by C F Welburn
“I started early and drank my fill.”
“Share my mug,” Biller insisted, pushing the seed pod into his hands. “I’ll not see a fellow go thirsty.”
“Too kind.” Balagir accepted, holding the cup to his lips and making swallowing motions. “What is this place?”
They laughed then, as children might at some nonsensical remark.
“Today? Who knows? And who can know again tomorrow?”
He frowned. “And yesterday, what was it then?”
“Yesterday? Can you recall your last dream? The only true moment is now. Everything else is just ripples,” said Yrma.
“Give it a name today, and tomorrow it will have another,” added Waran.
“Today let’s call it Peaceriver,” Biller said, slapping his thigh at the epiphany. “For the river brings me great peace.”
“Peaceriver,” Waran said, holding his cup. “A fitting name.” As they drank, Balagir surveyed the settlement.
The dwellers ranged from aged cripples to suckling babes. The atmosphere was muffled, as though they talked underwater; as though they had not a care. No one, aside from those in the queue, acted with any kind of deliberation.
Apart from the cave, the dwellings were makeshift and illuminated by fire pits. There were close to a hundred residents, meeting for the first time since the last; friendly strangers, or just strange friends. Laughter drew his eyes to the river, where children splashed in the shallows. The wet sound made him lick his lips; everyone was drinking and content. Dismissing himself, he went to join the queue. He needed to know what was in there, what fascinated the thralls.
As he waited, he pondered his predicament. It was too dark by the river; he could not risk falling. His search for the frog would have to wait until first light, hopefully bringing with it some lucidity on the denizens’ part. With two of Murdak’s list already accounted for, he was already making progress. Of course, convincing them to leave would be another issue.
The queue, in spite of its length, never truly rested. The people entered with empty vessels and left through a side entrance, supping their topped-up pods. He noted a couple of ashen amongst them, but an attempt at conversation revealed them as listless and befuddled as the rest.
A woman laden with pails of river water entered through a third entrance. He watched the process with a frown, wondering why people would form a line to drink when the river ran just yonder.
When at last his turn came, he entered the dark cave, dim and unremarkable save for a makeshift spout in the wall. He placed his pod until it was half full and was nudged out by the shuffling people behind. None the wiser, he tipped the contents of the vessel aside and paced to the rear of the cave, where he judged the spout to be sourced.
“None may speak with Faverg.”
He flinched. It was the pail woman who had exited silently with empty buckets.
“Faverg?”
“Bow your head when you speak his name.”
“Who is”—and he bowed melodramatically—“Faverg?”
“Faverg”—head bow—“is our savour. Faverg”—head bow—“is our peace. None, save the immune, may speak with Faverg.” Head bow.
“You’re immune?”
“Hence my position.”
“I believe I’m immune.”
“Unlikely.”
“How so?”
“None have passed, save I. A rare condition as a child.”
“Give me the test.”
“First drink.” Balagir looked at his pod craftily, but under the scrutiny of the pail woman, there was no way around this. He downed the water.
“Good. Now watch.” The woman produced three small statuettes. One shimmered under his touch, a second reacted likewise, but the third remained solid. “Return on the morrow and tell me which is true.”
“The morrow?”
“First the drink must do its work.”
“How will I recall this conversation if I wait until then?”
“Precisely.” The woman smiled. “Now good night.”
Balagir sneaked hurriedly around the back of the hut and vomited. When he could retch no more, he cleansed his palate with liqueur from the gifted flask and returned to the campfire to eavesdrop on meandering matters of minor import.
The next morning, he knew not where he was. He blinked at the seed pod lying on its side next to his elbow. About him people chatted and splashed in the river. He looked around, confused, then in his pouch he saw the liqueur. The captain... Madruke... hadn’t that been his name? Something about a... fish? No. A frog. Yes. He was almost certain. And this was the village where people lost their memory. Had he drunk the water? Why did he not remember? The night before was as a dream, but the burning liqueur gave him a point of focus, and from there he gradually regrouped his scattered mind.
As the day wore on, he busied himself along the water’s edge, poking at the reeds and stirring up the murky shallows with a stick in search of his quarry. The daylight hours dulled the haze, and he remembered drinking something, and to confirm his memories, he investigated the bilious leaves behind the hut. Even so, the water had affected him.
Three days the captain had given him, and this was, as far as he could tell, his second. That left him tonight and the morrow. He had yet to see any sign of life in the river, save that of the bewildered people that paddled there. Twice droplets from the stick touched his hand, and twice he scrubbed himself furiously on dead leaves so that it might not blur his mind.
His search was diligent, yet as daylight dwindled, so too did his hopes. Tired, he sank down beside one of the fire pits and stared into the flames. The tuneless lute was taken up, calling to mind the piper, and he longed to hear the tune once more.
His thoughts were broken by three figures stumbling over, sipping their vessels.
“A good flow today,” the woman said.
“I’ll drink to that,” a man agreed, and they partook of a toast.
“I’m Yrma,” Yrma said.
“A fair name.” Biller smiled. “You can call me Biller.”
