Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by G. C. Edmondson

  “I’m for trying it,” I said.

  Abner’s teeth flashed in the firelight, and I wished I were as fearless as he seemed to think me. I did remember what had happened to my father’s ship.

  At dawn I threw bread and beer overboard and hoped the gods would earn their keep on the long haul across the Cantabrian Sea. When the breeze sprang up dead astern, it looked like they were going to. A working party ran to get the mast. The purple phoenix’s wings flapped realistically as the sail was sheeted home. Oarsmen pulled their cloaks tight and curled up under the benches.

  By noon the wind was stronger, and a following sea began piling up. “Want to shift cargo?” Abner asked.

  I’d been thinking a while and shook my head. “Rig extra clew lines.” Abner was puzzled, but he went forward to give encouragement while men struggled with the sail’s lower corners.

  “Now lead those new lines to the bowsprit.”

  As they tightened, I had sheets slacked until the sail stretched well forward of the spar. There was sudden silence as the bow lashings lifted clear of the water and the Ishtar shot forward like a Centaur. As the steering oar came firm in my hands I knew we were outrunning the seas and in no danger of being pooped. Abner looked at me wonderingly. “Whatever gave you an idea like that?”

  “I’ve been looking at seagulls’ wings. The gods brought me a vision.”

  The sun died, and two hours later the unmoving Phoenician Star glittered dead ahead. I wrapped myself in my cloak and settled down, keeping an eye open for the stealthy hands of the Underwater People.

  We’ve tried everything to make peace with them—trade, bribery, sacrifices, gifts. But the bastards just pop their heads up and look at you. They never have a word to say —won’t answer our interpreters and, believe me, we’ve tried every civilized language and a few that aren’t. They just stare at us with those inscrutable eyes, then turn and disappear, and next thing you know another ship’s reported missing. You’d think we could make some kind of a deal . . .

  At dawn we hove the lead and found no bottom. While Abner broke out bread and figs for the oarsmen, I sacrificed. Wind came from the southwest again before we’d finished breakfast, and I was silently thankful that I’d never tried to swindle the gods with watered beer like some skippers I know.

  Abner and I spelled each other steering, and that night I felt a ground swell. Then the moon rose, so I let the Ishtar gallop on. The lead indicated shoaling water, but still we sighted no land. I began having terrible thoughts of piling into something at fifteen knots. As I wondered what lay behind a cloud off the starboard bow, the moon hid and left us shooting along in a nothingness as black as Uncle Hiram’s beard. After a couple of well chosen remarks

  I was about to go prod Abner when he woke with the change of motion. I tried to steer back onto the wind, but when I did, the waves were hitting the wrong angle. “Better brail up,” I said.

  Abner grunted and quietly woke a couple of men without rousing the whole crew. Within minutes they had unrigged my fancy sail setting and brailed up the clews, leaving only the tiniest triangle of the huge square sail still pulling. As the Ishtar ghosted through blackness, the ground swell became more apparent, but now speed had been reduced so we could do several things instead of just piling blindly onto whatever beach or rocks lay ahead.

  Clouds parted momentarily, and the moon was in the wrong place. I hauled at the steering oar until the moon was back where it belonged. Now the ocean didn’t feel right. The swell was crossways and the waves . . .

  “I knew it!” Abner groused.

  So did I. In this stretch of our run, a good breeze would sometimes back steadily to give a westing and blow us away from that dangerous lee shore. But after the startling success of my new way to set a sail, the gods were through handing out favors for one night. The wind was veering, turning in the opposite direction. We had started out this night with enough westing to clear Kataif with room to spare. Now the veer was driving us back. The growing ground swell meant the bottom was turning shallow. Abner shouted all hands awake, and we hauled the yard about to point as high as the old Ishtar could.

  There have been countless stories of ships that could actually sail into the wind, but during my seventeen years I had never actually seen one. The Ishtar had good lines and a well-balanced rig, but the best she could do was a broad reach, bowling precariously along northward at right angles to the wind, with the lee freeboard shipping water from time to time.

