‘Th’ isle ye see up North is Past, shape’s a turtle. Still an’ movin’. Her sister isles are Present an’ Future.’ Said Chaya Nuss, marking each isle which could be discerned in the clear morrow with her finger as she named them. ‘Present’s a lively cheetah, once she hastens she never looks back. Future is a stream drownin’ i’ th’ brine. Tis life’s end all right. Present’s capital cities are Now an’ Then an’ Before an’ After.
‘Folk dwell in Now, an’ often fare in Then. Before an’ After are th’ brines. Boats an’ ships an’ wealthy folk moor o’ th’ big one o’er there: Xalacalla. Tis good for coin. They are worldes apart. Ye can’t sail to them unless th’ brine bids it, an’ whimsy as he is, he rarely does. Tis folly otherwise, but good for th’ fish.’
They have comparted, narrated, instructed, and educated each other about their respective reams and cultures and wonders in their even exchange. Chaya Nuss had instructed Lancelot about the wonders from Pang Tay, the Jade Jewel of The East and Route of Silks, to Padwa Mahar, Queen of spicery and drightins and felines, and Ihmar Nahar Duu of The Arid Clime and Golden-sand Deserts, in steedfast stour with Khemesh, profound in wisdom and yet younger than Padwa Mahar: Queen and teacheress of those otherkin climes.
To which Lancelot had responded to the piratess with equal accord—with Bruttania, Queen of the seas and ruler of the Iron Fleet, Lys; homeland of wisdom, ideas, and philosophers, Ibarr, the princess without clime, whose capital, Carthage, marshalled hirelings and horselords in swift Oriental mounts, inherited from Astrakhan of The Scorching Sun.
‘Have ye e’er been to them?’ she had questioned him, reclining on the vessels wooden rail to behold the horizon, her attention kept by Elsewhen’s four Moons and five and a half Suns—ascending and descending as they pleased.
The four Moons corresponded not to four individual names, but bore only two: Cluros and Thuria—two owls of unmeet proportions perched near the Edge of The World, and, when in flight, they yielded rathe unweather and purpurean lait and lusty winds with their pinions.
The five and a half Suns were borne by the isegrims—Long Tooth, Brown Eyes, and Yellow Tale—sundry and vivid in hues, yet cadent of cast, proportions, and tangibility, combined with one another in a smeared canvas of colours, but their orbs were not devoid of their natural purposes.
The brine where the vessel sailed presented with it multiple natural qualities—it was neither water, nor grass, nor wheat, or other elements—possessing instead an unusual composition, and, inside it, its proper abundance and ordenance of creatures.
‘No, my lady. I have only read about them.’
‘Then why bother, gentle sir, readin’ an’ writin’ an’ listentin’ to preaches of old men an’ dubious bards? World’s outside, not inside a book. Every country I’ve named I’ve been too. I’ve tried their clothes an’ heard their peoples an’ seen their songs an’ wonders. E’en sacked them and raided them for good measure. Tis true, I’ve ne’er understood them. Ne’er understood their habits and traditions. Just scratched the surface.
‘E’en if I were to live for a thousand years and read them all books my understandin’ would be shallow. If the fish drowns i’ th’ stream th’ current will keep on movin’. But I don’t want to read what others consider worth preservin’. Tis nothin’ there. Tis their peoples I want to understand not what others think about them. Tis adventure I want. Life’s too short a dream to keep on sleepin’, let’s keep dreamin’ while we can.’
‘What about your lady mother, my lady?’
‘My lady mother? She is always watching. Father called her The Shrewd Mermaid o’ The Shore. Visits her often too. Spends time with her an’ all, high is his cups’
Engaging in conversation with Chaya Nuss proved requited and fremeful for both parties. Both parties found common interests in their divergences, lives, and values, and, in them, an affinity and correspondence beyond what their disparate characters and natures could hint to offer. They were both aware that any applicable change or intrusion designed to instigate or alter the other’s inner life, character, and disposition, would bear no favourable conclusion; the same differences which caused equal admiration, attachment, and investment, were also the cause of equal conflict, dissentment, and their folly.
The crew of The Whisper That Travels North But Never Back South, meanwhile, were heavy on their labours as these exchanges were passed. It was composed of the most unusual and colourful characters, bearing names in accordance or dissonance with them, such as: Tidle Tied, Gaylor, Long White Beard, Sickle Shackle, Trimming Tickle and Adder Tongue—often confused by the serpent when it meant addition.
Tidle Tied was a marvellous fellow who possessed the humblest, and yet, most rewarding assignment within the vessel: sweeping his floors. He was a flower in a pot, not meant literally—for he was very fierce—and neither completely. He was, indeed, inside a vase, a vivid vase, which was his home and the reason why his arms were tied—so he swept the floor with his long ears instead, and of this he was very proud.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Gaylor was the Master of Coin, and this is already a disgression. Captain Butterbeer Beerback loved his treasure, ‘But you can’t eat it!’ he would say. And this was certainly true, for he was not as passionate about it as he was about honey. This was Gaylor’s keep, a bear of a man—or a man of a bear, for he was so hairy and unkept it was hard to discern—and, whom, captain Butterbeer Beerback dressed as a wasp; to protect the honey and conceal the bear.
