She stepped up onto her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She said. “Personally, I think you should begin planning our courtship.”
The next day Zeah was busy organizing a community laundry activity. Though passengers were of course responsible for their own clothing, Zeah had noticed early on in the voyage that there was a tendency for this chore to fall behind with the majority of people. Like the bath day, he found that a community laundry day not only allowed people a chance to get caught up on their cleaning, but gave them an excuse for a social event—killing two shrews with one stone, as it were. He was issuing directions to the women who had volunteered for this activity and to the men who arranged the washbasins, hauled the water hose around, and carried the large bags of detergent, when he was approached by Wizard Kesi. The Mirsannan wore his usual flamboyant clothes. This time they consisted of bright red silk pants and shirt and a light blue silk waistcoat, in addition to his usual yellow fez.
“Good day to you, Mr. Korlann,” he said, his Mirsannan accent thick.
“Good day, Wizard Kesi.”
“Mr. Korlann, I was wondering if you have seen the sorceress, Zurfina, lately. I am still looking for her and after two fortnights, I have not been able to arrange a meeting.”
“I’m sorry. I thought that you had seen her at the dance three nights ago.”
“I was not aware that she was at the dance.”
“If you missed her, you must have been the only one.”
“I did not see her. What was she wearing?”
“Very little.”
“But I heard no one mention her.”
“Well, people don’t really speak of her, at least not when she’s nearby,” said Zeah. “They were certainly looking at her though.”
Several people near the ship’s railing suddenly called out. Zeah heard one of them cry “turtle!”
“Excuse me, Wizard Kesi,” he said. “I need to see this.”
Zeah stepped quickly over to join the passengers and the wizard followed him. Looking down into the deep blue water below, he saw an enormous turtle paddling along at a leisurely pace.
“It’s even bigger than the other one,” said one of the women nearby, which for some reason made Zeah happy.
Suddenly something shot out of the inky depths below the turtle, striking it just beneath the right front flipper and knocking it at least twenty feet into the air. An awesome alligator-like snout snapped shut, chopping off nearly a quarter of the turtle’s body. The creature that owned the massive head, which was mostly mouth, flipped over in a tremendous acrobatic display. It had a thick but sleek eel-shaped body, with four massive flippers and heavy tail. It swam in a circle and came back to strike the turtle a second time, chomping off another quarter of the animal in a great bite.
“A Kronosaurus,” said a voice over Zeah’s shoulder. It was Professor Calliere. “Amazing creature, isn’t it? The most terrifying beast in this ocean, and that’s saying something. They usually don’t travel any further north than this, though.”
“My God!” said Zeah, feeling his stomach turning over. “How big do you suppose that thing is?”
“I’d put it at sixty feet,” said Calliere. “I’ve seen bigger on my last trip to Mallon.”
“I was afraid to swim in the sea already,” said Kesi.
“This ocean is full of frightful things,” said Calliere. “Many different types of marine reptiles. Sharks. Fish the size of a trolley car. I wouldn’t swim in these water for all the tea in Mallontah, or travel them in a small boat for that matter.”
The Kronosaurus took one more huge bite of the turtle, and then swam away into the depths, leaving the last tiny bit, which included the head, to float along in the wake of the battleship. The crowd along the ship railing dissolved, but Zeah watched the turtle’s remnants float away, wondering how long it would be before some other frightful thing snuck up from the depths to eat it.
Days began to run together for Zeah, as they did for so many of the passengers. This leg of the trip, from the Mullien Islands to Mallon was the longest, and few major events broke the monotony of the journey, but there was plenty of work to do. Every waking hour of the day kept Zeah so busy that he had few opportunities to think. He was so exhausted that most nights he didn’t dream. When he did dream, one face was predominant. Two days after the Kronosaurus attack on the great turtle, Zeah finalized a plan to woo Miss Lusk. He knew that it was a plan doomed to failure, but it was at least a plan.
