Dark Water Breaking (Gunpowder & Alchemy Book 2)

by Dan Davis

  ‘I first sailed south to these waters close to a thousand years ago,’ Cedd said.

  Writer could not comprehend such a vast gulf of time. ‘You are as old as Bede, then?’ she suggested.

  ‘Older, in fact,’ Cedd said. ‘I was an old man when Bede was brought to our monastery. He was just a snivelling boy but even then I saw something in him that marked him out from the others.’

  ‘What’s a monastery?’ Archer said, not asleep after all.

  ‘Something that exists no longer. They were places of learning. Places with books and writing and devotion to the higher mysteries.’

  ‘Like an alchemist’s tower,’ Weaver said, her face tinged with green.

  ‘In a way,’ Cedd said. ‘And yet not the same at all. Bede’s Tower is a place of isolation. Somewhere he could work alone.’

  ‘He did not work alone,’ Writer said. She could not keep her indignation from her voice.

  ‘I do apologise, dear girl,’ Cedd said. Bede worked with no other alchemists. At the monastery we were surrounded by the brothers of our order. There were dozens, sometimes hundreds of us, all living together.’

  ‘You had hundreds of brothers?’ Archer asked. ‘Big family.’

  ‘It was not a family like yours. Our real families sent us to the monastery to be devoted to learning. But living together, learning together, eating and working together we were a family in every important sense.’

  ‘You were all learning alchemy?’ Writer asked.

  ‘Of a particular kind, yes,’ Cedd said.

  ‘Is that where Bede learned magic?’ Writer said. ‘I wish we could go there. Why does it no longer exist, what happened?’

  ‘It has been a great many years, child.’ Cedd said. ‘Things change.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Writer. ‘So where did Bede learn his spells?’

  ‘You are another seeker of power, I see,’ Cedd said.

  ‘No,’ Writer said. ‘No, I am simply seeking -’

  ‘No need to protest,’ he cut her off but he smiled briefly, almost affectionately. ‘There is nothing wrong with seeking power. It is the actions one takes to achieve that power and what one does with power once attained that matters.’

  ‘Was Bede a seeker of power?’ Archer said from his place near the mast.

  Cedd looked down the boat at Archer. ‘Bede was fascinated most of all by the history of our people, about where we had come from and how we had come to be as we were. His first great work was to collate and write a history of the English people. Through writing this work Bede discovered a universal truth. That political power tends to accumulate in ever increasing densities.’

  Writer heard Weaver whisper to Archer ‘What is he talking about?’

  ‘No idea,’ Archer said to her. ‘Just listen.’

  ‘What I mean, young lady,’ Cedd said. ‘Is that Bede told how the English people had first come to this land in small groups of people, borne in ships across this very sea from Europe, from Jutland and Saxony and the Daneland and Frisia. Our ancestors were led by men who ruled over small groups of a hundred or three hundred followers. These leaders ruled only by consensus. Their followers were not obligated to follow. They were able to leave at any time and join another group if they disagreed with their leader. Or a man could start his own group.’

  ‘Why only a man?’ Weaver asked. ‘Why not a woman?’

  ‘Back in the early days of the Saxons some women fought in battles, as skilled as any man. A very few might rise to be leaders, through particular ferocity or from being a member of a powerful family. However, since the Norman conquest, the rulers of England have treated women as you might treat a child or a cow.’

  Weaver scoffed. ‘Whoever this Norman was, he sounds like an idiot.’

  ‘I agree with you completely,’ said Cedd. ‘But the Saxons formed larger and larger groups. Three hundred would become six hundred. Six hundred became three thousand. Leaders became chiefs who became kings. Farmsteads and mead halls became villages then kingdoms. When Bede and I were at the monastery there were seven Saxon kingdoms of England and things seemed just right as they were. But Bede saw a pattern. Power, that is to say one man or a group of men commanding others, always accumulates. Like a ball of snow, rolled across a field. And Bede saw that in our land of seven Saxon kingdoms that the kings would feed on kings until only one remained. Like spiders in a nest consuming each other until only one remains. And that king, with no one to hold him back, would be the enemy of freedom. Freedom, which all right-thinking Saxon loves. So Bede found the Vale, built his tower and shut it and the people off from the rest of England. And his prediction proved to be correct. Soon, there was a single kingdom of all England ruled by a single king.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Writer said.

