“I see, but–” Father Griffith got no further.
“Poor Orban,” Patron continued, shaking her head in mock commiseration. “But he’s happy, now, I think,” she added. “He and his wife moved to Mira Island. They live there year round, and his daughter took over the family business.”
“Silva, you said?” Orion looked thoughtful. “I can’t place her,” he conceded, shaking his head. “What does she look like?”
Patron looked innocent. “Like a constipated crow,” she said.
“Takes after her mother then!” Orion laughed.
“Well, I hope she is a good pirate,” Father Griffith interjected. “That is what is important, isn’t it?”
Patron looked at him sideways. “What pirate? She’s barely been out of the Marble Sea!”
“But her ship, Patron–” Father Griffith said insistently, trying to bring the conversation back to its point of departure. “It’s called the Silent Dark.”
“Yes, it is. Not a wise choice, in my opinion,” Patron sniffed.
“That’s exactly why I brought it up,” Father Griffith said quickly, lest the conversation veer off in an unrelated tangent once again. “I read about the Silent Dark in the Book of Shadow. At least, I read something that was called the Silent Dark,” he corrected. “It was a curious story,” he continued, not noticing that Patron was eyeing him intently. “It was unlike all the other stories…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t quite make it out. It was about death… I think… but it wasn’t a story. What is the Silent Dark?”
Patron took a deep breath. “The Silent Dark is a ceremony,” she explained. “It is one of the death ceremonies. Actually, that’s not true, it is the ceremony of death. All the others – I mean the funeral songs such as The Song of First and Last and of course the rituals such as the Remembrances that take place after a funeral, are essentially life ceremonies. They celebrate life and are meant for the living.
“But the Silent Dark is different. It does not celebrate anything. It tells the story of one life from beginning to end. And it tells it as unvarnished, as tarnished as it was lived by the person who died. You will rarely see a Silent Dark ceremony during a funeral or memorial service, because it tends to be an intensely private affair when it is performed at all. It is not an easy ceremony–” Patron added gravely. “It can be harrowing, and most people who have lost someone are already traumatized. They usually opt for the gentler Song of First and Last.”
“That is a beautiful song,” Father Griffith smiled, “but please, tell me about the Silent Dark. When I read it, I was deeply troubled. It started and ended with a sense of… of oblivion? And in the middle, there were, what I can best approximate to stage directions–”
“That’s right,” Patron nodded. “The Silent Dark is where each of us comes from and returns to: the loss of consciousness. So it is, in a sense, oblivion. Personal oblivion.”
“But–” Father Griffith began, looking troubled. “How is that possible? I mean how is it that people accept this oblivion? Do they not long for something else? Something that will give meaning?” He looked at her imploringly. “Where I – we come from–” He turned to Cat and Bruce, “we do not wish to think of our lives ending in oblivion. We want to know that there is something more. Some greater meaning. Something greater, larger than ourselves…Perhaps… Don’t you think we all do?”
“Speak for yourself, Roland,” Cat said, crossing her arms. “I don’t intend to end my life at all!”
Patron smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Ah yes, we know what you’re talking about. Don’t worry, Roland, everyone in Pera has seen it or read about it. I have seen it too, first hand since I started traveling beyond the Veil.
“Let me put it this way: how would you feel if we were suddenly caught in a violent storm?”
Father Griffith hesitated. “I should not like it,” he said, treading carefully.
“No, it would be quite unpleasant, and depending on the strength of the storm, we might not even survive, correct?”
Father Griffith inclined his head noncommittally.
“Good. Now, let’s say I gave you a pair of glasses that made the sky look bright blue and a thick raincoat, so that when you looked around everything seemed much prettier, and you had a little protection from the wind and rain…
“That’s all very well, and maybe it might even make you feel better for a bit, but it’s not going to change the weather is it?”
Father Griffith picked his words carefully. “That is what you think it all means?”
“No, I know what it all means. But I can’t make you take off the glasses. It is all in the Silent Dark…” She paused.
Father Griffith inclined his head and said gently. “Perhaps… it is the knowing that no matter what… however bad a thing appears, however violent the storm… that the weather will change, and the sun will shine again.”
“Hmph,” Patron sniffed.
“You were telling us about the ceremony of the Silent Dark?” Father Griffith prompted.
“Yes. Well. People call it making whole if you can go through that ceremony and then the others like the Song of First and Last. The Silent Dark is for the Dead One, you see. It is the echo of his or her life from beginning to end, not just the good bits fit for public consumption, but the bad things they might have done too, and the things that may have been done to them. There can be a great deal of pain in the Silent Dark... And for certain deaths, such as the death of a young child, it is almost never performed. Too much sadness, and often guilt…
“It isn’t always performed for the right reasons, of course!” she continued in her usual brisk tone. “Quite often a family member will insist on performing the Silent Dark ceremony simply because they want some unpleasant secret to be revealed. Happens all the time. Bitter ex-wife, a mistress! You can imagine, I’m sure. It can be very unpleasant,” she nodded meaningfully.
“But how does it work? Do people sit around telling nasty stories?” Cat asked.
