Blankmap: Book I

2. Merriport

The ship rose out of the water taller than anything Solomon could have imagined, taller even than the highest trees he had climbed on his father's land. The scope of everything in the port dazzled him, from the dock jutting into the waves like a piece of road transplanted in the ocean, to the mooring lines as wide around as his waist, to the ocean itself, impossibly vast, rolling and frothing just as he had envisioned in his daydreams.

The one element he had never considered was the smell of it all. He was hypnotized by the tang of salt on the air, something he had only ever tasted on rare occasions in town when the butcher had slipped him pieces of cured meat as his father conducted business across the street. But this...this was salt as he had never imagined it. It filled his nostrils, his lungs, and his mind as he stood on the bustling path that led from the seaport market down to the docks. Dizzy with the sights and smells, he seated himself on top of a barrel out of the way and took it all in as best he could.

The ride to the port town (called Merriport, a lighthearted nod to the folk there) had been uneventful. Still, Solomon had barely slept for all the exhausted fatigue in his bones. He had watched the cobbled streets of Naweego give way to the winding dirt roads that crisscrossed the rest of Althus--the province where Hyrax Manor stood. Per their familial customs Solomon had asked no questions of his father in the carriage. Which is not to say that he wasn't burning with the need to know where they were going and why. Jacques Hyrax, for his part, had offered no information in return.

For a boy who had spent the better part of his conscious life wandering the woods alone, such a place was a shock to the senses. He saw all manner of men either rushing or lazing about, clad in foreign clothes and speaking to each other in tongues he did not understand. Strange as it may seem to those who are well-read, and knowledgeable of the world, and who have spent their lives meeting all kinds of interesting people, Solomon Hyrax had never before considered that there might be whole groups of others out there that didn't speak the same manner as he. This revelation and the observations that led to it were enough to keep him fixated in his seat for well over an hour.

Solomon's linguistic shortcomings were only further entrenched when a boy clearly younger than himself came dashing up and began tugging at the sleeve of the navy blue coat that Solomon had put on in the wee hours of that morning. He was beginning to outgrow the coat, but Jacques Hyrax had yet to notice and as such had given Solomon no money with which to buy a new one.

"Estex pallium quatuum? Anautae?"

That's how it sounded to Solomon, anyway. He was hopelessly confused by the boy, who seemed rather underdressed, windy as the afternoon was. The boy's skin, which at first appeared to be a light brown, was upon closer inspection a hodgepodge of color woven together. It was like the tapestry of leaves that carpeted the ground in the early fall. The boy, clad in a knee-length white tunic of some light material, continued to tug at Solomon's sleeve for a few moments before realizing that his questions were lost on the gangly youth seated before him. He dashed off, Solomon still hopelessly confused. Moments later the boy returned bearing a steaming pastry of some sort wrapped in grey paper. The boy deposited it in Solomon's lap, hopping up on a barrel beside him and pulling a pastry of his own (now slightly smashed) out of the deep hip pocket of his tunic.

They ate as the boy chattered on between bites, either oblivious or uncaring with regards to his companion's lack of understanding. Anxious as Solomon was that he couldn't for the life of him make sense of the smaller boy, it felt good to be sitting somewhere so new, eating something so delicious, with the salt breeze filling his lungs. The pastry was glazed with some kind of honey, a viscous goop that ran down his fingers and cheeks despite the wrapper he held.

Solomon gazed at the crowded tumble of stores and homes that vied for space in the town that stretched out behind him. They were ramshackle, mostly, painted in pale pinks and blues and yellows. Where the paint had chipped away old boards showed through, eroded in shifting patterns by the salt wind and turned an odd green by moisture. Solomon's eyes took all of this in, so new and different from the Naweego that he had grown up in, eventually alighting on a building nothing like the others.

It was shaped like an odd sort of cone, black and white stripes spiraling up its sides, with what appeared to be a tiny glass house at its top. This building stood far apart from the rest, perched at the end of the ancient stone seawall that led across the mouth of the town and out into the rocky shoals. Solomon never left the barrel, but his mind was working overtime processing all the rough-hewn majesty of the oceanside town.

Without so much as an exchange of names, the foreign boy dashed off once more at the behest of a woman who could only have been his mother, who called out to him from a nearby shop window with a voice that echoed off the salt-stained cobblestones. He tipped Solomon a wink and was off up the street, as quickly and unfettered as he had come.

During this time, the older Hyrax was dashing about attempting to haggle for last-minute supplies and making sure all preparations had been made in advance of their arrival. He attempted to affix a calm, regal air to his bearing. In truth, he was in a state of anxious panic, setting the wheels in motion for an undertaking full of possibilities both wonderful and terrible. Jacques was and always had been an exceptionally brave man, and the anxiety clawing at his chest and suffocating his breath was a new sensation to him. He was not someone readily given over to hoping for things, practical as he was, but that emotion was fighting for space within him as well. Though he never could have vocalized it, part of him hoped he was doing right for Solomon's sake as much as for his own.

He need not have worried, at least on Solomon's account. One of the things that marks children as children (and which marks them as fledgling adults when they eventually lose it) is the unwavering belief that their parents know what to do in any situation, particularly the tough ones. Solomon was no different, and had always believed his father to be a man whose decisions were the right ones. This too might seem curious, given the utter lack of socialization or emotional connection developed in the Hyrax home, but Solomon's lifelong isolation must again be taken into consideration.

. . . . .

After a great deal of time Jacques emerged from the dry goods store with another man. Two others followed them, one pushing roughly hewn wooden carts piled high with sacks of flour and potatoes and the other rolling a veritable flotilla of barrels with skill. Though Solomon knew nothing of such matters, there was no mistaking that the man striding beside his father was a person of importance. This newcomer exuded an air of power and authority, and though he was at least a head shorter than either of the Hyraxes, it was apparent to Solomon that he ought to stay out of this man's way.

Jacques summoned Solomon with a twitch of his head as he kept pace with this authoritative newcomer. Solomon lifted himself down from his perch, working a kink out of his saddlesore backside as he hurried to his father's side. The new man was talking away, in a manner as rough as the boards of the shop they had just left.

"...can't promise that. But my best guess is eight days out before we reach the Chasm. Can't take ya no further. My crew and I'll be banking straight north once we reach it to finish our supply run and start fishin'. If your people are where you say they'll be, we should be able to pass ya across to 'em without too much trouble."

"Thank you, Captain. Solomon..." His father paused. "We're off to sea. Can you understand?"

There seemed to be more to the question than that, but whatever it was went unasked. Solomon retrieved his trunk from where it lay behind the carriage as their walk took them down towards the dock. The great ship loomed larger and larger as they approached. Solomon scarcely dared believe it. After his long years of sleeping and dreaming and imagining the sea, he was about to sever the invisible ties that bound his feet to the land and set sail for the first time. The destination hardly seemed to matter; indeed, the thought of where they might be headed barely crossed his eager mind as he made his way up the gangplank onto the sturdy timbers of the vessel that lay waiting for him.