The Gracekeepers

by Kirsty Logan

  “Don’t be daft, little fish. A pretty little landlocker like you, among all those brutes? Think what might happen! It would never be allowed. It’s improper.”

  “And you’d know about that, I suppose, Mr. Propriety.”

  Flitch raised his eyebrows. “Whatever can you mean?”

  “You must have heard what people say about messengers.”

  “That we’ll do anything for a few flecks of gold?” He poked his tongue out at her, displaying a half-chewed sucker. “It’s true. But experience means knowledge, little fish, and I have experienced many military tankers. That’s not the way for us.”

  “Then what? A medic boat? They’re big but they don’t go far, or fast.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head. You leave the thinking to me.”

  Callanish did not start on a new piece of squid. Instead she glared at Flitch until he gave in.

  “A revival boat, little fish. That’s where we need to go.”

  “And how will we do that? I haven’t seen one since we left the graceyard. Should we send up a prayer to the lady in the blue robes? Say to her, pretty please come and collect us?”

  “Don’t try to be smart. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Callanish’s eyes darted to the canvas bag containing Flitch’s razor—then she seemed to think better of it, and returned to her breakfast. Flitch grinned; maybe there was a bit of shark in her after all.

  “You may not have seen one,” he said, “but I have. That’s why I’m in charge around here, and not you. Because I know how to use my eyes.”

  He reached behind the bench and handed Callanish his telescope. She scowled at it for a moment before raising it to her eye. She was still suspicious—what cheek! After all he’d done for her. Still, in the end she’d show her appreciation. Flitch knew that he was not the only one who needed company.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “North.” He waited for her to shift and focus. “See it?”

  “It’s far.”

  “Have faith, little fish! I find you the perfect ship, going in the perfect direction, and you tell me it’s too far?”

  Callanish shrugged, but she did not put down the telescope. She kept it trained in the direction of the revival boat, transfixed. “I’ll help you sail,” she said. “When you’re tired. Or I can do the lobster creels.”

  “You won’t need to. It won’t take us long to catch up. Until then you can cook my meals and look pretty, like you’ve been doing all along. And if you want to be wearing less while you do it, all the better.”

  Flitch thought he’d gone too far then. Callanish jerked back the telescope and he felt a quick heat of fear that she was planning to jam it into his eye. He held up his hands. “Keep your temper, little fish. If that goes in the sea, you’ll be the one who has to dive in after it.”

  She handed the telescope back to him a bit more roughly than was necessary. “Fine, Flitch. Whatever you say. Just get me to the island.”

  —

  It took them less than a day to catch up with the revival ship. Its size lent it speed, but it chose to move slowly. All the better to pick up new converts along the way, thought Flitch—though he and his gracekeeper girl wouldn’t be signing up to anything, oh no sir. But messengers knew the way of all types of boat, and if he had to raise his eyes to the sky and chant some holy-holies to earn his passage, then he would do it with gusto.

  Soon they were almost close enough to hail the enormous ship. Flitch lifted Callanish up on to his shoulder so that she could tie the beacon to the top of the mast. The wet silk of her gloves made it hard for her to knot the rope, and she still refused to go bare-handed. It was ridiculous—did she really think that he didn’t know about her webbed fingers by now? He supposed that if the landlockers saw, they’d probably burn her alive or tie her screaming to some sacred tree, or cut out her heart and eat it on a slice of bread. Flitch didn’t mind it so much. It was repulsive, but he’d seen worse, and he had excellent self-control. Not only did he resist slipping a hand up her dress, he didn’t even sneak a glance. For that, he should certainly get some credit. Besides, he’d seen the contents of her underwear before, and was blessed with vivid powers of recall.

  Flitch steadied the cutter as Callanish busied herself with wrapping and stowing anything moveable on deck. It was tricky: the revival ship’s wake was strong and erratic, and it took all of Flitch’s strength to keep the cutter steady. If he hadn’t been a messenger then the skin would have scraped off his knuckles and the muscles would be burning in his back. But he was a messenger, so he felt none of it. He kept his breathing slow and steady so that Callanish would not hear his struggle.

