Stormcallers: Chapter 9
But what of Phalamili Rukiya? What happened to her when she woke again in the hold of the Prezon, curled tightly on the dry straw?
She saw the old face of the ship’s gook; Goduu Dzitugan, She of Gemstone Ear, Minister to the rebellion, teacher of the calling, bringer of quakes, mother, widow, daughter, and friend. At the time, however, Phalamili didn’t even know that her name was Goduu. “Come now, child, you can’t sleep all day, can you?” the old woman asked, because she had once been a mother, and knew how to deal with young girls. She could see the red rings that were the signs of one who had cried themselves to sleep, and her heart went out to this poor girl who was now the Captain’s slave. “Here, wash your face in this bowl of water.”
Phalamili did so, and then ate the tiny piece of cheese, and a square of hard-crust, which is a kind of sailor’s food for long voyages. It does not spoil as meat or fruit does, but neither does it taste. When she had finished grinding the hard meal between her teeth, she spoke to the old cook: “You do not look like an Erosean.”
Goduu laughed at this, for it was true, she did not have the pale skin nor the cleft chin of Erosea. Instead she wore the face of Herathia, for she had been born to parents of the Empire. When she told Phalamili of her home, it worried Phalamili most terribly, for she had no idea how many Islands there were across the cloud sea. She had always known about the Two-chins from Erosea and the people of Lergos, but she had never heard of Norrholt, and the people of Cast or Herathia. She had never heard of Orghasa, or Madrain, or Aylin. She had never even thought to wonder how many kinds of people there were.
Now Goduu spoke again: “What’s a lovely girl like you doing in the dark cargo hold of a ship like this, sleeping on cold straw?”
The fear of the storms and anger at the first mate still echoed in Phalamili’s heart, but she saw only kindness in the cracked face of the cook, so she explained: “I have sold myself to a year of service to the Captain. In return, the Eroseans will use their magic to cure Old Wana of the sickness that my father could not cure.”
Now, Goduu knew something of magic, and indeed knew a great many secrets of a great many people, but she knew nothing of Erosean magics, for they had closed their hearts to such things years ago. She asked: “And why are you so sad, dear child, that you should cry so sorrowfully in your sleep?”
Rukiya’s head hung in shame. “I have lost my traveler’s charm, and I have no more sourbush, and the storms can now claim me for themselves. My only hope is to learn the magic these sailors use to travel the cloud-sea without fear of losing themselves.”
Now Goduu knew something of the storms, and so she was interested to hear the girl speak of charms. Goduu knew the ways of the storms and the ancient secrets of the storm callers. She was one of few, and in her heart burned the furnace of comfort and fellowship. She looked at this girl, and said: “Lost a magic charm, have you? And who taught you magic, my girl?”
“My father taught me many of his chants and charms. He is the shaman of our village, but his magics were not strong enough to save Old Wana, and now they are not enough to save me.”
“You are a brave girl,” Goduu said, resting a soothing hand on Phalamili’s. “To leave your home to save another is a brave thing to do. Tell me, was there no one else who came with you, to brave the Eroseans to cure the sick?”
“There was no one. When I left they were preparing for her death. They did not like her, nor did they trust her. They called her terrible things. They called her an edge-witch, but edge-witches are just stories to frighten children.”
Now Goduu did not know what an edge-witch was, but she knew well the sorts of things people said of women they didn’t like. But she was clever and crafty, and so had avoided having such things said about her, though she had done much to earn such names. “Well, there is no use crying about what cannot be changed. Here, stand up now. The Captain will call for his breakfast soon.”
What could Phalamili do but stand? She brought Captain Festan his breakfast, and this was but the first of many chores she was forced to do.
She learned her duties quickly. Her first teachers were sailors fists when they shouted strange Erosean words she didn’t understand. The Captain was more patient, however, as he was a clever man who knew a well treated slave may not know they are a slave at all. He made sure she was well fed and safe from the cruelest sailors. He taught her the words and ways of Erosea, until she became used to how the Erosean mouth worked, and no longer had trouble understanding them when they spoke oman to her.
