by Kody Boye
While Odin couldn’t necessarily understand or relate to everything Domnin had just told him, he nodded. He did, at the very least, understand that they had lived another day, and for that they should be never be ungrateful for the things they had.
In the end, any and all the things a man possessed would one day be gone.
Odin, Nova, Domnin and the captain descended the second deck to witness the damage the previous night’s storm had wrought. Ropes lay strewn over the deck, an anchor sat prone, disengaged from its place near the far wall, stray fish blown onto the ship flopped about in agony—through the carnage, and amidst a series of men who stood gathering up the scattered supplies, one of the ship’s large sails had been spread out, where several men stooped with needles and spare fabric in hand. Among these men stood the cloaked Miko and Icklard, who each held a hand steady as purple and orange magic spread out from along their fingers and sewed the sail together like glowing worms crawling over a leaf.
“Icklard!” Domnin cried, running out ahead of the group.
While the two brothers united, gripping one another in a mighty embrace, Jerdai leaned against the wall and lit his pipe, inhaling the tobacco with a sigh. Odin glanced at Nova—who, in turn, glanced at him before they looked out at the wreckage.
“Pretty bad storm, huh?” Nova said, hoping to break the silence that had existed since they’d left Jerdai’s quarters.
“It was,” Jerdai agreed, pulling his pipe away to exhale a plume of smoke. “It could’ve been a lot worse though.”
Odin nodded. He looked up just in time to see Miko coming toward them, the mage brothers in tow.
“I’m glad the two of you are all right,” the Elf said, then looked up at Jerdai. “And you as well, captain.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jerdai said. “You helpin’ my mage repair these sails?”
“I was, yes. I’ll continue if you’d like.”
“I’d prefer someone help the brothers, if they could. I don’t trust my men with pins and needles.”
“I can help too,” Odin said, smiling when he caught a smirk on the captain’s face.
“You know how to mend fabric, boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then you’re more than welcome to—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” Icklard said, coming up from behind Miko. He waited for the captain to give his approval or rejection before continuing. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did last night, Odin. And you too, Nova. I don’t think I could ask for better friends.”
“Don’t mention it,” Nova grinned.
“You don’t have to thank us,” Odin added, casting a glance up at Jerdai, who only shrugged and leaned back against the wall.
“Still,” Icklard said, edging closer to his brother. “It means a lot.”
“We better get working,” Jerdai grunted, adjusting the pipe between his lips. “We can’t move until that sail’s fixed.”
“What about the reserve sail?” Domnin frowned. “Couldn’t we use that?”
“We’ll fix this sail,” the captain said, “and use the reserve only if the main one is damaged beyond repair.”
Without another word, Jerdai turned and made his way onto the second deck, where he could easily observe the work taking place.
Odin caught sight of Icklard whispering to Domnin before the two of them walked back to the sail.
“I’m guessing the captain’s not much for the mage,” Nova muttered, looking out at the blue-grey sky.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Odin shrugged.
“Love works in strange ways,” Miko mused, setting a hand on both of their shoulders.
“It doesn’t seem like Jerdai loves him, sir.”
“He does, in his own way. Come, though. Let’s not let this bother us—we’ve got work to do.”
The rest of that morning and afternoon was spent repairing the sail, untying knotted rope, gathering any and all of the buckets they could find, and making use of the fish gifted by the storm. By the time the sun crested the horizon, the sail had been retied, reset and freshly expanded, all in preparation for tomorrow’s journey.
Odin sat near the base of the crow’s nest, watching the captain and mages converse. Nearby, Nova watched the setting sun, while Miko paced the deck below, arms crossed and hands in the crease of his elbows.
I wonder what they’re talking about, he thought, looking toward the mages. A quick glance in their direction showed that the captain had disappeared.
Taking his chance, Odin stood and crossed the deck. He knocked on the railing to alert the brothers of his presence before stepping forward. “Hey,” he smiled. “What’s up?”
“Not a whole lot,” Domnin sighed.
“The captain wants to make up for lost time,” Icklard said. “Which means we’ll have to travel by night.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Odin asked.
“It is when you’re not sure where you are,” Domnin said. “See, the storm threw us off course, but we don’t know how much. When this happens, the captain always has us sit out late, watching the stars and using our magic to adjust the sails in whatever direction we need to go.”
“It’s a long and boring process,” Icklard mumbled. “and a bit tiring.”
“I’ll sit up,” Odin said. “I mean, if you don’t care. I won’t get in the way.”
“Of course we wouldn’t. But really, Odin—you don’t have to do that.”
“I will.”
“You’re going to be bored out of your mind,” Domnin sighed. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Odin said. “I’m sure.”
“Hey, kid!” Nova called, waving up at him. “You ready to go in?”
“Change of plans!” Odin called back. “I’m going to sit up and help the brothers tonight!”
