SeaJourney (Arken Freeth and the Adventure of the Neanderthals Book 1)

by Alex Paul

  “Oh, nothing important.” Arken couldn’t think of an answer, he’d been so focused on the idea of murdering Gart. And then it struck him like a thunderbolt that Em was also part-Nander, and he became more concerned about her welfare than ever before. He never wanted her secret revealed. Yet he couldn’t wait until she was older so they could talk openly of what they were, part-human and part-Nander.

  “Well, I told Mama your ship looks scary. See the dragonhead? Doesn’t it look mean?” Em pointed at the ship.

  “You’re right!” Balloom laughed and swept her into his arms.

  Arken’s gaze followed her gesture to where the Sea Nymph rode at anchor, barely rocking from the movements of slaves stowing cargo. She was a single-masted ship called a jat, which was about seventy-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide, with a raised, high bow, and two decks above the keel. There were also flat-roofed deckhouses for the crews, a sleeping area and armory forward, and the officer’s quarters aft. These two houses gave the ship three decks at the bow and stern while the center of the ship was only two decks high.

  The helm station and a catapult sat on the deck forming the flat roof of the officer’s quarters of the stern. Arken glimpsed the helmsman, who wore a bright yellow jersey over his white tunic, make his way to the railing. Helmsmen wore the jersey while on duty so all officers and crew knew who was guiding the ship. He normally stood by the long wooden bar called the tiller, which was attached to the rudder, but now he stood at the railing observing the movement of the people on the dock. He rang a bell, which quieted the crowd.

  “Weighing anchor and departing in half a turn of the glass,” the helmsman shouted. The day was ruled by a half-hour sand timer, which was turned forty-eight times a day. Half a turn was fifteen minutes long. The helmsman returned to the long tiller bar that was mounted on the left, or port, side of the ship because the stern narrowed at the back of the ship. The helmsman looked impatient and eager to leave.

  “Not long now before you have to go, Arken,” said Em. “Are you scared?”

  “A little,” Arken whispered. “But I’d only admit it to you.”

  “Where do you sleep?” Em asked.

  “Do you see the open deck between the two top houses?” Arken asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The crew sleeps in that front deckhouse, and our cabins are below them on the next deck down.”

  “And the officers live in the back deckhouse, right?” Em smiled.

  “You’re so smart!” Balloom praised her.

  “I know something about ships, Grandpa!” Em pretended to scold him. “You can’t help it in our family!”

  “True enough,” Balloom agreed.

  Boys began saying goodbye and lining up for the wooden walkway that led on board, but Arken reckoned he still had time to visit. He loved his little sister and was going to miss her cheerful presence.

  “There’s a catapult on the deck above the crew’s sleeping house.” Em pointed. “It must get noisy when they’re shooting the catapult!”

  “I don’t think anyone sleeps when they’re shooting the catapult,” Balloom pointed out. “All hands are on deck and preparing to fight.”

  “Umm, good point, Grandpa!” Em said.

  “They cook our food, and we eat our meals on the same deck level as our cabins,” Arken said. “It’s called the galley, and it takes up the back third of the ship.”

  “I hope they give you good food,” Em said. “You’re already so skinny; if they don’t feed you enough, you’ll blow away!”

  “I’m sure they will.” Arken was touched that Em worried about him.

  “What’s on the lower deck?” Em asked.

  “See the holes where the oars come out at the ship’s center?” Arken asked. “The part of the ship that takes up two-thirds of the length in the ship’s middle is the rowing room.”

  “It doesn’t look like the ceilings are very tall,” Balloom said.

  “They aren’t. They’re barely over six feet in height,” Arken explained. “We took a tour earlier this year. The teachers had to stoop over in places where the beams support the decks, or they’d hit their heads.”

  “You’ll be just fine then!” Em teased.

  “Sadly, yes,” Arken agreed.

  “It won’t last forever,” Balloom assured him for the thousandth time.

  “So what’s on either side of the rowers?” Balloom asked.

  “The magazine that stores the Mork’s fire bombs is ahead of the rowing room in the bow while the ship’s stores—salted ban meat, other food, extra sails, oars, ropes, and weapons—are behind the rowing room at the stern,” Arken explained.

