The Gracekeepers

by Kirsty Logan

  His final dream before dawn was of a sea monster with eyes as huge as a galleon’s wheel, bloodshot and staring. The creature reached into the coracles one by one and retrieved its prize. In the dream, Jarrow’s hands were stretched wide with daggers and machetes, harpoons and flensing knives. But all his weapons were useless—or rather, Jarrow himself was useless. However hard he tried, he could not move. He stood there, armed but impotent, as the coracles emptied. The monster had twelve tentacles, enough to grab every member of the Circus Excalibur. It saved Jarrow’s wife and son for last. When its tentacles were full it turned its leering eye on Jarrow and sank down into the shadows, leaving him untouched and broken among the bones of his fleet.

  He choked awake. His heart was hammering in his throat, and his chest was chilly with sweat. Breathe out. Breathe in. Don’t panic. Don’t wake Avalon. Don’t die. Don’t die. You’re not ready yet.

  Captain’s wisdom said that those who encounter monsters at sea are those who bring monsters on board. In all his years as captain of the Excalibur, Jarrow had been soothed by that thought. There was no monster on board his fleet. His beautiful wife, his noble son, his loyal and talented crew—there was no room for monsters to hide.

  When he was sure that he wasn’t dead, Jarrow opened his eyes. On the bunk beside him, his wife’s face was lit by a ray of morning sun, her expression rapturous in sleep. Her black hair spread in a curve across the pillow, smooth as a fish hook. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. After the death of Blanche—his life’s love, mother of his firstborn, the reason he’d left the land for the sea—he’d thought his heart would stay broken. But Avalon and their baby, Ainsel and North—he had a second chance. He’d get it right this time.

  Gently, so as not to wake her, he slipped his hand beneath the blanket to rest it on her swelling belly. His baby, his son. He had never known such bliss. He’d lived almost forty years—not bad, considering he now lived the life of a dampling. Life at sea was hard and hungry and full of dangers. Most damplings were lucky to make it to thirty. He was lucky. And soon he would have a baby to coddle, to delight in; a glorious plaything to light up his twilight years.

  He hadn’t understood what it meant to love Blanche. Many landlockers saw the circus that night, and many fell in love with the beautiful horse-dancer—but only Jarrow loved her enough to marry her and buy a whole new circus boat, just for her. Only Jarrow loved her enough to become the ringmaster. He’d built the Excalibur up from nothing, and he couldn’t let it go now.

  He and Avalon had waited so long, had lost so much—child after child, gone before their first heartbeats. He’d come close to giving up, but she’d convinced him to give it one more try, hope for one final miracle. He should have known that when Avalon wanted something enough, she could make it happen. He knew it from the moment he met her. With Avalon, he had found the land of bliss.

  But there was no use in dreaming away the day. The crew needed to be fed, and for that the circus needed to perform, and for that they needed to get away from this damned graceyard. He wanted to kiss his wife, but knew that the scrape of his rough skin on her face would wake her. Instead he kissed the tips of his blunt fingers and touched them to Avalon’s lips.

  From the deck, Jarrow surveyed their situation. The Excalibur was tucked against the dock, sitting high and noble in the water. Behind it, the line of coracles curled around in a neat semicircle. How fine they looked. How proud, how respectable. Not the same sort of respectable as land, but not bad for a dampling. He felt the weight in his heart lift a little. Soon they would be at the island of his birth—and, true, there would be someone else’s home on the old land that should be his. But this time the ache would not be as bad. This time, his son would be leaving the circus and living on the land. Ainsel would reclaim what Jarrow had lost.

  All around him the sea was mirror-flat, the sky lightening to blue without a scrap of cloud. Even when they got the mainsail back from the gracekeeper girl, it wouldn’t be much use in the still air. They would have to drift until they picked up a decent wind—and that’s assuming they could fix the rudder. He’d have a hard time steering their way out if he couldn’t damn well steer.

  As Jarrow moved toward the stern, he noticed that the Excalibur did not seem to be listing in the water any more. That meant one less thing to be fixed, and he sent up a silent thanks to the gods of the sea and of the earth.