Odin dwelled in darkness. Nearby, the brothers sat with their legs crossed, pouring over what appeared to be a star map. Every so often, one of them would set his magic-tipped finger to the map, point in the air, then look back at the map again before gesturing the other to adjust the sails. This process, while obviously common and not in the least bit tasking, seemed to take a lot out of either of the brothers when they began to adjust the sails. When doing so, one would lift their hand, spark it to life with fire, then send several orbs of light into the air to view the progress of the sail’s wary direction. Odin watched in mute fascination, mouth agape, as Domnin’s green orbs danced around the sail and eventually began to shift it to the east—toward, Odin assumed, where they would be docking to get supplies.
But where would we go? he thought, frowning, tilting his head as the sail began to adjust to Domnin’s will. Kegdulan?
He’d read much of the country beneath the mountains—of how, in choice locations along the coast and closest to the Hornblaris, Dwarves had abandoned completed stone villages and outposts in favor of homes within their mountains. These places, it was said, had been the basis for the kingdom, and it was only when the Kegdulanian king had decided to form his country that any human activity had been present. Before, very little had existed there beyond wildlife, much less sentient creatures who happened to live in the shadow of the mountains, and it was for this reason that Odin pondered on the political climate between Kegdulan and Germa in light of the desert country’s position on Ornala.
Why, Odin wondered, did the Germanian king not want parts of Kegdulan? Was it because of how barren it was, for the fact that farming difficulties were more severe and the space more wrought with untamed nature, or was it simply because he simply saw Ornala as a better prospect?
Rather than think about the politics and the climate that surrounded them, Odin shook his head, straightened his posture, then crawled to sit between the brothers. He watched Icklard take his turn sending green orbs up to examine the sails before asking, “Where are we?”
“On course,” Icklard sighed. “Finally. Thank God.”
“I thought the storm blew us off though?”
“Appare
ntly it didn’t,” Domnin shrugged. “But then again, we’ve been adjusting the sails for the past few hours.”
“We don’t have anything to worry about then?”
“Not unless the wind comes up and decides to push us back.”
Pulling his legs to his chest, Odin watched the brothers scrutinize the maps pressed before them—one a hand-drawing of the land, another the star locater their attention had been set on for the past few hours.
We’re good then, he thought, tightening his grip just below his knees.
“You can go to bed,” Domnin said, looking up.
“Are you sure?” Odin frowned. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me. I can stay up.”
“You might as well go to bed, Odin. There isn’t much you can do anyway.”
“All right,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Thanks for letting me camp out.”
“And thank you for the company,” Icklard smiled. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Domnin added.
“Goodnight,” Odin replied.
He made his way for the stairs, thankful that this part of the night was over.
“You’re back,” Miko said.
Odin nodded, pushing back against the door to make sure it had firmly shut. He turned the bolt and laced the chain before turning to face his knight master. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your permission to stay out,” he said.
“Don’t be. I don’t mind.”
“Still…”
Deciding it would be best not to battle wits, Odin sat on his bed and leaned forward to undo the laces on his boots. Once both were off, he leaned over the metal footrest and opened the chest to set them inside.
“How was it?” Miko asked.
“How was what?” Odin frowned.
“The night.”
“All right, I guess. It’s dark out there.”
“It is,” Miko agreed. The Elf stepped away from his bed and toward Odin’s. After a moment, Odin patted the place beside him, gesturing him to sit. “You did a good thing, staying out there with those brothers.”
“They’re my friends,” Odin said. “I’d do anything for them.”
“It’s not often you find someone so willing to help another.”
“I know,” he said. “More than well.”
He thought of the castle and how the only people who had ever helped him was the mage and the weapons master. The healer had come in his time of need, but only because he’d been sick, and his father—he’d come out of redemption, to free the troubled soul that had rested within its cage of flesh and to rekindle the fire that had long since burnt out.
“I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories,” the Elf said.
“You didn’t, sir. I… I mean… it’s not your fault.”
“There are times when I speak without considering how my words will sound.”
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Thank you, Odin. It means so much to know that I haven’t offended you.”
“I’m not easy to offend,” he smiled. After a moment of silence, Odin sighed and reached forward. His hand met the Elf’s naked lower back. “We’re both tired,” he said. “We should get some sleep.”
“We should,” Miko agreed.
Standing, Miko started for his bed, but not before turning and whispering a short goodnight.
Odin watched the Elf crawl between the covers before he uttered his own goodnight.
“Dammit!” Jerdai cried.
Odin stopped, unsure whether or not to step up onto the second deck. While he didn’t think the captain would mind his presence, he didn’t want to intrude on a private moment either.
Instead of immediately taking his last step off the stairs, Odin waited, watching the captain’s movements. Until then, he hadn’t realized the man had set a hand over his face.
Something’s wrong.
Taking a deep breath, Odin stepped forward. “Sir?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
Jerdai raised his head. Fresh blonde stubble lined his face, while his usually-calm, brown eyes possessed lines that crisscrossed the whites of his eyes and bled into his pupils. “Nothing’s wrong, son. You have nothing to worry about.”
