The Gracekeepers (16 page)

“We can't do this,” said North. “I can't.”

Ainsel felt his temper stretching, stretching, until it threatened to snap. “I don't care what you can and can't do, North. Avalon's baby will be born soon. We need to be in the house before that.”

“But, that doesn't—what does her baby have to do with it?”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Ainsel leaned back against the wall so that he wouldn't collapse.

“The baby. Avalon's baby.” North looked as if she'd swallowed
a fishbone. “It's true then, what everyone was saying—it's not his?”

Ainsel attempted a smile. “Don't be an idiot, North. Of course it's Jarrow's baby.”

North was still frowning. From the tack box came a heavy silence. Avalon had heard it all. It was too late to swallow the words back down—he'd have to embrace them.

“The others are all talking about it. They say the baby will be half-horse,” said North.

Ainsel threw back his head and crowed. North was an idiot! She knew nothing at all! Oh, such sweet relief.

“A half-horse baby?” he said. “Wouldn't that be a sight? That's about as likely as your baby being half-bear.”

North's eyes widened. “What do you—what baby?”

“Come on, North. We're past the time for silliness and lies.”

“How could you know? Did Avalon tell you?”

“No. I saw for myself.”

She paced from one side of the coracle to the other, touching things, unable to settle. Her voice shook. “Does everyone else know?”

Ainsel shrugged. “I don't think so.”

“Does Red Gold—I mean, Jarrow. Does he know?”

“No!” Ainsel snorted. “He doesn't know anything at all. He'd think it was mine anyway. But we both know it's nothing to do with me. So whose is it? Bero's? Whitby's? Unless—wait, is it my father's? You always were his little favorite.”

North stopped pacing and glared at him. “Don't be disgusting. It's not your damned father's. And it's not Bero's or Whitby's either. I've never—not with them, not with any of them. It's nothing to do with this circus.”

“Fine, have your little secret. So you bunked up with some grubby dampling. Very impressive. It doesn't even matter, North. We'll say it's mine. We'll be married; no one will care about the dates.”

“But that's—I don't understand. I thought we agreed. And then Jarrow told us about the house. Is that what changed your mind? I know you want that underwater city, Ainsel. I know you want roots. But marrying me, and being a landlocker—it will never work.”

It took everything in Ainsel not to let his eyes stray to the tack box. So that North couldn't see his face, he stood and resumed grooming Lady's mane.

“It's not like that,” he said. “I started to feel differently about you. I know we said we didn't want this marriage, but I've thought about it and I—I do want it.”

“You're lying.”

“I love you.”

North seemed to waver. “I know you say you don't care. But you will care when the baby comes, Ainsel. How could you not care? How can you marry me when you know—” She gestured at herself.

He focused on the grooming, turning his back to North. She had to leave. She had to leave now.

“I will marry you because I love you, North. I want us to have a life together. Because I love you.”

“You don't love me, Ainsel. I know you don't.”

He closed his eyes, remembering to breathe, picturing Avalon, seeing them as husband and wife, taking strength from his future. He threw down his grooming brush and turned to North. He grasped her hands tight and looked into her eyes.
Her hands were cold, and they shook. But he was strong and he would not blink.

“I do, North.”

She pulled away and stood with her hands clasped over her belly, as if it was a treasure Ainsel had threatened to steal. “You don't! I know you don't, you just—”

“I love you.”

“But you—”

“I. Love. You.”

Ainsel kept his jaw tight and his gaze unblinking. It did not take long for North to look away. While she wasn't looking, he allowed himself a triumphant smile. He had won this one, as he would win them all.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He stood his ground, ready to profess love until his tongue bled. Finally North turned and scrambled out of the coracle.

He waited for twenty heartbeats before opening the tack box. Avalon climbed out, her face red as blood, and walked straight past him.

“Wait!” he whispered, as loud as he dared. “Avalon, my love, please!” But she swayed up the ladder and disappeared back to the
Excalibur
, leaving his words to drift into the night.

