Epilogue
Swells Over Still Waters, Part 4: Ending
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5th Day in the 3rd of Wōde’s Months, Cold Season, in the Fourth Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 130th Reckoned Year
Sprig stands before three different Looms, watching the black veils that cover their faces. When the speaking begins, the tassels blow gently forward on all three veils. They speak in an exacting rhythm that blends their voices into a single strange one. They speak the question Sprig has waited most of his life to hear. “Why do you steal, Listener?”
And Sprig answers not in the voice of Cheese or Mavis or Bor, but in his own youthful voice. “I steal to give.”
Then that whispering melody of voices, perfectly overlayed, “And what offering do you give?”
“A song of remembrance.”
The three Looms don’t say anything more, and Sprig draws forth a green shell worn smooth by years of practice and preparation for this moment. He holds it to his lips and begins to blow a single soft note. His fingers move to find the right holes without thinking, and the single note grows stronger. Then it becomes a different note, shifting subtly, then his fingers are moving of their own accord. He can still hear the words the Headmaster of the orphanage would sing to this melody. As he plays the song, he remembers all the hurt done to him then, and he forgives. He remembers all the kindness shown to him, and he is thankful. He remembers the friends he made there, and he thinks fondly of Pickett. And he remembers a quiet, distant man who saved his life.
When his song ends, there are tears in his eyes and streaks down his face. He steps forward and places the green flute on the floor, then he backs up with his head down. The words come sometime later, though how long, he has no idea. “This offering is accepted.” And that’s it. He blinks, realizing he is a Finger Weaver now. Someone steps from the shadows and hands him his veil, and he recognizes her. He smiles at her and takes the veil, putting it on and then pulling it down around his neck like a scarf. Mashia-Bess smiles at him, and he smiles back. She gestures toward the rear of the hall and says, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Sprig flashes the same old toothy smile and then he leaves the hall. He makes it outside of the Strand and onto the deck of the Trade Harbor, momentarily being blinded by daylight. He breathes deeply and allows his eyes to adjust.
He walks down the length of the dock enjoying the sights and smells, until he reaches the very end of the dock. The last ship moored there is smaller than the rest, and the masts are shaped like trees. Sprig stares fondly at it, then runs up the gangway hollering for the friends he’s missed over the last year. Before he even takes a step onto the decking, he is caught in a crushing hug. The Big Man holds him out to inspect him, not realizing both Sprig’s feet are off the ground. Sprig squirms in a doomed attempt to get free. “Hey! Put me down, you’re gonna break my money makers!”
Benafield suddenly looks frightened, then sets Sprig down as though he were an expensive Filkish Vase. Sprig wiggles his fingers in an exaggerated attempt to show they still work. “All good.”
The Big Man appears relieved, then suddenly remembers what day it is. He excitedly asks in a rush, “Did you pass? Did they accept the offering?”
Sprig wants to tease Benafield and pretend he was rejected but he just can’t bring himself to do it. “Yeah, they accepted it. I did ya proud, Bennie. Thanks for all the lessons.”
Benafield melts a little at this and he crushes Sprig once more. He has taken to thinking of Sprig as the son he never had. Seeing Sprig finally achieve his goal of becoming a full Finger Weaver brings tears to the Big Man’s eyes. “I’m so— so proud.”
Sprig blushes and manages to wiggle away from Benafield’s overwhelming affection. “Sheesh, stop it mom.” And despite Sprig saying it in a mocking way, it only succeeds in bringing the tears fully down Benafield’s face.
Sprig hastily changes the subject far away from himself. “So, where’s the Captain?”
Then the Big Man’s face takes on more mischievous qualities. “He said he wanted to have a last game of hider finder, cept this time you need to find him.”
Benafield attempts to wink like Chapel does but fails miserably. Sprig thinks it looks more like a diving bell beetle took a dive straight into his left eye. Instead of laughing, Sprig says, “So, what? I got till we’re there?”
