On the deck I try to breathe a little easier and watch the Paranishian isles slip over the edge of the horizon. We’re deep in the nighttime hours. For better or for worse, we have thrown our lot together – and home,whatever that means now, is out of reach. I grip the rail and think of Larkin watching this same view, no anchor in his stomach.
I’m reassured as Finlyr starts to relax, his chest and shoulders expanding. I wasn’t sure he would pull it off, but we’re here: actually on boardSaltswept.
‘We want to make it as far away as we can, quickly and quietly,’ Finlyr tells the assembled crew. ‘Usually, a random vessel in the near waters wouldn’t raise suspicion, but we left... a bit of a mess behind us. Hopefully we have enough time before the entire fleet is on high alert.’
Finlyr catches my eyes, and I feel heat creep up my neck. He’s trying to placate me, but I can’t forget what I saw, the vicious way Sinigang leapt upon that Seaguardian. At least one Seaguardian dead; Sinigang and Biba hurt. So much blood on our hands.
‘I need everyone to follow my command. We’re short-handed and these hours are critical.’
He is our captain, and I have to hope he’s worth his salt. There are too few of us to work this vessel, and my stomach lurches.
We work ceaselessly, elbow to elbow at the helm. It’s bloody heavy: a different heft to holding bucking sheep or lugging baskets of wet wool from the riverbank. My arms burn, and I struggle to find purchase on the planks of the deck. I try to steady my ragged breathing. My mind knows how to engage with this kind of work. It quietens, and I push my whole self into my muscles. Soon Finlyr and I barely need words, our eyes and hands aligning to fit the gaps in each other’s work as we toil to the rhythm of the waves. The sweat stings my eyes and I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm.
Isagani is up in the rigging, their sinewy silhouette nimbly crawling among the ropes and woven reed sails. They look frazzled, dropping knots as quickly as they can tie them.
‘Hurry up, Isagani, I need that sail catching the wind.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can, Fin! There’s a lot to remember!’
‘We’re losing it; get to the topgallant shroud!’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, over there!’ Finlyr points, hand coming off the helm.
I try to hold steady as the vessel creaks beneath us. ‘None of us know how to sail, Fin. Not like you do.’
As Isagani scuttles over, their foot catches in the line tail. They jostle, righting themselves with a surprisingly vile string of words.
Something shifts in Finlyr’s face, like a cloud passing across the sun. Then the wind moves, and the ship is going against it. Even I can see we’re being pushed back the way we came.
‘We’re being taken aback, hoy up!’ Finlyr shouts and gives a piercing whistle through his teeth. He begins to sing:
‘Haul away, you salt-swept urchins
Heave away the sand of yore
Ride the waves of navy merchants
Seeking fortune evermore.’
Finlyr’s voice is sure and steady, booming across the deck.
‘Get on the capstan,’ he directs me to push the great rotating circle of spokes and ropes and begins the song again.
Biba pushes alongside me and joins in the song, keeping time. She doesn’t know the words but yells the start of each line, her small body lurching forward against the resistance of the capstan.
‘Stay up there, Isagani,’ Finlyr encourages. ‘And make sure the sails are hoisted aft.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Isagani shouts.
‘We’re trying to go into the wind again, so we’re turning the ship slightly!’ I yell, translating the seafaring lexicon.
We can’t rightly help if we don’t know what he’s saying, but I must admit the repetition of the song is taking the edge off my burning muscles.
When we are finally given leave of our posts, the sun is high in the sky. Isagani and I slump down on the quarterdeck, able at last to survey our surroundings. We lean against the capstan, legs splayed towards the split-level to the helm, where Finlyr stands. The ropes hang like vines from the rigging. We sit in amiable silence awhile, furnishing ourselves with slings of fresh water.
‘I hope Narra is all right,’ Isagani says, scrubbing a hand through their hair.
