I've long felt that a story is done a great disservice when it's put to parchment. At that time, it has left the lips, where a story's true impact can be felt, and has been relegated to dusty libraries. But some stories should be allowed the freedom to roam the world unchanged, and, to that end, I put ink to paper and begin the story of Dean Rollens.
Dean began life as the unwanted child of Denisten parents. They were the kind of people whose names were so important during their lifetimes that they would be forgotten quickly upon their deaths. Nobility has a way of consigning men and women to dismissal because of the jealousy and power struggles during their existence. Aristocrats spend a large portion of their lives wishing the others around them would fall away for many reasons, but I believe the most prevalent is so they can bask in the glow as the Cities consign their enemies' memories to the pages of a book like this.
The Rollens family was already blessed with three boys - Keenan, Rodge, and Pacco - when Dean came along. They had desperately hoped for a girl; to the point that when the fischer discerned the gender of the child within her womb, Mother Rollens almost terminated the pregnancy. Families in Denisten usually are large, especially among the society. Large families increase the likelihood that an heir to the family will survive. Survival of the house is the only legacy a noble can truly hope to have. More males were undesired, however, in the case of the Rollens family. The blood had been weakening for some time and growing increasingly apparent even to those who were casual acquaintances. Rumor placed blame for this on incest two or three generations back, which was probably true. Father Rollens had chronic fits, and his children were evincing signs of madness at early ages. The female children had seemed to fare better in the past. For this reason, a girl was terribly desired by the parents.
In the end, Mother Rollens couldn't bring herself to end the unborn child's life. Dean was born the fourth child of a mad society family. He was the least affected by the taint of thin blood, but the most evocative of the family's problem. In his fourteenth year, Dean was caught while exhibiting the one terrible weakness his soul had gained from being the hapless son of a Rollens. The act was so vile that Father Rollens dismissed him from the family, and from the entirety of Denisten. Dean left, but not before exacting revenge on his bereft parent. The next morning, Father Rollens was found hanging in his study, a knife protruding from his flayed body, and Dean was 10 miles and counting from a past he would never escape.
Thirty years later, Dean set out on what would become his last voyage as a coastrider; that storied group of men and women who didn't want to be daddy's cavaliers, or a prize to be awarded for marriage to some society family. Coastriders primarily carry out the trade for the many islands off the coast of the mainland, most of which ends up back in Solfin on the Mind's Peninsula. Historically, they have been independent, working solely for the continuance of their lives and ships.
I was Master of the Ship on Dean's boat, the Jok Praul, which he claimed was old gressian for "Leaky Beauty", but I never believed him. Unfortunately, I have yet to find anyone who knows old gressian to prove him wrong. The Jok Praul was a Hailer class vessel, though, having a smaller forecastle, it differed from most of its kind. The modification allowed for more weatherability and maneuverability.
The troubles for coastriders were mounting. There had been a large influx of people into the trade due to the poor quality of life on the mainland. The Great Cities were isolated, stifling places to live, and run for the most part by corrupt governments. This pushed many people into the wilderness to survive on their own, but others made their way for Solfin, the last City with any vibrance. When they reached Solfin, they soon discovered that there was good money to be made in the trade among the islands. Within a span of two years, the number of vessels plying the open water had increased tenfold. Prices dropped, then rose as stores of commodities and merchandise diminished. Owning a ship was becoming a difficult business.
Because of the dropping profits, Dean was forced to drop ten men from his 18 man crew, while hiring five who would work for less wages. Four of them were greenhands, virgins to the sea, who would work for meals and shelter while they learned the trade. Dean hated having any hands that weren't paid - he usually gave greenhands a minimal payment in silver for their work - but the ship needed men it couldn't afford to have aboard.
The new recruits were all male - I was the only female aboard Dean's ship for as long as he owned it - and included one gress, two donns, and two qrik. Gressi who are willing to work the water are rare and highly prized. They are strong, tireless workers, though, with their weight, sending them up rigging is generally a bad idea. Donns, my race, have their good and bad points as well. Having no vocal chords, communication with other races is difficult, especially in the often treacherous sea. At the same time, donns communicate so quickly with each other that a crew of donns will outperform any crew on the sea. And qrik, well, they can surprise you at times, and live down below your already low expectations at others. "The crew must be real," Dean, a qrik, would often tell me in explanation of his propensity toward diversity, though I never understood what was less real about a homogenous crew.
Dean and I decided the most profitable venture available would be a trip to Jade Springs, an island some distance away from where the Reaches met the sea. Among other things, the island was the sole producer of jade lumber, a highly sought material used for many purposes. Jade lumber was heavy enough that many 'riders could not stow enough on their smaller ships to make the trip worthwhile. Dean's ship was large enough that we thought we would break even, the best that could be hoped for under the current trade conditions.
The lengthy trip would take the Praul along the Old Beak's Route; a course requested of the ship's charter by Dean because of its many opportunities for teaching greenhands. The route also held fond memories for Dean, and the Divine knew fond anythings were in short supply.
I first met Dean in Solfin. I was pilot on the Stalwart when Captain Stals brought the lanky, blonde-haired Rollens boy aboard as a greenhand. In truth, though I looked on him as a boy compared to myself, at sixteen, I was only two years older. Almost immediately the gossip flared up among the crew about Dean's sordid past. The story of Father Rollens' untimely death and Dean's subsequent disappearance made for the perfect story, and it flew across the countryside more swiftly than he could travel.
Though the general flow of the story was the same from teller to teller, the details varied widely as to the how and why of Dean's crime. Some said he was making a grand gesture in destroying the infamously tainted blood. Others said it was merely the madness exhibiting itself. Probably, they said, other less sensational murders could also be laid at the mad boy's feet. His brothers helped him, his mother helped him, his mother made him do it - all were fair game in the cowardly, but exciting, world of rumor.
