IGMS Issue 47

by IGMS

  Canth tells Captain Pearce, "I was doing some fieldwork. Off the Irish coast."

  "Selkies?" he asks.

  She shakes her head. "Atlantis."

  The Captain sucks in his breath. "And?"

  "I don't know what to call it." She finishes the slice of apple.

  "But you found something?"

  She tilts her head from side to side. Maybe, maybe not. "Something. The government didn't like it, that's for sure." She says something in another language, scowling and shaking her fist in an impersonation of an angry official. Pearce laughs.

  Japetus asks, "What does the Society want in Atlantis?"

  "There's speculation about what might have happened to survivors. Some think they might have become mermaids. Selkies." She nods toward the Captain. "But even if it's just the city that's left, everyone wants to get their hands on it."

  "It's a long way, even underwater," says Pearce, "between here and Ireland."

  Canth's face is hard. "Not everywhere is so welcoming."

  Canth stays in the station for three days. When she is not eating, she's sleeping.

  Japetus feels strange going home; it feels as if the whole morning took years to pass. When he arrives home, just before supper, he is transformed back into a boy with chores and duties and growing up to do.

  He visits Canth every morning, bringing sweetbread and local treats. In the evenings, the locals flock to his house, passing him things to deliver to the station -- somehow he has become the messenger between the neighborhood and the Society folk.

  Canth is willing to answer all the boy's questions. She is patient with his stammer -- or perhaps not patient. Tolerant. It's a more active version of what he's come to expect, and he likes it. Not that he stammers so often with her. The next questions are always waiting, pushing each other forward so they don't have time to dawdle.

  She tells him about the history of the Society. She knows everything; even Pearce is sometimes surprised by what she tells them. There are only two kinds of questions she won't answer: questions about her, and questions about the ship.

  The crab-ship lies half a mile away, beached well above the tideline. In the afternoons, Japetus goes to examine it. He touches every inch of the outsides, but does not dare go in.

  On the fourth morning, Canth is gone. Japetus knocks three time before opening the door; the outpost is empty.

  His first impulse is panic. He turns toward the beach, walking at first, then running. He does not know which he fears more -- that she is dead, or that she is gone.

  And Captain Pearce? Where is Captain Peace?

  Japetus finds them both beside the crab-ship, scraping her clean. Already a segment of the hull is revealed. Now Japetus can see that there are seams, but they are hammered flush and held in place with three sizes of nails. The boy runs his fingers along the curve of the ship in wonder.

  "Did did . . . you build it?" he asks.

  Canth grunts. She is more like a man than any woman Japetus has met, but he does not think of her as manly. She is not much like the men he knows, either.

  "You did," he tells her. "She's beautiful."

  "Glad to have your approval," she barks, but she is smiling.

  "It's a fine craft," agrees Pearce, scraping a layer of dried muck away. It spatters his trousers with black slime; he doesn't seem to notice. "What do you call her?"

  "Don't," says Canth. "No name."

  "What do you think, boy?" asks Pearce. "The lady has offered to give us a ride in her machine when it's repaired."

  Japetus's breath catches. "You mean -- inside?"

  "Where else?" asks Canth. She has one of the great claws in her lap and is focused on repairing the joint.

  "She's going to show me the whales," says Pearce. "For my report."

  Japetus has never seen a live whale before, but he's seen their meat hanging out to dry on the docks, and their blubber being rendered into lamp oil. He knows what they're like.

  "You're spending a lot of time with those Society folks," says his stepmother.

  Nano steals a slice of cheese off his plate. If he wrestles her, she'll give it back, but tonight he doesn't mind.

  "They need me," he tells her.

  "So long as you aren't bothering them. Eat, lad, or you'll come out looking like that new friend of yours."

  His stepmother has relieved him of most of his chores, except for things that count toward his own upkeep: making his bed, sweeping his half of the room. It is as if his family is preparing for how they will get on without him. The boy is not yet sure what this means.

  The inside of the ship is bare: no carpets, no couches, only canvas blankets on the bed. Cloth would moulder down here, of course. Japetus folds himself into a corner where he will be most out of the way.

