Chapter Thirty-Eight Finlyr
chapter thirty-eight
finlyr
Even Ris is reluctantly grateful for the undead when the weather turns. The ship roils, and we hunker down, buckets at our bedsides sloshing around with every creak and moan.
‘What if Birdy falls overboard?’ Isagani asks when the storm is particularly bad.
‘Birdy?’ I echo and then sigh. ‘By Aistra, which one is that?’
‘My double. The one who climbs the rigging.’
Can a man get no peace? There is little to do but drink, and I hold the palm wine bottle like a babe in arms. We’re gathered in my quarters as it’s the only space below deck big enough for all of us.
Ever since the mango incident we’ve gathered more often, as if there’s something fearful about being alone.
Often Isagani or Biba will come wandering by during the day looking for Sinigang or something to amuse themselves.
Then Ris will come looking for one of the kids and before I know it, they’re all here, making themselves comfortable.
Or as comfortable as we can in the current seasickening conditions.
I fiddle with my compass. As I look down at the worn metal, I think about my mother.
Her voice, tripping over itself to get the words out fast enough to keep up with the flow of her thoughts.
The gap between her teeth when she laughed, head fully thrown back in mirth.
The missing little finger she had lost to rope-burn early in her sailing career.
How I wanted to be like her. Maybe if she were home more often I wouldn’t have felt that way.
Or perhaps that’s the cynicism of years like dust settling on my shoulders.
She always returned with a far-fetched tale.
She once swore she had kissed a seamaiden and kept a charm in her pocket, which she insisted was a rock from the caverns of Orin.
No nobler thing than sailing Paranish and protecting the royals.
That’s what I thought then. She spoke about the late king, the current queen’s father with warmth.
She spoke about the royals with reverence and admiration, but also a familiarity of which I could tell she was immensely proud.
I wanted that pristine white uniform and the blue wave and sunrise sigil.
‘I’ve spent the best years of my life on this,’ my father had said once, smoothing the spare uniform for her next voyage. It always had to be crisp and clean. It was years later I realised that was the point. Bedecking your personal guard in such impractical finery.
There was something in his voice. It wasn’t jealousy, but there was an unpleasant bitterness to it.
He never told me his secret feelings about my mother’s position, but I was thankful it kept a roof over our heads.
There was a grim determination on my father’s face when the news arrived of my mother’s death.
Almost an inevitability in the set of his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes.
I take another swig from my palm wine.
‘You do know there is a return voyage?’ Sinigang’s voice comes from the pile of blankets on the bed.
I grumble. ‘Not yet guaranteed.’
Sinigang disentangles himself, head popping up to admonish me. ‘You’re drinking more the closer we get to the Maelstrom.’
‘It helps the nausea,’ I insist as he eyes the bottle in my hand.
‘Returning to old habits?’ he asks.
‘There are worse ways to cope.’
Sinigang grabs a stone from the loose pocket of skin beneath his armpit, and begins to roll it between his paws, like a toy.
‘Eugh, Sini. Not on the bed.’
‘This is my favourite stone. Excellent for cracking open seafood.’
‘When do you ever do that? You’re domesticated.’
Sinigang jumps off the bed and drags something from beneath the bunk. It’s pale, almost translucent, and a dead cloudy eye looks back at me. Some sort of marine creature. Like nothing I’ve seen before. It wasn’t designed for sunlight.
‘Sini, that is foul,’ Ris says, scrunching her nose.
‘I’ve been finding all sorts of strange things floating on the sea. This washed up in Isagani’s net.’
My stomach drops, like when your foot misses a step. A momentary lurching. The dream comes back to me. Cold, wet slithering, the smack of skin against wood. The taste of salt and sand in my throat.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ris asks, reaching out to touch my hand. Her fingers are rough and warm against my cold and clammy skin.
Sinigang stares, and I hate the way the otter-cat seems to gaze into my soul. ‘I’m going to check on the bone boys.’ I excuse myself, grabbing a sealskin jacket and heading up to the deck.
I have to hold on to the railings, slick with rain, as I inspect the sails and ropes.
Everything is battened down, in good nick to weather the storm.
The undead are nowhere to be seen, likely below deck in the storage hold, which is where we’ve figured out they go when there’s nothing to attend.
It’s surreal; they stand there, still and blank in the dark.
Nothing is broken, and I’m half impressed.
We’ve been moving in shifts to check on things, and my living crew have been quick learners.
They’re not work-shy, and it’s reassuring to have some conscious heft in addition to the undead.
Even when the work is frustrating, laborious, and repetitive – at least we’re all mustering, cleaning, and inspecting our rigging and ropes.
I lose my footing as the ship crests a wave and get knocked to the floor.
The ship moves at an angle, and I scrabble for purchase as the force of a crashing wave pulls me from the deck.
Captain, Maelstrom ahoy!
It had come out of nowhere. The watch, boatswain, and quartermaster were all too focused on the approaching Maelstrom. As was I. At first, we thought it was the storm, a rogue wave, a wall of water. But it was something living. Something from the depths that should never have seen sunlight.
I come back to myself and the current swell. I swing around freely, groping for purchase. My fingers find my sealskin coat, caught on a loose nail. The fabric is slowly ripping under my weight. Below me is the cold surf and one painful drop.
My hands tremble as I claw at the wood, but it’s no use. It’s slick and smooth beneath my fingers. Panic seizes my throat. I can’t breathe. As the sealskin rips, I begin to fall through the coat, choking on the collar as I try to stay inside it.
Then I feel hefty arms around me, cold skin sticking to my own.
I’m dragged back on board and bodily hauled onto the deck.
We go down with a thud, pain ricocheting across my body.
It’s Ris, hair pinned atop her head, in another sealskin coat.
I try not to put my full weight on her but my knees buckle.
‘You’re all right, I’ve got you!’ she says, tilting my head to the side. She pounds on my chest, presumably trying to get any seawater out of my lungs.
She fetches a skin of water and sits me up so I can drink. I push it away.
‘We have to save the fresh water,’ I tell her.
‘With a storm like this, rain won’t be a problem.’ She laughs, giving me the skin again.
We get back below deck, practically bringing a deluge of water with us.
‘What happened?’ Biba asks.
‘We almost had a man overboard,’ Ris says stoically.
‘I won’t let it be like last time,’ I tell her.
‘Last time?’ she asks. Of course, she doesn’t know. She wasn’t there. ‘Fin, what happened at the Maelstrom? Why are you so afraid?’
‘We’ve got to keep moving,’ I say, shrugging off her concern.
‘We’re doing our best, Fin,’ Isagani says.
‘Our best isn’t good enough!’ I snap. ‘I won’t lose anyone else.’
Isagani looks down at their hands, but I can see the hurt in their eyes. Their palms are sore and blistered from rope work.
‘You’re supposed to be our captain,’ they say quietly, almost to themselves.
‘I am your captain,’ I say, staring at each of them.
‘I just saved your life up there, and you’re pulling rank?’ Ris says, incredulous. ‘You’re still keeping secrets from us – what happened last time you were at the Maelstrom?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is it won’t happen again.’
‘These are our lives, Fin. I’m done putting my family at risk for this male pathos fuckery.’
Heat creeps up my neck. I want to tell them everything, to exorcise the memory of that horrific day. But the words die in my throat. I have to put it away. I have to do what I couldn’t then and be strong and lead my crew.
‘I won’t have insubordination on my ship,’ I tell Ris as she barges out of the quarters.
‘Big words for a pirate,’ she cuts back.
‘Go choke on a pickle.’