Blankmap: Book I

17. Rip Rap's Tale

The storm had subsided, but what did that matter when the world had ended? 

His father was shushing him, telling him it was the right thing to do, but Solomon could not keep quiet. He felt an overwhelming need to make them all understand that he had not murdered the Irooj. That in that instant he had acted without thinking, as all true acts of mercy are done. That he couldn't bear for one more second the bellowing of the Irooj as the hideous beast ripped him to pieces. That he couldn't share the Irooj's pain.

It had been hours--or was it merely minutes?--but still he shook all over, wanting to make them understand, but each useless word choked itself in his throat and emerged as a squeak or a sob rather than a justification of the horrific thing he had just done.

"Rip Rap!" he heard his father bark, somewhere unseen. "How much time have we?"

A steady stream of curses poured forth from the old lighthouse keeper. "A half hour, if we're lucky. Wouldn't count on that, seein' how little luck we've had so far. High time we were out o' here. Grab that boy o' yers and go quick below. The lifeboats'll release easy from there."

There was a blanket over his shoulders, and it fluttered slightly in the breeze as Solomon was hauled to his feet. He was hurried along, grateful to be out of control and in the strong arms of another again. It was only after blinking away the hot tears that filled his eyes that he realized just how much trouble they were in.

The Petrichor, once so proud and sleek, was a battered wreck of a ship. They were resting at an extreme tilt in the water and one of the triangular sails was shredded to pieces. The other fared little better. The outrigger, life support of the ship, had been torn off completely. The storm had subsided, though the wind still blew, causing the frayed pieces of sail to flutter limply as the air passed clean through them. Solomon had no way of knowing how close they were to their destination (little as he knew of the scope of the world, much less where Marij lay in the scheme of things), and a dull throb of panic worked through him as he pondered the idea of taking a small lifeboat back out onto the water that had birthed the Mejekweet.

Jacques and Solomon dug in their heels as they traversed the sloping deck. Near its low edge lay side-by-side the bodies of the Marij men who had perished in the attack. There were eight of them, soaking wet and in various stages of battered violence. Ten, Solomon thought, remembering the nameless one who had gone over the edge and into nothingness. Who he had failed to save. Remembering the Irooj, and his sacrifice. His eyes stung with tears once more. All of his own swagger from the rescue attempt had vanished, too. It had gone away somewhere and he wasn't sure it would ever come back. 

Melion knelt with his eyes closed by the bodies. Jacques touched him lightly on the shoulder as they passed, and the kind sailor stirred and rose. 

"Melion...it's time we were off this ship. It won't stay up much longer. The sea will take care of the dead, the way your customs demand. Come, my friend, to the lifeboats."

"No. We must not go yet. We are still expecting company."

The warmth that had made Solomon trust Melion's face within an instant was gone. The sailor from Marij wore a hard mask of grief in its place. Consumed with his own anguish, Solomon barely noticed. 

"Company? Ne kobwe ma tonwot?"

"I mean that others will come to us in our time of need. This is a good ship, as you should know. You were there to help build her and you were there to name her. She will stay tutu air...afloat...until night comes again. We wait."

Now Jacques spoke low and quickly to Melion. The two old comrades argued, Solomon thought, though he was unsure just what was being said--they talked entirely in Marij-bwe. After several minutes Jacques strode off without a sideways glance of explanation. Melion's face relaxed by inches.