Chapter 12: Understanding

Name:Peculiar Soul Author:
Chapter 12: Understanding

The axis/skew model remains a problematic metaphor, not least because metaphors in this field of study have a troublesome way of becoming resilient even if (or perhaps especially if) they are inappropriate. To begin with, it implies that there is a zero point between extremes. Any amount of empirical observation will prove this to be false, or whence the artifex? Neither extreme of that axis may shape material freely, only preserve or destroy what already exists. To create, to change requires balance.

A zero is an absence, I submit that this is not; it contains a unique capacity. Yet I do not have a better solution for this dilemma, because to attempt to supplant the model would leave us with either another similarly-limited metaphor, or with the need to comprehend in full what mysteries we try to approximate. Such mysteries may be unknowable in their complexity - or, perhaps more terrifying, they may be within our grasp. I have seen the fruit borne of our limited comprehension. I do not know if man could survive if it were made sweeter still.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 685.

It was a short walk from the harbormasters to the waiting ship. Michael found himself staring like a bumpkin at the bustle of fish and cargo being processed around him; for all that he had lived in a port city before he had never had the opportunity to walk amid the unwashed and smelly machine of Calmharbors maritime industry. Maiburg was tiny by comparison, but the port was no less busy for its size.

Fish were everywhere. This late in the day the citys fleet was bringing back its catch, and though some of it went fresh to the market the vast majority were being frozen as quickly as the lucigens could work. The stuttering lights of the Freezers flickered from nearly every slip; Michaels vision swam with spots from looking at it. Jeorg glanced back at Michael with his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

Dont stare at the Freezers, he said. Not good for your eyes. Keep your distance, too.

Michael pulled his eyes away from the fishermen. Why? he asked, trying to focus on Jeorgs face through the afterimages.

The old man paused, then shook his head. Long explanation, he said. Leire should have some books on it. Remind me when were in Mendian. For now, keep away.

Puzzled, Michael nodded and shifted his gaze away from the docks. To their other side was the fish market, where most of the fresh catch was headed. Merchants called out over the arrayed bounty of fish at anyone who walked near. An old man with a scabbed face and one clouded eye leered at Michael as they passed, brandishing a fish as long as his arm.

Michael shuddered and kept walking. Jeorg seemed unfazed by the crowd, the overpowering smell and chaos of the port. Just as in the forest, he threaded a path between and around obstacles that Michael struggled to follow. It was less that the crowd parted for him than that its density was no issue, as though he were following a painted line only he could see - which, Michael reflected, might hew fairly close to the truth.

In short order they drew close to the designated berth. Jeorg veered out of the flow of traffic and stood in a calmer nook by some waiting cargo, taking a moment to look at their prospective transport before they walked closer.

The ship waiting at dock seventeen was unremarkable - a middling size, with a boxy hull and soot-marked stacks that were nevertheless clean of rust and excess barnacles. There was no sailor minding the access; Jeorg walked onto the deck and turned towards the cluttered wheelhouse at the ships rear. As they approached Michael could hear the tinny squeal of a wireless telegraph blaring through the wheelhouses open door.

A man was inside, hunched over his desk with his ear close to the radio while one hand transcribed the dot code on a slip of paper. Jeorg stopped to wait. The man leaned closer to the wireless as a low hiss of static built over top of the beeping. It grew louder with each passing second until all they could hear from the speaker was a wretched squeal of noise. The man cursed, giving the radio an irritated smack before silencing it.

Always goes to shit when the fish come in, he groused, turning to glare at Jeorg. What do you want?

Now that he had turned, Michael could see his face clearly. The man wore a full beard, neatly trimmed and shot-through with grey. If he had hair atop his head it was hidden under his cap. His skin spoke of unrelenting sun and wind, tanned and leathery enough to put most good boots to shame.

Jeorg met his eyes and inclined his head slightly. Need passage to Arenga, he said. Heard you were headed that way.

This is a freighter, the man said. You want passenger ships, theyre west along the shore.