  Pearce sits on the bunk, his back ramrod straight. The boy can see that he is looking at everything, so the boy looks, too. There are a lot of gears and levers, buttons, keys. The boy doesn't know what to make of them.

  The cabin smells salty, like a fresh boiled crab. It is so different from the clean, plush Society office, but when Japetus looks closely, he realizes that the layout is nearly identical.

  There is one chair beside the windows -- no cushions -- where Canth takes her seat. "Ready, boys?" she asks.

  Japetus thinks the Captain will not like being called a boy, but he does not seem to mind.

  Canth reaches up, pulls a lever over her head. Either it is heavy, or she is still weak from her ordeal, Japetus can't tell which. She strains, the cords in her neck pulling taught. He can hear her teeth grind together. Overhead, the hatch creaks into place. Watertight, or at least the boy hopes it is.

  After that, her hands seem to fly over the controls. He can see how complex it is, though his fingers itch to try for themselves. It is beautiful just to watch, her certainty, the assurance in her motion.

  It is a language. Japetus can see that. She is speaking the language of the ship, and the ship is responding. Her fingers never tremble, never stutter.

  His tongue has never been that sure. But could his hands be?

  Beneath them, the vessel creaks to life, unfolding its limbs, rising on shaky legs. The noise is almost unbearable, a heavy rusty strain, interrupted only by the popping of joints where sand has snuck in. Japetus clamps his hands over his ears. Even Pearce groans.

  He can feel as their lumbering steps carry them toward the sea. He does not know how much of this he can bear, the creaky rocking back and forth. How could Canth have stood this for months on end?

  And then: silence. The rocking eases. Japetus looks up.

  Pearce stumbles to his feet. "Careful," says Canth, "the ship compensates a bit, to make up for the current. It takes some getting used to."

  Pearce bends his knees. His walk is almost crablike. He moves toward the bowed window, where Canth is looking out to maneuver.

  "Boy," he says, "come here."

  Japetus does not want to move. He's comfortable in the corner, where he can't see much. Who knows what's out there? The window is dark. There's less light every minute, because they're moving deeper.

  We're not meant to live down here, the boy thinks, shrinking away from the glass.

  Captain Pearce kneels down beside Canth's chair, his jaw slack. Japetus can see that the Captain has not shaved in days; now his mouth hangs open, his eyes wide. That is how someone would look if they caught a glimpse of Heaven, the boy thinks.

  One step. That's all he needs, one step to get him going.

  In the end, he has to crawl toward them. He can feel the ship's engine shuddering beneath his hands like a living thing.

  When he finally brings himself to look, his breath goes. He has seen nothing like it. There is nothing like it. The whole world is blue-green, but unlike the air, it is alive. Transparent jellyfish bump against the glass; weeds and coral cover the bottom, and the boy can see tiny fish and crabs darting in and out of their little homes. They hide from the shadow of the ship as it passes. A hug
e eel, with a head the size of horse -- so it seems to the boy -- winds past them. The world outside is warped, like looking through a fishbowl, but this time Japetus is on the inside. He feels suddenly trapped, limited by his own body. Is there any place on land like this? Where you can feel that your body is insufficient?

  Japetus has always been certain that humans are the best kind of animal to be. Now he is not so sure. There are whole vast sections of the world where their bodies are revealed to be frail and finite.

  "Whales to five o'clock," says Canth. "A few miles off, though."

  "How deep can she go?" asks Pearce, who seems to have forgotten all about whales.

  "Deep as deep," says Canth. She raps her knuckles proudly on the window. "Mind you, after a certain depth the air can't keep up."

  Man and boy keep their faces pressed to the window. Neither one knows how to explain what is happening to him, looking out into that endless cloudy blue. They are trembling with the same emotion, one that Canth has learned to live with. It is something like fear, and something like wonder.

  They are falling in love with the sea.

  Japetus thought he knew whales. Now, he cannot imagine how he ever thought that. Whales, when they are alive, are not merely large -- they are giants.

  Canth has found a whole pod of them, leviathans loping through the sea. There are four, of which one is a baby, merely as long as a fishing boat.

