Blankmap: Book I

3. The Verdant Sea

Solomon finally spoke with his father on a hot bright morning, quite by accident. Solomon had taken it upon himself to sweep out the deck in front of the captain's quarters. Having finished early, he decided to sweep the inside as well. He had yet to find a locked door onboard the ship, and guessed that this would be no different. He eased his way through the well-worn door, moving quietly in his fashion, and was startled to see his father sitting at the captain's desk poring over a chart.

The older man's shirt was completely unbuttoned, and in the dusty half-light filtering through the porthole he saw what looked like ink stains covering his father's sizable chest. Jacques Hyrax was sweating considerably in the stuffy cabin, but his perspiration was not making the ink run, and Solomon stood transfixed as his eyes began to focus on the strange shapes and patterns swimming across the torso of a man who had never been anything but primly dressed in front of his son.

If the elder Hyrax was startled by his son's presence, he didn't show it. His ice-blue eyes locked on Solomon's as he slowly buttoned his shirt all the way back up. He reached for a cloth that lay to the side of the desk, and mopped his glistening forehead. Solomon detached his eyes from his father's chest, now covered by Jacques' rough blue shirt and utterly unremarkable.

Solomon rarely ever spoke to his father, especially without being spoken to first, and never asked him a question without good reason. But Jacques was just sitting there, calmly and with jaw set, as though expecting one to come. Hundreds of them danced across the front of his son's mind, begging to be asked, and Solomon blurted out the one he thought might bring him the least trouble.

"Father...who is that man? The one who came to the house, I mean. I..."

For a few more moments, agonizing to the ever-placating young man, Jacques remained quiet with his eyes fixed directly on his son's. When he finally broke his rigid pose, his magnificent red beard was matted by the force of his exhalation.

"I'm afraid I don't know his real name. I have always known him simply as Rip Rap. He is an old sailor and now serves as the keeper of the lighthouse that you may have seen when we were in Merriport. As such he's perhaps the best-informed man on the entire coast. He brought me some news on the day that he came to the house, and Rip Rap's news is always worth something...for good or ill."

Sweat was beading on Solomon's forehead and he could see the dust motes filtering down in the strong beam of sunlight that came through the circular window behind his father's head. The air in the room was becoming stifling. He dared not ask what the news had been.

"I'm glad to see that you're up and about. Ships take some getting used to. Give it another few days and you'll be moving around like you've spent your whole life on board. I'll sweep this office from now on, so you can leave it out of your list of duties. I'm sure there's plenty of dirt in the galley for you to clean up, while you're in the mood. And please tell Rip Rap I would like a word, if you come across him."

Solomon took the hint that his interview was over, and left the room with his broom in hand. As he made his exit he saw his father begin to unbutton his shirt once more.

. . . .

He came across Rip Rap coming out of the kitchens, bread in hand, and directed him to the office where Jacques had holed himself up with his maps and notes. For the first time, Solomon was spending time in the presence of men other than his father, and the idea of their wholeness surprised him. He had never given much thought to the people he had encountered in the market save for the variety they brought into his life for an hour or so--never did it cross his mind that they had their own existence outside of their stalls and shops, that they had families and fears and things that made them supremely happy or violently ill.