Chapter Thirty-Six Ris
chapter thirty-six
ris
I can’t help but laugh when I remember Finlyr’s distressed face trying to gulp down that foul porridge. It’s what he deserves for his oversight with the storeroom.
‘Swabbing the deck is all fine and good but cooking requires human hands,’ I insist, sorting through the goods to be stored once the cupboard has been cleaned. ‘People who can actually taste if something’s going to poison us.’
Finlyr rolls his eyes at me. ‘If you’re prepared to do it all, that’s fine by me.’
‘Hey, that’s not what I said. We can take it in turns; everyone will pitch in.’
‘I’d like to see you try and make Sinigang pitch in.’
I sigh. ‘He can be moral support.’
Finlyr raises his eyebrows. ‘A real improvement on a skeleton.’
He’s finally got the hang of preparing the fish. It’s only taken until most of the net was empty.
‘Have you heard the kids have named them?’
‘Named what?’
‘You know, the undead.’
I turn to him. ‘By Paranish, they need to amuse themselves, don’t they?
’ I work the bones out of the flesh and set them to one side.
‘But I don’t like it. Those things should be dead.
I don’t want Biba and Isagani getting too attached.
I’d rather we managed how we did before. They give me a terrible feeling.’
Finlyr laughs, cleaning his knife.
I stop my work and stare at him. ‘There is nothing humorous about this – you know that, right?’
‘You and I are the same type.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘We have to do everything ourselves.’
I shift uncomfortably, realising we’re elbow to elbow again.
He looks at me and blows his growing hair out of his face.
It was a bit of a mane in Umasa, but now it’s growing longer, there’s a wave to it.
Sometimes he ties it in a knot atop his head.
I’ve seen him teaching Isagani how to rope-braid their hair to keep it out of their face.
‘What about your crew? Surely a captain must delegate.’
He shrugs and sighs. ‘They were capable enough, but it was my ship, you know? Everything is ultimately my responsibility.’
‘Not anymore,’ I insist. ‘You have to let someone else take on some of it.’
‘Hence the undead crew.’ He smiles. ‘See, I knew you’d come around.’
I bump him with my shoulder, and he mimes being in great pain. The door to the galley swings open, and we jump apart.
‘Holy Aistra, you have to come see this!’ Isagani shouts down at us.
Finlyr and I share a look. Their tone is one of utter excitement and amazement, but we have that parental instinct to presume trouble. We clean up and head back towards the deck as quick as we can.
The supplies are still drying on the deck, and Isagani and Sinigang peer into the store cupboard.
The door is open wide and it’s a still a mess of mould and cobwebs.
In the shadows sits Biba, right next to the pile of produce we had decided was too spoiled to be saved.
She grabs a mango and squeezes. The skin is wrinkled with brown spots.
It looks like mush and the smell of mould permeates the air.
When she removes her hands from the mango the fruit is the oranges and pinks of a sunset, and a cloying floral aroma hits my nose.
Finlyr grabs the mango, disbelieving. He stares and then examines his sticky fingers where the juices have leaked. He shoves them into his mouth like a child. He sucks for a moment and his face lights up. ‘It’s good,’ he says, gleefully. ‘It’s really good. How did she do that?’
By Aistra, I had almost forgotten this problem. The reason we had to flee in the first place.
Isagani stands, mouth agape, as Finlyr continues to make a mess of the mango. ‘You’ll be sick,’ they say. ‘The fruit’s no good.’
Finlyr shakes his head excitedly. ‘Fresh as the day it was picked.’
‘How is that possible?’ Isagani asks, coming towards Finlyr and peering over his shoulder. They narrow their eyes at Finlyr continues to eat, as if they’re waiting for him to explode. They examine another rancid mango, and hand it to Biba.
‘Can you do that again?’ Isagani asks.
Biba looks at me and shakes her head, returning the fruit. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
Both Isagani and Finlyr turn to me then. ‘Why is she afraid?’
‘She has to learn to control it,’ I say, quietly.
‘Ris, this isn’t like the fire at the inn,’ Finlyr begins, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘This could help us. It’s a blessing—’
‘If you’d seen what she’s done, you wouldn’t call it a blessing.’
The undead carry on, completely unaware of the tension on board. I watch one of them scurrying around, swabbing the deck with a swish of its mop. Another rustles as it moves, the sickening sound of broken ribs knocking together.
‘Stop it!’ I yell, holding back tears. ‘That noise is driving me to the plank.’
‘They won’t be commanded,’ Sinigang says, jumping onto the taffrail. I’m trembling as the otter-cat sidles towards me. His fur under my fingers is calming, his small body so warm. He purrs gently. ‘Let’s all go below deck and make some tea.’
We gather in the captain’s quarters, pot of tea steeping on the table.
It’s cosy here, with a touch more space than the galley.
My eyes wander across Finlyr’s glass-fronted cabinet, with an odd assortment of objects he must have gathered on his travels.
Shells, sea glass, and curios I can’t even name line the shelves.
By the velvet-lined couch is an open trunk of miscellaneous bottles and naval equipment, including a sextant and astrolabe.