  I put a nervous nelly of an oarsman up in the bows to listen for breakers. I assumed he had the best ears because he was always the first to say, “What’s that?” The rest of the men rolled up in their cloaks. Abner and I braced ourselves against the steering oar, which always fought back harder sailing at this angle.

  Finally the moon was visible again for another moment. Abner compared its position with the heading of our bow and said something that probably canceled out my last week of prayer and sacrifice. “Sorry,” he said when he saw my consternation.

  But I couldn’t blame him. We gritted our teeth and let out the sail. “Could be worse,” Abner said through clenched teeth.

  “It will be,” I said.

  Six turns of the glass passed with no sight of the moon. Meanwhile, the direction of the seas was in constant discord with the wind. Finally light began to show in the east. And off the port bow!

  Abner made a sound like sailcloth ripping, then added a couple of words I’d never heard before.

  In the dawn’s early light the Ishtar was now heading southeast: back down toward the Galician coast of northern Iberia. Our chances were even for piling up at Tyrsis Herakles or Tyrsis. I hoped it was Tyrsis, where we sometimes put in for water and groceries and enjoyed a semifriendly relationship with the locals. But of course the gods had to have their little joke.

  Must have been some combination of wind and current but next morning when the coast hove into sight I looked it over, conscious of the sixty-odd oarsmen, who worked best when they could preserve a perfect faith in their skipper’s infallibility. I looked wise and made a couple of meaningless scratches on my wet clay tablet and acted just as if I knew what I was doing. It worked for the oarsmen, but it didn’t fool Abner. He got up into the bows behind me where the following wind would make sure nobody overheard us. “Do you have any idea where we are?” he murmured.

  “A sailor’s never lost as long as he knows which ocean he’s in.”

  “Thank you for pointing that out,” Abner growled. “Do we chance it?”

  I shrugged. “Why should this place be any more dangerous than elsewhere?”

  It was Abner’s turn to shrug. “Silly of me,” he said, “but I always like some young eager type to make first contact.”

  “I’m young,” I said, “And my Uncle Hiram is almost as eager as the king.”

  Abner spat. “Tarshish sucks. Ever consider going into business for yourself?”

  “Just as soon as I find a place with a nice hot spring, soft weather, plenty of complaisant white skins to grow my food, and no wild beasts or half-men lurking just outside my walls. And,” I added, “plenty of traders with a fresh lot of Egyptian girls every month.”

  Abner laughed, which was what I’d been hoping for, since the sea was still rough and I could already hear the sound of surf breaking as we approached shore.

  Shore was a hundred cubits high with a tinge of green on top and bare brown earth along the sheer cliffside. From the way the surf was breaking, there had to be a bit of narrow beach ahead that would probably disappear at high tide. Dead ahead were some signs of a notch high up, and directly below that point waves were not breaking quite so briskly.

  “Are we going to wreck?” Abner asked.

  I waggled a “no” with my finger and signaled aft for the helmsman to turn slightly astarboard. We drew closer to the shore, and I noticed that what I had thought were rocks bobbed around with too much agility for stone. Local palefaces, I supposed, out fishing in their black-tarred bullh
ide coracles. As I watched, one man stood, balancing himself athwartships of a coracle that seemed barely big enough to stand on.

  He was whiteskinned all right—big red bruiser, red sunburned skin, red hair, and a red beard nearly to his waist. Unlike the others, who kept a respectful distance, this fisherman began paddling straight for us.

  “Tarshishim?” he hailed. Before anyone could answer, he was clambering aboard.

  “Show me an oar and get the hell out of here,” he suggested.

  “Now why in Sheol should we do anything like that?” Abner protested.

  “Suit yourself,” the paleface said. “You don’t want me to pull an oar for you, maybe you’ll enjoy pulling oars for them.”

  Their sails furled as they rowed into the wind, two blackhulled ships were speeding from the river mouth. Without waiting for orders my steersman had already swung the Ishtar halfway about. Men struggled to spill wind from the sail as the old Ishtar completed her turn and linen blew backwards, wrapping round the mast and creating a marvelous tangle. As I considered how best to get it down and keep the wind from pushing us backwards toward those two blackhulled ships, I had time to wonder why they didn’t just wait for us to come in and dock. It would have been easier. And I also found time to wonder how this redheaded giant had learned to speak such good Phoenician.

