Legends And Routines
THE STORM ARRIVED JUST before Low Fifth bell, a strong one but hardly the worst Saoirse could remember. Still, she was thankful that Uncle Angus had insisted on returning. Otherwise, they would have been forced to wait out the storm in Dulcia, or—far more dire a possibility—their currach might have been caught out in winds shrieking like banshees, blowing blinding rain that pelted down as hard as thrown pebbles, with the likelihood of the currach being swamped and themselves drowning in a wild, cold sea. That was a fate that had taken many of the Inish over the centuries, and Saoirse was thankful for her Uncle Angus’ weather craft in timing the arrival of the storm.
The islanders had spent a few bells herding the sheepers and milch-goats into the barns for the duration—at least those that they could easily find, since they ranged freely on Great Inish—as the sky grew darker and searing, jagged lightnings strode across the water toward them. The furious gale howled as it tore through the black-rock crags of the island, churning the sea below into white, curling slopes of water that hurled themselves at the island to shatter into froth and foam on the implacable cliffs. Wind-tossed spray reached all the way up to the village. The rain was coming in sideways, so that Saoirse and everyone else in the compound had to close the window shutters against the tempest. Occasionally, they could hear the splat of some unfortunate wind-spider striking the shutters or the walls of the houses.
There were a few drips through the thatched roofs of the compound, especially those that were older and already in need of repair and replacement. Even in the Banríon’s house, there were pots and pans scattered along the floor that had to be periodically emptied. The white-crested chachalahs roosting deep in the thatch trilled their complaints about the weather—though Saoirse memorized the locations of the protests so she could set Gráinne and some of the other young cousins to gathering the eggs laid in their nests after the storm passed.
In the meantime, most of the clanfolk in the Banríon’s house gathered around the hearth in the large front room. A peat fire was blazing against the chill of the storm coming out of dorcha—the cold spaceward side of Canis Lupus’ habitable strip—the winds affecting the chimney’s draw so that aromatic smoke sometimes came wafting back into the room—not that it mattered, since most of the adult men and women were smoking pipes stuffed with calming tree strands and the air in the room was hazy with their own fragrant smoke. A jug of local poitín sat open on the table. Saoirse sipped at the liquor in her pottery cup as she listened to the talk around the room.
“This reminds me of stories about the storm that Seann Martin was once in, back when Clan Mullin had first come to the archipelago,” said her Uncle James, who was now a seann himself, a member of the eldest living generation of the clan. He took a long pull on his pipe and released the smoke, watching it curl away from his lips. “Seann Martin was out fishing with First Rí Liam that day—this must have been, oh, almost four and a half millennia ago now. Nephew Liam, yeh were named for our First Rí, as yer mam has undoubtedly told yeh. Ah, by all the tales about him, he was a fine man, was Rí Liam . . .”
“Yeh tell us this same story every time we get a storm, Seann James,” Gráinne said. A wave of “Shh”s and “Hush, child” followed from the various aunts and uncles, and the Banríon shook her head warningly at her youngest daughter. “Well, he does,” Gráinne said poutingly but then subsided, putting her hands in her lap and pressing her lips together.
Unflustered, James took another reflective pull on the pipe, then pointed the stem at Gráinne as he exhaled. “It’s the prerogative of the old to pass on the stories they know and the duty of the young to listen so they remember them and pass them on themselves when their elders have gone to their final sleep,” he said. “Now, as I was saying, Seann Martin was out fishing with the Rí and a few other uncles when this storm swept in all unexpected. Musha! I tell yeh it was bad enough here on Great Inish, the wind tearing away the thatch from the roofs that our ancestors had first built and the waves ripping huge boulders from the cliffs. Those on the island looked out over the sea thinking that the waves were as high as we are here in the compound, with the gusts ripping off the foaming tops and hurling them at the island. The lane down to the Strand had turned into a gushing, fast-flowing river.” Seann James stopped to set his pipe down and take a sip of poitín.
“And everyone was convinced that Seann Martin and the Rí were surely lost out on the sea,” Gráinne said, in a droll imitation of James’ quavering voice.
“Gráinne,” Saoirse said warningly though there were chuckles from the audience. Saoirse couldn’t blame them; the lines of Seann James’ story were well-worn into everyone’s memories.