“And I, Waran,” said Waran, preceding the predicted toast.
“And who might you be?” Biller asked.
“Balagir.” He stood, raising a hand before Biller could even offer. “No need, no need. I’m off to the cave.” As he was leaving, he paused and turned. “Incidentally, what do you think of the name Peaceriver?”
“An apt name!” clapped Yrma.
“Apt indeed,” beamed Biller.
“Has a ring to it,” Waran agreed, raising his cup to old acquaintances for the first time. Balagir shook his head and left.
The pail woman knew a flash of uncertainty when Balagir reminded her of the deal, and she glumly brought out the three figurines. After slight hesitation, Balagir selected the one on the right. The woman’s shoulders slumped so much, the brace slipped, and one of the buckets clattered to the floor.
“So I’m not alone in my immunity.”
“Fret not. I too suffered the condition you spoke of as a child. Now I may aid you in your work.”
“Yes,” she said, realising the advantage. “My back is not what it was. You may start now by fetching more water.”
“Right away,” Balagir said, skipping nimbly to the river and returning with care once the pails were full.
The rear chamber was as dim as the other, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
“Welcome,” a voice said from the shadows. Squinting, Balagir stepped forward.
“I would look upon you, Faverg, and behold the one that keeps these people intoxicated.”
“Then step forth, for you have earned the right.” Balagir did as instructed, but met with a cage. Beyond the bars he could see nothing save a stone pedestal in the room’s centre. Then his perspective changed. It was no man, nor even man-sized, but a fat, dark frog with blue eyes with whom he spoke.
“Faverg?”
“Not what you were expecting?”
“Honestly, no.�
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“You may set down the pails.” He did as instructed and stepped back. Faverg flicked his tongue through the bars, once into each pail. “Now pour them into the trough.” Balagir obeyed with a raised brow.
“So, it’s you that’s poisoning the people? Not the river at all.”
“You see it as poisoning?”
“What would you call it?”
“Liberating.” The frog croaked, deeply.
“They’re prisoners here.”
“They were prisoners when they arrived. Their minds were their cells and their memories the devices by which they were tortured.”
“That’s your justification?”
If a frog had shoulders, he may have shrugged.
“The world is a terrible place. Here they find tranquillity. They are content.”
“They’re mindless. They walk dazed, their lives vanishing before them. Set them free so that they may still find their way back.” Faverg regarded him coolly for a moment.
“Do you want some of the memories I’ve taken?”
“That will not be necessary,” Balagir said hastily, though he doubted it could be done. But the frog’s tongue lashed out, licking his forehead. He stumbled as memories ran amok through his mind. Sounds of fire and steel, screams and wails, smells of decay and scorched flesh. Dark, bitter laughter; a forlorn sobbing. He blinked, dizzy.
“Now do you see? Are the people out there less free than they were?”
“Be that as it may,” he said hesitantly, “memories are what make us.”
“Then what makes you, Balagir? For though you’ve abstained from the water, I sense one who is lost. Your memories are shallower than the fens.”
“I’m finding my way. Amnesia is a blight upon the mind. A book with no writing is barely a book.”
“And how would you feel if you remembered? What darkness you’d recall. Mayhap you’re better off like this.”
“I’d take my chances before relinquishing to a frog.”
“Is that how you see me? As a frog?” Faverg croaked, amused. “I hold a thousand memories both human and otherwise. I’m a compendium of knowledge. An anthology of lives. And to those I release; a deity.”
As Balagir listened, he slid a hand to his pouch, silently unscrewing the jar.
“After what I’ve shown you, you know I’m not evil.”
“Evil, no. Misguided. Disillusioned by grandeur.”
“You think it fairer they be haunted? Eek out each waking moment in anguish or regret?”
“They must at least have a choice.”
“Oh, but they do. You’ve discovered yourself, it’s not the river that holds sway. They could leave tomorrow if their desire was strong enough. Yet night after night they visit me, drinking deep, rejoicing in the relapse.”
“Perhaps if you showed me more, I could come to see your reason.”
“It would drown you. A man’s mind is not enough to hold the pain of so many. You would be devastated.”
“I’m stronger than you think.”
“If it leaves you demented, would you wish that I take your memories away?”
“If it destroys me, then yes, I suppose so. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”
“As you wish, though you’ve been warned.”
“Proceed.”
And with that, the long tongue lashed out, and Balagir, ready this time, caught it.
Faverg made a startled protest before he was yanked from his pedestal and forced tightly into the jar. Balagir screwed it shut and dropped to his knees, scraping the residue off his hands until the skin was raw.
Not lingering for the woman to arrive with more pails, he slipped out and away into the night.
It was pitch black, but he had only to follow the water to arrive at the shore. Knowing now that the danger lay not in the river, he walked more easily.
He had put a safe distance between himself and Peaceriver before the first cries of distress reached him through the midnight trees. He decided to run.
By the light of the stars, he skirted the coastline until the lanterns of the anchored Spite Spear rocked into view. Jip and Malech, camped on the beach, stirred and grumbled at his nocturnal return, then put their backs into ferrying the ashen.