She learned the lay of the ship, as well. She learned what a quarter-deck was, a ballast, and the names of all the different sails and wind-catchers: the lord fin, stach fin, high-catcher, mid-catcher, far-sail, near-sail, spin-sail, and the baloke, which was not truly a sail but a means of measuring the wind.
She even learned some Erosean, though he never spoke it, and there was another language these Two-chin sailors spoke; a language Phalamili Rukiya knew quite well. Her uncle had taught her this secret language one day, as Rukiya lamented her poor fortune in the hunt. With a smile on his face, her uncle had taken her out to the rolling hills to look for a bison herd.
He taught her the language like this: “The Rock-Bison have no words, so they must speak through other means; language of the body and the limbs, of breath and sinew. When they stand like that, it means they are ready to run.”
“But it is eating,” Rukiya had said, confused that an animal could be at once calm enough to bury its head in the grass and nervous enough to flee. But her uncle had to only stand from where they hid, and the rock-bison was galloping away, faster than any hunter could catch.
And so, Rukiya learned how to listen to the language of the body. She heard fear when no words were spoken, and love when the tone was angry. With this skill, Phalamili listened to the bodies of the Two-chins, every twist of the head, every stomp of the foot. They were like children, forever showing their hearts on their faces and bodies. They quivered and shook their limbs like dancers, unable to hide their thoughts from their fellows. They shrugged their shoulders, waggled their eyebrows, and smiled and frowned at the slighted provocation.
Each new word or understanding of the ship was both a victory and a shame for Phalamili. The whispers were growing stronger in her heart, telling her that everything she learned was taking her further away from her people. No Orendan knew what a baloke was. No Orendan had a Two-chin name. No Orendan wore as much Two-chin clothing as she did.
Too was Phalamili frightened of the first mate, Leig, who glared at her and rubbed his pendant whenever their gaze met. She did not know what the solmontix meant, but Leig rubbed it with such ferocity that Phalamili knew it had to be some Erosean magic, along with the word he always spat.
Phalamili asked the old cook about this word one day, while she helped clean the large metal pot. “What is a Beldam?” she asked.
Now Goduu knew the answer, because she had been called such many times herself. “Where did a lovely girl like you hear such an awful word? No, don’t tell me. Leig, I warrant. You don’t want to listen to him, child. A Beldam is…well, I imagine its very similar to an edge-witch. Some people believe the storms are like living things, with minds of their own. A Beldam is a powerful and evil beast, a slave or servant of the storms, having sold themselves so to wield their power as a farmer wields a scythe. They say the storms come to the Beldam in times of great need and suffering, and promise great power in return for their heart and soul. They beguile and corrupt with allures of magic beyond reckoning.”
Phalamili felt her heart quicken at the tale. “Is it true? Do Beldams exist?”
“Some believe so, though my people have their own legends. My people, the followers of the Creed of Cephes Dal, we believe in a magic that comes from our ancestors, lending a hand when we ask it of them. Everyone knew a bit of magic in my town. We all knew to lay out a saucer of cream to appease the house-dree, and we drove iron nails into the tops of fence posts come the rain.”
“Are the magics of your people stronger than those of the Eroseans?” Phalamili asked. “Can you teach me a charm or a spell that will protect me from the storms?”
Now Goduu was not as foolish as Phalamili Rukiya’s father. She saw in Phalamili the strength and courage that would one day change the world, though she knew it was untamed and unfocused. She knew that young folk with old secrets were more dangerous than anything else in the world. Goduu knew the true danger of the storms and the greater sins of Erosea, and so she asked: “What do you know of storms, dear girl? What do your people say the storms are?”
