Blankmap: Book I

6. Of Books and Fish

On his third day aboard the Petrichor, Solomon was summoned to the small room below deck that had been turned into a makeshift office for his father. Maps and charts adorned the walls of this office, though they were unlike the ones Solomon had seen on the Windjammer. Where those had been rectangular, these were circular. Rather than being written on paper, as all maps are made in Merriport, these charts were woven of some thick material that was hard to the touch. The features of land and sea were worked into the stitching in minute details. Solomon walked among them, amazed, before a slight cough from Jacques returned his attention to the matter at hand.

"Solomon, do you know where we're going?"

"I would guess that we're going to Marij, father."

"Good. And I don't suppose you have any idea why we're going?"

"None at all. Though I haven't minded not knowing that part, much. It's nice enough to be at sea. And Melion is very kind."

"Yes, he is. Well, all will be answered in time. I hope for both our sakes the answer isn't a disappointing one."

"Why did you call for me, father?"

"Ahh, yes. Solomon...son, it's time you learned to read. You're of no use to me in navigation if you can't read. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father."

Jacques Hyrax's face softened for a moment. "Perhaps you do. I think you will understand better once you begin your lessons."

"When do I start?"

"Immediately. Rip Rap is waiting for you in your quarters, though you may be more comfortable spreading out in the galley. I know he may not seem like a learned man, but don't be fooled. He reads voraciously--he has to, or he wouldn't be much good at his job. The keeper of the lighthouse needs more brains than most to keep all the ships moving safely. Melion offered first, but I thought it might be nice for you to learn from someone who speaks and reads Vashonian as a first language. Still, you may practice with Melion if he is willing and has the time."

Solomon's heart was leaping in his chest, and it was all he could do not to let his smile take over his face completely. A warm flush rose in the deep tan of his smooth cheeks. A small glimmer of hope began to flutter within him--here, finally, was a chance to be let into the world that his father and the other learned men in his life occupied. Perhaps he, Solomon, could prove himself worth something after all.

"Thank you, father. I'll go and find Rip Rap."

As Solomon pushed open the palm-thatched door (although, never having seen a palm tree, he knew not what to call it) and made to leave, Jacques stopped him once more. His voice had lost its hard edge completely.

"Solomon...it's not just about making yourself useful, you know. You'll be a great help to me once you can read, but it's more than that. A ship is not the fastest way to navigate this world of ours. But a book just might be."

. . . . .

"Come in," boomed the lighthouse keeper's gruff voice as Solomon knocked softly at his own door. "Need an invitation to yer own room, do yeh?"

"Right. Sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize. No one ever got anywhere in this life by bowin' and scrapin'. Too much o' that, and yeh'll forget how to look folks proper in the eye."

"Sor--okay. So you'll teach me to read?"

"Aye, if yer half as smart as yer father makes yeh out to be, I'll teach yeh. Have a seat here, 'less yeh think yeh'd be more comfortable in the galley."

"This will do fine, thanks. Mind if I open the porthole?"

"Whose room is this? Do as yeh like."

They dove into the lesson, papers and quill and ink spreading across Solomon's cot and floor as they worked. Rip Rap explained (more than once, it must be said) that each unique mark of the quill formed an individual letter, and that each letter had a sound. Some made more than one sound, the lighthouse keeper explained, but they would cover that part later ("Always found that idea tricky, but yeh'll get there").

The two of them worked their way through most of the Vashonian alphabet during the first session. Solomon learned the names of the letters, and the sounds they made, and though he knew little of gears it seemed to him that he could feel a gigantic set of them within his head beginning to click into position. Rip Rap was an able enough teacher, never making the boy feel too bad when he forgot which letter was which or asked the same question he had posed just minutes earlier. There was a good deal of grumbling and cursing on the part of the old sailor, of course, but in Solomon's experience the man tended to grumble and curse his way through most things.

At the end of two hours Rip Rap yawned and scratched under the heavy plaits of his grey beard. He made a show of checking the burnished brass watch that hung from a chain on his belt loop. The lighthouse keeper, whose coming had snatched Solomon Hyrax out of bed all those nights ago, slammed the folio of papers shut under the young adventurer's nose. The nose had been inches from the page, Solomon mouthing the letters and sounds silently to himself, and was consequently shot full of dust by Rip Rap's violent closure.

Solomon's erstwhile teacher allowed the boy's sneezing fit to subside before speaking to him.

"Time's up, boy," he growled. "Yeh'll be here just after lunch every day. Can't have a boy tryin' to learn to read on an empty stomach. Jus' know that most lessons won't be as long as this'n--I've got other duties on this ship than wipin' yer nose. I'll see yeh at supper."

The lighthouse keeper rose to leave and had a hand on the door before Solomon snapped to attention.

"Rip Rap! Leave the book...please."

The bearded man grunted. He flung the book at Solomon Hyrax, who caught the heavy leather binding in his nimble hands. Rip Rap's back, had it eyes, would have seen the enraptured grin of the man's young pupil as he opened the pages once more.

Solomon barely tasted his dinner that evening. Out of propriety he had left the folio of alphabet papers in his quarters, but his thoughts remained fixated on the world that lay between its heavy leather covers. He didn't give a second thought to the steaming plate of fish before him.

The specimen on the plate was ikonae, called hornfish in the Vashon tongue. It was more like steak than fish--it came off the bone in meaty slabs that the ri-Marij seasoned liberally with salt and the juice of a small pink fruit that they kept in crates onboard the Petrichor. Ikonae was considered a great delicacy by the ri-Marij, and had any of them noticed Solomon's indelicate inhaling of it they might have been offended. But the good part about eating alone and unspoken to is that it leaves one free to behave however one wishes, and to think about whatever one wishes.

The haul of ikonae had come aboard the ship that morning in a great net woven from strips torn from the fronds of a unicorn palm tree--what the ri-Marij called the niwo-ke. Also trapped in the net were a school of tobal, a sweet red fish; two small green-ringed octopi, called kwut; and a dozen erwuj, hard-shelled giant clams. A single spiny three-clawed lobster, the irobaru, was also found at the bottom of the net. These would serve to feed the crew, the Hyraxes, and Rip Rap for the next several days. A private wager was made among the ri-Marij crewmen about whether or not Solomon Hyrax would be able to stomach an entire portion of erwuj--the giant clam's meat was filling, but it was a tough gelatinous mess that oozed black as it steamed. Melion was one of only two sailors to bet that the young Naweegan adventurer would eat an entire helping. The other, a young woman named Jara, had watched the boy from the moment he had come onboard. He seemed to radiate something-- a quiet strength, one she recognized well. It was what she prided herself most on in the world. This boy seemed to have it in spades.