by Rj Barker
“Looks like a big storm, Deckkeeper,” she said. “What are you planning on doing about it?”
“Heading for open water, Shipwife.”
Meas nodded. “Good.” She turned to stare behind at Snarltooth, and as the wind, already brisk, whirled the tails of her hat around she turned back to them. “Deckmother!” she shouted. “Signal Snarltooth, tell them I’d rather have them in one piece than in sight if it comes to it. If we get separated they know where we are heading.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” said Solemn Muffaz and he passed the order up the spine to the topboy and the topboy picked up his flags and sent the order. Meas watched Snarltooth, riding up and down the rolling waves, smashing through them in gouts of foam. They waited until an answer was returned and Solemn Muffaz nodded and walked up the slate to stand before his shipwife.
“Snarltooth says message received, Shipwife,” he said.
“Well, I am glad of that,” said Meas. “Deckkeeper, get us out of these islands and rig for bad weather. I will be in my cabin.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” he said.
It seemed to Joron that there was very little time between him giving his orders – to steer for open water, and to tie down the bowpeeks and get Tide Child all secure – and the time they entered the edges of the storm. A growing wind, a drop in temperature, a feeling in the ear that every deckchilder on the slate recognised as a coming storm, and a big one. The waves were growing, no longer undulating rollers but sharper and white-capped, the wind whipping their tops into froth and fury. Soon the wind was so strong that conversation could not be had without placing your head against that of whoever you wished to speak with, and a constant thin rain seeped through the old tears and found the weak seams in stinker coats, many times repaired on a Menday.
“If it is like this now,” Dinyl shouted, “what will it be like when it hits?”
“Terrible,” Joron yelled back. “Have no doubt of it.”
He was not wrong.
The storm towered over them, huge thunderheads of grey, rising to black and shot through with flashes of lightning. Clouds became vast towers, lit from within by strobing light, and yet no thunder rumbled. Or maybe Joron could simply not hear it over the howl of the wind and the booming of the wings as they caught the air.
“Topwings only, Deckkeeper?” shouted Dinyl.
“Ey!” Then he turned, pushing his damaged voice as hard as he could. “Barlay, keep us beak on to the waves!”
And then the storm truly hit. A sheet of lightning whited out Joron’s vision, followed by a rumble of thunder that sounded like wingbolts being fired into stone cliffs. Rain came, almost horizontal. No matter which way Joron turned his face was pelted with water. The ship began to judder as it was beaten by waves from all directions, and he turned to find Meas grabbing his arm.
“Double the teams on the pumps,” she shouted. A wave crashed over them, freezing water covering the deck and, for a moment, it was easy to imagine Tide Child already sunk; then the water withdrew and the ship was rising up the face of a wave as sheer as any cliff. “The pumps, Joron!” He ran to carry out her order, gathering women and men to him as he went into the underdecks towards the pumps in the lower deck. He passed Coxward, the bonewright, his face dark with worry and his feet and lower legs black with bilge water.
“What is the problem, Coxward?” said Joron.
“Tis the lower bones, Deckkeeper,” he said, as quietly as the creaking ship allowed. “Tide Child is an old ship and the bones move in harsh weather more than I would like. That breaks the seals and lets water in, but my girls and boys will keep on top of it. You just keep those pumps running.” With that he was gone and Joron turned to the deckchilder around him.
“Well, you heard him – no one likes to be on the pumps for it is fearful hard work, but it is you that will keep us afloat for the next two hours. I will have you relieved then.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” they said, and then Joron was running back to the deck. He took a moment to enjoy being relatively dry – though water ran in rivers through gaps in the deck and down the open main hatch – then he was back into it. Freezing wind, icy rain and waves that towered so high over Tide Child that it seemed impossible he would not be swamped, but the ship was as strong and stubborn as the crew that flew him and he faced every wave, climbing and climbing, then speeding down the other side while Barlay, Solemn Muffaz and Coughlin all fought the steering oar.
