The Sea Is Ours

by Jaymee Goh

  But instead what I see is each mountain island, unconnected to each other, standing solitary, floating by itself surrounded by nothing but the air. Turning reflexively to look back at the helm of the vessel, I see not the sea, as it should be, but a colossal waterfall that spans an entire horizon. Between the waterfall and the mountain is neither miles of cliffs nor the roaring lapping waves of the sea. Between them, there is nothing—absolutely nothing but the emptiness of the wind.

  “Where…” I turn to Nguyệt, “Where is the rest of the ocean?”

  ~*~

  No matter how sharp my combat maneuvers are or how well synchronized my movements through the Bronze Drum choreography is, it is evident that I lack the basic abilities for candidacy as a Guardian. The taste of my own blood from hitting the ground after missing the inaudible cue of the young Guardian leading the entrance trials still lingers in my mouth. I was disqualified immediately, as were about a hundred and fifty other natives.

  I walk slowly back to our home, ignoring as much as I can, the world around me that I fail to fully experience. To rebuild our community, we had been given a small circular hamlet adjacent to the Guardians’ compound in the center of the largest mountain island of the Waterlands of Lạc.

  A short walk away from all of the amenities of the island, mother views the hamlet as an extension of the generosity of the people, especially since those that once dwelled there willingly vacated the hamlet for us. To me, though, it is just an acknowledgement that we are far from being self-sufficient. In the most unexpected moments, Nguyệt’s words come back to haunt me, “in our country, your senses are severely impaired.” I am only beginning to brush the surface of the meaning of these words.

  The fragmentation of the Waterlands was the final shock that sent many of our people into denial, whistling about their days focused only on acclimation to their hamlet life as if the thousands of floating islands of Lạc did not exist. They consciously ignored the fact that these islands are completely inaccessible to us except at a snail’s pace on board airships that only hover at minimal speeds for our benefit. On a daily basis, the pace of life in our new world far bypasses our natural abilities. Yet we all pretend that we do not care. Most of all mother.

  Returning to our hamlet, I find her bent over the hearth at the center of the ringlet of homes designated as ours. Focused on her current obsession, mother lays before her the exotic spices that she has collected from the air-market.

  Determined to create the right concoction of spices to create phở, her favorite soup, I find her scribbling notes with a twig using a thick savory sauce that tastes like a combination of soy and coconut sauce as ink.

  Mother smiles as I approach. Despite my unease at our situation, it does bring me comfort to see her happy.

  “Almost there. I just need something that is close to Sài Gòn cinnamon and none of these come close.” Mother’s fingers jab at the spices in front of her.

  I study her notes, impressed at her dedication.

  “It’s so strange, mother, how can they have ships that fly through the sky unlike anything we’ve ever seen, at speeds that defy the best airplanes, and still run around nearly naked, can’t read or write, and live in these.” I look around at the circular homes built of mud bricks, lacking completely of doors. The only entrances to the homes, which circled into one another through oval openings, are bamboo thatches on the roofs that also double as the streets of the hamlet.

  Mother laughs as she nibbles on different spices.

  “Do not underestimate what you cannot understand. Tell me, how were the candidacy trials?”

  I turn away, hiding the tears that fight to come to the surface. I feel mother’s eyes hard on me.

  After an awkward silence passes between us, mother says finally, “Soon I will find the right mixture of ingredients and our soup can be traded in the air-market. If people like it, we will be very busy. Already your aunt and uncle have been trading the áo dài they’ve fashioned. Have you seen them? The fibers the Guardians gifted to us are so soft! They have gained much favor among the people—especially after

  Jzan Nguyệt wore jzan áo dài uncle made of trailing feathers at the ceremony.”

  Mother had fallen to using their titles and already I could feel the language of our people slowly changing and the dialect of our rescuers intermingling with ours, usurping it. I sigh feeling the disquiet within me simmering.

