A few weeks ago, Arn had thought that a coconut was the strangest food to eat. That had been before Gamden and he were rescued from their sandy graves to be carried across the Deep in a large wooden building called a kasad, a ship. Now, Arn had experienced food far stranger—something called an orange, peeled from a tough skin and sectioned out like some creature’s organs. It tasted sour and sweet at the same time. Morlo said it would restore Arn’s strength. He had communicated it using a mix of words Arn did not comprehend and his body language. Strength—or karu—was conveyed using a flexed bicep, though neither Morlo or Arn had much muscle on them.
Morlo, Arn had learned, was like the ship’s embalmer or healing man. He had determined this during his third bout of wakefulness, when his eyes had finally accustomed to the dark interiors of the ship. Morlo’s shelves were lined with small boxes—strings kept them from dropping off when the waves tilted the ship. His most common weapons were a mortar and pestle, not unlike the utensils used by Jorik from Arn’s home.
Gamden was healing quicker than Arn, it seemed. He frequently slept in a chair at the end of Arn’s cot. Morlo slept in the bunk above Arn. One morning, when Arn awoke, Gamden wasn’t even there. Arn slowly sat up, using the slanted hull beside his cot as a point of leverage.
“Yoni, yoni,” Morlo said. He was sitting at the small room’s table. Arn ignored him and swung his feet off the bed. The healer stood up and walked toward him, staying Arn with a hand. “Ugia dega your strength onnam.”
Arn glared up at the silver-haired man. Morlo’s copper jowls were painted with a small red skull, in a paint that never peeled off. “Dega?” Arn inquired, unclear on what the man’s phrase had meant beyond the two words he had understood.
Morlo stepped back, smiling. The man was entertained by their difficulties communicating—the nerve! Arn was quickly losing patience with their game of repeating words. Morlo placed his two arms together and then turned on its elbow, mimicking a long object moving in an arc. Could be a plant, blowing in the wind, or the sun crossing the sky. Seeing Arn still wasn’t sure, Morlo mimicked his head lying on a pillow, then stretching, then running, then lying on a pillow once more.
One of the other sailors, lying on one of the bunks down the corridor of the open room, cursed loudly and called, “Taner, tathala, Morlo.”
Morlo chuckled but looked to Arn to see if Arn understood his miming.
Time. Dega was time. Morlo had been telling Arn that his strength needed more time.
“No,” Arn replied, in their language. He again tried to stand up, and Morlo allowed it. Arn stood dizzily in the middle of the healer’s room. When the ship sloshed against the next strong wave, Arn nearly lost his footing. He stabilized himself against the top bunk, while Morlo jumped forward to grab his other shoulder.
The sailor in the hall of bunks muttered, “Tikio, tikio.” It was the insult they most used for Arn—and one that Morlo was unable to translate.
“Here,” Morlo said. He stepped away and produced a length of wood from the corner, near his desk. He showed Arn how it could be used to support his weight. Then, together, they walked through the wooden frame that divided the healer’s room from the regular bunking. Arn noticed there was a second room beside the first. The man that had protested Arn and Gamden being allowed onto the ship in the first place was in there, hunched over a poorly-lit table. He scowled at Arn and looked down at the top of the table again. These men of the Deep used strange sticks that burned very slowly to illuminate their interiors; sometimes, the burning sticks were protected by small transparent boxes they called “lanterns.”
Arn and Morlo walked along the aisle between the bunks. A dozen of the men were trying to sleep, even though it was the middle of the day. One was all tangled up in his hair; it reminded Arn of his own hair during his days aboard the raft. Morlo had shaved his head, and Gamden’s too, without giving them much explanation why.
Healer and patient, they climbed the steep staircase up to the deck. When Morlo lifted the horizontal panel open, a blinding white light filled the incline. Arn squinted as he limped up—his eyes took far longer to adjust to the sunlight than he was used to.
