by C F Welburn
“Kolak. It’s me, Balagir,” he said, snapping his fingers.
“What do you want?” he rasped, disinterestedly.
“I went to the other side of the island and...”
“And, what?”
“You were right. The women, they’re hiding something. A heinous secret. I think we should leave.”
Kolak sat up. “Whilst I’m pleased you’ve come to your senses, your plan is futile.”
“How so?”
“Because you’d never convince the others to leave with you. Also, this cage is locked tight. Talking with your concubine resulted in them securing extra chains. Thirdly, you think they’d just let you leave? After all they’ve done?”
“Then what do you suggest?”
The jaegir shrugged and stared at nothing for a while.
“If you could break the curse...”
“I assure you, after what I’ve seen, such a curse no longer binds me.”
“Not your curse. Yours was only that of men; of lust and of a longing for love. I’m referring to their curse.”
“What would that be?”
“How should I know? I’m locked in here. You’re the ones that spend every waking hour infatuated with them.”
“Then how do you know there’s a curse?”
He shrugged. “A hunch. I’ve heard tales of sirens, accounts that although mark them as dangerous, mark them as being desperate. Perhaps if you can help them, then you—we—would be free to leave.”
He remembered their hideous spawn quarantined to the far side of the isle.
“I think I know. But it’s their children who are cursed, not them.”
“Good,” Kolak said, brightening up. “Looks like you’re on to something. Now, you must think of way to release it.”
They sat for some time before Balagir stood up, wringing his fists restlessly. The day was passing rapidly, and his net was yet dry.
“I need to go. If I return without fish, she will—” Kolak clapped his hands, making Balagir jump. “What?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“What do you do with the fish?”
“We eat them, of course.”
“All of them?”
“No, not all of them, there are too many.”
“And why do you think they send so many men each day, for fish beyond their needs? So that they must dump the waste in a pit? Haven’t you noticed the stench of rotting fish when the wind blows from the west? My bet is they throw most of them not far from here.”
“Then why the insistence that we catch more each day?”
“They’re searching for something,” he said. “This place has clouded your wits, Balagir. It’s the only explanation.”
“So, they’re looking for a fish?”
“A fish which has cursed them. Idol fish, I’ve heard them called. My guess is it swims close to the island, so that its power does not wane.”
“Idol fish,” he repeated, trying to recall something. “There’s a fish statue in the village. A large fish with a sword nose. That must be it.”
“This is confirming my suspicions.”
“Then how do I catch it? I’ve been fishing every day. What if it’s impossible?”
“Then our journey ends here.”
“Maybe we’re using the wrong bait,” Balagir continued, thinking aloud. “A fish that size, surely, is not interested in worms.”
“Then what? I’ve not much of a view from here, but I’ve not even seen a rodent.”
But Balagir was no longer listening. For he knew then what would lure the fish. What it wanted. A creature, half human, half grub. He swallowed. They could consult Imram, of course. He was widely read in lore. But already he knew what he must do, and calling Imram away, convincing him and involving him would be more time and risk. No. He alone must act. Besides, what was one sad life if he were to set free the scores that were trapped? He would hold on to this thought in the darkest hour, as a sailor clung to a mast in a tempest.
The hour was too late to obtain the bait, but he did secure the thickest line from the shed behind the cage.
He then rushed to his boat, all the while spying on the foliage for a trace of hare or ferret he might use instead. But as Kolak had predicted, the isle was quite sparse of fauna. Shaking his head, he pushed away from the shore and concentrated his efforts on the daily catch.
At the inspection that eve, Galadel could not hide her disappointment. Still, she welcomed him back as always.
“Don’t fret, Balagir. Tomorrow the water will be more profitable. Your toil will be well rewarded. Let that be forefront in your mind as you’re about your tasks.”
“It will,” he promised austerely, and fell into a nightmare-plagued sleep where hideous creatures bit at his skin and latched greedily onto his fingers.
He set off earlier the next day. Galadel suspected nothing after her promise, so even when the other men were embarking, he was already out, trawling his net and floating ever nearer to the headland. When he was sure the women had turned their backs, he rowed with all his might until he arrived at the far beach. He crept up the shingle and into the reeds, where many of the small, ugly creatures slept. He chose one, not dwelling on his actions, and knocked it on the head so that it slept forever. Climbing back into his boat, he rowed rapidly away, the sickness in his stomach kept at bay by thoughts of freedom.
Once back amongst the other men, he attached the line to the bait and lowered it over the edge. Below the waterline, he could not see its face, and the wretchedness of what he had done abated. He waited and began to fear that murder had been in vain, when suddenly the line snatched, pulling his boat about. It slackened, then lurched, dragging him across the waves. Nearby, fishermen gasped as his boat sped past, a spray of foam in its wake. Goffle’s scarred face was aghast as he passed so close that he tore his net. When the fish had tired, he drew it in. Such was its size that the tail and nose hung over either side. Its gills twitched slowly, refusing to die, and it flapped until Balagir pinned it with his legs.
