by Alex Shearer
My father offered me a lift to the quayside, but I told him that I would walk. I said an affectionate goodbye to them both, graciously accepting the money (some for spending, some for emergencies) which I had been hoping that they would offer me. Then I picked up my things and left.
I called goodbye again as I walked along the path. They stood at the door, waving, and looking somehow frail and vulnerable and suddenly older. Maybe it was because they were still in their dressing gowns; maybe it was because people always look older and more fragile in the early morning. I unexpectedly felt that I would miss them – a pang of homesickness before I had even left home.
‘See you in few weeks, Christien!’
‘Enjoy yourself!’
‘And . . .’ (I knew what she was going to say) ‘. . . be careful.’
Why is it that your parents are forever urging you to be careful? As if being reckless, getting yourself killed, or ending up in hospital are all you have in mind? Do they imagine that you have no other plans than to do yourself an injury as quickly as you can? And even if you were careless by nature, did telling anyone to be careful ever make them so?
I had my doubts.
‘Be careful, Christien. Remember!’
‘I will, Mother!’ I called back. ‘I will!’
I was hardly going to say, ‘I won’t!’
The dockside was busy, despite the hour; sailors and fishermen rise early. A couple of sky-trawlers were preparing to set out and their crewmen were checking the nets. Hovering offshore a container vessel, belonging to my father’s company, was waiting to come in. It was flat-bottomed, with barely any displacement; rectangular containers sat piled upon its deck like neatly stacked building bricks.
Jenine saw me coming and called hello. Carla waved. Kaneesh looked up from his preparations and acknowledged my presence with a half-friendly scowl. I said hello to him anyway, if only for annoyance value. Everything appeared to have been secured for a lengthy voyage. There were plenty of supplies on board, and there was always water.
I assumed the route that Carla and Kaneesh had plotted would take us to the Isles of Dissent by way of the Outlying Settlements. It was not the most direct, but it avoided the worst of the Forbidden Isles, giving them a good, wide berth.
The Forbidden Isles comprised more than the few I have already mentioned. Almost every month a new quarrel would flare up and a breakaway sect would move away to colonise somewhere uninhabited. It seemed that some people just couldn’t get enough of making their own lives as difficult and miserable as possible.
There were other dangerous islands in the system too, but by reason of their beauty, not their occupants. The Seductive Isles were exactly that: fragrant and enticing, wafting the most intoxicating perfumes out from their shores to lure travellers in to land. They seemed like paradise islands, little gardens of Eden.
But the perfumes came from poisonous lichen that covered the rocks. Sailors had been known to abandon their ships, ignoring commands to stay put, and had sky-swum with deft, determined strokes to those lush, scented shores.
Within minutes of setting foot on them, they were dying, covered in that same lichen and soon to be buried under it, turned into human pot-pourri.
There were even tales of an island with flying beings upon it: bird-men and bird-women, humans who had evolved wings. It was false, of course. But maybe one day, ten million years from now, who knows? It might come true.
It was five to seven days’ travelling to the Isles of Dissent, and the same back, plus an allowance of four days for loading and unloading and for finding clouds. Normally, the ship arrived with full tanks at the Isles of Dissent, decanted the water, then went back out, filled up again, and returned a few times.
Of course, what I did not know at that point was that this voyage was not merely one to hunt clouds and collect water. That was but part of it. And a minor, almost insignificant and secondary, part too. The real purpose of the voyage went beyond anything I had been told or could imagine. The concealed purpose was one of rescue, with the added possibility of revenge, and murder, and even death.
And the reason I had been permitted to come along was not simply because I was wanted or needed as a sociable companion, but because four pairs of hands were better, in such circumstances, than three. One pair of hands to hold the ship steady; three pairs of hands to rescue – and, if necessary, to kill.
But on that morning of departure none of this was known to me, nor to any of the bystanders or the idlers or the farewell-wavers on the dockside.