It seemed the storm would never stop. Joron lost all idea of time. The sandglass could not be trusted with the ship bucking so violently, despite that Gavith did his best to turn it when needed. Sleep was taken when it could be snatched, and it was never restful as the freezing water would not be stopped in its quest to drown the ship, sneaking in through every crevice and crack, waking those it found. Night and day came and went and the crew became leaden, but none gave up. And still, despite the discomfort and the danger, Joron felt himself grinning. This was the purest form of being at sea, this was when he and his father had felt most alive, when it was their frail human bodies and their boat fighting against the wind and the water to live. For Joron, this was what it meant to be Hundred Isles – not war, not sacrificing childer to ships, but to be one with the sea. If the Hag was to take them, let it be this way, let it be a great wave that turned his ship over and he would fight the water for his life all the way down to the Hag’s bonefire.
“Joron!” It was Meas, her grey hair soaked and black under the hood of her stinker.
“Ey, Shipwife?”
“Get the gullaime on deck. I have faced stronger storms than this, but not longer, and the deckchilder are near spent. Aelerin says this storm is like no other we have faced – we have barely moved, we get near the edge and it drags us back in. We need the gullaime to push us out. Ask if it can.” Was there worry there? An edge of fear?
“Ey, Shipwife,” he shouted back and then he was heading for the underdecks, bobbing so he did not hit his head on the overbones, weaving between hammocks filled with fitfully sleeping bodies until he arrived at the door of the gullaime’s nest. The damp windshorn crouched before it, looking even more dejected and miserable than ever, for though they were brought up on ships the gullaime as a species disliked the open sea, and hated rough seas especially.
“I need to see Gullaime.”
The windshorn nodded its head and scratched on the door with a wingclaw.
“Away go!”
“Gullaime, it is me.”
The tone of its voice changed immediately. “Come, come,” it said, and he entered. The gullaime was crouched within its nest in a corner of the room. Joron could not recall if the nest was now in a different corner – it was moved and remade so often he barely paid attention now. Like the windshorn, the gullaime looked less than happy with the constant rough motion of the ship.
“The storm, Gullaime,” he said.
“Not like!” it shrieked, and bobbed up and down on its bed of rags and feathers.
“None of us do.” He had to steady himself against the wall of the cabin with a hand as the ship was buffeted. The lights swung on their cords, turning the gullaime’s thin shadow into a pendulum on the wall and setting its strings of oddments swaying and rattling.
“Not right!” it squawked.
“Yes, I know but . . .” He hesitated. “What do you mean not right?”
“Listen Joron Twiner.”
“I hear the wind and the sea and the rain.”
“Listen inside.”
“Inside?”
“Like song!” it hissed and turned away.
He did what it said. Closed his eyes, let the sound of his body fill him, but it was no different to the sounds he usually knew: heart, blood, bone and sinew all doing their job and why would . . . No. Not the same. Beneath it all another song, quiet, almost imperceptible, while at the same time furious, a jagged rising crescendo of squalling chords and drawn-out wails. A broken sither to the song of the windspires.
“What is that,
Gullaime?”
“Killing, Joron Twiner.”
“Killing how?”
“Sea sithers.”
“The keyshans? How can they even . . .”
“Cannot. Have not. Not yet. But try. Sickness. Pain. So sad. So angry.”
“We have not attacked them, Gullaime.”
“No.” It chattered its beak. “Like angry. Lash out.”
“And we are caught in their anger?” Then his blood ran cold and he remembered the fate of the Hag’s Hunter, plucked from the sea and crushed between the jaws of a keyshan. “Is one near, Gullaime? Are we in danger?” The gullaime yarked, making the noise sound like laughter. It shook its head and the shake moved down its whole body.
“Not here. Long way. Not here.”
“Then why is the storm here?” The gullaime shook itself again. Touched its head with a wingclaw.
“Not know.” It yarked again in strange half laughter. “Maybe remember us. Yes yes.”
“Can you get us out of this storm, Gullaime?” he said. “If not, Meas fears we will be lost.”
“Have to,” it said. “Have to.” It shook itself again and then spoke quietly to itself. “Plenty hard. Plenty hard.”