  Japetus would do anything to touch them. Their skin is ribbed, pocked with barnacles. Would it be smooth or rough to the touch? He wants to smell them, to speak their language. He wants to know what they dream.

  He can see Captain Pearce's reflection in the bowed glass. This is why the Captain does what he does.

  "Can you follow them?" asks Pearce.

  Canth laughs. The boy has never heard her laugh before; he tears his gaze from the whales to look up at her. "I could," she says. "For miles. But we don't have any supplies with us, boys. I'm afraid we'd starve."

  How can she say the word like that, as if it means nothing? She knows what it means to starve.

  But the boy can see on her face that she's put that behind her. She's here, now, in her ship, looking out at this forbidden world. This is what matters to her.

  She thinks no more of her body than Captain Pearce does of his suit. Perhaps all Society folk are mad.

  Pearce watches the whales, his hand pressed to the glass. Yes, Japetus thinks, it's madness to long for adventure when you have a safe home to return to.

  He presses his own smaller hand to the glass, too. He would do anything to touch those whales.

  That night, in his own bed, Japetus dreams of the pod. He dreams that he is one of them, a behemoth in blue. He moves slowly, deliberately; instead of forcing himself to run, to push, he only glides. There are no such things as first steps or next words. Everything is organic.

  He wakes to his father's hand on his shoulder. "Get up, lad. The man from the Society wants you.

  When Japetus opens the door to the office, he finds Captain Pearce emptying the drawers. "We're leaving," he says. "We're going. What do you think of that, boy? Living in that ship of hers, eh? What do you think of that?"

  Japetus cannot put what he thinks of that into words.

  "Well don't just stand there, boy, come on! Can't take much, you know, it's a small ship even for one, but we'll make do. Only necessities. That means food, boy! Things that will keep in that hold, you've seen what it's like." He shoves a fistful of bills into Japetus's hand. "Now hurry!"

  Japetus's feet seem to have taken wing. "Yes, sir!" He is already out the door and down the road before he begins laughing, but once he starts it is impossible to stop. Going! To live with Canth in her ship, and to see all the things one might see through that little window into wonder. He flies through the bakery, collecting flour and salt, to the butcher where he buys a small barrel of salt pork -- not beef -- to the greengrocer who sells him pepper and potatoes and limes. He brings preserves and pickles, too, for flavor; oh, but he is careful of size and weight. Only what he can carry, he thinks, the ship is that small. Oh, to be gone already!

  At last he staggers home, carrying everything with him, where he heaps it on the floor and begins to rifle through his things. What should he take?

  He can't think. What will he wear? What will he need down there? It must be small. He takes only a satchel, stuffs it with clean socks and a blank journal and a spare shirt and a canvas jacket that his mother made him. It's all happening so fast, there's no time for anything else.

  "Good-bye, Nano!" he calls. "Papa! Good-bye, Mum!" He collides with his stepmother, gives her a kiss on her plump smiling cheek.

  "Where are you going, child?" she calls after him.

  "To join the Society!" is all he has time to tell her.

  He heads right for the beach. They are both there, lifting a barrel of fresh water into the hold. Canth is still thin, but she looks healthy now and vibrant after all their care. Her hair is pulled back into a long braid. A few sprigs of white show through the black.

  "Here," says Japetus, "here here here." He hands things off to them and they nod their approval, hoisting them one by one into the hold. At last he holds only his satchel.

  It is all he needs. He is ready.

  Captain Pearce rests one hand on the boy's head. "I've something for you." He fishes in his pocket with his other hand, holds something bright and silver out to the boy. "Clever lad," he says.

  The boy takes it. He does not understand.

  But understanding does come, as he watches them climb into the ship, as they wave good-bye, as the hatch screams closed. They do not mean to take him. They never did.

  The ship unfurls its legs and staggers to the water. Even from here the sound is horrible. He watches them go, watches the waves lap around the creature's belly. "Good good good good," he whispers, but he can't quite say good-bye, not yet. He keeps hoping they'll come back for him.

