Eldan
2015-09-07, 08:40 AM
Well. I was thinking about Nanowrimo, this year, and how I should make another attempt. THen I was thinking about sailors, and the idea for a novel. Then came a game of Sunless Sea, and some Neil Gaiman short stories and another story idea. One that is shorter and doesn't fit the characters or tone of the longer story at all, but I had to write it.
IT's not a very friendly story. It's probably also not for children.
Tim sat on the railing, one leg dangling on either side, thinking about his grumbling stomach and mending a line, just to keep his hands busy. The sky grey, not the grey of rain, but an angry, silver-white glare. The sea was calm and mirror-flat and a patient green through which the light seemed to fall miles deep.
He looked up, for just a moment, as a shadow fell on the railing. Salt was leaning against it.
No one knew the man's real name. He had never given it, he was just Salt. He was a midshipman and had been a midshipman for longer than anyone on board remembered. When some men said they had been before the mast for ten years, he'd smile and, a little sadly, say that he could not remember how long.
"Tim", he said. "I will tell you a story about things are done."
Tim nodded, smiling a bit, despite the painful knot in his intestines. Salt's stories were always good and the old man knew everything there was to know about ships.
He never wore a shirt and there were tattoos on his arms and torso. Two serpents, spreading from a wild tangle on his stomach and then separating behind his shoulders, twined around his arms, one head on the back of each hand. The right was black, its mouth closed, lying dozing and content. The left was a dark red, jaws spread and fangs displayed, one on the thumb, the other on the index finger. Both stood out vividly against his chalk-pale skin.
"You asked me once what happens to sailors who die. I could not tell you then, because it was not the time. It is now."
He leaned back against the railing, looked up at the sky and slowly began stuffing a pipe.
"It all depends on how they die."
"You mean, if they fall from the rigging, or drown, or get the wasting?"
"Nah." Salt shook his head and lit the pipe.
"That would be why they die, maybe, but not how. It's like this. There are three funerals that we talk about.
"If they die content, well that is best. People who die happy, they should be back with their folks. On land, where people are, because the land is for those who enjoy things. So for them, we take one of the barrels, what we used for herring, or onions, and we pickle them, so they get back to land more or less in one piece. For a happy man, you want to keep them happy, so they should have all their bits, before you give them back to their folks."
He smiled, puffing and sucking and an orange spark light in the flame and a fragrant smoke rose, smelling of night flowers and the wind over a heath, and of warm tea.
"Some, of course, die angry. Maybe there's a battle and they wave their sword and a chainball rips their head off. Or there's a fight and they get stabbed and they bleed out still cursing. An angry man, well, you can not keep them on board, cause they always come back for vengeance. Bad luck. For an angry man, we take a spar, and then we make a cross and nail them to it, through the wrists and feet and through the knees and the heart, so they can not get up and come back. You cut off their tongue, too, because otherwise, when the moon is black and empty, or angry and red, they will speak curses on the ships that tossed them overboard nailed to a spar."
He took a flask from his pocket and took a swig, then offered it to Tim. It burned, in his mouth and on his lips and all the way to his stomach, where it continued burning.
"Then, there's those who die sad. Now, a melancholy man, you don't want to bring him back to his family, he would only spread his misery and there's none who want that. But you also don't want to be cruel to him, and nail him down, for a sad man will not have the passion to come back. No, a sad man, you sew in a sack of canvas with a rock or a cannonball, and you toss them overboard and you give him to the deep sea, so he can sink down, where nothing lives and he can be alone, with just him and the dark and our mother, the sea."
He knocked his pipe out, then, on the railing, and looked at the last trailing bit of smoke.
"These were three funerals", he said, looking at Tim.
"There is a fourth. I do not speak of it, normally. Only when they need to know. Many sailors never know it exists, not really. But there are times when a ship is suffering and evil things happen. When some die, so that the ship may live."
He drew a knife from his belt. Not the one he ate with. This one was was heavy and had an ivory handle.