“Hah!” The Big Man roars, “No, Saints, no. I do not think the Captain would do well waiting so long. He said you have 4 hours, or until he is bored — his words, not mine.”
Sprig laughs lightly. “I don’t think it’ll take that long.” Then he begins walking over to the captain’s quarters. He takes his time, letting his eyes wander over every familiar inch of the ship he called home for so long. At nearly every place he looks, he can vividly see a fond memory of schemes, pranks, and friends. The Big Man watches Sprig amble about, clearly with one foot in the past.
Sprig looks at a lumpy shape on the deck, directly in front of the door to the captain’s quarters. Suddenly his face lights up and he rushes down to the lump. “Tussle! How are ya girl?” The lumpy shape shifts, then a head and legs begin protruding from it. Tussle has grown her Cold Season fur on the exterior of her shell, making her look like a mossfin turtle. Once she sees him, Sprig could almost swear she smiled. He scratches her leathery neck and pats the side of her head. He’s about to voice a question when he is hit by a small, six-legged cannonball. He is knocked down to the decking and Bungle is on top of him, licking, chuffing, and panting in delight. “Hey, boy. I missed you.” Sprig rubs fondly at Bungle’s loose jowls, seeing the age show in his fur and eyes. Benafield smiles as he watches the onslaught of love from Bungle. Eventually, Sprig pried himself out from under Bungle’s eager paws. He looks at the doors to the captain’s quarters, touching the fine, brown wood gently. Then he pushes the door inward. It creaks and groans slightly. Sprig winces slightly, feeling his stealth has been lost. “That’s new.”
Sprig steps into the cabin, smiling as he sees, not a thing has changed. He gazes around the room, then notices that one thing has changed. He walks past Chapel’s favorite chest, over to the map on the wall. There are a few newly added marks on the map, and a stack of letters bearing the ornate wax seal of Coldor. Sprig reaches a hand out toward the letters, but then he shows his new maturity, and withdraws his hand. After looking around the room for a little longer, Sprig sighs and walks over to Chapel’s favorite chest. He kicks it lightly. “Alright, Cap. Got ya.” Nothing happens. He leans over and knocks out a rap-tap-tap on the lid. Still nothing. He sighs again, then throws open the lid. Inside the chest, Chapel is sleeping in a curled-up position, a familiar helmet on his head. Sprig laughs then raps a knuckle on the skull part of Fellpost HelBenledore’s pointy helmet. Chapel stirs and smacks his lips together, opening his eyes slowly and raising one eyebrow at Sprig. “How’d you find me?”
Now Sprig copies Chapel’s expression, one eyebrow raising to the exact same degree. “You always hide in here.”
Chapel laughs.
When the Captain attempts to get up out of the chest, one of the horns on his helmet catches the inner wall, jerking his head sideways. He groans slightly. “I forgot I was wearing this ridiculous thing.”
“And why are you?”
Chapel pauses, seeming frozen. “Uuhhh. I don’t remember, actually. Not important,” he takes off the helmet, tossing it back into the chest as he stands up, “how long did it take you to find me?”
Sprig thinks for a moment. “Hmm. I’d say somewhere between not very long and no time at all.”
Chapel clicks his tongue. “Well, that explains why I don’t feel very well rested.”
Sprig smiles at his Captain. “So, how long will it take to get to Pickett?”
Chapel smiles, knowing how close Sprig is with Pickett. They’re as close to brothers as you can be without blood relation. “His expedition charter should be just north of the Floating Forest of Grasping Hands, in the Deep Sea.”
“Makes sense. He’s still studying tower whales, though I’m sure he knows everything about them by now. I hope he found a lot of sun whales. That’s what he really wanted.”
“Well, guess we’ll see when we get there. The catch is—”
“—under keel. Yeah, I know.” Sprig says, holding a hand to stop Chapel. Chapel looks at him and does his best to show just how unimpressed he is.
Chapel continues, “Once Pick joins us, we’ll head north and meet Petsune at the usual place.”
