The Seafarers

Four calloused fingers lifted skyward. The light of the moons glimmered across the sea, and the sky was measured against a squinting, watery blue eye.

"He is three fingers above the horizon," the big fisherman called at last, pulling away and turning to the bow. "An hour until dawn."

Laughter, from the next ship: abrupt, buoyant as the boats themselves. The other ship's captain was more slender--less the swarthy, heavy older fellow; more the athletic and bright. "You will still not say the name of the moon-?" he asked. Arako'ma. Many of them would not; the orange moon--one of three--was the moon of Apocalypse, filled with bad omens. To call its name might call down disaster. Ahh, but sailors across the universe held with superstition, didn't they-? "You superstitious old man," he laughed, but it was good-natured.

The heavier man grunted. His ship was of two hulls, as a catamaran. His sails--unfurling now, his crew working the rigging--were flame-colored, ochre and rust, flower petals crushed by the Weavers until his family's crest was embedded forever. "Torch-lamp," with a legacy of leadership. The light in the dark; the lantern at the prow. "Maybe I am old because I am superstitious," he retorted back, just loud enough to be heard across the water gulf between the docked ships. His black eyebrow was arched. Humor hid behind the blank face.

"Sea Eel." That was the younger sailor's name; he was captain of his own vessel, and his brothers, his young son, their own sons and daughters, worked his sails and nets and lines. Good swimmers, all of them, sleek and quick as silver eels in the water. Their sails were blue--dyed with the highland flowers and the mushrooms the medicine women sometimes brought from the high peaks. A squiggle-drawn eel was their crest, as a flame was Torch-Lamp's.

There were thirty or so such ships, in all. Sails in a rainbow of shades, each with a story. And those stories were told in the carvings along the hulls of each: carvings traced at times by drunken, reminiscing fingers, lovingly and with respect, no matter what the family name. And these ships were setting out, now, not to return until dusk.

There were rules, at sea. Kaiale's oceans were lifegiving, but not forgiving. They gave their bounty, but without the mercy of second chances. The carvings on the hull-sides were battle scars; each held stories of trumph, of survival. The sailors were heroes. The shipbuilders were their armorers; the sailcloth Weavers wove their banners of war. The enemy was the storm; the enemy was a lash of lightning from the sky, or a rogue wave to overturn a ship--a family's lifeline and pride--to swallow men into the deep dark, never to be seen again.

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But to think like that was a grim trap! The seafarers--sailors and fishers, men and women both--greeted each day with a sharp eye but a bright spirit. Songs rang out over the frothing breakers, and as the dim blue sun's first gleam joined the sparkle of moonlight across the sea, the fleet cast out.

Fish had been few, these last weeks. Rumors could only guess at why. A storm elsewhere. A sickness among them. A punishment from a god. They did not know; but the Gatherers found enough molluscs and crabs to keep the village from going hungry, for now. That did not mean the fishermen would give up, of course. And so, three at a time, the ships glided out to bounce atop the waves, up and down across the crashing expanse and into the strait that would lead them to the ocean.

Rules... there were rules to the sea. Rules for the village. Soani'ka--that was their name; their village, their unifying vision. "Ocean-Blessed," it meant, and so they believed themselves to be, but they were not fools.

No one was to go to sea alone. That was rule one. There was strength in family--but strength in groups. Two other ships must always be near one, so that aid could be close at hand if there was an accident out on the waves. So it was in threes and fours, but as a largely unified fleet, that the ships slipped out for the bay.

On shore, the villagers working the dock or the flats that day, or gathering water for the boilers, lifted hands to shade against the rising sun. They watched the last hints of the vessel's shadows--the flecks of a great fleet--vanish against the horizon.

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Their shape were varied; Captain Torch-Lamp had always loved that about the ships. A catamaran, or a single hull; two tall triangular sails, or several square; one of the ships was an oval, even! The families always experimented, improved, and were proud of their designs--and those unsuitable? Well, the sea told them quickly enough that those experiments were failures, and they were not repeated.

The light grew bright. The rush of wind was strong, and salty, and itchy on the skin. The taste of the sea was strong on their tongues. Chants went up: shanties, sang back and forth between the crews, laughter as this group or another shouted down another with their louder song.