  ‘In any society there is a finite amount of freedom available. The more power that a single individual has the less there is for the rest of us.’

  ‘So Bede just wanted to keep power for himself?’ Writer asked.

  ‘He wanted to be free to continue his work without hindrance. But more than that, he wanted, in time, to ensure freedom for all the people of England.’

  ‘How?’ Writer asked.

  ‘Ah,’ said Cedd. ‘Now that is the real question, is it not?’ He broke off, looking ahead. Writer had not been paying attention to the water and was now shocked to see that the land to either side was now a very great distance away and the north bank ended in a flat headland which was covered with jetties and docks built from stone. Boats were docked there, bigger boats than she had ever seen, with great tall masts and high sides. Behind, a little way inland was a tall hill with a sturdy building built from stone. On the southern headland there was another stone building. There were some men on top of it looking out, but they were too far away to make out in detail. There were people there.

  ‘Where are we?’ Writer asked. ‘What are those buildings?’

  ‘They are forts, dear girl,’ Cedd replied. ‘Full of cannons and soldiers. They protect the ships in the harbour to the north, which is called Felixstowe.’

  ‘Can they see us?’ Archer asked, trying to stand.

  Cedd waved him down. ‘Do not fret, Master Archer. We are not a French or Dutch ironclad or a Royalist troop carrier and that is their only concern.’

  ‘The waves are getting bigger,’ Archer said, looking frightened. ‘And the wind is getting up.’

  Writer looked across the endless waves to a black mass of cloud on the distant horizon. She felt afraid too but she also felt free. She was free from Hopkins and the Guildhall, free from Bede, from her parents’ concern, free from the Vale and heading out into the world.

  ‘This is where we join the sea. And it seems a storm is brewing,’ said Cedd. ‘Oh dear.’

  Sow the Wind, Reap the Storm

  Archer felt like he was going to be sick. The up and down, side to side, rolling motion of the Scinnlac as it churned through the waves was relentless. He squeezed his eyes shut but that only made it worse and he felt his stomach contract and he gagged. Eyes watering, he gripped the side of the boat and willed himself not to be sick. The sea water that was being sprayed over him, whipped into froth by the gusting wind, had soaked him to the skin. He wrapped his sodden cloak tighter about him but still he shivered so hard his teeth were rattling.

  ‘Are you two well down there?’ Cedd asked from the back of the boat where he sat with Writer. That smarmy old man had the gall to smile at him.

  He managed a nod. There was no way Archer was going to give the alchemist the satisfaction of seeing him vomit. Archer glanced at Weaver. She had had some sick on her chin and clothes she looked very green. Knowing that she was suffering so badly made him feel better because Weaver was the toughest person he’d ever met. Writer and Cedd were still chatting happily away at the back as if they were sitting under a tree on a hillside sharing a snack.

  ‘How much were you able to discern about the nature of Bede’s research?’ Cedd was asking her. He like
d to use big words to show off, Archer knew, but Writer knew big words too.

  ‘His interests were extremely diverse,’ she said. ‘He was studying plants, foreign lands, strange animals, physical phenomena. I believe he was working on ways to increase the power of his spells, as well as invent new ones. And we know he was experimenting on us. The four of us and everyone in the Vale.’ Archer saw her look down. ‘He encouraged my parents to marry so that I would be born.’

  ‘And what was he doing with you?’ Cedd asked, peering at her intently.

  ‘I don’t know. He gave us the Elixir of Life, somehow. Probably between magicking us into the tower and waking us up to be his servants. But I don’t know why he gave it to us or what it really does. Do you know?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not,’ Cedd said, looking off at the horizon.

