Spit on Wood

At the bonfire, Elishat sat on a simple wooden throne carved with seahorse arms and a scallop shell back by the carpenter on the Arbiter. Amaal watched her from afar. Even among her many subjects, the Queen remained as distant as the evening star. She never mingled with them. What she knew of their lives, she learned from the reports of her advisors. If ever she were to dance, it would be with carefully prescribed movements, not the wild, fireside frolic she watched from her makeshift throne. Her people smiled and nodded respectfully as they danced past her, but no one approached.

The Queen noticed Amaal and waved her over.

“Won’t you play us a tune?”

Amaal hesitated. “My flute…” A wave of sorrow swept over her. She had to explain, but she didn’t want to talk about Kalev and the fire.

Elishat tilted her head. “What is it, Amaal?”

“My flute went down with Tondo’s ship.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. It was your passion.”

“I suppose so.”

“Am I mistaken?”

“I don’t know,” Amaal sighed. “The Nursemaid said I didn’t have much ability for music.”

“The Nursemaid, may the gods bring her peace in death, had an opinion about just about everything, though I must say, she was often accurate.”

“She said I need to find my ‘purpose.’”

Elishat laughed lightheartedly. “Well, you’re not alone.” She held her arms wide to indicate her people lounging on the beach, slurping seafood, dancing with their shadows. “Do you think I was prepared to be queen of this?”

Amaal laughed.

“The new city will allow—and require—a rebirth in all of us. Who knows, maybe the gods have something better in mind for you.”

The Queen stood and took Barca’s arm. Her subjects turned and bowed to her as she prepared to walk to the rowboat waiting at the shore.

“I don’t like all the bowing, Barca,” she said.

“Yes, Princess, but the people need someone to look up to. You were born above them, and they take courage from you. It’s for the best.”

“Still, I don’t like it. I don’t feel like that kind of queen. I feel like the kind of queen who hitches up her robes and steps barefoot into the clay pit to soften the mud for brick.”

Barca smiled. “You can be both.”

“Yes, Barca, thank you. I will be both.”

 As the humid night air wafted in from the sea, people gathered around the bonfire to tell stories. Amaal stood in the flickering glow and listened to the lively tales. Half of what they were saying was made up, filtered through superstition, exaggeration, and spectacle. There had been no battle with Pumayyaton’s guards in Tyre, only deathly silence as they fled the harbor under cover of night. There had been no grasping, tentacled sea monsters, only leaping dolphins and a slashing silver-blue swordfish that the sailors hauled onto the deck of the Nebula one afternoon for dinner. Terrible as it was, the storm had not sent the Sage to the bottom of the sea, passengers and all, before she resurfaced in the palm of Yamm’s hand only to be inundated and pulled down again. Nevertheless, inspired by their desire to make the voyage appear more colorful and themselves more courageous, the people finished each other’s sentences with dramatic and blatantly inaccurate detail. What the passengers had seen and what they imagined they had seen had become hopelessly intertwined.

Amaal felt her irritation rising. She walked slowly to the water’s edge and took off her sandals. The cool sand underfoot and the waves bubbling around her ankles did little to calm her exasperation. She imagined Gader, Keeper of the Flame, standing next to her in his cone-shaped hat, shifting from one foot to the other. He would have been appalled to hear all these false tales. He would have intervened in his amusing, gentle manner, to set the record straight. She spoke quietly to her invisible mentor and promised him she would do her best to remember everything exactly as it had happened. She was still mumbling when Hannu appeared.

“It’s time to go back to the ships for the night,” he said.

Amaal launched into conversation. “Does it bother you that people make up wild tales about what happened on the voyage?”

“No, not really.”

“Don’t you think we should tell the truth about what happened? People are saying there were battles and demons and sea monsters.”

“People like to tell a good story.”

“Our story is good enough without exaggeration. We’re not perfect, you know. We need to admit to our disagreements and mistakes and shortcomings.”

“You know, Amaal, just because you saved my life doesn’t give you the right to keep dredging up my stupid mistakes.”

“I wasn’t even talking about you, Hannu! I’m only saying that I want the real story to be told.”

“Easy for you to say. I suppose you’ve never done anything stupid.”

Amaal felt a pang. The image of Tondo’s burning ship haunted her. She wanted to walk away, but as she and Hannu were talking about the truth, she felt she had to stay. “There are other faults a person can have, you know.”

“So, what’s yours?”

“Something you have never had to deal with.”

“What’s that?”

“Notice anything missing?”

“Missing? What? What’s missing?”

“My flute…”

Hannu’s tone softened. “I know…”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“I was there.”

“You were where?”

“On Tondo’s ship.”

It took Amaal a moment to put two and two together. She ran through the images in her mind and for the first time recognized the rescuer standing nearest the torch on Tondo’s ship that night.

“It was you…”

Hannu nodded. “And…” he said ruefully.

“And what?”

“I set the fire…”

“Oh, Hannu.” She reached out, but Hannu took a step back. “You can’t blame yourself for that. It was a terrible accident. Besides, I’m just as much to blame.”

“You? But, why?”

“I made Kalev stop to help Tondo. Then, I tried to stop and save my flute when I should have been getting off the ship. If I had just done what he wanted me to do instead of—”

Her voice trailed off. The two stood quietly looking out to sea until Hannu broke the silence. “I’m sorry the fire destroyed your flute.”

Amaal sighed. “The truth is, I could never really play the flute anyway. You…you have a gift. You can play music. The Tillerman can tell stories. Uru can make beautiful dye. I’m…” Her voice slowed. “I’m not really good at anything.” Amaal kicked the foam off the top of a little wave. In the silent pause that followed, Hannu drew his toe across the sand.

“What is it you want?” he asked.

Amaal replied without hesitation, “I just want to be good at something.”

Hannu picked up a piece of driftwood. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Spit on this stick and make a wish.”

“A wish?”

“A wish, a prayer, whatever you want to call it.”

“What for?”

“What you just said.”

“To be good at something?”

“If that’s what you want.”

She took the driftwood from Hannu’s hand. “Okay…but…” She found another smooth stick. “…you have to spit on one, too.”

“What am I wishing for?”

“To become captain of a ship, of course. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I might need a bigger stick.”

They spat, walked up the beach, counted to three, and tossed the driftwood into the bonfire. The fire crackled and hissed and licked the edges of the wood as the embers floated up and disappeared above their heads. They stared silently into the flames, lost in the wishes they’d made, and satisfied that everything they needed to say had been said.

Many of the passengers stayed and camped on the beach. Most, like Amaal, Hannu, and Uru, returned to the ships to spend the night in the circle of friends with whom they had traveled. Bedtime chatter echoed across the water. Even the babies, stimulated by the excitement of the day, babbled their stories in their own way as they were being lulled to sleep. Gradually, the human conversation ceased, the light of the bonfire faded under the star-speckled sky, and the sounds of a million unseen night creatures filled the night.

← Chapter 55 | Chapter 57 →