Sickle Shackle and Trimming Tickle were in command of the confined within the vessel and prepared them for their moving day. Sickle Shackle was a sundry hood where the whole world was kept, and Trimming Tickle a barking dog. And this, for now, should suffice.
Varaya Venima was also on deck, amusing herself with her darling possession, a faceless niveous coin hanging from her necklace, as she infrequently possessed leisure for herself.
But, engaging in such fares and prolonged conversations, were not, as Lancelot would promptly discover, devoid of their proper price in a vessel where constant participation, preparation, preservation, and labour were to be expected and idleness rejected. Lancelot had, naturally, rejected such notions or any engagement in these labours, or, any association with those who carried them—antinomical as this statement was and his relationship with the piratess, Chaya Nuss, yet another source of internal withsaying.
To this captain Butterbeer Beerback had offered alternative paths of labour and conciliation to the knight, not commanded or below him, but under Tomato Cherry, in command of the kitchens, and, a man who withheld equal ideals of honour and integrity as Lancelot. Lancelot accepted the proposal.
Lancelot’s relationship and acquaintanceship with Varaya Venima, however, presented no healthy signs of improvement. At first conceived by the knight caused by his previous position as a captive imprisoned within the vessel, and a veneer which concealed the maiden’s true nature and disposition. But, once his position had altered, Varaya Venima’s disposition and character had not.
Nor were these the suppressed sentiments of concealed maidenly affection, lovely as Varaya Venima was, she had never exposed such conduct, nor, in her inherent state of calmness, alluded or hinted at it. Evenly shared were his sentiments towards her, aside from her natural allectation, which induced toward her person a pleasant personal predisposition—and, those who may endeavour their escape from her solicitation, by means of force, resistance, and perseverance, were hopelessly drowned farther to her depths in an ecstatic unnatural condition of obedience, dependence, and consenting servitude.
In an attempt to concile his relationship with the maiden, for the sake of companionship and mutual understanding, he had greeted her as a knight his lady would, taking her gentle delicate hand in his to bestow it with a tender kiss, which he suspected would presently be removed ere contact or the bold deed was attempted and its unlikely conclusion achieved—to his astonishment, she did not.
Lovely was she then to behold, and lovelier still with her smile. No wrath, no loathing, no abhorment, but genuine acknowledgment and reception and happiness her orbs and countenance presented—but, as a pebble thrown in the midst's of a vast calm ocean, as rapidly lost.
This was followed by an unusual happening, Long White Beard, a man whose wisdom was as long as his beard—if by length it can be measured, for he was, indeed, a most curious fellow. Long was his white beard, which, at the touch, as the mists dissipated and as quickly regained shape. His eyes were green and black, or black and white, some would tell you that, in his old age, he had gone blind!
With wisdom in his lips and wine around his hips, he told Lancelot.
‘He, he, he, drink this lad! We want ye in the morrow awake.’
And from his beard he had produced a remarkable damask vial for him to consume. Rashly, without any internal reflection, consideration, or hesitation, about the vial of its contents, he had drained it—speculating about Long White Beard’s allusion thereafter. Mithridate. Thenceforth his relationship with Varaya Venima resumed unaltered, if not strained.
No farther engagement did he kept with the maid, aside from the extremely necessary rules of civilised conduct, courtesy, and address expected, considering this the most beneficial approach for both parties provided their mutual circumstances. Her distaste was too clear, and he wished not to stir the fire. If mutual avoidance of correspondence, aside from the extremely necessary, would becalm it and bring no further flames, then so he would do, unfound as he was of this argh approach.
But he possessed other pressing responsibilities to attend to which he could neglect no longer, nor linger in fruitless pursuits of peace now that his liberties had been partially restored: finding the Lady of Yi Tai’s whereabouts, wherever those may be.
This much Lancelot had confided to Chaya Nuss in the veils of outmost secrecy, companionship, and attachment the welkin-opened deck provided, clouded by the sea-thieves laughter and the uncessant labours carried thereof.
To which the she-panther had responded thus, as Cluros, with the immensity of his far-reaching pinions had tidely obscured Phoebus light, condying with him an unbeween blore, which had dishevelled the piratess’ tresses, and, in the novel shade lumined her orbs with ferly keen—as a pantheress bound to smite, as their orbs, in conversation, were kept.
‘There is a place,’ said Chaya Nuss. ‘A den of warlocks an’ wizards an’ sorcerers an’ other creatures. Law calls it Chaos. I call it home. Tis not a fair place for knights lookin’ for damsels in distress, aye. Or to withhold Order. The only Law’s one’s own. The only strength’s one’s own. The only Order and Justice there are conveyed and carried by one’s own.’
‘What is its name, my lady. I care not for my heal, only about mine quest.’
‘Tortuga,’ responded Chaya Nuss. The moment passed.