Chapter 7: A Gentleman Tramp

The marriage minded young lady met him outside the flop house a bit after dawn. She looked content, if not excited.

“Good hunting?”

“Well. I have some prospects at least. We’ll see how it works out.”

“Huh. So… now I join a barge crew?”

“Yep. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

The barge ran up and down the canal from Fish Wier to Wasaga. Some honorable ancestor got the bright idea to dredge some rivers, straighten out a few kinks in their path, and dig right to a large freshwater lake that split the distance between the two freshwater seas. From there, it was a comparatively easy dig to a massive bay separated by a huge peninsula from the Blackwater sea. Despite being massively out of the way on paper, it was faster in practice than going overland. And much cheaper.

The barges were basically just wooden platforms, pulled by vast rafts of Kelly Grass tied like bumpers to the gunwales. The barge men would speed the process along by taking a long pole, planting it in the canal bed by the bow of the barge and then holding on to the pole as they walked towards the stern. It required a heartbreaking amount of coordination or the barge would start turning out of control, rudder be damned. The barge men looked like they could punch their weight. So did the captain.

“Your job is going to be the running lights, vermin control cores, purifying cores, basically anything that has a core. We got you for twelve hours, so let's make them count.”

“My fee?”

“Your wages are you get to ride on the barge for free, and ten rad per core repaired. If you manage to replace any, we pay the market rate.”

Mazelton nodded like he knew what the market rate was.

“You will supply the cores?”

“The boys and I run fishing lines when we cross Lake Citra. We got a few you can use. Any you waste is coming out of your pay.”

“Alright. Sounds good.” Mazelton politely touched his middle, ring and pinky fingers together while his thumbs and index fingers made two little circles. The barge captain snorted and jerked her thumb at the barge.

“Stow your shit. We leave in twenty minutes.”

“I am going to miss you so much, Mazelton! You are going on such an incredible adventure. I know, just know! That this is what the Great Dusty World wants you to do.” She of the clattering rings and easy manner hugged Mazelton hard, her eyes shining.

“Thank you, that means so much. Quick- what is the market rate for vermin control cores around here?”

“Huh?”

“Vermin control cores, light cores, food purifiers? How much do they go for?”

“Um. I really don’t know? I’m not in charge of buying that for the village. Usually I barter for them.”

“How much do you barter for them? Like, is a vermin core digging a ditch, a wood ring, six small fish?”

“I mean, it varies? Is this really the time to be worried about that?”

Mazelton looked at her for a moment, then gave her his second best smile.

“I’m going to miss you too!”

He couldn’t get on the barge fast enough.

 

The Two Seas Canal was exactly the width of two barges and one pace, to allow traffic to run both north and south at the same time. It was, in other words, narrow. Stevedores made good money loading and unloading the barges, or running wagons from the piers. They hauled barrels as big as themselves, rolling them up the roads and up planks into waiting wagons. For short hauls, the wagons were pulled by the stevedores. For longer hauls, teamsters pulled in with aurochs, ready to make deliveries as far away as… well as far away as they were paid to go. The smell was incredible.

Literally incredible, Mazelton had believed that few things could smell worse than waking up in a fishing port flop house, but here he was, wrong barely an hour into the day. Auroch dung, rapidly aging fish, marsh, and the eternal fug of people doing heavy physical labor built into an almost physical thing. One’s nose never had the chance to adapt. He dove into his repair work before the barge even set off, a mask wrapped firmly around his nose and mouth.

Core repair was mockingly called “tracing” by the young polishers of the Ma Clan. You weren’t displaying any ability, you were just tracing the lines someone else made, fixing any spots that wore down as the core burned itself up and transmuted from a useful metal into an inert one. Maybe give it a little extra heat, if you were feeling generous. The amount of heat you had to expend to increase the heat in the core was never an even trade. Charging cores wasn’t just a punishment detail, it was work for lesser polishers. Those who couldn’t manage better things. Mazelton felt like tracing was just about what he could manage, at the moment.

Eight bells rung out from the nearest clock tower, echoed by it’s twins across Fish Weir. The barge captain ordered their departure with the steady cadence of someone who has done this job a thousand times, and has no intention to let this be the first time it goes wrong.

“Stand by to cast off. Cast off.”

