by S. E. Grove
Sophia glanced down at the wrinkled hands around her own. “But sometimes you want an anchor.”
The old woman led her over to the chairs on the deck. “And you have one. Don’t you carry a watch around with you? Don’t people always remind you of the hour? Aren’t you surrounded by clocks, ticking away, telling you the time? Aren’t we all?”
“I guess that is true.”
“So what do you need an internal clock for? Trust me, love. You’re better off. In my ninety-three years I’ve met only three others not bound to time, and they were all exceptional people.”
Sophia absorbed this doubtfully. “But why does that make me seasick?” she asked as they sat.
“Why, because we’re sailing through a soup of all the different Ages. When the Ages came apart, the waters were in one place. Now different Ages mix in the sea, so that every cup contains more than a dozen.”
None of Shadrack’s explorer friends had ever mentioned this. Sophia held her face up to the briny air, as if testing the truth of it. “Is that possible?”
“I’ve lived on ships for most of my life, and I’ve seen mysteries that can only be explained in that way.”
“Like what kind of mysteries?”
“Strange cities built on the water’s surface that appear one moment and disappear the next. Selkies and mermen building pockets of sea to contain a single Age. Mostly, I’ve seen peculiar things underwater—fragments, you might say—that seem like broken pieces of many Ages, lost in the currents.”
“So you once had your sight?” Sophia asked, fascinated.
“Yes, I did—although, if you ask me, my sight was somewhat like that anchor we were talking about. Just as you are better off without your sense of time, I am better off without my sense of sight. I know it sounds strange to say it, but it was only when I lost my sight that I began understanding the world around me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take your palm, for instance. In my youth I might have taken your hand in just the same way, but I would have been looking at your eyes and your smile to get a good sense of who you were, and I wouldn’t even have paid attention to your hand. After I lost my sight, I noticed things I would never have noticed before, distracted as I was by seeing.”
“I think I understand what you mean,” Sophia said. She was suddenly conscious of how much she was relying on Grandmother Pearl’s appearance in order to get a sense of who she was: her hair, her neat dress, the deep wrinkles around her eyes. “So I have to think about what I notice, since I don’t notice time.”
“That’s right, love,” her companion said approvingly. “What else is there that no one else is seeing because they’re looking at the time? You’re not distracted by time, so you’re bound to notice something everyone else doesn’t.” She paused, letting Sophia consider this. “It may take you a while to discover it, mind!” she added, with a laugh.
Sophia smiled. “You’re right.” She looked at Grandmother Pearl’s wrinkled hands. “If you’re ninety-three, that means you lived through the Great Disruption.”
“I did, although I don’t remember it. I was only a baby then. Though I learned of it from my mother. In the United Indies, where everyone’s livelihood depended on constant travel to either side of the Atlantic, the shock was extreme. The old European ports vanished. The colonies in the Americas transformed. And the Baldlands plunged into warfare and chaos and confusion. Imagine hundreds of thousands of people all waking to find the world around them scrambled—all of them solitary exiles from worlds that no longer existed. It seemed the entire continent had gone mad. My mother always spoke of it as a dream—a deep, long dream that left the world changed forever. Then again, my mother was a dream-reader, and she knew better than most that the boundary between waking and dreaming is an uncertain one.”
“Was your mother a”—Sophia hesitated—“pirate, as well?”
“Ah, she was, but piracy was a different thing in those days. Dangerous, underpaid work. Not like now. My mother was raised on ships and never owned a pair of shoes in her life, poor thing. She made her fortune divining the weather and reading dreams. Her life was a hard one. But now—this is the great age of piracy.”
Sophia thought, hearing Shadrack’s voice, that in truth it was the great age of exploration. But she didn’t contradict her. “Captain Morris’s ship is certainly well-off,” she said mildly.