Sprig nods approvingly, then shifts the conversation. “Where is everybody? Shush, Cheese, Mavis, Bor? I only saw the Big Man so far.”
Chapel yawns widely and attempts to speak through it. “Eye ownly saw Shash—” the Captain finishes yawning, then restarts, “I only saw Shush before I hunkered down in the chest. Pretty sure they were getting in some practice. I know Cheese was plotting something, I’ve never seen her forehead so wrinkled in concentration.”
“Depths… we’ll all end up owing a boiler shark fin if she wins first roll.”
Chapel laughs mildly, then appears to consider if that might happen. Sprig begins to hear Mavis, Shushilah, and Cheese, all conversing on the main deck. Sprig and the Captain exit the cabin, and Sprig is immediately peppered with a barrage of greetings and questions.
He hugs everyone, telling them that yes, his offering was accepted and no, he hasn’t written any plays yet. Finally, Bor exits the kitchen under the foredeck, a mug of coffee in one hand and wiping his other on his apron. “Sprig. You’ve grown like a gar lily.”
Cheese adds, “We ought to call ya Branch or Tree.” She laughs at her own joke.
Sprig rolls his eyes, then he begins asking what everyone else has been up to this past year. Cheese, Mavis, and Shushilah have all stayed aboard the Lady and continued Chapel’s business of roaming along with him. Benafield runs the orphanage on Balehorn Mass and he tells of how the kids are there. Sprig and Chapel both see that flame of purpose kindle and burn in his eyes as he talks about helping the kids. Bor left the Lady for a season and ended up cooking for King Feyaz. The King made a seasoning suggestion to him, and then Bor was back on the Lady.
After the first day back together, everyone was all caught up and began to lounge around and play Runny. Around mid-afternoon the next day, Benafield spotted yellow sails off the bow. They drew close to the ship, then dropped anchor to wait. Pickett is about a tower deep beneath the hull of his charter ship, the Deepfoot, when he sees something above him at the surface. Through the blue haze of 100 feet of water, he can make out the hull of a ship approaching his own. He smiles behind his diving mask, knowing exactly what ship it is. Pickett has improved the design of the mask Sprig used, adding barrel plant lining and a breathing tube from a shallowback. He can’t go any deeper than he is now, and even here it is exceedingly difficult to breathe, but he would stay down here forever, if he could. He looks back down into the inky black trench below him. It’s as though there is infinite open empty space below him, the purest black he can imagine. There was a pod of sun whales passing through earlier, but now there is only the singular, featureless color.
He hears a thick and hollow clicking sound and a whining squeal he has become familiar with. A sun whale calling to a member of it’s pod, most likely. The sound never gets tiresome. It shakes his innards and makes him feel so small, staring out into eternity. Pick remembers the Lady, then tugs on the sounding line that he brought down with him, then he is being slowly pulled up toward the lighter blue surface. As he looks up, he thinks how similar it is to the cresting of the Saints sun, just before the first light of dawn. Then he is up and a whole world of sound begins to enter his muffled ears. He removes his mask and raises a hand to the captain of this expedition. The captain gives him a friendly wave back, then gestures toward the Lady. Pickett nods and then prepares to leave.
Sprig and Pickett grasp each other in a hug, Sprig beaming with joy and Pickett showing a subdued smile. The next few days everyone is in awe of Pickett’s explanations of what he has learned on this expedition. Chapel is surprised and proud to learn that this expedition wasn’t chartered by Pet or a scholar, but by King Feyaz. Right Hand Wittkinson had delivered the good news of his commission. Pickett has truly become one of the leading voices of sea creature research and knowledge in all of Yath. Pick, of course, seems totally unconcerned about this.