The bargemen flicked looped hawsers off the pilings of the dock, coiling them neatly at their feet in the skin of a second. One strode quickly to the far side of the barge, picking up his pole, ready to steer or push the barge along. The other used his pole to fend them off the dock.

“Make way.” The Captain blew “ToooWEE TooWEEE ToWEE” on a thin stone whistle, and the barge pushed out into the canal alongside half a dozen other barges doing the exact same thing.

The bargemen picked up their poles, took their marks, and began the polling. Plant the pole, walk to the back of the barge holding on to the pole, pushing the barge forward with your feet. Then when you get to the back, trail your barge pole in the water a few seconds to make sure you are keeping on course. Then do it again. And again. All day. Six days a week. Some villages near Fish Weir had the tradition of the eight Motluluki, the giants who hold up the corners of the sky. The bargemen, in their cups, will let the world know that the Motluluki have the second best backs amongst working folk, but they wouldn’t make it on the canals.

The barge moved slowly through the rebuilding town. Along the canal the old was being torn down, the new built in its place. The last epoch had adopted mass production, or at least around here it had. Big grey hollow cement bricks were mortared and stacked to make walls. It held up pretty well, all things considered, but it made third rate recycled building materials. Still, you would sometimes find precious metal, good quality steel, trapped in the cement, so people tore into the old buildings with a will. In their place rose timber framed buildings, wattle and daub in some places, clapboard in others, and for the wealthy, brick.

It was easy to sort the neighborhoods as you passed. The rich folk would be on the outside of the bends, the poor on the inside. Mazelton supposed it was because the outside of the bends tended to be a bit higher up than the inside. Rich folk always like looking down. Didn’t Old Radler have more than a hundred towers for that very reason? He shook his head, refocusing on the light core in his hand. It was Ma clan make. Old, but unmistakably theirs.

Mazelton rolled the pea sized core between thumb and forefinger. With his finger, he pushed out heat, with his thumb, he passively received. Between the two, he could… not see exactly, but sort of see sort of feel, the channels and patterns etched into the light core. Light cores were quite basic, usually the second or third things a polisher learned how to make. They came in different varieties, but the cheapest, which this was, simply converted its heat into light. The exteriors required dense, even carvings, the ridges carefully aligned so the core only emitted visible light and not, say, lethal doses of radiation narrowly focused into beams that could punch through a human skull and boil the custard inside. Occasionally, non-polishers tried to modify light cores into weapons. Polishers made sure those stories got around   “Tumor” and “flesh liquefaction” and “vomited out their organs fist sized chunk by fist sized chunk” were all terms that turned up in the descriptions of the protagonists.

Mazelton could make light cores in his sleep. He could trace a light core two weeks dead. This core wasn’t even in bad shape, really. Just old, the ridges wearing down as the constant stream of heat ran over and through them, turning from stabbing invisible flames into visible light.

He muttered a brief prayer of thanks to his ancestors and unrolled his polishing tools. Tiny, tiny rasps and rakes and chisels, some so small they only existed as little projections of energy poking out of a wand the width of a baby’s pinkie. The thick, loden green cloth stopped the energy from escaping. Just because some core heat could punch through walls didn’t mean it all could. He withdrew a minuscule rake, wire tines fine enough to stack within a human hair and let them settle across the core, He let his heartbeat jostle the wires into the groves on the core. Let the heat flow from his core into the core in the rake, his energy blending with his ancestors, and stiffening the wires.

With the patience of long practice, Mazelton slowly rolled the pea sized core against his rake. He let the gentle pressure of his rake restore the valleys some old cousin or uncle had ploughed years ago. He straightened the ridges, smoothing the slopes and gently sharpening the peaks. The invisible blockages felt like boulders, scraped and crumbled and flicked away under his celestial rake. In five minutes, the core was shining, the harsh white of a winter star. His teachers would have slapped him for being so slow.

The Captain gave a short nod of approval and sent him to the port running light. It was a little polished plastic bowl, some scavenged silvery thing, with a little mount for the core and a red sheet of some manner of plastic that slid over it. More remnants. Plastic was tough to date without special tools. He really couldn’t place the epoch. Older than the barge crew realized, for certain. Not that it was worth much. The stuff was everywhere and usually so fragile it was worthless.