“She’s a good captain. We’re all well treated and we have regular holidays. Burr and Calixta make a good profit—no doubt there—but they’re not greedy; they share it with the rest of us. We none of us have reason to complain. Still, if you saw other ships, you’d see that this one is modest in comparison.” Grandmother Pearl shook her head. “More wealth on one of those than on some of the smaller islands, I swear. The larger islands, of course, are a different story. Have you been to Havana, dear? It’s awash in coins of every kind.”
“I’ve never been to the United Indies,” Sophia admitted. “I’ve never been to the Baldlands, either. In fact, before this trip I’d never been south of New York.”
Grandmother Pearl laughed and patted her hand. “Well, all the more to look forward to. The Baldlands will take your breath away; they always do, the first time.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Remember what I told you about a cup of water from the seas? Well, the Baldlands are just like that—only on land. All the different Ages, brought together in a moment.”
“I can’t imagine it,” Sophia said, frowning slightly.
“Well, you don’t see it that way, not all at once,” the old woman explained. “Perhaps just after the Great Disruption you could see the lines of where Ages collided; one street in one century, the next street in another. But now, after more than ninety years, the Ages have settled. In the Triple Eras, for example, the three eras have melded into one. You can’t tell that one building is from the past and another is from the future, or that someone is wearing a mixture of clothing from three different eras, or that an animal from the ancient Age sits beside an animal from a later one. Now it seems just what it is—a single, whole Age derived from three.”
Sophia leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me about the animals. I’ve heard it’s the creatures that are the strangest.”
“There are wondrous animals, it’s true,” Grandmother Pearl agreed “But in the Baldlands you have to be careful how you use those words—animal or creature.’”
“Oh! Why?”
“Because of the Mark of the Vine and the Mark of Iron.” She paused, hearing Sophia’s silence. “Have you heard of them?”
“I’ve read about them.” Sophia recalled the passing mention in Shadrack’s atlas. “But I didn’t really understand them. What are they?”
Grandmother Pearl settled back in her chair. “Well, I’m not surprised. People don’t like to speak of it. Particularly people from the Baldlands. But you won’t understand the place unless you understand the Marks. They’ve always been there, at least since the Great Disruption, but the cruel way of seeing them has come about over time. Would you like to hear the story of how it all started?”
“Of course.”
“It was put to verse by the poet Van Mooring, a man from Nochtland who became a sailor. Every mariner knows it.” She began a slow, mournful song in a voice that spun out over the deck like a fragile thread.
“At Nochtland’s gates of iron strong
The guard kept watch to block the throng
Of those who would have broken through
To see the palace so few knew.
A glimpse of peaks and shining glass
Amidst the gardens thick and vast
Was all the towering gates allowed
To passersby and city crowds
Until the stranger did appear
And with his hooded cloak drew near
Demanding to be ushered in
And claiming kinship with the king.
The guard refused; the stranger fought
.
His hood fell back and as they sought
To pin him his arms and bind him tight
The stranger hurtled into flight.
His cloak fell free; his wings spread wide
And showed the stranger had not lied.
The emerald leaves with which he flew
Were Mark of Vine and proved him true.
The guard leaped up with mighty bounds
And tore the stranger to the ground.
He fell to earth with broken wings
And broken pride unknown to kings.
The Iron Mark had brought him low.
The cruelty of the Mark’s harsh blows
Was paid by all the guard in kind:
The cost of being metalmind.”
Her voice trailed off, yet the vivid images stayed in Sophia’s mind. “What does that mean—‘The cost of being metalmind?’”
Grandmother Pearl inclined her head. “Why don’t you tell her, dear, about the Mark of Iron?”
Sophia looked past the old woman’s chair and saw with surprise that Theo was standing on the deck in the near darkness, out of sight, but apparently not out of earshot. She realized she had briefly forgotten all about both her nausea and her anger. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved closer and sat down. “The Mark of Iron,” he said quietly, “may be any bone made of metal. Most often it is a person’s teeth. They are sharp and pointed, and they tear.”
Sophia recoiled. “They tore the man’s wings with their teeth?”
“They were defending the gate. They were only doing what was expected of them.”