Either the authorities had no wish to arrest Dean, or they were so inept that they were they were the only residents of Solfin unaware of the boy's arrival. Most cynical folk, like myself, would intimate the latter given the law's torpid history in Solfin. Whatever the case, it is certain Dean began his life at sea to avoid legal scrutiny of his actions.
That period of time was very profitable for the Stalwart and her crew, and so was excellent training for Dean in matters of business and trade. His first run as a greenhand was out to The Head, beyond even Jade Springs. Stals opted for an initial course named after a man considered the finest trainer of seamen in history, Reistley "Old Beak" Jims. The course was often traversed by Jims because it demonstrated many of the difficult situations that a coastrider would be faced with on the sea. The route wound out of Solfin and around the western edge of Fed Ror. Following that, the vessel made for the slight gap between the Fed and Smalls, then riding up the eastern coast of that island, and finally through the larger, but rockier, passage between Smalls and Portrait.
Old Beak's Route was not terribly difficult, and no self-respecting captain ever wrecked along the way, but it did require swift action, reaction, and following of commands. There were few greenhands who lost their stomach for sailing based on the trip, but those who did were supremely unworthy and were deposited on Portrait to find their own way home.
Dean was a quick study. He learned the lines, knots, and terminology rapidly. Orders were followed, and he wasn't above doing menial tasks, though he came from a society family. Near the end of the journey to The Head, he was so well regarded that Stals made him his steward. The job entailed more than fetching whatever the captain needed; in fact, Dean was educated by Stals to a greater extent than any other sailor aboard. He learned the goods and schedules of the many islands surrounding the mainland. He was given details of the known practitioners of piracy including their principal operating zones, tendencies, and ways to combat them.
Sailors make the finest friends and the second quickest enemies, behind only the society. Dean made both aboard the Stalwart, but mostly the latter. His preferential treatment was envied, and by the end of the journey there was talk of dumping Dean's body in a hole on The Head and leaving him. Fortunately for the child, he had also made a friend in me. I steered him through that time, and we have been close ever since.
Over the next few years, I worked my way up from pilot to sailmaster to tradesman. Dean remained Stals' steward until he was twenty, at which time he became Master of the Ship, the youngest to hold the position that I've ever known. Stals had culled out the envious sailors, and the rest had learned to respect Dean for his hard work and strong will.
It was shortly after his ascendance to Master of the Ship that Dean learned of the deaths of his immediate family. The rumors had only just reached Solfin which meant they were probably a month removed from the events. The madness evident in the sons of Father Rollens was a lightning rod in Denisten, and arsonists had finally put an end to their lives as well as Mother Rollens. All variations of the rumor agreed on that point, though the identity of the instigators ranged from the City government to the household servants.
Outwardly, Dean was understandably more solemn than usual after hearing the news, but he went about the business of his trade with his normal ardor. He had the option of returning to Denisten to make his claim for the Rollens' place in society, or at least to take control of their possessions, but Dean had walked away from that life and those people for reasons he hadn't forgotten. He remained on the open water.
For the next seven years I watched Dean master the Stalwart, and after she was laid to rest, the Stalker, which didn't seem like a good name for a trading vessel but was the best Captain Stals could fashion from his name - Stalwart II was not an option because the captain was tired of hearing the joke about "Stals' Wart." I learned how a truly excellent Master of the Ship runs the crew. The job of master is not set in stone, and is generally open to the interpretation of the captain and the person he or she chooses. Dean had his hand on every operation of the ship, from the cooking to the trade. He ran the captain's ship from bow to stern, inspiring loyalty in all but the most bitter of seamen, and those didn't last long.
Twenty years later, some things had changed for Dean, and some things hadn't. His eyes had the same fire, set in a taller, more well built frame. He was now captain of his own vessel and trained his own crews. He gave me as much ground as master as he had been given, which I appreciated. And the business he loved was becoming a trying mistress.
We arrived at Jade Springs ahead of schedule. Times are difficult to judge on the open water since wind and water are fickle at best. One does get a sense for the averages, however, when one spends enough time journeying under these conditions. The greenhands were doing well, if not exceeding expectations. None of them would claim Jordahl's crown as master of the sea, but we were happy to even get adequate hands.
As was tradition, only the greenhands were given leave of the ship the night of their first docking. They would have the pick of the women who frequented the docks of Jade Springs as their reward. I never liked the practice since, surprisingly enough, it resulted in the loss of a great number of men who decided the embrace of a woman's legs was superior to the mop and rag.
Things had been different after my first return to shore. Women can easily find men who are eager for action, but men must compete for the wenches, thus all hands were given leave of the ship as opposed to me alone. I spent the night reading in my room at the inn, listening to the sounds of ecstasy coming from three sides: the rooms on either side of mine, and above. The following night I bedded a horse of a man who left me in more pain than pleasure.
One greenhand, Beach Rittle, spent his first night back to land talking with Dean in his cabin. These talks had become common over the journey to Jade Springs, but still occasioned talk among the regular crew. Dean had never taken to a greenhand, nor any crewman but me, in so genial a way. I can't say when, or how, they had grown close, only that gradually we all came to realize the points in the paint. I'm loathe to admit my jealousy at Dean's split attentions, but they existed. Their talks always transpired without my company, and I never learned the matters of discussion.
The greenhand in question was a donn who was a hard working, if unspectacular, sailor. As with most donns, his manner was solemn. A species without the ability of speech would predominantly have, or at least appear to have, that trait. With other donns, and those who knew the donnish language of gestures, he was conversant and inquisitive. His manner was still quietly engaging, however, if such can be said of a person. Such a manner was no doubt appealing to Dean, and so they spent that first night at the island behind closed doors, as they had many times before.
