by Jo Clayton
Sammang nodded, said nothing.
Yaril tugged at his sleeve. “What do you want me to be, Sammang shipmaster? Serpent? wildcat? falcon? dragon? It’d have to be a small dragon.”
Sammang blinked at the not-child. “Falcon sounds good. You wouldn’t get in our way, and you could go for their eyes.”
She considered a moment, nodded. “Be even better if I make some poison glands for the talons, then all I have to do is scratch them.”
Sammang blinked some more. “Be careful whom you scratch,” he said after he got his voice back.
“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.” She stretched, yawned, went to curl up by the mast; a moment later she seemed sound asleep.
He turned to Brann, raised a brow.
“Don’t ask me,” she said.-Before they came here, probably; that’s something I haven’t seen.”
SAMMANG WENT BELOW and dug out his war ax, a steel version of the stone weapon he’d learned to swing as a boy in the godwar dances, his father’s passed on to him, an ax that hadn’t been used in a real war since his great-grandfather carried it against Setigo, the next island over. After he’d shipped out a few years, he got very drunk and nostalgic and spent most of his remaining coin hiring a smith to make a copy of the bloody old ax, describing it to him as a curving elongated meat cleaver, point heavy with a short handle carved to fit his grip.
Zaj and Gaoez, the bowmen of the crew, climbed on the cabin’s roof and sat waiting, arrow bundles between their knees; Hairy Jimm was swinging his warclub to get the feel of it, a long-handled lump of ironwood too heavy to float; other crew members were using hones on cutlasses or spearpoints, razor discs or stars, whipping staffs about, making sure clothing and bodies were loose enough to fight effectively. Djelaan never took prisoners; either they were driven off or everyone on the ship died. The Girl wallowed in the dead calm. Close by, several fish leaped and fell back, the sounds they made unnaturally loud in that unnatural silence. Yaril woke, fidgeted beside Brann. “I’m going up,” she said suddenly. She dissolved into a gold shimmer then was a large Redmask falcon climbing in a widening spiral until she was a dark dot high overhead circling round and round in an effortless glide. Brann stood still, looking frightened and uncertain.
The hour crept past, men occupied with small chores fidgeting with their weapons.
The Redmask left her circling and came swooping down, screaming a warning, found a perch on the foresail yard.
Silence a few breaths, the sea empty, then the Djelaan came out of nowhere, yelling, heating on flat drums, proas racing toward the Girl, their triangular sails bulging with the magewind, a wind that did not touch the Girl’s sagging canvas.
Zaj and Gaoez jumped up and began shooting, almost emptying the first proa before the mage wind began taking their shafts and brushing them aside. They shot more slowly after that, compensating for the twist of the wind, managed to pick off another half-dozen before the Djelaan bobtail spears came hissing at them, propelled with murderous force by the throwing sticks. They hopped about, dodging the spears and getting off an ineffective shaft or two until Hairy Jimm began batting spears aside with his warclub. The rest of the crew darted about, catching up those that tumbled to the deck and hurling them back at the proas, doing little damage but slowing the advance somewhat.
Then grapnels were sinking into the wood of the rail, the Djelaan attacking from both sides. Sammang and others raced along the rails, slashing the ropes until there were too many of them and they had to fight men instead of rope. Yaril screamed, powered up from the yard and dived at the proas, not a falcon anymore but a small sun searing through the sails. The weatherman was holding the air motionless, trapping the Girl but protecting her too; in seconds she was swaying untouched in a ring of flames as the proa sails burned and began to char the masts and rigging. With shouts of alarm half of the attackers turned back and began to fight the fires that threatened to leave them without a means of retreat.
The rest swarmed over the rails and the Girl’s men were fighting for their lives, cutlass ax and halberd, warclub staff and all the rest, flailing, stabbing, slashing, a ring of men tight about the foremast holding off the hordes that tried to roll over them. Yaril flew at Djelaan backs, stooping and slashing, her razor talons moistened with the poison she and her brother could produce when inspired to do so, keeping the Djelaan off Brann as she walked through them, reaching and touching, reaching and touching, each touch draining and dropping a man. A spear went into her side; she faltered a moment, pulled it out with a gasp of pain, sweat popping out on her face, a trickle of blood, then the wound closed over and she walked on.
