I feel out the wall, for hand and footholds. This is an unknown language to me, despite growing up in a stone temple. My blood marks the places of my endeavours and frustrations. We get there and I’m more broken skin than whole. I sit on the rock and kiss the top of Raina’s head. We are on dry land. We are alive. As if a curtain is being drawn back, a glorious holy rain tips down.
I sit there, enveloped in the storm as the leaves and seaweed swirl around me. Everything is so loud, the waves crashing urgently. I cup my hands and drink from the pools of rainwater. I laugh. At least, I think that’s what the sound is. It comes from deep within me, an animal mania that consumes me completely.
I feel possessed, the shock of seeing it stilling the anguish in my throat. Through the sheet of rain I see a shape coming towards me. I gulp down rainwater as I stumble across the jagged rock. I blink away the rain and push at my temples, making light spots wink in my periphery. I try to use the pain to gauge if what I’m seeing is real. My senses are foreign to me now. Malostra came to haunt me; perhaps my mind now taunts me with the promise of salvation.
chapter forty-nine
finlyr
Ris comes up fromthe mess, and the smell of spices and yeast follows, sweet and nutty with a subtle kick at the back of the throat. ‘Grub’s up, you miserable lot.’
Paranish, I should let Ris cook all my meals. I’m a man who could eat boiled rice and veggies all day, but she’s somehow found herbs at the back of cupboards I didn’t even know were on board. I could rustle up something that would keep body and soul together, a touch better than the undead, but not by much. I stroke my stomach, looking on fondly as she sets down the pot of rice stew. While I love to eat, Ris seems to find a delight in preparing meals I don’t understand. A calm washes over her the way I do when sailing. A peace in having total control of her surroundings.
We sit around the bolted-down table, elbows tucked close, and pass the serving dish around. Biba takes an overly generous spoonful and slops some of it down the side of her bowl.
Isagani tears a corner of flatbread and dips it into the stew. I follow and, by Aistra, it’s crisp and stuffed with dried herbs.
I take a spoonful, and the stew is sour and warming and spicy by turns. ‘What is this called?
‘Sinigang,’ Biba says.
The otter-cat chirrups, bringing his head up from his bowl on the floor.
‘Is that your namesake?’ I ask. ‘Explains a lot.’
‘Here,’ Ris says, handing me a mug of palm wine.
I sniff the cup, watching sprinklings swirl on the surface of the drink, catching the light. ‘What’s this stuff?’
‘Just drink it, it’s good for you,’ Ris says with a wink.
The liquid touches my tongue. A merry dance of spices: cloves, cinnamon, and something familiar I can’t quite place mingling with the sweetness of the wine. This woman is something else.
‘Like it?’ She sees the star struck look on my face and claps me hard on the shoulder. ‘You’ve everything you need right here; you just don’t know how to use it.’
Sinigang laps contentedly. ‘You should keep her around, Fin.’
I’m almost positive no one saw our deck escapades, but living in close quarters like this, perhaps they have sensed something has changed between us. There’s an ease, a familiarity that is hard to conceal.
‘Can I try?’ Isagani asks, reaching for my mug.
‘No,’ Ris says, firmly. ‘When you’re older,’ she adds, more gently.
She sips her own drink furtively. Sinigang narrows his eyes at me and then at Ris, sniffing the air, whiskers twitching.
‘That wouldn’t be crushed silphium I smell?’
Ris colours, half gagging on her drink.
‘Not something you’d commonly find in a ship’s kitchen.’ Sinigang smiles.
Once he says it, I can place the herb. It’s something I haven’t used since my younger years when I still lived on Paranish. Most people like the reassurance of the sheath’s visibility, but I suppose Ris is being extra cautious. Silphium can protect from unwanted pregnancy, but it’s no barrier for disease like a sheath. Still, two methods of protection are better than one.
I tip the rest of the stew down my throat before it cools too much. The hot tangy spices slid smoothly down my throat. My skin prickles momentarily, and I’m awful hot. But then the feeling passes. It’s like a cool balm is pressed against my skin. The sweat doesn’t prickle on my skin. In fact, it feels chill.
Ris gets up for seconds of the stew.
When I stand to leave for the lavvy, I pass behind her at the counter and whisper in her ear: ‘Please let me know the next time you put something in my food.’