"When that happens, here is what we must do. We must not draw blood, while the sailor yet lives, so he must be strangled. Then..."
He pointed, as talked, at TIm's shoulders and his neck and his knees, with the heavy blackened silver pommel of the knife.
"There are five cuts, you make. You have to cut deep, to the bone. Then you grab and you twist, so you can get the limbs. A sailor's spirit lives in the bones. Because in the sea, the flesh doesn't last long, but the bones, they can stay forever. There are ships, down there, from the time of Rome and the bible and even older, still crewed by skeletons, sailing currents over silty ground. So you must not crack the bones, or the soul will become untethered and lose."
"The blood is salty. It belongs to the sea and you should not spill it on the planks. Then, there is the flesh. Sometimes, you cut it from the bones and fry it. Sometimes, there isn't time for that, and you just chew it. Well, in the end, there's always chewing. No knife gets all the meat off the bones."
"When all that is done, well. You've done a terrible thing. And so, we apologize. We give the sailor wings, so in death, they can fly over the waves, like a gull. It can be done, too, if you take the bones, and some canvas. You never take new canvas for this. It has to be cut from an old sail. Because a sailor's bones don't know how to fly, but a sail, if it has seen some wind, has some miles in it and seen the world, it will put any albatross to shame."
He looked at Tim, with sad eyes.
"We talked, you know, the other midshipmen and I. This is not a good ship. We know the real stories, you know. She ran aground, four years ago, in the Spice Islands. Dark things happend, then, as they must, sometimes. But they gave her a new captain, and new logs, without that time, so she will not remember. But she dreams, and her dreams are dark. It's why we had no wind, these last six weeks.
So now, dark things must happen again, so she remembers. The new Captain, of course. But for a captain, there is only one way out. A mast and the rope dance. And he must be left there, for the memory.
We talked about you, too, you know. We all see he signs, in you. You have the Sky in your heart, not the Sea. You are not in this for the salt, or the wind, or the sailing. You never look to the waves, you look to the horizon and new lands. You will be much happier, with wings."
He put his left hand around the boy's slender neck, then, and it looked as if the red serpent had struck.
IT's not a very friendly story. It's probably also not for children.
Tim sat on the railing, one leg dangling on either side, thinking about his grumbling stomach and mending a line, just to keep his hands busy. The sky grey, not the grey of rain, but an angry, silver-white glare. The sea was calm and mirror-flat and a patient green through which the light seemed to fall miles deep.
He looked up, for just a moment, as a shadow fell on the railing. Salt was leaning against it.
No one knew the man's real name. He had never given it, he was just Salt. He was a midshipman and had been a midshipman for longer than anyone on board remembered. When some men said they had been before the mast for ten years, he'd smile and, a little sadly, say that he could not remember how long.
"Tim", he said. "I will tell you a story about things are done."
Tim nodded, smiling a bit, despite the painful knot in his intestines. Salt's stories were always good and the old man knew everything there was to know about ships.
He never wore a shirt and there were tattoos on his arms and torso. Two serpents, spreading from a wild tangle on his stomach and then separating behind his shoulders, twined around his arms, one head on the back of each hand. The right was black, its mouth closed, lying dozing and content. The left was a dark red, jaws spread and fangs displayed, one on the thumb, the other on the index finger. Both stood out vividly against his chalk-pale skin.
"You asked me once what happens to sailors who die. I could not tell you then, because it was not the time. It is now."
He leaned back against the railing, looked up at the sky and slowly began stuffing a pipe.
"It all depends on how they die."
"You mean, if they fall from the rigging, or drown, or get the wasting?"
"Nah." Salt shook his head and lit the pipe.
"That would be why they die, maybe, but not how. It's like this. There are three funerals that we talk about.
"If they die content, well that is best. People who die happy, they should be back with their folks. On land, where people are, because the land is for those who enjoy things. So for them, we take one of the barrels, what we used for herring, or onions, and we pickle them, so they get back to land more or less in one piece. For a happy man, you want to keep them happy, so they should have all their bits, before you give them back to their folks."