At first the attackers didn’t realize what was happening, then they began struggling to avoid those pale deadly hands-They retreated before her, throwing other attackers into confusion. The Girl’s men shouted when they saw this and fought with renewed hope.
A powerful gust of wind whooshed along the deck, filling the drooping sails. Another deadly Redmask came darting out of the east where the weatherman’s proas had been and swooped at the Djelaan, clawing at eyes and hands, slashing flesh, the poison on his talons killing quickly, painfully. Twisting and turning with demonic agility he wove unharmed among the weapons of the pirates with a formidable ease that drew moans of fear from them. Retreating from the falcons, retreating from Brann who burned now with a shimmery fire, the Djelaan broke. Dropping their weapons, scrambling down the grapnel lines, leaping into the sea and swimming for their fire-stripped proas, the men in the boats dragging the swimmers over the sides, the Djelaan fled that demon-haunted ship.
Sammang dropped his war ax and leaped to the wheel, turning the Girl so she was cutting across the rising swells, not lying helpless between them. Hairy jimm roared the men capable of moving into trimming the sails and getting the ship into order so she wouldn’t be broken by the coming storm. Brann and the children staggered along the deck, heaving Djelaan dead and wounded overboard. When that was finished, Brann stood a moment staring at her glowing hands, the wind whipping her white hair about, plastering her shirt against her burning body. With a sigh she went searching for crew dead and wounded. Zaj was dead, a small brown islander much like the men who’d killed him. She and the children carried him to the side wall of the cabin and lashed him there to wait for what rites Sammang and the others would want for him. She hurried back to kneel beside Dereech who had a flap of scalp hanging down over his face, deep cuts in his legs and shoulder. He stared up at her with his one clear eye, horror in his face as she reached for him, tried to crawl away from her but was too weak. When she flattened her hand on him, he froze, a moan dying in his throat.
From his place at the wheel, Sammang watched her and wondered what she intended, wondered if he should drive her off Dereech. What she’d done to the Djelaan she’d done to save her life and theirs, but the glimpses he’d caught of her work worried him. He liked and trusted the child in her, but didn’t know what to do about the witch. In the end, he did nothing.
She bent lower, smoothed her hand up along Dereech’s face, pressing the flap into place, her hands blurring in a moonglow mist. The bleeding stopped, the flap stayed put as if the mist had soldered it down. She pressed the other wounds shut, smoothed her hands over them, the glow shuddering about her flesh and his. The children stood behind her, their hands welded to her body until she sat back on her heels, finished with the healing.
Tik-rat had a spear through a lung. She burnt the spear, out of him, bone point and broken haft, close the wound and held her hands over it, a wound that was almost always fatal. Smiling Tik-rat was the ship’s bard, story teller and singer, the pet of the crew. Now all saw her clean and close his wound, saw the boy’s chest begin to rise and fall steadily and smoothly. Our witch, she’s our witch. A whisper passing round. Our child-woman witch, Sammang murmured to himself. The children with her, she moved on to Rudar, then Uasuf, left them sleeping, their wounds closed, cleaned, healed.
She went briskly over to Hairy
Jimm, who jumped when she touched him, looked uneasy and dubious as she began moving her hands over his meaty body, touching, pressing, the mist moving with her. After a minute of this, though, he grinned and stood holding his arms out from his body as if for a tailor taking measurements. When she finished, he patted her on the head. “Any time, our witch.”
She went on, the children following close behind. Tun-ope, Leymas, Gaoez. Healing the smallest cuts, the scrapes and bruises, even a blood-blister on Turrope’s little finger. Then she came toward Sammang.
She looked very tired, haunted by all the dying, her face pale in spite of the eerie glow that shone out through her skin. “Your turn, Sammo. Give over the wheel a minute; you might find this a bit distracting.”
Hairy Jimm boomed laughter, shouldered Sammang away from the wheel. “Distractin’s not the word, no not the word.”
She touched the cut in Sammang’s side. He felt a jolt, then a tingle, then coolness, a new vigor coursing into him. Her strong nervous hands moved along his body and all the hurts and scrapes of the fight were wiped away. And he understood the look on Jimm’s face. He was tumescent before she was half done, ready to take on a harem and a half when she stepped away from him.
