This is a tale of plain truth and has yet to be garnished by that of a liar’s tongue.
As clear as bread be made from flour, I have seen the ship that inspired this painting and can admit to standing upon its deck as it sailed from port on its maiden voyage. The Apricot was known for many deeds, and by the end of its time the slowest nail on that ship was still said to be the fastest thing upon the northern waters of Gara.
But first, myself.
A name written down bears little meaning so call me what you will, but I was once a hand on the Apricot, and I can still recall its many tales, the ones that only the wind shall know when I eventually die.
A rope maker’s apprentice I was before the fires of Loun claimed my shop and took my teacher’s life. Two years on the street of Liat would make any child’s feet tough, and as I entered a third winter, already bitten by the yearlong frost, luck saw itself fit to grant a single kindness upon me.
I’d never thought much of the spirit of fortune; Lenith seems to be a wayward goddess born without reason or direction. A spirit too lost within the wind to ever care for an urchin such as me, but I’ll admit that she guided me on that day. For better or for worse she is why I stand here now, and she alone is the reason that I don’t lay beneath the frozen port of Liat.
Winter blew hollow into the cobbled alleys of Liat that morning: It carries a cold that you can scarcely believe until you felt it for yourself, an ice that leeches upward from the ground, an unshakable chill that clutches at your boots while you walk.
I can never recall the names of these places of my childhood, it was as if the cold and weariness stole the words the from me before I could read them, it captured my memories of joy and of kindness, snatching the figments from my shaking hands as if to sell to those who could afford the warmth.
That was Liat as I remember it, voiceless, too much of a city for a land so cruelled by snow.
I think of my family in times when the winds are still, I can often recall them as small ghosts of warmth, but their features have been misplaced. Vague memories, the joy of a smile, a laugh that I can hardly hear, I can almost reach out and touch these people but they’re too far from me now. They must have thought me dead all those years ago. I’d exist as no more than a dull ache hanging over a rebuilt part of town, a place of silence, reflection.
But it bears no wealth to dwell upon another’s life that you once held as your own. We’re here now, and we are safe.
It was fire that stole my name, and it was ash that I arose from.
The blaze had burned with a god’s fury and departed with equal impassion. Those desperate enough to pick through what remained found nothing but embers and anyone who stuck round to enjoy the warmth eventually passed. The fire cared little for the bond of family on that day and held one final cruelty as it scattered my life into the ether. For two years I wandered the streets, and for two years I only wished to be near it again. Above all else I missed the warmth of a flame; I missed the light of its safety. I would sell ten kingdoms for a scrap of kindling in those days, and it pains me to know that there are those still living within that cold.
I spoke before of Lenith and the luck that she has graced me. I should make it clear that I’m by no means religious; A good many men have had far more luck than I, and if she really did want watch over me, it would have been to only laugh at a man who sought for mountains in the middle of an ocean.
I’ve met the sailors that worshiped her, fools that think the wind cares for the sails that it carries. Very seldom in your life will you find luck within a clover patch. But I will admit that as the coin hits the ground, we all pray to her, even without though.
It begun with a coin.
How many urchins would see a stranger drop a coin and call out after them. I should have taken it, snatched it up in my frost-raw fingers and ran to the market. That day I could have slept safely, I wouldn’t have to steal my food, be chased by guards, risk my life for the reward of only cheating that which wanted me to fail. Life was clear in Liat, you did, you ran, or you died.
‘Sir,’ I yelled, speaking for the first time since the fire and holding up a coin that could have granted me so much. It was warm, the dulled surface had seen many hands before, and as I held it outward a single droplet of muddy snow began to trickle onto my cuff. The man stopped, he turned to regard me.
He was tall, I remember being shocked at how far he had walked with only two steps left in the snow. Adorned in fur and as proud as a ships mast, the man looked to be more of a bear than he was human. A great beard of brown and knotted whiskers sprouted from his chin and merrily hung untamed as if it were ready to fight off any brush or comb that approached it.
‘Oh!? Well thanks my young friend,’ he laughed with an accent I had yet to encounter and flashed a smile so wide that I thought his cheeks were rubber. Carefully, he took the coin from my outstretched hand and knelt down to place his own upon my shoulder, ‘Your too kind for a lad that’s nary seen a flake of soap in the span of a calendar. No good deed,’ he trailed off, dropping the coin into his purse, and reaching for something within his coat; a symbol of fabric hung from his shirt that I was yet to place.
‘A gift, for a gift and may we one day meet again so that you may return it to me,’ he smiled, placing an old knife into my hands and wiping the settled snow from the top of my head. ‘Careful with that,’ he continued, standing back to his full height and looking off in the direction of the port, ‘see that it comes to no harm and use it so that it causes no harm to others, I’d like to see it again one day and to hear its story.’
Left with the gifts of a blade and a reborn voice, the man had departed before any chance of reply. The noise of the street returned as did the familiar cold that spoke to me in whisper and reminded me that I was once again alone.
I remembered the fire in that moment. I remembered seeing unfathomable power drawn from something that was clear and simple. Whatever walked with that man held something akin to fire. It was something that I would never see again, and something that I may never deserve, but I didn’t care. It was kindness, I can’t know it by any other name.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 