He smiled, puffing and sucking and an orange spark light in the flame and a fragrant smoke rose, smelling of night flowers and the wind over a heath, and of warm tea.
"Some, of course, die angry. Maybe there's a battle and they wave their sword and a chainball rips their head off. Or there's a fight and they get stabbed and they bleed out still cursing. An angry man, well, you can not keep them on board, cause they always come back for vengeance. Bad luck. For an angry man, we take a spar, and then we make a cross and nail them to it, through the wrists and feet and through the knees and the heart, so they can not get up and come back. You cut off their tongue, too, because otherwise, when the moon is black and empty, or angry and red, they will speak curses on the ships that tossed them overboard nailed to a spar."
He took a flask from his pocket and took a swig, then offered it to Tim. It burned, in his mouth and on his lips and all the way to his stomach, where it continued burning.
"Then, there's those who die sad. Now, a melancholy man, you don't want to bring him back to his family, he would only spread his misery and there's none who want that. But you also don't want to be cruel to him, and nail him down, for a sad man will not have the passion to come back. No, a sad man, you sew in a sack of canvas with a rock or a cannonball, and you toss them overboard and you give him to the deep sea, so he can sink down, where nothing lives and he can be alone, with just him and the dark and our mother, the sea."
He knocked his pipe out, then, on the railing, and looked at the last trailing bit of smoke.
"These were three funerals", he said, looking at Tim.
"There is a fourth. I do not speak of it, normally. Only when they need to know. Many sailors never know it exists, not really. But there are times when a ship is suffering and evil things happen. When some die, so that the ship may live."
He drew a knife from his belt. Not the one he ate with. This one was was heavy and had an ivory handle.
"When that happens, here is what we must do. We must not draw blood, while the sailor yet lives, so he must be strangled. Then..."
He pointed, as talked, at TIm's shoulders and his neck and his knees, with the heavy blackened silver pommel of the knife.
"There are five cuts, you make. You have to cut deep, to the bone. Then you grab and you twist, so you can get the limbs. A sailor's spirit lives in the bones. Because in the sea, the flesh doesn't last long, but the bones, they can stay forever. There are ships, down there, from the time of Rome and the bible and even older, still crewed by skeletons, sailing currents over silty ground. So you must not crack the bones, or the soul will become untethered and lose."
"The blood is salty. It belongs to the sea and you should not spill it on the planks. Then, there is the flesh. Sometimes, you cut it from the bones and fry it. Sometimes, there isn't time for that, and you just chew it. Well, in the end, there's always chewing. No knife gets all the meat off the bones."
"When all that is done, well. You've done a terrible thing. And so, we apologize. We give the sailor wings, so in death, they can fly over the waves, like a gull. It can be done, too, if you take the bones, and some canvas. You never take new canvas for this. It has to be cut from an old sail. Because a sailor's bones don't know how to fly, but a sail, if it has seen some wind, has some miles in it and seen the world, it will put any albatross to shame."
He looked at Tim, with sad eyes.
"We talked, you know, the other midshipmen and I. This is not a good ship. We know the real stories, you know. She ran aground, four years ago, in the Spice Islands. Dark things happend, then, as they must, sometimes. But they gave her a new captain, and new logs, without that time, so she will not remember. But she dreams, and her dreams are dark. It's why we had no wind, these last six weeks.
So now, dark things must happen again, so she remembers. The new Captain, of course. But for a captain, there is only one way out. A mast and the rope dance. And he must be left there, for the memory.
We talked about you, too, you know. We all see he signs, in you. You have the Sky in your heart, not the Sea. You are not in this for the salt, or the wind, or the sailing. You never look to the waves, you look to the horizon and new lands. You will be much happier, with wings."
He put his left hand around the boy's slender neck, then, and it looked as if the red serpent had struck.