  Archer thought he must be lying. ‘I thought you were his friend?’ Archer said, forgetting his sickness for a moment. ‘His brother, you said.’

  ‘Hundreds of years ago,’ Cedd replied. ‘I have not seen him for a very long time indeed. Had no contact, in point of fact. None at all.’ He smiled.

  There was just something about this Cedd that Archer did not like. Writer seemed to but that was because all she wanted was to learn things.

  ‘What in the world is that?’ Writer cried and saw she was staring forward beyond him and out to sea.

  Archer looked forward beyond the front of their boat through the windblown spray. There was a great ship smashing toward them through the waves. A ship with no sails but a plume of black smoke churning out from a black tower near the back. It was huge, as big as the Morningtree Guildhall at least. It was further out to sea than they were and on course to miss them by half a mile but still it was quite a formidable sight.

  ‘That monstrosity is what they call a paddle steamer. Do you see those very large wheels on the side? Like giant wagon wheels, are they not? They are turning and propelling the craft through the water. They have inside them some sort of bonfire beneath her decks. Pah.’ He spat over the side, the wind carrying it away. ‘I have no time for such nonsense.’

  ‘Are they dangerous?’ Archer asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Cedd said. ‘This one belongs to coal traders. They ply these waters up and down the coast here taking coal from Newcastle in the north to London in the south. Terribly unseaworthy, of course. Shaped like a brick. But the flat bottoms allow them to get up into these tidal rivers we have on the east coast even with a hold full of cargo. And of course there is the undeniable benefit of not relying on the fickle wind for your propulsion.’

  ‘What do you mean, fickle?’ Archer said. ‘Your boat is pushed along by the wind.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Cedd said. ‘When the wind blows in the general direction that you wish to travel then you may sail large or wear. If the wind is blowing against you then you must tack back and forth against the face of the wind, travelling three or four times the distance you would if the wind were behind you. But if the wind is blowing slowly, or not blowing, what do you do? It is possible to travel faster than the wind in a sailing ship but only by a little. Which is why those new paddle steamers have become the norm. No matter the weather, London needs its coal.’

  ‘How fast are we travelling now?’ Writer asked.

  ‘By my estimation we are making a good five knots,’ Cedd said. ‘Not bad in this choppy sea and the wind abaft the beam,’ Cedd said. ‘But that squall will slow us down, if it doesn’t sink us.’

  ‘Squall?’ Archer looked out to sea. ‘Strange time of year for a thunder storm.’

  ‘Sink?’ Weaver croaked.

  ‘You get these strong little storms off the coast here,’ Cedd explained. ‘I was hoping that we would outrun it but it’s coming up fast. We’ll have to turn into it and lower the sail or else we’ll be swamped and sunk. We’ll certainly lose time.’

  ‘Do you mean that if the wind were stronger and coming from behind us then we could get to Coalschester more quickly?’ Archer said, feeling excited.

  ‘There are many variables such as the wave height and direction, catching the tides at the right time, avoiding the busy shipping up the Colne, getting a berth at the port. But yes we would benefit from a stronger north wind blowing us south,’ Cedd said.

  Archer grasped the soaking mast and pulled himself to his feet. ‘I can do that,’ he said.

  Cedd looked uncertain. ‘From what I understand of your powers, lad, you can’t really control it yet. If the wind is too strong it will rip our sail apart and or even snap the mast. Without a sail we might get turned sideways and swamped. We’d sink. And moving too quickly through breaking waves can push the bow down and swamp us. We’d sink.’

  Archer nodded. He was afraid. But fear would help him bring the white wind. ‘We have to take the risk, for Keeper and Burp.’

  ‘I shall prepare to adjust the sails.’ Cedd said, standing and grasping some ropes. He looked back at Writer. ‘It will be difficult to steer so you must hold tight and use all your strength to keep us away from the coast. Turn us further out to sea for miles and miles rather than run aground and be dashed to pieces.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, gripping the tiller, glancing at Archer. ‘I am ready.’

