Riverkeep

by Martin Stewart

  Wull nodded. “I know,” he said, and the moment of saying it out loud fell from him like lead weights.

  “Be up to bed now, an’ sleep. There’ll be bacon in the mornin’—burned’s the only way I can make it so I hope your taste runs that way.”

  “Thanks,” said Wull. He gathered Pappa under the arms and led him to the stairs.

  “Sleep, it that speaks, stinking boy,” said Pappa quietly.

  “We can sleep now, Pappa,” said Wull, and as he climbed the steps, holding the bones of Pappa’s arms through his smock, he felt too the writhing, acid weight in his belly telling him that tomorrow would come sooner than he could ever prepare for it, and that it would decide his fate whether he was ready or not.

  21

  Canna Bay

  Homunculus: literally, “little man.” While the roots of this term are in the notion of preformation—of male seed each carrying a fully formed and tiny man (discredited: see Hertsökr, N.)—the term includes all forms of humanity created or built by any means other than the carrying of a fetus in the female womb, this including golems, revenants, and other reanimated forms. The homunculus displays outward signs of life but remains dead internally, possessing, in the words of J. H. Steele, “no circulatory, respiratory, or digestive function whatsoever.” Homunculi are officially classified “unalive” however, rather than dead, owing to the theological complexity of their existence and their outward display of human physiology and function. There are frequent instances of their having demonstrated empathy,

  compassion—and even love.

  —Encyclopedia Grandalia, University of Oracco Print House

  Wull was awake long before the dawn burst its yolk over the horizon, sat up in bed with his aches fading into the background of his fear.

  Beside him, in the other narrow bed, Pappa lay stiffly, his open mouth running spit, the jaw too wide, the tongue too long. Wull could feel the real Pappa inside, like the slipping grains of an hourglass—and he knew they would run out today.

  Whatever happened, it would be today.

  He climbed down the wobbling stairs as soon as he heard Mrs. Vihv at the breakfast plates, and sat in the cold, slow charcoal of the parlor while she pottered about, breaking eggs and apologizing to herself for cursing.

  “MORNING! BREAKFAST IS—Oh, you’re there, Wulliam. Good morning. I didn’t hear you get up.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” said Wull.

  “That makes sense, right enough. I’d a bit of trouble myself, thinkin’ o’ you an’ your pappa, and the young ladies havin’ left in the night. Quite a thing, that wee babby takin’ off like that. An’ this mornin’ all my specimens were bashin’ themselves off their jars like they’d jus’ been whisked out o’ the sea. Strange things happ’nin’, no doubt. Maybe it will do the trick for your pappa, right enough, this thing you say’s inside the mormorach.”

  Wull nodded, lifted a shard of bacon to his mouth. “I hope so,” he said.

  “An’ on that score, I heard a thing this mornin’ from Mrs. Frame what does for Mr. Lockstop, somethin’ that seems like right good luck for you—there’s a shippin’ clerk arrived late last night an’ taken lodgin’s down at the Brunswick Tavern. You mus’ o’ just missed him!”

  Wull sucked carefully at the blood from the bacon-wound in his gum.

  “What’s a shipping clerk?” he said.

  “Well, they sort o’ make arrangements for the boats. Supplies, an’ so on. An’ crew. Seems you might find a way aboard Captain Murdagh’s boat right enough!”

  “Does it cost money?” said Wull, leaping to his feet.

  “Often they takes a cut o’ your cut, so to speak, but here, take this jus’ in case.”

  Mrs. Vihv’s hand went to her hair and withdrew a tightly rolled wad of ducat notes.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. . . .” said Wull, backing away. “That’s your money. I couldn’t take that from you. . . .”

  “But I wants to give it you!” said Mrs. Vihv. “You can pay me back once you earn your way. Here, I’m makin’ you take it.” She pressed the money into Wull’s reluctant hand.

  “But why?” said Wull.

  She shrugged.

  “I spend most o’ my time killin’ frogs an’ sea cucumbers an’ urchins. It’d be nice to put some o’ the proceeds to helpin’ save your pappa.”

  Wull felt the corners of his eyes prickle. “I don’t know how to thank you for this,” he said.