The next day, Dean's trek into the city, also called Jade Springs, yielded disheartening news. The jade lumber harvest was cleaned out only recently, and reserve supplies were depleted. Jade Springs is the sole producer of the valuable material, and it represents the base of their economy. Because of this, the government exercises extreme caution in not over-harvesting, and when their stores are used up, they sell from any reserve which has been built up from recent years. Once the reserves are gone, traders simply have to wait until the next year's harvest is done.
We were similar people, Dean and I. We had no qualms about holing up that night and heaving commiseration and sympathy on each other over mugs of rotten duster beer in Dean's cabin.
"Sal," he said to me, well and truly drunk. "I got a problem."
"What problem?" I signed sloppily. Donns suffer the slurring of the drink like everyone.
"My boat's empty, and I've never gone home with an empty boat."
"No no. We left The Head empty more than once. The Republic too."
"Shut up," he said and drained the dregs. "I swore when I got my boat that I'd burn her before I let her go home empty."
"I don't remember--"
"So I say we all break this babe up and cart her up into that fuckin' jade forest and have a nice uncontrolled fire. I'm just guessing here, but I think breakfast would be real tasty over jade coals. What do you think?"
"We'd be stupid not to," I signed in the midst of a monstrous, silent yawn. I stumbled over to Dean's bed and lay down intending to continue the conversation from a more comfortable position, but if anything else was said, I don't recall it.
"How sorry is this?" a voice cut through my aching head. Opening my eyes slightly, I saw Dean sleeping hunched over in the chair, and a man outlined by excruciatingly bright light let in through the doorway in which he stood. The voice was immediately recognizable, and not unwelcome. "Hello, Salor."
"Who let you onboard, Torn," I signed groggily after rubbing my seemingly war torn eyes. There are two things to hate about duster beer, which has considerably more alcohol than normal: the taste, and the morning after. I swore then, as I had on many previous mornings, that duster would never enter my body again.
"Two of your new greenhands were not averse to payments to look the other way," the man said, moving into the room.
"What were the payments?" Dean said, eyes still closed.
"Free passage back to Solfin, away from your wretched ship." Dean chuckled at that and stood up to shake the hand of Torn Howland, his old friend.
Stalker was coming to the end of her first year on the open water when Captain Stals had us run down to the Grey Republic for a variety of goods, but mostly for the handcrafted furniture that was in great demand on the mainland. Dean and I were relaxing in The Shanty, a clean pub in the port city of Colier on northernmost of the three islands that make up the Republic. We were enjoying one of the finer brews served in the whole of the realm when a tall, greasy fellow sat down at our table. He had ragged black hair and an unkempt beard. His eyes were intense, but his smile was quick to his face.
It is an indication of Torn Howland's charm how quickly he had Dean and I enjoying his company, despite his appearance and the brazen act of sitting where he had not asked leave. Torn was older than both Dean and I, though he never let on how much. I've put him at ten years older than me, and Dean refuses to speculate.
Torn's age was what made for a fascinating story. Two years earlier, he had appeared in Solfin seeking a ship to join. Skeeter's Gift took the man on as an unpaid greenhand in what must have been his early thirties, much older than any greenhand I'd ever known. He'd had an epiphany, he told us in what would have been an irritatingly noble accent from any other. Torn was the kind of man who used words like wretched and vile when shitty would do. He was not meant for greatness, he told us, and his actions in this life would have little effect. He had no family or kin, so he packed his bags to head for the coast and live the great life.
"Hard work, modest wage, little responsibility, one-time women - that was the life I wanted," Torn said. It turned out to be a life he loved.
He engaged us in talk of our own experiences once he learned our positions. He'd heard of the Stalwart and was sorry to learn of her beaching. Dean showed considerable interest in Torn's "Grand Dream." Torn had money stashed away that he'd earned in his previous life doing whatever he did before becoming a 'rider. His great wish, which he often loftily referred to as the "Grand Dream", was to buy his own ship. He would have someone else captain the vessel, however, while he remained a lowly deckhand. Captains, he would say, have too much to worry about.
Dean was looking for a way out of his present situation. He had little taste for the enormous Stalker, which had instigated a falling out between Dean and Stals. Dean never said as much, but for those who knew him the real problem was evident. He'd had no say in the construction of Stalker, and that was enormously aggravating to a man like Dean. He was looking for a ship to captain, but that was impossible without money or backing from a trading company in Solfin or the Grey Republic. Torn was his possible ticket to that ship.
The two talked for hours over mugs of good beer, and when the money started running low, bad beer. Such flowery scented words as I've never heard were expressed about their love of the sea and the life it gave. My legs were soon compelled by my need for sanity to lead me from the twittering pair.
Dean came to me that night in my cabin, waking me from frenzied dreams. No question he was intoxicated, but his eyes were possessed of an authentic gleam. Howland would set to building a ship, then send for Dean who would have to prove his worth in command before being affirmed permanently. Torn would take a percentage of income as owner while working as a general hand.
I feel safe in my belief that as drunken plots go, this one turned out better than most. Sewer Queen had Dean as her permanent captain within the year, and I was brought on as Master of the Ship. For three years, the arrangement worked out well, and the boat was making significantly more money than Stalker. Torn and Dean were the best of friends; so much so that after those three years, Torn turned ownership of the boat over to Dean and left to build another. He'd decided he wanted to captain a ship, but couldn't bring himself to divorce Sewer Queen from her exceptional chief.
"How's the Revere?" Dean asked Torn of his ship after we were seated around the table with drinks at hand.
"Beautiful as ever. I wish I could find more to fill her belly with, however."
