by Greg Weisman
“Had you come to believe him?” he repeated.
Another long pause, then she whispered, “Yes.”
The sun was sinking. Aram had taken a turn rowing, but Makasa had taken the oars again, determined to cover as much distance as possible before night fell and navigation became impossible.
“Shouldn’t you be able to navigate by the stars?” he asked her.
She scowled. “Shouldn’t you?”
“We both know I was a poor student. What’s your excuse?”
She grumbled, “They all look alike to me.”
“Seriously?”
“He was teaching me,” she barked. “Then you joined the crew.”
This shut him up. Was this why she resented him so much? Was Greydon like a father to Makasa? A father who abandoned her for Aram the way he had abandoned Aram for the sea?
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
“You never tried to understand him.”
“He never tried to explain.” And that much, Aram knew, was true.
Six months ago—after being gone for six years without a letter, without a word, without anything—Greydon Thorne had returned to Lakeshire. Aram and Robb had been working the forge together when Ceya had come in and asked Robb to return to the house for a few minutes. It was an unusual request for the early afternoon. But Robb could see something in her face and, after telling Aram to keep at it, departed with her.
An hour passed.
Then Robb came back to send Aram into the house.
Aram entered their cottage. A strange man was sitting by the hearth, staring at Robertson and Selya, who were playing with wooden soldiers on the floor. The man looked up, and instantly father and son recognized each other.
Greydon stood. “Aram …”
Aram was paralyzed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Finally, he turned toward his mother.
“Your father’s back,” she said helplessly.
Robb returned after closing the forge. With growing resentment, Aram listened at the dinner table as Ceya and Robb explained their life to a man who deserved no explanations. To a man who offered none in return.
Ceya Thorne had waited two years for Greydon to come home. Two years. But he did not come home, sent not so much as a letter, a word, a copper, anything.
During that time, Ceya had come to rely on the kind blacksmith. During that time, she had come to care for him. After two years, she gained her freedom from her first marriage from Magistrate Solomon, who was more than willing to declare Greydon Thorne dead at sea.
Ceya married Robb Glade. Robb became Aram’s stepfather—and eventually the father of Robertson and Selya.
Robb admitted to Greydon that there had been some tough times between him and Aram. Robb was no glamorous sailor like Greydon Thorne. But he’d won the boy over eventually.
Greydon had nodded. Had professed to understand. He all but said, “I forgive you.” As if he had any grievance to forgive, any right to forgive.
But he never asked for forgiveness himself. At least, not then, not from Aram. And he never explained anything. Even after he had promised he would.
Aram felt his bitterness rise again. What had changed after six months? Greydon had offered no explanations, had given Aram no choices. Had stuck him in a boat with a woman who hated his guts and had ordered him to protect a broken compass. It’d be laughable, if so many better men and women hadn’t died in the minutes prior to this second parting.
Perhaps more frustrating was that he couldn’t safely hate his father, either, not while he thought Greydon Thorne was most likely dead. Not while he felt so much culpability in that death.
Aram dangled his fingers in the water. Something passed beneath it. He thought of the kraken and yanked his hand out again. But this was no kraken. It was a sea turtle, big as the dinghy, with some kind of moss on its shell that glowed slightly green in the dark. It passed beneath them with nary a ripple to be felt. And then another passed, and another. They were heading east like the boat, but at a more northerly angle. He knew what this meant, but because the knowledge came from Greydon Thorne, it took him a good minute and a half to swallow his resentment and speak.
“Follow those turtles,” he said, pointing.
“What? Why?” Makasa looked over her shoulder in the direction Aram indicated.
“This time of year, they head to land to mate and spawn.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think?”
She looked at him. Then she nodded and adjusted course.
It was a hazy morning. They had lost sight of the turtles, but by this time there were other signs they were on course for land. A pod of sea otters frolicked nearby, diving and surfacing, using rocks as tools to smash open clamshells held against the thick fur of their chests. The otters’ presence was significant, for, as Greydon had once informed his son, sea otters were never actually found too far out to sea.
