Blankmap: Book I

16. A Bolt From the Blue

The ri-Marij were gone more than an hour on their strange and urgent errand. The Irooj had remained behind, unmoving and stern at the fore of the Petrichor. His turquoise eyes scanned the depths and the horizon, as though he could see beyond both. Solomon noticed that his father had slipped off somewhere in the midst of the Marij sailors' departure, and taking advantage of his absence Solomon decided to climb.

He enjoyed the challenge brought by climbing ropes, particularly when he stood on one pulled taut and held another with both hands. They were nothing like the well-traversed tree limbs of his father's land--indeed, he was having a rough go of negotiating the way the ropes would pull away from one another when he pushed too much with his hands. Still, he was able to wend his way into the upper sheeting rather quickly. Solomon perversely enjoyed the feeling of being up absurdly high and then looking down, enjoyed the way the primal thrill of terror ran from somewhere inside his groin up into his chest. He would dare himself to hold on by a little less each time, and so on this occasion he found himself dangling out over the edge of the ship's bulk while holding on with three fingers and a foot. The foot rested on a taut line traversing the upper realms of the ship's rigging, and hooked itself around a line running vertically.

Solomon wondered what Melion was doing all the way out there, having been gone this long without even (from what he could tell) surfacing for air. It had certainly been some time since Solomon had seen a head break the waves, grey or brown. The man had showed him more kindness than anyone else on board, more than Rip Rap's odd gruff hints or his father's non-answers, and for the first time Solomon found himself genuinely concerned that something might happen to Melion. He comforted himself by thinking that everyone in this world who went away forever only did so after a lengthy and satisfying goodbye, and Melion had not said a word to him before plunging down into the water into the pod of whales.

Soon enough Solomon saw the waves breaking at the heads of the whales as they sped back through the water towards the Petrichor. The returning Marij sailors were drenched but still hanging gamely on as their mounts tore up the distance between them and the ship. From his perch high up on the mainmast the young adventurer watched their approach.The wind was rising and Solomon felt the first fat drops of rain begin to fall on his neck. His daring had been piqued by the electric charge that began to fill the darkening sky, as one often feels at the brink of a ferocious storm.

He whipped his shirt from his back and tossed it over the line running to the forecastle, grabbing it with the other hand and wrapping it tightly about his wrists. Solomon glanced down to make sure the small knife he had taken to carrying was still tight in his belt, and after a few moments' hesitation the son of Jacques Hyrax plunged from his perch.

The boy's own whoop was ripped from his ears by the wind rushing past him as he sped down his makeshift zipline. It was not lost on the men seeing to their duties on deck, who stared upwards in alarm to see the flaming red hair of Solomon Hyrax blaze a trail through the air. Too late he realized that if he didn't let go early enough he would dash himself to pieces against the foremast, the base of which formed the anchor of the line he was riding.

At the last possible moment the graceful young adventurer loosed his grip on one side of the shirt and tumbled to the hard wooden deck. He sprang to his feet, walking away from the incident as only youths and drunkards are able to do. Rope ladders were already being lowered to the Marij sailors who were returning to the ship. Upon seeing the head of Melion crest the top of the deck rail Solomon let out a long breath he hadn't known he was holding. Melion gave his young friend a grim smile and a nod, and joined the rest of his kinsmen at the forecastle deck where they stood in a tight knot around the Irooj.

. . . . .

The storm worsened. The ri-Marij were conferencing in their own language, Jacques among them discussing matters just as fervently as the rest. Solomon stood apart from the knot of sailors trying to get a sense of what they had seen on their hasty errand. Rip Rap hadn't joined in either, and he leaned against the door of the captain's quarters with his head wreathed in smoke. His burly arms were folded as if in defense, but he caught Solomon's eye through the cloud of his pipe and gestured him over with a nod.