"We're having that problem, too."
"Most are. The mammoths are the only ones making out well as far as I can tell. Runs for minor baubles turn profits when you can fit enough of them in your hold," Torn said before refilling his only half-empty mug. Silence descended while we passed the time, knowing to what this kind of talk must turn. I felt pleasantly conventional spending those awkward moments drinking. Dean seemed to be trying to see through the table while taking a few drags from the tobacco roll he favored over a pipe, the choice of most sailors.
"I don't think I can make it if things stay this way for another year," Dean finally said, eyes still locked on the middle of the table.
"There are ways to survive until things turn around," Torn said.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, turning an openly dubious eye on Torn.
"You could lay siege to the mammoths."
"You mean piracy," Dean said with a flat tone. I was suddenly nervous, and a little afraid for Torn's safety if he was, in fact, referring to piracy. Torn lifted his glass to his lips before answering.
"I mean reestablishing your place on the water. You've been doing this for far longer than any of those mammoth captains, and you're better at it."
"Piracy is not an option," Dean said, his expression growing murderously angry.
"If they're allowed to continue until they're all that's left, the trade market will be ruined."
"No, the market will stabilize as it always does. You do not steal a man's goods no matter how dire your situation."
"These aren't men, Dean. They're companies, you know that. All those new trade companies that have sprouted up in Solfin, they run those ships. And businesses like those are only concerned with one thing: profits. If they run the independents out, you can forget about quality goods at your local market, wherever it is you retire."
"The market always stabilizes, and always regulates itself," Dean's voice was raising. "You do not take it upon yourself to decide what's best for people. You're not a Councilor. And I'm not a pirate. Forget that option, or leave and never come back."
"Okay, Dean," Torn said meekly. "It was just an idea. Not everyone can hold their high ground when the armies start the climb. What do you have in mind."
Dean stared at Torn with an unreadable mien. "I'm going to pick up my stores and cash out." The revelation required a few moments to digest. A few ship owners and captains throughout history have engaged in the practice of hiding away stores of varying goods on already profitable trips. The custom is insurance against hard times, which were certainly at hand. Many captains who have done this have tried to keep the eventual selling secret from their crews, who worked hard in the gathering of those extra goods. These captains, to a man, have ended their lives prematurely at the hands of crewmen. As an aside, a heavy, blunt object to the body and skull seems to be the preferred method of murder in these situations. Dean had kept the crew abreast of all developments concerning the stashed stores, save their exact locations, and so had avoided this fate.
"How much do you have?" Torn asked while Dean snuffed the burning end of one tobacco roll, only to light another.
"Around thirty-thousand in this market," Dean said, referring to the cash he could make from the sale.
"Goldbone?"
"Some," Dean answered. Goldbone fetched higher prices per pound than even jade lumber due to its demand and scarcity.
"How many locations?"
"Three. Two on the coast, one on the Fed." The two fell quiet again. I was upset with myself for my self-centered concern. Once Dean cashed out, I'd be out of a job, and most likely my life's companion. I could find work on any ship, that I knew. But nothing would bring me as much felicity as my current life. I was involved in a curious circle of surety. The reason I'd never be as happy was because I already knew I wouldn't be.
"I believe I'd like to come with you," Torn finally said.
"I don't take passengers."
"No, I've a mind to sell my ship and get out of this business as well. I'll work as a hand for no charge. We'll bid the good life farewell together."
"You'll get the minimum wage," Dean said with no hint of a smile. He would not forget Torn's suggestion of piracy; he never forgot those who angered him. "I'll arrange quarters for you," he said, rising and walking out. Torn and I exchanged a distressed look. The trip would not go well.
The Sewer Queen was built in the Grey Republic and required eight months of labor. Dean used two weeks of extended leave time to travel down and offer suggestions. What became of his advice was a slightly smaller, but noticeably faster ship. Dean put up resistance to the name on the grounds of tackiness, but had no leg to stand on having invested zero cash.
Finally, on return to Solfin after a short trip to Portrait, word was received from Torn that the ship was finished and needed only a captain for the dedication. The two of us made our farewells with the grand Stals, and journeyed to our new home. After a trial run up and down the western coasts of the Republic, with 'X' flags aloft to avoid the anger of a sea which is harsh on the undedicated, we broke wine over the bow of the Sewer Queen and set sail for Hillock to fill her virgin hold with the cock of trade.
Shortly thereafter, Dean began regretting not replacing a crew that was hand-chosen by Torn; a crew that had proven inadequate on the trial run. He began to chide Torn about the woeful men, words that were ill-chosen and misunderstood. Dean often went about the task of upsetting others when he was upset with himself, and Torn, who did not yet know him well, did not understand the release of steam. This led to numerous arguments, which I've found is a good way for men to truly get to know each other.
Even though the arguments persisted, which was not to Dean's style, the two seemed to make nice after leaving Hillock with a load of goods to sell - always a relieving agent. One night shortly thereafter, I sat with Dean and asked him why he was so incensed with Torn. In seemingly good humor he responded, "Because he'll be the death of me."
We were insane, quite simply insane. Dean was somewhere beyond insane, but we were the ones following him. Two pickups were made, and we were about to navigate the Gate of Tears to reach his final stash. By sea there were two routes to Haven Cove, and the Gate of Tears was the least dangerous, if such could be said of a lane that wrecked fully a third of the vessels that passed through.
The waters of the Gate of Tears are populated by rocks, and notoriously shallow in most parts. The best strategy for passage is to move slowly and pick a cloudy day to reduce bright reflections. There is a narrow section, almost directly between Reason Point and the northern beach of the Grey Republic, that is deeper than most other points along the lane.
