Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  I looked for signs of a damaged reputation as I saw to the small splint with which I’d set a bargeman’s two fingers. He was as brusque as ever, not one for idle talk, and offered the usual hint of deference towards someone from whom he needed help. In short: no change. The same was true of the woman whose bandages I refreshed, the bargeman whose boil I had lanced, and the man who had, before we set sail, chosen poor bedfellows. Bedfellows: the plural was very much emphasised, and he insisted on detailing the whys and hows of the situation from beginning to end. He was utterly unrepentant. If anything, he wore his current condition as a badge of honour. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile along with Harry – that was his name.

  I spent as much time on deck as I could during the approach to Fenest. The river was very busy and there were periods in which we moved in increments of feet in what felt like slow hours. It was much cooler here than in Bordair and the early evenings demanded a jacket, and then an overcoat.

  ‘You’re quite taken with the city, aren’t you?’ Mona said, joining me at the railing.

  I explained my childish imaginings of spires and a kind of glittering that would be the envy of the stars. She didn’t mock me but nodded as if such fancies were perfectly reasonable.

  ‘It’s a shame we won’t be docking,’ she said. ‘There’s things worth seeing here.’

  ‘Not docking?’ I said.

  ‘The captain says we can’t delay,’ she said. ‘Though that’s only the half of it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘News has travelled quicker than we have. You just wait and see: we’ll pass empty wharfs, keep to the middle of the river, and be watched the whole way.’

  ‘Because of Black Jefferey?’ I said.

  ‘You have the right of it.’

  I turned back to the view of the city, but my thoughts were wandering to what lay beyond. ‘Whenever I’ve asked, no one would tell me, but I’ve always wanted to know why it’s called Break Deep.’

  Mona hissed. Then she cursed. ‘Do you spend every day a fool, crafting tales for the Drunkard?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, taken aback by her reaction.

  ‘We could fill this barge, and the ship, with what you don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’s called Break Deep because that’s what happens to anything that sails her.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  But she interrupted me by placing her mouth on mine.

  I hadn’t lied when I told Mona I was no innocent: I had kissed girls before. And been with enough women to understand what it was that drove people to each other – and what drove some of them to my threshold afterwards. And yet Mona disarmed me of this knowledge. I floundered, like a boy ambushed in the playground, and only just recovered quickly enough to not embarrass us both through inaction. I returned her kiss. When we parted she patted my hand that had remained on the railing, and it was a gesture of genuine affection. To an onlooker it might have appeared condescending, but I was left grinning like a buffoon. I was still grinning as we entered the outskirts of Fenest, but it was not to last long.

  *

  Mona was, of course, correct in her prediction that the city wouldn’t welcome us, though I was sure that had more to do with her understanding of people than it did the casting of any oil on water. We joined a number of Casker barges in the centre of the river, making a slow procession past eerily empty docks. Most of the crew were up on deck and at the railings, and together we gazed silently back at the few dockhands and officers on the harbour boards. The atmosphere was one of a funeral march. A number of the crew turned away from the Fenestirans’ grim pity.

  But I remained there, at the railing, through the harbour and beyond into the residences of Fenest. There may have been few spires, but the buildings were grand. Mixes of wood and stone that I didn’t fully understand the logic behind, not being a builder after all, but in which I could appreciate a kind of functional beauty. I was impressed – though not awed – by the size and scale of the city. I resolved to visit Fenest on my return. An easy resolution to make, given the circumstances.

  I enjoyed that view of the backs of homes, the side windows that showed glimpses of pantries and studies, the little window boxes – some well-tended, others abandoned. The sun set on this more intimate view of the city and I had to move to the aft of the barge to see candles and lamps lit in the receding windows. As we left Fenest, other barges took to tributaries large and small though all leading away from the capital. We stayed the course on the River Stave.

  We were two, maybe three, miles clear of the city when the dweller attacked.