  “Oh, look.” Em pointed at the stern. “I didn’t notice, but the end of the ship is raised and turned up so that it looks like a sea monster’s tail!”

  “And the end is a red painted triangle,” Balloom said.

  “Just like in the stories,” Em added. “But there aren’t really sea dragons, are there, Arken?”

  “I don’t think so,” Arken replied. “At least not any longer.”

  “There were in the olden days,” Balloom assured them. “Not in modern times, but in the first days of Lanth, the ship’s captains swore there were sea dragons.”

  “I don’t want you to bump into them, Arken!” Em sounded worried.

  “I won’t,” Arken assured her.

  “But your ship doesn’t seem like a happy place, Arken,” Em added. “It seems mean and scary.”

  “He’ll be fine, Em,” Balloom assured her. “Men have gone to war on ships for thousands of years.”

  “I hope so.” Em looked worried and sad. “But it still doesn’t look happy like father’s ships.”

  Em is right. Tildok does look scary, Arken thought as he looked from the tail at the stern to the gleaming dragon’s head at the ship’s bow. The head was supposed to represent the sea god Tildok. The painted carving with white teeth, red eyes, and black lashes formed the ship’s bow, making the vessel look like a ferocious sea serpent as Em had declared. Green scales carved into the sides of the ship’s hull added to the impression that the ship was a sea serpent.

  “It’s supposed to scare our enemies, not us,” Arken tried to assure her, though he realized it was so real looking and angry that it seemed evil and frightened him as well.

  A ship’s bell interrupted them, and a shouted call to attention turned everyone’s eyes to the flag of Lanth on the ship’s mast, a fierce, white swordtooth on a field of dark blue. A single horn played the Lantish anthem, and then Lar cupped his hands on his hollow cheeks and shouted for last good-byes and boarding.

  Arken turned to his family, still half at attention, with helmet under his arm. Zela would have none of that; she stepped forward, wrapped him in her arms, squeezed too tightly, and then kissed his cheek.

  “Be careful,” she commanded. “Obey your teachers, make us proud, but most of all, be careful.”

  “I will, Mother, I promise.” Arken wiped the embarrassing moisture of her kiss from his cheek.

  “And remember Stroebel,” she added. “Be good with your bow.”

  “I will.” He nodded to his grandfather. They’d practiced with it for hours the past few days. He loved the black bow. If his survival came down to his archery skills, he would not disappoint his mother.

  At least he hoped not! Stringing the bow alone, looping the string over the antler-tipped bow end, remained a problem. When he placed the bow against his foot’s instep, he needed help bending the bow down to place the bowstring loop over the bow’s end. Once strung, however, he could draw and fire with deadly accuracy.

  “Do I get a kiss bye?” Em demanded as she squirmed out of Balloom’s grasp. She raised her arms and said, “Up.”

  “I’ll miss you most of all.” Arken lifted her up and kissed her cheek.

  “Someday I’ll go off to war as a warrior too!” Em’s eyes flashed.

  “Not my little sister!”

  “Yes, me. It has to be fair,�
� Em insisted.

  “But not today.” Balloom stepped forward.

  “Don’t be silly, Grandpa.” Em giggled. “Can’t you see I’m too little?”

  “You are so heavy I can barely lift you,” Arken teased, though it wasn’t true. She felt light to him, and he was beginning to realize it was true about his Nander blood giving him extra strength.

  “I’m not so heavy,” she protested, making Arken miss her more.

  “No, you’re not. I’m teasing you because I love you,” Arken said in a whisper.

  Arken turned to shake arms with Balloom, but he couldn’t thump his right arm on his chest since he was holding Em with that arm. “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Balloom said.

  “Me too, Grandpa.”

  Em leaned out, and Balloom took her easily into his arms.

  Arken stepped forward to shake arms with his father. Nortak’s massive, calloused hand felt like a hard band of metal around Arken’s left forearm.

  “I am proud of you, my son.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Fear none in battle, nor death at sea, nor those who wish to torment thee,” Nortak repeated the warrior’s oath.