Through that lane we passed, an epitome of methodical caution. Our sails were furled and oars manned. To the north, stood the great rock of Reason Point, forever furious at the temerity of the sailor. Minutes later we were safely through, breathing heavy sighs of relief, and raising sails for our short journey to Haven Cove on the mainland's western coast.
The cove is deep enough to sail into; indeed, throughout it's storied past pirates, rebels, and entire armies have sailed into the almost certain refuge of Haven Cove. The land curves out to points leaving a narrow opening, resembling the mandibles of an insect. The land surrounding the cove is high, rocky, and dotted with several smaller coves.
The area was a perfect spot for Dean's third cache given the countless natural caves, many of which were easily concealed through proper measures. Also, people rarely came to the area anymore. As society became more separated, and governments lost sight of what lay beyond their walls, brigands were less harassed, and so found places of hiding more safely accessed.
The Praul was maneuvered into a small inlet in the northeast area of the cove. All but three hands exited the ship via dinghy, allowing for the massive bulk of the cache. After beaching the boat, Dean led us through a small crevasse, and up a natural ramp along a mountain of rock. He stopped before a pine tree of medium height.
"This should be the one," he said, examining the tree. "It was about yea big when I was here last," he said while holding his hand, palm down, to his chest.
"Let's get it over with," Jorge, the second pilot and night watchman said.
Dean stepped off a distance from the tree, then examined the area where the ramp met the wall of stone. He began carefully scooping dirt and gravel until he found a large, narrow reddish stone. Dean left the stone in the hole, and walked at a narrow angle away from the wall until he reached the opposite edge of the ramp, some distance away.
"Sal, look at the stone and tell me if I'm standing where it's pointing," Dean said.
"Come a bit forward along the edge and you're golden," I signed. He did so, then reached over the edge and dislodged as much rubble as he could, allowing it to roll down to the ground below.
"We need to clear the rock away down where that dirt is," he told us. This we did until an opening large enough to walk through was cleared. Lamps were lit and we entered just one of the many lost caves in the area. In the back of the reasonably deep cave stood a large canvas covered mound.
"Same drill as the others. Let's just get the stuff out of the cave first, then to the dinghy," Dean commanded. We removed the canvas to find the expected crates of varying sizes. In two, and sometimes three, person teams, we carried the dismembered mass out beneath the clouded sky until Dean and I were left alone in the cave with the last crate.
"So this is it?" I asked Dean, his weathered face ideally lit by the lamp's dancing flame. "The Praul's last leg, then we all split?"
"She's yours if you want her, Sal," he replied to my astonishment.
"But Torn should get her, he built her."
"I won't turn the Praul over to a would-be pirate," he said, reaching to get a grip beneath his end of the crate, trying to end a conversation that I didn't want to end. "Besides, when my sailing days end, so will his, most likely. Let's get this thing out and go home." I didn't understand that, but I didn't care. There were more pressing matters.
"I don't want to be apart from you," I signed timidly. Dean could only look down at the crate in his grip, no doubt aghast that I had opted to break our unspoken but understood pact to avoid such talk. My silent dependence on his companionship mirrored his for me, but he preferred to deal with our imminent parting apart alone, without me.
"I know," he said into the moldy wooden slabs upon which his gaze was so focused. "But -", he began before the sound of quick and heavy steps interrupted his thought. He stood straight as Torn approached leading three strangers with knives and swords in hand.
"Something I should know about?" Dean asked his old friend.
"I'm sorry, Dean, but I have to take your goods. The times have been rough on me, too, and I have to survive like everyone else. I didn't have the benefit of your forethought, but I will seize the opportunities that come along."
"So this is how you've decided to hurt me; after all these years." Torn's eyes opened a little wider after hearing those words, which, to me, made little sense.
"I can't kill you, Dean," Torn said after a long pause. "I'll put your crew in here and seal you in, but not so much that you can't eventually dig yourself out. I simply can not have you following me."
"We'll see," he replied before taking a seat against the back wall of the cave. Torn and one of the hirelings sheathed their weapons and picked up the remaining crate, departing the cave quickly while the other two kept watch. Shortly thereafter, the remaining crew members were shepherded in by at least twenty more armed men. As they backed out, I followed at a distance - slowly, to not appear threatening. I stopped some distance from the mouth of the cavern. Torn's men were all well away, watching one man who had an arm raised to the sky, and another pointing at the cave.
"Stay back, Sal," Torn shouted at me. It was then apparent that the oddly gesturing man was Ironborn. He would seal the cave through his conjuring. Ironborn are rare almost anywhere, but certainly so on the sea, and I wondered where Torn had found such a man. I backed hurriedly away, but because of my horrid fascination, could not break sight of one who, according to the stories, must have great powers. I was sad to see that no lightning flashed from his fingers. No otherworldly light bathed his body. There was simply the sound of an avalanche as the rocks along the mountain dislodged themselves and came to rest in the mouth of the cave. When the opening was completely covered, I stumbled back to my shipmates, blindly following the wall.
The men were talking in small groups, eyes betraying nervousness in the flickering lamplight. Dean and Beach were huddled apart in the shadows, talking and gesturing quietly. I approached the other greenhands, who seemed more addled than the others, to help reassure them. Our situation was not dire. We would be able to dig ourselves out before any shortage of air would affect us, and our ship would still be waiting for us on the other side - probably.
Finally, Dean stood up from his chat with Beach and announced that we should begin clearing the rock away from the cavern mouth. We worked in three rotating lines, meaning three people on the wall at a time, lifting stone and clawing through dirt. I noticed Dean staring sternly at Beach from time to time. Why he would be upset with the greenhand who had become such a close friend was beyond me, but Beach was clearly struggling with some internal conflict from the pain in his downcast eyes. Shortly, I would learn the reason.
