by Wayne Hill
6
Learning to sail is a painful experience for Tommy. In addition to taking on the tumultuous and chaotic ocean, his teacher, Thankwell, is an equally unpredictable force of nature. Tommy’s nerves are in tatters as the huge man steps onto the craft. The craft — a dual-hulled catamaran called Boomer — creaks in protest and sways on the water’s surface. Thankwell’s Boomer is etched in intricate carvings that depict moments in the strange life of this water giant.
The engravings are fascinating. Tommy spends many hours trying to interpret these hieroglyphs; to turn them into a workable story. Many of the carvings are unmistakably Talon. There are several depictions of women, one of which looks pregnant. Fresher carvings show Thankwell under the sea surrounded by strange underwater towers. Tommy thinks these ancient buildings must be those the sea has claimed back after the meteorite strike of 4423AD, when the world changed into this ocean planet, killing the millions who could not afford transport off world.
Thankwell’s boat is covered in gems and semi-precious stones, like a whale encrusted with barnacles: Trinkets lost to time and the ocean; mechanisms attached in decorative mandalas; runes on the higher parts of the hull and in bands on the main mast, and small oceanic maps carved into the beams. In the full glare of the sun, the gems and pearls, shells and trinkets, glint and sparkle. Tommy feels spellbound by the craft. Unfortunately, this reverie is often interrupted by being smashed around the head by the swinging boom of the craft, as Thankwell tacks downwind. The boom of Thankwell’s well-named craft frequently causes Tommy headaches. It is easy to get distracted by Boomer: the carvings on its ornately etched wood hold him entranced with their mysteries. An engineer by inclination and training, Tommy gravitates towards puzzles. Between lessons with Thankwell, and in lulls in conversation (if such an accusation could ever be levelled at the practically mute behemoth), he slowly starts to piece the story together that, if Tommy is correct, is truly amazing.
Some of the carvings depict Thankwell diving to the very lowest levels of the ocean, to research the ancient ruins, recording his elaborate findings on the surfaces of this boat. The boat is both research vessel and lab book.
The initial sailing lessons Tommy found to be straightforward. Thankwell points to the front of the boat and announces, “Bow.” Okay. He points to the back of the boat and says, “Stern.” Fine. Facing the bow, and pointing to the right side of the boat, he says, “Starboard.” Sure. Still facing the bow, he points to the left side of the boat and says, “Port.” Right. The vertical and longest piece of wood is pointed out as, “Mast.” Obviously. The horizontal wood coming from the mast is identified: “Boom.” Makes sense.
Thankwell’s lesson now moves to the sails, which is what attracted Tommy to these fascinating crafts in the first place. There are three sails: mainsail, jib and spinnaker. The mainsail harnesses the wind to provide the main driving power; the jib — the smallest of the sails — provides balance and is utilised for tacking, moving side-to-side across waves; and the spinnaker — the middle-sized sail — is used for sailing downwind. Thankwell points out the top of the sails as “Head,” the bottom as “Foot,” and the sides as “Luff” and “Leach” — Tommy will always mix those two up.
Thankwell licks his finger and holds it up, testing the wind’s direction. Tommy copies him. The sailing lecture concludes as Thankwell points in the direction the wind is blowing to, downwind, and says, “Leeward,” then points towards where the wind was blowing from and says, “Windward.” He looks around the panoramic sea view, as if seeing things Tommy cannot — which, of course, he can. “Now watch,” Thankwell says. “Learn.”
Thankwell takes Tommy out on the water for one or two hours each day, and only in pleasant weather, building up his experience slowly. Occasional shorter trips are carried out in less clement weather. After one stormy trip, Thankwell returns carrying a half-drowned Tommy. Unconscious for an entire day, he spends the next three days recovering.
The storm is all Tommy can see in his mind’s eye. At night, as the veil of darkness surrounds him, his sleeping consciousness returns to the swell of those dark waters — the toppling of Boomer. In his nightmares, Thankwell laughs at him as he drowns. He can see the giant’s mouth: larger than normal, stretched wide and full of teeth — rows of shark teeth gleam. During these days of recuperation, through the night terrors, Daria is ever vigilant, watching over him.
