Scourge of the Seas of Time (and Space)

by Catherine Lundoff

  The Ottoman captain snarls. “You’ve killed my crew.” He takes the sword with a heavy hand.

  “So you won’t fight me?” Drasio is almost disappointed, but the Ottoman captain rushes toward him, sword extended to impale. Drasio grins, side-steps out of the way and parries the blade. “You will fight then.” He slashes at the captain’s arm, but then he falls to the ground as his legs are swept from under him. He rolls out of the way of an incoming slash, dragging his sword upward as he pulls himself to his feet, nicking the other captain on the shins. Drasio ducks the swing of the other’s sword, grabbing his wrist with his left hand and cutting the Ottoman captain in the shoulder. He pulls out the blade and strikes again, forcing the Ottoman to drop his sword with cries of pain. Drasio grits his teeth together in a grimace.

  “Demon,” says the Ottoman, seething.

  “No such thing,” Drasio replies. He tightens his grip on the other captain’s wrist, feeling the bones crack from the force. The Ottoman’s sword falls to the deck. Drasio digs his sword in deeper, and the Ottoman captain cries out. He swings his arm at Drasio’s elbow, attempting to knock his grip loose. Drasio frowns, feeling a bruise forming right above his elbow. The Ottoman strikes again, but this time with something sharp, nestling itself into Drasio’s arm. Drasio swears, half in Arabic, half in Ardani, pulling out his sword and watching the bloodied blade drip onto the wood below. The Ottoman cracks a smile. Drasio’s own right arm is bleeding now, throbbing in pain, but he knows he can fight through it.

  In the Ottoman captain’s hand is a dagger, small and thin. It must have been holstered to his belt. Drasio is surprised he missed it. The Ottoman lunges at him again. This time, he is using his left arm. And while his opponent is now clumsier and less precise, his attacks are far more chaotic. Drasio finds himself on the defensive, keeping his sword’s point trained at him to maintain a distance. He waits for an opening and strikes his left wrist, knocking the dagger out of his opponent’s hand and slicing part of it off in the process. Drasio steps in, kicks the Ottoman down to his knees, and uses both hands to drive his sword into the man’s chest through his collarbone. The other captain slumps forward and dies with a gasp.

  Around him, his men are quiet. Ardani pirates do not celebrate deaths in a duel. Instead, there are nods of encouragement, of acknowledgement that the ship is theirs.

  Drasio pulls out his sword, reaches down to the dead captain’s jacket, and wipes his blade clean. He grits his teeth as he inspects his wound, extending his arm only to be met with a stabbing pain. The wound isn’t large but it’s strategically placed, and he pulls off the sash of the dead captain and ties it around his elbow. It’ll heal, but he’ll need to be careful.

  Larza sits watching from the quarterdeck. He isn’t sure when she climbed on board, or how long she had been watching, but he nods to her. She jumps off, puts a hand on his shoulder, and walks him to the ladder leading to the lower decks. “What do you wager we have below?” she asks.

  Drasio presses his lips together in a frown. “You know the answer.”

  “I do.” She begins her descent before him, jumping off halfway down the ladder. “It’s no Ottoman war ship. That would probably have been easier.”

  Below, Ilario greets them before the closed door to the cargo hold. There is blood below, and a few of his men are clearing out the dead bodies, piling them to the side. “We’ve counted thirty guns on board,” he says in his native Ardani.

  Drasio nods. The Two Lions likely would’ve had at least fifty, given the size of the ship. But he presses on. “And inside there?”

  Ilario steps out of the way, opening the door. “Uh, see for yourself.”

  Drasio isn’t sure what he’s expecting. Spices? Weapons? Alcohol? No, he knows what he’s expecting, deep in his gut. Inside, he sees around two hundred Europeans, chained at the wrists and ankles. The hold smells of urine and gods-know what else; they’ve been beaten and bruised and emaciated. The few that look in his direction are scarred with defeat while the others hang their heads low. He groans inwardly, his heart turning at the sight. This is a slave ship. He should’ve known the moment he saw the Ottoman flag.