  “With Kal in mind and sword held high, fight until you win or die,” Arken finished the oath.

  “You’re a man, now, Arken.” Nortak placed arms around his son and hugged him. “A wee man, but you’ll soon fill out as I did. Because”—Nortak looked around but seemed to notice it was too crowded for a private talk, so he shrugged his shoulders—“Because you know...”

  The drums rolled, and Arken simply nodded at his father. They would have a good talk about their Nander secret later when he returned, though Arken felt a sense of loss. He so wanted to talk to his father about being a Nander. What if Stroebel was wrong and Arken never returned? The thought made him feel empty, and a wellspring of anger surged through him.

  By Kal, I will come back, Arken vowed to himself.

  “All board!” Lar shouted from the ship’s rail, his eyes in their sunken sockets darting about for any who hadn’t heard.

  Zela grabbed Arken’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

  “Return to me, Arken.” She kissed his cheek yet again.

  “I will, Mother. I promise you, I’ll come home.” He lifted his gear duffle over his right shoulder and his pack, with bow and sheath tied on, over his left. But before he could turn away, his mother kissed his cheek one last time.

  “For luck,” she explained.

  His eyes started to fill with tears. To hide his embarrassment he said, “I’m always lucky, Mother.” Then he turned to join the line of boys walking up the narrow gangplank. They formed a swirl of backpacks and duffels draped over deeply tanned and muscular bodies climbing single file to war.

  “Goodbye, Arken,” a voice called.

  Arken turned to see that Tozzal had called out to him. He was still standing by his parents.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Arken asked.

  “No, I’m sick! My neck is swollen!” He put a hand on his throat and tipped his head back to show Arken. “I’m strong, I never get sick! But they won’t let me go! Now I have to go next year.”

  “That’s awful,” Arken sympathized. “I’m sorry. Get better soon, then. I’ll miss you on the trip.”

  “Be safe, Arken.” Tozzal gave a slight smile. “You’re a good friend.”

  “You too,” Arken answered. But he was stunned! Tozzal had been friendly in public. He knew he would miss Tozzal, for at least Tozzal and Han would visit with him in private while most of the others ignored him in private and in public.

  He’d also hoped that having his study mates on board would help protect him against Gart, that by being around and showing that they were somewhat friends with him, it might make Gart think twice about his mean treatment of him. At least Arken had Han on board. And maybe now that Tozzal wasn’t going, Han would share a cabin with him.

  Arken trudged up the gangplank. It proved to be steeper than expected, making him almost tip backward as it bounced from everyone’s weight. He grabbed a handrail rope, recovered his balance, and reached the deck.

  “Welcome to the Sea Nymph,” a sailor said. “Toss your duffle over there but keep your pack and other belongings, and then gather at the rail for farewell.”

  After dumping his duffle bag, Arken gazed around the ship. It smelled just like his father’s ships: damp wood, hemp rope, and sails brined from seawater spray. The familiar odors brought back memories of trips with his parents on their ship when he was young.

  Excitement swept over him. A moonth at sea with fair winds, a cracking sail, and strange sights for company.

  “Oars out!” A massive, barrel-chested man with olive skin, curly black hair, and a pale blue captain’s tunic shouted from the command deck. His torso was so thick and sturdy, he reminded Arken of a tree—a tree with stubby, thick arms and legs for limbs and trunk.

  No slaves served Lantish ships, so the rowers, all freemen sailors, ran down the stairs to the rowing deck. Other sailors pulled the gangplank aboard, threw off mooring lines, and pushed the ship off with long poles, giving the rowers room to deploy their oars on the starboard, or right side of the ship, which had been tied to the dock. They pushed the ship into the open water of the harbor, which lay on the port, or left side of the ship.

  Now a ten-foot gap between ship and dock surprised Arken as he went to the starboard railing to wave good-bye. A stretch of water separated him from his family. The simple act of going home, which he had always taken for granted because the Academy was not far from his parent’s house, now required jumping overboard, swimming ashore, and quitting the Academy. Obviously he could not quit the Academy, but the open water between ship and dock emphasized the fact that he really was leaving home!

