by Nisi Shawl
But I never found any holy relics…
Day 6
Rydra spends most of her time sleeping. During her semi-conscious moments, I feed her bread dipped in condensed milk. Sometimes she gazes out through half-opened eyes, irises the color of desert sand.
I pull the blanket back ever so slightly (and true to his tuition the boy turns away, and does not look upon her exposed flesh). The gas lamp suspended above highlights a network of cuts and bruises. Her skin is pale, ghostly. Her hair, as fresh and as clean as white linen, flows softly about her shoulders.
Without turning his head, the boy hands me a cloth dabbed with ointment. As I clean her arms the boy begins to chant the Creed of Theosis. I listen carefully as I work. When he is finished I smile with satisfaction. He’s remembered every line. Every word.
Reaching behind Rydra I brush the grazes there, careful to avoid the two distinct folds of skin that run the length of her back on either side of her spine. They look like layers of calluses, folded in on each other. The wounds bleed a little as the scabs come free.
I don’t know where she was found, or how she came to be in a slaver’s market. But I understand for what purpose she would’ve been sold.
I first set eyes upon the woman while travelling back to my parish in Faulk. Taking a short route through the valley, I passed through the town of Mordia. The slave market bustled and stank of blood and faeces; slavers shouted above the din.
And there she was, a Hinterland woman, lying on a slaver’s cart, naked, unmoving, bruised body chained to the wooden flatbed, wrists bound. Her breathing was so shallow I’d almost mistaken her for dead.
And something stirred within me. A deep pain I had not known before. I hadn’t thought of my mother since being sent away to Faulk. But I thought of her in that moment: a slight woman, flowing yellow hair and a smile like rays of sun.
What I did next shocked even me. I took my leather purse, pregnant with the tithes of desperate believers, and dropped that hefty bag of coins at the slaver’s feet.
It was only later that I came to recognize the type of binds that tied her wrists together: numinous cords from ancient days, fashioned by the First Citymen to bring low the people of cloud and air.
Our ancestors.
The People of the Hinterlands.
As I finish cleaning her wounds I am struck by a sudden awareness.
She is awake.
Sitting back on my haunches I stare down at her face, her ethereally beautiful face. She is looking beyond me, to the boy. She tries to lift herself up on one elbow, and flops back upon the floor of the cage.
“It’s time, my son,” I say.
The boy sighs heavily; then passes back to me a small ceramic demitasse. Taking a small bottle from my satchel, I pour out the correct amount of sedative. As I bring the cup to her lips she turns her head, and her whole body convulses violently. I pull back, spilling some of the sedative on my robes.
“Brother…” The boy wants to turn around.
“Stay as you are.”
Her chest heaves and she pushes herself into a sitting position. Swaying like a drunkard, she holds out her bound wrists to me.
Can she see the fear in my face? I cannot tell. Her expression is unreadable.
She collapses to the floor again.
Hands shaking, I pick up the sedative bottle and pour out another measure.
The boy, back still turned, has become anxious and whimpers something, some tonal phrasing.
The woman looks to him and puffs air from her mouth, a series of subtle breathy sounds, as if trying to respond.
Day 9
We lost another ship in the night.
In the morning the cramped mess hall heaves with boatmen lining up for breakfast. The men do not speak. Silence lives between them, a reflective, solemn quiet.
Receiving our bowls I lead the boy to a long table, where Hautalo sits at its head. He motions to an empty space near his end of the table and I sit, the boy squeezing in next to me.
I ask about the missing ship, the Sea Dawn.
Hautalo chews his food but does not look up. “Brother Sunde, if our aid would’ve changed the situation I would’ve ordered it so. That ship was hit hard with concentrated weapons fire. A generator was knocked out, the engines were a hopeless pile of scrap, and they were bleeding fuel.”
“What of the men on that ship?”
Hautalo looks into his bowl. “I gave the order to cut loose.”
“You mean you fled?”
The men stiffen, spoons frozen in mid-air.