The first volley in the assault was a love token. Flowers would have been all but impossible to obtain aboard ship, at least for anyone less than Miss Dechantagne, and perfumes were in similarly short supply. So Zeah arranged for the purchase of a pair of white linen gloves from Mr. Parnorsham, a man who had brought a large supply of clothing and knick-knacks in hopes of opening a pfennig store in Birmisia. He then arranged for Mrs. Kittredge to monogram them with scarlet thread that just about matched Miss Lusk’s hair color. This required another two days to complete, but Zeah knew that Miss Lusk had almost as little time for idle activity as he himself had. She had been working with Professor Calliere on a daily basis, pressed into duties that had originally belonged to Mr. Murty, as well as her own. Zeah didn’t know for sure, as Miss Lusk was not one to gossip about her work, but he suspected that the professor was not very particular about what duties he handed over to his subordinates, so long as he was able to keep his own schedule light.
When the gloves were ready, he wrapped them up in a box and paper that Yuah had secured for him from Miss Dechantagne’s stock of party goods. He waited until just the right time, late enough that she would be up and dressed and early enough that she would not yet have begun her duties as a mathematician and engineer. He stepped to her door and knocked. The door opened and Miss Lusk looked radiant in a pure white day dress covered in lace.
“Good morning, Mr. Korlann,” she said. “How lovely to see you.”
“A pleasure to see you Miss Lusk,” he said. “May I present this small token of my affection?”
He handed her the box, which she opened to find the pair of monogrammed gloves. Her eyes lit up.
“These just match my dress,” she said. “How did you know?”
“No, it’s, I, um, a happy coincidence. I… I was hoping you could join me for dinner tomorrow evening at eight.”
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Korlann. Have you arranged for a chaperone, or should I do so?”
“Um, please bring um, someone,” Zeah’s confidence began to crumble. “I have to go now. I will be by to pick you up, to escort you, then. Goodbye.”
He turned and escaped down the corridor and had the horrible impression that he could hear Miss Lusk laughing behind him. All his careful planning and he was fumbling already. He had to pull it together. This had all been so much easier when he was a young man, and his parents had arranged his marriage. He hadn’t even needed to meet Yuah’s mother before the wedding, let alone court her. By the next evening however, he had built back up his confidence for the endeavor and arrived at Miss Lusk’s door at eight o’clock sharp. He knocked on the cabin door, and it opened.
Standing in the doorway was Mrs. Phillida Marjoram.
“I’m sorry,” said Zeah. “I must have the wrong cabin.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Mrs. Marjoram. “I’m the young lady’s chaperone this evening.
“Oh, no,” thought Zeah. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t like Mrs. Marjoram, as he had no real use for the woman. But then he spotted Miss Lusk and all of his thoughts about Mrs. Marjoram vanished. Miss Lusk wore a different but equally bright white dress; along with the gloves he had given her. This dress left her shoulders and neck bare, both of which Zeah noted were absolutely perfect. She also wore a straw day hat covered and framed with lace, and she held a lacy folding hand fan.
“You look very nice,” he said, then added, “um, Miss Lusk.”
“Please call me Egeria,” she said. Mrs. Marjoram raised an eyeb
row.
Offering Egeria his arm, Zeah led her to an area amid deck, where he had arranged a table and chairs, elegantly laid out with linen tablecloth and fine china. Saba Colbshallow was serving as a waiter and had already set up the salad course. Zeah pulled out a chair for Mrs. Marjoram and then for Egeria, and then he sat down himself.
The salad was an apple-cabbage slaw, with vinegar and egg. The three of them ate and mostly stared at each other. Zeah really wanted to say something, but his mind just seemed to stay blank. He knew there was something that he should be saying, but he just couldn’t think of what it was. As he stared mutely, Egeria opened her hand fan and drew it across her cheek.
“The salad is delicious,” said Mrs. Marjoram, making Zeah actually thankful for her presence.
“Mrs. Colbshallow is catering for us this evening,” he said. Mrs. Colbshallow, in addition to being Saba’s mother, was in charge of Miss Dechantagne’s kitchen. Her skill at planning, organizing, and executing fine dinners was well known.
