Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘What’s going on?’ Clementine drops her grip on the handle. ‘Is it Maisy?’

  Quirin shakes his head. ‘You’re floating too low on the waterline. My clan can’t afford to lose a boat.’ He pushes forward, ducking beneath the swinging lantern. ‘Give me that.’

  He seizes the handle, and Clementine stumbles aside. Quirin positions himself and starts to pump – fast and efficient, like he’s been doing this all his life. He shakes himself like a dog and water sprays across the floor. When he stills, I notice his biceps for the first time: huge and bulging, when they’re not concealed by cloak sleeves.

  ‘Wow,’ Clementine says. Teddy doesn’t look too happy.

  ‘Get up to the cabin,’ Quirin orders. ‘Your captain needs you.’

  ‘She told us she didn’t need –’

  ‘Things have changed.’

  We obey. I almost get kicked in the head a few times as we lurch up the steps; every time a wave catches the boat, Teddy or Clementine’s legs are dislodged and go flying through the air above my face. With a few stumbles and scrapes, we find ourselves back up in the Nightsong’s cabin.

  ‘Oh my . . .’ Clementine says.

  I swallow. The windows are gone. Chairs are piled against the far wall, tangled in a mess of broken frames and splintered wood. Wind and rain gushes in through the window frames and the remains of the door. A stray curtain blows across the floor to ensnare my ankles.

  Silver stands at the wheel. Her hair has come loose from its braid and strands whip back behind her, like the tentacles of a soaked white jellyfish. Her fingers cling to the wheel, red with cold and exertion.

  I hurry forward. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘The chest,’ she chokes. ‘Show me the chest.’

  I glance around and spot it, several metres across the floor. I open its lid gingerly, relieved to see that its little slide hasn’t broken the vials within.

  ‘Here.’ I hurry back and hold it before Silver, who glances at its contents. She can only look away from the window for a second, though – then the boat gives a wild buck and she whips her attention back to steering.

  ‘We ain’t fast enough,’ she mutters, eyes glued on the river ahead. ‘Not nearly fast enough. Needs a vial of prosperial smoke.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Dark blue bottle – the smoke should spark when you hold it to the light.’

  I rifle through the chest, overwhelmed. Dozens of vials lie within, and quite a few of them are dark blue. I rule out those containing liquid rather than smoke, but that still leaves three options. I set the chest down carefully and select the vials, then hold them up to the nearest cabin lantern. Nothing happens.

  ‘Which . . .?’

  ‘The spark, girl – look for the spark!’

  I squint, but there is still nothing. Just three dark blue tubes, filled with smoke that writhes and dances before the light. And then suddenly there it is. One of the vials seems to wink at me. A tiny spark, like the briefest flare of a match in the snow . . .

  ‘Got it!’ I say, not sure whether to be excited or nervous. All I can think of is what Teddy said about alchemists needing decades of training. I’m not sure that handling magical chemicals is the best idea for a scruffer who can’t even do long division. ‘Do I pour it in the funnel?’

  Silver nods. ‘Careful – don’t let it touch your fingers. Stuff’ll burn the flesh right off your bones.’

  That doesn’t exactly boost my confidence, but I nod, slip the other vials back into their chest, and approach the machinery. The funnel gleams before me, bronze and steaming. Even in the cold, smoke rises from the machinery. It must be working hard to keep the Nightsong moving in this storm. But some of the cogs are slowing now, and a lever to my right makes an ominous grinding sound.

  ‘Hurry!’ Silver says. ‘We’re low on alchemy juice.’

  I uncork the vial. The boat gives a lurch and I cry out, convinced that the vial’s smoke will slosh across my hands. I hurl it towards the funnel and pour its contents down the tube.

  There’s a moment’s pause as the machinery absorbs this new power source. The clockwork teeters, momentarily stuck. My heart beats so fast it feels ready to explode. If I chose the wrong vial . . . if I poured it down the wrong funnel . . .

  With an almighty clank, we’re off. The machinery bursts back into life and the Nightsong leaps forward.

