by Alex Pheby
From below came answering calls and there was a high, ominous creak.
The ship slowly turned, and the Manse slid away to port. The Captain marched back, her hands where they had been, her boots kicking out, as if to send whoever got in her way over the side. ‘You, sir, should retire to your cabin,’ she said to Nathan, and turned her back on him. ‘Stick him up at the back and get that stinking anchor out of the sand. Perhaps he’ll make himself useful, this one. Save us some vinegar and give the spike-man a rest.’
The wiry woman nodded, took Nathan by the hand and led him to the back of the ship, while another sailor ran to a winch. There was a low tumble of wood between barrels and boxes which served as a cabin. As they reached it, the knot of the anchor breached the water and the boat surged forward, sending Nathan crashing through the door. The wiry woman didn’t follow him, but lashed the door shut.
‘Don’t worry about Captain Penthenny,’ she said, ‘Bark worse than bite and all of that. Make yourself comfortable.’
Through the loose planks the Manse receded, the ship splashing white at the rocks until they disappeared, and the wake joined the waves.
The cabin had a low bench which served as both seat and, seemingly, bed, a thin sleeping mat curled tight and lashed above it on the wall. There was a ledge built into the side which could be used as a table, and a wooden box into which a bucket had been placed.
On deck there was a great deal of frantic activity, shouting, turning of capstans, emergencies of many kinds, splintering planks and stripped threads, but when the ship left the harbour the shaking in the boards stopped, the guttural moan died beneath the sound of the waves, and the crew settled into a rhythm. Captain Penthenny stood in her place at the prow and never looked back at Nathan. The sun was high, and she steered directly at it.
After a little while there was a knock. ‘Hello?’
The door was unlashed and there was the wiry woman. ‘My God, but you are bright! Couldn’t see it outside, but in the shade. Shift is coming to a close, so can me and some others come and huddle round? There’s nowhere else to go, really, and we don’t often get guests.’
She turned and there beside her was a small, stout old man with a white beard and a gap where his nose had been. ‘Too right.’ He came and sat next to Nathan, taking a packet from an inside pocket. ‘Sea bread – you want some?’ He reached over and smiled. ‘Lord, he’s warm too. Come and feel.’
‘Really? He does look warm.’
‘Who’s got crumpets? Let’s toast ’em.’
There was a great roar of laughter from many voices; through the gaps in the cabin walls eyes were peering: five, ten sets, all wide and gleeful.
‘I’ve never seen the fish go like this, have you?’ one set of eyes asked. ‘Never,’ another replied. ‘He’s a marvel, isn’t he?’
‘What did you expect of Mordew? It’s full of weird stuff.’
Nathan stood up, uncomfortable suddenly.
‘Woah! You’ve got him riled.’
‘He is warm. I told you. Look at where he’s been sitting.’
Nathan looked, and where the rest of the wood was wet, beneath him was dry, pale oak.
‘Oh my goodness!’
‘What a find.’
‘Go on, warm us all up, why don’t you?’
The wiry woman put her hands up as if he was a fire. ‘How about it? They don’t mean any harm. It’s just we don’t get much warmth up here. We’re half fish ourselves, having been in the brine so long. And it is cold in the wind. You try lighting a fire.’
They pressed close and stared: ugly faces, bleached and mildewed as the linen and wool that made their uniforms. Their teeth were black, where they had any at all. Nathan put forward his hands and held the elbows of the wiry woman. He gripped them, her bones so near to her skin that it was if there was nothing covering them. The light from his fingers shone through and there they were, like tusks between his hands.
‘Name’s Niamh,’ she said.
The sound of her name played out on his lips, and Nathan’s heat went into her, softly, slowly. There was an awed gasp, and then a bout of laughter. Her clothes were steaming. The heavy dark blue of her shirt collar dried from the centre to the edges, turning a perfect eggshell, and the green-black wool overcoat went next, becoming a fine tweed before all of their eyes. Even her hair, weighed down with water so that it hung limp, gathered thickness and colour and curl. The woman who had stood before him was suddenly someone else, her skin flushing. In his light she stood there twenty years younger, a red-haired beauty, smiling.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I like you.’
‘Me next!’
Soon Saoirse, Maeve and Keeva were new people, and though one of them had no ear, or a withered arm, no-one could see that for the warmth that glowed from their cheeks and their smiles. Darragh, Liam and Oisin were new men, or perhaps it would be better to say that they were themselves again, as they were once, who knows when, before their nose was taken by the grey rot, or a fist-sized scar ate their neck.
‘Get away from him!’ It was the Captain.
‘We’re off shift.’
‘I don’t care what you are. Keep away from him. Can’t you feel it? The fish can. You think she doesn’t know what he is? You think you know better than her? She can’t bear the presence of him.’
‘But…’
‘Never mind “but”. Unless you want to be thrown down to her. Is that what you want? We take him to the shore, we dump him onto the sand, and then we wait. Until then, you’re to have no contact with him.’
‘Well, Captain, that’s all very nice, and thank you for the advice, but I want a warm, and if you can’t give me it then I’m going to cosy up to this little fellow, because he can.’