She smiled uncertainly at him, met his eyes briefly, blushed, turned hastily away to the hatch.
A bit of hard work and some douches of icy sea water from the building waves cooled him down. He glanced at the sun and was startled to see how little it had moved. Less than an hour since the fighting started. He shook his head, feeling a touch of wonder at how much had happened in that pinch of time. Two dead. But because of the child-woman and the not-children the wounded lived and were well, neither maimed nor disfigured. He lifted his head and laughed. “Our witch,” he shouted, laughed again at the cheers from the three now awake. He began a rumbling song, Hairy Jimm took it up, all of them roared it into the wind as they settled the Girl for the blow coming.
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT Sammang stumped wearily into his cabin. A nightlamp was hanging from a hook by his hammock. Brann was curled in the bed, half-covered by a blanket, her flesh faintly glowing in the darkness. Her eyes were closed and for some time he thought she was asleep; he pulled off his shirt, started to unlace his trousers, thought about the sleeping witch, and decided he could stand the damp if he kept himself warm. Eleven, eleven, eleven, he told himself; his mind believed it but his body didn’t. He started to swing up into the hammock, couldn’t resist another look at Brann. She was curled on her right side now watching him. Her face was pale and drawn, huge eyes, dark-ringed, asking him… He turned his back on her, climbed into the hammock, flipped the blanket over him and settled himself to sleep.
Much later he woke, knowing something had roused him from sleep, not knowing what it was. He listened to the ship, nothing there. Slowly he became aware of a sound almost too soft to hear, faint rhythmic creaking, soft soft rustles.
Brann lay curled up, her back to him; the children were somewhere else, doing whatever shapechangers did at night. She was sobbing and the shudders that convulsed her body were shaking the bed. He scowled at her, hesitated, tipped out of the hammock and padded the few steps to the bed. He touched her shoulder. “Bramble?”
She buried her face in the pillow. The shaking went on; she was gasping and struggling to stop crying, unable to stop the shudders coursing through her body.
He caught her shoulder, pulled her over, examined her face. She was crying with the ugly all-out grief of a wounded child. He straightened, looked helplessly around, cursed the children for leaving her in this state. Finally he gathered her up, holding her tightly against him, patting her, smoothing his hand over her hair and down her back, over and over, murmuring he didn’t know what to her; her shudders and wrenching sobs died gradually away.
For a while she was just a child he was comforting. Insensibly that changed, pats changed to caresses. He forgot the child in the woman’s body-until he suddenly realized what he was doing. He pulled away from her. “You’ll be all right now,” he said when he could get the words out. He started to get up but her hands closed about his arm, pulled him down beside her.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Brann…” He touched her face, drew his hands down over her shoulder and onto her breast. Her eyes widened, her tongue moved along her lips. She sighed and her breast shifted under his hand, tfie nipple hard as he was. He pulled his hand away.
“No,” she breathed.
“Got to,” he said; he tore at the lacing on his trousers, breaking the thongs in his urgency.
She was warm and wet and ready for him, closing tightly about him, passive at first, then doing what her body taught her. When it was finished and he lay beside her, his breathing quieting, she snuggled against him, sighed, a sound of deep contentment, and went to sleep.
HE WOKE WITH a numb arm and white curls tickling his chin, sunlight pouring through the slats of the airvent, lay a moment listening to the sounds of the ship. The wind had slackened to a brisk quartering breeze that drove the Girl steadily along without straining her.
Brann’s breath was a spot of warm dampness on his shoulder. She was deeply, bonelessly asleep, not even murmuring as he eased from under her and slid off the bed. He picked up a fresh pair of trousers and laced them on, pulled on a sleeveless shirt bleached by sun and salt water to a dirty gray. He ran his fingers through his hair and swore to have Staro take a knife to it before the day was out.
He looked at Brann. She lay on her stomach, one arm outflung, the other bent so her fist was pressed against her mouth. A child, damn her. A moment before he’d been looking forward to breakfast, now his appetite was gone. He left the cabin, his bare feet soundless on the planks, taking care to make no noise when, he shut the door. He didn’t want to wake her. If she slept most of the day away, he’d be quite happy. He had a lot of thinking to do.