  Finally the sail was clewed up and men scrambled along the yard, gathering up the last wind-expanded blisters to reduce wind resistance. It was the best we could do without chopping the yard down. And if the gods remembered us at all, we might still have use for that slender piece of timber.

  An hour later we were a mile farther offshore. The two blackhulled greeters were closer, and I could recognize their lines by now. “Pentekonter,” Abner growled, and I knew he’d gotten that right. With fifty oars each, these Greek dispatch boats could probably almost keep up with the Ishtar. But from the way they were crowding us, it looked more like we were being driven toward some unseen rock.

  Rowing dead into the wind, we were barely making headway. Another hour and the men would be so tired that we’d be driven back to the mouth of that river. One of the pentekonters had slanted so far away that it was turning now. A sail flapped, then filled as it close-reached to intercept us. I had a sudden inspiration.

  “Set sail!” I yelled. “Haul it close as you can astarboard.”

  “We can’t hold her,” Abner warned. “She’ll tear that steering oar right out of our hands.”

  Maybe. The pentekonter was already in trouble, sail flapping as it pointed too high into the wind. “You men astarboard; oars straight down and feathered.”

  As thirty oars on the Ishtar’s lee side went down like a picket fence into the water, the hull shuddered and shipped water for an instant. Then it righted, and the sail stopped flapping. A moment later we were scooting along faster than any mariner had any right to believe, crossing the pentekonter’s bow from alee, leaving her behind downwind and pointing nearly into the wind, in the general direction of Pretannion.

  “What in Sheol made you think of that?” Abner asked.

  “Never cheat the gods with their beer ration, and once in a while they’ll send you a dream.”

  Abner shook his head musingly. “Wonder how long it’ll take those buggers to learn how to do the same thing.”

  “They can’t,” I said.

  “Why not? Just because they’re Greeks doesn’t mean they’re stupid.”

  “Their men are chained. Can you imagine them horsing a five-man oar up vertical?”

  Abner could not. He grinned.

  “What do you suppose happened there?” he asked an hour later when Iberia was barely visible astern and the pentekonters had long since turned back.

  I looked down amidships where our redhaired, redskinned monster was laughing amid a circle of resting oarsmen.

  “My name’s Tyrker,” he said when I beckoned. “And you two will be Hanno and Abner? I’ll be happy to join your company.”

  “Where’d you learn to talk Phoenician like that?” Abner asked.

  “Aboard the Tyrian Moloch,” he said.

  I goggled. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I had a feeling it would be. The Tyrian Moloch had been one of Uncle Hiram’s ships.

  “I wish I knew the story.” The paleface was talking to himself. “Everything was normal; a few storms but nothing worse than usual until we were approaching the straits. Then old Boreas got his chlamys in a twist. Blew us clear out through the Pillars and then veered enough to send us skinning up the Iberian coast dodging shallows all the way. We were halfway to the Tin Islands before it let up.”

  “Tin Islands?”

  “Cassiterides,” Abner murmured. “Those rocks at the lower end of Pretannion.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “I wish I knew.” Tyrker was repeating himself.

  Abner looked at him.

  “So I drink,” the redhaired giant said. “You know us. We all do.”

  Abner sighed. “And in between drinks?”

  It was Tyrker’s turn to sigh. “Couple of pirates chased us into the little river.”

  “But you got away—arrived safely?”

  “I guess we must have. I remember a thanksgiving service, and we all drank near as much as we poured out for the gods.” Tyrker’s jollity had evaporated by now.

  “When I woke up, I was in chains—I and everyone else in port. After a while they understood we couldn’t do much in chains, so they started letting us work alone. Naturally every fisherman had to leave a wife or children ashore.”

  “You have a woman then?”

  “A lady of the town made an arrangement. As long as I brought her food, she cooked it.”

  “And now?”

