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4.
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THE
MEMORIES Kaza took during his flight from Theseus would, over the years
following, erode away, leaving only small pockets of detached experience like
islands in the dark: images or random feelings that would whisk him back instantly,
as though time and experience could be separated from one another, as though
the right concentration of adrenaline in the bloodstream was all that was
necessary to tear the grasping seconds free from the urgent spirit of the
witness.
Chapter Five
This
was just such a moment for him as he watched the docks of Bossool roar into
flames from both ends, as he stood on the summit of the decimated hill and felt
the urgency of his soul demand that he release the hopelessness weighing it
down and to will his freedom into existence,
even against all the evidence that there was no freedom anywhere to will into existence—and that even if
there were, his will was not remotely powerful enough to do so given the
obstacles before him now.
He
cried out and, ignoring his own safety, sprinted down the hill. He didn’t look
to see if the soldiers spotted him. He only remembered focusing on the bright
fire, determined to go through it bodily if he must, his spirit pulling away
from the seconds holding him to the cratered road; he remembered glancing at
the Sisters glowing dimly over the impossibly distant and unseen Ae Infinitus—
—and
accelerating suddenly to great speed, much greater than he could possibly run.
His legs were no longer working; he could no longer feel the rapid shocks of his
footfalls against the ground. He glided forward effortlessly, a sparkling white
vapor blowing out of his eyes …
He
was … was … flying!
It
had happened in less than the blink of an eye. He didn’t recall looking left or
right for wings, or gazing under his person to see a belly covered in downy
feathers or taloned feet: all extraneous details blew away with the vapor. He
was flying … the flames came at him with terrible speed … he zoomed just over
them, feeling their intense heat a scant second before banking hard left,
swooping over the mainmast of the Arilyceum
and down onto her deck. As he landed he was overcome by that sparkling smoke
once more, which flashed brightly in his vision before dissipating. He gazed
down at his feet, which had magically returned to him.
He had just flown!
The
flames licked against the hull of the boat on both sides—he had to cast off
immediately, immediately! He shot
forward and yanked the lines free from the mooring—the fire was right on top of
him; he sat on the stern and pushed off with all his might. His shoes and pant
legs, though still damp from the canal, smoked as he watched with burning and
tearing eyes. He stood, wiping them, backing blindly away. Slowly—too
slowly—the boat passed through the hall of flames and out into the heavy
coolness of the night. He pulled his shirt off from around his face and was
astonished to discover one of its sleeves on fire. He put the flames out by
clapping his hands around them; he tossed the shirt aside and crouched low in
the boat, catching his breath.
There
was an object at his feet. It looked like an oversized cannonball but was
shaped like a small barrel. Stiff strings each as long as his index finger
stuck out of the top, three total. He only took the slightest notice of them or
their parent; already he had stood, busying himself with raising the mainsail
and securing the jib, grateful that the Ari
was moving straight into the onshore breeze—
WHOOMPH!
The
explosion to his left caught him unawares. The force of it almost knocked him
overboard. Flaming debris arced overhead. The boat in the slip just next to the
Ari had exploded. Some of the debris
landed on deck, just next to the odd cannonball-thing. He rose shakily, his
back aching, and looked upward at the jib and mainsail to make sure they
weren’t burning or filled with holes (miraculously they weren’t), then hurried
astern, bucket in hand, to put out the flames.
WHOOMPH! WHOOMPH! BOOOOOOOM!
More
singleships exploded. Kaza, rising once again from the deck, glanced at the
object at his feet. He knew what it was. Feeling great anger well up in him,
and without thinking, he placed the bomb into the bucket, and, grasping the
handle and spinning in place, launched it and its contents hammer throw-style
back towards the wall of flames. He yelled as he released it; it flew in a low
arc into the fire. A second later:
BOOOOOOOOOM!
The
flames on deck still threatened; he had already spied the second bucket at the
foot of the four steps that led into the cabin. He grabbed it, dipped it
overboard, and doused them with no trouble.
As
he hurried about securing the sails and setting course (he veered to starboard
out of the direct breeze) he tried not to think about what waited for him just
ahead. The Gyssian warships were monstrous in size, unbelievable, terrifying.
The bay was filled with them, and with smaller ships; he would have to sail
straight through all of them—somehow—to open ocean.
WHOOOMPH! BOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOM! BOOOM!
Chest-concussing
mushroom clouds of destruction rose like angry bright trees into the night. The
wall of flame engulfing the docks burned madly: not the aged and slow flames
consuming the last of the city, but young ones, voracious and violent, gobbling
up the oil at their feet and exulting with the explosions. Kaza dropped to his
butt to wait them out, hands over his ears. Convinced a minute later that more
weren’t coming, he stood and got back to work, hurrying here and there as the
docks too slowly sank in the distance. Once again the Gyssians’ efficiency at
wholesale destruction came to his aid: there was no way the soldiers
responsible for setting the docks afire could see him. The flames were too
total for that.
From
the sea, however, the Ari’s
triangular silhouette would be starkly obvious.