  “The trials were difficult. What it is that they see, I do not know and I can’t figure out fast enough to respond. I cannot hear what they are saying half the time and they have to make special hand signals just to make sure I can detect the nuances of their speech. Only those that move like lightning have a chance and even they have a second trial to undergo.” I cannot finish, feeling frustration welling inside of me. I rise instead, and retreat to my bamboo mat, feeling the weight of my mother’s sympathy behind me like an unwanted embrace.

  “Dinner will be ready soon,” mother calls behind me. I slump onto my mat.

  “Child,” mother calls to me, “Remember, all that we can do is give the best of ourselves.”

  I sigh, my heart falling at her words. I had managed to pull Ngọc out of the depths of this world’s hell. I just cannot believe that my “best” is selling soup or hocking áo dài like some flea market salesperson.

  I lay my head down only to hear moments later a familiar voice at our rooftop entrance. I rise instantly, walking quickly to the courtyard where I am met by Ngọc, fully restored and followed by four Guardians who graciously entertain mother’s discussion of our region’s dishes. Upon seeing me, Ngọc excuses itself to greet me, leaving the Guardians behind to sample mother’s experimental recipes.

  “I have come with condolences for today’s trials.”

  I feel embarrassed at its words.

  “You did not need to do that.”

  “It is only reasonable that someone capable of escaping the Machinist, even given your limitations, would aspire to be a Guardian.”

  I don’t know whether to take its words warmly or to be offended.

  “I have something to show you. Somewhere private?” I am confused. I have not known Ngọc to ever require discretion; nevertheless, I direct it to my bamboo mat.

  “What you have, no other Guardian candidate can match.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, unconvinced.

  “Your knowledge, your memories.”

  At these words, Ngọc taps its chest and a small panel slides out.

  “What do you remember of this?” it asks as I stare at the handcrafted instrument in the middle of the panel. It is made of the finest bamboo embellished with an intricate metallic circular design; its handle displays ornate carvings and its series of bronze gears are polished to a shine. An intricate eyepiece is mounted on top of it to increase its accuracy.

  Though its machinery is different, the addition of gears and gadgets here and there adding some element of functionality I do not understand, it is, in essence, not unlike any other pistol I have ever seen or fired, though the barrel could probably stand to be improved to increase bullet speed. I do know about this. I knew about when it had been pointed at me and when I had held it in my own hands in the war.

  I turn to Ngọc.

  “Is this something the Guardians want? Or Jzan Nguyệt? These can bring death and violence. I thought they were all about non-violence and peace.”

  “It is for neither.”

  “Then who—?”

  I stopped mid-sentence and drew back from Ngọc, wondering for the first time at what I had rescued.

  “It is time for a new era, a new focus, one that will bring us back where we belong. Your memory and your contribution will be priceless, and your place among us cemented.”

  “Us?” I ask.

  Ngọc makes no reply.

  I reach for the pistol then, feeling its weight in my hand, stroking its intricate gears, and its handcrafted eye scope. With the exception of Ngọc, it is the
most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.

  Petrified

  Ivanna Mendels

  Biwar was a big man. Compared to his Sumatran and Javanese crew, his Papuan origins made him taller and more muscular than most of them. These traits, along with his tattooed face and thick, frizzy hair, uncommon around the western part of the Indian Ocean, usually made him look fearless and formidable. Today, however, he was feeling neither, as he sat in front of the two military officers who were going to question him.

  Dealing with military officers was never his area of expertise. Despite being the first mate of the famous air ship, the Sweet Water, he had always left this particular activity to his captain. Biwar had no choice today. The captain was nowhere to be found.

  He placed his sword on top of the table, between him and the officers. The sight of the sword always had a calming effect on him. “So you really want to know what happened?” He let out an involuntary shrug. He didn’t want to be here; he wanted to go and rest somewhere. “To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what really happened either,” Biwar said.

  Since about five years ago, the Sweet Water had been patrolling the Indian Ocean, the Strait of Malacca and the Java Sea—helping out the new Republic Nusantara against the threat of returning Dutch colonials, and the ever presence threat of Portuguese and French invasion.

