by Gemma Files
Power, Parry had learned (the hard way; he knew no other), was nothing at all without self-governance: a cracked gun-barrel, apt to explode when fired. It must be ordered, aligned properly with the secret lines of force that ran this sphere along its celestial track... and here those came now, blazing up at every compass-point, illumining a different world. A waking dream, wherein all things—however unlikely—became possible.
Was this what his mother had felt? he sometimes wondered, though he doubted it, given she’d had so little faith in her own powers as to shop him to the black-coat God-botherers the minute he proved educable. Then again, illiterate herself, Arranz Parry set great store by book-learning, and the Cornwall Church certainly had books enough to spare. At the time, however, he would have fought tooth and claw to stay with her, running barefoot through the marsh—did so, ably enough for his size, ‘til some bull-sized farmhand-turned-sexton carted him away, screaming. And he had never seen her again, not before the day they pulled him from his studies to see her swung, telling him his blood put the lie to his vocation. How he had resented and denied her, all those intervening years, in his pursuit of a parson’s collar—cursed her, even, a thing he now sorely regretted.
On the one hand, she was his mother, and he would always love her fiercely, no matter how he tried to do otherwise; on the other, she did worship the Lord of Horns, and made no claim to the contrary. But in a witch-hanging country, perhaps that had been as much effect as cause.
Up through the holes of his own skull Parry boiled, fine as smoke, to spread himself from bow to stern. Saw the silver cord that bound him to that meat-sack he normally wore stretch out behind, infinite extensible; saw the spark-knit chains linking him to the Salina, as well as those linking Mister Dolomance—unseen below-decks, lurking somewhere in the ship’s guts, just as he would once have ridden the ocean floor’s murky currents—to him. Not to mention the gross mechanics of Rusk’s curse, twining in and out of his shucked flesh like a swarm of soot-worms, blackening his coronal light with limitation: fatally incurable, the same as life itself.
Inevitably, however, widening his perceptions thus showed him what he’d rather not see, as well as what he sought: Solomon bloody Rusk himself, leant up against the mast with arms crossed, staring down at Parry’s back as though he yearned to lay one hand between its shoulder-blades.
Be off with you, sir, Parry told him, lips unmoving. Take yourself elsewhere. Your presence is neither required, nor welcomed.
Ah, ye’re a hard one, Jerusha. Surely I might do ye some small service in this enterprise, given it ensues we’re of similar make?
How so, pray? What I know I learned, through hard study; you never dreamed you might share your family’s gift for sorcery, not ‘til you saw the Salina’s hull at close range.
Yet your Salina was my Bitch once, Master Parry, and I know she has not forgotten me. What keeps me from resuming my post, if you leave her behind?
That not a man aboard could hear your orders, even were they inclined to obey?
Well, there is that. I’ll attend your return, then, shall I?
As you please.
Raising hand to forelock, the ghost turned away, upon which Parry closed his eyes and sank downwards through dark fathoms, great blooms of fish wheeling like starlings from his path on every side—seeking for some trace of Miss Attesee’s vanished vessel, the Nymph. And soon found it, as though some lodestone charge pulled him there, currents drawing him on both swift and steady, imbrued with a briny musk that made his theoretical nostrils twitch.
Time soon fell away under-ocean, so Parry had no true sense of exactly when he finally saw a mass of drifting scraps before him resolve into a scuttled brig, open-broke and upturned. Part of the prow still remained, blazoned in gold with what looked from this angle like H-P-M-Y-N, deformed to reverse through water’s heavy lens. Around him, the blue-black swam with drifting corpses, torn and bleached, many entangled as though fighting; at his left hand, two men had their teeth sunk deep as fight-pit dogs’ in each other, purple-haloed in blood too cold to dissipate.
Had it been battle that had done this, he wondered, or a mutiny? Some ship-wide outbreak of madness, or nother sort of infection entirely?
Parry saw no craft in it, one way or the other, just as he’d seen none in Miss Attesee herself—nothing beyond that vague flutter of power that some without witch-blood seemed to carry unawares, developing through various schemes to scry palms and dowse water, or the like. But he had been fooled before in such matters, as Ankolee Rusk had remarked during his first bout of curse-made land-fever, her spirit hanging over him as he sweated a sickbed-full of bloody sheets.