Daria’s anger at Thankwell grows, like an ignored boil. To Talon’s evident amusement, Daria goes next door to let Thankwell have a piece of her mind. She screams at Thankwell and runs around the brute in a blur, aiming slaps at him which Thankwell cannot hope to deflect, like a tiny fly buzzing around a quarter-ton buffalo.
“Everything Thankwell’s Fault! All the time! Astilla never listens to Thankwell! This what happens when you don’t listen!” Thankwell shouts after a long-gone Daria.
After Daria’s admonishment — and assault — Thankwell disappears.
“He does this every time I tell him off,” Daria explains. “He’ll sulk for a while — like the big baby he is! — then he’ll come back with a gift for you, when he’s thought about his behaviour.”
Daria is right. A week later, Thankwell stoops into the cave and sits for a while staring at Tommy — who is hiding under his covers like a small child, terrified. From his haven, Tommy notices that Thankwell’s mouth is not like it is in his nightmares. His teeth are hidden. His hair is free from seaweed. His appearance is altogether less monstrous. There is something in Thankwell’s hand, wrapped in hessian.
“Here. This is for you. She belongs you, now. She keep you safe,” Thankwell says in a low rumble. He places the hessian bundle on Tommy’s bed, gently pats a cowering Tommy on the head and walks away.
“If you weak, you eaten. Everything eats everything,” says Thankwell softly from the cave mouth. “Don’ be weak, Astilla. Don’ get eaten.”
Then Thankwell is gone.
Tommy waits. There is the inevitable, booming splash of impact and Tommy hears faint cheers from the children in the bay below. They seem inordinately fond of this frightful man. Their laughter is mixed with the caws of the gulls and other quotidian sounds of life. Tommy slowly picks at the rope around the brown hessian bundle. Unbinding the package, he reveals a sturdy looking black leather belt with a built-in scabbard. Protruding from the sheath is a whalebone hilt, inlaid with mother of pearl. Tommy pulls the hilt, revealing a sea knife of unparalleled beauty. He studies the detailed whalebone handle. Illustrations are etched in fine needle-point detail — black lines that are sealed with a lacquer that makes the handle shine. The pictures show a rough sea and Tommy navigating a Catamaran solo through the storm. The sea and the sky seem to fuse into one in the storm’s whirling maelstrom. The sky and sea are stylistically depicted in a decorative knot-work motif. Beneath the boat, under the water, Thankwell, is wrestling a giant squid. Perhaps it is just Thankwell getting his tea? thinks Tommy. I must ask him. No, maybe not. Thankwell’s not really the explanation type. I’ll ask Daria. She’s close to Thankwell, despite their tiffs from time to time.
Tommy has no clue how something so intricate and fine can be made by someone like Thankwell. The blade shimmers in the light, with swirls of green and blue running through the middle. It is razor sharp and looks ideal for cutting ropes and gutting fish. Its blade is long, with serrations on the back. Tommy slides the knife reverentially back into its sheath and fastens on the belt. A new sense of pride washes over him as he admires it — it is a beautiful gift.
Later that evening, Thankwell visits again with two lengths of rope. He passes one rope to Tommy and they spend a few hours practicing knots.
Tommy watches the giant, and the giant looks back. Thankwell does not look at the rope, hands working independently, as he makes the first knot of many. A knot can save your life, but only if you can do it in the dark, with wet, slippery rope on a boat rising and falling like a rollercoaster. In short, your hands need to do them automatically, with
out thinking.
“Thumb knot,” Thankwell states, showing it to Tommy — the knot dwarfed by his huge, ham fists. Tommy watches intently as knots form and dissolve under the deceptively nimble fingers of the huge man. By the end of the session, Tommy remembers all that Thankwell has shown him. He demonstrates his knowledge on his own stretch of rope, forming various types: the overhand, or thumb, knot; the square knot; the figure of eight; the bowline; the clove hitch, and the double half hitch.
Thankwell has a surprised look on his face as Tommy proceeds. Thankwell’s jaw lowers as Tommy blazes through the knots with the speed and skill only a time-served mariner should possess. Thankwell’s shocked gape turns into a wide, open-mouthed grin, showing Tommy two things.