  A sense of shock, loss, and regret filled his heart as the gap widened. Yet he did nothing, for he had to go—he wanted to go—but he knew life would never be the same. Tonight he would miss his mother’s and sister’s good-night kisses, his grandmother Arlet’s goodnight hug, his grandfather’s gentle tousling of his hair and, yes, even his father’s loud snoring that rattled down the hall to invade his sleep.

  “Kal be with you,” he yelled to his family. The broadest-shouldered, most muscular man on the dock waving at the ship was his father. Arken suddenly felt warmth for Nortak. The years of resentment he’d had toward his father for putting him in the Academy melted away. The Academy had made Arken a man, and now, with Gart threatening to kill him, Arken understood the gift his father had given him. His father had helped turn him into a man who could fight back and defend himself.

  It didn’t matter that going to the Academy had made Gart want to kill him. There would always be someone in his life that wanted to because it was the way of the world in Lanth. But Arken had been trained to defend himself like a man, and that was the great gift Father had bestowed on him by prevailing upon the king to grant Arken admission to the Academy.

  Then Arken noticed little Em sobbing, her head buried in Zela’s shoulder.

  “Don’t cry, Em!” Arken shouted. “I’ll return in a moonth!” She bravely raised her little left arm with a fist, copying the Lantish salute, while keeping her head down. The gesture of pride and defiance had become a secret sign of love between them. He mirrored her salute.

  “Good-bye, Em,” he shouted.

  “Welcome to my uncle’s ship,” a voice boomed behind Arken.

  He spun around to find Gart looming over him, with Narval, almost as tall, standing at his side. Narval and Gart, large and largest, as much friends as they were enemies to Arken. Narval had wide shoulders and big arms just like Gart, but Narval’s neck was much thicker. Narval’s legs were thinner, so when they stood next to each other, Gart’s legs looked like they should belong to Narval’s body. Narval had brownish-blond hair that was as long as Arken’s, and he kept it tied back with a gastag strip like all the other cadets.

  “Yeah, w
elcome.” Narval leered. “What a joy, we’re shipmates for the next moonth. Be careful, though, Arken. Accidents happen at sea. Just like when you tripped over that rope.”

  “So you helped,” Arken said. “Might have known, I thought you wouldn’t stoop so low, Narval.”

  “You’ll be lucky if you live to see your sister again.” Gart glanced toward shore to where Em was still saluting him. “Maybe I’ll take your sister as my fourth wife if you die.”

  Arken pulled his arm back to hit Gart, but Gart grabbed his right arm while Narval did the same to Arken’s left. They pulled down hard, causing pressure and pain where he had hurt his back trying to lift Tok.

  “Let go.” Arken tried to twist away. But they spun him around so he still faced the dock, and Gart spoke in his ear.

  “I’m hurting you because it hurt me to lose that sparring match and have to come on SeaJourney without the rank of salcon,” Gart hissed. “Smile and wave good-bye forever to your family. We’re going to make sure you fall off this ship one night, and no one is going to miss you.”

  Gart punched him hard in the lower left back as both boys let go of Arken’s arms. The blow sent a stabbing pain through Arken’s body, and he stumbled forward, almost falling overboard. But Gart and Narval laughed and grabbed his tunic, pulling him back to safety. As they did, the strap around his right shoulder that held his quiver and the sheath tied to it with the bow inside, slid off his shoulder and down his arm until it hung on his wrist over the water. Arken regained his balance just in time to grab both with his left arm and draw them tight to his chest.

  “Careful,” Gart joked as he looked around at his classmates. “No sea legs on Arken! You don’t want to lose your little toy bow.”

  Boys who hadn’t seen Gart hit Arken laughed at the joke while others scowled at his bullying but said nothing for fear of Gart’s reprisal.

  Arken swept his left arm up and back in a circle, a move they’d learned years ago, which he now did out of habit. It forced Gart’s left hand from his shoulder, and Arken moved to escape. Narval’s hand fell away as Arken slid between some other boys. Gart and Narval turned their attention to waving good-bye and acting as if nothing had happened. Arken rubbed his back and breathed into the pain as he glared at them.