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Well, now it was a brightly shining red beacon of worthlessness. Progress.

He repeated the process for the starboard running light. The houses, whatever they were made of, all had pointed roofs. The new construction did anyway, the old buildings all had flat roofs. He had heard that snow could be very heavy around here, but if that was the case, why were the old buildings not built with pointed roofs? Better technology? Not as much snow?

No one to ask right now, and no way to find out. Oh well. Looks like they are cutting paths along the canal. Maybe they were going to set up line barges. Now that was progress! Locals were tossing their chamber pots into the canal. Same canal they were pulling drinking water out of. Such progress.

The town of Waubaushene was perched around the inlet to Gzerald Bay, shifting loads from the barges into the barques and galleys and strange three bodied crafts that plied the sweet, cold, waters of the Blackwater Sea. A town of scavengers, Mazelton thought, with all of a scavenger’s dignity. Squat buildings sprawling along the inlet, parallel to the docks. Lousy bars crammed full of worse companionship. Squalid flops, who’s fleas he could see jumping from a mile away. He made a beeline for the barques, determined not to spend the night here if at all possible.

The barque he was to crew out on was the Lady Dimmo, some twenty three Nautical Smoots long, which apparently were very slightly longer than the landlocked variety. Big for the inland seas, Mazelton recalled, small for the intercontinental oceans. It’s crew was barely two hundred souls, and he knew the fighting ships of the North Sea Confederation had some five hundred aboard. Presumably they were bigger. It would take four days to reach Sky’s Echo.

The Lady Dimmo was painted a shiny black with red trim, three masts rising from the flat deck. The sails were broad triangles jumbled around rhombuses hanging from cross beams. The ropes alone were a dizzying mess of hemp and sisal and tar. Mazelton found the Chief, who was not in charge, and who led him to the Captain, who was. He was instructed to sign on the ship’s register. He did so. The Captain directed him to the Bosun, who was in charge of him, and in turn showed him to his hammock. He was told to stow his bag in the locker down below, return himself to the hammock and remain there until his shift some six hours from now. If he needed to relieve himself, he may make use of the railing. Refreshments were whatever he had on him, until chow time. Don’t talk to any of the real sailors. Don’t touch anything. Especially do not touch the ropes. Stay in the hammock, don’t move around, don’t make trouble. The ship would be setting sail in three hours. Don’t make trouble.

“I think I have learned five new expletives today. And a rather excellent metaphorical description of my genitals. So the day isn’t a complete loss.” Mazelton found the hammock quite comfortable, and soon passed out. The wretched barge captain had kept him polishing the entirety of their trip.

The Captain’s name was Braddock, an odd name, but one he would do well to remember. Though he quickly learned that the captain was not to be disturbed by the likes of him. No, the dark blue jacket and bright brass buttons of authority were to be worshiped and feared from afar. Mazelton was given the rank of “Ship’s Polisher, (2nd Class) (Supernumerary),” which put him in the deck crew and under the gentle offices of the Bosun. Bosun Likka was rangy, raw boned and wiry, squinting eyes over a face that wasn’t really smiling.

Learning to move with the rhythm of the ship was difficult. Mazelton had been given to understand that ships went up and down on the waves. This was only partially true- the ships also went side to side. At any given moment, one was moving in no less than three directions at once, which made walking dangerous and polishing damn near impossible. More damning still was the slamming. To the extent that Mazelton had imagined being at sea, he imagined the boat would smoothly travel over the waves. Not so. They slammed around in the troughs and crashed over the peaks, The effect was rather like being punched in the kidneys every couple of minutes. Reminded him of dinner with the Clan, back when he was small.

Mazelton had also been told that the waves on the inland seas were not so big. The water roared over the prow, sheeting across the deck in a glassy blue froth and then down into the gutters. It was impossible to stay dry, yet all he could think of was she of the rattling rings reminding him that “Cold is the enemy. You gotta stay dry or you will freeze.”

His first job was, of course, the light cores. Bosun Likka, aware that his charge had never been on a real ship before and was already looking green around the gills, directed him to the “polisher’s seat.” It was the maddest looking thing Mazelton had ever seen. Basically three well oiled wooden rings holding a stool and bench in place, with a light core overhead. When the restraining pin was pulled, the rings swung around madly, but the things inside of them acted like they were suddenly cut off from the motion of the ship.

