disturbing your kingdom. Great lord, please let us pass in peace. I sang and sang, putting my very heart into every word.
I could heal men and animals with my spirit, but I could only reach animals with my spirit songs. Animals were pure in spirit, knew no hate or treachery. They wanted to eat, and they wanted to live. For the most part, their hearts were quiet. Not so with men drawn forward by all the things they endlessly wanted. They wanted those things so much and so loudly, they could not hear my spirit songs.
I hoped and prayed fervently that the great monster could hear me.
And maybe he did, because he suddenly sank into the sea, splashing up a wave so tall it nearly overturned our ship. We all fell to the planks and hung on to each other, Batumar to me so I would not be swept overboard, while I clung to some of the children, and their master hung on to the others.
By the time we scrambled to our knees, sopping wet and freezing, the great monster had vanished.
And the other fish went with him.
But that night, we had some rain, enough to fill a handful of water barrels when poured together.
For many days, our fortunes were restored and peace ruled the ship. But the wind would not rise, and soon days of hunger came again. Men were fighting, arguing night and day.
“They will turn against the captain soon,” Batumar said as we lay in our cabin one night, starved again and weak. “If there is a fight and something happens to me, stay close to the merchant.”
This I did not promise. Nothing was going to happen to Batumar. If he was injured in a fight, I would heal him, even if I had to give my very life for his.
And I would never put myself under the power of the merchant. Never.
In any case, mutiny was averted. The next morning, the hardstorms returned. We were once again all too busy, from one day to the next, fighting for survival.
I prayed that the spirits would let us see the end of our journey.
Chapter Nine
(Back into the Storm)
Days passed, nights, sometimes with Batumar, sometimes without. Once again, he helped abovedecks as much as he could. We were all weak from hunger, but at least his shipsickness diminished.
I lost track of time. Most days were as dark as the nights. The roar of the storms was near constant. In the rare pauses, sometimes I could hear the tiger roar or a child scream.
I feared the children were sick, so while Batumar was abovedecks, I tripped and rolled myself to the merchant’s cabin one day, banging on the door until he opened it.
I had heard the children call him Graho up on deck, so I greeted him as such.
He gave a small bow. “My lady.”
“Mistress Onra.” Courtesy demanded that I give him my name.
His head was uncovered at last, and, for the first time, I could see his face, although not much of it. Barely any light came through the porthole, but I saw enough to know that he had a terrible face, all hard lines, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, his chin too sharp, his nose too big.
The front of his shirt was covered in vomit, although what he or the children could heave up, I did not know. All we had was rainwater we had collected, but we were running out of even that, back on water rations.
“Do you need my help?” I asked. “I freely give it.”
“They are frightened,” he said after a tense moment. “They cannot sleep from the hunger and the storm. And when they can sleep—” He looked away. “They sleep poorly.”
I looked at the missing ears and the cut-off fingers, the burn scars. A little boy of seven or so was missing an eye. The children had plenty of material for nightmares. I blamed the merchant for all their afflictions, which, in the interest of him letting me stay with the children, I did not say.
Even in my miserable state, I was so angry at him, I could barely look at him.
I wanted to step by him with my head held high, but as I stepped inside the room, the ship rolled and tossed me to the floor. I did not bother to
I could heal men and animals with my spirit, but I could only reach animals with my spirit songs. Animals were pure in spirit, knew no hate or treachery. They wanted to eat, and they wanted to live. For the most part, their hearts were quiet. Not so with men drawn forward by all the things they endlessly wanted. They wanted those things so much and so loudly, they could not hear my spirit songs.
I hoped and prayed fervently that the great monster could hear me.
And maybe he did, because he suddenly sank into the sea, splashing up a wave so tall it nearly overturned our ship. We all fell to the planks and hung on to each other, Batumar to me so I would not be swept overboard, while I clung to some of the children, and their master hung on to the others.
By the time we scrambled to our knees, sopping wet and freezing, the great monster had vanished.
And the other fish went with him.
But that night, we had some rain, enough to fill a handful of water barrels when poured together.
For many days, our fortunes were restored and peace ruled the ship. But the wind would not rise, and soon days of hunger came again. Men were fighting, arguing night and day.
“They will turn against the captain soon,” Batumar said as we lay in our cabin one night, starved again and weak. “If there is a fight and something happens to me, stay close to the merchant.”
This I did not promise. Nothing was going to happen to Batumar. If he was injured in a fight, I would heal him, even if I had to give my very life for his.
And I would never put myself under the power of the merchant. Never.
In any case, mutiny was averted. The next morning, the hardstorms returned. We were once again all too busy, from one day to the next, fighting for survival.
I prayed that the spirits would let us see the end of our journey.
Chapter Nine
(Back into the Storm)
Days passed, nights, sometimes with Batumar, sometimes without. Once again, he helped abovedecks as much as he could. We were all weak from hunger, but at least his shipsickness diminished.
I lost track of time. Most days were as dark as the nights. The roar of the storms was near constant. In the rare pauses, sometimes I could hear the tiger roar or a child scream.
I feared the children were sick, so while Batumar was abovedecks, I tripped and rolled myself to the merchant’s cabin one day, banging on the door until he opened it.
I had heard the children call him Graho up on deck, so I greeted him as such.
He gave a small bow. “My lady.”
“Mistress Onra.” Courtesy demanded that I give him my name.
His head was uncovered at last, and, for the first time, I could see his face, although not much of it. Barely any light came through the porthole, but I saw enough to know that he had a terrible face, all hard lines, his eyes rimmed with dark circles, his chin too sharp, his nose too big.
The front of his shirt was covered in vomit, although what he or the children could heave up, I did not know. All we had was rainwater we had collected, but we were running out of even that, back on water rations.
“Do you need my help?” I asked. “I freely give it.”
“They are frightened,” he said after a tense moment. “They cannot sleep from the hunger and the storm. And when they can sleep—” He looked away. “They sleep poorly.”
I looked at the missing ears and the cut-off fingers, the burn scars. A little boy of seven or so was missing an eye. The children had plenty of material for nightmares. I blamed the merchant for all their afflictions, which, in the interest of him letting me stay with the children, I did not say.
Even in my miserable state, I was so angry at him, I could barely look at him.
I wanted to step by him with my head held high, but as I stepped inside the room, the ship rolled and tossed me to the floor. I did not bother to
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