Biba and Isagani bundle up on Finlyr’s bed, making cloaks out of his blankets.
I look at Biba, trying to find outward signs of it.
I have never seen a Temple Sister or Mother, nor a priestess.
Are they marked from the beginning, like a birth dark-wine stain or a freckle?
Or does it come with time, with deed? Is it the fine white webbing of scar tissue or a bruise that never fades?
Perhaps there is no outward sign at all.
Isagani picks up a tome from the bed and begins to flip through it before Finlyr promptly snatches it away.
‘Thought you weren’t much of a reader?’ Isagani asks quizzically.
‘Great for propping up wonky tables.’ He laughs, setting the book aside.
I tilt my head and catch an image on the fore-edge of the pages: a creature of both dragon and woman curls its tail around an elated-looking man, while seamaidens rise up from the foam to feed him. Not much of a reader indeed.
Finlyr sets out the cups and slowly pours the tea. We all silently watch this ritual. Everyone takes their cup in a ceremony of civility, and Sinigang inclines his head to drink.
‘We all know the cautionary tales we were told as children,’ I begin, haltingly. ‘Don’t act strange or they’ll take you to Aistra.’
‘Where you’ll only have the company of the dead,’ Finlyr adds.
‘You’ll never go hungry if you’re chosen as priestess to the Bastion,’ Isagani says, a longing in their voice.
‘They can teach you to control your power,’ Biba whispers, looking into the middle distance.
‘Are you – afraid of what you can do?’ Finlyr asks her.
‘Shouldn’t I be?’ she asks, biting her thumbnail.
‘She could hurt someone,’ I insist. ‘You don’t mess with Life and Death; it’s a power we don’t understand. Doesn’t it bother you that those things are sailing your ship?’
‘It’s turned out pretty useful,’ Finlyr says, surveying one of the undead trying to right their lopsided head. ‘Not all magic is bad, Ris.’
‘Yeah, look at Sini,’ Isagani says, scritching the otter-cat.
I lean in closer to Finlyr. ‘Do I have to remind you what he did? When are you going to tell the children?’
‘That was different,’ Finlyr insists. ‘He did it to help us; he had to.’
‘Where will you draw the line? You’re fine with skeleton crews and restoring decayed fruit. Not everything will be so harmless.’
‘Then why did you bring her here if this quest is so dangerous?’
Biba and Isagani look up. Our hushed argument has broken through to a shout.
I hesitate. ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ I continue, lowering my voice. ‘Find whatever it is the queen wants, or don’t come back at all.’
‘What will you do if you don’t find it?’ Finlyr asks, voice thick.
‘Well, if we make it out alive and empty-handed, we’re already running. I made that choice when I left with Biba. Why stop?’
‘That’s some life for a kid,’ Finlyr says.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Isagani chimes in, combative.
‘What would you have done instead?’ I retort. ‘Left her to the will of the Bastion or have your friends die trying to keep her safe?’
‘I don’t know, but shouldn’t she have some say in it?’ Finlyr asks, mussing his hair in frustration. ‘What do you think, Biba?’
She considers the question, looking down at her own hands. Finally, she says, thoughtfully, ‘I want to know what I can do.’
I study Biba, remembering how I was so excited to know her, to see her grow into a person. She has so much potential; it’s up to her to choose what to do with that power.
‘We don’t understand her power. She can’t control it.’
‘Yet,’ Finlyr insists. ‘She can learn with practise.’
‘Today she’s making mangoes ripe again; tomorrow she might be boiling the ocean beneath our feet,’ I continue.
‘I see your point, but those are very different extremes,’ Finlyr continues, rubbing at his stubble. ‘Not all magic is so malignant and destructive.’
‘Consider the tea,’ Sinigang says, dipping his paw into a cup and licking it.
I sip my tea again and the tingle runs from the top of my scalp down my spine. My jaw pops, finally unclenching. I stare down at the mug and inhale the floral aroma and the oils of the herbs. On the counter is the bag containing the leaves, wrapped with Ligaya’s unmistakable bow.
‘Power itself is not malicious. It’s how it is wielded. Sometimes magic can be delicious,’ he says, a glint in his eyes.
We fall into an uneasy silence. After a moment, Finlyr stands, draining his mug. ‘I think Ris could do with some alone time right now.’ He says, ushering everyone out of the captain’s quarters.
When they are gone, I slump back into my chair and let the tears finally come. I try to cry silently, my body heaving, when the door opens again. I abruptly try to fix my face and Finlyr turns heel at the door.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he says, reluctantly coming closer. His face is flushed, and he holds out a slice of mango, cut and scored ready to eat. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, as he places it gingerly on the table.
‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he says, shutting the door again.
I watch the mango until the rich smell of it is too much to bear.
I pull a chunk of the scored flesh from the skin.
It comes away so easily, so softly. I put it on my tongue and chew, letting the explosion of the juice run down my throat.
By Paranish, it really is a good mango. I reluctantly swallow and take another piece.
Before I know it, the tears have stopped, and all that remains is the empty shell of the mango skin.