Though he didn’t believe the answer, Odin nodded. His first thought led him to believe that something was wrong with the ship—that the sail had torn, that they’d lost one of the anchors, that there was a leak and they were slowly-but-surely going to sink. Shortly thereafter, he realized that the sails were in perfect order, that losing an anchor was highly unlikely, and that news of a leak, if one were present, would have surely spread like wildfire.
That doesn’t mean something isn’t wrong.
He didn’t dwell on that thought. He did, however, think of something else.
Earlier that day, after he’d just risen from sleep and come out onto the deck, he’d seen Domnin and Icklard sitting near their favorite spot—at the bow, just above the wooden maiden. Usually they would’ve been talking so early in the morning, making casual banter or telling jokes they’d heard from the sailors, oftentimes so lewd that Odin himself found them hard to believe. But as he’d come to behold, something had been wrong. Whenever Icklard would say something, Domnin would shake his head or shrug. Then, when the younger brother would reach out to give a friendly touch, the elder would brush the gesture off. This behavior eclipsed to where, after he’d been touched one too many times, Domnin had actually slapped his brother—hard, it seemed, for Icklard’s entire torso shifted and he reached up to touch the shoulder that’d just been struck.
After that, Icklard had made no further attempts at communication. Shortly thereafter, Domnin had stood and departed into the ship.
Something must be wrong, Odin thought, grimacing, the memories stinging like stray bees from a patch of dandelions.
While he didn’t care to get involved in other people’s business, Domnin was his friend, and for that he felt he should know about the inner workings of his relationship with the captain. If he could help, he would, so long as he was given the chance.
“Are you sure?” Odin asked, taking a step toward the captain.
“I’m sure, Odin.”
“You can tell me if something’s wrong, sir—I won’t say anything.”
“I already said—”
“I saw Domnin slap his brother this morning.”
“And how does that—”
“I know, sir,” Odin sighed. “I know.”
No further explanation was needed. Jerdai stared for several long moments, watching him with eyes haunted and like shallow beaches, then sighed before turning his eyes out to sea.
“You want to talk about it?” Odin asked, this time closing the distance between them.
“We were fighting about our relationship.”
“How come?”
“He thinks I need to give him more attention.”
“Do you think that?”
“I’m the captain of a ship. By the Gods, how the hell am I supposed to manage the boat and him?”
“Maybe he’s right,” Odin shrugged. “Maybe you don’t give him enough attention.”
“Now you’re taking his side?”
“No,” Odin said. He took a deep breath, then expelled it. “He said he doesn’t feel like you care about him.”
“That’s not true,” Jerdai sighed.
“Then why were you fighting about your relationship?”
This time, it was Jerdai’s turn to remain silent. The man continued to look out at the ocean, as if the answer to Odin’s question would appear on the waves. Odin could imagine it now—a maiden, rising from the depths, carrying within her hands a choice of swords: one bronze, one silver and one gold. From these swords a question would be asked—if you would feed your loved one, if you would move into a bigger house, if you would help your neighbors, your friends, your daughters, your wife. When answered, the maiden would offer; and if refused, she would return with the next sword in tow. First w
ould come the bronze, dull, dark and glowing, then would arise the silver—beautiful, pristine, and worth its weight in coin. The gold, however, would be marvelous, and from its surface a family could be fed for years, possibly even a lifetime. A real man, however, would not be seeking money. Instead, he would be seeking the answers to his problems; and it would seem, in most circumstances, that money was not the answer, for the love of another was not weighed in bronze, silver or gold, but in heart—in blood, it could be said, and sweat and tears, as it was not without consequence one could truly open their soul and reveal themselves to another.
After several moments of silence, during which time Odin began to grow uneasy, Jerdai turned to look at him. “It’s not that I don’t care about him,” Jerdai said.
“I don’t understand,” Odin replied. “What is it then?”
“It’s just… I’ve never been in love with another man before.”
“Are you worried about what people will think?”
“Hell yes I am, Odin, and that’s what scares me. The churches don’t approve, the people don’t understand—it’s all of it. How would you feel if you couldn’t walk into a temple without getting judged or if you had to worry about losing your job just because someone doesn’t like who you fucking sleep with?”
“But I thought you owned the boat?”
“I do, but that’s not the point. The point is: if someone doesn’t approve of me or what I do, they can find a different captain to ship their wares or carry their supplies. You as well as I know there’s more than just one captain that knows how to sail a boat.”
At the end of his painful monologue, Jerdai turned and made his way to his quarters, but not before he turned to face Odin one last time. “You were asking why we were fighting about our relationship,” he said. “It’s because I’m too big a coward to care about anything other than losing my job.”
After Jerdai left, Odin stared out at the sea, just as the captain had no more than several moments ago. Lost in the midst of unsure waves, he tried to find the answers to all the questions he wanted to ask.
