Stormcallers: Chapter 10
It was not the last time she saw Atamato, nor the last time she spoke with him. For you see, when there was nothing to clean, deliver, or watch, Phalamili Rukiya stood atop the quarterdeck and breathed in the cloud-sea air. The winds of the cloud-sea were always strong, pushing hard against her chest before flitting away past her hair and through her clothes. In the depths, deep cracks and soft hissing marked the storms churning beneath the ship. The smell of the air was at times cold and dusty, other times warm and salty. Ashen mists flowed over the sides before fading again, and the creaking of the giant balloon up above provided a steady rhythm to life at cloud-sea. A heartbeat that kept them all aloft. It was terrifying, but also beautiful.
And yet it seemed that whenever she was on deck, the boy Atamato would return time and again to measure the wind and mark the sun with his strange wooden and iron tools. He did this as a Navigator, but also as a student of the Academy.
You see, his mentor had charged him with a great purpose: to travel across the cloud-sea and take measurements of the winds, to chart what he believed were stable currents in the air itself. This was in direct opposition to what many believed, and so was called the Ramshackle Heresy by those who had heard of it. Atamato’s fellow students and mentor kept their work secret, therefore, and hid themselves among the Navigators of the cloud-sea.
When Phalamili and Atamato met, they argued; She demanded Atamato show her his magics, while Atamato called Phalamili foolish and stupid. When Phalamili complained to Goduu, she merely laughed and said “so you have forged a bond already? Well done, child.”
When she heard this, Phalamili was greatly concerned. She had not realized how easy it was to tie herself to another person. She knew at once she would have to be very cautious in the future, and choose the people who defined her carefully. If she did not, she might become a person she didn’t want to be; and if she changed too much, would she ever be able to find Rukiya again, or would she forever be Phalamili?
It was this caution that drew her eye to Kerrom, the mighty swamp-knight. Whenever she saw him, he was standing as still as a tree with arms folded, his deep-set eyes staring into her own. Whenever Kerrom stood on the deck, he wore on his back his festna; as tall as a man with a broad blade half it’s length, the festna is the ancient and traditional weapon of the warriors of Madrian. So long was this weapon that it scraped the ground where he walked. His face never moved. His eyes never crinkled. When anyone spoke to him, he made no sign of having heard, or even understanding. Phalamili would have suspected he didn’t understand oman if she hadn’t seen him obey the captain.
The entire crew avoided the swamp knight. Especially at meal-times, when the crew sat together on deck, or in the long thin galley to quickly swallow their stew and hard-crust. Kerrom ate alone, no one daring to sit near to him. Phalamili did not dare either, as his firm gaze was like that of an angry bison, and she knew not to risk such anger.
But then clever Phalamili wondered: Stoic, silent, and always apart, he had to have been as alone as she; yet he showed no fear. Did the swamp-knight have some mighty magic beyond even the Two-chins who avoided him out of fear and respect? Perhaps he could teach her such magics that repelled the storms so completely, and caused the Two-chins such caution.
So it was with a nervous and hopeful heart that Phalamili sat down next to the swamp-knight at meal. The rest of the sailors fell silent. Phalamili could feel the eyes of the crew upon them both, waiting anxiously to see what would happen.
All that happened was this: they ate their meal, staring at each other. When Phalamili finished, she watched Kerrom while he slowly ate.
When she could bear the silence no longer, she said: “My people say it’s bad luck to eat alone.”
Kerrom’s people have no such saying. They believe that fortune was beyond the reach of mortal influence, that there is nothing that you or I could do to change our fortune, any more than we could change the turning of the islands.
When Kerrom did not speak, Phalamili tried again, determined not to leave the table without a new bond forged. “I am not scared of you,” she said.
This interested the swamp-knight, as he was used to causing fear, and he could hear the truth of what Phalamili said in her voice. The people of Madrain, however, had a strange language of their body, and so it was Phalamili’s mistake that she thought the swamp-knight was confused, and needed her to explain. “The Two-chins are all scared of you. That is why they do not eat with you.”
This, however, only caused Kerrom more confusion, as he did not speak the languages of the Lergos Archipelago, and Phalamili did not know how to say ‘chin’ in oman, nor in Erosean.
So she said: “‘chin,’” again, while tapping the front of her jaw, like this.
“Ha!” the swamp-knight laughed! Such an explosive laugh erupted from Kerrom’s unsmiling mouth that the whole crew of the Prezon jumped in shock. But Kerrom was used to causing fear, so he paid the sailors no mind. Instead, he leaned forward to this funny child, bringing his placid face to Phalamili’s ear.
In a voice as dark as the jungle, he spoke to her in oman; “My people call them maas. Because they all have so much of it.”
Phalamili didn’t know what a maas was, but when she smiled at him, he gave her a nod that was warmer than any smile. Though it was a tentative friendship surrounded by strange people and distant storms, it was enough to quiet the worst of the storm-whispers that nagged at her. She might wear Erosean clothing, and speak Erosean words, but she was friends with a swamp knight, which the Eroseans could not say of themselves.