Six men were visible around Arn, including Gamden. While the crew were working on materials for the ship—endlessly knotted rope, scrubbing the wood clean, adjusting lines that held the sail in place. “Sail” was another word Arn had learned from pointing at the object, but the men used it for many different definitions. It was the white cloth that guided the ship, but it was also the acting of moving on the ship, as far as Arn could figure.
“Arn,” Gamden called. He was seated beside the man knotting the rope, grinning at Arn. “They are letting me help out.”
“I still feel so weak,” Arn replied. At least Arn had one companion he could communicate with freely. “I can barely stand—how are you well enough to work already?”
“I’m still sore, too,” Gamden said. “And my muscles are nothing. But sitting on my backside and tying ropes—I can do this.” His scalp was as bald and grey as his cheeks. He really didn’t look well.
“With your finger?” Arn asked. Gamden had been missing a thumb since before Arn had met him. Gamden only shrugged as a reply.
Arn glanced back at Morlo. The healer stood against the wooden beam that supported the sail; he watched Arn with concerned eyebrows and pursed lips. Arn did not know how to tell the man to mind his own business, so he used the only insult Morlo would understand. “Tikio,” he spat.
This brought a wave of chuckling from the sailors all around. Even Morlo quirked his mouth in a smile.
“Arn!” another voice called. The leader—who Morlo had explained to Arn was named Emrez—waved to Arn from the strange apparatus at the rear of the ship. It was a massive wooden pole which somehow affected the direction they sailed. Emrez waved for the healer and Arn to come speak with him.
Morlo helped Arn over a section of the ship that was littered with crates and discarded netting. Then they climbed more steps to reach the platform where Emrez stood. A few subordinates loitered around there as well, standing near the points where the ropes from the sails were secured to the wooden railing. Arn leaned against the side of the boat as soon as he was done with the stairs.
“Arn itoh batam sim?” Emrez asked.
“I don’t understand,” Arn replied.
Morlo answered for Arn. “Shoro weak he is. Ugia garu ri thoeka nindar we onnam ri enzo.” The healer didn’t look at Arn, just stood with his hands behind his back as he gave his assessment.
“No weak,” Arn responded, stepped away from the railing. “Strength. Strong.”
Emrez whooped. He smiled at Arn and asked, “Sim strong?” He briefly glanced at Arn’s scarred nose-holes—a common distraction for most people. Then, with mirth in his eyes, Emrez wiggled the wooden device and the ship shook back and forth. Arn lost his footing and fell back, slamming his forearm off the railing as he attempted to shield his torso. A chorus of curses echoed up from the sleeping sailors below deck. “Karos alos tu,” Emrez replied—not strong alos.
Morlo came to Arn’s defence. “Ugia time edam him,” he said.
Arn glared at Emrez as he slowly stood up. This time, he did not let go of the railing. The leader’s mirth had seemed friendly at first, but each interaction painted it more as cruelty. The only sailor to stand up to the leader’s orders was the one who had suggested they leave Arn on the island—and Arn was quite certain that Emrez had threatened him in response. Not that Arn blamed the leader—forcefulness and ruthlessness were the only ways to keep order.
Emrez met Arn’s glare for a moment. He was probing Arn for something, perhaps for this very reaction. Surely, the leader could see Arn’s wish for violence in his face. Then, Emrez grinned. He looked back to Morlo and said, “Mars you onnam, tikram. Quican, gezam him.”
“Captain,” Morlo said respectfully. He waved for Arn to come with him down the stairs. Arn looked at Emrez a moment longer. The leader met Arn’s eyes and his humour faded. Then, Arn turned to follow the healer back along the length of the ship.
He paused once more, at the top of the stairs, to survey the Deep around them. The sailors called it the “ocean,” or the “Orrish.” There was no sight of the island where Arn and Gamden had been stranded. Similarly, Razaad seemed worlds away. Arn’s days on the raft had been an intimate struggle—a wrestle with the ocean. To stand and speak among an entire band of men, somehow separate from the Deep’s wrath…. Arn wondered if this was his afterlife. If he had died on the sandy isle or during the storm, his heart would never be put to rest in a Blood Well. He would be destined to wander this strange world forever.