  *

  I felt the first bump. I didn’t know what it was, but I did feel the barge rock slightly. I took a step back from the railing. There were plenty of people on deck with me and I looked up and down the barge to reassure myself. Some did look up from their work, so I knew I had not imagined it. I thought perhaps we had hit something in the water – maybe a silt bank or the like. But no one appeared concerned, and when another bump didn’t come, they went back to whatever they were doing.

  Then the first shout went up.

  It might have been a word, but all I heard was the sound, the tone, the alarm. Everyone was on their feet. In the near-silence that followed that cry there was such a tense stillness, the likes of which I had never experienced. A die rolled across the deck, knocked or kicked in the players’ haste in standing. It came to a stop showing three pips. In that insane moment I groped for some significance in that number: neither highest nor lowest, a line that put me in mind of a triangle, et cetera. That’s what I was thinking when I saw a woman dragged overboard.

  She was standing only a few yards from me with her back turned. Suddenly she was falling in a way that made no sense: the wrong kind of fall for someone who had tripped over or fainted or was in pain. She hit the deck hard and then she was sliding towards the rail. The woman didn’t struggle. She was limp, her arms now forced above her head as she was pulled along the deck. There was… something at her feet.

  Brin started barking. More shouts, and I could make out one word above all others: dweller.

  I shuddered, a kind of primal reaction that took hold of my whole body.

  Bargemen were rushing to and fro about me. Some carried poles, others had knives of varying lengths, but all of them wore looks of grim determination. I felt something brush against my hand and flinched, as if bitten. Brin was by my side, the whole of her rigid and alert. She gave a low growl. I followed her gaze and saw it.

  An eye so big it belonged in a nightmare – and has haunted mine ever since.

  I watched in horror as its misty iris became engorged, and then slowly shrank to focus on me. I stepped back but my path was blocked. I looked my own death in the eye and did not find courage or cowardice in myself, just paralysis. Brin, however, barked her challenge. The eye slid away, and I took my first breath in what felt like hours. I knelt to commend the water-dog’s bravery, when one of the dweller’s long tentacles shot over the barge’s edge.

  My ankle burst into flame, or so it felt. The pressing, needle-like heat of a fire blossomed there and I had just a moment to register the sensation before I was pulled from my feet. I slid towards that precipice, and the eye waiting for me beyond. I reached out in desperation and caught hold of a heap of netting, which did nothing to stop me. I was making some kind of noise – a scream, perhaps.

  And then, in a bolt of black muscle, Brin set upon the tentacle. She sank her teeth into that nightmarish pink limb and shook her head viciously. Again, and again, her muzzle came away in sprays of midnight-blue blood. I felt the grip around my ankle loosen. I kicked and wriggled and grasped for something, anything, but to no avail.

  I hit an upright of the railing and the wind was knocked from me.

  Below, the dweller flared in all its unimaginable glory. Pocked more than any pox victim, its spread of tentacles struck out at different parts of the barge. I was j
ust one mouthful. One stubborn, likely tasteless mouthful.

  I felt the boards beneath me shudder under a heavy blow and wondered if I was worth the attention of another of the beast’s teeth-lined limbs. But no further bite came; I dragged my head back from the edge to see Fian tugging at a machete that was now wedged in the barge. Her hands, like Brin’s muzzle, were slick with the dweller’s unearthly blood.

  The realisation I was free came slowly as Fian turned to some other skirmish. My ankle was still alight, still wrapped in the creature’s thick muscle. I could only roll away and gulp at the air, my chest tightening with every passing moment.

  That I remained as such, lying on my back as the rest of the crew defended the barge was a source of shame long after the event. I heard the screams of those less fortunate than myself: those who Brin or Fian or the captain were unable to save. But the dweller did not destroy the barge. I was told we did not destroy the dweller either, and that three men and two women were lost, Arthur among them.

