Chapter 12 #2
At noon, we broke for prayers and a simple meal of dates and biscuits while our cook, Hamid, did the more vital job of putting together a temporary kitchen.
The food did me good. My head was still pounding and I felt weak but not like I had earlier.
The men I had sent to search for water arrived with skins bursting from a swiftly moving creek that ran into tide pools not far away, and I tried to content myself with the knowledge that we could endure.
Nearly all of us were seafolk used to hardship.
As long as we were not set upon by any murderous sorceresses, all we needed to survive for now was fresh water, fishing access, and a shade tree under which to lay our heads.
At least that’s what I tried to tell myself when it became increasingly obvious just how much work the Marawati was going to require with supplies we did not have.
Yes, we were resourceful; we could attempt to make a sail with our garments and weave rope from palms. But enough to make a vessel truly seaworthy?
And the time. By God, perhaps the best thing would be the peris hunting me down to ask what was taking so long. I could beg a ride.
Even Tinbu, my eternal optimist, remained glum.
“We need a shipyard, Amina. With proper resources. I love to tinker as much as the next man, but I am terrified to have all of you trusting me and piling into a vessel that sinks and kills us all with the first storm.”
“I would step on any ship you said was worthy, my friend. But I would also not ask you to take on that responsibility.” I gripped his shoulder.
“It is our first day here after a terrible, terrible night, and we are not embarking anytime soon. Let us scout the land and recover for a few days, then devise a plan.”
He nodded, but his lower lip trembled. “Three of those who died were my recruits.” Grief creased his face.
“Yusuf sent me his cousin. And I-I keep trying to tell myself what Majed says—that this is the life, that we all know the risk—but gods, Amina, I feel so guilty. When I think of Firoz, when I think of how long those who were washed away must have tried to stay afloat . . .” He dashed a hand over his eyes, wiping away tears.
I patted his back. “I know. I fear you and I are perhaps getting a bit too old and too soft for all this. You have always been the most kindhearted criminal I’ve known. But we will get through this, Tinbu. God is merciful.”
Tinbu sniffled and from the tree above came a sad yowl, Payasam perhaps wishing to comfort her beloved.
She accomplished this, however, not by leaping from the branch on which she was perched, but rather by falling directly onto said beloved with her claws outstretched, caterwauling even louder when he yelped and then tearing off into the jungle.
“Tinbu, wait—” But the words had no sooner left my mouth when the man most capable of repairing the Marawati raced after his dimwitted feline, heedless of my order not to venture anywhere alone.
“Oh, for God’s sake . . .” Snatching the hammers I’d been working with, I followed. Considering our luck, Payasam was likely to get gobbled up by some ghastly beast and Tinbu slain while trying to rescue her.
I entered the forest, the beach falling away under the green shadows.
The air here was heavier, rich with the smell of wet soil and too-sweet flowers.
Coconut trees grew overhead as did some other type of fruit that I couldn’t identify: clusters of bright pink globes the size of limes and fingers of burnt-gold berries.
Seeing such signs of life after a long stint at sea would have normally eased my heart; I may love the ocean, but there is no sailor who is not heartened by the feel of sturdy land under their feet, by readily available sweet water and provisions that aren’t dates and biscuits.
But here, the eerie hush was disquieting. Just beyond, Tinbu called for his cat with a variety of embarrassing endearments as I made my way toward him.
“Do not scare her,” he chided before I spoke. “Come, my beautiful,” he urged, opening his arms beneath a sprawling tree. Payasam was tucked inside its boughs, blinking dolefully.
Sensing movement past the screen of leaves, I frowned, then pushed aside the greenery with a hammer. Ahead was a glen, a small clearing shaded by trees surrounding a clear pond. A small group of wild sheep grazed on scrubby clover, seemingly uncaring of our presence.
Tinbu approached, Payasam purring in his arms. “Remind you of the transformed men from Jamal’s story?”
The thought had crossed my mind though it seemed ludicrous to voice aloud. And yet . . . the creamy coats of these creatures were extraordinarily long and thick. They must have been horribly hot in the harsh sun and sweltering humidity, which made me doubt they were native to this island.