“What mad genius came up with this?” Mazelton asked Likka in wonder.

“What mad genius came up with this BOSUN. I won’t remind you twice. And nobody knows. Same person who figured out compasses work better if you put them in the same sort of thing. Though if I catch you poking around the binnacle I will throw your ass overboard. Clear?”

“Clear, Bosun.”

It was an awkward, huge thing, on a ship where space was at a premium. It all folded up more or less flat and was stowed in the cargo hold when he wasn’t using it. He watched them pack it away after he spent six hours polishing. It was all a jumble. Everyone had a place to be and knew exactly where to go when it was their time to be there.

“Genna’s Eyes, Maggot! If I find you blocking a sailor again I’ll knock your teeth out. Stand over there and don’t move.”

“Sorry, Bosun.”

“What are you standing around for? It’s chow time. Move your ass to the galley!”

“Sorry, Bosun.”

Lunch-Dinner? The meal, whatever meal it was, was one twice baked biscuit he almost cracked a tooth on, a cup of hot seaweed broth and a bowl of beans cooked almost to mush.

“What are you sitting around for? You have work to do!”

“Sorry, Bosun, but nobody told me what to do.”

“Do I have to hold your hand for every little thing? Go inspect the food purifying cores, then the vermin control cores in the cargo hold. When you are done inspecting them, report what needs repairing and what you can just recharge. Idiot.”

“Yes Bosun. Sorry, Bosun.”

The clanging brass bell woke him for the second day. His canvas hammock was considerably less comfortable this morning, as his spine seemed to object to the curve. Strange, considering how comfortable it was to get into the night before. And it seemed warmer then, too. Cold now. Three more days.

Breakfast was one twice baked biscuit that he softened in his seaweed broth and a bowl of oats seasoned with a bit of salt. The jostling was not quite as bad, and his kidneys seemed to have adjusted to the punishment, somewhat.

Their course had kept them skirting the shoreline, as they wrapped around the eastern edge of the bay. On the dawn of the second day out of port, they had reached the first of the barrier islands guarding the thin inlet to the main body of the Blackwater Sea. They were bare and blasted things, brittle yellow grass already drying out and dying off as autumn approaches with an executioner’s cadence. Thin, short trees were shedding leaves over the cracked granite ground, stripping down for the inevitable beatings.

“Goddess, they are beautiful, aren’t they? When I retire, that’s where I am buying a farm. Some good little homesteads on those islands.” A sailor smiled at him, only missing a few teeth.

“I don’t see it, but you know the islands better than I do.” Mazelton dug deep for a conversational lead. “Aren’t they too rocky?” He pointed at the shore line.

“Bless you, no! They are rocky, but on top of the rock is good dirt. You get some great little trees that grow all over the island, plus some of the best, best apples and pears you ever had.”

“From around here?”

“Nah, complete other end of the run, waaay at the tip of Skybiter Bay, where the Great East River runs out into the Cold North Sea. You want to talk cold and storms? Oh buddy. It gets cold and stormy here too, but it’s nothin like back home. Goddess be praised.”

“Good apples there too?”

Mazelton’s question was cut off at the very end. Pain exploded across the back of his skull, the thudding force of it whipping him forward and straining his neck. He nearly headbutted the friendly sailor.

“You ain’t here to flap your filthy hole! Get back to work!”

The Bosun flicked a thick length of sisal rope, twice the width of his thumbs, towards Mazelton’s face. Mazelton flinched to the side, then dropped his hand to his knife as he began his lunge in. Before he could draw, the sailor he had been chatting with grabbed his arm. When Mazelton turned to see what had happened, the sailor just shook his head.

“You heard the Bosun.”

Mazelton tasted bile. He remembered the gang beatings at the culvert exit- nobody here was going to take his side. His eyes swept the deck. A lot of people conspicuously working right nearby, ready to jump in. On him. The officers were conspicuously not getting involved either. But handy.

“I see. And yes. I heard.”

He didn’t make any threats. Didn’t even look at the Bosun as he walked past him. His hands stayed empty and by his sides. Right around crotch height.  The cores in his hands burned with invisible flames.  He castrated the bastard without anyone seeing. The darkness of the hold was blinding.

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