Better still (for the intelligence on this point came not from Greydon Thorne but from Charnas of Gadgetzan), Aram began to see the occasional saltspray gull and knew this common bird of Azeroth dove for fish just off the coastlines of Kalimdor. (Aram strove mightily to ignore the fact that he would never have seen Charnas’s book and learned this fact if not for Captain Thorne.)
Makasa was rowing, keeping up a steady pace and a steady course. Aram had taken Duan Phen’s role as lookout, eyes on the horizon, scanning desperately for land. As the sun rose higher, the haze began to burn off, and Aram had to squint and shield his eyes. It brought something to mind—less a memory than a sensation—but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Finally, just before noon, he pointed and called out, “Land ho!” Makasa turned to look over her shoulder. She turned back with a grim smile and redoubled her rowing efforts.
But for hours they seemed to make little progress. When Aram took his turn at the oars, he could feel the current working against the boat, against them. In addition, clouds were starting to form. The wind was picking up and the sea was getting choppy. Aram tried to follow the otters, rowing toward any he could spot with a quick look over his shoulder. He hoped they knew how to thread the currents and could lead them home. Well, not home, but to land, at least.
Maybe it worked; maybe it didn’t. But by the time Makasa took over, it did seem as if they had gotten closer to landfall. The wind was in their favor now, too, and it blew hard and cold enough to cut through his father’s coat and his mother’s sweater and chill the sweat on his skin from his recent exertions. He shivered.
Come evening, as the sun sank behind them, and the clouds gathered, they lost sight of shore. But by that time, Kalimdor had filled the eastern horizon. They knew their heading, and Makasa kept rowing.
And rowing. And rowing. And rowing. Aram took another turn. He rowed and rowed and rowed. Then Makasa again. It began to rain softly. And then not so softly. The wind blew bitter cold in earnest now. She rowed on.
And then, finally, there it was. The sliver of moon emerged from between two dark clouds and revealed the shore, practically within reach. He alerted Makasa, and she looked over her shoulder for a good long while. When she turned back toward Aram, she didn’t look happy.
“There’s no safe place to land.”
Aram looked again with new eyes. She was right. He had been focused on the shore’s proximity. Not on the nature of it. As far as he could see, there were only dangerous rocky shoals and promontories.
“What do we do?” he said.
“We should wait for daybreak, if we can. Row along the shore until we find a safe haven to land the boat.”
He nodded. They had a plan. But as One-God loved to say, We plan. The Life-Binder laughs.
The wind had changed direction. Makasa Flintwill successfully fought to maintain their distance from the coast but ultimately admitted it would soon become a losing battle. If they didn’t try to land the craft now, the next morning could find them miles off shore again. Though the jerky was gone, the
y had plenty of hardtack yet. The problem, however, was water. She didn’t think they could afford to wait two or three more days for landfall, and she couldn’t guarantee this coming storm wouldn’t set them back far more than that. And that’s assuming it didn’t get truly violent and swamp them.
“Then we try now,” Aram said.
She nodded and rowed with even greater purpose than before.
They drew closer and closer to shore. The sea churned with increasing fury. Aram briefly wondered why he wasn’t seasick. But a gift is a gift. The rain came down hard now, pelting them, soaking them through. Lightning lit the sky. And now, Aram could hear the crash of the waves against the rocks before them.
Makasa looked over her shoulder at every other pull of the oars. She had found her landing spot and was fighting to maintain her course. It was a small target, no less rocky than the rest, but not built up as high as the surrounding coastline.
“Just before we hit the rocks, we abandon ship and swim for shore.”
Aram nodded.
“And take off that coat,” she said.
“What? No! It’s his coat. He gave it to me.”
“And he wouldn’t want it to drown you. You can’t swim in that thing. Not here. Not now. It’ll drag you down, and you know it.”
