Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  *

  That hope would have made the Audience laugh, as the majority of my hopes did. I slept through the day and was woken in the evening by a rough shaking that almost toppled me to the floor. A bargeman had apparently been careless and suffered some kind of injury. The circumstances were explained to me as I was led up on deck, but I had little understanding of the finer details of ropes and booms and the like. I managed to ascertain the woman, Shann, was very much alive, not bleeding profusely, and clutching an arm that she would let no one else touch.

  I knelt by the woman, who cursed me for a heavy-footed imbecile. I hesitated, thinking that perhaps the captain had been wrong in believing her crew would accept my aid. But the woman hadn’t realised who I was, being so intent on the bruise that was flowering at the end of her inking, which ironically put her flowers to shame.

  ‘Can I?’ I said.

  ‘Can you what, piss-breath?’

  I cast about hoping that the captain, or even the ’swain, was nearby to make my introduction easier. But we were in a rare moment of isolation.

  ‘My name is… well, I’m your new sanga and I’d like to have a look at your arm,’ I said, steeling myself for more curses followed by questions of my character, parentage, et cetera.

  Instead, the woman turned mild as milk. ‘Yes, please, Sanga.’ She offered the arm tentatively to me, wincing at the effort.

  I probed around the bruise, noting when she showed signs of pain, and decided the break was not too serious. I formed a splint and advised she get some rest.

  ‘Captain has already ordered me below,’ she said.

  ‘If the pain keeps you from sleep, I can help.’

  ‘Won’t be any danger of that,’ she said. She refused my help to stand.

  I stayed on deck to watch the sunset, and well beyond. We were passing through the low hills that surrounded Bordair. The current appeared strong to my ignorant eyes, but the main sail was full and so was the smaller one in front – it probably had a special name. I enjoyed seeing the landscape slide by: a sense that it was always moving, always changing, despite being quite similar from one hour to the next. I was perhaps starting to understand, at a very basic and naïve level, the appeal of working on a barge; a feeling that should have pumped through my very veins had I been a true Casker. I tried to not let the bitterness of that thought ruin my simple joy.

  The following days passed in much the same manner. I managed to adjust my sleeping hours to see more daylight, but that didn’t stop the bargemen waking me in the middle of the night when I was needed. To think I was worried I would be of no use, little more than a passenger! There was no end to the small bumps and ailments these bargemen endured. I checked regularly on Shann, the woman with the broken arm, but she was working the day after the incident and somehow managing despite the splint. I had yet to have the opportunity to speak to the captain – who was manically busy and never in one spot for longer than a few minutes – regarding my pay. A share was promised, but I assumed there would be a stipend of some sorts. Should that opportunity present itself, I felt on solid ground to argue my worth.

  We left the hills after two days and the River Cask widened with every mile. At first, the fields of the Lowlands were some distance from the river bank. But they crept closer until their rich soil was clear to be seen. Those working in the fields paid us no mind, and the bargemen appeared to return the disinterest. I, however, was fascinated by their work: the horses and the devices they pulled, their carts and wagons, their tools. I watched them every moment I could.

  Other barges were a constant, of course, and I soon became accustomed to the loud greetings and rapidly shouted news that accompanied a nearby barge passing in the other direction. The first time it happened I thought someone was injured and rushed to the other side of the barge. It was news of a wedding.

  We travelled mostly by sail, but there were times when the winds dropped. Poles were the solution: the entire crew except for the pilot, Darcie, were called to action. That included the captain, and me. I had no trouble sleeping any night – but after an afternoon at the pole I all but collapsed into my hammock.

  No trouble sleeping, but my sleep was troubled.

  I dreamt often and vividly. Images I recognised and understood tumbled into one another, became twisted and took on meanings I either didn’t comprehend or couldn’t bring myself to. The elderly man with no legs featured often, but he gained the face and voice of others: Dahey, the aunt who called at my hut, her niece. They said incomprehensible things to me, all the while shaking their cups, which ranged from overflowing to bottomless. I never woke in a start from these dreams, thank the Child, but was left to contemplate them in the harsh light of morning. In those moments Brin, the Caskanese water-dog that continued to sleep beneath me, would nuzzle my feet as if she felt my low mood. I had had little contact with animals in my life; my mother would not tolerate insects in our hut, let alone a pet. But I found Brin’s presence strangely comforting.

  *

  The days passed, and the Cask was enormous now. It moved ponderously through the flat landscape and this easy pace not only infected the crew but also the barges we passed. No one was in a hurry, or so it appeared to me until I saw the captain. She constantly checked the river’s depth in the hope that we might use the poles to speed our passage when the wind dropped. Though I couldn’t hear their conversation, she was quite animated in the face of an impassive Mona. Even a water-reader could say little about the vagaries of the wind.

  With no one in immediate need of me, I decided to check on my existing patients. I wandered the length of the barge, careful not to get in anyone’s way, asking after burns – rope and otherwise – and various cuts. I changed a particularly bloody bandage from the knuckles of a woman who wouldn’t quite meet my eye. When I suggested the blood might not have been only hers, she favoured me with a toothless grin. But I couldn’t find Shann.

