“And if the seethe stops?” Tress asked.
“Turn the wheel to straighten out the rudder, so the spores don’t rip it free. But again, you need to be careful. A sudden motion from the helmswoman can send sailors tumbling from the rigging.”
Tress nodded, wondering if maybe it wasn’t the best idea to entrust such an important duty to her. Salay, however, was a little like Captain Crow—in that she was the opposite of the captain in the way that only someone very similar could be.
Salay also had an instinct for what people were feeling, and she’d noted Tress’s dedication to her scrubbing. A woman who did such a simple duty with exactness…well, in Salay’s experience that sort of thing scaled upward. Same way you would be more likely to lend your best flute to someone who treated their own battered one with respect.
Tress held firmly to the wheel, feeling the chaotic churn of the spores beneath travel up the tiller ropes, through the wood, and into her arms. She felt a deeper connection to the sea when standing there, and—if not a power over it—an ability to ride it. There was strength in being the one who steers. It was a freedom she had never before known, and had never before realized she needed. One of the great tragedies of life is knowing how many people in the world are made to soar, paint, sing, or steer—except they never get the chance to find out.
Whenever one does discover a moment of joy, beauty enters the world. Human beings, we can’t create energy; we can only harness it. We can’t create matter; we can only shape it. We can’t even create life; we can only nurture it.
But we can create light. This is one of the ways. The effervescence of purpose discovered.
Then Tress saw the captain stalking across the deck, and the pain in her stomach—including some not directly caused by the kick—returned. “Won’t the captain be mad if she sees me up here?”
“She might,” Salay said. “She couldn’t do anything about it though. Traditions as old as the seas say the helmsperson decides who steers the ship. Not even Crow would dare imply otherwise. If I wanted, I could keep the wheel from her.”
As if to prove her point, Salay showed Tress the ship’s compass and sky chart, both kept in a cabinet next to the helm. She had Tress correct the ship’s course by a few degrees, taking them to the east of a group of large rocks jutting from the ocean ahead.
“It’s the helmswoman’s job,” Salay said, her expression distant, “to protect the ship. Keep a steady hand, steer clear of danger. Out of storms, away from spore explosions. Keep them safe somehow…”
Tress followed Salay’s gaze. She was staring down at Captain Crow.
“She is pushing the crew,” Tress said, cautiously choosing her words, “to go further than they want.”
“We all decided this together,” Salay said. “We’re responsible for our actions.”
“She’s more reckless than the rest of you,” Tress said. “She…” Tress almost explained what she’d discovered about the captain and Laggart, but thought better of it. Making such an accusation didn’t seem prudent. She barely knew Salay or anyone else on this crew.
“Crow is a harsh one,” Salay said. “That’s true. That might be what this crew needs though. Now that we’re deadrunners.”
Those were Salay’s words, at least. The way she glared at the captain wasn’t so respectful.
“I don’t understand why you’ve all done this,” Tress said softly. “Becoming…what you have.”
“It’s a fair question,” Salay replied. “I guess we all have our own reasons. For me, it was either this or give up sailing. Maybe I should have done that. It’s just…there’s something about standing on a ship, holding the wheel. Something special. Moons, I sound like a lunatic talking like that. I—”
“No,” Tress said. “I understand.”
Salay regarded her, then nodded. “Anyway, I have someone to find out here on these seas. Sooner or later I’ll sail into a port and discover my father is there. I can pay his debts and bring him home. Surely it’s the next port…” She lifted her compass, then stared off toward the horizon.
Tress felt a sudden stab of shame, though she couldn’t place the reason. Yes, she understood something in Salay’s voice—that longing for someone in trouble. That determination to do something about it since no one else would. But there was no reason to feel ashamed of—
The wheel lurched in her hands, and the entire ship began to shake. Tress gripped tight, then—terrified she’d drop the sailors from the rigging—eased the wheel to the right, straightening the rudder. The Crow’s Song stopped quivering, and—as Tress fought the wheel—slowly glided to a halt. The seethe had stilled.
Sweating, gasping, Tress looked to Salay. The helmswoman, ever stoic, merely nodded. “That could have been worse,” she said. Then, noticing how the sudden halt had panicked Tress, she added, “Maybe go take a rest.”
THE PIRATE
Laggart called for the afternoon watch to go for dinner while they waited out the stilling. Not wanting to draw the captain’s ire any further, Tress returned to her work, scrubbing while everyone else relaxed.
As always, she spent the time thinking. I would call the gift of thoughtfulness a double-edged sword, but I’ve always found that metaphor lacking. The vast majority of swords have two edges, and I’ve not found them to be any more likely to cut their owner than the single-edged variety. It is the sharpness of the wielder, and not the sharpness of the sword, that foreshadows mishap.
Tress’s mind was sharp as a sword, which in this moment was unfortunate. Because while she’d identified a path to freedom, she couldn’t help listening in as Ann leaned against the mast nearby and spoke to Laggart.
“The one who loaded spores for your cannon?” Ann said, thumbing over her shoulder at Tress. “It wasn’t the Dougs. It was her. Thought you should know.”
Please don’t stick up for me, Tress thought, feeling another stab of guilt. Please don’t remind me how nice you are.
Night fell and the seethe began again, sending the ship back on course toward its port. Tress tried to scrub away her frustration, but guilt does not clean as easily as spore scum. And soon I came ambling up to her.
“Your coat is nice,” I whispered to her, “but it would look better if you painted half of it orange.”
“Orange?” Tress said. “That…sounds like it would clash.”
“Clashing is good fashion, trust me. Oh, Fort says to go see him for food.” I winked. “I need to go nibble on my toes for a bit. They taste like fate.”
Tress tried to ignore the offer, but soon Huck came bouncing up to her. “Hey. You hungry? I’m hungry. We gonna go try to get some food or what?”
With a sigh, Tress let him climb onto her shoulder, then trudged down to the quartermaster’s office. There, by the light of a small lantern, Fort handed her another plate of food. It didn’t taste quite so offensive as last time—but perhaps that was because so many of her taste buds had committed ritual suicide following the apocalyptic breakfast.