“Not exactly,” Patron replied. “One person is chosen to relate each decade of the Dead One’s life – starting from birth. The person who is chosen should be someone who knew the Dead One most intimately during that period of time. The same person can relate more than one decade, of course. That’s often the case, in fact – husbands and wives, for instance. The choice isn’t always easy, though. There may be more than one person who claims to have known the Dead One intimately during the relevant period,” Patron pointed out. “This often causes problems,” she added with a chuckle.
“I can see that…” Father Griffith said. “You mentioned that people in Pera know what I was talking about. What did you mean?”
“Just because we are protected by the Light Veil does not mean we are ignorant of the outside world,” Patron said. “We routinely send our young people out there–” she waved vaguely towards the open sea. “You have study abroad, right? We have study abroad, and study beyond the Veil.” She laughed happily. “To give you an example you are familiar with: Blanca spent many years studying in Europe before she entered the LiGa Chess tournament.”
“Ballet…” Cat murmured. “She studied ballet, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Patron said, and added with affection and pride: “She was an excellent ballerina. Beautiful. You should have seen her dance! So graceful.”
“I am sure,” Cat said.
“I have no doubt Blanca Chevalier must excel in any endeavor she chooses,” Father Griffith said gallantly.
“I actually did see her dance,” Bruce smiled. “You are right, Patron. It was more than beautiful… it was like something out of this world. And it turns out, that is the truth! She is out of that world.”
“I’m glad you had a chance to see her,” Patron said. “She doesn’t dance much anymore – although she could, of course. I tell her it’s a shame she doesn’t, but she says she’s too busy with LiGa Chess. What to do?” Patron sighed. “But where was I? You made me lose my train of thought
again!” She laughed. “Ah yes, I remember. Many of our journalists travel back and forth, too. It is an unwritten requirement for the serious ones. They sometimes stay at the LiGa headquarters, as a matter of fact. When there’s no game going on, it’s a convenient place and LiGa is always accommodating.
“Now, getting back to the Silent Dark– I mean the ship, this time,” she added quickly. “If you’re interested, of course – I don’t want to bore you.”
Father Griffith nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, please go on.”
“Do. This is fun,” Cat said.
“Good.” Patron settled back into the chair. “Oh–” she exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. “Orion, how much time do I have before the transfer?”
“Half an hour,” Bruce interjected before Orion had a chance to reply.
“Ah… That’s all right. Now then, where was I? Oh yes, the Silent Dark… You see Orban got the ship a long time ago. It’s a good ship, and he spent a lot of money refurbishing it. Making it more pirate-worthy. It was originally a fighting ship, anyway, but not particularly fast.
“In fact, it was on the slow side, which is a terrible attribute for a pirate ship. He claims he got the idea for the name from an engineer working on the ship. Happened to be one of the White Islanders, which makes sense because they are the only ones to embrace the Silent Dark ceremony wholeheartedly. They use it in every funeral. Can you imagine?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “This engineer supposedly told Orban that he was likely to end up prematurely in the Silent Dark if he didn’t make it significantly faster. Orban took his advice, and thought it was a good name for the ship. Pretentious, of course!” Patron scoffed.
“I thought the White Islanders objected,” Orion said.
Patron assented, and explained that Orban had sought permission from the Elder Twilight’s Hand, who had refused, but that Orban had disregarded the Elder’s opposition.
“So what happened?” Cat asked.
“Nothing,” replied Patron. “What can the Twilighters do about it? They have no power over pirates. They would probably prefer that it not be used as a ceremony on the mainland too, but they don’t get to set the rules like that!
“Admittedly, it is not an appropriate name for a ship,” Patron conceded, “and it would have been more diplomatic if Orban had at least considered the Elder’s decision, and made some effort at placating him… At the time, we were still patrolling the islands, and I would be lying if I said it did not affect our relations with the islanders. Of course it did, but Orban didn’t care!”
“I don’t think I care for this Orban,” Cat said loyally. “He sounds an awful man, and with all that nasty hair. Ugh!” She shuddered.
“I agree,” said Patron.
“You were talking about the Elder,” Father Griffith said, changing the subject. “Who is he?”
“Technically, the Elder is the spiritual leader of the White Islanders. But in practice, he is the only leader they have. You see: each of the ten islands has its own leader, called the Twilight’s Hand. The Elder is chosen from among the Twilight’s Hands. He is the ultimate leader. The position is conferred by the current Elder on one of the Twilight’s Hands from the next generation. The Twilight’s Hand chosen by the current Elder is known as the Elder-in-Waiting during the Elder’s lifetime, and when the Elder dies, he takes over–” Patron paused for breath.
“How is he – I assume it is a ‘he’ – chosen as the Elder?” Father Griffith asked, taking advantage of the brief pause.
Patron admitted that she did not know the details. “That is still very much a male-dominated area and I was not permitted access – even as a pirate and a blind policeman. Maybe you would have a better chance, being a priest. You are sort of more like them.”
Am I? He wondered. Am I more like those men on the island who would kill an innocent child for the sake of their – for want of a better word, god? More like them than a pirate who worked for years to make sure the ritual was not repeated? More like them than a woman who believes – again, for lack of a better word, that we are bound for oblivion? To believe that we emerge from and return to the Silent Dark…
“The root of the word ‘religion’ is to bind together,” Father Griffith reflected.