 

D
ays and nights passed on Flitch's boat, and every dream Callanish had was of the bear-girl. Every night when she closed her eyes, she saw the same memory: the warmth of the coracle, the comfort of the bear-girl's hand, the bear's heart beating strong and steady against their palms. Only two people had ever seen Callanish's bare hands: her mother, and North. Her mother's reaction was to sew a pair of silk gloves and instruct her to wear them at all times, forever. North's reaction was to grip her hand tighter.

When Callanish woke each morning, she felt sad. Not for having dreamed, but for the dream ending.

“Little fish,” Flitch would coo to her every morning as he consulted his compass and his sextant. “Did you dream of me?”

“No,” she would reply, because it was true, and also because she tried to use as few syllables as possible when speaking to him.

And so Callanish kept her mind busy with thoughts of the bear-girl, and the bear, and the sea-made baby. She pulled bones from tiny fish and thought about the way that North had looked ready to punch her when she'd mentioned the baby. She checked over Flitch's star charts and thought of the way they'd leaned their heads on the wall of her house, sharing secrets in the silvery night. She watched Flitch barter for food with other damplings and thought of North's neat pirouette as she leapt between the coracles. She stitched up a tear in the cutter's sail and thought of the way North had caught her when she fell.

She still didn't know what it meant that soon a child would be born that was…what? Callanish's own kind? A distant sister? Webbed and scorned and hidden forever? For her whole life, her mother had refused to discuss Callanish's hands and feet.
Put on your gloves and your slippers, Callanish, and don't ever take them off. Don't ever let them see
.

She'd thought it was the revenge of the gods, proof that she did not belong, that she was half-monster. But North loved her baby. She would not have desired a monster, and she would not now love a monster's child. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with Callanish at all.

These thoughts were a good distraction; she'd spent two weeks with Flitch and had not felt the urge to drown him. Mornings were the time when she liked him least. His clothing sat in rumples and peaks, the way a grace ruffled its feathers when it was displeased. His breath was sour and his belly was empty—and so was Callanish's, so perhaps neither of them liked each other in the morning. The days swept by faster than the clouds. Callanish and Flitch sailed, ate, did repairs, bartered with the other boats. The sun dipped into the sea, throwing blood and honey across
the sky. Flitch busied himself with settling the cutter for the night while Callanish prepared their dinner. It was not easy to gut the tiny fish while wearing gloves, and Callanish had to wash them a dozen times a day. Flitch had never asked her about them, though she'd often caught him eyeing the fishgut-speckled silk, and for that she was grateful.

In the evenings, Callanish suspected, Flitch liked having her as a travel companion, though he'd never admit it. Together they ate poached fish and fried seaweed, and Callanish loved it so much that she resolved never to eat anything else.

“Aren't you supposed to eat landlocker food?” Flitch had asked her on their third night at sea.

“Do you have any?” she'd asked through a mouthful of sardine; in answer, Flitch only shrugged. “I thought not. You're not supposed to share quarters with a landlocker, but I don't see much of an option there either. Who's to know what we do or say or eat out here? And anyway, I like dampling food.”

Evenings were the time when she disliked him least. Their bellies were less empty, their eyes were heavy, and they could look off the boat's stern and see all the ocean they had covered that day. For Callanish too, the evenings meant that she could look forward to her dream.

One evening, their bellies fish-full and their feet warmed by the seal-fat lamp, Flitch seemed to take more care than usual in dropping his lobster creels into the water. Callanish did not comment; she'd noticed that his store-chest was almost empty, and it was tricky to barter with other ships when you had nothing.

“I think we'll get some good lobster tonight,” she said, though she didn't think that at all. She knew that she would have to pay dearly for this passage, and finding fault with Flitch would increase her payment. In response, he only grunted.