  “She’s not stupid. Other men would rather work without chains.”

  I sighed. So Tarshish was no longer welcome in Tyrris Herakles. There was nothing I could do about it now. Someday with two or three more ships we might go back and give those pirates what for. But before I could do anything for good old Tarshish, I had to do something for not-so-good old Uncle Hiram. Sundown again.

  Two hours later I could see the unmoving Phoenician Star and correct my bearings. It was encouraging to note that the wind had not changed direction but continued steady from due west. In the intervening hours we had lashed oars until men no longer had to strain constantly at holding our improvised keel. And the wind held steady for four unbelievable days as we maintained our offing and crept steadily north. The Ishtar was pointing higher than I had ever seen her sail into the wind before. If the wind didn’t shift . . . but I was already overdrawn with the gods and could not expect too many more favors. Abner appeared and handed me my heavy cloak. As he took over, I crawled under a bench and tried to sleep.

  From the position of the stars around the unmoving Phoenician Star I must have slept several hours. There was something different about the Ishtar’s motion. It took me an instant to realize it was a ground swell. Once more we were in shallow water. Abner was up in the bows, peering earnestly into the low mist.

  “Gods of Shinar!” he breathed. “Pretannion already!”

  We made a slight course correction, and I tried to figure why we were so much farther along. Abner might think I was a daring navigator, but I suddenly understood why Uncle Hiram had been so hesitant to let me have a ship.

  Creeping along under oars, we came upon a small inlet in the chalk cliffs. The oaks above the shingle beach seemed uninhabited. I hoped so because we were east of the tin traders already. Any palefaces here would have nothing to offer but trouble.

  The cove was narrow and led, I supposed, to some river. Tide was at flood, so we beached without much work and set up camp. I had started the brewing ritual when one of our woodcutters came running. He was an easterner, and I sweated blood trying to understand his outlandish accent.

  It was just out of sight around a small promontory. Fire had blackened the
timbers, but there was no mistaking the lines of a Tarshish ship.

  Abner came panting up behind me. “Recognize her?” I asked. Abner pulled his razzled turban off and scratched vigorously. He stood back and studied the blackened skeleton while I poked about in soggy ash and bits of charred wood. My easterner exploded strange syllables and rushed up with a small piece of terra cotta. It was one of those embossed cylinder seals we roll over a tablet.

  “I couldn’t swear to it,” Abner said, “but she might have been the Sidonian Baal.”

  “Sargonid’s?”

  He nodded.

  “Here’s his check protector,” I said.

  So we’d found one of Uncle Hiram’s ships. But what had happened? We poked about in the ashes but couldn’t find anything in the way of a clue. It was turning dark, so we hurried back.

  Our camp was exposed, for we depended on the Ishtar. If anything happened, out in the middle of the inlet we’d be beyond range of all but the best of spearmen. The woodcutters were filling crocks and waterskins when we returned. I found a clay bank and had an oven formed. Tomorrow we’d rebake the bread before it molded worse. But tonight I’d post guards.

  It rained.

  We huddled in armor and wondered if the birdcalls, the hoots, and the occasional thundering crash were caused by animals, gods, or palefaces. I talked reassuringly to my oarsmen, but it’s during nights like this that I sometimes feel I’m not cut out to be a trader.

  Morning finally came, and we went about the dreary business of rebuilding the oven and trying to start a fire. My armor was turning green, and the leather straps were mildewed. Even for Pretannion the weather seemed worse than usual.

  It was another day before bread was rebaked and the beer worked off. The Ishtar was loaded, and we were hoisting anchor when the palefaces finally appeared at the edge of the oaks. This was what I’d been dreading: Abner and I had not had time to drill our hayseeds into an efficient fighting unit.

  I passed out the bronze trade knives, and we stood with fixed smiles while they moved slowly toward us across the sand. There were maybe fifty of them. Chestnut braids hung over skin cloaks that ended at armpit level. They wore tight trousers with the hair side out. I’d never seen this kind of paleface before, but probably they were what the amber gatherers called Firbolgs—bag men, because of the pants.