  “Should we kill them?” asks Ilario. “Your orders were no prisoners but we thought you’d want to see this for yourself. They’re all in poor shape and Larza may have injured a few earlier. The conditions are such shit I’m honestly not sure what was inflicted on them before or—”

  Drasio cuts him off. “Well, we can’t just let them loose in Europe!” he sneers. He pushes Ilario out of the cargo hold, his eyes wide as he holds his arms up defensively. Larza follows closely behind. “They’ve already seen us—they may be prisoners, but even animals know the seas do not move in the ways Larza has granted us. What would you have us do?” Those last words come out in a growl.

  “Bribe them perhaps?” continues Ilario, meek. “We have little need for the gold that’s in the captain’s cabin.”

  “We can always use the gold,” Drasio mutters. He turns to Larza for suggestions. There is an underlying bureaucracy at play here, and one only he and Larza are familiar with. They have been trained by the mages to maintain order across the Barrier, to ensure that the two realms stay separate and safe. This is, as far as he is concerned, a complete breach of their orders.

  “We aren’t supposed to traffic people across the Barrier,” she replies, crossing her arms. “Too many lost find their way already and most of them simply don’t adjust.” She sighs. “If we do return them to Europe, what are the odds their stories will be believed? Is there any possible way to spare these poor mortals?”

  Ilario seems disappointed and slightly put off from the use of the word mortals. He frowns. “So killing them isn’t an option?”

  “I refuse to kill slaves,” replies Drasio. He glances at the cargo hold. “If we take them to Béallic, they would be guaranteed free of any risk of becoming a slave. This will always be a risk when trading in the Mediterranean. The pirates here traffic people more than any other goods.”

  “You know, Lord Blaire won’t be happy with this,” says Larza.

  “Lucian can go fuck himself,” Drasio mutters. He thinks of the face of Lord Lucian Blaire of the High Council of Mages. He thinks of his wealth and his status and wishes for a moment he knew what it was like to fear for his life. That Lucian would perhaps for one moment have to face a decision such as this. After all, what does Lucian know of slavery? Drasio grimaces at the thought and weighs the potential capture of the Two Lions against the slaves he now finds himself responsible for. He considers the conquest of an actual Ottoman ship, knowing that he may have missed the opportunity altogether.

  And he resigns himself to the thought, makes peace with the situation he’s in. Returning these slaves to Europe could mean danger, but bringing them to Béallic would mean freedom. He turns to Ilario. “Unchain them,” he says. “We’ll bring them across the Barrier and send them north after that.”

  Ilario nods. “They’re going to be useless on this trip, you know,” he says.

  “You’ll find a way.”

  Larza begins her climb back to the upper decks, with Drasio behind her. She offers a hand at the top of the ladder, which Drasio gladly takes with his uninjured arm. She pulls him to his feet. “Have you given up on the Two Lions?” she asks, a coy smile on her face.

  “I may have,” he replies. “It’s no Ottoman war ship, but they have a dead slave trader and a stolen galleon.”

  “And one less shipment of slaves,” she adds. She takes the wheel, resting her tiny frame against it. “Béallic is terribly underpopulated anyway. We’d be doing Lucian a favour.”

  “So you’ll defend me?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Drasio smiles. “The best quartermaster. What will I do without you?”

  “You’ll find a new one,” she says with a grin.

  Drasio, despite his injured arm, still helps his crew wrap and discard the bodies of the dead into the waters. He notices the li
ght drain from the sky into bloodied reds and dusty purples and watches the clouds paint themselves over relatively calm skies. He wraps the Ottoman captain with his dagger and sword rather than taking them for himself. It is a tradition he learned from the Ardani pirates, to honour the dead by returning to them their weapons, especially in a duel. Almet helps him lift the body over the side and into the water below. The captain’s body plunges into the depths briefly before resurfacing and floating away.