  His gaze settled on the wheel. Something was different. He grabbed the wheel and turned it gently, left to right. He leaned over the stern of the boat: in the clear water he saw the rudder swing from right to left. It was not bent, it was not cracked, it was not trailing fistfuls of seaweed. It had been repaired.

  Jarrow’s mind swerved. Ainsel must have come back—crept across the deck in the darkness of the night and fixed the boat while his father slept. Anger burned through Jarrow, settling as a hot pain in his belly. His son was trying to show him up. He had no idea how hard it was—what it had taken to establish the circus, what it still took to keep it going. Ainsel could never make it as a captain. There was no room for weakness. No chance for beauty. The sooner the boy was safely on land, the better.

  Movement caught at the corner of Jarrow’s eye. He glanced up. The sound of his feet on the deck had roused the clowns: they sat in a row on the rim of their coracle, watching him. The steadiness of their gazes, the anticipation held taut in their limbs. They were waiting for Jarrow to notice.

  “You,” he called across the sleeping line of coracles. “You repaired the rudder, hmm? The three of you. You dived down and fixed it.”

  Cash shrugged. Dough and Dosh picked at their fingernails and stared out across the water. Others might see the clowns as a threat, a gang of three existing only to mock and scorn and attack anything that mattered. Jarrow knew them as they really were: their delicacies, their sensitivities, their quiet afternoons spent in thought. He saw that their tattooed skin and aggressive sneers served as masks.

  “Good work, gents,” he added. He felt the pain in his belly cool, gratitude washing through him like cold milk. He wished, for one fleeting moment, that he were their father. But their fathers were long dead, the same as the fathers of everyone else in the Excalibur’s crew. How fortunate Jarrow was to have another chance to be a parent so late in life—and he could be a father to this baby, and to the clowns, and to his whole crew. He strode across the taut canvases of the coracles and slapped the clowns briskly on the shoulder. “The Circus Excalibur would be nothing without you.”

  He strode back and stepped down on to the gracekeeper girl’s porch. Then he called to the clowns, loud enough for the rest of the crew—and Ainsel in particular—to hear. “Let’s get this beast back out on the sea where she belongs.”

  He walked across the porch and knocked on the gracekeeper’s door, ready to collect his sail.

  —

  Jarrow felt, for a moment, at ease. His hands were on the wheel and his feet were spread wide on the deck of his boat. His beautiful wife was belowdecks, his noble son tended to his horses, and his crewmembers were all tucked away safely in their coracles. The wind was lazy and progress was slow, but at least they were moving. All was well now that they had left the bones and silence of the graceyard. If they could get a few days of good strong wind, they would be able to make port at North-West 1 archipelago—and from then it was only a few months to the North-East archipelago. On maps the islands look crowded together, but distance lies. Between almost all pieces of land there is nothing but miles of sea.

  Despite his flash of good cheer, Jarrow felt ashamed at the payment he’d given to the gracekeeper girl. Four strips of oilskin, a tub of seal fat and a half-dozen eggs was surely not enough. But it was all they had to spare. The circus’s usual payment was a show, but it did not seem appropriate to perform in a graceyard—not to mention to an audience of one, which would have made the whole endeavor ridiculous.

  No, it was not just that. Something else was nipping at Jarrow’
s sense of well-being. Something else was wrong in the Circus Excalibur.

  “Avalon?” he called.

  The hatch slid back and Avalon climbed up on to the deck, cradling her bump with one hand. She raised her eyebrows at Jarrow in a way that was half questioning, half teasing, and entirely seductive. He kept one hand on the wheel and stretched the other out for his wife, turning her under his arm in a pirouette. Avalon laughed. She was the same height as the cabin, so no matter how fast the boat went the slipstream never affected her. Jarrow bent his knees so he was closer to his wife’s height, feeling the strain in his thighs. There was no wind to hide his words, and he didn’t want to be overheard.

  “What is your wish, my king?” she purred, tucking her body close against him so that he could feel the swell of her belly. His smile stretched wide. He felt the skin of his cheeks crack. No matter: such bliss was worth a little blood.