Murdak must have been alerted, for he was waiting atop the ladder, a lantern lending the hollows of his face skull qualities.
“Where are my men?” he growled.
“They’ll be along at dawn, no doubt. There’s nothing to bind them now.”
“Then you’ve broken the curse? Show me.”
Hesitantly, Balagir handed him the jar. Murdak’s eyes widened as he inspected his prize.
“At last,” he exhaled, unscrewing the lid.
“Hear him out, Murdak. Hear his reasons.” The captain turned his cold gaze on Balagir, who swiftly fell silent. He shook the jar violently, sending the prisoner with a wet thud to the planks.
“Wait—” Faverg cried, but his words were cut off by Murdak’s boot heel, crunching then twisting him into no more than a red smudge on the deck. Balagir looked away. How many generations of memories had been stamped out in an instant? Before anyone could react, a wisp of smoke circled him and was absorbed into his belt.
“I’m done,” Balagir said icily. “Now get me to Silione.”
“We sail at dawn. I’m expecting someone.”
Balagir waited with a barrel wedged against his door until dawn raked its nails across the bay. He heard some disturbances on deck and rushed to investigate.
From the treeline, several figures emerged stumbling, and further along the rocky coast, more. Murdak stood on the beach, waiting intently.
After a while, he returned with two boatloads of men, two of which were the ashen he had seen. The old, the young, and the women were left behind, shouting and hurling curses after them.
“You could have brought some of them,” Jip remarked, lasciviously eyeing the women on the beach. Murdak glared, and without warning ran the pirate through. Jip glanced vacantly down at the sword, gave a surprised murmur, and slid off to the side. With a roar, the boulder-headed Malech drew his blade and rushed the captain, but was cut down by one of the newcomers. Balagir blinked when he recognised Biller. All of the peacefulness had gone from his face.
Jared the cutthroat was next to draw his blade, but he went down soon enough neath a rain of swords that rose and fell like so many chickens pecking red grain.
The bodies were unceremoniously dumped overboard and instantly drew several large-finned fish.
Balagir turned, splaying his hands.
“I know these men,” he said, smiling weakly. “Waran, remember those nights we spent around the fire? Biller, surely you—”
His words were snatched away by the back of the captain’s hand. “Enough. You’ll be dealt with.” Murdak nodded, and Waran and Biller dragged him beneath the arms to a sluice-filled cell in the bowels of the treacherous ship.
In the rat-infested darkness, as the Spear left Iodon behind, Balagir thought of Faverg. If the frog could have erased the memory of that final squishing sound, he would have welcomed it. There was an irony there for those who had the stomach.
VIII.iii
MUTINY
The dank cell was as dark as the inside of his eyelids.
“What would Yrma think if she could see you now?” he asked his captors on one visit. Waran and Biller simply looked at each other and proceeded about their duties.
“I thought you’d never see a fellow go thirsty?” he attempted on another occasion, to which Biller chortled cruelly.
“Ashen don’t get thirsty.”
Balagir had liked the men much more in Peaceriver and morosely acknowledged Faverg’s wisdom.
By the slop he received—and shunned, for ashen ate for pleasure, not necessity—he judged two days had passed. The cell was only light when his captors entered, or in the brightest hours of day when a dim glow outlined the ceiling planks. On such occasions he would see his pouch
hanging on the back of the door. He only needed one of its contents and hoped the kalaqai was strong enough to oblige.
When he knew he would not be disturbed for some hours, he gave Era the command.
He could see her shape thumping against the lining like a tiny fist. It rocked on the hook, gaining momentum, and breached the metal curve so that it fell to the floor. The green kalaqai emerged, somewhat irritated yet firmly under his command.
After some exertion, she dragged the doll from the pouch and far enough for Balagir to claw it closer with his fingertips. Such was his relief he could have kissed it, had it not borne the captain’s unpleasant likeness. Instead he tucked it beneath his cloak and bade Era return to the pouch, where she remained until the guards rehung it, checking the door with knitted brows.
By the dim light, he judged it to be dawn of the third day when Murdak finally showed his face.
“It’s time for us to part ways,” the captain said as means of an introduction. “I can conceive of no further use for you greater than the risk you pose of being aboard.”
“And our agreement?”
“I agreed to take you to Silione, which I’ll honour. You’ll not be on board, however, but tied off the stern.”
Within his cloak he gave the doll a pinch. The captain winced.
“I must say, Murdak, that I’ve found your hospitality to be lacking.”
The captain stared in disbelief, then erupted in a coughing fit.
“Let it never be said that black-eyes do not possess a sense of humour, albeit a peculiar one. I shall be sure to mention this at your wake... whilst you are in ours.” He smiled black and gold, pleased at his pun. “See it as your legacy, if you will.”
“My first request,” Balagir continued as though the captain had not spoken, “is that you bring me your charts.”
“My charts? Have I mistaken your humour for madness? Did that frog warp your mind?”
“Well, I can’t very well look at them in your cabin now. That would sit oddly with the crew. Here seems like the logical option, cramped and dismal as it is.” Murdak laughed grimly.