Aram tried to object. But no thought occurred that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie. Slowly, reluctantly, he took off Greydon Thorne’s coat and laid it gently on the bench beside him. Then, careful not to lose his father’s other gift—useless as it was—he slipped the compass and chain beneath his sweater.
Makasa watched all this while rowing. Then she gave a new order: “Divvy up the stores now. Anything that might be useful needs to be secured to our bodies.”
Makasa’s shield was still strapped to her back, and both of them still wore their cutlasses. Aram slid the sheaths of the hunting knife and the hatchet through his belt, which he tightened an extra notch. He pocketed the case of flints, two of the gold coins, the three folded oilskin maps, and the flask of oil. He wrapped the rope around his chest in much the same way Makasa’s iron chain was wrapped around hers. He gave her the remaining two gold coins and divvied up the wrapped packets of hardtack; they each stuffed as much as they could into their clothes. There was still one packet left, so Aram opened it. He fed half to Makasa as she rowed, then ate the other half himself. All that remained were the lantern and the water.
“Leave them,” she said. “If we can’t find water and firewood ashore, we’re doomed anyway.” That was Makasa’s version of optimism.
The roar of wave crashing against rock became a din.
“Get ready,” Makasa said.
He gripped the sides of the little dinghy, prepared to launch himself over the side.
“When I say ‘now,’ you jump, swim, and then climb. Don’t wait or look for me until you’re safe ashore. Because I will not be waiting or looking for you, boy.”
Aram nodded, but perhaps it was too dark for her to see.
“Do you understand me?” she demanded.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he said aloud, just to see her scowl one last time.
She took another fierce pull on the oars, then another and another. Then she dropped them, quickly reached down for her harpoon, and shouted, “NOW!”
As Aram launched himself into the cold sea, the last thing he saw of Makasa was her standing erect and throwing her harpoon with all her might.
Then he was beneath. Almost immediately his clothes drank up the seawater and began to weigh him down. Makasa had been right. The coat would have drowned him for sure.
As he fought against the downward drag of what he was wearing, again and just for a moment, he was struck by déjà vu, but he had bigger concerns now. He swam.
He knew what direction to head, knew he was close, but as he fought to advance, he couldn’t tell if he was actually getting any nearer to the rocks. He needed to achieve those rocks, of course, but he needed to achieve them himself—not be tossed and broken against them. So with each stroke, he reached forward hoping to skim hard stone with his fingertips. Hoping to find a purchase.
This went on for several minutes that felt like an eternity. His clothes pulled him down; his legs kicked him forward; his arms swept ahead. The moon must have vanished behind the clouds again, for he could see nothing. But every time he surfaced for breath, he could yet hear the crashing of the waves ahead, so if nothing else, he knew he was still swimming in the right direction. There was no hint of Makasa anywhere. But she had made it clear enough that this was an every-mariner-for-him-or-herself situation.
And still he couldn’t reach the shore. He hadn’t quit, wouldn’t quit, but a piece of his brain told him his legs were slowing down. His arms were heavy. He was sure he must be within yards of the land—had probably been within yards of it from the moment he dove off the boat—and it seemed ridiculous that he could get this close and nevertheless drown. That possibility was too embarrassing to endure. If he died, Makasa would never let him live it down. It was perhaps a preposterous thought, but it powered him through one last push.
His hand brushed the rocks. He gasped for air and grasped for solid ground. He still couldn’t see anything. He kicked furiously and managed to grab hold of a pointy outcropping. But just then, another wave smashed him against the wall of stone. He banged his crown hard—it dazed him. He nearly lost his grip but managed to hold on. He believed he could feel a liquid thicker than water dripping down his scalp and burning his eyes. He tried to pull himself tight against the rocks, so that he wouldn’t be thrown at them again. A breaker crashed over his head just as he had risen up to take a breath, and he inhaled salt water, choked and coughed and spat. He felt light-headed. He tried to remind himself that he was too close to safety to die now without eternal humiliation … but that no longer seemed to matter. He still held tight to the outcropping and tried to pull himself up, but his arms, his clothes, his body were too heavy. And the thought crept in—whispered—that now it would be so easy to just let go, to just allow himself to sink into the deep. He fought against the thought. But he couldn’t quite silence it, and he couldn’t quite pull himself clear of the sea, either. He kept fighting but became more and more convinced it was a fight he was destined to lose …
Something grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up—though neither swiftly nor smoothly. His body scraped over the pointy outcropping, tearing at sweater, shirt, and skin from his collarbone down to his hip. But in the end he was lying across wet turf with the toe of Makasa’s boot poking into his kidney.