“Exactly,” Patron nodded vehemently. “That’s what I meant.”
“But to bind what? Whom does it bind together?” Father Griffith said slowly. “I think the reference is to the community, Patron, not to a particular group within that community. The priests, for instance–”
“Ha! Could have fooled me,” Patron scoffed. “Maybe you’re different. I can give you the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. After all, Xavier and Blanca chose you for LiGa…But. That’s a ‘but’ as big as my ship, in my experience of the Twilighters. The Twilight’s Hands all stick together. I have a feeling, from what I’ve read about religions outside Pera, that that is a common failing.” She punctuated the sentence with a robust nod.
“Perhaps not all,” Father Griffith suggested gently. “We did find the girl alive and she showed us the food someone had left for her. And that man we saw on the other side of the island… who was he?”
“What did he look like? Where was he?” Patron asked.
Father Griffith described the man and the rock next to which he stood.
“He sounds like the Twilight’s Hand…” Patron mused. “I do know them pretty well. Only the Twilight’s Hand wears the white robe – and Cypress during the Ritual.” She gave a derisive snort, “And the Twilight’s Hand is supposed to sit on the Rock of Night for a period of time after the Ritual… to announce the child’s death, can you imagine?” Patron shook her head in disgust.
“But then, this Twilight’s Hand – he was trying to get us to find her,” Father Griffith ventured hesitantly, knowing he was entering dangerous waters.
“Fine,” Patron conceded. “But even if that’s the truth, why didn’t he object in the first place?” She snorted angrily. “Before the child was thrown off the rock to be drowned and left to fend for herself. Cold and scared and hurt!”
“Perhaps he could not,” Father Griffith said quietly.
“I don’t believe that for a minute!”
“There are many different pressures that can be brought to bear on a man…” Father Griffith said. Patron regarded him skeptically, but her attention was diverted by the appearance of Cypress, led by the hand by the ship’s doctor, a portly middle-aged man with a mess of unruly grey hair.
“Hello, child,” Patron said abruptly. “Come, sit next to me.” Cypress had been bathed, fed and had gotten herself slightly lost in a bulky sweater and a pair of oilskin trousers. They were Patron’s, who was on the smaller side, but still too large for the slim girl who stood before them, her lowered face hidden by two curtains of hair, the color of a raven’s wing.
“Come, child,” Patron said again, patting a seat next to her. “Sit here.”
Cypress obeyed without raising her head.
“What is your name, girl?” Patron asked.
Cypress mumbled something under her breath.
“What was that?” Patron leaned closer. “You have to speak up. I am a bit deaf!” She let out a bellowing laugh, which caused the girl to retreat as far as she could into the recesses of the chair. “Come on–” she urged. “What’s your name? Don’t be afraid.”
“Cypress,” said the girl quickly, and loud enough to hear.
Patron snorted. “Cypress! That was the name of a silly girl in a story,” she said indignantly. “A girl so silly that she couldn’t even tell her father that the sun would most certainly rise again. Do you think the Sun will never rise again? Hmm?”
Cypress shook her head vigorously.
“Well, at least you’re not that silly,” Patron said, with a show of relief. Cypress raised her head slightly. A small smile dimpled her left cheek.
“So,” prompted Patron, “are you Cypress? From a story? Not even a very good story, mind you!”
Cy
press said nothing.
“Tell me child, what is your name?” Patron asked again: quiet but insistent.
Cypress thought about the island. Her home. Not anymore… She thought about that morning. The fear and the pain. The hurt. The betrayal. And then she remembered the waves. The waves that swept her away… That swung her this way and that. Playful, angry waves.
But the waves had not been angry with her… The waves had borne her away, but not out to the open sea where she would have surely perished.
The waves that had guided her to the other side of the island.
The waves that had saved her…
“Dalga,” she said softly. She raised her head and looked out at the waves on which the ship rocked gently. Large waves, small waves. Waves that played, waves that burst upon a shore in a spray of chilling white. Waves that saved… “My name is Dalga,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear this time. Wave. But it was not the waves alone, she knew: it was her brother who had taught her to swim, taught her to ride those waves…
“Good girl,” Patron nodded, wearing an approving, toothy smile.
“My brother taught me to swim,” Dalga, who was once Cypress, said.
“He did?”
Dalga nodded. “Yes. He learned from the fishermen so he could teach me.” Her voice was tinged with sadness as she looked out to the sea. Somewhere out there, on a small island, was her brother. “He taught me, so I could get away.” She clutched the figure of the crocodile about her neck. “He said Shadow would watch out for me. My brother made this for me–” she said, showing Patron the small crocodile. It was no longer as white as it had been, but its tiny eyes still flashed blue.
“Your brother must love you very much,” Patron said gently.
Dalga nodded. “I love him, too,” she said. “Will I see him again?” She looked at Patron. There was a questioning look in her hazel eyes, but no tears. Cypress does not cry, least of all among strangers, she could still hear Mother say.
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