When he made it to the shore, the women were already waiting. They ran to him, ignoring their respective partners, all eyes bent on what he had brought them. Then they wept and bestowed upon him kisses. That night in the hut, he was visited by half the island and left exhausted. Then, with the moon in the sky, they laid the huge idol fish out on a rock and slit its belly, so it writhed like many wriggling worms. Inside was a small twisted face, and one of the women screamed in recognition.
Balagir fled and spent the night crouching behind some rocks, fearing what the retribution for his crime might be.
Come dawn, when he finally dared sneak down to the village, he found the women had gone. Only the men sat there, looking lost and bewildered on the beach.
Kolak sat amongst them, having been freed. No one prepared their nets. The fishing boats lay abandoned on the sand.
Imram and Drak came over to thank him.
“Kolak explained about the curse. I don’t think we would ever have left. Nor wanted to.”
“That’s the second time you’ve cured me,” Drak said. “Frogs then fish. I’m not enamoured with aquatic life.”
Goffle did not thank him, however, and was utterly miserable at finding himself alone once more.
Four others remained, sailors all. Res spoke with them, and they agreed to man the Spite Spear, which had stood waiting out in the bay for several weeks. Pegs would likely have finished off all the wine by now.
Before they departed, Balagir needed to satisfy his curiosity. He left the men preparing on the beach and crossed the island. If the curse had been lifted, then the babes would be back to normal, back with their mothers as all should be.
He had not expected the contrary.
It was the women who had transformed and wallowed in the muddy reeds as their swollen offspring suckled and grunted. Had it gone awry? But as he looked upon the contented creatures, he saw the truth. It had been not the babes who
had been cursed, but the women. This was their natural form. Their human bodies had been the curse, to lure men, to breed, to create offerings for the idol fish. Offerings they had refused to make; instead setting the men hopelessly fishing.
Balagir had made decisions that were not his to make, and in doing so left one of the creatures distraught. But he had liberated the rest and saved his men, breaking the hold of the idol fish over the island.
He shook his head and returned with a mixture of emotions. Somewhere amongst those slimy things lay Galadel, her beauty gone, but her body free.
Balagir explained in no uncertain terms the transformation, and the men were eager to be off the isle once they knew.
Back on the Spite Spear, the whole affair seemed a dream. A surreal time of contentment, tainted by a bitter aftertaste.
Goffle was in a foul mood, missing his Haringa greatly. He moaned that he would never again know such selfless, loving beauty, and no amount of reminding him of her true nature could change his mind. It was true, Goffle was likely to find comfort only at a price, but better that than the alternative. He didn’t see it that way though, and might never come to truly forgive Balagir.
“Where to, Captain?” Res asked once the new crew had been familiarised and delegated duties.
“On to Shale,” he said. “Let’s leave this cursed place.”
“About time,” Pegs said through a large beard he had not sported when they had left.
And so they did, the strange mist dissipating and leaving nothing in their wake but empty water.
They would never find that isle again, and the sailors would tell tales of their long nights with the beautiful women over their tankards. But alone, in their beds, their flesh would crawl at the nature of the beings they had lain with and the abominations they had fathered and left behind.
X.ii
THE SINKING OF SHALE
Despite his eagerness to reach Shale, Balagir instructed Res that if they encountered an isle with a fire, they were to stop. He had a longing for the piper’s tune and still smoke to spend. Res believed there were none in the vicinity, but one such isle named Farthing lay further on, towards the southern shores; its size from the charts indicated it as a likely candidate for an isolated hub.
Now with an able crew running the Spite Spear, the ashen had some idle time, which they filled swapping tales of the road. Pegs had left them a pleasing amount of wine, on account of him being unable to open the bottles without breaking them at the neck.
“What are we doing?” Balagir asked one rainy night when the confines of the cabin and wine had done their best to evoke intimacy.
“Sailing,” Drak said, unstoppering a fresh bottle.
Balagir ignored him. “Kolak, you’ve been out here longer than anyone. What’s your goal? What did you find in the south?” Kolak, whose jaegir face was often unreadable, could not entirely mask the bleakness in his voice.
“I’ve told you what I found in the south. It wasn’t what I was looking for.”
“Which was?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Balagir sighed. “So, we’re all simply wandering from fire to fire. What’s the point?”
“To stay alive,” Drak said.
“To get smoke,” Kolak added.
“To learn and grow,” Imram philosophised.
“To not be alone,” Goffle grumbled.
“All good answers,” Balagir said, “but what does that tell us? That we all have no homes, that we are all as directionless as feathers in the wind. What is this need for smoke that drives us? Are we the piper’s slaves? For I’ve seen what happens to those who disobey. He incinerates them. And why this hunger, this thirst—whatever name we can put to this need he instils in us?”
“Who knows what that creature’s purpose is?” Kolak shrugged. “Yes, we do his bidding, but we do it for ourselves, do we not? To grow strong, to survive. Isn’t that the basic drive of any living thing?”
“I suppose. But what does he get out of it? Where does he come from—”
“These are dangerous questions, Balagir,” Kolak said darkly. “Does one question their god for their reasons?”
“The piper’s no god.”
“Whatever he is, he’s greater than us,” Drak grunted.