"Everyone please stop," Beach signed, though few noticed. He backed away from his place in the center line and walked over to Dean, who put his arm around the man's shoulder and led him a short distance away to confer.
"I need everyone into the back of the cave," Dean said when he returned.
"Why?" Jorge asked gruffly.
"Just do it, Jorge. It'll save you a load of work."
We did as Dean asked, but I crept back as softly as I could to a spot in the shadows where I could observe whatever it was that was going to happen. The past months had been trying for me and I was getting angry at the amount of information to which I was not subject. First the friendship with Beach, apart from me, then, from Dean's comments during our imprisonment, the obvious connection between Torn and Dean that had never occurred to me, whatever it was.
Dean stood away from Beach, who seemed to be staring at the temporary wall of stone.
"Light the way," Dean said. Beach made no movements, but the center of the wall suddenly pushed outward until deep twilight shone through. The circular opening gradually widened as though a tube of pressure was enlarging itself. Beach fell against a nearby wall of the cave as Dean ran back to where his men were gathered. He caught a glimpse of me as he passed and stopped. A long breathless moment passed before he continued to the rear of the cave.
"Let's go!" he shouted to the assembled hands. "Torn's gotten a good three hours of daylight speed on us and I mean to catch him before Solfin." Dean shrugged off the numerous shouts asking how the rocks were cleared; instead urging us onward. We ran to the shore to find the dinghies in pieces, which meant a long swim to the boat that still bobbed lazily in the distance. One by one the crew climbed aboard the Jok Praul, exhausted, but ready to give chase. We were one crewman short, however. Beach Rittle had remained on shore and would not return.
Night had closed its ample curtains on the world when we approached the Gate of Tears - approached it much too fast for anybody's liking.
"We're dead like this, Dean," I signed frantically. "This will kill us, no doubts."
"We can't wait for light."
"Then at least slow down."
"We can't let him gain any more time on us."
"When we're sunk, he gains all the time he needs!"
"All we have to do is hit the lane."
"Let him go, Dean. You still have the rest of your stock. He beat us, leave it at that."
"I have business to conclude, now leave me be."
"You can't --," I began to sign with one final exasperated plea.
"Get out of my face!" he shouted, spit flying in my face. I turned and walked to the bow to see death's bony fist take hold of me. Halfway there I stopped to offer Dean a final look of ire, but found him taking the wheel from our pilot. If we were going to die, it was going to be by his hand; such was Dean's way. I resumed my course as Dean plotted his.
The moon hung large and orange over the mountains that separated the main continent from the Mind's Peninsula by which we flew so close. Those mountains, known as the Watch, would preside over our demise, as they had presided over so many deaths before. They were cold and seemingly uncaring; the ship was not the first to wreck off Reason Point, nor would it be the last. To the Watch, there was simply nothing special about the Jok Praul or its crew.
What faces I could see in the dim night light were strained with fear at our captain's imminent insanity. My fingers clenched hard around the deck rail as I turned to watch the waters separate before the ship. Somewhere down there, not far away, were the shallows and the rocks that would rip us apart.
No voices reached my ears, no stern commands. Only the wailing wind and the counterpart seas. On my right and ahead was the barely visible Reason Point, moving across my sight so much faster than any lucid sailor would enjoy. Pauses became frequent in my vision as my memory instinctively grasped hold to illumine my mind's eye. I saw snippets of my past, things I hadn't thought about in decades, and would never have remembered under any less tension than when fate comes calling.
Scenes from my childhood in a dusttown north of Setrian Lake, when my father put his fist into my baby brother's face. I had forgotten how he died, and why I'd left. Scenes from the north when I camped at the foothills with the miners. Scenes from the court in Solfin when I was wrongly convicted of theft and sentenced to time on the docks. The sentence was as all sentences should be, not vindictive, but offering of a reformed life.
Scenes of Dean, nearly drunk and jovial. Soft sentiment stung my rigid body . It was how I had always wanted to think of Dean: in his element, at his happiest. Scenes of a night on Portrait when we nearly shared each other. It was the closest we would ever come, though most others believed differently, and I couldn't really blame them.
I noticed the warmth throughout my body only as it was fleeting before the onslaught of cries from behind and above. I knew then that our boat had hit the shallows and we were going down. The men were shouting with all their might to be finally recognized by the world they were leaving. The tone wasn't right though. There were whoops and hollers instead of desperate screams. I turned to find Dean still at the wheel, his expression calm, and a touch of a grin beginning at the corners of his mouth that he was obviously trying to keep back. Reason Point was well behind us, and somewhere south, so was the Grey Republic. He'd led us through - pushed us through, really - one of the most dangerous doors in the world.
"To your stations!" I emanated to the other Donns, and signed to the others near me. "Full sail!" They would pass on my orders as they always had. I strode to Dean who was relinquishing the wheel back to Jorge.
"Make north," he said. "Ride the coast with all possible speed." Then he retired to his cabin for some small amount of sleep. I gave the necessary orders before turning over command to Jorge and retiring to my own quarters. Despite the exhausting trauma of the day, the forgotten images which had resurfaced occupied my thoughts, and prevented my sleep. And I wondered what Dean saw in the dark before the shallows.
Dean joined me on deck soon after first light. By lens, Torn's ship was visible in the distance. The Jok Praul was faster and better manned, and would catch the ship of thieves before Solfin. What we did when we caught her was a troublesome question. Contrary to the belief of outsiders, most ships are not rigged for battle, and skirmishes between crews are rare occurrences. The Praul's crew were novices at best in the arts of fighting, and, judging from the weapons on the group that imprisoned us in the cave, inadequately armed. The Praul did have a ram, however, on her prow which could possibly be used to sink the enemy vessel. The consequence would be the loss of Dean's stolen goods. Decisions would have to be made within the day on the best course of action because the next morning we would be upon Torn Howland and his rogues. I said as much to Dean after exchanging early pleasantries in the gray morn.
