  His eyebrows rose. "Why do you say that?"

  "It makes the craziness go away.” She blinked. “So you know I see the colors like he does."

  He nodded and peered over his spectacles. "I suspected a long time ago. Today's events confirmed it."

  "What does it mean?"

  "I think you know."

  "That I'm like him?" she whispered.

  "You see and feel the flux," he said, as if that explained everything.

  Her mind raced. Why her? She wished she could talk to the Klynaks right then. They would be able to answer all her questions, but they remained silent. She had expected them to.

  "But I can't be a navigator," she said. "He said so. He won't teach me."

  "No, that doesn't surprise me," he replied, nodding slowly. "Lay back and let me tell you a story. Once upon a time-"

  Lissa groaned and gave a thin smile. He grinned and continued.

  "A physiker on a ship once spent many an afternoon treating a small boy for cuts and bruises. The boy was always in trouble with the deck master for doing the wrong thing. He wasn't much of a sailor, you see. But he admired the skill of the physiker and asked a lot of questions." The physiker chuckled. "He was like you in that respect."

  A crash of thunder interrupted him and lightning lit the room.

  "Needless to say the boy was miserable. The physiker wanted to cheer him up, so he told him that if he set his mind to it, he could be anything he wanted to be. The boy and the physiker became good friends. Eventually, the boy learned everything there was to know about being a physiker, and became one in his own right, aboard another ship."

  Lissa moved into a cross-legged position. "And?"

  "You can be anything you want to be."

  "Did you ever see him again?" she asked. "The boy I mean."

  He chuckled and took off his spectacles. "Every day."

  "Oh," she said, then "Oh!"

  Chapter 19 - The End of Alice

  The next day, the physiker handed Lissa an opaque, stoppered bottle. His eyes flicked between hers and to the men shoveling dust around them. She nodded and slipped it into her pocket.

  The wind had died away, leaving the ship draped in a grey carpet, with drifts several feet deep. The clouds no longer hung so oppressively over the ship. The violent flashes had subsided to muted colors meandering in wide bands; placid rivers of purple, orange and blue, mixing into sickening colors where they crossed. She tried hard not to stare but to watch from the corner of her eye. Earlier the men had muttered about her gawping skyward for no apparent reason and she didn’t want them to think she was crazy.

  Her fingers ran along the jagged line of hair at her neck. If only she could sit down with Branda and tell her everything, about the Klynaks, the colors, the navigator, and why she felt sick and crabby all the time. Branda would think she'd gone mad. She sighed, hating to keep secrets from her best friend.

  The clouds echoed with a deafening crash, and a blinding spear of lightning struck the mast. Fragments of the lookout platform plunged to the deck. The ship's bells tolled three times and men came running. She fled to the navigator’s cabin.

  A bottle identical to her own sat on his desk, and she stared at it like it had forged a bond between them. He, the gnarled and ill-tempered man, and she the galley girl; physically unalike but sharing a secret. Her gaze shifted to the pulsing veins covering his skin. Were they caused by the flux or the potion? She cringed against the door. Is that how she would look as she grew older? She shivered.

  "Is that where we are?" she asked, pointing to the pin he had just pushed into his chart. It pierced an intersection of three lines.

  "No matter. Get to work. You have plenty of pages to copy."

  She smiled as she took her place, kneeling before the table. Only a handful of pages remained to be copied and she found herself slowing down, prolonging her task, realizing she didn't want to lose her access to him.

  A page later, she asked, "How long will the storm last?"

  "You'll see as well as I when it's over. Tonight or tomorrow."

  "When I'm finished, I can copy other books for you, or even charts. I see yours have holes in them. You know I'm neat."

  "Hmph. I confess your hands are steadier than mine, and I do have a fragile chart that I've never replaced, but don't get any stupid ideas that I'm teaching you, girl. Is that clear?"

  She said nothing, and continued her work. Later, when he told her to leave, she stopped in the doorway, took a deep breath and turned back around.

  "Mister Oban, sir, where do the whispers fit in to all this?"

  "What are you saying now, girl?

  "You know, the voices, the Klynaks. What do you talk to them about?"

  He slammed his ruler onto the desk. "What nonsense is this? Voices? Whispers? I don't hear any madness like that. I told you before, stop meddling with things you don't understand."

  He pointed to the door.

  "The storm is messing with your head. Leave."

  She hurried into the darkness and shivered in the chill air. She guessed it to be late afternoon, though neither sun had pierced the overcast for a couple of days, and she hadn't paid attention to the watch bells. There was very little dust underfoot and the ship had settled into a gentle rolling motion. Once again, the crew had set out globelights to mark the hatchways. Not yet tired, she sat in a dark corner, against one of the winches, and glanced up at the undulating bands of color overhead. They had dimmed to shades of pastel. Had she adjusted to them, or was the storm almost over?

  Did the navigator really not hear the whispers or was he lying? Come to think of it, why did she imagine that he would? The Klynaks had to be something to do with the ship, or the flux. His reaction betrayed that he knew more than he chose to tell, but that still didn't explain why they were speaking to her.

  The sound of boot steps broke into her thoughts. They came from behind, but stopped short of her hiding place.

  "Make it quick," a man hissed, "before someone sees us."
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  "Farq wants to know who's with 'im," another said. She didn't recognize either voice.

  "Six of us, but I can get more."

  "Be careful who you trust."

  The other man grunted, and they returned the way they had come. She waited several moments, then got up and headed toward the hatch. Goosebumps covered her body.

  "Nice hair," Alice said. "Makes you look like a boy."

  Lissa whirled around just as Alice stepped from the shadows, a sneer spread across her grimy face. Lissa glanced at her thin, bony body hung with ragged clothes, smeared with dirt.

  "How did you escape?" she said.

  "How do the boys like your beautiful hair now?" Alice snarled.

  "I hate you," Lissa screamed and struck Alice in the nose with the heel of her hand.

  Alice stumbled to the deck, fresh blood dribbling down her chin. She stayed down and laughed. "Oh! Miss goody goody's got claws now."

  Lissa leaped on her, kneeing her in the stomach, her whole body quivering with adrenaline. Alice clawed back and rolled hard, ending up on top. Her blood dripped onto Lissa's face. She pressed her thumbs into Lissa's eyes. Lissa howled in pain, slipped her arm under Alice's and shoved her away.

  They faced each other, glaring and pouting. Lightning stabbed from the sky with a deafening crack, striking the nearby chain winch. Both girls jumped.

  "I'm getting tired of this," Lissa said. “What do you want from me?”

  "Are you kidding? Beating you up is the highlight of my day."

  "Just leave me alone."

  Alice raced after her and grabbed a handful of her hair. "Barely enough to hold on to."

  She closed her hands around Lissa's throat and squeezed. Lissa tried to scream but only gurgled and gagged. She kicked and scratched. How could such an under-nourished and frail girl have such a grip? Gasping for breath, she flailed her arms. Her gaze flicked around the empty deck. Couldn't anyone hear them thumping around and yelling at each other?

  Her eyes met Alice's steely, unblinking gaze. Her vision faded. Alice's sneering face lurked at the end of a narrowing tunnel. She gasped, uttering a rattling noise. A calm numbness claimed her.