Imram, stroking his chin, mused, “I’ve often likened our fires to insect colonies; we being the workers that scout and return with resources to the hive. I don’t think he could survive without us, and we would not be here were it not for him.”
“So we owe him our lives, is that it? Does he not owe us? Our memories, for instance.”
Kolak shrugged. “I think it wise we do not upset him. Besides, is doing his bidding really so bad? Isn’t the rush of smoke a glorious thing? Isn’t that increase of power stimulating?”
“Yes. But I’d still know the reason. I feel my destiny is not my own.”
“You go south willingly, do you not?” Kolak asked.
“Aye, but for what? For some wisp of evidence that I might have a past.”
“It’s your choice.”
“Hardly. I’ve been north and found little to return for. Each of these forsaken islands is worse than the last. Maybe the south is worse still, but I must try. Maybe doing so is the only way to unravel all of this.”
“There may be other ways,” Imram said.
“Your books?” Drak mocked.
“Why not? Settler history runs alongside our own, does it not?”
“Good luck explaining that to the Thell.”
“Then Kirfory. The university there is renowned.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Drak said.
“Time? Ha.” Imram accepted the bottle and drank.
“Tell me of the south?” Balagir said, breaking the tension. “I’ve heard of troubles between the Dunns.”
“In the Valelands, aye.” Kolak divulged. “First one must traverse the Bone Forests, scale the Spine, and pass Iceval. Do well and you’ll find no shortage of smoke there. Wherever there’s trouble, opportunities are rife. But heed my words, not many are as lucky as I, and few who go ever return. Stay in the north. You’ll not find what you’re looking for, you’ve admitted as much yourself.”
“I must try. We all must. We can’t simply wander forever. There has to be an end.”
“There’s an end all right. An unmarked grave, a ditch, or the jaws of a beast.”
“So be it, but I walk willingly towards that end, ready to challenge it. To change it.”
“If you’ll not be swayed, I wish you luck,” Kolak said, raising the bottle.
“Speaking of not being swayed,” Goffle slobbered. “Why were you the only one not to succumb to the women?” There was something of accusation in the pale man’s tone, but he had raised a point.
“It’s true,” Imram said. “They call us a race, us ashen, yet we’re divided by race. I’ve counted men, jaegir, idris, gillards, and ‘gnilos amongst us. Surely ashen as a race is erroneous terminology.”
“You’re right. Yet never horlock nor largatyn. I wonder why?” Kolak let the question hang until he realised Goffle was still glaring, and he snorted. “Because jaegirs do not as a rule find human women attractive, simple as that. Since that was the guise they were cursed with, I was spared.” Goffle glowered, but he put the bottle where his mouth was and said no more.
The conversation meandered to lighter matters then, and each chose a possession from their pouch to regale.
Drak withdrew a monocle that, when placed to the eye, allowed the wearer to see through walls. Balagir looked down in amazement as sailors below deck worked away or dozed with no idea they were being spied upon. He would inform Res later about the idleness of certain crew.
Kolak presented some shimmering arrowheads he claimed would turn the victim to stone—except stone elementals, who would be rendered to flesh and more easily slain. Various attempts at trade were made, but the jaegir remained reluctant to part with a single one.
Imr
am presented an old leather tome.
“What magic does this possess?” Drak asked, fascinated.
“The magic of history,” he replied proudly of his prosaic prize. He was peeved when no one saw the value in it. “So you’d prefer if it contained a mouth and devoured the reader’s hand? Or its spine spread wide and its pages flapped like a large, leathery glawing? No, I’m afraid not, gentlemen. What we have here is knowledge; times before our times. Maybe clues to the riddles that bind us.” The scholar made a good point. Even so, after Drak’s monocle—which he assured them worked on ladies’ garments just as well as walls—the book lacked a certain allure.
Goffle presented a scabbard that diligently sharpened whatever blade rested within to a point no whetstone was capable. He demonstrated with a rusty sailor’s blade they found in a crate, and it emerged moments later, gleaming and keen. He joked that were one to insert their tongue, it would come out with a sharper wit, but no one risked the venture.
In turn, Balagir summoned Era from his pouch. Imram was captivated by the kalaqai, asking many questions. He explained how she had changed colour with the luck talisman, but withheld the tale of how the piper had controlled her—an event he had all but forgotten, but which now seemed to hold some sinister significance. He regarded her with suspicion. She had come to be as much curse as blessing, and he was no longer certain who between them had the ultimate say. His mind strayed back to her previous guardian, Gwindle, and he wished he had questioned him further. Uncomfortable, he bade Era return to his pouch and spoke of Shale. Imram frowned, dissatisfied at his changing of the subject, and seemed distracted for the rest of the evening.
Dawn brought Shale into view. It jutted upwards like a crooked nose, rock black as coal and a thick jungle of green covering much of its surface. He matched the three jagged peaks with those on Murdak’s charts and knew that the centremost was where the coordinates directed him. A small village hugged its coast, with figures milling without obvious intent. After observing through the spyglass for some time, Balagir saw nothing threatening about the folk, and they anchored the ship at a distance, taking two rowboats ashore.