  I managed to catch the captain in her quarters, during one of the rare moments she sat down. These she spent pouring over maps and charts that, if I looked at too closely, danced before my eyes and made my head ache. The small room was taken up by a table to accommodate these maps and, unless I was mistaken, she slept in a hammock that she stowed away during the day. That was, if she slept at all.

  ‘Captain?’ I said. When no response came I waited patiently, knowing she had heard me. Eventually she looked up and blinked rapidly. No doubt she would have found me easier to see if I’d been a small inked number.

  ‘Yes, Sanga?’

  ‘I can’t find Shann.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was tending her arm and wanted to check the break was setting properly,’ I said, still standing at the table side. I noted there were no chairs to offer me, even if the captain had been so inclined.

  ‘Maybe that’s why she banked out.’

  ‘Banked out?’ I said.

  ‘It happens more than I’d like, but it’s nothing to worry about. Another time we might pick her up on the return leg but this, of course, is different.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘How could I know?’ she said, without malice. ‘What my crew do beyond the boundaries of this barge is out of my control, as much as it might concern me. Affect me, even.’

  ‘Don’t you need her?’

  ‘We’re still afloat, aren’t we?’ She laughed at her own joke, though I didn’t. ‘Don’t worry, Sanga, this is all planned for. You’ll have to trust that I know my business.’

  ‘Of course, Captain.’

  ‘You worry for the crew, and that’s good. Essential, in fact. Gerant looks to have banked out too, so you know. But we will manage just fine.’

  ‘I see, thank you, Captain.’ I turned to leave.

  ‘I have been meaning to call the senior crew together to eat. Now that we’re a little more organised.’

  I glanced about the captain’s quarters, trying to imagine what less organisation might look like.

  ‘Only ev
ening meals, of course,’ she said.

  ‘That sounds…’ Arduous? Dull? Horrendous? Trying to make polite small talk with half a dry biscuit under one’s tongue. ‘Useful,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you would understand.’ She returned to her maps, as good as any dismissal I might receive.

  I spent the rest of the day in a kind of dread-anticipation of the evening. I watched the sun’s descent, beautiful as it was, and wished the Audience might arrest this great tale; if not indefinitely, then at least for a while. I knew to have it over and done with would be better. How many times had I told my patients the very same regarding their treatment? But if the captain wished these evening meals to continue through to the end then there was no hope for quick relief.

  The sunset was also particularly stunning thanks to the city that was starting to dominate the horizon. I didn’t embarrass myself by asking one of the bargemen; I was fairly certain it was Fenest. I had heard all the stories of its vast size, its sprawl, its decadence. I had listened with the other children who cast sidelong glances at me as if I should already know of Fenest despite being born in Bordair. The bullies had later cornered me, demanded more stories and, as my imagination failed me, did what they had come to do.

  ‘I had expected more spires,’ I said, not sure why I felt the need to air the thought. Luckily, no one was near enough to overhear. I had thought the Grand Seats would be visible from afar. I had assumed they towered over the city with majestic benevolence. Instead, Fenest looked like a bloodstain: something that had spread in a way no one had anticipated or could now remedy. As someone who was considered a foreigner in Bordair, I felt strangely let down by the capital. When Perse came to collect me I was in a morose mood. I was apparently not the only one.

  *

  The table was set for six. Where the chairs had come from, I couldn’t say, and even with one end of the table hard against the wall there was little space. I was ushered to a chair beside Fian, the master-of-arms whose knuckles boasted my fresh bandages. Opposite me sat Mona and Arthur: the barge’s carpenter. The captain had the head, of course. Evidently we were saving the mindless chatter for when the table was full and the following few minutes were spent in excruciating silence, only broken by Arthur awkwardly clearing his throat. On the third time, the captain remarked, ‘Perhaps the sanga would be good enough to look at that cough, Arthur.’

  Titters went around the table, and somewhat eased the atmosphere.

  The last to join us was Eliza, the boatswain.

  ‘I’ve said this to you all individually,’ the captain began, ‘but I’d like to say it again to all of you: this coming together is important. Those who have crewed for me before know it is my way, and know why I consider it so valuable. Those who are new to this table I hope will come to understand.’

  The bored nods of everyone other than myself marked me out as clearly as if the captain had asked for a show of hands.

  ‘We have only one rule,’ the captain said. ‘Once the port is served there is no talk of the boat or the crew or any aspect of our business.’

  I wondered if this was a rule I would come to appreciate or loathe.

  ‘But until the port I’d like to hear from every one of you. Perhaps you would care to start, Arthur?’

  The carpenter cleared his throat – to more stifled chuckles – and began to list a number of issues he was facing with the barge. My attention lasted all of a few seconds, but I did my best not to appear rude. Others at the table asked questions and otherwise were quite engaged by the whole process. Then the first course was served.

  I was pleased to find I had been wrong in my expectation of dried biscuits and bread. A small bowl of fiery broth was passed down to me – Perse only having room to serve from near the captain. It was actually hot, in both senses, and I wondered where on the barge this was achieved, and whom the chef was.