Proud Phalamili, with Kerrom at her side, she thought she had outwitted the storms. She thought she was safe.
But the storms are a vengeful lot, and they did not let her alone for long. What should happen that very night, but Phalamili was woken from her sleep by a loud rumbling outside the ship. Alas, the cloud-sea had risen through the night, and a storm had brewed beneath them. The winds howled their rage, the clouds boiled in the dark. The alarm was called, and the crew lept from their hammocks. A patter of heavy feet ran topside to escape the brewing ice-storm, but it was too late. On the cloud-sea, the storms take shape faster than on land.
Wreathed in ice, the winds curled about the ship like grasping fingers, wailing in the dark air. Shards as sharp as daggers cut the sailors skin, while their fingers grew numb in the freezing cold.
The ice-storm spun through the clouds in a cutting squall. Flakes of snow, once soft and gentle, flew past at amazing speed, carving through flesh while shards of frozen glass battered at the Prezon. The howling wind tossed the Prezon about like a toy. Tongues of water flailed like snakes as they swam past the ship, crashing against the sails and wooden decks before freezing and cracking into sharp blades. The cold was unbearable.
Captain Festan was shouting. Leig was shouting too. Kerrom joined the sailors in grabbing ropes and hauling hard on the rigging. The balloon overhead groaned, then echoed as pellets of ice scattered across it like sharp pebbles on a drum.
Poor Phalamili Rukiya, she knew it was her duty, as it is the duty of every Orenda, to protect the village in the storm season. She recognized the cries of fear and the cutting cry of the winds.
But she was not among the Orenda, now. There were no leather covers to tie to the roofs of their cottage. There were no thick storm-breaks rising out of the solid ground. There was no cloth soaked in salt-water and urine to wrap about the masts to beat back the raging flames.
Nor was this storm familiar to Phalamili. Fire-storms were common on Oleni and Orem. Ice-storms rarely struck the twin isles, and she did not know the magics to fight against them. Poor Phalamili, she did not know how to help. The storm was too large. It was too close. It was too strong. It raged all about them. Ice was everywhere. Noise, terrible noise, grew louder.
Brave Phalamili, she could not simply wait for death. Spurred by fear, she crawled across the sheer ice-covered deck through the blurry air. When she reached the edge of the ship, she grabbed at the closest knot she could find, almost frozen solid. She scratched and scraped at the harsh cord, the sharp ice cutting into her fingers. Finally, the knot broke free, spraying ice particles into her face. She gripped the rope with her bleeding hands and pulled as hard as she could. Through her terror, she thought if she pulled hard enough, the storm would not hurt them. She shut her eyes, so not to anger the storm further.
Then, a staggering pain flashed through Phalamili’s head. She collapsed to the deck, the world spinning around her. Were those clouds above her, or below? The flailing rope struck her in the side. She cried out, but everyone was shouting. The freezing air sapped the life out from her.
Then, strong Kerrom grabbed her from behind. He could feel her shaking, and yet admired her bravery in challenging the storms, if foolishly. He gripped her under her arms, pulled her away from the ice cold rope, and pushed her down the stairs below decks
The Prezon shook in the raging storm, first one direction, then another. Phalamili didn’t know where she was, but the storm was all around her. It was not an advancing wall, nor a distant threat; it covered her, enveloped her, it had become the entire world. It was no longer beneath her or above her; it was outside her, pushing inward.
She staggered again and fell into a nearby corner, pressing herself against the firm wooden wall. The noise was no quieter and the shaking no calmer, but she huddled into a ball and struggled to get her breathing under control. The ice on her skin and hair began to melt and the numbing aches began to fade. A stinging on her face brought her hand to her cheek. Gushing red covered her fingers when she pulled them away.
Poor Phalamili, the whispers of the storm assailed her. The storm was so much bigger, so much stronger than her, than even the Eroseans. There was always something stronger than her, always bigger, and it would always treat her like a plaything, a cold and scared little girl, like she had always been. She was small. She was helpless. With her head beneath her arms, she hid from the raging torrent of ice and waited for death.
When the storm finally passed, it was kind Goduu who found Phalamili again where she lay curled on the floor.
“Poor dear,” she said, kneeling down to Phalamili’s side, and turning her face this way and that. “What happened to you? Did Leig do this to you?”
Phalamili did not know what the old cook meant, until she remembered the stinging of the ice on her face. When she pressed her hand to her cheek, she could feel dried blood down to her jaw. “It was the storm,” she said in a dry and aching voice.
Goduu nodded, because she was wise in the ways of the storms, and had seen many a sailor scarred, even those far more experienced than Phalamili. Without another word, she pulled out a cloth, spat into it, and began to rub at Phalamili’s stinging cheek. How she wanted to care for this poor slave, this girl who had so few scars and wrinkles, who still set her jaw against the world like a soldier. “My people say that scars are marks of wisdom,” she said. “You’ll have more, I’m sure, before your story’s done.”