"Don't worry," he replied. "He's coming to us, it's just a matter of when. If I were a betting man, I'd say tonight."
"You are a betting man," I signed. Dean was a bad gambler, but not afflicted with addiction.
"Which is why I wager that Torn comes with the full moon."
"Wager what?"
"My life."
"I'll take that bet."
"Good, here's what we'll do." Dean outlined his simple plan, including some horrifying mutinous details, and I agreed to take part, having no role to play except that of watcher.
We gained steadily on Torn's ship, which we had dubbed Varnicum after the arrogant, slow-of-foot burglar who was the joke of many stories, for the remainder of the day. Shortly after nightfall, I departed for my cabin, having complained all day of a lack of sleep. I dressed in my nightclothes in case of discovery, and eventually took my chance to creep to Dean's quarters without notice. A good while later, Dean entered to find me sitting at his table, nursing a glass of single malt whiskey.
"I think you've got the right idea," he said with a sad smile. "Pour me a glass." While I did this, he changed into new pants and shirt. I admired his form, and not for the first time.
"If you're right about all this, how did you find out?" I signed. He sat down with his drink and took a long pull.
"A psychic told me," he said with the gravely voice of one who's had his first drink of the day. I pondered that for a moment.
"You mean a psionic don't you. You mean Beach." Dean was not noticeably taken aback by my question, which was a little disappointing. I was proud of my deduction. "I saw what he did in the cave. He can't be Ironborn, there's no reason to keep that secret." Another draught poured into Dean.
"You don't know what you saw," he finally said.
"Dean, it was obvious. Landslides don't just disperse of their own will. Not from the center out, at least."
"Beach didn't do that," Dean was staring past me, but, from the look of his eyes, not at anything physical. "I didn't want it. Who would? Since the Father cut me loose I've never used it. Not till I met Beach, anyway."
Dean Rollens was a psionic. He was one of the cursed, the feared, the hated. Psionics did not tamper with the arcane, they didn't need to. No, they could control your very body, which was why they were illegal in all Cities, and reviled everywhere else. I shivered as my breathing grew short. It was a reflex action. This was Dean, not some monster. Just the same, I shuddered again. He looked at me.
"I'm not dangerous. It's completely controllable, and besides, Beach says I'm only of middling ability."
"Beach can tell that sort of thing?"
"He's got power - real power. Way beyond me." I was mildly happy that my deduction was still correct, even if the logic was flawed.
"You told him you were psionic, but never me?"
"I didn't have to tell him. He came to me soon after he was brought on. Somehow he can tell who the unlucky ones are."
"So what was all that about in the cave. Why did you need him to help break open the cave."
"If I got us out of the cave and we went after Torn, what about his Ironborn? Beach had to take care of that. He didn't want to. He's never killed anyone before with 'it'."
"But he was just standing there. He killed the Ironborn from there?" Dean simply nodded. "Can you do that?" I signed with apprehension.
"No, and he can't really do it easily. If the Ironborn had been prepared, Beach might not have been able to do it at all. Fortunately, he wasn't, so now he's dead."
"So now…"
"Now we wait. You get in the hamper, I'll put out the lamp and get in the closet." The reminder of Torn's expected arrival helped focus my reeling mind. Then I remembered what Dean thought would happen.
"Jorge's in charge out there?" I asked with some distress.
"Yes," he replied with undisguised anger.
"Why let it happen? Why not just catch up to Torn and take him then?"
"Because I'm guaranteed a conversation this way." I shook my head and walked to his small window that looked out over the deck. The greenhands had the night shift, and Jorge, as always, had the night command. I fervently hoped Dean was wrong about what these men would do.
Behind me, Dean was stuffing his day clothes with balled up sheets to create a likeness of himself. He put the form in his bed, complete with a bust of Jordahl, the storied mariner, that he'd picked up in Solfin. He covered the form with a sheet.
"The sooner we get the light out, the sooner their count begins," he said when the dummy was arranged as he preferred. I got into Dean's cramped clothes hamper and propped the wooden lid open with a pair of rancid socks so that I could see the doorway. Dean blew out the lamp and stood at the window for a long while. There was little danger he'd be seen from the outside. No one was posted near enough to see through the tiny window into the darkened room beyond. He stood there for an eternity, unmoving. His expression was unreadable in the moonlight. He didn't move until the sound of footsteps echoed from the floor leading to his door. Then he strode slowly to the closet and closed the door halfway.
A few moments later, the door opened with excruciating slowness. The heavy shadow of Torn Howland passed into the room and through the moonlight bathing a small portion of the floor beyond the window. He kneeled before the bed where Dean should have been sleeping. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, then slowly drew a long knife from his belt. The knife flashed in the moonlight, raised over the head of the murderer, and descended into the covers over the heart of Dean's dummy.
There was only one strike. The deception was obvious. Torn quickly withdrew the knife and spun around, now on his feet. His searching eyes stopped on the deep shadows in the closet, squinting in a futile attempt to see through the darkness.
"You're there," Torn said. "Come out." Dean did just that, stepping outside the closet with his hands in his pockets. The two stared at each other - Torn suspicious, Dean quietly furious.
"Put the knife down and let's talk," Dean said, nodding at the knife clutched tightly in Torn's hand. He pulled a chair out for Torn and backed away, beckoning for him to sit down. Torn did not accept the offer.
"How did you know I was coming?"
"Pay your conspirators more money next time. Maybe they'll keep their mouths shut." Dean was testing his theory.