Hairy Jimm had the wheel. He was squinting at the sky ahead, humming a three-note song into his beard. He grinned at Sarnmang, jerked a massive thumb at the sky. “Takes a bit of getting used to, it does, but they’re handy little buggers. Y’ know, Sammo, you ought to keep hold of them all, say you can.”
Sammang looked up. Two large white birds circled lazily above the ship, effortlessly keeping even with her.
“They been up there most all the night, friendly of them, they say they give us a shout down here if somethin starts coming at us.”
* * *
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON Brann came on deck. Standing in the bow, Sammang heard her shouted exchanges with the crew, heard her silences. She drifted about for some time, circling gradually closer to him, but he gave no sign he knew she was there. When she put her hand on his arm, he flinched and all but jerked his arm away.
“You’re really upset.” She seemed amazed.
“Yes,” he said, angrily, almost violently.
“I told you I was getting older. I was eleven in Tavisteen, but things have happened since, pushing me older. Might be fifteen, sixteen seventeen now.” She drew her forefinger along the hard muscle of his arm. “You helped, Sammo, you taught me a lot before you ever touched me.”
“Don’t do that.” He pulled his arm away, stared at the water ahead of the ship without seeing it. “Why?
“I don’t know. Lot of reasons. Comfort. I needed to touch someone just for me, not to heal them or kill them. She gave a tiny shrug. “Curiosity.”
“You weren’t virgin.” His own resentful confusion increased his fury.
“A Temueng censor raped me. He’s dead.” She ran her hand slowly down his arm; he felt her enjoying the feel of him and ground his teeth together. “You would be too,” she said, “if I’d wished it.”
A chill ran through him, fear. He forced himself to look at her. There was sadness in her face as if she knew how her words had affected him, had extinguished desire. She said it deliberately, he thought, out of pity for me. He took a step away, almost hating her. Then child and woman both looked at h
im out of those wide green eyes and anger drained from him.
Forgetting him, she leaned precariously out to look down at the water slicing out from the bow. “The sea looks different.” she said. “How come?”
“How different?”
“Color maybe, the way it moves. I don’t know. It’s just different.”
Watching her, he again saw himself as a boy, ship’s lad trying to answer the same question. He leaned over the rail beside her and began teaching her as he was taught.
THE NEXT DAY was bright and clear, but the wind grew erratic, now and then quitting altogether, leaving the Girl wallowing, her sails slatting, the crew run off their feet. And the weathermaker’s ghost tangled itself in the rigging, gibbering at them, which didn’t improve either skill or morale. Tik-rat who was ship’s exorciser as well as bard had dealt with the rest of the ghosts but the weatherman was stubborn and filled with spite, determined to make the lives of his slayers as miserable as he could manage. He was ragged and growing more so, but grimly hanging on ignoring Tik-rat’s chants and sacred dances, the eroding of the incense the boy waved at him, the curses of Sammang and the rest of the crew. Yaril and Jaril watched the process with fascination until it began wearing on the nerves of their friends, then they joined to drive the ghost from the shrouds and banged through him until he was scattered wisps of smoke that dissipated with the rising wind.
ON THE TWELFTH day after leaving Tavisteen the Panday Girl dropped anchor in the crowded bay at the island port Silili.
4. Brann’s Quest-Silili to Andurya Durat with Taguiloa the Dancing Man
HOLDING LIT CANDLES in both hands, Taguiloa made the last run, whirling over and over, coming up with the candles still burning, arms lifted high over his head, feet stamping out an intricate patterdance over the cork matting spread on the flags of the summer court. He finished the dance before the painted coffin, made the required deep obeisance, blew out the candles, bowed to the finger-snapping crowd and stalked into the darkness with stiff-legged dignity, leaving Yarm to pass through the ghost-witnesses and collect what coins they felt like giving. Should be a goodish haul. Most of the witnesses were rich old merchants, more than half-drunk, delighted to have their minds taken off the death of one of their number, even if the dead was only an old cousin of the master of this house. They were reminded too vividly of their own decaying bodies and how short the count of their remaining years could be. He didn’t like performing at ghost watches either but the money was good, the fee guaranteed, with whatever he could wring from the watchers added on top of that.