by Richard Nell
After a long, hot afternoon, when the Steerman shouted and cursed any man who crossed his path, pacing across the deck with a knife, the captain appeared at Chang's side without a sound. "Deal with him," he whispered, "or I will."
Chang had him forced below and locked like a prisoner until the madness passed. But the Steerman wasn't alone. Chang felt it, too—as if he were stretched like old rope, fibers pulling away one by one until the line snapped at its weakest point. A part of him wanted the captain to end it, the same part that wanted it over, wanted off this ship no matter how, to lay down and never to rise, or to walk into Zaya's cabin and take her.
With every dusk her beauty grew, until Chang could see her hair lit by sunlight even as he closed his eyes. She did her work and hummed her songs or played her lyre, eyes sure and smile quick, like driftwood floating in the wreckage of his madness. He knew to touch her was death. The captain was watching, and the pilot too. And even if they hadn't, he knew to touch her was to take on water, to crack the last strong surface of his mind, and drown.
"Are you alright?"
Chang looked away from the glaring blue horizon as he heard the voice of a good spirit made flesh. He blinked and blinked until he saw Zaya, and it seemed he was not looking out to sea at all, but standing at her cabin door.
"You look a little pale," she said. And then Zaya was beside him, easing him to the lone chair in her room. It was her private place, he knew that, as he knew he shouldn't be there.
"I'm alright, Macha," he lied. "Just tired is all. I thought…I'm sorry, I think I've wandered in my sleep. Is it morning?"
"Lie down," she said, helping him to the bed that smelled of her. The scent of her sweat brought him closer to the shore—to good things and away from a monstrous pilot and a killer captain, a crew of madmen and an endless sea. He pulled the lone sheet to his face and turned on his side as he closed his eyes.
"Just tired, Macha," Chang heard himself mutter.
Then there was the sound of a woman humming a child's song, and Chang floated light as air, far away from the Prince, and from prison, from a hard life on the sea.
"I'll be alright come morning," he muttered before the end. "It's Roa's promise. I'll wake anew with the sun."
* * *
Chang dreamt of slavery, or maybe freedom. He'd lost track of which was which. First he was a boy in shackles held by iron and hard men with harder tasks that bound his life in endless work. Then came Roa, the great kraken god, and a bargain struck in the hopeless dark. And so with his patron, Chang had survived the sea where so many others fell. He grew to a man, coiled now in ropes made of gold, surrounded by others who needed him, who needed hope and the right words and the right songs, souls like hungry stomachs with only Chang's words to fill them.
"Land!" called a man in his dream, and Chang knew it was a lie.
"Land, he says." Chang rolled his eyes and winked to his brothers, who laughed like children without a care.
"Land, due West!" called the dream again, until Chang blinked and lived both in a dream and a sea-world with a slaver captain and a madman pilot.
He wiped away sleep and tried to wet a cotton-stuffed mouth, rising in a bed that wasn't his in a cabin he didn't recognize. It was Zaya's, he realized. Zaya the sea spirit. How did he get there?
He reached the door and stumbled onto the deck to find the crew lined up and staring out to sea.
"Another island?" He coughed and moved beside the Steerman, wiping the last bits of sleep from blurry eyes. The little islander grinned and gestured with his chin—the men of his lands never pointed with their fingers, else the gods might look too.
Chang blinked and looked out to the horizon, which he now saw was filled from end to end with wrongness, with a color that did not exist because only blue existed. Half the sky was green.
"Hell of an island, chief," said Basko with a grin.
Chang nodded, and looked between the men's wide smiles, a few looking to him now as if only his words might make it true.
He took his moment. The captain stood on his deck with a cigar, puffing with one hand curled around a rope as he looked out, as if lost in thought. The pilot stood at the rail grinning like a child, Zaya near him.
"Land ahead," Chang said with some finality. When the men didn't move he stomped and slapped the rail. "I said land ahead, you lazy bastards. Reduce the sails. Ready the anchor and the transport. If the captain means to land I want barrels and flasks ready to move. Bloody ka?"
