This tale begins with the sea.
Before the Apricot, before the tapestry of existence was thought of to be woven in its weft and purl, there was the sea.
In their efforts many a brave poet has been driven to shaking madness as they attempt to give picture to this titan. Its whims, its moods, the ever-shifting composite of its natured form; it is a creature that can shift from silence to undeniable terror in a slow deliberate motion. It is a power without words unconquerable and absolute. And although we may sail upon it, the sea shall never be tamed.
Have you ever noticed that there is no god of the sea? Of rain, of luck, we have given form to these limited things, but the sea, the sea refuses to be defined. It is something untold that no god may fathom. No philosopher, no veteran sailor of countless experience, may hope to ever truly understand the vastness of its unknown for it does not need for the grace of gods or the minds of mortal men.
I’ve stared into the eyes of a silent tempest; I’ve stood before the waves of giants that may swallow the world. In waters becalmed and through sails unsown, I’ve lived with the sea for all of my life, and through all these things my only insight into its nature is that it has yet to kill me.
I was left as the captain of a single barrel of rum, adrift within the ocean and at the mercy of a mind too weak to discern the salvation of a landmark.
The rocks of Northern Gara have snared many a bow and my first voyage had begun a pleasant one. I was a boy, headstrong filled with the kind of madness that youth inflicts upon a sailor who yearns for the salt air of the sea within their lungs. Craddic rum. I’m not sure if you’ll have heard of it but we were transporting a heavy load of that wonderful spirit for a distillery placed upon the northern tip of the old empire, and for our efforts we were paid in return with as many barrels as we felt the need to drink. Tis a sweet rum, a nectar of milk and honey more likely cause a friendship that it would fisticuffs; but rum is still rum and if enough of ol’Craddic’s best fills a man’s stomach he will soon find that his chalk bones have become like iron and that the song wafting melodiously from the fiddle player’s snug sounds like a good tune to throw his knuckles about to.
For two days we sailed slowly, as our joy was plenty, and by the second night the ship was sunken.
There was singing as we sank, ten men too foolish to know that their socks were getting wet.
A line drawn blur of night, obliquely vivid and plainly enchanting, each sailor had become blind in their drunken revelry and lay about the ship as if it were a brothel or nirvana. The captain snored while wearing a flour-sack for a crown, the watchman had fallen from his post and was busily trying to seduce a broom. I do not recall the complete events of that night, but I am fairly certain that someone had lit a fire with the ship’s wheel to warm their bones and then we crashed into some rocks.
It is a cold sea in the north of Gara and by a treachery of fate I was to be dumped into the water that may freeze a man’s nethers before he even thinks to dive in.
No tools at my disposal, I managed to survive a ten-day by rationing the rum, a mean feat indeed, and by breaking the neck of any shark that swam too close for my liking.
They’re a curious creature sharks. Much like a dog in many ways, they’re simple, they inspect things best when biting down upon them and you can tell their mood by the manner in which they move their tail. You have to be firm with a shark, look them in the eye, smack their little wet nose, shout at them tersely when they nip: words aren’t really important as it’s more matter tone.
These sharks though were not simply curious; and in hindsight, I don’t believe that they were even hungry. No matter what creature is born and by no changing in its form, every living being has the innate opportunity to grow up as a fowl bastard and I believe that the sharks of Northern Gara have a familial line dedicated to true bastardry. They went out looking for trouble and, unluckily for the sharks, I was still drunk enough to oblige them.
‘If you’re here for trouble, you’ll only swim away with it,’ I shouted as the cold of the night turned my words into fog. Ice clung to every part of my clothing that wasn’t submerged, the shallow slosh of liquid inside the barrel became the only sound that dare speak in that dampened place as I felt the sky press toward the sea, an unblinking eye closing down upon me so that it may watch me die.
A shark built like a knife slipped silently toward me, but was not canny enough to catch me unawares. With a kick I used the buoyancy of the barrel to hurl myself from the water, pivoting upon its momentum and lancing downward to meet the young shark in headbutt. Grabbing the beastie by its tail, I swung it readily through the water–a grand effort indeed–and clattered it against two of its kin putting them both out of the fight and sending some teeth floating towards the ocean floor.
There’s always a bull though.
That arrogant bruiser shark who waits for the smaller creatures to toil in their work and then motions enough weight to mop up whatever may be still kicking. They’re smart, they don’t need to be particularly good at fighting, they just need to know when an opponent is tired.
Snagging me by a distracted leg the shark tore toward the depths of the ocean and carried me in its razor-tooth jaws. Garan boots are a tough old leather, and it was lucky that I had deemed to sleep with them still laced or I may have lost my foot to that bully shark as we wrestled beneath the waves.
He let go and clattered into my side as scarlet pain rippled roughshod over my damaged ribs, such agony would cause many to cry out, but I held my tongue with determination. I threw my hands about the shark’s neck as he turned and held fast with a grip tighter than death. With solemn grit I decided that he would not shake me so long as the rain fell in Lundra. He would carry me into the afterlife with his departing soul and he would forever regret swimming a path that intersected with mine.
The beastie had clearly not encountered such a fight before and we sped through the water as he attempted all in his power to break free. With a crash we barrelled into the mouth of an ice flow, with senseless direction the shark swam headlong into sunken ship, panic clearly visible in its gnashing maw. I was quite rattled, but a good sailor will never relax his grip, and I held fast, coming to my senses enough to kick my feet against the ship and direct the shark back towards the surface.
But what of the rum you may ask?
Well, An Ironmonger would never forget a payment. So as I gained control of the bully shark, I began to steer his trashing struggles and collected a few trinkets along the way.
Fifteen barrels of Craddic rum I had managed to save. And with torn sail I did then lash them to my conquered folly, riding him to noble glory as I were if the lady of fire herself. We travelled to the Port of Nations, and I was greeted there as a champion.
They would have named the distillery in my honour, I was later told, but the Ironmongers are humble and I chose to take a small payment of gold in the stead of further celebration.
Well now!
In mentioning the topic of rum it appears that the will-o-thieves of long dead sailors may have made off with the last of my drink. The hour is late and regrettably I must now rest. You’ll find me again, my friend. And on that night, I shall continue the tale of the Apricot and tell you of the man that you call Benjamin Porter.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 