Yet they knew: Jenine and Carla and Kaneesh. And no doubt they should have told me the truth in advance of our going, and not simply have revealed it when it was too late to turn back. But I don’t really blame them. Not then, nor since. How could anyone who had heard their story?
But the fact was that far from steering a course to avoid the worst of the Forbidden Isles, the Forbidden Isles was precisely to where we were headed.
We were headed to the most perilous and monstrous of them all: the Forbidden Isle of Quenant. This was a place where there was but one dire, dread punishment for all offences, and where it was particularly easy to give offence a hundred times over, without meaning to at all.
But for now, however, I was happily ignorant of all this. And when, as we were leaving, my parents hurriedly appeared at the dockside, having disregarded my request not to indulge in any overdone, last-minute farewells, I waved and called goodbye to them and to all those gathered on the quay.
It always seems remarkable to me, the way people are so ready to wave a fond goodbye, even to a stranger. Mothers hold tiny children in their arms, encouraging them to wave to the departing boats, to the fishermen, the traders, the embarking cruise liners, the catchers of clouds. It is almost an instinct, a spontaneous moment of empathy with a traveller.
It seems that, for all our faults, we still have an inner yearning to wish each other well. I think we want the best for each other, despite it all. We want each other’s journeys to be safe and successful. If only out of superstition. Because then our journeys will be successful too. The well-wisher will be wished well in his turn. It’s a little bit like touching wood.
We untied the mooring ropes and drifted away on a light, sail-ruffling breeze. Those who were waving to us gradually turned from life-sized people into small specks on what – elsewhere – might have been a far horizon. But there is no real horizon here, just endless, indeterminate distance, and a haze of blue filled with trembling heat.
Soon the island I called home was a speck as well. And we were swallowed up by the vastness, travelling through that azure, eternal sky. We were timeless and endless, beginning-less and unreal. It didn’t even feel that we were human any more. We were like clouds ourselves – ethereal, indefinable, insubstantial, just vapour and breath, vague shifting shapes, sprung into life from someone’s imagination.
But whose? The imagination of some creator? Or had we imagined him as well as ourselves?
I looked ahead to the distance and wondered about the supernatural and the spiritual and whether any of it was true. And if so, which version was the correct one, out of all the many faiths? Or were all creeds equally valid, equally true, equally questionable, and, ultimately, equally unprovable?
All I saw was sky. A sky without answers. Beautiful, endless sky. And I could hear the breeze fill up the sails and make music in the rigging. And there Jenine was, standing next to me. And I felt as if I had left an old life behind me now, and that a new one was just beginning.
22
garbage ship
The first few days were easy and slow. There was little do and so that was what we did – very little, and with close attention to detail. Doing nothing is a sort of art, and you need plenty of time to perfect it.
For most of that part of the journey, Kaneesh lounged on deck, baking in the sun. Occasionally he shifted himself to trail a line over the side and reel in a couple of sky-fish. Then, when our meal was over, he would gather up the bowls and p
ush them in my direction, indicating that here, at least, was one field of endeavour in which I could make myself useful.
When the washing-up was finished there were usually a few basic chores to do, if only to pass the time: little jobs of maintenance and repair, keeping the boat in order, applying a lick of paint here and there.
I had brought a few books with me, and so had Jenine – schoolbooks, some of them – and we went through them together, testing each other’s knowledge of theories and facts. I tried to get her to teach me a few words of her language, but it was hard and guttural and difficult to pronounce.
‘How long till we get there?’ I asked Kaneesh one long, sultry afternoon.
But he just looked at me as if to say, Where’s there? What kind of a place is that? There’s only here. Didn’t you know?
It was as if here and there were all the same to him and he was already where he wanted to be. And all he wanted to do was to be. And where he did that didn’t bother him, just as long as he was.
‘A day or so,’ Carla said, answering for him. ‘Depending on the clouds. We have to fill the tanks first. Once that’s done, we’ll head for the Isles of Dissent to sell them the water. And after that . . .’