Just need a ship, Jeorg said, raising his eyebrow. Doesnt have to be fancy. Someone said you might have a spare cabin.

I might, the man allowed. He gave Jeorg a considering glance. Theres a reason youre not asking down at the passenger dock. Folks like you are trouble. I dont like trouble on my ship.

Jeorg gave the man a flinty smile and patted his pocket. It clinked. One hundred crowns, he said. Half now, half in Arenga. For the inconvenience.

The captain raised a bushy eyebrow. Some trouble is harder than others, he said. One-fifty, paid up front.

Michael restrained himself from making a noise. For one hundred and fifty crowns he could have bought the horseless carriage his father had coveted, with money to spare for a driver. Jeorg only smiled.

Seventy-five now, Jeorg countered. Fifty in Arenga - and priority passage through the strait locks.

Both of the captains eyebrows went up. You got strings to pull in Mendian, old man? Get me docking rights on the north side of the strait and you can go for free. Ghars bones, you can have my cabin.

Jeorg laughed and shook his head. That would be easier, he said. Were not that connected. I have an old single-use code that should let us jump the queue, thats all. Save us a few days waiting for a spot.

Bah, the captain said, narrowing his eyes and giving them both a long look. Finally, he stuck out his hand. Otto Kaupf, he said. Captain of the Helga.

Jeorg. The two men shook hands and Jeorg retrieved a small bag of coins from his pocket, handing it over without further comment. The captain dumped it on his desk; there were seven fat gold coins and five smaller silver. Otto stared at it for a few moments before smiling and shaking his head.

Im going to regret meeting you two, he chuckled. His eyes shifted to Michael. Whats your name, son?

Michael answered, omitting his surname as Jeorg had. Otto didnt remark on it. Instead, he walked brusquely past them and led the way down to a cramped cabin with a pair of hammocks strung up on the wall, and a mat below that for an impromptu third bunk. It was barely more than a closet, but it was clean and dry.

Well be putting out this evening, Otto said. Once the light fades and the Ember steamers clear the bay. We should make open ocean by morning. Two more days from there to the strait, then two more to Arenga - if your code works. Otherwise four. He gave his beard an irritable scratch. Stay out of my crews way. Meals are whenever the bell rings.

Otto turned and walked back above-deck without a backward glance.

Charming, Michael murmured. You trust him?

Jeorg snorted. So long as nobody offers to pay him more than we did, he said. Hes not our friend, but he seems pragmatic. Those sorts dont cheat - usually.

So, what now? Michael asked, poking his head into the cabin. We just wait?Follow current novels at novelhall.com)

Best to keep our heads down. Jeorg brushed past Michael and settled into the lower of the two hammocks. We can stray onto the deck once were out of port. Too many eyes here, and ears.

Michael nodded and clambered up to the upper hammock with some difficulty, scowling when he caught Jeorg laughing at his graceless ascent. Once he was settled, however, he found it surprisingly comfortable. The days of walking had left him feeling footsore, and the previous nights sleep had been rough. Michael stretched as much as the tight space allowed before closing his eyes to sleep.

A lurching movement of the boat jolted Michael awake, sending the hammock swinging into the bulkhead and nearly upending him onto Jeorg. He looked around the small cabin wide-eyed, forgetting for a sleep-fogged moment where he was and how he had come to be there.

No, not worship, Jeorg said. Respect, is a better word, as they respect all souls. Light, though - energy. People are taught to think of Form as the fundamental axis in Ardalt, but in Mendian they recognize that Light was first. There is a certain purity to it. He smiled and shook his head. I will keep talking, if I let myself. I should let you see it fresh.

I should think I know what light looks like, Michael muttered. As if in counterpoint to his complaint, the first rays of the sun peered over the horizon to limn the world in coppery fire, glaring off the haze that clung tight over the water - aside from one spot, in the distance, where a mote of darkness hung against the sea.

Michael spotted it first, squinting against the sudden reflected brightness. I think I see the Rock, he said, tapping Jeorg on the shoulder. Look, there, just beside the bow.