Grandmother Pearl nodded. “It’s true that the guards argued in their defense that they had been protecting the gate. And there was, they claimed, no way for them to know that the stranger was in fact a nephew to the king, returning to Nochtland after years on the northern frontier. The king, however, declared that the Mark of the Vine should have been proof enough.”
“What happened to the king’s nephew?” Sophia asked.
“His wings were shredded by the guards but over time they re-grew, like new leaves.”
“But the guards were put to death,” Theo added.
Grandmother Pearl turned toward him. “The guards were sentenced to death, yes, and the long enmity between the two Marks began to deepen. It had been a mere dislike before, a suspicion, but with the execution of the palace guard the gulf between them grew. The Mark of the Vine is held to be a sign of privilege and aristocracy. Among the royals, the mark often emerges as wings. For others, it might be a patch of skin, a lock of hair, a pair of fingers. The palest weed, if you’re lucky enough to be born with it, is enough to make the humblest child a blessed one. Those who have the Mark are favored in the Baldlands, and those who don’t have it—ordinary people like you and me—attempt to emulate it. The Mark of Iron is held to be a sign of barbarism and disgrace. Today, no one with the Mark of Iron would dare set foot in Nochtland. They’ve all been driven out. The royal family have come to see conspiracy in the smallest piece of metal. It has gone from being disdained to being criminal.”
“Not farther north,” Theo put in.
“Very true,” Grandmother Pearl agreed. “The raiders in the north wear their iron teeth with pride, and they take no shame in baring them to all the world. You will even see them in Veracruz, and on the roads around the city. Still, they all avoid Nochtland. Fair to say?”
Theo gazed out toward the water. “For sure. People with the Mark of Iron have a way of ending up on the wrong side of the law, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.”
“And some will class those with the Mark of Iron as wild men—or worse. It’s not unusual to hear them called ‘creatures’ or ‘animals’ by those who are especially narrow-minded, which is why I warn you.”
“But are those with the Mark of Iron really so terrible?” Sophia asked.
“Of course not,” Theo scoffed. “The raiders I know are no worse than anyone else. They’re just people—some good and some bad.”
“So you see,” Grandmother Pearl said, “it’s a cruel way of thinking, that has divided people in the Baldlands over many decades.”
Sophia realized that the sun had set completely. The sky was dark and filled with stars, and a slender moon hung on the horizon. “So that’s what they mean when they talk about ‘creatures.’”
“Well,” the old woman said, “there are also what you and I would call creatures—animals from other Ages and strange beings you don’t see on land or sea.”
“Like the Lachrima,” Theo said. Sophia rolled her eyes in the darkness.
Grandmother Pearl was silent for a moment. “Yes, like the Lachrima.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t hold with superstition, but there are some on board who wouldn’t like to hear you say that word. It’s thought that naming them brings them closer.”
“Who would have thought? Pirates are afraid of something, after all,” Theo said, grinning, the somber air that had previously taken hold of him apparently banished.
“Oh, yes! We like gunfire well enough, but apparitions and Lachrima are another matter.”
“Have you ever heard one?” Theo wondered avidly.
“I have,” she said somberly. “The first time was long ago, in the Baldlands, but only a few years back, when we were in Havana, I heard one haunting a ship called the Rosaline.”
“They’re not just in the Baldlands, then?” Sophia asked.
“They’re most often found there, but you might hear one almost anywhere. This one had been aboard the Rosaline for weeks. The poor sailors were at their wits’ ends. When they came ashore in Havana, they abandoned ship, and the captain couldn’t convince a single soul to return. In the end, either the captain or someone else cut the ship loose, letting it drift empty with nothing but the Lachrima. If it hasn’t sunk, it’s out there now, sailing around the world with its lone passenger. Eventually it will no doubt fall to pieces—an empty vessel on an empty sea. The Lachrima will disappear and fade with time.”