“They all thought that, aye,” James continued, unperturbed, “though none of them were about to speak it aloud, for fear some malevolent spiorad beag, overhearing them, would decide to make it come true. Yeh can’t be too careful with the spirit people, after all. But all the clan was praying silently for them.” He picked up his pipe again, tamping the tree strands in the bowl with a yellow callused fingertip, uncaring of the glowing embers. His arms and neck were liberally marked with the plotch, even down to his fingertips. Even more than the pipe smoke, Seann James smelled of the herbs and potions that—as the herbalist and healer for Clan Mullin—he and his assistants prepared in his laboratory higher up the slope. “They didn’t know it, but the storm had driven Seann Martin’s currach toward the Sleeping Wolf and the rocks around it. The Rí couldn’t control the boat: the sail was nothing but tattered rags, the centerboard had been lost, and though everyone was rowing as best they could, the sea was far too strong for ’em. The currach was taking in seawater over the gunwales from the waves as well as from the pouring rain. They were already half-swamped, and they had lost all hope of making Great Inish even if they could have seen the island through the weather, which they couldn’t.”
As if on cue, the wind picked up momentarily, rattling the shutters and causing the fire in the hearth to shudder. “Yeh see, Gráinne,” Saoirse said, “the Spiorad Mòr must be listening to the Seann’s story, too.”
Gráinne’s eyes went wide as their mam laughed. “G’wan, finish yer tale now, Seann,” Banríon Iona said, putting her pipe back in her mouth.
James took a bit of straw from the hearth, lit it from the fire, and put it to his pipe. He released another cloud of blue smoke. “Well, Seann Martin, Rí Liam, and all the others in the currach believed they were about to die when they saw the jagged black teeth of the rocks before them. They could also see the writhing forms of a pod of nasty blood feeders breaking the surface around them, lurking and waiting, ready to rip apart and devour any of our people who went into the water.”
Saoirse saw Gráinne’s eyes widen even further at that as Seann James’ lips drew back and he made gnashing motions with his gap-toothed mouth before putting his pipe stem back in his mouth.
“But the arracht had heard their wails and seen their plight,” he continued. “They swam out from their caves beneath the Sleeping Wolf into the full fury of the storm. They attacked the blood feeders with lightnings arcing from their own bodies until it looked like a second storm had erupted just below the waves, killing several of the blood feeders outright and driving off the others. Now the Seann and the Rí saw the arracht’s tentacled arms rising from the waves around them and thought that an entirely new and awful fate awaited them, since so many fishing boats from the mainland had been lost out here and some that had returned had spoken of monsters that had somehow stopped their motors, nearly wrecked their boats, and almost dragged them down. Clan Mullin and Clan Craig were no different and no better than the Mainlanders at that time; they’d slain the first arracht they’d seen when they came to the islands, thinking them monsters as dangerous as the blood feeders themselves and worth killing for the meat and the oil they could take from their bodies. So everyone was screaming and wailing from the doomed currach as the arracht grabbed them with their tentacles and pulled them down into the sea where they all believed they would surely be drowned.”
“But they didn’t drown,” Liam said in a hushed voice.
Seann James nodded slowly, puffing on his pipe to keep it lit. “Neh, they didn’t,” he said. “The arracht brought them into their caves within the Sleeping Wolf, tossing them—coughing and throwing up the salt water—onto the dry ledges there. They could hear the storm raging outside through the cavern tunnels that led up to the surface of the island. They could see the cave also, for there were glowing algae living on the cave walls, and there were the arracht staring at them from the water with their eyestalks and helmeted heads. No one realized it then, but Seann Martin, Rí Liam, and the others had been given the plotch through their contact with the arracht. This was the beginning of the close relationship between the arracht and we Inish. The survivors climbed out from the caves the next day and were found by boats from Great Inish. They told them what had happened and how they’d been saved. In gratitude to the arracht, we swore never to hunt them again and never to allow the Mainlanders to do so, either. Ever since then, the arracht and the Inish have lived together in harmony.”
Around the room, people were nodding their heads at the end of the story. Rí Angus lifted his cup. “To the arracht and the Inish,” he said. “We are always and forever friends.”
“Always and forever friends.” Angus’ toast was echoed around the room, all of them emptying their own cups, Saoirse—belatedly—among them.