  Callanish sat in the boat’s bow, gaping up at the approaching wall of the revival boat’s hull. She seemed not to be concentrating as she leaned over and dipped her fingers into the sea to clean her gloves—usually she would use the water in the filter, and Flitch was about to tell her to stop, because when the saltwater dried it would make the fabric rough on her poor soft skin, and she struggled enough with the knots, so he didn’t want her to be completely useless to him. But before he could, she lifted her hand and gazed at it in disgust. The glove was slickened dark with oil and filth.

  “What is that?” she asked, rubbing her hands in the remains of the filtered water to clean them. As they drew closer to the revival boat, the bumps and thocks against the side of the cutter increased. He didn’t need to look to know what it was: frayed ends of rope, the hollow bones of birds, dirty sponges, scraps of fabric sewn with beads. All the big boats left filth in their wake.

  Flitch shrugged and kept the boat steady. “Debris. Those revival boats are clean as fishbones, because they throw all their muck out behind them.”

  “But what about everyone else? What about their boats?” Hands clean, she took her place back in the bow. The closer the cutter got to the revival ship, the denser the filth became. Now they could see the name Stella Maris, painted in enormous gold letters on the gleaming white hull. As they neared, Callanish pressed her nose into her shoulder, but Flitch didn’t need a reprieve from the smell because he was a proper man and he could take it. He could take anything.

  “What about them?” said Flitch. “Little fish, the folk in that boat are too high up to care.”

  “But it’s not right! Everyone else scavenges and reuses until their things fall apart. Everything can be used for something. It’s not right. If they don’t need it, they should share it.”

  “Ah, so you’re angry because they’re rich? Because they don’t have to scratch around for every single thing they eat or touch or use? You have a lot to learn, little fish. There’s no use in the poor hating the rich. There’s more to the world than landlockers versus damplings. And we all know what side of the balance you’re from.”

  “I don’t need to learn that,” she snapped. “Don’t pretend you know me, Flitch.”

  Flitch knew a lot more about Callanish than she thought, but now was not the time to point that out. Her blood was due, after all, and girls could get uppity when the moon turned. Instead he kept sailing, pulling in level with the stately pace of the revival ship until they acknowledged his beacon.

  They did not have to float in filth for much longer. With a clank-flosh, a chain was thrown over the side, just missing the cutter’s deck. The revival ship was too tall for Flitch to see who’d performed the clumsy throw, so his withering look was wasted. Quickly he furled the sails. He instructed Callanish to grab the mast, then fastened the chains to the cutter. He held tight to Callanish as the cutter jolted, and they were hoisted into the sky.

  —

  Flitch was pleased that he managed to appear unimpressed by the revival ship. He wouldn’t have bothered, but Callanish was there, and she was clearly unnerved. The more uncomfortable she seemed, the more important it was for him to be calm and confident. It was his duty to be the man in the situation.

  Revival ships are always big, but this one was a beast: big enough to
house a dozen blue whales, with seven decks and all its windows intact and every surface gleaming white as bone. As he watched, a blue-robed revivalist slid from the upper deck window with a rope around her waist. She steadied her feet on the boat’s side, then reached for the cloth and bucket attached to her waist and began to scrub it as if the ship was caked in filth. It looked clean enough to Flitch—but then, maybe religion made you see dirt where no one else could.

  “I need to speak to your captain,” he announced to the trio of scrunch-faced, blue-robed revivalists who’d hauled up the cutter. Two of them were occupied with lashing the cutter to the deck, but the other abandoned his work to peer down his nose at Flitch.

  “You will speak to the crew manager.”

  Flitch had no idea what a crew manager was, or where he could find one—but Callanish was standing right next to him, so he kept his expression steady.

  “Fine by me. Where do you keep him?”

  “Deck three. Port side, cabin nine. And, messenger?” The revivalist laid a commanding hand on Flitch’s shoulder. “Show your respect. Your wife is uncovered.”