“Oh, they disappear,” Sophia said with sudden comprehension. She thought back to Mrs. Clay’s story and the Lachrima’s abrupt vanishing at the border. “How? Why?”
“Hard to say. It’s for this reason that they appear to some as monsters, to others as phantoms, and to still others as only a distant sound. In Xela they appear most in the last form; people refer to the crying as el llanto del espanto, ‘the spirit’s lament.’ No one knows how they disappear. They are not understood well at all, poor creatures. But my sense is that they comprehend their fate. They know that they are disappearing. And they are terrified of it. Wouldn’t you be?” Grandmother Pearl pushed herself to her feet. “Well, with that I’ll leave you. Have I distracted you from your seasickness?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sophia said earnestly. “I forgot all about it.”
“Good. Tomorrow we’ll talk of happier things, no?” She rested one hand on Sophia’s forehead and then let her hand float until it found Theo’s forehead. “Good night, children.”
“Good night, Grandmother Pearl,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing it gently.
“Ah!” she said, gripping his hand between both her own. She felt his scars almost tenderly. “That’s why you gave me your left hand before, dear boy.” She smiled down at him. “There’s no shame in this hand, Theo. Only strength.”
He gave a forced laugh, but didn’t reply.
“Only strength,” she repeated, patting his hand. “Good night. Sleep well.”
17
A Swan in the Gulf
1891, June 25: 17-Hour 41
After 1850, with the expansion of the rum and sugar trade between the United Indies and New Occident, piracy in the Caribbean grew increasingly lucrative. Plantations in the Indies were faced with the prospect of either continual theft along the trade route or costly collaboration. Most opted for the latter, and as the years progressed pirates saw many of their ships transform into legitimate businesses charged with managing the trade
route. There resulted a widening gulf between thieving pirates and their more prosperous cousins in the plantations’ employ.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of the New World
CALIXTA AND BURTON Morris came from a long line of pirates. Their parents and grandparents had sailed the dangerous waters of the Caribbean when every ship, regardless of its sail, was a potential enemy. No one who met Calixta and Burr, as he was known to all, suspected at first from their easy manner the tragedy that lay in their past. In fact, it was the tragedy itself that allowed them to enjoy life so fully; they knew it could be taken away in an instant.
They had been twins, two children among seven. Their mother had been the daughter of a pirate captain. Their father was the first mate of the infamous Typhoon. For years they sailed together, along with their growing family, until the captain of the Typhoon, in his zeal to maintain his ship’s reputation, attacked an ambitious rival. The battle was long and bitter, and when it ended the ships were nothing more than burnt shells.
Calixta and Burr, less than a year old at the time, lay together in their baby basket and drifted on the charred remains all the way to shore. Grandmother Pearl was one of the Typhoon’s few survivors, and though the fires caused her to lose her sight, she stayed with the basket and protected the infants with all her remaining strength.
It was Grandmother Pearl who raised them, and it was she who chose the Swan, the ship sailed by kindly old Captain Aceituna. Though Aceituna called himself a pirate, he had grown cautious in old age, and he sailed only the safer routes. He dedicated himself to shipping the rubber tapped in the southern Baldlands to the United Indies and New Occident, where the material was used to make Goodyears, boots, and other valuable commodities. The “weeping wood” grown on the outskirts of the Triple Eras had made many people, including Aceituna, quite rich.
Of course the tragedy of their family’s death hung over Calixta and Burr, but Grandmother Pearl and the others on the Swan made life for the two children as happy as they could. When Aceituna retired, leaving the ship in their care, Calixta and Burr vowed that the Swan would never become like the Typhoon. They did not aim for greatness; they aimed for prosperity. The Swan never attacked without provocation. The Morrises laughed good-naturedly when pirates from other ships mocked them as the “polite pirates.” “Better polite than dead,” Burr always replied. “Besides,” he would sometimes add, “why look for a fight when the best fights always come to me?” Calixta kept track of the routes sailed by other pirates and mapped the Swan’s path to prevent unexpected confrontations.