She busied herself with scraping the last of the flesh from the bones of their dinner, dropping it into the soup pot for tomorrow. If the creels were empty, then she and Flitch could work carvings out of the bones. She didn't think there would be much call for such trivialities among damplings, but what did she know about their desires? Perhaps they wanted nothing more than tiny animals made out of the skeletons of other animals.

Flitch dropped the last of the creels, then leaned his head on the stern and rubbed his palms over his scratchy-looking scalp.

“Little fish,” he said. “Do you see a problem here?”

Callanish turned a full circle, observing. The lamp enclosed them in a pool of golden light between the black of the sea and the star-spattered sky. A breeze stroked her cheeks and waves swayed the boat. She'd scrubbed her gloves back to white. Half a dozen ropes were slung over the sides, holding the creels safe in the depths. All around them she could see the distant glows of other boats. She thought of her dream: the bear-girl, the growing child, the steady beat of a heart under her naked hand.

“We don't have any problems. Not yet.” She moved her feet closer to the warmth of the lamp.

“My hair,” he said. “It's too long.” He retrieved something from the cabin; Callanish heard a clatter. “Messengers need shaved heads, so that people know what they are. It's our sign, so that we don't have to wear bells when we go ashore, like the other damplings.”

She shifted her position, propping a blanket behind the small of her back. “Enjoy your shave,” she said. “There's water in the filter. I'll watch that the lamp doesn't go out.”

“No.” He held a razor, a bone bowl, and a strip of fabric out to her. “I want you to do it.”

She leaned closer to him in the lamp's yolky glow. “You'd trust me with a blade near your throat?”

“You can't sail this boat without me,” he replied. “And you'd be lonely.”

“I don't get lonely.”

She took the razor and the fabric. He went to fill the bowl from the filter.

There was a bench nailed across the cutter's stern; this was a seat when Flitch sat when there was no wind, and a worktop when Callanish gutted fish and rinsed seaweed for dinner, and a step when they needed to reach up and adjust a sail. Callanish took it as a seat now. Flitch knelt on the deck before her, his elbows on her knees.

“Open up, little fish,” he said, bowing his head toward her lap. Callanish held the razor up as a warning, but let him spread her knees and crawl closer toward her. He rested his chin on his hands, his forearms pressed to her thighs, his head bowed.

She scooped a palmful of oil and spread it across his scalp from temples to nape, then rinsed her glove in the water. The curve of his head was vulnerable, tender. She wielded her razor.

As she moved the blade she thought of the barbs of a feather, and made her movements match that shape. After every five short, light strokes she wiped the razor on a scrap of cloth, leaving a half-moon of amber oil studded with hairs. The tracks left by her razor were as smooth as a fish's belly.

“What are you thinking about, little fish?” asked Flitch.

“North.” Callanish blinked away thoughts of bears and of home. She tried to concentrate only on the blade, the oil, the pale arcs of Flitch's newly revealed skin. “The far north. I've never been. Have you?”

“I can go anywhere I like.”

“But have you? All the way?”

“No one can go all the way to the far north. Your sails would freeze and shatter. Your filter would clog and your eyes would ice over so you couldn't blink.”

“So you can't go anywhere you like.”

“I
can
.” He pulled away, ready for a fight, and Callanish tugged his head back to its place. He settled. “I can go anywhere I like,” he said, and his voice sulked. “But I don't want to go to the far north. So I don't.”

“That's a shame,” she said lightly. “I'd like to hear about it.”

“Why didn't you just say that? Little fish, you never ask what you really want to know. I haven't been, but I've heard stories. Messengers have the best stories.”

The razor feathered, scraped, feathered in her grasp. “So tell me,” she said.

“In the north there are chunks of ice as high as towers, higher than the mast of the biggest ship you've ever seen. And the sound—it cracks and groans like it's got a beast inside, something angry and roaring to get out.”

“Like a bear?” asked Callanish, with a smile.

“I haven't heard a bear. But listen: whole ships can get encased inside the ice, squeezed flat between two bergs, and then years later they reappear. The crew are all ghosts, and when they're set free they can come on your boat and haunt you forever. You go mad with the light and the sound and the frozen fingers of the ghosts tapping at your eyes.”