Hautalo fixes me with an icy glare. “And what would you have me do, Brother, with these simple cargo carriers? Attack raiders? Survival is the first order.”
“Captain never would’ve left comrades behind,” says a man named Crist. A few men mutter amongst themselves.
Hautalo points his spoon at the man. “You are here, mister, for one obvious reason: lack of space in the skiff. You would do well to keep that in mind.”
“And I am grateful you spared my life by allowing me to remain aboard,” says Crist. “But he was our captain. By law. His brother died on one of the ships we lost. He was mad with grief. If given more time we could’ve talked him down. He was almost ready to listen.”
“Almost is too late,” says Hautalo. “We needed to act. And I will not waste any more time explaining that simple fact to you.”
There are voices of agreement, prodded along by Jenko’s agitations.
The boy speaks: “But you have bigger ships. Theirs are small.”
“And built for speed,” says Hautalo.
The boy nods, slowly.
“Ships that small need a supply chain way out here, boy,” says Jenko. “Our former captain said he knew of a depot in this region, at the Uvalu Atoll. He wanted to storm it, break the chain.”
“But these men are merchants, boy,” Hautalo adds, “not military.”
“Tis true, dat is,” says Marl, the fat Northern man. Other men raise their voices in agreement.
“You are men of Rik-Tarshin,” I say. “Appeal to the Council. They will provide you escorts.”
Crist scoffs. “Just like that, hey? You’ve been away a long time, Brother.”
“And this conversation is over.” Hautalo glares at him.
Crist thrusts his spoon into his bowl, stirring its contents rather violently. “The Abbots once raised armies to subdue the new lands, and to apply and uphold the law among Citymen—”
“Crist.”
“—and what do they do now? Collect remnants of ancient days to remind themselves of how impressive they once were. And while they brood on past glory, the world they built collapses upon itself.”
Hautalo slams his fist on the table. The boy flinches. I place my hand upon his leg, to calm him.
“Master Jenko,” he says, “take this man into custody. Assemble the crew on deck in one hour to watch Crist receive punishment for insubordination.”
“Aye, sir.” Jenko rises from his chair, hand on his holstered weapon.
Crist glares at Hautalo across the table. Then he puts his spoon down gently and gets up. Jenko escorts him from the room.
Some men exchange hard glances; others continue eating, slowly, cautiously, as though waiting for something. Utensils scrape bowls. The ship gently rocks. No one utters a word. It remains like this for some time.
It is the boy’s voice, soft and melodic, that first breaks the silence. “The raiders. How many are there?”
“If we are vigilant,” says Hautalo, “and disciplined, we shall make it through.”
“Not ta worry, lad,” says Marl. “Da Brother will pray ta da Everlastin’ for us. Maybe dose raider bullets will simply pass urs by.”
Some of the men snicker.
I clear my throat. “I am always happy to offer prayer, individually or corporately.”
“See here,” says the fat crewman. “Ya really want ta offer sometin’, why don’t ya rouse dat girlie ta give urs a dance.”
The men, seemingly revived by the jolly spirit of this fat man, whoop and clank their spoons to the sides of their tin bowls.
“The seminarian never dances,” says the boy, indignant; he looks to me. “She processes.”
“Ah!” The fat boatman chuckles. “Well, ya think, Captain Hautalo, ya can give me permission ta go down dar? I got some of me own processin’ I’d like ta do.”
The men roar with laughter.
“Take no notice of our bloated comrade, boy.” Hautalo leans forward. “After pulling a double shift and enjoying half-rations tonight, Marl is going to scrub the sanitary closets.”
The men jeer loudly at the fat boatman and bang their fists on the table.
Day 11
The wail of the siren penetrates through the body of the great ship, and down into the hold. Guns rumble overhead. There is a muffled explosion and the vessel shudders.
The boy looks uneasy, as he did in the early days of our journey, before he found his sea legs.
I’m pouring out a measure of sedative when Rydra utters a discordant note. I drop the cup and throw myself back against the bars of the cage.