  Silver lets out a whoop of relief. ‘That’s the way, my friend!’ she says, and I don’t know whether she’s talking to me or the boat.

  I stumble back to Teddy and Clementine, who are struggling to board up the nearest window. They’ve taken a broken slab of chair, and I help them cram it into place against the frame. There’s a moment of relief as the wind and rain are blocked – then the slab explodes inward, knocking us all back onto the floor.

  I lie still, my head throbbing. Then I twist around to check my friends. Blood streams from Teddy’s nose. He pokes at it gingerly, then releases a string of expletives.

  ‘Teddy, are you –?’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, voice oddly muffled. ‘But I reckon that bugger’s broken my nose.’

  I clamber to my feet, and offer a hand to help him stand. Then, as I turn to offer the same to Clementine, I catch a glimpse of something out the back window.

  ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘No, no, no . . .’

  Beside me, Teddy freezes. The world seems to stand still. And roaring down the river, behind the silhouettes of the other boats, a wall of water gushes forth to wash us all away.

  The wave is high – at least seven metres, perhaps ten. It roars with a sound that could give even this storm’s thunder a run for its money. And this isn’t an enemy I can fight, or hide from, or trick. All I can do is stand there, staring, as it barrels towards us.

  ‘Silver, look!’

  But the old woman doesn’t need to look. She hears it coming; I see it from the look in her eyes. She keeps her gaze fixed on the river ahead, ignoring the spray and wind and rain that seem strong enough to blast her eyeballs back into her skull.

  ‘Surge!’ she shouts. ‘Find somethin’ solid and hang on. We’re going under!’

  I throw myself sideways and grab onto the stove – one of the few pieces of furniture still attached to the floor. Clementine clings to a window frame. Teddy has enough presence of mind to snatch the vial chest, before he crouches with it tight between his legs and grips the frame beside her.

  And then I remember Quirin.

  He’s down there alone, still working the bilge pump. Does he know the surge is coming? If water pours through the trapdoor and extinguishes that lantern . . .

  I leap to my feet. The others scream at me to get down, to hold onto something, but their voices fade into the horror of the roar. The wave gushes forward to catch the Merchant’s Daughter; one minute there’s a boat, the next there is just water and darkness. The Forgotten will go next, I know, and finally the Nightsong – but I can’t just stand here and watch. I hurl myself down the ladder, ignoring the shouts of my friends.

  ‘Quirin! Quirin get out, we’re going –’

  The wave hits.

  At first, all I know is blackness.

  My body tumbles over and over in the dark. I feel like I’ve turned to froth – like my whole body is made of water. Water and shadow. Water and night.

  The bunkroom. I’m returning slowly to my senses now, but this isn’t an improvement. The swish of mindless tumbling is gone, and everything is panic. I clamp my lips shut, desperate to keep hold of the last gasp of air that filled my lungs. Water has extinguished the lantern; all is black. I don’t know which way is up, or down, or whether the boat is even upright any more.

  And I don’t know the direction of the trapdoor.

  I strike my hand against a bunk, then another. A moment later, my shin hits a wall. My lungs burn. My limbs flail. I�
��ll never find the trapdoor before my air runs out. I whack the wall with my fists, panicking. Where’s the trapdoor? Where is it, where is it? I’m going to drown. I search the walls, I run my hands across bunks, and second-by-second my lungs deflate. Everything is dark. A sea of ink. No, a sea of night.

  There’s another way out of here. I have to risk it. I have to use my proclivity. I reach for that part of my mind that calls to the night.

  And, ever so gently, the night calls back.

  I don’t know whether Teddy feels this when he connects with Beasts, or if Maisy feels it when she controls Flame – but when I touch Night, it feels like I’m pulling two halves of myself back together. Like the time Lukas kissed me: two bodies, two minds, but somehow also one. My insides jump with joy and fear and horror all at once. I let myself fade. My body begins to disperse. And suddenly, I’m not just a girl in the night.

  I am the night.

  I flow through the cabin, a thousand tiny tendrils. Why was I so worried about breathing? I have no lungs to fill. I have no blood to pump. I can feel the trapdoor nearby because I am already flowing through it, drifting up into more of myself, more of the darkness, and then towards the window that will call me into open sky and stars and all that I could ever wish to be . . .