  “Don’t. Jus’ pay me back once you rake in the treasure!” said Mrs. Vihv. “I’ll take care o’ your pappa when he wakes up. Off you get to the tavern now.”

  Wull threw his arms around her waist and buried his face in her smock.

  “Thank you!” he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Be off, ye daft sod,” said Mrs. Vihv, laughing. “If you’re not there quick enough, some other enterprisin’ sort might take your place.”

  Wull ran upstairs, looked at Pappa, still grumbling in sleep, unmoved since he’d left. He slipped on his seula-gut shift and his coat; then, as he was forcing his feet into his big boots, he looked at the sack that held the mandrake and lifted it onto his shoulder. He wouldn’t be able to do anything with it, but the thought of Mrs. Vihv finding it made him nervous. It was another strange thing, by all accounts, and he wasn’t sure it would escape her questing scalpel.

  “I’m goin’ to kill the beast today, Pappa,” he said. “I’ll find a way onto that boat an’ I’ll kill it an’ then you’ll be better.”

  He leaned over and kissed Pappa’s feverish brow, then ran down the stairs and sped into the ice-misted air of the coastal morning.

  He ran through the foot-slipping streets gleaming like a fresh catch under the moisture of the new day, and quickly found himself in the market square.

  “If it isn’t the long lad of las’ night,” said the barkeep as Wull barged into the Brunswick. The main drinking hall smelled of stale yeast and hay, and there were people still sleeping in corners and under tables. “If you’ve come back to try your luck wi’ the captain, I’ll start by tellin’ you he ’in’t even here.”

  “I know,” said Wull. “I’ve come to see the clerk.”

  The barkeep waggled his eyebrows and chuckled.

  “That’ll be Mrs. Frame spreadin’ gossip, I reckon, since she’s the only one what’s been by at this ungodly hour. Clerk’s in room three, up the stairs an’ to the left. I knows he’s up ’cause I already gave ’im his breakfast. Runny eggs, he wanted, an’ sliced water squash. Bit of a strange order, but I’s served stranger.”

  Wull was already running up the stairs, taking them three at a time, his knees clacking together in stumbling enthusiasm.

  “Quiet now!” shouted the barkeep. “I’s other guests what’s not even up yet!”

  Wull slowed his feet with difficulty and knocked on the door of room three. When nothing happened, he knocked again, and was about to knock a third time when the door opened and a long, expressionless face peered down at him with eyes that were strainedly red and raw.

  “Sir,” said Wull, “I’ve been told you can get me to crew on Captain Murdagh’s ship—I’ve got money, an’ I’ll happily pay you what you see fit from my share o’ the catch if you could find a way to get me on it this mornin’. I have to go today, sir. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this so early in the mornin’, but I have to go today!”

  The clerk peered at him quizzically, took in the sack over his shoulder, then retreated to a desk in the corner.

  “Sir?” said Wull. He stepped over the threshold. “Sir, I’ll gladly pay you what you want. . . .”

  But the clerk shook his head, flashed Wull a hungry smile, and began to write very quickly on a scrap of paper.

  “I’s not a great reader, sir,” said Wull.

  The clerk pushed the paper into his hand.

  Wull read i
t slowly, taking care to untie the loops of frantic pen that splattered the parchment. He looked at the clerk’s face then at the mandrake.

  He thought of Pappa.

  “Here,” he said, handing over the sack. “We parted on bad terms, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again—but if I ever do, I’ll bring him to you. Is that enough?”

  Mr. Pent nodded and then rummaged in his coat. He handed Wull a small, brown lump, then recommenced his frantic scribbling.

  The hills above Canna Bay were solid in their whiteness, snow-capped for months of the year, their immense height keeping the ice high out the reach of the coastline’s salt. The only creatures happy to endure their privations were the hardy little tock ponies, their patched hides peeping through the drifts as they dug their tough noses into the cold to find the ungrowing scruff of grass below.