Odd, Jeorg said, turning to look. I had thought our angle- He broke off, staring into the distance. The mote of darkness sat stubbornly against the haze, seeming to swell unnaturally fast. Jeorg studied it for a moment more - then turned and walked toward the wheelhouse. His face was grim, and Michael followed him at a worried half-run.

Otto! Jeorg called, pulling open the door to reveal their bleary-eyed captain. Thats an Ember out there.

The captain sat bolt-upright, the fatigue vanishing from his face. Its not five minutes from sunrise, he protested. An Ember shouldnt be out this far, not so early.

Jeorg grabbed Ottos battered spyglass from the console, ignoring the captains abortive protest. He peered through it for a moment, then handed it back. See for yourself, he said. There are two of them.

Otto snatched it up and looked for only seconds before he flung it back to the table, cursing. I knew Id fucking regret it, he spat. Only way theyd be out here this early is if they were waiting. Only ship taking this route is us.

Wordlessly, Michael picked up the spyglass to see for himself. It took him a moment to locate the two boats against the still-dark sea, but when he did they were painfully obvious - slim hulls, built for speed, with a bent orb of pure black obscuring their stern. The ships Ember, gathering the suns rays for the boiler. Michael stared for a moment, then lowered the spyglass as a numb sort of paralysis began to spread through him.

cant outrun an Ember, Otto snarled, jabbing his finger angrily at the map. Were still too far from the Rock, and theyre between us and it. Their boilers will be up before we can do more than turn, and then theyll have us. He pushed back from the table with a frustrated growl, glaring at Michael. What in Ghars fucking disgrace did you two do, that theyve got Embers waiting at the Rock?

Jeorg gave a small, bitter laugh. Nothing of note, he said. He straightened up, and Michael saw a light in his eyes that bore none of the warm tones of dawn. Captain, it may be best if you and your men are below-deck when they approach. He gave Otto a level look, and for the first time the captain looked uncertain.

Its my ship, he said stubbornly. Ill be damned before I hide in the hold.

There was a grease pencil lying on the map table, which Jeorg grabbed. He bent back a corner of the map and began to write on it. Izarrarentzat, he said, pronouncing the word with a practiced cadence. Bizitzaren zuhaitza. He tore the corner he had written on, thrusting it towards Otto. The passcode. In case things go poorly.

Otto took it, looking bewildered. Listen, he said. Im not going to just-

The noise of the wind and waves died around them as Jeorg straightened up. Michael felt the mirrors gathering around in their shining tempest. The air grew crystalline and heavy, all lines bending towards the man standing at their center.

Otto, Jeorg said gently. Please go below.

The captain did not argue further, stumbling back to leave Jeorg and Michael alone in the wheelhouse. Jeorg exhaled slowly, and the pressure around him dropped - but did not disappear, leaving the air tense and electric. We should go outside for this, Jeorg said, following Otto out into the morning air. Setting is important. Hard to get your mind to think outside of the room its in, or inside of a room it isnt.

Michael followed wordlessly, and the two walked toward the bow of the ship. The black dots of the Ember ships were noticeably closer now. Jeorg paused at the ships railing, staring at the approaching ships with the sun lighting his back. He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply.

The world drifted into utter silence. The creaking of the ship faded, the noise of the water disappeared. They had stopped moving. The ocean became an unbroken plane of glass around them, and Michael saw the world doubled, the sky stretching out to infinity both above and below.

Jeorg spoke - not with the thunderous command Michael had heard in the shop. His voice was slow and golden in the morning calm, whispers that echoed from every facet of the world. Metal glides above the hungry water, he said, stretching out his hand. It will cease because I will it so.

The stillness fractured into a million shards. The motes of darkness winked out, and at the extremity of his vision Michael saw bodies hurled forward off the suddenly immobile craft. Still, no sound carried into Jeorgs domain. The mirrors flexed and rippled across the surface of the water, racing toward the attacking ships.