Thankwell’s pointed teeth have more than one layer, reducing in size from front to back, row after row, teeth jostling for position and, shark-like, rear ones moving forward to replace those lost in front. The second thing Tommy notes is that Thankwell is genuinely impressed. Thankwell simply says, “Good. Tomorrow I show you what use when.” Thankwell grabs Tommy’s knot rope and uses a square knot to join the two ropes together and throws it back to Tommy. “Practice. Knots save lives.”
Tommy is impressed with his progress, and happy there is a lighter side to this fascinating, if scary, giant.
Thankwell is as good as his word and, the very next morning, he goes through every knot from the previous night and explains their uses. With knots familiarised, Thankwell takes Tommy on longer trips out in Boomer. The island that Tommy has lived on his entire life looks like a little, insignificant, black dot on the undulating horizon. Tommy is still nervous around Thankwell, though, and, maybe because of this, his mistakes start to increase again.
The large sea mariner possesses jaws that Tommy can imagine biting arms, heads, legs off. Despite his wariness, Tommy mimics Thankwell’s actions well, and the big man soon warms to the young man. Eventually, Thankwell grudgingly admits that Tommy can sail solo, with at least some confidence and awareness of danger.
The final great gift from this wonderful community is a sleek-looking, one-berth catamaran donated by the expert craftsman Rhombus. Rhombus tells Tommy that the craft is called Slash, because of the clean way the two blades of its multihull cut through the water. Rhombus boasts that this boat could top 20 knots, and — weather and pilot permitting — should make the 300-mile sea journey to the Lanes, on the far side of the island, in less than 12 hours.
Daria waves goodbye to Tommy with tears flowing down her cheeks, smothered in Talon’s lethal, but protective, arms.
“Goodbye, Astilla. Please be safe. Come back to see us again...I’ll miss you!”
Tommy smiles.
“Please, Daria, what does the name Astilla mean? It’s driving me mad. I need to know.”
Talon smiles down at his daughter as she goes shy, burying her head into his chest.
“In your language, it means ‘splinter’,” she shouts into Talon’s leathery chest.
“It’s perfect, Daria. Thank you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for fixing me when I couldn’t fix myself, when I was broken. I will return with great treasures. Treasures fit for a princess — princess Daria!” Shouts Tommy, with a grand flourish.
Tommy stares at the scars on his left arm and absently, with his right hand, he touches his face, the raised scars on the left cheek. He runs his hand through his hair as the wind fills the mainsail.
Tommy’s adopted family continue to wave at him as he fades into the distance — as he sets sail on calm water to a different life, an unpredictable expanse stretching out as far as the dark sea travels — into the unknown.
“What great treasures will he get me, Papa?” Daria asks, beaming at Talon. Talon turns from his happy daughter to pointedly look at Thankwell — who sighs, scratches his head and rubs his eyes. He knows what that look means.
“I doin’ it, I doin’ it,” says Thankwell, walking into the sea.
“Where’s he going? Am I really a princess, Papa?” Daria asks as Talon sweeps her up into his arms.
“You’re more akin to a goddess, my darling,” he smiles. “Don’t worry about Thankwell. He is unpredictable these days. Who knows what’s inside that big hollow head of his? Maybe it’s just like his mouth, filled with teeth — teeth that bite!”
“I think his head is full of fishhooks and seaweed,” says Daria.
They both laugh.
TOMMY TURNS TO THE sea; his friends fast becoming specks in the distance behind him. Thoughts fill his head. He remembers Talon’s whispered advice, so as not to wake a sleeping Daria, last night, as he handed Tommy back his dangerous joining tools:
“...Keep to the ocean, about a mile off the coast. Let the strong easterly wind take you all the way West to the Lanes, on the far side of this rock. Do not — I repeat, do not — set foot in the Barrens. It belongs to those who live under it, the Barrenites. They have no remorse, no pity — and they kill as freely as we breathe. Our coastal cliff clans stay clear of the Barrenite’s territory and the Barrenites, in return, leave us to our ways. Fierce wars were once fought over these boundaries, but now we live in a time of peace. It is a precarious peace — but it is peace, nonetheless. If either of us were to break the terms of our peace, and trespass on agreed territories, it would lead to all-out war. So, Tommy, please stick to the ocean, and try to stay about a mile from the coast. Take no risks.”