He rolled over onto his side. Their eyes met. She was scowling at him, and he thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. He knew that scowl and knew what it meant. She and Aram had never gotten along or even vaguely liked each other. But Makasa Flintwill was a creature of duty and loyalty. Despite what she had said before they left the dinghy, she had a life debt to repay to his father, which meant she could no longer stop protecting Greydon Thorne’s son than breathing the air.
It was only then that he noticed his father’s coat, the sleeves tied in a tight knot round her waist. Abandon her captain’s son? She couldn’t even abandon his coat!
He flopped over onto his back and started to laugh. The laughter made him choke and gag, but he was so relieved he couldn’t stop. Eventually it settled into sporadic chuckling interspersed with only the occasional cough.
The last thing he remembered was Makasa muttering, “Fool.” She laid the coat over his chest. Then he fell sound asleep on the rain-soaked ground.
They both woke with the dawn. Or rather, Makasa woke to find Aram lying across her left foot. She kicked him off and, as he groggily blinked his eyes against the rising sun, berated him for being incapable of waking on his own power. For a moment, it felt like they were back aboard ship. Their eyes met, and he recognized a certain pleasure they both felt in the familiar old habit of him disappointing her and her disparaging him for it. But the moment passed. The ship was gone. She fell s
ilent abruptly. They rose together and began to look around. Specifically, Makasa said they needed to find water.
They found Makasa’s harpoon first. Her throw had carried it to land—barely. It was embedded at an angle in soggy turf mere inches from the rocky ledge. Aram looked down to see how close it had come to being lost to her—and found the remains of the dinghy, splintered wood at this point, lodged among the shoals directly below. He pointed it out to Makasa, and she seemed to derive some satisfaction from her accuracy. She had aimed the boat and the iron spear at the same low point along the promontory, and both had hit their mark. She yanked the harpoon out of the ground with something akin to a chuckle.
They tried to get their bearings. Makasa stated, “We’re in Feralas.” Then she added grimly, “Ogre territory.”
Aram thought of Throgg and shuddered internally. He tried to calm himself by reviewing what Greydon had taught him about Feralas. For humans, this was basically the far edge of the world. Feralas was a trackless wilderness of uncharted rain forest, with practically every inch of it under the control of ogres. Aram had never seen an ogre before the attack on Wavestrider. If they were all like Throgg, he and Makasa were still in serious danger.
So much for calming himself. To cover his fear and seem busy, he pulled out the three maps. The first was of the known world, all of Azeroth. But obviously, it was a bit stingy on local details. The second was of the Eastern Kingdoms. Nostalgically, Aram scanned it for Lakeshire, but before he could pinpoint the location of his home, Makasa growled, “Feralas is in Kalimdor.”
“I know,” he replied, but he quickly unfolded the third map, the map of Kalimdor. He located Feralas to the south of Desolace and to the northwest of the mountains that separated it from Thousand Needles. Looking up from the map, he could just make out the peaks through the dawn haze, which was already burning off. In fact, the air was warming rapidly. Aram pulled off his torn, damp sweater and tied the sleeves of it and his father’s coat around his waist.
That revealed the compass. Unable to resist, he tried it again, comparing it to both the sun and the Kalimdor map. It still wasn’t working, didn’t point north. In fact, it pointed to the southeast. A thought occurred to him. And desperately he dropped to his knees and—ignoring Makasa’s impatient “What are you about now?”—laid out all three maps on the ground to compare them …