They finished the salad and Saba removed the salad plates and forks. Before he had arrived with the soup, a gust of wind came up, blowing the tails of the tablecloth over and almost upsetting the remaining china and silverware. It required all six of their hands to keep everything from being knocked over and to hold down the blowing white linen. Once Saba had brought the steaming bowls of soup, a chicken broth with potatoes and celery, the heavy bowls helped to keep the tablecloth in place. Mrs. Colbshallow had not been able to provide bread to go along with the soup, and bread was becoming increasingly dear on the ship, where no large baking ovens were available. The ship began to noticeably rock more as the seas picked up in the wind and threatened to slosh the soup. Egeria again opened her fan, this time waving it in front of her breast, though Zeah, for the life of him could not figure out why. It was already windy.
“Delicious soup,” said Mrs. Marjoram.
“I’m sorry about the weather, ladies,” said Zeah, as another gust of wind tugged at Egeria’s hat, which was fortunately tied below her chin by the wide strap of lace.
“It’s not your fault,” said the young woman. “You can’t control everything.”
“I should have consulted the almanac,” he said.
“I don’t believe the almanac covers the weather this far away from Sumir.”
They finished their soups and once again Saba removed the dishes from the table and replaced them with the next course. Lamb pie with dry wine and Turippi cheese was a famous Zaeri dish that Zeah’s mother had often served in his childhood. Mrs. Colbshallow, though not a Zaeri herself, had just as many ethnic dishes in her repertoire as she did more mainstream cuisine. The tastes of lamb, tomatoes, potatoes, wine, cheese, rice, spearmint, and the other ingredients all blended together inside the pie crust, creating a taste and smell that would have warmed the heart of the coldest man. And Zeah was beginning to feel as though he was the coldest man, as the wind, which continued to increase in its velocity, dropped noticeably in temperature too.
“Delicious meal.” If Zeah had only had someone with whom to wager, he would have bet that Mrs. Marjoram was going to say those exact words, and he would have won too.
Saba poured each of the three diners a glass of fine red wine. Zeah knew wine quite well, though he drank less of it than most men. No one could have served as a butler in the Dechantagne home without knowing which wines were to be served when. Miss Dechantagne had very specific ideas about wine. This red was one that had been procured in Enclep, and surprisingly met the Dechantagne standards, so Zeah was more than pleased to serve it at his own table. It was quite good too, he thought, as he tasted it from his glass.
“This was a lovely idea,” said Egeria, sipping her own wine.
“Again, I apologize for the weather,” said Zeah.
“It’s not so bad,” she said, and slowly closed her hand fan in front of her face. Zeah just looked blankly on.
“Oh good heavens, young woman,” said Mrs. Marjoram in disgust. “Must you be so forward?”
“What?” wondered Zeah.
“She’s been sending you signals all evening.”
“Shu… She has?”
“Yes! A fan drawn across her face means ‘I love you’. A fan near her heart means ‘You have won me’. Shutting a fully open fan means ‘I promise to marry you’.”
“It does?”
“I’ve never seen such an ignorant man in my life,” said Mrs. Marjoram. “And you young lady, are behaving in a most licentious manner.”
Saba stepped in at that moment to clear the main course dishes. Just then a bright streak of lightning shot across the sky right above the ship followed a moment later by a tremendous boom of thunder.
“I don’t think we’re going to get a chance to eat our dessert outside,” Zeah said.
“Or be licentious,” said Egeria.
The words were no sooner out of their mouths than a sheet of water dropped upon them so suddenly and with such volume that for a moment Zeah suspected that someone had hidden a basin full of water above his head. Only the immense volume of the water and its near freezing temperature disabused him of this notion. The two women squealed, Egeria with laughter and Mrs. Marjoram with indignation, as all of them, including Saba, raced for the closest open doorway.
“Perhaps God doesn’t want me to court you,” said Zeah, when they had all reached shelter.