  Archer looked down at Weaver. ‘What about you?’

  She was slumped against the bench sitting on a coil of rope and looked pale, green and weak. ‘Get me back on dry land,’ she said, quietly.

  Archer leaned down and patted her on the shoulder. The shadow of the squall was growing larger every moment so he held tight to the mast and let himself go inside. The wind was cold. He felt the steady mass of air coming from the north-east and the way it puffed and rushed in gusts now and then, veering from further east to further west, even whipping round to blow from the landward saltmarsh and stinking clay, bringing smells of wood smoke, wet leaves, sodden sheep and salty mud.

  He could feel the air in every direction out to a certain distance. He knew the air would rush from beyond the limits of his awareness into the spaces he made by moving the air out of the way. People thought that the air was nothing, that it was empty and the wind was something that blew through it. Archer knew that was wrong; the air was thick all around them, all the time. If you move air from one place to another then more air rushes into the space, like pushing an empty cup down into a bowl of water.

  He moved the air so that it rushed into the boat’s sail above him and snapped taught, the ropes creaking as they took the strain. Under his feet the boat vibrated as it smacked into the crest of the next wave with greater force, lifting the front of the boat up and spraying freezing water up over all of them. Water at the front frothed up white as it ploughed a furrow through the waves. The Scinnlac leaned over from the force of the wind, the mast leaning out to seaward.

  ‘It is working,’ Writer shouted from the back.

  Archer kept the air moving faster, so that still the force of the wind acting on the sail grew stronger, the weight of it building and pushing the sail full. A thrumming sound grew in pitch as the wind whistled through the ropes at ever increasing speed. Wood creaked and groaned as the mast was bent before the wind, forward and sideways. The boat smashed into wave after wave, rising up and falling down with a juddering impact that he felt from his knees to his teeth. Archer grasped the leaning mast harder and willed the wind to come faster.

  ‘Is the boat supposed to lean over this far?’ Writer shouted to Cedd, her eyes wide and shining and a huge grin on her face.

  ‘This far and no farther,’ Cedd cried back.

  They smashed up and down into the top of the waves harder and harder, each impact shaking the whole boat and seeming to slow them down for a moment before picking up speed as they rode the wave downward, then faster still as they rode up into the wind again to smash the top of the next wave. On and on the boat was driven before the wind, creaking and groaning and shuddering, leaning over so far now that Weaver was beginning to look truly terrified at the amount of water being
sprayed over the front and into the bottom of the boat. Archer glanced down at the water sloshing around his boots. He glanced back through the rain to see if Cedd had noticed. The alchemist had a huge smile on his wrinkly old face.

  Archer heard Writer ask Cedd if they were safe or if this speed would shake the ship to pieces.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Cedd cried in response. ‘Rarely has this dear ship travelled with such celerity.’

  They churned through wave after wave. They flew past two more of the great paddle steamers on their seaward side, one heading north and the next heading south as they were. Their boat skipped by the steam ships in no time at all, a row of dirty faces looking out at them from the side of the one heading south. Archer risked releasing one arm from the mast to wave at them, laughing. None waved back.

  The land was flying by on the other side. It was mile upon mile of sandy beach at the bottom of grassy cliffs topped with dunes. Every so often he saw an exposed house here and there at the top of some of the sandy cliffs and there were birds about them everywhere he looked. From the great, yellow beaked gulls to the smaller graceful terns with their backwards angled wings. All of them taking advantage of the wind he had brought and being propelled along without even flapping their wings at all. He watched as a tern flew by the boat, holding position by the angled mast, so close that at the top of the rise he felt as though he might reach out and touch it. Wings so perfect at catching the wind all the bird had to do was change the angle of them slightly to either hold position or to swoop up and away and back down.

  Writer cried his name, bringing him half out of his reverie and at the same time the boat smashed hard into the next wave, harder than any before it, bringing him splashing to his knees. The boat slowed and the sail fluttered, their forward progress slowed quite suddenly but they rose up high on the next wave, higher and higher.