The Sea-Eel drew up alongside. And Captain Sea-Eel was hanging from a sail, dramatic with his irreverent flair, as always, peering against the sun. "YOU ARE SLOW TODAY," he shouted over, and his men laughed. The Torch-Lamp's crew responded with loud, shouted insults ("MAY THE SEAS SPIT ON YOUR MOTHER!") and rude gestures. The mockery ran both ways, and the ships were soon in competition, racing one another against the wind. "I WILL BET ONE THIRD OF YOUR CATCH THAT WE WILL BEAT YOURS, TODAY!" called Captain Sea-Eel.

Captain Torch-Lamp's eyes narrowed against this challenge. He was going to ignore it, until his sailors began protesting against Sea-Eel's words, goading the other crew. At last, he shook his head. He pulled a bit of fish jerky from his pocket, and chewed it slowly before offering his reply, ignoring the jeers from the other vessel. "AGAINST HALF OF YOURS," he shouted at last, "IF WE BEAT YOURS." Cries went up. The challenge was laid. Behind both ships, Captain Mountain-Storm simply shook her head, her brown sails fluttering in the strong wind.

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They reached the place where the sea-eagles dove and shrieked, and there they cast out their nets, each throw sending a spray of water to dance like diamonds scattered in the blue light. Laughter and song rang across the sea, the boats stopped or slowly circling atop the rocking waves.

Noon drew close. Clouds drew in. The brow of the horizon knotted with grey. "WE MUST HEAD BACK IN," came the calls. Every sea captain present knew what the clouds meant. It was darkening. It was growing colder. The wind was picking up.

A storm was coming.

And it was the sort of storm that might lose them more than one ship. Soani'ka could not afford to lose her entire fleet.

Half-filled nets were pulled in. Torch-Lamp and Sea-Eel only halfheartedly counted their catches, and even then only to halfway; glances were cast to the thinning line of sun, and both captains shouted for their crew to double-time it. Never mind the counting. Haul in, and survive. Be swift, men! Be swift.

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The ships raced the storm. The storm was winning. The waves were ten feet tall and more. The ships crested tall breakers, and crashed down the other side, some sideways. The sheets of rain behind them were black curtains, grey fog pluming higher than their sails from the strike of drops on roaring sea.

The first crack of thunder came far behind, but ominous. They were going as fast as they could. Full sail, racing the wind. Rain wiped from foreheads. Eyes wide.

They made the strait when they lost a ship: Sea-Eel's vessel, thrown on its side, its single hull unable to remain upright. Torch-Lamp turned in time to see it: the ship, lit by his own prow-lantern, twisting atop a high wave, shifting, toppling. Sailors falling. Their screams were lost to the storm. Mountain-Storm came in close behind, and Torch-Lamp's crew was turning, both ships closing as fast as they could for the capsized vessel. No one else saw it--they kept on, powering for Soani'ka. Too far. Too dark. Too fast.

Lightning lanced the sky. Terrified faces, glimpsed from the decks, the sea. Ropes were thrown in. A woman dove in. Rescue, arms gripping arms. A tunic, snagged in pale-fingered fist, heavy body pulled aboard, chest pumped clear of water. No orders could be given, for nothing could be heard; they simply did what they knew must be done. They did what they knew to do. This was not their first storm, and together, they saved the fallen crew. Captain Torch-Lamp found Sea-Eel himself, gripped his forearm, pulled him up. There was fear in both men's hearts. "I THOUGHT I'D LOST YOU."

"A FOOL TO COME BACK," said Sea-Eel. 'To risk your own family,' said his eyes. "THANK YOU." The last were pulled aboard. Faces glanced back, grim, at the sinking ship. What could be recovered would be--later, later. There was no place for that now.

The storm was here.

It chased them to the dock. It battered boats against the shore. There was damage, but only the one had been lost.

The crew of the Sea-Eel--the family--would sail with Torch-Lamp and Mountain-Storm tomorrow, and beyond. Sail with them, until they could built their boat anew. This was the way they were.

"WE DID NOT HAVE TIME TO COUNT OUR CATCH. TO SEE WHO WON," Captain Sea-Eel lamented loudly, to drive some of the loss away with humor.

Torch-Lamp clapped him across the back, with a smile, and he gave him the traditional answer to all such boasts and challenges: the final words always shouted forth after a winner was declared. "IT ALL GOES TO SOANI'KA."

The lights of the village beckoned.