“What are these Barrenites? Where do they come from?” Tommy asked.
Daria stirred, letting out a whimper. Talon looked over towards his sleeping daughter and then, when she no longer moved, back to Tommy.
“They will tear you apart. They hate, they kill, they taste blood, they go into rages, and they don’t stop. It’s no time to be telling great stories of perilous times, long past. Just stick to the sea, a mile from the coast.”
Tommy noticed, at this moment, how vacant Talon’s eyes became. Talon stared deep into the flames, as if communing with the plasma. Lost in memory and fire. Lost in blood and war.
“Talon, are you alright?” Tommy whispered.
Talon shook away his memories and said, “Stick to the sea. Soon you will be back among others who come from your world. I cannot promise that everything will be just as it should, but you will regain a footing on the troublesome path that you have chosen as your way of life. Astilla, your road will be hard, your soul is going to be swimming in pain. I have seen such sights — such a terrible trail, such violent ends.” There is no bitterness in Talon's voice, only the distant thoughtfulness of a man who has lived a long, long time.
“Yes, that’s why I’ve come prepared, Talon. I have —”
“Yes, yes, I know, the magic arm,” Talon said.
“Yeah. That’s going to keep me safe,” replied Tommy, a little defensively.
“If you insist,” said Talon.
“I know you think I’m useless, Talon — but I’m not. I can look after myself. I don’t need anyone. I’m self-contained and, if these Barrenites show up, well, I... I’ll prove myself in combat.” Tommy looked from the fire to Talon.
Talon’s eyes pierced Tommy as if he were staring into his soul. Tommy felt a shiver run down his spine.
“If you kill one of these creatures then do not stop. Execute every single one you see. Because, if you leave any witnesses, word will spread to those below the earth. There are real demons on this island, Astilla, and they don’t need a magic arm to do their carnage. They’re born to murder. There are things beneath us, things that are unspeakable, things that turn even my stomach. Creatures I have fought before, in the tunnels throughout this land, tunnels I helped to dig centuries ago. If the pact between our two communities is broken it will result in a terrible war. I will have to fight, once more, and when I kill...” Talon leaned back, put his hands behind his head and sighed, the sentiment unfinished.
“I do not fear demons that hide in caves and tunnels,” said Tommy. He remembered holding Talon’s gaze — not an easy thing t
o do.
“You do what you will, young Tommy,” Talon said with an intensity which was unsettling. “This is all pointless. I should have realised warning a young hero such as yourself would be foolish. Trees tremble to pieces in your presence, do they not? But I — I, Tommy, actually miss battle. I do. I miss everything about battle: the screams, the missing limbs, the blood; terrified souls calling for their mothers, covered in their friends’ intestines; the screams, the pleadings, the bite of my blades, the gurgling death.”
“I might not engage them in combat, though. It depends,” said Tommy, his voice shaking slightly.
“I would advise, Tommy — and you need not heed it, it’s your path, after all — that you stick to the sea. It’s the only way you will reach your destination alive. You might want to go ashore and inspect these strange creatures, these colourful oddities. I can see that about you. You have a curiousness inside of you, a questing nature. But, if you go to the Barrens, you die.”
“You misjudge me, Talon.”
“No, you misjudge the Barrenites,” said Talon. “Look, it’s late. Tomorrow you leave this place, for a life of adventure. This is your last night of protection and safety. Take advantage of these peaceful hours and rest, for tomorrow you sail to your destiny, Astilla of the northern clifftop coastal clan. Whatever you choose that destiny to be.”
At first, Tommy heeds Talon’s advice, mindful of the danger of the terrible creatures that lurk under the Barrens. Unfortunately, Tommy’s curiosity always conquers his fear. Looking to catch a glimpse of these odd creatures, his catamaran drifts closer to the shore. Tommy’s self-inflicted injuries had, perhaps, temporarily numbed his appetite for adventure. Only now — as he skips over the waves, the wind in his hair, watching the cliffs and small beaches speed by — does he feel his lust for adventure return. A certain burden lifts from Tommy. The open water, the sounds of the gulls and the cloudless sky bathe him with a kind light. The wind is steady in his sail and he barely feels motion as Slash spears through the water. He closes his eyes, and takes in the feel of the ocean, as the waves purl about his bows.