“We will do whatever we can to help you, Gullaime,” he said.
“Will need windspire after. Will be sick,” it said quietly. “Is hard. Block angry song. Sing sleep.”
“Can I help?”
It yarked again and hopped over to him. “Never,” it said. Then it touched his chest. “Caller,” it said. Then touched its head. “Not caller.”
“Windseer?” he said. He half expected it to explode in anger but it did not. Only gave a small shake of its head.
“Not windseer. Not say that.” It lifted its wingclaw to Joron’s mouth. “Not say,” it said again “Go now. Deck yes.” He nodded, aware that there was something terribly sad in the way the gullaime spoke, but unable to understand why, or what, it was.
“Very well. I will stand by to do whatever you need me to do.”
“When I say. Tell ship woman. Big wings.”
He nodded.
“Very well.”
The gullaime nodded once more then hopped past him to the door, pausing only to snap and hiss at the windshorn.
Once back on the slate, Joron had two deckchilder rig a cage of ropes around the gullaime, to ensure it was not washed off deck by the waves crashing across the ship. And as every woman and man they had available fought the wind to make the ship obey their shipwife’s commands, Joron stood behind the gullaime, watching as it readied itself – stamping from one foot to the other, lifting its robes to show long scaled legs that vanished into heavily feathered thighs. Black Orris swooped down from the rigging, flying around in circles and chanting in a high voice that effortlessly cut through the wind – “Arse! Arse! Arse!” – and the gullaime yarked back. While it prepared itself, Joron dragged himself up the deck to Meas and warned her to be ready with the wings. Then he returned to where the gullaime waited before the mainspine.
“Be rough,” said the gullaime, “be a rough arse. Hag curse it. Hag’s tits.” Then it squatted on the deck and went into a trance. Water broke over the deck and Joron tried to place himself between the waves and the gullaime, to protect it while it did its magic, and Shorn did the same. Then the gullaime stood, lifting its head and opening its beak, letting out a cry. And it did this, and it did it again.
At first Joron felt no discernible effect.
Then he felt the heat.
And then his ears hurt as if nails were being driven into them. And the gullaime was shouting.
“Big wing! Big wing!”
And then Joron was shouting – “Mainwings! Unfurl the mainwings!” – screaming it into a wall of water, tasting salt in his mouth. And Meas was echoing him, Solemn Muffaz echoing her and all that heard shouting out the words. And up above those bravest of all the souls on Tide Child were already arrayed across the crazily swaying mainspar, ready and warned by Meas of the coming order, and they pulled the ropes that let the mainwing fall.
The gullaime’s wind came.
A gale howling into the face of the storm. A storm to meet a storm, to fight it. Winds ripping and cracking around the ship. Blowing deckchilder hither and thither. Winds that made no sense to any, never coming from any one direction for more than a moment.
“Brace! Brace!” shouted Joron, wrapping his arms around a rope as wind battered him, first his back and then his front. On the slate the gullaime shuddered, cried and squawked, raised its wings as if in supplication and, just at the moment it seemed the crew and the ship must be overwhelmed by the sudden violence, the winds stopped. For a brief moment, Tide Child existed in a little bubble of relative calm while the winds around it raged and fought. But that calm could not last, and with a squawk of rage something ripped in the bubble of calm air around them and wind came howling in from behind the ship, pushing Tide Child forward and through the storm. Forward toward battle and toward death.
33
After the Storm
Meas jumped down from the mainspine, boots making solid contact with the slate of the deck and she stood for a moment, absolutely still. She became a statue clothed in blue fishskin and scintillating feather, staring out over the sea toward an island that could not yet be seen. Then, as if she had needed that second, to orientate something within her before she could continue, she moved again, walking up the deck to where Joron waited for her.
“I still see no sign of Snarltooth,” she said. “But I can see McLean’s Rock, and there is no sign of enemy ships so I suppose that is something to be glad of.”
“The Hag takes and the Hag gives, Shipwife,” he said.
“Ey, that is right enough,” she said, words meant for herself and spoken so softly the lightest breeze could have stolen them. She took a step toward him, raised her voice. “How is our gullaime?”