Kaza’s
Uncle Tozio had taught him how to sail. Tozio had spent most of his life at sea
in service to the Thesean military, as a quartermaster. He and his younger
brother, Kaza’s father, were very close. Kaza’s father had made it plain that
he wanted him to serve in the Thesean navy, and, hopefully, to earn some of the
distinction his uncle had. Toward that end, and despite regularly losing a
valuable pair of hands to help around the farm, Kaza’s father often sent him to
stay with Uncle "Hawk,” who had a home in a beautiful port town in the
southern part of Theseus. Kaza's uncle had a sturdy old singleship, and it was
aboard that craft that Kaza learned to sail. Uncle Hawk was a patient if not a
very firm teacher. Not one to be loose with compliments, he finally told Kaza
after years of these visits that he thought him “a dab, clever hand at finding
and catching the wind.” Kaza had taken the compliment directly to heart. It
filled him with great pride.
Now
it filled him with even deeper gratitude as he steered the Arilyceum closer and closer to the mighty warships. Gratitude—and
sorrow. For Uncle Hawk too was dead. He had to be.
Every
single sailing skill he had taught him was about to be tested under the
harshest possible conditions.
As
he gripped the captain’s wheel with his left hand he fished the Infinitum out with his right, the
blisters covering his torso and arms stinging incoherently. And now the bottoms
of his feet as well, which, he noted, were black and cracked and bleeding in
parts, having trekked through a burning city. “The harshest possible
conditions" were what he had already endured; he had survived them, had
made it to Normalas’ boat even over and against the Healer’s plans for him to
float all the way out to sea. The plans had to be altered. The Infinitum had proved essential for his
success. Without it he would have died before even escaping the flames and
demons that had consumed his family’s farm.
He
had flown from the hilltop to the
boat. He had Transformed! But
Transforming had never been possible for him in the past. It had all happened
so fast, just a few keenly felt seconds. The Infinitum had made it possible. There was no doubt about it.
Disappointment nagged him as fiercely as the blisters: he didn’t have time to
figure out what bird he had Transformed into. He had flown expertly over the
flames and had landed on the Ari just
as adroitly, as though he had done it for years. The thrill of that moment sketched
itself permanently onto his spirit. He knew as he gripped the icy talisman that
it would be a moment that would not repeat again in his lifetime.
But—why?
He
blinked. For the feeling that filled him in immediate reply was easy finality
and acceptance, the very same kind he’d feel after a hard, satisfying day’s
work on the farm.
Days don’t repeat, that finality told him. And neither will this one. Embrace what you are, even if what you are
won’t allow you to be the same way ever again.
It
felt quite odd to him, this moment, bleak as it was: the sudden realization
that the lens-shaped object in his grip was communicating with him, was
directing him, was somehow interacting with his thoughts and feelings and
impulses.
What
was the Infinitum trying to tell him?
He pressed its icy coolness against his blisters and the bottoms of his feet,
sighing and moaning, his eyes closed. He knew he should probably be looking at
the huge, looming destroyers. The attack could come at any moment. But the
coolness of the talisman was so relieving that he couldn't help himself.
To
it he thought: I wish to use your powers
in the way that gives me the best chance to survive the trip to the
Vanerrincourtian navy. Help me now, mystery object. Don’t let Lesa’s sacrifice
be for naught, please. Please! Help me … help me … help me …
His
other hand on the captain’s wheel tightened steadily as he prayed this prayer
over and over again.
He
suddenly became acutely aware of the wood in the grip of his left hand: the way
it felt, its smoothness, its warmth. It was a fine dense wood, expensive and
rare, lacquered against the elements it would face sailing the tame seas
bordering Theseus—but not against the high, uncompromising Senecum Ocean
The
Arilyceum would have to be made
better. Much better. Right now.
He
opened his eyes. He did so surprised: for it had felt like he had lost himself
in conversation with his uncle as he toured the Ari, pointing these weaknesses and deficiencies out to him. He was
standing with Uncle Hawk, listening intently to him as he went here and there,
watching him as he moved about. His uncle’s expertise had always been
intimidating, his economy of movement effortless. Even more than his father,
Kaza had always wanted to be like him. He had always felt clumsy and awkward:
Uncle Tozio seemed to exude wisdom just by pulling up an anchor or tightening a
screw.
The
Ari would have to be better right
now, his uncle had announced, the timbre of his gravelly voice as substantial
as the wood Kaza gripped with white knuckles. Right now. And then Kaza had returned to the night of flames and
bombs and warships and terror.
The
Infinitum was no longer icy against
his palm. He brought it up to inspect it, opening his fingers, and received a
huge shock.
It
was disappearing.
It
gave off very odd sparkles as it faded, sparkles full of tiny alien symbols
that twisted about themselves before drifting off the edge of his hand like
fine powder and disintegrating. Kaza watched, fascinated and horrified … or—wait: was his wish being granted? If so,
why was the Infinitum going away? Was
there a wish limit? Was there an overload point where the Infinitum became overworked and crumbled into nothingness, as it
appeared to be doing now? If so, he was dead! He was dead!
“Crap,” he yelled. “Crap!
Crap! CRAP! Wait! Wait! I take it
back! I …”
But
it was too late. The Infinitum had
vanished. The last of the odd sparkly symbols drifted over his palm and
dissolved into the night air.
He
looked up, his heart in his neck.
The Arilyceum was now dead-on in the midst of the mighty Gyssians warships.Chapter Five
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