The pressure grew until Michael had trouble drawing breath, his lungs fighting against the sudden unreality of the air around him. Jeorg alone remained implacable, untouchable. Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist. Now become an instrument of slaughter, he said, his voice a razored whisper. Drag the ships upon you down-

There was a small, wet noise, unnaturally loud in the stillness. The noise of the wind came rushing back all at once, the water smacking against the hull of the ship. A thunderclap rang out above the sea. Jeorg staggered back and stumbled against the railing.

Deep red, nearly black in the dim light, was spreading across the front of Jeorgs shirt. Michael took a step forward, wide-eyed - and collapsed to the deck as blinding pain spasmed through his chest. It tore through him like lightning, a twin to the pain of his fathers whip and blades grinding away at the core of his being.

There was an impact near him. Jeorg had fallen to the deck, his blood spreading slowly out over the metal, dripping from the folds of his shirt. His eyes met Michaels and flickered with recognition, then amusement, then acceptance.

Then nothing.

Michael saw it begin, just as he had with Leon. All that was Jeorg began to leach from his body, laying bare a light that seared blindingly through Michaels being. Panic colored the pain. Blood dripped into more blood, spreading over the metal. Fear. It surged and broke, screaming, shouting, heralding the inevitable void.

It had come for Jeorg. Michael railed against it, hurled epithets that echoed only within the confines of his mind. The void did not care; it could not, as it was only an absence. It opened above Jeorgs radiant soul and beckoned it upward into the yawning expanse.

He could do nothing but watch. The pain had immobilized him, left him reeling and mindless, barely cognizant of anything but the fact that he was losing Jeorg and that must not happen.

The soul froze. The void froze. And like a sluice of water rushing down over a fire, the pain in Michaels chest stopped. Something formless shifted within him, and every mote of the world vibrated with a single, wordless question - why?

Michael had no words to answer. His view shifted to Jeorg sitting across the table from him, humming appreciatively at the flavor of a pork chop he had cooked. Michaels own face, scowling at Jeorg as he laughed and prodded him to answer a question from a different angle. To plowing and sowing with him, hauling the first baskets of fruit from the orchard, hiking in hours of comfortable silence through Jeorgs woods. The old mans eyes, over firelight, looking at Michael and seeing beyond what Michael himself saw.

A shudder ran through the core of his being. Another thought coalesced, deeper than words could tell. It spoke of recognition.

It understood.

A tether snapped into being between Michael and the overwhelming radiance of Jeorgs soul. Pain surged once more, but no longer a hollow pain. It sliced through him, bursting, filling, overwhelming all that he was. The world went white. Michaels mind slipped away for a time, and when he opened his eyes once more there was a man standing over Jeorgs body.

He tried to sit up and could not, tried to scream at the man to step away but managed only a faint croaking noise. The man looked at him. He was thin, with a severe face and thinning grey hair. His eyes were an unremarkable brown, but as Michael met them they came alight with an inner fire, a subtle play of color and tone that rendered them fascinating.

The man turned away from Michael to look back at Jeorg, one hand softly coming down to slide the old mans eyes closed. When he returned his gaze to Michael there were tears on his cheek, though he smiled and moved to kneel beside him.

Hello, he said. You must be Michael. His voice was high, but clear and resonant. It seemed to reverberate through every corner of Michaels mind. That we had to meet on such a day - oh, such a sad day. The best of men has fallen here, and I fear the world shall never be the same. He let his head drop down, and for a moment silence reclaimed the sea.

I suppose we must salvage what happiness we can from this tragedy, the man said at last, looking up. Im glad to have finally met you, Michael Baumgart. My name is Josef. Well, thats what people call me. Sometimes its Jos, or Spark, or just the doctor - but ah, Im rambling. I apologize, today has been difficult in so many ways. He reached down to lay a hand on Michaels shoulder, and his touch was seething, electric, thrilling. But I have this - wonderful feeling about you. Yes, I think that you and I will be the very best of friends.