  The wind picks up. It carries with it a chill that he feels through his jacket and a buffeting humidity laced with salt and flora. He squeezes his injured elbow, feels the heat of it even over his shirt. He pulls his jacket close around him, taking in a deep breath of the air. There’s a feeling in his gut of an on-coming storm, instinct developed from decades of life at sea. He looks to the sky as the night settles in and watches the stars twinkle into existence. This is his first trip back to the Mediterranean, and he hadn’t even stopped in the Maghreb proper. He smiles to himself as he finds the North Star. He’ll be back, and he prays to the Three Dancers of another sky that he will be more ready then.

  He climbs back aboard the Rose Star, watching Larza shuffle around the slaves on their ship, Ilario attempting to show them the ropes—quite literally. He takes his place at the helm of his ship, calling for his men to raise the anchor. Almet walks up to him with a long silken ribbon covered in chains, enough to have been from his entire crew. He thanks him, unhooking a necklace from around his own neck and looping it through one of the holes of the ribbon. An Ardani charm, for good luck. He kisses it, prays to the Gelgys for a safe trip home, and tosses it over and into the waters.

  Larza, on the galleon, waves to him. She stands at the stern and pushes the waves in their favour. On both ships, the sails fly, catching wind and pulling them forward.

  Drasio wishes his crew a safe voyage, in the Ardani tongue that’s grown natural to him. In the hours they spend sailing back towards the Barrier, the night falls heavy on the sky, and he watches it change, watches the Argo Navis fade into fogged night. His crew sing songs of Ardán, telling stories of the seafaring people who long ago settled in the land they now call home – that he too now calls home. He remembers his talk with Larza and thinks that perhaps, he should collect more books of Ardani poetry. And that perhaps, on his next trip, he will have distanced himself from Algiers, from his old name. He smiles. That would be nice.

  Saints and Bodhisattvas

  By Joyce Chng

  * * *

  Where the straits interlaced each other with the confluences of currents and trade routes was the famed Golden Chersonese, a beacon of light, the center of all wealth and riches. Saints and bodhisattvas met there, allies in the inter-exchange of spirituality and learning. You would find your path there, they said. You would never hunger nor would you thirst. Bewitching creatures lurked in the Golden Chersonese, fantastic animals that populated your mind’s bestiary. Birds of paradise with tails that flamed like the sun, dragons with large flickering tongues and poisonous saliva, and large cats that roared and founded a city. It lured many explorers, sailors of the sea and wind. It lured me.

  I was born in the middle, a straddler between two worlds, one of the sea and one of solid land. The midwife laughed and said I was destined to ride the waves, breathing both ocean air and the sap of sea almond and angsana trees easily. Ibu was perturbed by the midwife’s words, but she only held me, so she said, trying to protect me from the elements. I was in the middle, where the currents of life swirled like whirlpools forming at the wake of ships. At two, I was already swimming. At four, I stood at the prow of a skiff, the sea breeze on my face, the sea singing in my veins. At ten, I joined my father in his travels. I remembered soaring sunbaked stupas, the Sanskrit and Pali of saffron-robed monks, and the solemn tolling of gereja bells on Formosa’s hill. I remembered the fragrance of spices and sandalwood wafting through the narrow streets of Melaka, the cries of the vendors hawking their wares.

  When I turned eighteen, I was given my own perahu. Rare for a girl, but I was never a girl, never a boy either. I wore a lacy kebaya at home, a simple chinon and baggy trousers at sea. My hair was bound tight. I swung on ropes, unencumbered by loose strands of hair. My right hand held a dao, a gift from a friend whom I saved. His ship burned, his cargo gone, but he lived. He was grateful to be alive. I was a saint for saving him.

  I fought with his dao, now my dao. With it, I explored the Golden Chersonese.

  Then, she came into my life like a bodhisattva.

  My men were loudly discussing the merits of cooking while they repaired my ship. Away from home, they longed for their homes so they distracted themselves with repair work. Sleek, sharp of prow, my ship cut through the sea like a kris. Yet it was not invincible against the forces of nature. Wood wore down easily, got chipped and sometimes dented. The underside of the ship had to be scraped thoroughly. Months at sea meant abundant growth of sea life. The sharp edges of the shells on the ship’s sides hurt our exposed skin.