  A small herd of them scattered at Tillinghast’s approach. As he’d run through the night, the temporary bindings on his body had shaken loose, and he held chunks of himself in his hands, his fingers mashing the wet straw back into place. He looked down at the arc of little houses, saw the tufts of smoke and the bobbing craft—and the one seagoing ship, white in places with bone, sailing out into the open sea beyond the breakwater.

  While his vision flickered, he grabbed at the apparitions before him: Clutterbuck, Wull, Mix, Remedie, all stepping out to catch him as he fell, small noises of pain escaping his lips. He saw the mandrake, too, full grown and ready to be given its freedom as he’d been given his, ready to enter the world and be counted among humankind.

  Murky liquids were pressing through the gaps in Tillinghast’s stitches as he swelled in painful, uncontrollable ways. He ground on, catching his balance on legs that bent like trees in a storm, and thought only of finding Wull, the boy’s stubborn name like a drumbeat in his head.

  Tillinghast wrapped his arms around his sagging bulk and whispered words to bring himself comfort.

  The Hellsong

  “Who’re you then?” said Samjon.

  Wull looked out over the Hellsong’s gunwale at the flashing wave wash and tightened his grip on the rigging. He’d never seen water from such a height, and was astonished to find his guts roiling queasily as the great ship smashed and leaped through the breakers, the gongs lowing mournfully as the hammers rolled on their surfaces.

  “I’m Wull,” he said, tightening his grip on the rigging, feeling himself smashed between sky and sea.

  “I din’t know we was takin’ on new crew,” said Samjon. “I might not be the youngest now. How old are you?”

  Wull blinked at the unexpected question. “I’ll be sixteen tomorrow,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Samjon, “I’m still the youngest then. I’m Samjon. I’m the cabin boy.”

  “What’s that?” said Wull.

  “Skivvy, really. I do the jobs o’ everyone else for half the pay an’ all the kickings my backside can take.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Wull.

  “It’s not,” said Samjon cheerfully, “but I’ll be the bo’sun’s mate if I keeps up like this, then I’ll get to kick someone else’s backside.” His eyes glittered at the prospect. “What d’you do?”

  “I’m an . . . oarsman.”

  Samjon’s brows furrowed. “We ’in’t got any oars,” he said.

  “I know,” said Wull. He tried to think of something to add, and settled for looking out to sea.

  “All right,” said Samjon. “How’d you manage to get onto the crew? I got on after cleanin’ the captain’s floors for a year an’ because my aunt Ethel knew a woman who worked for a man what used to be on the crew of another boat what’s captain knew Captain Murdagh.”

  “I went to a shipping agent,” said Wull.

  Samjon’s eyes widened. “That’s money, that is. How much did it cost?” he said.

  Wull sighed. “Everythin’,” he said, rolling the witch ball Pent had given him between his fingers.

  “Swing those hammers!” shouted Murdagh, stamping onto the bridge and pointing his crutch at the crew. “Let’s wake that beast up an’ let him know he ’in’t sunk us yet! He c’n take another mast today if he likes—we’ll come back tomorrow an’ beat the gongs some more until the meat shakes off ’is bones!”

  The crew ran to the rails, knocking Samjon and Wull aside, and began to heave on the thick ropes that bound the hammers in place. The gongs set to ringing, a sky-splitting boom that moved inside Wull’s head and hurt the soft parts of his ears.

  Samjon gestured to him and they staggered away, the ship thudding heavily as they passed the breakwater and entered the wide sea, suddenly at the mercy of the waves, its ribs creaking audibly under the strain.

  “What are they for?” shouted Wull.

  “To confuse the beast!” shouted Samjon. “The captain says it hunts with sound an’ so must we!”

  “How can it . . .” started Wull, but the words stuck in his throat as the mormorach burst over the Hellsong, blocking the sun with its incredible bulk, water falling from it in sheets onto the deck. It wailed in agony through its arc, thrashing its trunk and splitting the rail, knocking one of the gongs and two crew into the water. Wull saw its head, the size of a carriage, the tusks as long as his arms, and the shimmering coils of muscle beneath scales the size of dinner plates.

  The gongs stopped as men and women fell about, and Murdagh roared at them, stabbing his crutch as he spat and cursed.