  The newly independent archipelago gained its victory recently, thanks to the ingenious giant steam automatons created by Professor Adipati Dewanto. In 1874, the twelve steam titans—now in display at the professor’s school in Batavia during these times of peace—took the Dutch colonials by surprise in a decisive battle on the coast of Atjeh. Never in their years of colonizing the archipelago had the Dutch seen any hint of technological advances. In just a couple of years that followed, the professor lashed out his geared titans upon them, wiping out every trace of Dutch outposts all over the archipelago.

  Nobody seemed to really know where the Professor came from, nor where he had gained such advanced knowledge on steam engines. Given his contributions to the archipelago’s independence, however, no one objected when he was appointed as the new presidential advisor. The Republic had since prospered under his watch. Adipati’s steam ships also patrol the waters, securing new trade routes with neighboring countries as far as Siam.

  The Sweet Water did not operate under the new government; they also sort of began their career looting other ships like pirates. After learning the word from some French traders, however, Captain Mal had preferred the term “corsair.” They only attacked the enemies of the nation, after all. Biwar was very proud to be part of the Sweet Water. He actually felt patriotic most of the time too. Unfortunately for him, after last night, the majestic Sweet Water was no more, and Biwar was the only known survivor of the strange event that had befallen its ill-fated crew.

  He stared uneasily at the two officers in front of him. Something was really strange about these two. They claimed to be from special units in the military, but one of them actually looked like a fifteen-year-old girl. They also both wore dark, hooded jackets, despite the fact that it was almost thirty degrees out here by the beach. The jackets were bare; none of the usual military insignias were visible.

  The other one introduced himself as Buto. He was taller and almost bigger than Biwar, which was quite a surprise, since Biwar was seldom shorter or smaller than anyone around the western parts of the republic. Biwar remembered the boy, though. Last year, he had somehow managed to combine hot air balloon technology with train piston mechanisms, and added the strange contraption to the Sweet Water—making it the first ever airship to patrol the new Republic.

  Although Buto seemed to be slightly older than the girl, the only time he spoke was when he introduced himself. The girl took charge of the questioning right away, and she spoke with certainty, with the air of authority of someone who had already known more details about the events than Biwar himself.

  “Take your time,” the girl said, “Tell us what you remember. Everything you can remember.”

  Biwar inhaled deeply. All this mess began about two weeks ago.

  “We tracked them down all the way from Sunda Kelapa port to the West Sumatran coast of Teluk Bayur. You know who I’m talking about, right? Because I’m still not sure who they really are. All Captain Mal said was that this trip had to do with military secrets…” Biwar waited, wondering if the girl would confirm this. She stared at him patiently, quietly. Almost as quiet as a lion watching its prey, Biwar thought. Her eyes seemed to give off a faint green glow under the shadow of her hood.

  “Anyway, two weeks ago, after receiving a message from an unknown source in the port of Batavia, the Captain seemed to mistrust us. He barely ordered us to do our duties anymore, preferring to do things himself. I naturally took charge of everything else, as was my duty as his first mate, but I cannot deny that there was general uneasiness amongst the crew. We all felt that our Captain was keeping a terrible secret from us.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow. It was the first time Biwar noticed a change of expression in her face.

  “Uh…” Biwar scratched his head, feeling suddenly anxious under her gaze. “Well, we didn’t know whether the secret was terrible or not. I did try to confront him. Told him his attitude was bringing everyone to the edge. He dismissed it. Joked about it, really, blaming it on the bad oysters we had before we left the port.” Biwar sighed, “But everyone could tell something was making him uneasy. He was acting strange. When he was not doing most of our usual duties by himself, he kept to his own cabin, but then wandered the decks alone all night… Once, we received reports on a Portuguese spy ship along the coast of Bali, and he totally ignored it, even barked at one of the crew for pursuing the matter. This was not the Captain we knew. With the modified ship, we could have gone to Bali, taken care of the spies and got back on route towards West Sumatra only a few days behind schedule.”