"Ka, chief." The men roared, even the Steerman, as if he'd never held a mutinous thought in his cunning little mind.
They sailed onward with a mild breeze, eyes straining as every man did his best to see more than the green glow of glorious land. It seemed further than expected, and to reach it took the Prince most of the afternoon. All the while the captain stood still and silent, smoking, and watching. The pilot went in and out of his cabin, muttering and frantic like an excited child.
Soon enough, the line gained shape. Thousands of trees covered the foreign coast, their strange trunks growing mixed together so close they looked like a wooden wall. Far beyond them, vast hills and mountains challenged the sky in jagged rows. Birds swooped over the sea, calling in challenge and annoyance at their kin.
"It's beautiful," said Zaya, moving to Chang's side. He smiled and fought the water forming in his eyes.
"Aye, Macha. A damned miracle."
At last the captain seemed to come alive, stepping from his watch and turning on the crew. He stepped from the elevation of the captain's deck to the pilot, handing him what looked like a coin, then looked out over the crew.
"Make ready for landfall," he said needlessly. "We'll anchor and explore, then camp on the closest beach."
When the men failed to cheer, the captain's mouth quirked with a rare smile. "The thing about explorers, gentlemen—the first to find new land, they usually end up rich."
"True," said Old Mata, and even the Steerman grinned.
"Let's go boys." Chang clapped and readied for landfall, a happy smile plastered in place. In his mind he remembered the names of lost ships and lost captains, devoured by their doomed ventures for foreign lands. Some became rich, no doubt, just as the captain promised. But usually, oh yes most usually, they ended up dead.
Chapter 11
Zaya dipped sandaled feet into water as clear as any she'd seen in the isles. The beach was shallow and filled with tiny stones that rested comfortably beneath her feet. The men beamed as they pushed their transport onto the rocky beach, loaded down with weapons and supplies. When they struggled at the end to push it from the water, the shaman seized it and lifted it half off the ground, as if perhaps he might have been able to do so alone.
"Come, cousins," he said, smiling so wide he exposed jagged teeth. "A new world awaits. Who knows what secrets it might hold?" He dropped the boat and raced to the closest patch of trees, running his hands over the bark as he inspected the rounded canopy above.
The captain and his men went more slowly. Zaya walked beside Chang, whose dark eyes roamed the long shore with an expression too difficult to read.
"How are you feeling?" she whispered. He blinked and smiled, though it was not the genuine expression she had come to crave.
"Well again, Macha. As I promised, the dawn has renewed me."
Still, Zaya saw strain in the man's face. He looked out at the land as if more afraid of it then the sea behind.
The crew of the Prince made their way into the unknown forest that the islanders called 'jungle' for reasons Zaya didn't understand. The heat was oppressive as ever, but Zaya had become used to that. Insects buzzed, chirped and hissed all around them, some settling on skin to sting or bite, leaving the party swatting constantly at themselves as they marched.
"We'll walk awhile," said the captain. "But stay together, and if it's all dense trees like this we'll move the ship and try somewhere else."
They soon found patches of berries and strange fruits which the shaman wrapped in cloth and st
uffed into a sack. "Eat nothing," he commanded, but with good humor, his eyes wide and restless as they roamed every plant, great or small. He removed some from the ground, along with patches of dirt he stored in wooden containers in his heavy bag.
The party walked on. When it seemed this whole world were made of thick vegetation, at last they came to a clearing, and for a moment feared they'd found the end of another island, for they heard a sound they thought was the tide. Instead the clearing revealed a pool of water, surrounded by rock and green life, ascending a step-like pattern of rock up the side of a mountain. Water fell down it, hundreds of white cascading rivers mixing into a lake and splitting off as rivers below. The crew beamed, and ran to the water.
Some filled waterskins or cupped their hands in the river to drink. Others took off their clothes as if they meant to leap in for a swim, and Zaya averted her eyes, still embarrassed at the display despite her weeks with the men.
"If you wish to bathe, Macha," Chang pointed at a smaller pool, somewhat secluded in the trees. "I will stand guard, and ensure you are alone."