This, Phalamili knew as well as any child of the Orenda people. She said: “the storms have no names, and so they do not know themselves. When they see us, people with names and selves, they are jealous. When the storms whisper to you, in the darkest hours of the night, they are trying to drive you away from yourself. They want to hollow you out and wear you like a skin. They fear the sour smell of sourbush, and flee when the smoke fills the head. My father even taught me a few of the secret words which draw the storms away.”
You must know, beloved, that Goduu had earned her storm name; she of Gemstone Ear. She could find the many glittering facets in everything she heard, and she had heard Phalamili Rukiya. In her heart of hearts she knew she could not let the poor girl continue her journey without providing some aid; and so she told Phalamili one of the deep secrets of the storm, which I will now tell to you:
Do you not wonder, beloved, why the storms only whisper in the darkness, or when you are lonely? This is when you are weakest. But when you are more than yourself, when you are a daughter, a friend, a companion, a lover, then you are strong. With each new name you are stronger still. Every bond forged is a shield crafted from the people who know you, who keep you. This is the deep secret that Goduu taught Phalamili.
“But I am no longer surrounded by my people,” Phalamili wailed, “but by the cloud-sea. Both above and below the storms rumble like hungry stomachs.”
“Then you must forge new bonds,” Goduu smiled at her young charge. “You must find new people who will show you who you are. You must find fellowship among strangers and enemies. Open yourself to them, and they will define you and protect you.”
“Is this Two-chin magic?” Phalamili asked. “Is this how they travel the cloud-sea without fear?”
Goduu laughed at this, because this was no Erosean magic, but a magic as old as the islands. She said: “My dear, I know nothing of how the Eroseans sail across the cloud-sea. If you wish to know their ways, I should speak with the Navigator. His name is Atamato, and he knows how the ship travels from one land to another far better than I. I am just a humble cook.”
But she wasn’t, was she?
No, she very much was not.
The first thing Phalamili saw when she entered the Navigator’s room were the bird-cages, ten of them, each one filled with a small qualya. Her heart leapt when she saw them, for they were the first sign of her home she had ever seen. She did not know that these quayla were not from the Archipelago of Lergos, as qualya are one of the few animals to be found on every island of the cloud-sea. The Eroseans called them greets.
Her heart sang at their song, and so it was not until he set aside a piece of paper with a loud rustle that she noticed the boy seated at the table. This was Atamato Cintiona of the Free City of Imbari, navigator of the Prezon. He looked only a few seasons older than her, at most. His bright hair flowed back off the top of his head and brushed the tops of his shoulders. Papers covered the table in front of him, and he brushed a quill pen across them as he muttered to himself.
“Are you the Navigator?” Phalamili asked, and the boy stood up with pride at being recognized.
“I am. You are not from Erosea, where are you from?”
“I am from Lergos. You’re not from Erosea either.” She knew this because his chin was smooth, his hair was long, his skin was tan, and his shirt had puffy sleeves. He didn’t look like a Two-chin at all.
“I am not,” he said. “I am from the Free City of Imbari. Its a small island between Norrholt and Erosea. I’ve never met anyone from Lergos before. what is your name?”
This was a terrible shock for Phalamili, and she asked “why do you want to know?”
Atamato shrugged his shoulders in the manner of the Imbari, like this, and said “how else will I know who you are?”
Phalamili was confused; they were not in a trade-house, nor were they trading. Yet still strangers asked for her name, and gave theirs freely. Perhaps the Eroseans had a powerful magic that gave them control over people whose names they knew. Instead of answering she asked: “What is a Navigator?”
Atamato grinned like a child. “You don’t know? A navigator is someone who navigates. They find the way from here to there.”
Phalamili was delighted to hear this, and said; “then you know Erosean magic. You know how to sail across the cloud-sea without sight of land.”
Now Atamato was a student of the Academy of the Free City Imbari. He knew math and the science of shapes, and how to chart any path across the cloud-sea. He had been taught that magic was a superstition, and so he thought Phalamili was a foolish girl from a primitive island. He laughed at her: “I know how to chart the ship’s course, yes, but it’s not magic. See? Here are my charts and calculations.”
