Chapter 18 #3
It was a strange day. The task filled me with a mix of yearning and melancholy, like gazing at the stars and wondering what lies beyond, like holding a babe in your arms and knowing you’ll never know the future they’ll witness.
I could recognize but a sliver of the thousands of artifacts brought by the untold generations of people who’d been lost here.
Intricate instruments with tarnished metal gears and planetary drawings; what looked like dozens of dowsing rods, marked by swirling characters and bulging magnetic knobs; so very, very many texts, elegant flowing scripts written on fading oilcloth, and blocky hieroglyphics carved on semiprecious stones.
I wondered about the people who had crafted them, what lands they had come from, how they had used these things.
What stories did these stone tablets tell?
Did these languages still exist? Had these bones been used to predict the fate of a city long gone?
It left me feeling small, insignificant.
God’s creation, it is just so vast; our own civilization and all its glory and blood but a leaf resting upon a vast lake of humanity that lived and died before records were even taken.
But as the afternoon wore on, my wistful enchantment started to fade, replaced by dread.
It was becoming increasingly clear that if there were any foreign castaways still alive in Khatti Ugal, they were vanishingly few.
Everything in this room had been created by the dead, carried by the dead .
. . and then examined by generations of exiles such as myself.
Exiles pressured into sharing their knowledge, perhaps still confident they would make their way home.
Now they were dead and I was in their place. I wondered if they’d been as confident as me. If they’d extolled the seaworthiness of their ruined vessels and denied that they were trapped here. How long had that confidence lasted? Five years? Ten?
Twenty? Did they go to their deathbeds still believing they’d make it home or did they give up, letting their heart finally break for the loved ones they’d been separated from forever?
My mother will never forgive me. The realization ripped through my heart and then once it was there, deep in my soul, it unfurled in a cruel net that couldn’t be escaped.
If I didn’t come home, if my family had to endure years—years—of that awful not-knowing turning to dread, to bitter acceptance still laced with venomous hope, to grief, it was going to shatter them.
Marjana, who needed me now more than ever, would never be the same; the brief light I’d offered her by taking her to Baghdad snatched away.
My elderly mother, the strongest person I knew, yes—who’d survived banishment by her parents, been widowed far too young, seen her daughter vanish into criminality—what would this do to her heart?
My brother would have to pick up the pieces; would he curse me for hurting them?
For the “choice” to return to sea that he’d argued I didn’t need to make when we had last parted in anger?
I want to go home. The old man’s desperate plea returned to me, but it was Arabic resonating in my head.
I wanted to go home, with an ache I’d not felt in all my years at sea.
I wanted to be able to go home. My mind returned to my leaving from Baghdad, and I suddenly wished I had lingered another moment with them all.
Pressed my lips a final time to Marjana’s brow, told Jamal that I was proud of him; reminded my mother and brother that I loved them instead of fighting over a blasted house.
Nor would I be alone in my grief. Might Majed never see his wife or children again because he had followed me? Was Tinbu to be parted forever from Yusuf? All of my men, all of their families . . . Would they eventually resent me, despise me if I failed to get them home?
“Captain al-Sirafi . . .” Orinth’s voice was kind. “Are you all right?”
Only then did I realize I had been staring at an empty shelf, silent and stiff for some time. My cheeks were wet.
I hastily swiped a hand across my eyes, embarrassed. “Fine,” I replied, my voice thick.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” she suggested. “I know Her Resplendency will be pleased with what you’ve identified thus far and there is always tomorrow if you’ve not tired of me yet.”
Pull yourself together. No doubt Orinth’s gesture was genuine, but flirting with the sort of despair that had just snarled me wasn’t going to help anyone.
I shook my head. “Not at all. I’m enjoying your company.
” That was true. The Keeper of Mysteries was of good humor, neither overly chatty nor coolly aloof.
And she was sharp—quicker than most of the sleepy Khatti Ugalans I’d met.
“Apologies,” I continued, still ashamed to have been caught out during an emotional moment. “I was thinking of my family.”