On the third day with Pickett aboard, they spot a sun whale and Pickett is there at the railing explaining all of the new information he has discovered about the species. The first layer of skin on a sun whale is translucent, like a millie or ghost fish, and the white that is visible is the blubber and muscle. The sun whales bathe in the warmth of the suns whenever their muscles begin to stiffen or cramp in the cold sea water. Most interestingly though, they possess no eyes at all, and he has yet to discover how they move about so confidently without sight, but he has noticed the whales making a lot of clacking noises, like two small blocks of wood smacked together. The crew drink in his every word as they pass by the sun whale.
The day after they spot the sun whale, they sight their destination. The Island of Three Nations, now converted to a research outpost called Pickett’s Outpost. Sprig isn’t positive, but he is fairly certain he sees a flush of red in his friends cheeks whenever the name of the outpost is mentioned. It is a fitting name though, for one of the leading scholars of their time. As the Painful Lady docks, Chapel spies a familiar form standing at a watchtower balcony. Petsune sees them dock and despite this being a yearly occurrence, he feels giddy at the sight. When they all meet, it is a tangled mess of laughs and smiles and tears and joy. Petsune learns all of the updates to the lives of his family, and then he fills them in on himself. This is his third year as Cleave of Coldor, and he is beginning to see the fruits of his labor to unite the nations. “We instituted a holiday for each of the nations, celebrating their cultures. It seems to have been effective in educating the people.”
Chapel smiles. “That’s great, Pet. The hostility toward Coldor has definitely gone way down. Giving the Saintstone was a real stroke of genius.”
“A wise mountain gave me the answer,” this time, Pet winks at Chapel, then finishes, “— and by mountain, I mean, Benafield.”
At his mention, the Big Man looks pleasantly surprised, unaware of having inspired Pet.
The group begins to intermingle and move inside the Outpost. As they walk inside, the General limps slightly behind the group. Petsune forgot to hide his fine Filkish wine, because General Tar has been doing so good with it. As everyone walks easily by it, Tarlatan stops, as though his eyes were drawn straight to the decanter of deep purple liquid. The rest of the crew moves on past and the General steps closer to the wine, feeling the dull throb in his leg that he was left with after the injury. He looks from the wine to his family as they walk further into the outpost. He licks his lips, then he sets his jaw, the muscles in his cheek flexing with effort. Then, he walks after the group. Ahead of him, Chapel speaks to Pet. “Really though, Pet. You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.”
Petsune answers with heartfelt appreciation, “Thank you, Chapel. I don’t know if I could have stuck with it if it wasn’t for your constant encouragement. Not to mention, you make the best ambassador a leader could ask for.”
Chapel smiles, “Well, give yourself some credit. You’re the ideal leader for Coldor: a Coldor raised as a Dintish citizen in the churches, and on friendly terms with the Oullman and the King.”
Petsune appears thoughtful as they reach the main room of the Outpost. “That’s true. I hadn’t really thought of it like that.” he says on the stairs to the balcony. There, on the balcony, is a large circular table with a single cup sat upside down at each chair.
Everyone finds their seat and sits down, Chapel speaking once everyone is sat. “Alright everybody. You know the rules, same as last year.” Then, in the giddy excitement of a child, Benafield raises his cup high into the air, die rattling inside. Everyone else does the same, and when all hands are up in the air with their cup, Chapel says “Down!” and all the cups clatter down onto the table. Chapel looks to Benafield. “Why don’t you start us, Big Man?”
He nods, smiling, then makes his wager and his call, everyone else doing the same after. Then Chapel looks around at the faces of his family, the family he chose. Each face is excited for the game and simply glad to be back with each other. The Captain locks eyes with each person: looking to Sprig and his mischievous smile; at Petsune and his wise face; Benafield’s softened features plainly showing excitement; Cheese’s competitive eyebrow cocked and ready; Bor’s imperceptible smirk; Mavis and his forehead creased in concentration; and Shushilah’s easy-going eyes. Finally, he looks to Benafield and nods. The Big Man roars out in his mountainous voice, “Cups!” and complete chaos erupts.
Merry Christmas and thanks so much for reading.
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