“Garriya provided some sort of drink and it sleeps – fitfully, but it sleeps, Shipwife.”
“Well, that is better than it moaning. At least it is free of pain while it sleeps.” She stared out at the sea, blue and calm enough to make him wonder for a second if the storm had been a nightmare. He watched the crew about them work as Dinyl approached.
“Snarltooth?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Joron.
“I fear him lost in the storm,” said Dinyl. “There was something unnatural about it, and they had no gullaime the equal of ours to assist them.”
“Brekir would be proud of such pessimism, Dinyl,” said Joron, “but I have faith in her.”
“Ey, Brekir is a wiley old bird,” said Meas, “if anyone can survive such a storm she can, but it may well have pushed her far off course. What matters is that we are here alone.” She walked to the rail, putting both hands on it as if to transfer the weight of command from her shoulders to the ship, even if only for a moment. “McLean’s Rock, Joron, it is our last hope of finding our people. Faint as that hope may be we must continue, even if we only have one ship.” She turned from the rail and looked down the deck, saw all was as it should be and nodded to herself. “We have done well with this ship, Deckkeeper, Deckholder.” Dinyl gave a nod at this mention. “They have done well,” she nodded at the deckchilder busy on the deck. “I am proud of Tide Child and I am proud of my officers and my crew.”
“Rightly so, Shipwife,” said Dinyl.
“And now, I take them into danger again,” she said. “It is poor repayment for such hard work and commitment, that I may take them to their deaths.” She stared down at the slate. Looked to the blue sky, looked to herself and took a deep breath. “But we have little choice.”
He felt himself worried, puzzled at this crack in her usual demeanour. This was not the woman he was used to, not the strength that nailed down the centre of the ship and kept them all in place. But then something shifted within her, something that could not be seen only felt, and the brief glimpse of the woman, the person, the worries and the doubt that
resided within even Lucky Meas, was gone.
“Do you believe the Hag speaks to us, Deckkeeper?” she said softly.
“And the Maiden and the Mother, if they so wish. Have you seen something, Shipwife?” He glanced about to ensure none listened too closely to them, for there were none more superstitious than deckchilder.
“Not seen, no, Deckkeeper. It is only that I feel as though we travel toward something terrible.” She ran a hand through her hair where the bright red-and-blue streaks of command mixed with the grey, and it seemed that Meas grew just a little taller.
“The island will be in view to all soon. I saw no ships from the mainspine, nothing in sight. No people, though I suppose they could have been obscured by the gion – it is in full wilt but mostly still standing. The cages were apparent though, for the merchandise.” This she said with such a sneer as he had never seen upon her face. “Even if we find nothing, it is a good thing to break all that is there and put a dent in the business of the people that run it. But we shall do a circuit of the island before I land anyone. It will take some hard tacking and be brutal work but it must be done. I shall leave you two to it, I will be in my cabin. Call me when we start to circle the island. I would look upon it with my own eyes.”
So they started the job of taking Tide Child round in a great circle, plotting and planning with Aelerin so they did not get onto a lee shore and risk the winds pushing them onto the rocks of the island. Then making sure that when they must tack away to catch a favourable wind the island would not fall out of sight. The deckchilder were never still as they carried out these small tacks, constantly changing and finessing the rigging and the wings, and Joron was careful with his choice of crew. All the time aware that the same people currently running up and down spines and hauling on ropes had not long past fought a storm for days on end, and there was a good chance that they would have to fight women and men later on. Knowing that to take their strength now was to deny it later. So he forbade Coughlin and his seaguard from helping, tried not to smile at Berhof’s look of relief at not having to climb the rigging. He set those he trusted least at his back to the hardest tasks, and reasoned that if he exhausted them now, they were less likely to cause trouble when left on the ship. He made use of Solemn Muffaz’s great strength, knowing he would leave the ship in the deckmother’s charge when he, Meas and Dinyl went ashore. All the time he was aware, as all must be, how much easier this task would be if the gullaime was there to help. But the gullaime had spent all its energy fighting the storm.