“She speaks!” I whisper. “By the Everlasting, she speaks.”
Another explosion, this one nearer and louder. The ship rocks violently, and the boy utters something. It is the sound of fear.
Rydra reacts to the boy, calls to him in a long, drawn out wail, a sound so lamentable gooseflesh rises on my arms.
The boy cocks an ear and wraps both arms around his chest. He is terrified, of her, the guns, or both. In this mad rushing moment I cannot tell.
The ship pitches to one side. I grab hold of the bars in an effort to remain upright. The boy falls sideways, howling as he hits the deck.
And Rydra reacts, letting out a riotous screeching, like a bow dragged across the strings of a violin. It’s so loud and so terrible I’m almost deafened by the noise as it slices through my head. The boy claps hands over his ears.
She does this several times, until she falls unconscious again.
Day 12
“All right,” says Hautalo. “I want to know who you really are, and what the hell you’ve brought aboard my ship.”
Wisps of black smoke roll across the deck in slow, phantom motions, strangely illuminated by the orange and gold of the morning sun. A ship, the Marigold, is badly damaged, and sits close to our port side.
When everything had calmed, Hautalo’s armed men had stormed the hold, and dragged us all topside. The armed men now keep their distance, weapons cradled in their arms. Crist and the gunners stand at their posts, frozen with uncertainty.
“I am Brother Sunde,” I say. “From Faulk.”
“And this is a seminarian?” He points to the woman lying unconscious on the deck. He covers her with his long coat.
Jenko is leaning forward, as though about to step out of his own overcoat. By his side is the boy, on one knee. He has the child gripped firmly by the arm.
The boy’s eyes appeal to me for help. I hold up my hand to him and make the sign of faith.
“Bother Sunde,” says Hautalo, “I will not ask you again—”
“I am who I say I am. The Abbot will vouch for me.”
“And who will vouch for her?” says Jenko, letting the boy go. He rushes to me, grips my robes, and sobs quietly.
“What creature makes a sound like that?” says Hautalo. “A sound to freeze the spirit and send men running?”
Like the boy, I, too, am frozen with fear.
“Brother,” Hautalo continues, “we had twelve raider ships bearing down on us. Twelve. And when they heard that sound—and it was heard, as though it thundered from the very air around us—they turned and fled.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know,” I babble. “That she could speak. I thought her mute. I didn’t know…”
“Brother,” says Hautalo, the very tone of his voice is a threat.
I try to compose myself. “I…am a Brother of the Church. And she is…and she…is—”
“Syrmulus.” Jenko says the ancient word, ancient in the tongue of Citymen.
The crewmen speak in terrified whispers.
“The elemental peoples of the Hinterlands,” Crist says wildly, “brought low, kept in a cage; ancient from the time of the First Citymen. This is what you bring the Abbot? This?”
Crewmen shout: “Kill it! Kill it!”
Panic overtakes me. “No! Those binds are holy, and will keep her grounded. We are in no danger.” I look to Hautalo. “I thought she was mute.”
There is a shuffling of feet. I can see fear in every weather-beaten line of the men’s faces. Hautalo sees it, too, and signals his armed men. They move among the crew cautiously, gripping their weapons as they go.
“It is foolhardy to keep her on board,” says Crist. “You must get rid of her.”
“Shut up!” Hautalo snaps.
Marl bounds through the hatch and onto the deck. He rushes to Jenko, places something in his hands, speaks in a low voice.
Jenko looks at it; then holds the sedative bottle up for all to see. “I suppose, Brother Sunde, she is quite passive. At least for the time being. Yes?”
I nod, slowly.
Hautalo and Jenko exchange knowing glances. My eyes move from one to the other, searching their faces.
“The boy,” Hautalo says to me. “You said he cried out, and that’s when she began to speak.”
“Yes,” I say.
Hautalo casts his gaze out to the still morning waters. “Master Jenko, call the bridge. I want to know how far we’ve travelled from the Uvalu Atoll.”