‘Exactly! Does he like liquor? Do you like liquor?’
‘Does he like spice? I’ve got a half bag of spice.’
‘You’ll do as I say. Or get off my ship.’
‘Will we?’ Niamh turned. She stood so close to the captain that their noses were almost touching. ‘I won’t be going anywhere until I see my wages for the last two trips, whatever happens.’
‘Nor me!’
‘Nor any of us!’
‘So, Penthenny, you can pay us up now and we’ll swim to shore and leave you to slake the fish yourself, or you can get back to the tiller and steer this wreck before you sink us all. Up to you.’
After a pause in which each woman scowled and lifted her chin, the Captain turned and spat and left them where they were.
‘Right then,’ said Niamh, as if nothing at all had happened, ‘let’s see how warm we can get him!’
Nathan found the cabin much more to his liking once the crew had filled it with their blankets and lined them all around him to dry.
‘Have another drink?’
‘Have another sweetie?’
They huddled about, features picked out in his light, their clothes patchy from being half dry and half wet, and each of them offered him something to keep him happy.
‘So what is he?’
‘Shush!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t talk about him like he’s not here.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure. What are you then? Is that better?’
Nathan dimmed a little and looked at his feet.
‘Now look! What’s the matter with you? You’re putting him out.’
‘Sorry, pal, I didn’t mean any disrespect from it. It’s just we don’t get many of you… whatever you are, on the boat.’
‘Any, really.’
‘No. Not to say we don’t get a lot of sorts and things. Occupational hazard, going about the world, we see whatever there is about to see. But not you.’
‘He’s a Master, isn’t he?’
‘No, can’t be. What’d he be doing on here?’
‘I’m not a Master,’ Nathan said.
‘See? So what are you then? Some kind of fluke?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ever thought
about finding out? Might be worth your while.’
‘Give him a chance. How old are you, buddy?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Fine age. One of the best.’
‘What about a name?’
‘My name is Nathan Treeves.’
The cabin became still. Where there had been an endless fidgeting and rustling and movement of people in a small space, hands reaching for warmth and a shifting of wet patches around to get the heat, now there was nothing. Every one of them was still.
‘Treeves? Any relation?’ Niamh said.
‘Father’s name wasn’t Nathaniel, was it?’
Nathan nodded.
‘Mother?’
‘Clarissa.’
Silence again, but now they were looking about between them. Nathan couldn’t tell what the expressions were, but none of them would look him in the eye where they had fought for his attention before.
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Can’t be. Treeveses are all dead, years back.’
‘Must be another Treeves.’
Nathan shifted in his seat. ‘My dad was Nathaniel Treeves, he died not long ago. My mum’s Clarissa Treeves. We live in the slums, south of the Merchant City. I’ve lived there as long as I can remember. The Master took me in and educated me, and now I’m off to Malarkoi, to do a job for him.’
‘Are you now?’ The man without a nose, Oisin, shuffled across the plank, put his hard tack back in his jacket. To the others he said, ‘Looks like the fish was right.’
‘It’s not his fault who his mum and dad are,’ Niamh said.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘How could it be? He’s just a boy.’
‘He’s thirteen. I was married when I was thirteen.’
‘Sins of the father.’
‘Bad blood.’
‘You can’t blame him.’
‘Can’t I?’
‘It’s not godly to blame him.’
‘Don’t make me laugh! Godly? Ask his dad about godly.’
One by one they left, folding up their packets of sweets, gathering their blankets, corking their bottles.
Niamh was last. She stood in the doorway, and Nathan couldn’t tell whether she was stopping him from going out or protecting him from the others outside.
‘You want to take some time to learn the history of your name, Nathan. When you do, you’ll have some choices to make. It’s not my place to tell you what to choose, but remember, there’s good and bad in this world, and if you don’t choose good, you’ll pay for it, God or no God.’ Niamh closed the door behind her and peered in through the gaps. ‘Do you want me to lock this? I can lock it, if you feel safer.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She lowered her voice and looked behind her. When she looked back her eyes were sad, and her face was old again. ‘Your dad was the worst Master of all. Master of Waterblack, off west. The City of the Dead, we call it now. And its old Master we call the Devil.’ Niamh shook her head, gently, and sighed. ‘You mustn’t hurt the fish, alright?’
‘I won’t hurt the fish.’
‘Please don’t. I’ll keep the crew back, make sure they don’t do anything stupid, but you mustn’t rile them. Or the fish. Anyhow, the way you’ve spooked her we’ll make landfall by the afternoon.’
When Niamh was gone and the door was locked behind her, Nathan took the book from his chest pocket. He didn’t care if it was daytime.
‘Tell me about the city of Waterblack.’
‘It’s against the rules to consult this book in the daytime.’
‘I don’t care.’
The book wrote the numeral ‘I’ in red, but then, there on the page, an ink sketch scratched itself, first in teal ink, and then in oxblood, and then in a wash of plum, of a low city divided by a narrow river, iron-bridged, snaking out into a calm bay overlooked by a tower.
‘Show me the Master of this city.’
‘He is dead.’
‘Show me him!’