  “Simply the pleasure of your company, my queen.”

  “Oh, no. I know you much better than that. Have you called me on deck to show me the dubious glory of the doldrums? Or is something needling away at that big brain of yours?” Avalon reached up to tap one delicate finger against his temple.

  “You do know me, sweet queen.” Jarrow sighed, unable to continue their game against the weight of his concerns. “My worry is for Melia.”

  Avalon tutted. “Oh, Melia. She’ll be fine. You worry too much about your performers. You let them question your orders, when they should silently obey. You will find Melia a new partner for her performance, and in a few months she will have forgotten all about what she lost.”

  “I fear her relationship with Whitby was more complex than that. I think none of us really understood it.”

  “Weren’t they just sleeping together?”

  “I assumed so. That’s why I chose them—I only had a coracle with a double bunk. I hoped that would be enough of an answer for everyone. But they were more than that, Avalon, don’t you see? They were connected in a way that was more than their act. I can’t name it, but I could see it. I fear that she will never forgive me for letting go of that coracle.”

  Out of nowhere, Jarrow felt the hot prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes. He stayed still, his eyes unblinking and his hand on the wheel, until the feeling faded.

  “Hearts stop every day,” said Avalon, pressing her hand to Jarrow’s broad chest. “Tomorrow it may be yours, or mine. But this time it was Whitby’s. You did what you could to save him, but it was too late—and that coracle could have sunk the entire circus.” She dropped her voice to a croon, tiptoeing her fingers along his chest. “We have mourned him, have we not? His body rests in its proper place. You have done all that you needed to do, even more than he deserved. What more could that little acrobat possibly ask?”

  Still their bodies touched, still her hands caressed him, but Jarrow felt himself pull away from Avalon. After a moment she seemed to realize that her words might be interpreted as unkind—though Jarrow knew that although she was petulant and passionate, she could never be truly cruel.

  “Life at sea is hard, Jarrow,” she said, her tone becoming distant. “And Melia will not be our concern for much longer. The bear-girl will take good care of her.”

  Jarrow sighed. “North is looking after her now, but that can’t last. Eventually Melia will need her own coracle—though perhaps she could inherit North’s, and the bear with it. In time, Melia could learn to train him. Although the state she’s in, I can’t see her learning anything at all.”

  “Let Ainsel and North worry about that after the wedding.”

  Jarrow frowned. “After the wedding they will have their own worries. There’s the house, and the promise of children, and North learning to fit in among the landlockers. She will have to fit in, and quickly, if the Stirling name is to be restored.”

  Avalon pulled away. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that North will have to learn how to play her role. The landlocker life might not come naturally to her, but given time she’ll get used to—”

  “No. No, you said a house. Why would North have to worry about the house?”

  “Avalon!” Jarrow was caught between a frown and a laugh. “I told you that I was buying a house. All the things I’ve been saving—what else would it be for?”

  “But that house…”

  “It can only be on reclaimed land, I know, not real land. And certainly not the true Stirling land.”

  “The house.” Avalon’s tongue seemed to stumble over the words, as if she was speaking a language she didn’t fully understand. “We won’t live in the house. It’s not for us.”

  The wheel turned, bumping into Jarrow’s arm. He realized he’d dropped his hands.

  “Avalon. My love.” He kept his voice soft, trying not to let it waver. “You knew that, didn’t you? You knew that the house was for Ainsel and North?”

  The sea, the sky, the dozens of scattered archipelagos: the whole world shrank to the expression on Avalon’s face. Jarrow forgot to breathe. His head throbbed to the beat of his heart.

  Breathe out. Breathe in. Don’t panic. Don’t let Avalon leave. Don’t let anyone die. Breathe.

  “Of course,” Avalon finally said. Her face stretched into a smile, so tight it looked sore. “Of course, my king. We are in total agreement, and your mind is my mind. We have no secrets from each other. I simply meant—” Her smile faltered; she looked as though she was going to be sick. “I meant…Excuse me for a moment, my king. Our child is restless.”