Outside, the wind continued to howl its mournful song.
In the common room, Ichiko could hear the rain hissing against the windows of First Base. The storm had been blowing for two full days now. Sitting at a table near the wall with a cup of tea and a warm scone both steaming in front her, Ichiko put her hand on the outside wall and felt it shivering from the wind gusts. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” she heard Chava say behind her. “First Base has been sitting here for centuries now, and it hasn’t blown away yet.”
Ichiko smiled over her shoulder to the lieutenant, who was holding a tray with a mug of coffee and two doughnuts. “Have a seat,” Ichiko told her, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. “You’re right, but my AMI is telling me winds are gusting to over 100 kph at Dulcia and even higher over the Storm Sea—that’s hurricane strength.” Ichiko glanced down at her finger. No matter how hard she pressed, the contact remained active and glowing. She was almost used to it now.
Chava put her tray on the table and scooted her chair forward. “Sure, it’s a nasty storm. I’d also tell you that, according to the weather instruments that were still recording when we got here, this is also just your basic run-of-the-mill big storm for the planet, since there’s a lot of potential energy between starward and spaceward side of the planet for the weather systems to use. I wouldn’t worry about your friends out there; the Canines are used to this.” She picked up one of the doughnuts and took a bite.
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word, Chava,” Ichiko said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
“Canines?” Chava shrugged. She put the doughnut down again. “Fine. I’ll watch what I say since you and I are friends and I know it bothers you, and anyway the brass up in orbit don’t like it. But it’s not like there are any Lupusians”—she lifted her hands to put air quotes around the word—“here to be offended. Pretty much everyone on First Base uses the C-word when they talk about the locals. Are you going to try to correct everyone? Because that’s a hopeless task, and you’re just going to piss people off.”
Ichiko could feel heat rising in her cheeks. She looked at the scone on its plate before her. “No. It’s just . . .”
“Hey, it’s nothing at all,” Chava told her. She patted Ichiko’s hand. “Just understand that First Base isn’t Odysseus. And neither is anything the Cani . . .” She smiled apologetically. “. . . the Lupusians have made of this strange place. Did you get to talk to the commander the other day?”
Ichiko nodded. “For a few minutes. We were both tired.”
Chava picked up the doughnut, dipped the end in her coffee, and took another bite. “So I’ve never asked you, and I know it’s really none of my business, but how did you and Commander Mercado manage to . . . ?” She left the last half of the question unspoken.
“I’m not really sure myself,” Ichiko answered. “Lieutenant Commander Tinubu—Nagasi—is in charge of my section; he and Commander Mercado are good friends and Nagasi asked me to give a report to the commander, which I did. The commander and I just started talking afterward about nothing at all in particular, and . . .” Ichiko lifted a shoulder. “There’s a saying in Japanese: sunzen wa yami—the world is dark in front of you. In other words, who can see the future? What about you? So after Geoff, have you . . . ?”
“I’ve had a few lovers on our trip. I’m an officer, so my options are limited at best, especially since I’ve been assigned to First Base. The regs forbid me doing anything with anyone below officer rank, there aren’t any civilian staff here other than you, and there are only a few other officers. And I really only like sleeping with guys, so . . .” She shrugged. “But there’s been nothing serious or long-term—just enough to occasionally take off the edge, if you know what I mean. For that matter, there’s not that large a pool on Odysseus either, no matter what your preference might be, and the locals are completely out of the running. Consider yourself lucky you’ve found someone.”
Ichiko didn’t respond beyond a tight smile, and she covered even that by taking a sip of her tea. In her head, AMI remained judiciously silent. Chava cocked her head as she sipped her coffee, as if listening to something Ichiko couldn’t hear.
“Ah! Listen, are you thinking of heading back down to Dulcia today? My AMI tells me the storm should be starting to subside in another ship-hour or so.” <That’s correct,> Ichiko’s AMI added. <The wind speed’s dropping quickly, and barometer readings are rising though it’s still raining hard.> “I could help you get your flitter prepped. I might even go along with you, and you could show me Dulcia—that is, if you’re willing.”
“You’ve never been there?”