“No,” I lied. “That would be ridiculous.” But then two of the sheep turned to regard us, the black markings on their face streaking away from their doleful dark eyes like tears and we both froze.
I swallowed. “Perhaps I shall join you in your vegetarian ways on this particular quest.” The permissibility of butchering and consuming livestock that might have once been human was a matter best left to clerics. “Let’s go back to the ship.”
We were not the only returnees. Flush from foraging, Dalila had settled herself in a patch of shade away from the sweating sailors busy laboring to set up a camp and save the ship.
Upon a scavenged patch of sail, she appeared to be spreading out an assortment of local flora, carefully examining each.
And her actions were not going unnoticed. Several men were throwing resentful glimpses her way, muttering and swearing. A glance at Jabril revealed him to be thoroughly swamped, surrounded as he was by the groaning injured.
Any bit of remaining patience I had for Dalila’s moods vanished. I charged across the sand and seized the remnant of sail, jerking it and her ingredients away.
Dalila sputtered in outrage. “Amina, what are you—”
“Go,” I snapped, pointing at Jabril. “Unless you’d like to learn carpentry or pitch tents, that is where you are needed. You are a member of this crew, and you will behave as one.”
Frustrated condescension burst across her expression. “The best thing I can do for the crew is continue to work on my own.”
“Why?” I demanded. “And do not give me this secretive donkey shit. Unless you’ve come up with a potion to magically repair the Marawati, nothing else matters right now.”
Our argument was starting to attract attention.
Which was fine, that was the point. To let resentment of Dalila brew further—to allow the rest of the crew to believe I was letting her slack off due to friendship—was as dangerous a possibility as tangling with an enchantress.
But Dalila had never quite grasped the delicate dance of authority and comradeship that was life at sea.
She took few true friends, keeping the rest of the crew at a distance; an attitude she held toward people in general.
She was, however, deeply proud and even more stubborn. So when she heard the snickers of the closest men, insult reddened her face. “And if I do not?”
“Then you can make camp elsewhere.”
Her expression grew more indignant, but before our fight could escalate, one of the men working on the prow called out:
“Nakhudha! There are strangers approaching on the beach!”
Apprehension raced down my spine. Locals approaching openly on the beach was better than them loosing arrows on us from the jungle, but these type of first-contact interactions could go poorly so quickly.
“Straighten yourself out,” I hissed to Dalila, and turned on my heel. “How many?” I called to my man on the prow.
“Four that we can make out.”
Four sounded more like a greeting party than aggressive local defenders, but it was possible this was a scouting foray to gain our numbers, so I swiftly set to getting my crew into a defensive position.
Tinbu—currently our most valuable personage—was shoved protesting into the galley, while archers set up nests in the highest points of the ruined ship.
Half the men hid, the others sheltering in place as innocuously as possible, everyone armed with an array of knives, hammers, and planks of woods.
The locals were no fools—they approached cautiously and stopped on a bluff twenty paces away, awaiting our response.
There were indeed only four individuals, an older man and a woman among them.
They were loaded down with parcels and baskets, including several dripping water bladders, but I didn’t spot any visible weapons.
No bows or anything that appeared capable of hurling a projectile.
Maybe this wasn’t Lab’s kingdom? From the way Khayzur and Jamal had described the island, I wouldn’t have expected a greeting party of local humans. Indeed, I would have assumed any local humans to be penned up and awaiting their doom.
“Easy,” I said to my men, nodding for the archers to lower their drawn bows and hoping the wary strangers took it as a peace offering. Gesturing for Majed to join me, we strode out to meet the newcomers.
As we drew nearer, I could see that the locals were staring and pointing at the Marawati with such excitement that they reminded me of little children at a wedding, one youth bouncing on his toes as he gestured at my ship and exclaimed something to his comrades.
We stopped on the bluff. The older man stepped forward, taking in our appearance with obvious curiosity, his gaze tracing my turban and weapons.
I was doing the same, as everything from this man’s long silvering braids to the distinct pleats of his skirt were foreign.
All four wore plain undyed tunics, the older three sporting brightly dyed and woven capes.
With a significant nod at the daggers belted to my waist, the old man held out his empty palms, about as universal a sign for peace as possible, and then spoke.