The book sketched the back of a man, tall and thin, arms outstretched, standing on a balcony that overlooked a landscape of black rocks and collapsed masonry. Below him were gathered a multitude, their faces too tiny to make out, kneeling, eyes averted. The back of this man shook – it could have been with sobs or with laughter, but he didn’t seem to be in control of it. He brought his hands together and the people rose up and, as one, shambled irregularly in the direction he then pointed. In the distance there was smoke rising and the book made the sound of clashing metal – swords, or spears, or great engines of war.
‘Show me his face.’
‘You already know what he looks like, Nathan; perhaps you’d like to spare the ink.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There is no “you”.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There is a time for all things, Nathan.’
‘When?’
The book drew seasons – things Nathan did not understand, Mordew having none – and when it divined Nathan’s puzzlement, it drew a day and a boy living it. He woke, he broke his fast, he learned, he ate lunch, he played, he ate dinner, he washed, then he slept. ‘There are many things and they all have their proper times. Perhaps this is not the proper time for you to find out about your father and how it is he came to renounce his power.’
‘Tell me.’
‘And what would you do with the information, Nathan? How would it affect what you will choose to do next? The Master has given you a job; what if knowing of your father will affect your ability to carry out your duties?’
‘I must know.’
The book drew Nathan’s father on the balcony again, and now here was Nathan’s mother. She reached for his father, put her hand on his shoulder. She pulled away, as if in shock. ‘You are not in Mordew now,’ the book told Nathan. ‘You are in the world. Everything you wish to know is here. But you must earn knowledge – nothing worth knowing is given to you. Everything must be earned.’
‘Please!’
The book said nothing, but a new drawing appeared on the page: a sad child, chin resting in his hands, staring off at the outline of Mordew in the distance.
‘Earn it, Nathan.’
LXX
In the mid-afternoon, the ship dropped anchor a hundred yards from the shore, but the fish wouldn’t calm, and the strain was too much on the rear chain so they had to drop the fore anchor too. The hull was shaking so hard and rocking so much that when they lowered the rowing boat it knocked and cracked on the planks and sent showers of mouldy splinters down to speckle the surface of the water.
As Niamh rowed Nathan to shore, the birds screamed overhead, puzzled at the presence of so much fish meat nearby but with nothing for them to catch. ‘Can’t hardly see it now, in the full sun. Type of lesson, isn’t it? That no matter what man does, no matter how powerful he thinks he is, he’s nothing compared to the majesty of God’s creation. Isn’t that right, Nathan Treeves?’
Nathan said nothing, and soon there was sand under the boat. He stepped out. She could say what she liked; in a little while she would be gone. He put his hand to his chest and there was the book. He was away from Mordew, away from the influence of his father, free in the world. The disgust of other people: what was that to him?
The sand under his feet was fine-grained and almost white. As Nathan walked, he taunted the Spark to build, goaded it with thoughts, with anger, with memories. Where his feet fell, he left footprints of fused glass behind him, scorches of mirror black that led back to where the boat was rowing away.
Niamh stared and each ever more frantic row of the oars took her further away.
He turned away from her and the glass spread beneath his feet in two circles that met between his ankles and impinged on each other. He stepped back and the circles stopped, two new ones forming where he now stood.
He lifted his hands and they were burning blue, the cotton of his shirt taking the tint.
He knelt and gathered sand in his
hands. It pooled as if liquid, thick like molten metal in his palms, so that he could ball it up, black snow.
He dropped the snowball and it lay in the sand, half sand-dusted, half shining in the daylight.
In the waves that reached the shore he could see himself reflected, flickering like a flame as each wave crested and broke.
The beach was bounded on the landward side by high cliffs of chalk, white for a hundred feet before they met grass. It was as if the land hand been spooned away, or carved carelessly, leaving this edge crumbling into the water. There were no obvious pathways, only dips worn down where the cliffs were lower, and, at the top of one of these, sheep were grazing.
Nathan walked towards them, first shaking his feet free of the black chunks of glass his pausing had made of the sand.
The sheep watched him approach, chewing silently and dipping their heads when their mouths were empty as if he was the kind of thing they saw every day. He remembered from Bellows’s map that Malarkoi was inland and north-east, only an inch.
LXXI
The road was unmarked by way-posts and met no city walls. Nathan only realised he was there at all gradually, and then, when he thought back, he found that he had come into it several miles earlier but hadn’t recognised the signs. He had walked past fields in which penned animals were kept, circles staked out in wood, fifty feet across beside which were single tents of patchwork fabrics pegged loosely here and there. The animals paid him no attention, grinding their teeth and scarcely looking up. They were thin, their bones like the tent posts, and their skins like the tarps stretched between them. The fields had no enclosures, but the pens were spaced a fair way apart. There were no people tending them.
Gradually the pens encroached on the spaces between them and the tents grew in number, until after a few miles there was almost nothing between any of them, stakes driven into the same ground and the ropes that kept the tents up crossing each other like the rigging of a sailboat.
Still no people.
The animals ignored him, and the closer their pens neighboured each other the more stolidly and rigorously they took the business of chewing the grass, as if there was an intention on all their parts of paring back the green to the chalk beneath.