  ‘Darcie,’ the captain said in answer to my question.

  ‘Darcie?’ I tried to imagine the gangly man below deck, long arms frantic and spider-like in the preparation of what I had to admit was a very tasty broth.

  ‘I think, and this includes the men and women at this table, you’ll find my crew full of surprises, Sanga.’ The captain smiled, evidently pleased by this minor revelation.

  During the soup course, Eliza grumbled her way through a report to the effect that there were no problems of discipline or duty among the crew. I did notice her hand stray towards the necklace of the Tear I knew to be under her shirt, but no one else appeared to see or, if they did, it was just an accepted habit of hers. It made me think of Dahey, that night, and a barge-full of memories I would rather have avoided. I didn’t look directly at her again for the entirety of the meal.

  Fian had similarly little to say, except that all ‘inventory’ was present and accounted for. When the smoked fish arrived – I didn’t quite catch its name – it was Mona’s turn. She placed her hands on the table. Like Eliza and her necklace, I wondered if this was a deliberate affectation or if she did so unthinkingly. I didn’t know Mona well enough yet to tell the difference; even if she knew me enough to kiss my cheek.

  ‘There’s little the waters tell me that you don’t already know,’ Mona said. Beside me, Fian hmphed – clearly I wasn’t the only one who had their doubts about lecanomancy. We shared a look, but Mona continued. ‘This is a journey fraught with difficulty and uncertainty. My readings suggest this is unchanged, even though we have begun. I cast several readings, at different points of the barge, and always the outer fourth quarter has been densely lined.’ She paused, perhaps waiting for a reaction or even a sign that anyone understood the significance of this. None was forthcoming though I noticed the captain was frowning. ‘The fourth quarter represents the last days of any given tale: mine, yours, that of the barge, that of the world.’

  I could have been mistaken but she seemed to place a slight emphasis on ‘world’ in a way that made me recall the captain’s words as I left the Commission’s study in Bordair. She’d claimed the world was dying.

  ‘That so many lines are drawn to the outer fourth suggests a lot of tales are about to end.’

  ‘How many is a lot?’ I said, throwing her own words back at her. However, the gesture felt hollow as she gave no indication she remembered asking the same question.

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  Fian threw up her hands. ‘What’s the point then? We don’t need a water-reader to know people die each day.’

  ‘A lot,’ Mona repeated.

  ‘Thank you, Mona,’ the captain said. This had the feel of an old argument, and one she would rather move on from. ‘Sanga Jeffereys?’

  I sat up in my seat, suddenly aware just how badly I had been slouching. ‘Yes, well, barges are dangerous places,’ I said, attempting to break the atmosphere with a jest. I was met with blank stares and one or two open glares. I cleared my throat and proceeded to give an extensive list of ailments I had seen to since being on-board, stopping only briefly to explain my treatments if they might have affected a bargeman’s ability to carry out their duties. Judging I had suitably bored my dinner companions, who had all turned to their fish as if, by comparison, it were worthy of the Reveller, I concluded by saying, ‘And, of course, the most serious injury was to Shann, but she is no longer with us.’

  No one so much as looked up from their food. Either they all knew or didn’t care, and I had to assume it was the former. It did go some way to affirm the captain’s claim that Shann’s banking out was not unusual.

  Captain Cope left long enough to be sure I had finished, and then said, ‘Thank you, Sanga. With only two crewmen banked out, none of the crew should expect extra rations.’ She cracked a smile at this, though it only lasted a moment. ‘Water and food levels are acceptable and there are, of course, further supplies awaiting us at the ship.’

  Ship.

  I choked, quite literally, on the word. I made some terrible noises, but with the aid of Fian’s meaty fist on my back and a number of gl
asses of water, I managed to recover myself. To most of the table there was little more to it, but I had the impression both the captain and Mona noted the timing of my misfortune.

  I had heard stories of ships as a child. I usually liked them because, not having anything to do with Fenest, they rarely resulted in a beating from the bigger boys and girls. There were rhymes too. One I could recall a verse from but little more:

  Ship a ship o’ houses,

  A berth full of louses.

  We miss you, we miss you,

  We all Break Deep.

  When I looked up from my lap I found everyone staring at me, and all of them quite grave. Mona was positively ashen-faced.

  ‘Sanga Jeffereys,’ the captain said, ‘do not, ever, repeat that rhyme on this or any other vessel of which I am in command.’

  Apparently I had, without realising, murmured the childhood tune.

  ‘Yes, Captain. My apologies.’

  Eliza had her necklace fully out from beneath her shirt and was making a good effort to rub a hole in it.

  The evening was beyond recovery. The fish was followed by slices of fruit. I’ve never witnessed port drunk so quickly or in such silence; certainly not a night to mention to the Drunkard. Arthur was the first to leave and when he stood from the table he looked me squarely in the eye and shook his head.

  He was dead within the week.

  *

  The day that followed was not easy. I stepped lightly around the barge, wondering if news of my – apparently colossal – blunder had spread. There were no new injuries and I delayed checking on existing patients until the very last moment; any longer a delay and I could not, in good conscience, call myself a sanga.