  *

  I became my own patient. My ankle and lower shin were ragged: a bloody mess of loose skin and muscle. With an effort that left me panting, I eased away the end of the tentacle. Even in such a short time the dweller’s teeth had marked me in a way from which I would never totally recover. And not just scarring, but an uneven gait. I wiggled my toes, wishing I could see their movement inside my boot, not fully trusting the sensation. But once I determined there wasn’t any real risk of losing the use of my foot, I knew infection would be the real danger.

  As soon as I could stand after the attack, I shuffled my way below deck. That I could still walk – however painfully – was nothing short of miraculous. I was vaguely aware of the frenzy of activity around me but could only focus on the simple act of placing one foot gingerly in front of the next. Men and women were shadows in the lamplight – we passed each other like barges at midnight, but without hailing. I swallowed hard against the pain and rising bile.

  Below deck was as calm and dark as ever, though much of that had to do with how empty it was. The hammocks hung like abandoned spider webs; the corners favoured for dice held the memory of rattling cups and soft curses, but now they felt different to me. I took up my bag, glad that the handles meant I didn’t need to break my stride or kneel: I was unsure if I would find my way back to my feet.

  I commandeered the galley with no opposition. Through gritted teeth I worked, liberally mixing herbs, leaves, and water. I made a good deal of the salve – far more than my own needs – certain that others too would have felt the dweller’s spiny kiss. Biting down on one of Darcie’s wooden spoons, I applied the salve. My vision shrank and I fell against a cupboard.

  But after the initial shock, there was a cooling sensation that was most welcome. I knew it would turn to itching, if all was well, but I did not let that knowledge ruin my small relief. I carried a cooking pot’s worth of salve, what bandages I had, and one or two other useful items from my bag up on deck. I placed myself in one of the dead-spots on the barge, but in plain view. Before long I had a steady stream of bargemen to attend to. So many, that while I wound bandages and applied the thick, green salve I wondered at the number of tentacles a dweller had. I knew better than to ask anyone, but it looked to me very few on-board had avoided the dweller altogether.

  When it was clear no more would come I fell exhausted on my hammock and, although I was aware of being the only one below deck, fell straight to sleep.

  *

  I was woken once again by Perse. I was relieved to see the boy: he had not come to me the day before with any wounds. He appeared as calm as ever as he led me to the captain’s quarters. Had I slept the entire day, right through to another senior crew’s dinner? On deck the high, warm sun dispelled this fear, but in its wake was a roiling uncertainty in my stomach. Nothing good could come of a meeting with the captain, not now.

  She waved me into a chair immediately – no waiting on her maps, no standing at a loose kind of attention.

  ‘Tell me of the crew,’ she said.

  ‘The crew, Captain?’

  ‘The injuries. You’ve seen them all?’

  ‘I believe so, yes. Eliza was clear that everyone should see me.’

  ‘Some bargemen can be stubborn,’ the captain said. She herself had not come to me and I knew she had been on deck to battle the creature. She must have noticed my look of concern, as she said, ‘I’m fine. That’s not the first dweller to try its luck with my barge.’

  ‘It was hideous,’ I said, recalling the movement of its enormous eye – something I had been trying hard to forget. ‘And so close to the city?’

  ‘They have been, of late.’

  She told me of the men and women lost to the dweller. She also spoke of the barges ahead and behind us, apparently not attacked, who had offered us aid with repairs. They had been too far away to offer any real help during the attack.

  ‘I didn’t know Arthur well,’ I said, ‘but he struck me as a good man.’

  ‘“A good man?” Maybe he was.’

  ‘Will we return to Bordair, or Fenest?’ I said.

  She looked at me for a moment before answering, ‘Neither.’ She stood and moved behind the table.

  ‘But we’ve lost so many?’ I said.

  ‘Seven,’ she said flatly.

  I thought that to be at least a quarter of the crew. ‘Yes, seven,’ I said.

  ‘That is acceptable,’ she said, her attention now on her charts.