  Then I feel her. Someone else here, in the dark. An intruder! Someone else embracing Night, wrap­ping her soul through its tendrils. Through my tendrils. I feel strangely violated, like another soul is trespassing inside my body.

  ‘If you float out that window,’ she snaps, ‘you ain’t never coming back.’

  And suddenly, I remember who I am.

  I snap back so fast that it feels like whiplash. My body smashes upon the floor and I hit my head against something – the stove? The wall? All I know is that I’m in the cabin. The bunkroom may be flooded, but the boat is still afloat, held up by alchemy, or chance, or perhaps just the swell of storming river beneath us. And above all else, I am Danika Glynn. I am me. I’m weak and shaky, only half held together, but I cling to that fact like it’s made of pure silver.

  Silver. I whirl around to search for the old woman, her voice still ringing in my ears. She stands a metre away from me, panting heavily.

  I force my tongue to work. ‘Your proclivity is Night.’

  She nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You brought me back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’re afraid of your proclivity, I’d judge,’ Silver says. ‘You think it’s evil. Shameful.’ She gives me a hard look. ‘If you don’t want to lose yourself, my friend, then trust yourself first.’

  My mind is a jumble. I don’t know what to think, what to process. My legs feel ready to crumple beneath me. Then Teddy and Clementine crash into me, and the world is a tangle of wild arms and cries.

  ‘Danika, we thought –’

  ‘Why the hell would you –?’

  ‘Quirin!’ I say, struck by the sudden memory. Still shaky, I push my way free of their hugs. ‘Did he get out?’

  ‘His proclivity’s Metal,’ says Silver. ‘He would’ve melted into the bilge pump, or the wall of the boat. He’ll be fine.’

  Already, the old woman has positioned herself back at the wheel. She steers our boat down the river, bucking the sway and churn of the waves. After the horror of the surge, these waves seem barely more than bumps on a road. The image of the surge rises back into my mind: a wall of dark water barrelling down upon our trio of boats . . .

  The other boats.

  Maisy.

  I spin to face the back of the boat. When I see the Forgotten, still afloat and with lanterns already re-lit, relief hits me so hard that I almost double over. Maisy’s boat is safe.

  But the rest of the river is empty. ‘The Merchant’s Daughter – it’s gone?’

  Clementine nods, looking a little sick. ‘All three boats went under, but only two of us came back up.’

  ‘Silver did something weird with a lever,’ Teddy says, ‘just before the wave hit. I reckon that kept us afloat. But that other boat . . . well, it never popped back up.’

  ‘I used the emergency boost,’ Silver says. ‘I’d judge Laverna did the same on the Forgotten. But the Merchant’s Daughter needed repairs – even if they tried for a boost, its mechanisms couldn’t hold up under all that strain.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone swim to the surface?’ I say, horror-struck. ‘Can’t we go back? We could maybe fish them out –’

  ‘Some of their proclivities will have saved ’em,’ Silver says, her voice harsh. ‘Some of ’em won’t. But either way, we can’t go back. All that’s keeping us afloat right now is alchemy juice; we’ll be lucky to reach the lagoon with this boat above the water.’

  At that moment, Quirin bursts up through the metal plating on the wall. He splutters and coughs, hands melting out of the metal as his body fades from proclivity to solid human flesh. ‘The Forgotten,’ he chokes. ‘Did she make it?’

  ‘She made it,’ Silver says. ‘Far as I know, your family’s alive. But the Merchant’s Daughter . . .’

  Quirin stares at where a single boat floats in place of two. There is a moment’s silence before he collapses to his knees. He looks utterly broken, a leader pushed to his limit. Rain pours in through the shattered roof and windows. As it splatters on Quirin’s back, he buries his face in his hands.

  I force myself to look away. This is a private moment. Whether you call it grief, or guilt, or just plain despair, I already know what it feels like. And I wouldn’t want someone studying my face when it hit me.