Her voice trailed away. She turned her eyes towards the sight of a massive sky-walrus, perched on a tiny island little bigger than a boulder. The animal looked both sad and comical, with its long tusks and droopy moustache and a melancholy expression, as if it hadn’t eaten in a long while.
Seeing it, Jenine picked up one of the leftover sky-fish that Kaneesh had caught and hurled it skywards. The great lumbering creature leapt off its perch and dived after the plummeting fish. It caught it then flew back to its rock and sat chewing. It didn’t look any happier though. It seemed just as melancholy as before.
‘You’re welcome!’ Jenine called.
By way of reply the sky-walrus emitted a huge burp and I caught the stench of old fish on its breath.
‘Disgusting!’
I fanned the smell away.
‘It doesn’t have much else to eat,’ Jenine pointed out.
Which was true enough. But it didn’t make it smell any better.
‘Fresh-breath mints,’ I said. ‘That’s what it needs.’
I got a smile out of her. I was getting more of those, as time went by.
Some hours later a battered old barge passed us, its holds and deck heaped high with rubbish. An odour of food leftovers, stale dustbins and septic tanks wafted in our direction.
‘Look,’ Jenine said. ‘Garbage ship.’
I looked through the telescope. The sparse crew were all wearing face masks and protective suits.
‘Where’s it going?’
‘Looks too full to be collecting. Must be dumping. Heading for one of the Garbage Islands.’
Which did exactly as said on the discarded tin. These were uninhabited islands populated only by junk. Some varieties of garbage were dumped overboard into the sky to burn up. But other kinds wouldn’t always sink, or might fall onto other islands on the way down. So the bulk of our rubbish had to be disposed of by other means. Remote islands were the answer.
There were several island dumps around by now, great rubbish tips in the sky, half a kilometre deep in trash and debris. When they began to overflow, another island was found. Presumably, in a few thousand years, every island in the sector would be a rubbish island. But nobody worried about that for the present. That was a problem for somebody else.
Later that day we sailed into a floating bloom of vegetation, a field of sky-flowers, stretching away into the open air. The plants grew wild, lightweight and borne on the wind, brilliant yellow and dazzling green, undulating like waves. There were shoals of sky-fish devouring them. The flowers were said to taste like mustard and cress, but I’d never tried them. They were considered a delicacy.
We drifted through them, the boat brushing them aside. Then they closed again behind us. You could reach out and take the flowers in your hand. They tasted clean and crisp, and a little peppery, and they stained your mouth yellow. Jenine laughed at me. She said I looked like a clown. But her own lips were yellow and made her seem even more like an exotic alien. But then, maybe we’re all aliens. Maybe we’re all just passing through, just visiting. And we all really belong somewhere else.
‘So how are we travelling there?’ I asked Carla later that evening. ‘To the Isles of Dissent? Which route are we taking?’
We’d studied geography and navigation at school. You have to be able to read a sky-chart if you ever want to travel independently. It’s not an abstract, theoretical thing; it’s an essential, practical subject.
Kaneesh looked up at my question and exchanged a glance with Carla.
‘We’ll decide on the precise route in a while,’ she said. ‘Once we’ve found some clouds.’
But I wanted to show off my knowledge.
‘Well, I suppose there are only two ways we can go,’ I said. ‘There’s the trade route along the Main Drift and past the Outlying Settlements, or the more direct route through the Islands of Night. But as that’s supposed to be too dangerous for anything other than armed convoys, I guess the Main Drift it is. The only ships that go the Islands of Night way are pirates, smugglers, criminals on the run, and people up to no good. Right?’
But maybe I had said the wrong thing. For none of them answered me. Then, at length, Kaneesh looked up from the piece of wood he was carving and laconically added, ‘Or Cloud Hunters.’
I didn’t immediately understand his implication.