Amazing, how ya can know so much and so pitiful little, all at the same time, she’d scoffed, when he voiced his doubt against her diagnosis. But then, ya never do trust nothing an’ no one, even ‘fore Solomon’s curse take hold.
I’ve not had much cause to, madam. Least of all where that half-brother of yours is concerned.
Nah even that White-Christ God o’ yours, eh, who you was t’ serve an’ praise your whole life long? But the Sea herself be my goddess, Cap’n Parry; far more our kin than yours, both we Rusks. So perhaps it follow we might know more’n you about some t’ings, whether ya like t’think so or nah....
Parry shook what he presently called his head, impatient to clear it of such trash. And sent out an imperious call, demanding, of any whose souls might linger close enough to be listening—
All they who made up the Nymph’s compliment, I know you perceive my power: come now to my command, swiftly, and with courtesy. Which of you, in life, was Doctor Haelam Attesee?
At last, he heard the reply, weak and warped, issuing from somewhere inside that murky cloud of wrack and decay—
I... sir, ‘tis I, I think. Who, once, was... he....
Squinting harder still, Parry was just able to make out one more drowned man—Attesee—clawing towards him through his fellows’ detritus, a clumsy crawl executed with stiff limbs. He was torn at the throat and the chest, skull perforated with at least two close-quarters shots and bruised all over as well, as though every man aboard had wanted a crack at him by his life’s sorry end. Floated upright, he appeared barely five-and-thirty, nothing like old enough to have a child Miss Clione’s age... and nothing like her in other ways, either, with his puzzled brown eyes and his once-florid, now-peeling skin; upswept in the current, his wig-shorn hair was a green-tinged shade of blond rather than black, holding not a jot of her snaky, luscious curl.
Yet nevertheless: Sir, Parry addressed him, your daughter has found shelter on my ship. I would know what passed here. Tell me, if you can.
A salt-logged sigh. Oh, my Clione... poor girl. Poor girl.
Yes, ‘tis she I mean. I have put her under my protection, and will see to her comfort as well as I may, ‘till we can put her ashore. Now—what trouble cut your vessel down, that I may avoid the same?
The corpse shook his head, neck-bones grating, perhaps severing something; his skull fell sidelong, throat bulging unpleasantly.
Poor girl, he repeated. Not... her fault. She does not, cannot... cannot know. ‘Twas I who... erred, terribly. And all paid the price....
Parry frowned. ‘Not her fault’ the ship sank? But why would it be, doctor?
Another shake: now Attesee’s jaw flapped open, one grind away from swinging free. A fish had made its home inside his throat, blinking out at Parry’s “face”. Cannot... the doctor managed, voice a mere mucky groan. Oh, my poor creature! These men, too... so many. ‘Tis all my... if I had... only....
—but even as Parry thought to press him harder, the man Clione Attesee claimed as parent gave way, resolving into a quick-unraveling scum of bones. The fish darted off, no doubt headed to seek out less unstable shelter. And now there was a new voice beating down through the water, reeling Parry back in, pulling him up to the Salina’s decks once more, where he wrenched back inside his body just in time to find the bo’sun (whose Christian name he n
ever could recall) leaning in over him close as the protective circle’s flames would allow, repeating—
“—must have words wi’ ye, Cap’n, on a matter of some urgency... do ye hear me, Cap’n Parry? I said, do ye—”
“I hear you, sir, yes; one could not fail to, really. Now give me some room, and bloody well wait your turn.”
It took a sad amount of concentration to snuff the circle, pry his stiff legs apart and lever himself up gingerly—shins to knees, knees to feet—without causing injury; the bo’sun tried to help, but Parry waved him aside. “I am still capable of standing without aid, thank you. Now: what matter do you bring me, that it must be put with such urgency?”
“Sir, ye gave orders that the woman, the passenger—”
“Miss Attesee is her name.”
“—that she not be disturbed, and set your... Dolomance to watch on her, ‘fore ye bent to whatever you was just engaged in. Now there’s two hands bit and one stabbed, all for a-knockin’ on your cabin door wi’out permission.”