“I doubt God arranged this just to thwart our dinner plans,” said Egeria.
“Well, it’s not exactly a vote of confidence on his part.”
“We could eat our dessert inside,” she said. “That would be fine.”
Zeah looked at Saba. The boy’s stricken face said it all. The dessert had been left out in the rain, and there was absolutely no chance at all that the cream-filled teacakes could have survived such an onslaught.
Chapter Twelve: An Angry Angel
Lying on his stomach on the small single bed, Terrence Dechantagne breathed a heavy sigh as Pantagria rubbed his back. Her powerful fingertips found every sore muscle, every angry nerve ending, every spot filled with fatigue or stored unease, and kneaded it out of existence. He could feel her naked buttocks sitting on his and her naked legs on either side of his stomach. Both were warm, far warmer than a human body should be, as if she was running a fever, but then she wasn’t human. She wasn’t even real.
She finished massaging him and got up, walking across the small room.
“How was that?” she asked.
“Good. Very good.”
He closed his eyes and savored being here, where he felt so good. This was only the second time in a fortnight that he had been able to find a place for his real world body to lie undisturbed while he “saw” the world in which he truly felt he belonged. He drifted off into a slumber and wondered in his half-awake state, if he fell asleep here and began to dream, what world would he find himself in then? Would he dream himself back into the real world? He didn’t want that to happen, so he forced himself awake again, and sat up on the bed.
Across the room, Pantagria stood in front of a wall-mounted mirror. Her graceful, tanned body was the very picture of perfection. Her snow white feathered wings were outstretched, almost touching the walls to her left and right. Their broad expanse shielded her head from his view for a moment. He stood up so that he could see her perfect, beautiful face. Only then did he see what she was doing. She had a straight razor in her right hand, and with her left hand, she was gathering great bunches of her golden hair and slicing through it. Half of her head was already denuded. In some places the hair that was left was an inch or two long, in other places, she was left nearly bald.
“What are you doing?” he asked, more shocked by this unusual behavior than he would have been if Iolanthe or Yuah or some other real woman had done it.
“Do you remember when you came to me last time? It was the night of the dance.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“We didn’t dance,” she said, as she continued to
hack away at her hair.
“I didn’t want to dance,” he said. “I wanted to make love to you.”
“Do you remember what you called me?”
“What I called you? No. I don’t remember.”
“You should. You call me the same thing every time you visit me.”
“What did I… what do I call you?”
“You called me ‘perfect’.”
“You are perfect.”
“I’m tired of being perfect,” her voice became a growl. “I want to be real. I want to be in the real world.”
“You can’t be,” he said. “I don’t want you to be. This is all just a dream. This is my dream. This is my haven. This is where I come, because I can’t stand life in the real world.”
She folded her wings and turned around. Only a few stray bits of long hair remained on her head. She placed the palm of her hand on his chest and shoved him back onto the bed.
“If I can’t be real because I’m perfect, then I’ll make myself real by making myself imperfect.” She turned back around and began to use the razor for its original purpose by shaving her head, starting on one side and moving across. Terrence watched her in stunned silence. She scraped the razor again and again across her head, leaving numerous small red scratches and a few cuts from which tiny red rivulets of blood flowed. She shaved her entire head bald.
“Pantagria,” he finally said. “I don’t think this is going to help you or me.”
She turned around once again, stepped toward him, and placed her left palm on his cheek.
“How do you know?” she asked, and then kissed him on the lips.
“This world isn’t the real world. It’s all in my mind. There’s no way to go from here to there.”
She hissed. “You do! You do it all the time!” She swung her right hand across his face. The blade of the straight razor sliced through both his nostrils.
He cried out in pain and was suddenly sitting in the corner of the supply closet where he had been when he had rubbed the white visio on his eyeballs. His eyes were tired but that was not why they were watering so profusely. His nose hurt like hell, and he looked down to see a huge amount of blood running down onto his shirt front.
The Voyage of the Minotaur Page 17