  Flitch’s face jerked into a sneer. Before the revivalist noticed, he managed to slide it into a wheedling smile. “Of course, sir. Whatever you say, sir. I’ll sort that out right now, sir.”

  It was cheeky, but the revivalist seemed placated. He was clearly a fool, but he had the cutter now, and Flitch could go nowhere without it. He and Callanish would both have to fit in with the holy-holies if they wanted to get to the island.

  He put his arm around Callanish and pulled her into the shadow of the upper deck.

  “You’re indecent,” he said.

  She pushed him away. “I am not!”

  “Little fish, it’s been too long. Look at yourself. Is that how you want the revivalists to see you? Is that how you dressed at your graceyard?”

  Callanish, still frowning, looked down at herself. When she’d first come on to his cutter, her dress was gray, long and loose; now it was faded and torn, the bottom hem ripped above her knees, the fabric so thin it was almost transparent in places. When she raised her head, she looked shocked.

  “Flitch, I didn’t know. I didn’t think about it—I didn’t see. What can I do?”

  Flitch shrugged. “Makes no matter to me. But if we want the revivalists to play nice, we’ll have to be what they want us to be.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Don’t you know anything? Revivalists want women to show true faith. So what would that mean to you?”

  “Stop being awkward, Flitch. On my island we worshipped the World Tree, all right? And I don’t see any trees on this damned ship, so if you could stop being a pain and tell me what I’m supposed to do then we can—”

  “Calm, calm, little fish.” He put his hands on Callanish’s shoulders, pressing down when she tried to shrug him off. “I’m sorry. I won’t tease you again.”

  “Yes, you will. You know you will.” Her muscles were still tensed, but he saw a smile ghost across her face.

  “You’re right. I will. But for now…” He ran back to the cutter and retrieved his spare blanket from the hold. “For now, wear this.”

  Callanish took the blanket, unsure. After a moment she draped it over her head like a shawl, then gave him a questioning glance. He tipped his head back to let his laugh go.

  “Little fish, you crack me up! No one’s asking you to be the Holy Virgin. Here, this is what I meant.”

  He pulled the blanket off her head and wrapped it around her chest, folding and knotting the corners at her shoulders. It hung down to her ankles, covering her body in a mass of fabric.

  “There,” he said. “You look terrible. The revivalists will love it. Now let’s go and find this man before they decide we’re too grubby and throw us off the stern.”

  —

  The more Flitch saw of the revival ship, the harder it was to appear nonchalant in front of Callanish. The ship was so huge that he was sure the sun had crossed the sky by the time they found deck three. It was impossible to know for sure, though, as the gangways were windowless. After years spent almost entirely on his cutter, Flitch got anxious when he could not see the sky.

  From the outside, the door to cabin nine looked like all the others: shiny metal paneling, with a shiny metal number bolted above the shiny metal handle. All metal was salvaged, but this looked brand new. Or at least, how Flitch imagined it would look brand new. It must have been hammered and sandpapered and polished and polished and polished. After wandering down dozens of scrubbed-shining gangways, Flitch’s eyes ached. On every gangway they’d had to step over at least one revivalist with a cloth and bucket, scrubbing at the already spotless walls. Flitch knocked on the door to cabin nine and waited to be summoned.

  “Yes.” It was not a question, but still Flitch answered by turning the handle and holding the door open for Callanish. He thought that the crew manager, being a revivalist, would identify with a bit of old-style chivalry.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected of the crew manager, but it was not what he got: a pale-lipped woman with black hair in thick spiral curls. She wore the blue of all revivalists, but instead of robes she had on a modest knee-length dress.

  The room was all bone white and shiny silver, as thoroughly scrubbed as the rest of the ship. A deep shelf ran at head height all around the edge of the room, with objects placed on it at regular intervals. Flitch tried to take it all in at once: the gleaming gold orbs, the tiny glass vials, the stacks of silver coins, the candlesticks studded with red and purple gems. He reminded himself to breathe.

  “You must be new,” said the woman. “Welcome home.”