Her face was all sympathy. “You needn’t apologize for anything. I would never judge someone in your position.” Her green gaze met mine and her next words were firm. “You’ll have to tell them about this place when you return home.”
It was the first time someone from Khatti Ugal had spoken so encouragingly of our plan to repair our ship and sail away. Most dismissed it as a suicide attempt, and the support gladdened my heart more than I could have imagined. “Thank you,” I said softly.
Orinth tapped her notes and then mercifully changed the subject. “Come. I need to place these records in the library, but afterwards, I can escort you to your chambers.”
I would have preferred freer rein over my movements, but even the friendliest Khatti Ugalans seemed determined to keep an eye on me. “That would be appreciated.”
We left the Chamber of Mysteries, my heart still heavy. I hadn’t been so na?ve as to hope that I’d find the spindle on my first day, but it was disappointing to have made such little headway, to say nothing of having been briefly reduced to weeping in the shelves.
Shoving aside my melancholy, I pressed on, determined to wring as much information as possible from the afternoon.
“Everyone here is so inquisitive and eager to learn what I know,” I said.
“But I confess I feel much the same. This place, your people—it is all so fascinating. I wish I could learn more about your traditions, not just what the sea brings you.”
“Using what the sea brings us is one of our traditions, but I would be delighted to sate what I can of your curiosity,” Orinth replied. “What is it that you wish to know?”
I hesitated. Thus far in Khatti Ugal, I’d been careful not to reveal any clue of the quest that had sent me here, but nearly a month in, perhaps it was time to escalate the hunt.
For I was finding it impossible not to contemplate a connection between the magical spindle I’d been tasked to retrieve and the kingdom’s unique garments.
Even so, I chose my words carefully, masking them in admiration. “Your textiles are extraordinary,” I gushed. “I have never encountered fabric so soft, so airy. And the colors—God be praised. Who weaves these things? In my land, we learn to spin as children but . . .”
Orinth glanced at me in surprise. “Truly? Here that is a specialized task. We receive fresh textiles after each harvest season, but the technical details of their creation have always been a mystery to me.”
Did people in Khatti Ugal truly not know how to make their own cloth? That they might receive garments from their ruler in some type of ritual tribute, I would not be surprised to discover. But not to create anything?
A lead; I could feel it in my blood, the gambler’s hope.
“Oh, yes,” I returned conversationally. “I don’t have much talent for it, but my daughter is an exceptional weaver.
I expect she shall make a trade of it one day.
But for the most basic cloth, it is not terribly difficult.
Time-consuming and you’ll need a loom, but it can be taught. ”
The Keeper of Mysteries was staring at me as though I’d turned into one of the baffling objects over which she kept watch. “What is a loom?”
I had to struggle not to shake my head in disbelief. There were textiles everywhere in Khatti Ugal: tapestries hanging from the walls, carpets softening the ground, flags fluttering from columns . . . not to mention all their remarkable cloaks, and only a few appeared foreign.
Where did they all come from? “A loom is a type of frame upon which a weaver builds their textile, by wrapping and layering various threads,” I replied, grappling to explain what seemed so ordinary a process.
“In some lands, they are staked out upon the ground; in others they are hung with weights and kept standing.”
Orinth clucked her tongue. “I have never seen such a thing.”
How is that possible? How could the Khatti Ugalans claim to be descended from castaways of the surrounding seas—to the point some knew my language, wore our lost goods—and yet lack awareness of something so basic?
Perhaps a cynic might think back on what Lab had said about women rarely being among the lost; weaving was well associated with women in most places I had traveled.
But not all. And plenty of boys still learned to spin.
“What about spinning?” I pressed, aware I might be entering more dangerous territory. “Your textiles all seem to be made of wool, and you have sheep and goats running about everywhere. What happens when they are shorn?”
“You would have better luck speaking to a herder,” Orinth replied, pulling open a door. It led to her office: scroll-stuffed shelves lined the walls and a heavy desk was taken up with notes and a disassembled model waterwheel. “Or a temple worker. Though that’s nigh impossible.”