Whether the offer was genuine or another attempt at seduction Zaya had no idea. She rarely did with the man, and still worried at the madness or sickness she had seen overtake him, and most of the crew. Even the shaman and the captain had seemed disturbed, sometimes wandering with eyes that saw some internal world, and consumed them.
"Thank you," Zaya smiled politely. "Perhaps later."
Chang nodded and removed his shirt, then followed the men into the water.
The shaman and captain had moved closer to the waterfalls, so Zaya stepped carefully along the wet stones to join them. The shaman moved closer along the stone until he came to the bottom of the waterfall, then yelled over the endless din, his hand on the wall. "It looks almost cut, pirate, as if by men. Not so different to the weir in Sri Kon."
Zaya had no knowledge of such things, but the view was breathtaking. Some of the spray from the water was hitting her now, and she closed her eyes as the cool moisture washed over her in steady waves. Her desire to jump into the water with the men was strong, but a lifetime of such things being forbidden was not so easily ignored.
"Get the men out." The shaman's voice changed.
Zaya turned to see his eyes roaming the trees, something palmed in his hand. The captain asked no questions. He barked at the men to get their clothes and weapons and rally to him, clapping his hands as he stepped to the pool.
Zaya looked but couldn't understand the sudden panic. She stepped over a slight rise and saw a number of objects abandoned by the waterfalls. They looked too oddly shaped to be natural, and she squinted to understand before it was clear…there were clay jugs and buckets beside the water, with bundles of rags in heaps. She knew then what had concerned the shaman—there were people here. Others had been at this very spot, and by the looks of it, had been washing clothes before they abandoned them.
Then she heard a scream from the trees.
"Quickly!" The shaman took the steps two at a time, lifting two surprised men from the pool, their legs kicking like children. "To the ship! Now!" he roared.
Zaya stared at the woods, trying to understand. The shouts and screams were growing in number, moving through trees. She began to see colors emerging from the North side—first blues, reds, then yellows in almost circular patterns. After a long delay, she realized, they were shields.
Dark skinned men emerged from behind them, shouting and hollering, their bodies and weapons painted with strange shapes. Others emerged from the cliffs above, yet more from the hills to the South. They carried strange, hooked spears, as well as nets and long ropes.
"There's too many." Zaya barely heard the captain yell over the sound of the waterfall.
"Go pirate. I will not kill," the shaman answered. Incredibly, he raised his hands and settled to his knees, as if in surrender.
The captain took one look at his eyes, and ran.
Only the Western path to the woods remained free. The strange warriors had already began to circle as the sailors emerged from the water, grabbing clothes and weapons as they squished into their boots or sandals.
"What are we doing, chief?" yelled the big brute, Basko, eyes wide as the shouting continued.
"We do what he says! Back to the ship!" Chang yelled, grabbing men and pulling them on.
Zaya did not follow them. There was still a little time. The foreigners were not running, but staying in a kind of formation as they approached, and she looked at the great shaman waiting without a hint of fear as the foreigners came. She knew as ever the gods gave her a choice, as they gave all living things a choice, if not in the manner of their lives, then in the facing of it. She clenched her jaw and dropped to a knee beside the shaman. He looked at her and perhaps sighed, but she saw no judgment there.
She watched Chang at the back of his fleeing men. He turned and met Zaya's eyes, and his hands curled as if even now as the warriors closed, he debated charging back. A surge of warmth for him went through her, but she simply nodded, and gestured towards the woods. With a final look, Chang turned and disappeared into the trees.
* * *
"You should have run." The shaman's words held as little emotion as his expression. He inspected the armed men approaching with cold, fearless eyes, and Zaya tensed as at least ten of the painted warriors circled them on the wet stone. "Not all men treat women honorably," he added, eyes following the spear points now held near his face.