  They joked about making seafood kari with the mussels as they removed them. On lean days we often picked them off the sides of the ship and ate them boiled in coconut water. I never liked them. I craved my mother’s ulam. I missed the cleansing taste of the finely chopped herbs and the bitterness of the fried shallots. But to play along, I laughed with them, like the way my father had taught me. In their eyes, I was the towkay’s son.

  The last raid saw our rival, another band of lanun, trying to escape. In their panic, they rammed the prow of their perahu into the side of my ship. The sound of it made me sick to the stomach. It reminded me of breaking bones. We were lucky water didn’t seep in. We limped into our port, our lives and cargo intact. I was livid. We would have to spend the whole month repairing the ship and miss a season of plying the sea before the torrential rains returned. I hated returning to port and having to wait the rains out. For the repairs, I traded in a new chest of precious Chinese silk in exchange for tools and timber. I had intended the chest to be sold to a buyer. It felt like a bad start.

  Around this time, the dry season was nearing its end, ready to go but unwilling to leave. The land was parched, the grass a brittle brown, and the wind hot against my cheeks. It blew in gusts, stirring up puffs of dust from the ground. A large desiccated spider tumbled across my sandaled feet. The withdrawing tide exposed the seabed rippling with life. Tiny fish darted in the pools of clear water. Crabs waved their pincer claws. I leaned back into the warm sand, my arm across my eyes, glad for some respite. I only wanted the repairs done as soon as possible. The heat lulled me into a light nap.

  I heard someone walking towards me, footsteps crunching on the sand. I glimpsed beaded slippers glittering vivid red and green. Beaded slippers? I raised my face then to the glare of the afternoon sun. She stood before me, imperious, the sunlight outlining a slim figure clothed in a vivid sea-green kebaya and red sarong. Young nonyas were usually accompanied by a stern matronly chaperone when they left their house, if they ever left it at all. They led sheltered lives. What a rare occurrence indeed.

  “You must be the captain of the Sri Matahari,” the voice was young and confident, clear with precise pronunciation of the patois spoken in our parts of the Golden Chersonese. I got up quickly, dusting my chinon and trousers as I surveyed the girl in front of me.

  Her hair was a light brown. Under the sun, the strands shimmered gold. Her skin was the color of my own: the color of a Peranakan child - olive with subtle shades of perang. Her dark eyes were large and bright with a lively intelligence. Portuguese Kristang, then. There was a large population of them in this part of Melaka. They were mostly fishermen. The wealthier ones ran shipping consortiums.

  “I am,” I said briskly.

  “I have a request...a job for you,” the young woman continued without any introduction. “I will pay you.”

  I smiled wryly. “I won’t agree to any request without knowing the name of my potential hirer.”

  Her full lips twitc
hed. She must have pouted a lot as a child. She schooled her irritation with a smile too. “I am Maria.”

  “What can I do for you, Maria?” I stifled my own chuckle. She must have thought I was a man.

  She leaned forward suddenly, her manner at once shy and conspiring. Something flashed bright at her neck. A silver necklace. “I want you to kill a man.”

  “Kill a man?”

  I raised an eyebrow. I had encountered such requests before and twice I refused them very politely. I wasn’t an assassin.

  “Captain Neo,” Maria said severely.

  “So you do know my name. Back to my question: Kill a man?”

  “Not so loud!” the young woman snorted. My first mate, Halim, looked up sharply. He was always alert and quick to respond. That was why he was my father’s first mate and now mine. Only he knew who I actually was.

  “I am not a killer,” I shook my head.

  “You are lanun. Lanun kill people,” Maria pushed on. I frowned. I was beginning to dislike her attitude. I wanted her to go away. “You are not averse to killing.”

  “You must have mistaken me for something I am not. I am just a simple trader,” I said very mildly. My men knew that particular tone very well. Suddenly, all repair work stopped and the men stood up, very slowly, with hands on their parangs and kris knives, glaring darkly at her. “You have such a low opinion of us. We are not the ruffians you think we are.”