“I gave Mister Dolomance no such task. As to the other—why would they trouble her?” The bo’sun shot him a look. “Well, for one reason, of course, and more fool they, for thinking I would not learn of it. But otherwise.”
“Word is, there’s some thinks she’ll bring the ship t’ grief. That she’s some sort of, uh—”
“Jonah,” Parry said, the word ill-tasting yet, memory-poisoned. “God damn them all.”
A rage kindled, draining the ocean’s chill; Parry stood straight, eyes sparking—possibly literally—and was coldly pleased to watch the bo’sun cringe back. “She is under my protection,” he confirmed. “Who moves against her moves against me, with all that entails. What more need be said?”
This would have cowed better men, which the bo’sun most certainly was not. Yet he stood fast.
“I understand that, sir,” he replied, carefully. “Truly. But... there’s some others don’t, an’ that’s a problem.”
In which he had the right of it, of course. Annoying, contemptible man!
Aye, a good sailor, that. You’d do well t’ keep him close, my Jerusha.
Parry hissed. You do realize your very opinion of the man makes me disinclined to.
Naturally. Now go and see what that creature of yours is up to, before—
I had planned to!
Ridiculous, how Rusk (or what little was left of him) could still disturb. It annoyed Parry enough to make him turn on his heel, striding off cabin-wards at such a pace he left the ghost in his wake, if only momentarily.
* * *
He had expected to find the shark-were posted out-side, not in-, and certainly not crouched at Miss Attesee’s feet with its receding chin almost in her lap, stolid-worshipful as any sandpaper-skinned dog. Let alone for it to look up as he entered and dare to bare its teeth—begin to, any rate, ‘til he fixed the damned thing with a stare that made it drop its lidless eyes and crawl away, groaning.
At the movement, Miss Attesee looked up as well, recalled to herself; her gaze widened prettily, to find him standing before her. “Oh, Captain Parry! I did not hear you... your servant was keeping me company, as you see. Thank you for lending me him.”
“Is that what you think I did, madam?”
“Did you not? He frightened me at first, but—when alone, he is surprisingly well-behaved. And....” She paused here, as if feeling her way. “...useful, in some circumstances.”
“So I have found.” He furled a dismissive little lick of sparks Dolomance’s way, urging it to remove itself, which it did, though not without a mournful glance Miss Attesee’s way. She gestured for Parry to sit down beside her, which he did, even though there was no place other than the bed to do so. “Now... my bo’sun tells me you were disturbed, for which I tender my apologies. Those involved will be spoken to, harshly.”
“Oh sir, it was nothing so bad, really.”
“Bad enough to require Mister Dolomance’s interjection, or so I’m told. And believe me, madam, mercy is not looked on favorably, when dealing with sea-scum such as the Salina’s complement. They are men sworn to do ill and profit from it, if they may.”
“Yes, I suppose this is true. Though the men of the Nymph did not seem so evil, in the main; not before that last night. And then....”
And then? Parry longed to ask. Please, elucidate; I have seen the fruits of it, heard your father struggle to give warnings. Yet I cannot hope to understand, without your testimony....
All this fell away, however, when her distress prompted him to lay a comforting hand on her sleeve, only to have her fold herself into his side and press her head beneath his jawline, shuddering slightly. It was a moment of such force he found he had pitifully few words to describe it: a jolt, a spark—what was that, exactly, raising the hairs and ruffling his spine?
(Rusk would know, damn him.)
At that, the man himself came fading through the wall, as if summoned. Leant down over them both, remarking: Hmmm, she works fast, this drab of yours. Not that you seem all too happy wi’ the results.
Parry shook his head, gulping. Nay, I mislike this... cannot order my thoughts, calm my pulse. Some enchantment, perhaps; was that what Attesee warned of? But I sense no real magic about her, beyond her ability to see such phantasms as you—
Rusk all but rolled his eye, sardonically. Oh, certain, he agreed. Or perhaps she likes your looks, had ye never thought of that? Can it be ye’ve had no dealings with females at all, before?