‘Sorry?’
Jenine answered for him.
‘Or Cloud Hunters,’ she repeated. ‘You missed them off your list. They also use that route through the Islands of Night. Along with the all the other people “up to no good”.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean –’
Kaneesh’s knife went whistling across the deck and embedded itself in the centre of that small target he had carved into the mast. He allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. Then he uncoiled from where he sat, unravelling like a piece of rope, and loped across the deck to retrieve the knife.
But they were being evasive, I thought. We still hadn’t established the route we were taking. They hadn’t answered my question.
‘But the Islands of Night route,’ I persisted, ‘is supposed to be quite treacherous, isn’t it?’
Kaneesh pulled his knife from the mast.
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘What else would it be?’
If anything, he appeared to take considerable delight in the prospect of treachery. He rotated his knife so that the blade caught the sun, and he angled the light to shine in my eyes.
‘Hey!’
I raised my hand.
‘Kaneesh!’ Jenine said. ‘Leave him alone.’
He chuckled and put the knife away.
The Islands of Night, I thought. Was that the direction we were taking? If so, then they hadn’t really been straight with me, for they hadn’t said so beforehand. If my parents had known, they might never have let me go along.
The route past the Islands of Night was favoured by the brave, the foolish, people in a hurry, criminals on the run, and, of course (need it be said?) Cloud Hunters. They were known haunts of renegades, robbers and skywaymen, and reprobates of all description.
Such few explorers as, in the past, had managed to return from the Islands of Night brought stories with them, of pale, white creatures, huge and slug-like, with sightless eyes or no eyes at all. They brought samples of the indigenous plants back too: bleached and colourless, with long, pallid tendrils, which were said to float in the darkness, their fronds stretching out towards you like beseeching hands.
As for the travellers who didn’t come back, who can know or imagine what they encountered, or what prevented them from returning? Or maybe you can imagine. But would you want to? You might give yourself bad dreams.
I looked at Jenine. She appeared embarrassed.
‘We’ve d
one it before,’ she said to me later, trying to be reassuring. ‘It doesn’t take that long and it saves you days of travelling. It’s not that dangerous. People exaggerate it. We’ve never had any trouble – well, nothing serious. Anyway, you’re not afraid of the dark, are you?’
‘No,’ I said. And I wasn’t.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark at all.
I was afraid of the things that lived in it.
‘Honestly, we’ll be fine, Christien,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be an experience. Which is what you said you wanted. Wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I guess it was.’
And she was right in her way. It was an experience. Just not the kind that you want to repeat in a hurry.
23
no accident
On our third day out, we saw clouds.
And you didn’t need a psychic, hawk-eyed, lookout (with a sixth sense, five dice and divine intuition) to find these ones either. They simply appeared, assembling themselves around us. Soon they were half blocking out the light.
‘Clouds coming!’ I yelled. Kaneesh looked at me as if I were a complete irrelevancy, whose only discernible talent in life was for stating the obvious in an unnecessarily loud voice.
We didn’t bother with breakfast that morning. We got straight to work. Carla took the wheel and steered the ship while Jenine and I helped Kaneesh to get the compressor ready and quickly checked the tanks and hoses for leaks.
Soon we were deep in fog. After a time we could hear the pulse of another compressor from somewhere nearby, probably another Cloud Hunter. But we never saw them, and Kaneesh didn’t bother to challenge them. There was plenty for everyone this time round. The other hunters came and went as we did, like grey ghosts in a grey night.
It took a few hours to fill the tanks. By the time it was done, we were cold and soaked through, and the tanks were full to overflowing. You could feel the weight of them in the altered motion and heavier handling of the boat.
Once the tanks had reached capacity, Carla navigated our way out of the cloud bank into clearer, warmer air. We soon dried off and we felt elated. For the tanks were replenished and we were rich in resources. We had something to sell. We were traders. Water in the hold was money in the bank.