Beyond the Endless Sky

Chapter 13.5

"Afraid it ain't up to Leslie's standards," Mercy said as she worked on something to eat. "But he's already gone to sleep. So has Tonya. Anita could make you a fairly good omelet, but she's in engineering. And none of us want the captain to ever cook anything. Ever again."

Clarissa somehow knew Captain Locklear would answer, even from the bridge where he piloted the ship. "She's not wrong. And despite her lineage, Mercy's worse at flying than I am at cooking. The blackened eggs and dehydrated porridge I made you might end up being your last meal."

Clarissa frowned at that. It was hard for her to imagine Mercy being bad at anything. "You aren't really that bad at flying, are you?" Clarissa asked.

"Not that bad, no. But Leslie and I are the last choices for flying. Anita's pretty good, but we need to curb her exuberance if she's at the wheel for more than an hour. Tonya first, captain next."

"And for cooking?"

"Leslie. Anita next, she pays attention to how Leslie cooks. Tonya does fairly well, but she has a tendency to drown things in butter and cooking wine," Mercy said, holding up a finger for each crew member she listed. "Myself. After that, your best course is to beg Yannick to try his hand. After that, wait until you get to port."

Mercy didn't even bother to put the captain on the list. And despite where she put herself on the list, the smell of whatever Mercy was making had Clarissa's stomach growling.

"Mercy, what did the captain mean by 'your lineage'?" Clarissa asked, as much to distract herself from her suddenly surging hunger.

"I'm a Wayfarer," Mercy explained, as began to transfer food from the pan to a pair of nearby plates. "Though it's not lineage. Being a Wayfarer is about family, not ancestry. And I think that's the captain's way of trying to forget he's a Wayfarer now."

Clarissa put her hands under her chin. She stared at the plate of food Mercy brought around and set down in front of her without really seeing it. Her thoughts were focused on what was said, and what might be. "Is that why you wear that hat? Because you're a Wayfarer?"

"No. Like I said, Captain's one too, so is the rest of the crew. And none of them are in danger of sprouting feathers, raven or otherwise," Mercy said, and she took off her hat and set it down in front of her. "The Ravens' Child is the smallest Wayfarer clan in the skies, and I wear this hat because I'm it's Keeper."

"Keeper?" Clarissa asked.

"Ever clan has one. They — sorry, we," Mercy grimaced, and put the hat back on her head. "We keep the history of the clan. The stories we tell children. The deeds that need to be remembered. The pains we suffered, be it from someone else's hands or our own. Our mistakes and successes. How we came to be who we are."

"So, it's like being a historian?" Clarissa asked.

"How would Vincent put it? An incomplete answer, though not inaccurate," Mercy said, and smiled as she looked over at the speaking tube. "The difference, I suppose, is a Keeper acknowledges that memory is an imperfect tool. What we remember is changed a bit, coloured and moulded a little, each time we remember it. Historians like to imagine they keep a perfect record, even as they leave their fingerprints all over it, and write in the margins."

"The other big difference," Vincent added from the bridge. "Is a Keeper has to be good at telling those stories, so that her clan remembers."

"Thanks, cap," Mercy said, and she turned back to Clarissa. "Vincent's right, it isn't just remembering. We tell the histories to the clan, so they know what we've done, and why others treat us the way they do."

"I see," Clarissa mused.

"No, you don't," Mercy replied. "You see that it's different, but you don't see the value in that difference. It's easy to see the advantages of your method, after all. Records are kept, particularly first-hand accounts. Artifacts and statistics are recorded and can be recalled. All of that's good. But let me ask you, Clarissa. Do you know how old the Monastery is?"