Parry cast his mind back. There’d been no girls for him in Cornwall, since all knew his Church-bound intentions—besides which, he was hardly the sort of young spark mother that mother-in-laws found suitable, being too lean, too reserved, too haughty by far to tempt most happy buxom village misses. You are naught but a mire-bred witch-get brat, ‘Master’ Parry, he remembered one good-wife shouting after him in the street, who think yourself so far above us all! And later on, those clots of women who clustered ‘round Navy ships like rats after cheese, scouting for sailors on leave—they’d been a positive horror to him. Not to mention they wanted a man with money who’d drink enough to splash some of it out, then grow quick-fuddled enough not to be able to tell in the dark who might be poxed, after....
Ha! So I did pluck your flower, as I’d suspected. Lucky me.
Say your piece, you filthy bloody lump of—
She likes you, is all. So allow her t’ show ye t’other side of things, and see if it suits ye better.
It could hardly suit him worse, Parry supposed. But: As I said, your counsel’s enough to turn me elsewhere, from any subject. Besides, given how oft I’ve had it practiced on me, I’ve developed no particular taste for outragement.
Rusk shrugged. Cheat the both of ye, then, for all I care. ‘Tis obvious she wants ye t’ pay court to her, wi’ no ravishing involved—her choice, her will. You have only to bend to it. What can it cost?
He didn’t know, Parry realized. Which disquieted him all the more.
“I am sorry indeed, to inconvenience you so,” Miss Attesee—might he call her Clione now, at least in his mind?—said, into his clavicle. “The shock, you see... I can still see my poor father, pushing me into that boat, setting the waters alight. How they fell on him when they perceived I was gone, like animals. And I had known each and every one of them, growing up. I thought them my friends.”
“What changed?”
“Oh, if I only knew!” She drew back a bit, seeking his eyes. “I lived my whole childhood on the Nymph, sir—indeed, I cannot ever recall being not a-sea. That must be odd, surely.”
“I... find it somewhat hard to know what is odd myself, madam, living as I have.”
“Yes, I can see that.” She stared, as thought committing him to memory. Then added, softer: “You are not as I had supposed you.”
“Less piratical?”
“Younger. More gentlemanly. And kind, too.”
“Not by most standards, I think.”
“No, you are; far more civi
l than I’d thought you’d be, also, given your reputation. And handsome, as well. Those eyes of yours, they shine, like... fish-scales.”
“A pretty compliment.” Adding, as she looked away: “Beg pardon, madam. I am saturnine by nature and unused to company, particularly of the female kind.” He paused. “You know my limitations, but so long as we navigate carefully, we might come close enough to shore to put you off at Port Macoute. ‘Tis a rough place, yet there’s a woman there would surely take you in, if I but asked her....”
“Oh, then my estimation is confirmed, sir,” she replied, impulsively laying her hand upon his arm, and Parry felt it again—that sensation he could not easily name, or explain. “If I can only find some way to repay this fresh courtesy of yours...”
“Madam, any man would do the same.”
(Not any man, Rusk piped up. Precious few, in fact. Oh, my poor innocent!)
Miss Attesee frowned in the ghost’s direction, brow wrinkling prettily. “Who is that man, Captain Parry? Must he be always here?”
How oft have I asked myself the same thing.
“‘Tis Captain Rusk, who had this ship before me,” Parry told, her shortly. “I took it from him, and was obliged to kill him over it.”
(Only over that, Jerusha?)
“Did you want it so very much, then?”
He sighed. “Not... as such, no. It is a complicated question.”
(Ah, but explain it her anyhow, will ye—what we fell out over, and why. I do long t’ see you try.)
Reaching for the words, carefully: “Captain Rusk did me a good turn, by saving me from a Navy ship’s hold and breaking my witch-collar—but he expected to be paid, and his idea of due recompense went far past what seemed fair, by my tallying. Eventually, I grew beyond his ability to halter, and then...” He spread his hands wide, fingers grasping at air, a blue-green flutter linking them briefly together, then passing away in a flourish. “...as you see.”
“He was a bad sort.”
“Undeniably, given his occupation. But considering I now share it, it might be more accurately said he proved himself untrustworthy.”