  Flitch couldn’t see Callanish’s face, but her body language was enough. She was terrified, humbled, excited. He’d forgotten how small her world was. Had she even met a revivalist before? Did she understand what the woman meant by the welcome?

  “Thank you,” he said, silently willing Callanish to trust him. “We appreciate your kindness.”

  The woman nodded, motioning Flitch and Callanish on to the bench in front of her desk. A glint amid her hair: jewels, set in shiny metal, dangled from her earlobes. Up until that moment, Flitch had forgotten how it felt to covet. He blinked the gleam out of his eyes.

  “I regret that we cannot remain as permanent members,” he said. “But we have heard much about your generosity and were hopeful that you could help us. We wish to get to the North-West 22 archipelago.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows and opened a drawer in her desk. Flitch stretched his spine, peering over the far lip of the desk. She spotted the movement and stopped him with a frown, but not before he’d seen that she was consulting a map. He sat back and smiled at her in a manner both humble and charming.

  Flitch knew that if he could get under her desk and under her dress, he could get under her skin—and then she would do whatever he asked. It was the best way to get what you wanted from a woman. Not so easy with Callanish shadowing his every move, though. Still, his manners were pretty enough to get him through. And a bit of flirting never hurt.

  “Some nice shiny stuff you’ve got here,” he said. “If you weren’t all such good people, I’d suspect it was stolen.” He held back a wink, but allowed her a cheeky grin.

  “We do not steal. We liberate.”

  “If these are holy objects, shouldn’t they be in a holy place? A sacred copse, but—well, on a boat?” asked Callanish. Flitch cursed himself for not telling her to stay quiet.

  The crew manager looked up from her map and regarded them with an expression of long-suffering patience. “Everywhere on the revival ship is a holy place. Everywhere must be fit for worship and everything must be sacred.”

  Flitch resisted the urge to ask whether the revivalists’ shit was sacred too.

  “Of course,” he soothed. “That makes perfect sense. And if I were in your position, I’m sure—”

  The woman slammed her drawer shut. “You are not in my position, and you neve
r will be. I am not asking why a messenger is traveling with a landlocker. I am not asking why she is not on her home island. I am not asking about the nature of this…relationship. You may thank God’s grace for that. We are traveling toward the North-West archipelago. You may stay on board until then.”

  Flitch forced out a smile. He wasn’t sure what she would want in return for letting them tag along. Sex? Money? Faith? Flitch was pretty good with the first, but he’d long run out of the other two. Still, he would try to make her believe that he could believe.

  “Thank you,” he said. “We had heard of your generosity, but the glory you have shown is—”

  “You are here to be saved, and salvation comes from work. Go to the next gangway. You will be issued with cleaning materials. You will have noticed as you came aboard what happens to dirt on this ship. Mind you keep clean.”

  “Right,” said Flitch. “Thank you. Shall we just…?”

  But she had already dismissed them.

  19

  CALLANISH

  That night, the revivalists put on a show. Callanish accepted Flitch’s offer to sit with him in the dampling section and watch, but now that the show was starting she found it hard to make her eyes focus. Still, it was a distraction. She’d scrub, she’d gut fish, she’d watch a revival show: anything to make the days go by faster, so she would be at her island quickly. And, at the same time, she’d do anything to make the days feel dull and endless, so that she would never arrive at her island.

  WELCOME, WELCOME, TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF GODS CHILDREN, boomed the preacher from the stage, his voice caramel-rich and too heavy to echo, filling the enormous space at the heart of the revival ship. Earlier that day they’d used this as a dining room, but now the tables and chairs had been cleared to leave an empty deck that was quickly filled with revivalists, damplings who’d docked nearby, and the brave landlockers who dared to cross the blackshore. To one side stretched a stage, dominated by a huge banner of the blue-robed Virgin.

  At first the sheer number of people in the room had panicked Callanish; it was more people than she’d seen in one place in her entire life. She tried to count, but lost track in the triple figures. Flitch was restless beside her, and the room was warm with mingled breath.