Chava shook her head. “Not really. I went there once for a couple hours when I was first given this post to meet with Minister Plunkett. Since then, the most contact I’ve had with Dulcia is talking to Plunkett over vid. I’m very familiar with the back wall of his office but not much else. Otherwise, I’ve been too busy here, but I’m off duty until 06:30 tomorrow. I wouldn’t mind the chance for a change of scenery and to use my bio-shield for more than outside maintenance. Unless you prefer not having company while you’re working . . .”
“No,” Ichiko said. “I’d like that. It’d be good to be able to get someone else’s take on things. We all bring our biases to this kind of work, and I’m no different.” Ichiko smiled at Chava. “Let’s finish here, then we’ll get the flitter ready—and hopefully the weather will have gentled enough by then.”
The storm had left behind damage throughout the village. Everyone was out repairing roofs, shutters, and fences, finding belongings scattered by the wind, or looking for sheepers and milch-goats that hadn’t been gathered in before the storm. One of the house roofs in Clan Craig’s compound had blown completely off, and several of the uncles and aunts of both clans were there putting up a new one. Two of the currachs had snapped their moorings and broken their anchor chains, allowing them to be taken out to sea by the swirling currents; several of the young cousins had bailed out three of the remaining ones and taken them solas—sunward—in hopes of finding the drifting boats intact, while Rí Angus and Liam had gone to the Sleeping Wolf to talk to the arracht. The sea, in the wake of the storm, was glass-smooth, a rarity, and there were great rents in the clouds overhead that allowed glimpses of the sun huddling eternally near the horizon.
Saoirse was helping the young ones climb up among the roof beams to find the chachalah nests deep in the thatching and gather their eggs. She had commandeered a quartet of stepladders to help in the process; they already had a bowlful of the orange-and-blue-speckled shells on the main table. Saoirse heard Uncle Angus talking to her mam outside, then the Rí opened the door and stepped into the room as she was helping Gráinne down from the ladder with two eggs gathered in her skirt. He was wreathed in a trailing cloud of pipe smoke. “Hey, Uncle Angus. I heard yeh and Liam had gone over to the Sleeping Wolf. How’d the arracht manage in the storm?”
“They were largely unbothered, as usual. They also rescued one of our lost currachs,” he answered, speaking around the pipe stem still clenched in his mouth and rubbing the plotch on his arms, “and they told us the other was tossed high on the rocks on the dorcha side of High Inish; I’m sure yer cousins will find the wreckage and determine whether it’s repairable. But I was wondering if yeh wanted to come with us to Dulcia.”
Saoirse felt a burst of excitement at the prospect. I might see Ichiko again, and I can tell her what Mam said . . . “Yer going over to Dulcia again? So soon?”
“We need to get more supplies to deal with storm repair, and the arracht have let me know the bluefins will be shoaling today out by the Stepstones. We’ll fish a bit first, then hopefully get a decent price for the bluefins from Fitzpatrick’s to pay for the supplies we’ll need. Only if yeh want to come, that is.” He looked at the other stepladders in the room and the young ones still prowling through the thatch.
“I want to come, too,” Gráinne interjected. “I can help with the nets.” Saoirse glanced at Angus, who shrugged. Saoirse took the eggs from Gráinne’s skirt and put them in the bowl. “Yeh go and ask Mam, then,” she said. Then, to Angus, as Gráinne ran outside to find the Banríon: “Let me get the little ones down and settled, and I’ll meet yeh and Liam at the quay.” She went to the nearest ladder, calling up to the child there to start climbing down, when she saw that Angus hadn’t moved, still smoking his pipe. “What?” Saoirse asked him.
“There was one other thing the arracht said to me,” Angus told her. “It was very simple: ‘They shouldn’t know about us.’ I think we both can guess who ‘they’ are.”
Saoirse sniffed at that. “Uncle, if ‘they’ want to come out here, we can’t stop them. That’s not possible—and yeh know it.”
Angus took the pipe from his mouth, looking at the bowl reflectively. “Nah, we likely can’t. But we can be careful about what we share with them when they ask about the arracht.” Saoirse heard the warning in his voice—which meant that her mam had evidently told Angus that she’d agreed to let Ichiko come to Great Inish.
Saoirse managed to hide the smile that threatened. “In that case, isn’t it better if just one of them comes here, on our terms and not theirs?”
“Mebbe,” Angus grunted. He put the pipe stem back in his mouth. “I hope so, anyway.”