  Biwar realized he was leaning on the table, too excited with his own story. He had talked too much. He always talked too much when he was nervous. He cursed under his breath. “This is why I don’t handle military officers,” he muttered, barely audible. He never knew how much he should tell them. The captain always knew exactly how much to tell. He always played his cards right, helping the military as demanded, using them as much to his own advantage. It was all a game, and Biwar was not good at games. Making his crew obey him was easier. Seamen respect his strength and his excellent navigation skills. He never needed to elaborate his orders.

  He leaned away, not wanting to upset the girl. Something about the way the girl stared at him made him really uncomfortable. He could have sworn she had not blinked even once ever since he began telling his story.

  “He wasn’t himself, not since two weeks ago… He got a bit worse before we arrived at the port.”

  “Worse?”

  “Fidgety, tense.” Biwar waved his hand, as if dismissing the details, “Anyway, it is a bit hard to land the air ship on small harbors, you see, so first of all, someone had to go down the rope ladder to secure it to the ground. We can”t just randomly throw an anchor from an air ship.” He grinned sheepishly, “Might hit someone on the head, eh?”

  Behind the girl, the Buto mumbled something, nodding to himself while furiously sketching and writing on a small leather-bound notebook. He had taken off his hooded jacket. Despite only wearing a thin white shirt, he was sweating profusely. The girl did not seem to be bothered by the heat at all.

  “I’ll work on the anchor system,” Buto said, still slightly mumbling without looking up from his sketches.

  “Yeah, sure… I’m sure Captain Mal would…” Biwar stopped himself. No one had seen Captain Mal since yesterday night.

  “Go on,” the girl said after several seconds of awkward silence.

  “Oh, yes. Well, anyway, the captain decided he should be the one going down to the shore. He used to help his old master dock, but it had been several years since he had done this himself. He also decided to dre
ss in his old pirate… uh… I mean… corsair…”

  “That’s okay,” Buto interjected, there was no judgment in his tone. “Everybody has to start somewhere.”

  “I see.” Biwar gave the boy a little smile, “I, uh, I asked him about the attire. It was his famous signature blood red! I didn’t see why anyone would have wanted to be recognized as a pirate… especially since the Dutch had been continuously trying to gain back access to the land, you know how most of them disguised themselves as traders, riding in with pirates from the coast of…”

  “We know how it is with pirates.” The girl sounded like a judge pronouncing a final sentence. Biwar was used to Captain Mal becoming slightly exasperated with his ramblings, but there were always signs when someone became exasperated. Eyes rolling, deep sighing, fingers tapping on the table. The girl showed none of this; there was only that certain finality in her tone.

  Probably sensing this, Buto cleared his throat, launching Biwar back into his story.

  “Well, he ignored my remarks on his attire and then, when I volunteered to go, you know, to help with the docking? He actually snarled at me as if I was offering to burn the ship or something. He also specifically told the crew to stay on board.

  “Now I’ve travelled for more than four years with the Captain, some of the crew even longer than that. Do you know we would gladly follow him, to even the end of the seven seas despite his young age?” Not many people knew, nor believed, that the Captain was actually the youngest person in the Sweet Water.

  “Before the Sweet Water, we were all low life scums. Pirates, ex-slaves, beggars—but he made us believe we could be heroes. We were always a team, an unstoppable team. We just could not understand why, at this particular mission, he did not want any of us to come down.”

  “So you came after him despite his orders?” asked the girl.

  Biwar nodded firmly, he did not regret his decision. “I guess when he went, I followed him anyway… I mean, look, the whole place almost felt idyllic, yeah?” Biwar gestured out of the window, only to realize that it was closed tight. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It looked as if it was untouched by the war. Clear water, no real ports, small fishing boats, you know what I mean.” He paused, taking a deep breath, preparing himself for the next part of his story. “And yet… something felt wrong. I just felt it. I have been hunting a lot in my life. There are just some tell-telling signs when there was a bigger predator nearby.