  ‘Acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, Sanga, our ship is designed with the expectation there will be casualties.’

  I left the captain with a heavy sickness in me.

  *

  I was on deck when the ship came into view. I realised I had been staring at it for some time, this small break in the flat line of the horizon, where the sky met Break Deep. I had thought it to be a cliff or island or some other natural phenomenon. I gripped the railing. That we would be voyaging in something so colossal terrified and appalled me. That we could build such a thing brought forth similar emotions.

  ‘There she is,’ Mona said. She knew me well enough by now to know how I preferred to waste my spare hours; I was no longer surprised to hear her voice behind me.

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Hubris.’

  I turned to look at her. She couldn’t quite keep a straight face. ‘That’s terrible,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t want to know its real name,’ she said.

  ‘It’s big enough.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘No more dweller attacks,’ I said.

  ‘That would depend on how big the dwellers are out there.’ She was gazing at Break Deep. She had been below deck during the attack. I wasn’t sure what the rest of the crew felt about that, but it wasn’t hard to think a water-reader might know a thing or two about what happened beneath the river’s surface. I had wondered myself.

  ‘How’s your leg?’ she said.

  ‘It itches.’

  ‘You’re not the only one. Half the crew are scratching at themselves.’

  ‘It’s good. All part of the healing,’ I said.

  ‘You aren’t moving right, though.’

  ‘My foot-race days are over.’

  It was good to hear her laugh, even if briefly. ‘We’ll be aboard before sunset,’ she said. ‘Captain wants to feed us again.’

  I groaned. ‘I won’t go, not after last time.’

  ‘You have to. That was the quickest senior meal I’ve known. This time walk in singing that rhyme, won’t you?’

  I took an exaggerated breath, but she stopped me, her face serious. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  I’d had little time to think about Mona, or the kiss we shared. Now, she was so close, her face tilted slightly up towards me. I touched her cheek and, when she didn’t step away, I kissed her. That felt better than thinking, or talking.

  *

  The ship had its own wharf. As we approached, I had the sense that it was a very lonel
y thing. I said as much to Mona, who was still beside me, our hands entwined, and she hummed her agreement.

  ‘It’s the only one of its kind.’ The way she said it, I had the impression she was talking of an animal or flower – a living thing at the point of extinction. There was a kind of sadness to it.

  Our barge was secured; now that we had stopped moving I finally understood the sheer size of the ship. It towered above us – more building than boat – and even had a balcony on the aft. The masts satisfied any need I might still have had for spires, the crow’s nest high enough to tickle the toes of the Audience. The complex lines of rigging were impossible to follow, and I almost felt dizzy trying.

  ‘Have you ever seen such a thing?’ I said.

  Mona released my hand and drifted away. I was too awed, too much in the ship’s sway, to follow her.

  The ship not only had its own wharf, but its own flight of steps, which twisted and turned up to its deck. Men and women were already climbing those steps, arms laden with crates and nets and all manner of supplies.

  ‘Still have your doubts?’ the captain said, coming to stand beside me. She felt wrong in the space Mona had left: too slight, too hard.

  ‘She is impressive,’ I said.

  ‘She’s our future.’

  I shuddered at the cold certainty in the captain’s tone as she said this. If she noticed, she made no comment. Instead, she told me to gather my things and stow them below deck on the ship. I did so, my awe now tainted with apprehension. It spoke to the power of the ship that I had, however briefly, forgotten that it was likely to be the site of my final days; mine and the crew’s.

  As I climbed the dock’s stairs that apprehension grew into a blind panic. I gripped my bag until my fingernails dug painfully into my palm. I kept climbing only because I was unsure whether I would be able to keep my feet if I turned around. At the top there was a small gap between the dock and the ship. Only a foot of air, and water below, to cross and yet in that moment I would have felt more able to vault from one side of Bordair to the other. People went about their business on deck, paying me no mind, as if there was nothing more normal in the whole world.