Jenko hands him the bottle and moves to the intercom.
“Marl,” says Hautalo. “Put the boy in my cabin. Secure him there.”
I pull the child closer to me, and hug him fiercely. The burning in my lungs reminds me to breath. “Whatever your intentions I beg you, keep the boy out of it.”
Crist’s face is pale. “You think you can control a creature like that, Captain?”
“No,” he says. “But our passengers can. They’ve been doing it for weeks.” He twists the bottle between his fingers. “With this.”
“I didn’t know she could speak,” I protest. “And the boy doesn’t understand—”
Marl pulls the boy from me. The child struggles, begins to squawk. Hautalo steps over and grips his jaw.
“No talking,” he says, “until I say so. You wouldn’t want anything”—he pulls out his gun and points it at the woman’s head—“unfortunate to happen to the woman.”
The boy looks to me for help, tears streaming from his beautiful eyes. I want to speak words of comfort to him, but they fail to come from my mouth.
The boy’s shoulders droop forward and he hangs his head, breath sporadic through quiet sobs. He allows himself to be led below.
My stomach twists. “Captain, I implore you. Honor our agreement. Please.”
He ignores me. “Medic!” A small man comes forward. “The woman goes back to her cage. And take care of this.” He hands over the sedative. “It’s vital the drug is administered at the correct times. Brother Sunde will…assist you.”
The medic calls to another man, and together they lift her gently from the deck. I watch her being carried slowly to the hatch.
Jenko returns. “The Atoll is eight days away, north-by-northwest. Six days at full speed. Fuel reserves are fine. We can do it.”
“Signal the Marigold. She is to continue her course away from here,” he says. “The Venture will be her escort and provide cover. Inform the Daystar and Azoria to remain with us. We’re going back.”
“Back!” Crist says. “Hautalo. Captain. You are deceived.”
Hautalo sneers. “What’s the matter, Crist? You fought with our former captain against the raiders. Now suddenly you don’t have the belly for it?”
The armed men chuckle at this; the crew smile nervously and hold on to their belts.
Crist sidles up to Hautalo. “You’ll still h
ave an inquest to face, if we make landfall. Don’t forget that. I won’t.”
Hautalo considers him for only a moment, and then breaks the man’s nose.
Day 17
I am not allowed to be alone with Rydra. An armed guard stays with me in the hold. When he is needed to attend to other duties, I am locked in a sanitary closet.
Rydra makes no sound in her semiconscious state, but stares with empty eyes at the spot where the boy used to sleep. She keeps her back to me.
I finish administering balms to Rydra’s wounds and close and lock the door to her cage. The medic takes from me the key, the sedative, the salves, and the cloth and puts them in my satchel. He slings the bag over his shoulder and leaves.
The guard suddenly snaps to attention.
Hautalo is standing in the doorway.
The guard greets the captain with a salute.
“He salutes you,” I say. “So this is a military operation now?”
Hautalo rolls a cigar between his teeth.
“I want to see the boy,” I say.
He sucks hard and blows out a puff of thick, white smoke.
I should choose my words carefully, but the affront to my person chokes me with indignation. “I cannot, in good conscience, be a willing part of this, nor can I allow—”
“Good conscience?” Hautalo takes slow, deliberate strides toward me. “You hardly have the moral high ground here.” He points a finger at Rydra. “You came aboard under false pretenses, and talk to me of good conscience.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “I merely withheld information. For a very good reason.”
“You people have no good reasons for anything you do. I said you’re not Cityfolk, didn’t I?”
I’m consumed by both my failings in these matters and my resentment that he could so callously dismiss me.
“I am a Brother—”
“—of the Church of the Everlasting,” he spits out. “So you’ve said.”
“Raised in the Rectory at Rik-Tarshin! Instructed by Abbot Diyari himself—”
“—but still not a Cityman.”
“—and I will not allow you…” I swallow my next words, for I know how hollow they will sound.
Hautalo leans casually against the doorframe. I obviously amuse him.