  “Gods,” said Wull, the blood running to his feet. “It’s . . . It’s so huge. . . . It’s bigger than the ship.”

  “Almost,” said Samjon. “The captain says we’ll all be rich once we’ve killed it.”

  “Start those hammers or it’ll be the lash!” shouted Murdagh.

  The gongs beat again, falling into a rhythm that sounded to Wull like the heartbeat of the earth. He clung to a tooth-studded cleat on the port side, away from the fresh, gaping wound wrought by the mormorach’s tail, watching as the huge swathes of seawater darkened the timbers and drew from it a deep crimson, as though the ship were a living thing, bleeding under the strain.

  Murdagh turned the sails to set her aback, settling in the open water just outside the port and dropping anchor.

  “This is where he lives!” he shouted. “He’s in that trench, an’ he’s filled with all your money! Let’s bring ’im up!”

  The gongs beat. Wull’s ears trembled, his guts shaken by the wall of sound and the incredible sight of the beast—but the mormorach did not appear again.

  “Are you all right?” said Samjon, sliding across the deck toward him.

  Wull nodded. “I don’t think I belong here,” he said. “I’ve made a mistake. This isn’t my boat.”

  “Well, you’s here for a few hours now, ’less you c’n walk on water,” chuckled Samjon, knees rolling with the shifting deck.

  Wull heard the thud of Murdagh’s bone leg on the stairs behind him.

  “The cut-squirt! I told you what I thought o’ you joinin’ my crew!”

  He grabbed Wull by the shoulder and dragged him to the side. “I hope you c’n swim, little river boy, an’ in mighty choppy sea, too! You’s gettin’ none o’ Gilt’s prize!”

  “I don’t want your prize!” shouted Wull, wriggling free and knocking Murdagh’s hand away. “I want the tiniest bit of it, an’ I’ll pay. I already paid to get here—you have to let me stay!”

  “An’ who’ve you gave money to? My crew? No Hellsong crew’s goin’ to take a bribe from you ’less they wants to split their own share. Is it you what’s done this, boy?” said Murdagh, gesturing at Samjon.

  “No!” said Samjon. “But I’ll happily split my share, Cap’n, if it helps the ship.”

  “It would help the cut-squirt here,” said Murdagh, drawing his dirk and running his tongue over his teeth, “but I’s not in the business o’ sharin’ my ship wi’ stran
gers an’ liars.”

  “It’s true!” said Wull. “I paid a man named Pent; he said he’s found you crew before. He said you’ve worked together in the past an’ I could trust ’im.”

  “I’s never heard o’ this Pent,” said Murdagh, “an’ I works wi’ no other party. Man wants to work on my crew’s got to earn it, not buy it.”

  Wull’s heart fell into his stomach. Murdagh gave an ugly grunt.

  “I’d say you’s been swindled, cut-squirt,” he said. “What’d you give ’im, exactly?”

  “My friend,” said Wull, his head spinning, picturing the little mandrake in Mr. Pent’s hand, hearing himself giving Tillinghast up like he was trading pickerel.

  He had handed him over: all so he could be here, all so he could save Pappa.

  But Wull knew in his heart that Pappa wouldn’t want to be saved for such a price.

  Murdagh laughed. “An’ isn’t that a high fare to have paid to be thrown overboard?” he said.

  “What?” said Wull.

  “Cap’n, I’s goin’ to split my share. . . .” said Samjon.

  “Get belowdecks, cabin boy! An’ you heard me, cut-squirt: get off! Swim! Or you c’n stay an’ be sliced into chunks. . . . The beast’s sounded from the noise, an’ a little bait in the water ’in’t goin’ to hurt Gilt’s chances of drawin’ him out. . . .”

  “Cap’n!” said Samjon.

  “It’s all right,” said Wull, touching his shoulder. “I don’t belong here. The captain’s right.”

  “You swimmin’ then?”

  Wull nodded, meeting Murdagh’s red, twisted stare. “But I’m comin’ back,” he said, “in my own boat. I’ll kill this thing myself, take what I need from it, an’ sink its bones so it’s lost. You’ll get none o’ your prize, Captain Murdagh, I’ll make sure o’ it.”