When Phalamili looked at Atamato’s table, she was confused by what she saw. The table was full of metal tools and papers covered in strange scratchings, like gnarled bird-prints in the mud. Other papers had large circles and lines looping all across it. To Phalamili, it looked exactly like magic.
The metal tools were no less strange. Of many shapes and sizes, the one that caught her eye was a globe of brass arms and plates set on a pedestal. No bigger than a stool, she thought at first it was some strange effigy. “What is that?” she asked.
Atamato smirked as he moved Phalamili aside. “It’s my areotlas. Not as accurate as the large ones, but small enough to carry on a ship. It’s already revolutionized shipping. Instead of relying on the calculations made in port, we can use these to change our course at any time. Just with this, a slide-rule, and math.”
“I understand now,” Phalamili said. “You cast magics to guide the ship’s path.”
Atamato laughed again. “It’s not magic, it’s math! Don’t they teach you anything on Lergos? Look, I use the areotlas,” and here he picked up the metal globe of arms and plates, “and set the islands to their proper place, and then I chart the distance and heading for the ship. I measure our speed by marking the baloke, and when the cloud-sea is thin I mark our direction with the sun.”
This was all nonsense to poor Phalamili, who knew nothing of how the islands turned. She looked at Atamato’s areotlas and all of its plates, and asked “how many islands are there?” Atamato laughed at Phalamili. “You don’t even know that? How stupid are the people of Lergos?”
This angered Phalamili greatly. “We’re not stupid! My people never needed magic to know where we were going. We could go from island to island with just our eyes.”
The boy navigator replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s only because you never left Lergos. The Archipelago islands are all small and close together. They don’t even move much in relation to each other. All the big islands move about, and you have to know how to get to where you’re going before you even leave. See?”
And here Atamato began to turn his areotlas. Like a flock of birds in flight, the plates moved about each other in smooth rotation. They rose and fell like waves until he stopped them. “This is what the islands were like when we left Erosea. And this is what they looked like one week later, when we reached the Lergos Archipelago. Now we’re headed to the Empire of Herathia, on Norrholt, and the islands will be here. See? Of course, this is how they move in this season. There are different settings for each of the five seasons, so you have to refit the arms and swap some gears to get them to move accurately.”
Poor Phalamili was confused by the boy’s words. She did not understand this strange device he turned in his hands, but she knew about the seasons, and so she said: “There aren’t five seasons, there are three. Planting, harvest, and the storm season.”
“You think there are only three?” Atamato laughed. “There’s Estas, Havas, Juneri, Saus, and Felocco. Don’t you know anything?”
This made Phalamili angry, to hear this laughing boy call her stupid. She did not want to be stupid, and while the terrible beauty of the Eroseans had frightened her in Clashwind town, here the boy’s laughter filled her with scorn. “This is stupid,” she said, pointing to the papers. “It’s just scratches. It doesn’t make any sense, so how can it guide you anywhere? What use is it?”
“What use is it?” Atamato gaped at her. “Don’t you know what it used to be like? Before, people could only sail to nearby islands that they could see with a spyglass. When the lands were charted, navigators had to stay in port cities and chart ships’ courses from land. It was a mess; half the time, a ship set sail only to never be seen again. Now, with navigators on ships who can track where the ship is, we can find our way if a storm blows us off course. And with these new smaller Areotlas, we can calculate new courses entirely.”
“It’s nothing but nonsense,” Phalamili insisted. “How can random lines on a paper tell you anything?”
The boy stared at Phalamili for a moment before his open mouth turned into a condescending smile. “Can’t you read?”
Phalamili didn’t know what reading was, but she was tired of having a smug boy no older than she laugh at her because he knew something she didn’t. Instead, she shoved the papers away from her, and stomped out of the room.