"They told that greenhand friend of yours didn't they," Torn said disgustedly. "You two were too close. He was never supposed to know."
"The greenhands I can understand - they have no loyalties - but how did you get Jorge?"
"He's a bitter man who loses all his pay as soon as he makes it. Getting him to accept payment simply to allow me back on board in the unlikely event that you would even catch up to me was easy." Dean had been right, or rather Beach had been. Having the permanent night shift, the greenhands and Jorge had been offered money at some point on the journey. Their task would be to allow Torn to board the ship if needed without raising the alarm.
"They knew you were going to seal us in the cave, and accepted that?"
"The deal was easier that way. They thought they were getting free money, and, truth be told, I thought so too. The Ironborn must have been weak to leave such a thin pile for you to work through, then die as a result."
"I wonder if the Ironborn was as handy with fire as I hear you are." Torn struggled to keep his composure.
"What do you mean?"
"I'll admit I didn't know for some time. You're one of those people whose face changes with age. The dyed hair and beard helped too. But something always bothered me about you. It eventually came to me, and then it was impossible not to recognize you."
"How long have you known?" Torn supporting himself on the table. Whatever Dean was getting at now, I would finally learn the connection between the two men to which I was never before privy.
"A couple years. But see here's the thing," Dean said moving toward Torn. Torn quickly backed away brandishing the knife. "You were supposed to be dead with the Mother, Pacco, and Rodge." The realization hit me as I stared at Torn Howland, or rather Keenan Rollens - Dean's oldest brother. Had I the ability I would have screamed in shock. "So what I've decided is that you set the fire. You killed them and you tracked me to the Republic intending to kill me, too."
Torn's almost apologetic expression hardened into a sneer. "The world is better now that it's cleansed of Rollens blood."
"And yet here I stand. You may believe your name is Howland now, but I'm here too, and I'm a Rollens. The lunacy lives while we do."
Torn moved swiftly toward Dean, his knife lashing out wildly. I tried to leap out of the hamper, but my feet became tangled in the close quarters. I fell backward landing hard enough to knock the wind from me. The next thing I saw was Torn's airborne form thudding into the ceiling with an audible crack, then falling to the floor.
"Are you alright?" Dean said, kneeling next to me. I didn't trust my shaking hands enough to try signing so I simply nodded. He nodded back and walked to Torn's motionless body while I worked on regaining the use of my body. Dean felt Torn's neck for a pulse, then stood and looked down at his dead brother for some time. I eventually was able to stand and walk over to Dean. "It wasn't the worst idea, you know? Killing off the Rollens bloodline." I had to tap him to make him watch my hands.
"He covered his madness well for many years," I signed. "Can I be sure that your psionic abilities are the only manifestations of your blood?"
"When he was younger, he was like the others. Whenever he was angry, all senses just went out the window. It's interesting that it got better. But don't forget, he set fire to his own family."
"If he tracked you to the Republic to kill you, why didn't he?"
"I really don't know. My hope is that he saw an opportunity for a different role in his life and that I could help him. If he had killed me, what would he do next? Probably commit suicide."
A wave of weariness swept through me. "I need sleep. These days have been too much."
"And I need a drink. You can use my bed." I could think only of sleep as I stepped over the rigid body of Keenan Rollens, swept the stuffed version of Dean away off the bed, and lay down. I fell asleep to the sounds of clinking glass as Dean poured himself a drink.
The next morning I awoke with selective amnesia, but the bodies of Jorge and the greenhands hanging from the yardarms was the frigid water of remembrance poured over me in gallons. Dean had stayed busy after I went to sleep. Torn's body was absent as was his ship. Dean was standing on the starboard side with his hands on the railing looking out toward the shore of the Mind's Peninsula some distance off. At his feet was a large coarsely woven sack, full almost to bursting. I approached him.
"Going somewhere?" I signed, weakly smiling as unbidden tears slithered from my eyes. He embraced me, stroking my back slowly.
"Don't worry, business will be good again. You have a hold full of valuable goods to sell, including what I got back from Keenan's men last night. They also told me that two of Solfin's trading companies have gone out of the business in the past month. That's five mammoths off the water that you won't have to deal with. At least Keenan's death was not without its irony."
I didn't care; without Dean, sea life was unappealing. Life itself was unappealing. He was my dearest friend, my unrequited love. The sea's song would be dimmer without him on the water. I held him until he let go.
"Why are you leaving now? Why not wait till Solfin?" I signed in between wiping tears away.
"The sooner I get started the better. He needs whatever help I can give, and he needs it yesterday."
"Who?"
"Beach."
"Beach?" I said in bewilderment. "Why does he need your help?" He looked out over the forested shore once more.
"Things are going to change out there, I know it. And the reason I know is because of Beach. He'll have a part in it, desired or not."
"A part in what? Nothing good comes from the mainland, Dean. The open water's where you belong; it's where you do the most good. You've always said that."
"Times change and I'm through running."
"You're mad," I said, intending only slight humor. He smiled anyway.
"Just don't tell anyone."
"Where will you go? How will you find him?"
"Somewhere east. There are villages inland where I can trade for transportation of some kind. Other than that I don't really know. But I'll find him." He picked up his pack and threw it into a dinghy that was hanging over the side of the ship. Together, we lowered it to the water.
"The ship is yours, Salor. Name and keep her as you will. I'll miss you." He kissed me on the cheek, then leaped onto the line and shimmied to the dinghy below. He rowed toward shore, his eyes always over his shoulder, focused on the forest, or whatever he saw beyond. I watched Dean Rollens beach the dinghy, shoulder his packs, and walk into the consuming forest. I wandered slowly back to the wheel and gave my first command as captain. "Make north."
Copyright © 2001, Matt Ackerman