Callanish remembered her childhood winters: the men beating the ice near the shore to break it up so that the dampling boats could come and go; jars of paint and buckets of milk freezing to splintered stars; a sealskin hat pressed soft over her ears.

“Flat ghosts,” she said.

“What?”

“You said the boats get flattened in the ice. So the ghosts must be flat too.”

“Little fish, would you be quiet for a moment and let me tell the story? You're always like this. Always picking holes in things. If you're not careful, it'll all come unraveled.”

Flitch's head was shaved from the nape to the ears. She tilted his chin up so that she could do the rest.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Tell me what else you've seen.”

“I've seen everything you can imagine, and some things you can't. I've seen a sunken city with a horse's head bigger than your house. I've seen an underwater bell that chimes during storms.”

Callanish knew that these things were not real, and at that moment she pitied Flitch. It would be cruel to contradict him. And she was nearly finished with her task, so she might as well let him go on. She slid the razor across his scalp for five strokes and wiped it on the cloth. The rhythm soothed her.

She saw her mother in the future, old and starving, left to rot inside the crumbling walls of her house. She saw her mother now, fingers numb from cold, stroking the grace-feather and not understanding its meaning. She saw her mother then, approaching her with the knife, blade glinting white in the northern sun, trying to set her free.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

“I'm listening,” said Callanish, and it was not a lie because she would listen to the next part. She scraped the blade for the last time, still half dreaming, then wiped Flitch's scalp with the clean side of the cloth.

“I said I can fix it.”

“Fix what?” she asked.

“You.”

Flitch straightened his back and leaned in to Callanish, on his knees, on the deck. He took the razor out of her hand, placing it on the bench. He raised his hands as if to cup her face, as if to caress her cheek, as if to hold her steady for a kiss. Instead he slid his fingers behind her ears. He stroked her scars; the fat ragged lines like gills.

“Little fish,” he said, and she could not breathe.

I
n the morning, Flitch pulled up the lobster creels. Dawn spread slabs of yellow-pink clouds across the sky. Callanish shivered as she drained water from the filter, put it on the lamp to boil, spooned coffee into bone cups. She watched Flitch from under her eyebrows. Each creel contained an enormous gray lobster, but when he went to take them out, they crumbled in his grasp.

“Squid,” he murmured, more to himself than to Callanish. “They get in the cages. They suck out the flesh and leave the shell behind.”

He opened the creels and tipped the corpses into the sea.

T
hat night, Flitch and Callanish sat facing each other across the glowing lamp. It had not been a good day. Soon after midday a mist had drifted down around them, swallowing the wind and wrapping the boat in a damp blanket. Callanish reached for the lamp, ready to light it, but Flitch snatched it from her hands.

“It's a waste,” he said, “and it won't make a difference anyway. The mist is too thick. The light will just reflect it back at us. We'll have to wait it out.”

And so they had spent the day inching forward through the murky sea, sails barely fluttering, Flitch with his hands white on the wheel, Callanish with her shoulders aching as she hunched over the compass. It was almost a relief when the day gave up and brought on the night. There was no sunset, just the gray mist deepening to blue.

Finally Callanish was allowed to light the lamp, to put away the compass and take out a handful of dried fish and salt-jeweled seaweed, to say goodbye to the day when she had barely had a chance to greet it.

They ate their dinner in the cloudy embrace of the mist, unable to see past the boat's edge in any direction. Afterward, Flitch bent into the cabin and popped up again holding a bottle. He poured a finger-width into two cups and handed one to Callanish. She held it over the side of the boat, ready to tip it out.

“This stuff isn't safe,” she said.

“What are you scared of, little fish? What could possibly scare you in the big bad ocean? You've got gills. You can swim away from danger.”

“I've seen what happens when people drink too much of this. They lose control. Remember Odell? He could barely keep his graces alive, never mind himself.”