Phalamili, however, did not recognize the word. “‘Scars?’” she asked.
Goduu smiled and pointed on her own arm. “Marks on the skin, from a cut or old wound.”
Phalamili reached up to her cheek and brow to feel the cuts there. Would she carry a mark of her foolishness for the rest of her life? She would have felt ashamed, but the terror of the storm had filled her up so full that its leaving had left her empty, without fear or joy in her heart. Poor Phalamili, with no sadness, shame, nor fear in her heart, she believed that the storm had claimed her. She had been devoured, and now the storms would wear her skin and walk among the sailors.
But Goduu had seen such a look on the face of many young women and men. “Your first storm, was it?” she asked as she studied Phalamili with a curious eye.
“In the stormy season,” Phalamili answered, “my people are beset by storms every year. My father would join the others in protecting the village from the fire-storms. They fell from the sky like burning snakes, or licked over the edge like grasping fingers. Sometimes floods or quakes, but mostly firestorms.”
“Ah,” Goduu nodded at this. “Not ice-storms, then. In the village I was born in, we were fortunate; our land was quieter than most, but we occasionally suffered from the land shaking. The cloud-sea pushed our buildings apart with stone and earth, collapsing our buildings on us and swallowing our harvests. I had never seen water-storm nor flood until I sailed the cloud-sea. It can be terrifying, feeling the storms all around you. Even knowing what to expect is nothing like actually experiencing it. Trust me, the next time will be easier for you. Oh, poor thing,” the old woman’s cloth dabbed at Phalamili’s eyes. “We’re safe now, for the time being.”
Poor Phalamili, she wept to hear those words, for she had not felt safe since she had left her village. “I left my people to learn Erosean magic, to learn the ways of the people beyond the cloud-sea. I thought if I did what the Erosean’s did, then I would learn their magics. Now I fear we are a weak people, who deserve what we are given.”
Now Goduu was very wise, and she knew how wrong Phalamili’s words were, but too was she wise enough to know that Phalamili would not listen if she told the poor girl she was wrong. Instead, she said; “The Erosean people have closed themselves to magic. They have forgotten what it means to practice our people’s charms and spells.”
“Do you know magic?” Phalamili asked, for she did not know who Goduu truly was. “Could you teach me a charm from your people?”
Wise Goduu shook her head. “Magic does not come in lessons like that. I cannot teach you a charm or a spell. Magic comes to us all in different ways.”
But Phalamili would not accept this. “If I am to survive in the world beyond the cloud-sea, I must know strong magics. I do not know how magic works in foreign lands, nor do I know what lies ahead of me, but I do know everything I learn today might help.”
Now Goduu did know what dangers still awaited Phalamili, for she knew how the merchants of the cloud-sea traded in slaves. She did not know what the Captain’s plans for Phalamili were, but she feared that Phalamili would be someday be bought and sold like cattle. So she placed a finger against her lips, like this, and said: “Perhaps there is one magic charm I could teach you. It’s nothing very powerful, mind you. It’s barely a good luck charm. You might never even know if it works or not. Here, it’s a special knot. You tie it like this. Watch me, now. Around, over, under, through and through. There. Now you try.”
Phalamili undid her belt and passed the ends around each other in an attempt to remake the knot Goduu had just shown her. “Very good. Now, you tie that knot in your belt only when you are in trouble, and something will come along to help you out. You may not see it if you’re not looking for it, mind, so pay attention.”
“I will,” Phalamili promised, and for a moment she sat with the cook in silence. Then: “My name is Phalamili Rukiya.”
Goduu had known many slaves before, and she knew how the Erosean’s named them, so she knew Rukiya’s real name. “Rukiya. Ah, a lovely name. Mine is Goduu Dzitugan.” And so it was that Rukiya and Goduu knew each other.
“You are the first person I have met who did not demand to know my name as soon as we met,” Phalamili said.
Goduu sniffed at the idea, “I’m sure I won’t ask anyone’s name if they don’t want to give it. Not everyone has a name they want people to know, after all. Pity the captain has no sense for naming; Phalamili is a foolish name for a girl like you.”
But Rukiya was not finished. “On Lergos, my people do not share their name until it is earned. When you meet someone for the first time, you may not know their name, and you do not ask for it. You do not share yours until they are a friend.”
Goduu smiled wide. “And I am a friend? How did I do that?”
Poor Rukiya did not understand the question. She knew that friendship was not actions or gifts or words. To the Orenda people, friendship was little more than time. It could take seasons of living next to someone before trusting them enough to give them your name, and that name then encompassed everything that you have been to each other.
But Goduu did not pry, for she knew the secrets of the storms, and she too knew that there was magic in spending time with another. She did not speak of the strength that came from being one of two or three or more.
And so it was that Phalamili Rukiya learned the secret knot of the Callers.
Did she ever tie it in her belt?
She did, beloved, but not for many months.