  Avalon closed her eyes and leaned over the bow. She took several deep breaths, her head hanging out over the water. Jarrow’s head throbbed harder.

  “Avalon?” he said. It came out in a whisper, lost beneath the lazy slap of the sails in the breeze. She knew about the house. She must. He’d told her, he was sure—he’d told her when they…but when he tried to hear himself saying the words, he could not remember. Had they discussed it? Had they truly understood each other? He and Avalon exchanged many words, but it felt as if those words were in different languages.

  When Jarrow’s wife turned back to him, her smile was as open and bright as the sun. “My king. I apologize. You took me by surprise but now I’ve gathered myself. Lately I have been concerned about North, and I fear it’s making me ill.”

  “Concerned?” Jarrow had to tread carefully. He could not risk the health of Avalon or the baby—but he could not risk the house either.

  Avalon sighed prettily. “Oh, it’s probably me being silly. I don’t know if our north child will be able to pick up landlocker ways. She is a sweet child, but she is a child.” She took Jarrow’s free hand and held it to the swell of her belly. “But let’s not think about her. You have your own child. Your wife and your baby need you.”

  Jarrow kept his breathing steady, ignoring the throb in his head. “You have me, my queen. Both of you have me. Everything I have is yours.”

  “Everything but what we need.” Avalon’s voice was so quiet that Jarrow might have misheard her. But he knew he had not. He swithered between adoration and irritation. He could not possibly love his wife more—and yet no matter how many apples he bartered for, no matter how many fresh flowers he placed in her hair, she was never satisfied.

  Seeming to sense his swaying emotions, Avalon turned to Jarrow and peppered kisses along his ragged jawline. She spoke in a purr. “But listen, my king. I’m being a silly thing. I just wish…” She sighed and waited for Jarrow to prompt her, which he did not.

  “I just wish,” she continued, “that I could help give you a fresh start. I give you a new baby, you give me a new home—together, we have a new chance to restore the Stirling name. Ainsel is not a baby, and can look after himself. Is the father not more worthy than the son?”

  “Do you want the house? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Avalon pealed out a laugh. “Oh, my king! I want for nothing. I never think of my own desires. I’m merely thinking of what’s best for our child.”

  “
I cannot leave, Avalon. Who will look after the Excalibur? Who will be the ringmaster? This is my home. Our home.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Ainsel can look after the circus. Ainsel and his new dampling wife. They’re more suited to it, my king. We’re not meant for a life at sea. You are a true landlocker.”

  Jarrow gripped the wheel until his knuckles throbbed. “It’s too late to go back, Avalon. I’ve made my decision. There is one house, and that is for my son.”

  “If you say so.” Avalon had switched her smolder to a sulk, bottom lip pouted out, body turned away from Jarrow. “But we still need a house. Your wife and child can’t be expected to live at sea forever.”

  “Hmm,” replied Jarrow, hoping that would be answer enough. He had been saving for most of Ainsel’s life; this baby would be grown and Jarrow long dead before the same again could be saved. Surely Avalon knew that. Surely she saw that this was the only way.

  Jarrow bent to drop a kiss on his wife’s forehead. She tilted away from him, swaying belowdecks without looking at him. He couldn’t bear to watch her go. He kept his gaze ahead, on the merge of sky and sea.

  —

  Over the following days, Jarrow watched North. She performed her circus duties perfectly—couldn’t she just as perfectly slip into the role of a good landlocker wife? It was true that she did not spend much time with the rest of the crew, preferring to stay in her coracle with her bear. But that proved her diligence, surely—it was not easy to keep a bear so well trained and docile, and North did the best she could. Jarrow had seen what a beast like that could do.

  The one good thing about their lack of progress was that the animals could be exercised. North’s bear paddled in the sea for hours, and judging by his silence it tired him out so much that he slept the rest of the time. The horses, of course, were far too precious for the water, and instead were exercised by circling the Excalibur’s deck. Jarrow’s thoughts were punctuated by the steady clop of hooves.