Zaya's heart wouldn't stop racing. "I'm not afraid," she whispered, forcing her limbs to relax as the men wrapped rope around her arms. They were much the same size as the islanders, if perhaps slightly taller, with a range of skin tones like the diverse peoples of the continent. As they grabbed her they seemed strong enough, but next to the shaman, they looked like skinny boys with sticks. Only his lack of resistance allowed them to bind his hands with their rope.
Hands lifted Zaya to her feet, and two of the painted warriors spoke nonsense, repeating words she didn't understand over and over before gesturing for her to be taken. As the shaman stood and went with them, the men again began to whoop and shout as if in some kind of celebration.
With the foreigners around them, they were marched North around the base of the waterfall, to a small path of paving stones that seemed to lead up into the hills. Zaya said nothing. She tried to calm her uneven breaths and keep her feet while the men pushed her onward. The difficult climb somehow helped, and returned blood to her limbs. As they finished the steep rise, she looked out beyond the waterfall, and her breath caught in her throat.
Tan buildings emerged in layers from a rising mountain, row upon row like steps into great peaks that met the afternoon sun. It was the largest city Zaya had ever seen.
She forced her gaze to the shaman, whose eyes moved back and forth over everything, excitement now clear on his face. Their captors forced them onward, down into rich squares of crops that surrounded the city in the same layered pattern as the buildings. Farmers and shepherds stared, flocks of scraggly sheep and goats in vast numbers along the fields. Some bowed to the warriors or thumped tools against the earth.
When they reached the city outskirts, the warriors again began to whoop and holler, the ruckus rising as townsfolk came to watch, adding their own voices to the sound. The people wore little clothing, much like the islanders, yet styled with many colors, jewelry hanging from necks and ears, their hair often immaculately kept. Many gaped in open awe at both Zaya and the shaman, some daring to touch them as they passed.
Zaya felt suffocated, and vulnerable. Hands grabbed at her hair, her clothes, or rubbed her skin. Near naked children fought for a place near her legs, laughing and groping anything they could touch. The warriors seemed unbothered, even encouraging the crowd to come and fawn over their prize, until the shaman growled and sent the foreigners scurrying back.
"Indok, kay tawaha. Tawaha!"
A group of men in thick gambeson armor waited in an open square along the road. An older, g
rey-haired man at their front shouted and the crowd dispersed, the warriors pushing Zaya and Ruka onwards with obvious pleasure. One of the warriors stepped out and spoke in the same gibberish, gesturing dramatically at his men, then at Ruka, thumping his chest and gesturing to the sky.
The grey-haired warrior smiled. He spoke to the crowd before gesturing to the warriors, and the whoops and shouting filled the world as hundreds cheered, and the men puffed their chests.
Their treatment was rougher after that. The new warriors nearly dragged Zaya and the shaman through the crowd, pushing people aside if they got too close. Still, the mood seemed celebratory. People cheered as they passed. They hurried down a series of flawless cobblestone streets, past buildings made of huge blocks of brown stone, that rose up in both square and triangular shapes, connected by steep paths up the mountain-city.
The sun and the warmth of the bodies was unbearably hot, and between the heat and the fear Zaya felt herself panting, desperate to have her hands free. Suddenly the cool spray and endless sea on the horizon felt like paradise.
"Alakwa." The older warrior led them beneath a bridge, then gestured through a narrow corridor of stone. It was small and dark inside, and Zaya felt herself pull away. The men pushed her onward. At first she thought the shaman wouldn't fit, but he stooped and managed, and if he could stand it then she knew so must she. They were led to a stone bench where their bonds were cut and a kind of prison erected at the doorway with a grate made of something like the islander's bamboo.
Then just as quickly, the foreigners were gone, and Zaya and the shaman were alone. She could see his golden eyes exploring the dark like the mirrored lenses of a cat, reflecting the tiny remnants of sunlight.
"What will they do with us," she whispered, hating her own weakness. She knew she should be focused on everything she saw and heard so that later she might tell of the tale. But in this moment, it did not seem natural to think of song.
"I have been imprisoned twice," answered the shaman, his voice disturbingly calm. "The first time I nearly froze. The second, I was fought in a pit like an animal for a king's amusement."