  We plough onwards, cutting through the waves. The Nightsong sinks lower, weighted by the water in its gut. I know Quirin is desperate to re-board the Forgotten, to join his family, but the storm has driven our boats too far apart to leap between them.

  Silver requests vial after vial of juice and smoke, which we pour down the funnel with almost no regard for our fingers’ safety. All that matters now is keeping this boat afloat – and making it to the lagoon. Clementine scalds her hand with a strange grey liquid but keeps on pouring. It’s only afterwards that she succumbs to the pain, and lets us examine the mangled skin of her palm.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she whispers. ‘I’m fine. Just keep going.’

  It’s too dark to see far ahead, but moonlight shines through wind and rain to highlight any upcoming waves. The river forks ahead of us, gushing off in half a dozen directions. Silver steers us down the leftmost path, where the waves are gentlest. For a while I just stare, numb. I don’t know what to think any more. I don’t know what to feel.

  ‘Almost there,’ Silver says. ‘Look.’

  I look, and see the glint of open water under stars.

  On the lagoon, all is still.

  It’s like a curtain has been pulled back, taking every vestige of rain and wind and thunder with it. The transition is almost eerie. Even our boat hushes as we cross the threshold. The alchemy stops fizzling, the metal stops clanking. We roll forward on a surge of momentum from the river, crossing from storm into silence.

  Even in darkness, the water is green. It’s not a dirty scunge like when the gutters flood in Rourton. It’s more of a metallic green: the shine of dew upon grass. The water is so smooth that it almost feels wrong to trespass – as though our boat is hacking through pristine silk.

  Silver lets out a low breath, then cranks a handle. There is a long pause before the alchemy clicks and whirrs back into life.

  But even as the Nightsong regains its power, the waterline grows closer. I hurry to the nearest window and peer over the edge. No, I’m not imagining it; we’re travelling lower in the water. That green shine, which looked so smooth and beautiful a moment ago, is rising up to swallow us.

  ‘What just happened?’ I say.

  ‘There’s a seam of magnetic rock along the east side of the lagoon,’ Silver says. ‘Just like th
e seams in the Valley. Boat stopped workin’ while we crossed over it, but we’re back into normal waters now.’

  ‘That’s why we’re safe from the storm?’ Teddy guesses. ‘It’s an alchemical storm, not a natural one, right? So the magnetic seam messes with its power.’

  Silver nods. ‘Bellyachers always roll in from the east. Those magnets’re like a shield for this lagoon – keepin’ the waters smooth, and stoppin’ the storms in their tracks.’ She turns to Quirin. ‘Nightsong’s taken on too much water. She won’t make it to the cove on the other side. I’ll have to ground her on the rocks. It’ll bang up the keel, but . . .’

  ‘Better than sinking,’ Quirin says. He still gazes out behind us, eyes fixed upon the boat that contains his family.

  Silver guides our boat towards a little island. As we pull closer to its shore, there is an awful scrape and the Nightsong jerks. I stumble and fall to my knees. Looking around, I see I’m not alone; Teddy and Clementine sprawl, slightly stunned, upon the cabin floor. There’s another screech – like fingernails on chalkstone – along the bottom of the boat. Silver cranks an alchemy lever and the Nightsong bucks, with a metallic groan, as it scrapes up onto a ridge of painfully shallow water. With a final surge, we grind to a halt on the rocks.

  ‘We call this island the Jaw,’ Silver says. ‘Since it’s got hidden teeth, eh? Normally I’d avoid it, but . . .’ She shrugs. ‘This boat ain’t staying afloat on open water.’

  I glance around at the remains of the Nightsong. The cabin’s back wall is torn away: a mangled corpse of wood and metal. A huge gash is clawed in the roof, and water still laps at the trapdoor to the bunkroom. But the water outside is shallow – not much higher than the bilge – and as I watch, the bunkroom’s water level begins to fall. I realise our grounding has torn a hole in the bottom of the boat, and that her stomachful of water is leaching away.

  The Forgotten doesn’t follow us onto the rocks; she floats high in the water a safe distance from the Jaw. Clearly, Laverna isn’t keen to tear an unnecessary hole in her boat’s backside.