  The ship disappears below the waves. They're gone, he knows they're gone. "Good good good," he stammers. Good-bye, good riddance, good luck.

  At last he falls silent, choking on salt spray that might be the beginnings of tears. His fingers clench, and the thing in his palm stabs at him.

  It is not a coin, as he thought it was. It is a key.

  A key stamped with a familiar seal: the archaeopteryx of the Society of Cryptic Zoology.

  Japetus moves into the empty Society office. His sister Nano comes on Tuesdays and Saturdays to bring him food. Sometimes she stays to read. She tells her father she is doing housework there, but there is no housework to do. Japetus keeps the office neat as a pin, tidy as a ship.

  His thirteenth birthday is not for months, and he has no formal schooling in the subject, but no one comes to remove him.

  In late August, a package arrives, addressed simply to "The Society Officer" -- the address follows, but no name. Japetus reads the letter, files the forms away, and notes the return post. He is compiling a paper on whale migration patterns.

  And then, on September first, there is a knock at the door. When Japetus answers, he finds a middle-aged man on his stoop. His balding head gleams in the sun. Japetus knows him; he runs the bakery two blocks away. He sold the boy flour and salt not so long ago.

  "Master Fixe," says the man, "we hoped you might come. There's a strange bird as is stuck in the chimney, and we don't know what to call it nor how to get it free."

  Japetus nods and fetches the book on avian identification. He slips the Captain's second-best jacket on before they leave, the one he didn't take.

  The sleeves are a little long, but the boy doesn't mind rolling them up. It's worth it, to have the Society emblem gleaming there on his lapel, beside his heart.

  What the Blood Bog Takes

  by Barbara A. Barnett

  Artwork by Anna Repp

  * * *

  On the Day of Sacrifice, my sister Asthore and I wait at the blood bog's edge, our feet sinking into the muddy shore. Asthore ga
wks with unbridled curiosity as the ceremonial procession emerges from the fog-shrouded forest; I watch with trepidation. Our clan-chief Fallon leads the procession, a sheepskin mantle draped across his sinewy shoulders and a wary look on his furrowed face. It has been many generations since the gods last demanded the sacrifice of a clan-chief, but the harvest has been meager this year, and many of our kinsmen have died raiding neighboring clans. And so Fallon walks with slow steps, leaden with the possibility that today the gods will call for his death.

  My pity should rest with my clan-chief, as brusque and dispassionate as he is, for I can think of few fates worse than having one's corpse thrown into the bog, your own blood subsumed by that of the gods. But instead of Fallon, my thoughts turn to the young man at his side: the druid Ciaran. Ciaran glances my way, the wide-brimmed hood of his robe drawn low so as to shadow his face.

  "All these looks between you two," Asthore teases, undeterred in her playfulness despite the day's foreboding air. "When is your druid friend finally going to ask for your hand, Seara? It's about time you move on to more interesting things than exchanging looks."

  I give Asthore a light jab in the arm, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. If the gods demand Fallon's life today, it will be Ciaran who must wield the blade. Staring at him now, I cannot help but remember the sweet freckled boy who, years ago when he was only just apprenticed as a druid, came to me in tears the first time he had to sacrifice a lamb.

  Asthore turns her attention to Fallon, regarding him with morbid fascination. "Do you think the gods will demand the clan-chief's life?"

  "I hope not," I say, sickened by my own imaginings of Ciaran drawing the ceremonial dagger across Fallon's neck, the blood pouring forth, as thick and red as the bog waters. It is a terrible fate, but without an acceptable sacrifice, the gods will scorch the earth and dry up the lochs, leaving us to die of hunger and thirst. I doubt the other clans would show us mercy after Fallon's raids.

  Fallon and Ciaran lead the procession onto a wooden trackway that will take them across the blood-filled bog. The bearers of sacrifice follow, twelve men and women appointed to bring our clan's offerings to the gods. Our father processes among them, his steps unsteadied by the drink with which he fills our mother's absence. One by one, he and the other bearers vanish into the gray fog that hangs over the bog. I would think they had disappeared entirely if not for the bleat of the sacrificial lamb one woman carries in her arms.