The lantern cast out a deeper gold. Its gilding warmed the cabin like sunlight. The rhythm of the cabin's swaying felt like the wave surge in summer upon the beach at home. Everything was fine. They each felt it. Carnelian could see the truth of it in the blissful sleepy smiles that Tain let slip across the smooth distances that lay between them. The smile he sent back was like a dove loosed into a blue sky. He tried to speak but his words came as a surprise to him. They had acquired a breathing of their own. He lay back and listened to the drums. How deep they were and purple-voiced. That other strain, like flutes, like many flutes close-tuned and narrow- throated, singing. Voices crying like gulls. He sat up to listen. Not gulls but men, shouting. Panic in the wind. Thunder so bass it made his head bell and thrum. He tried hard to listen again. That was it, voices shrieking over shrilling wind and thunder. Locating in himself he noticed the cabin violently contracting like a womb threatening his birth. A storm, he smiled, lying back again, a storm so musical and lithe.
For eternities he was a needle darning in and out of sleep. The difference between the two was merely an attitude of mind. Sometimes he tried to work out how long it was now since the old man had come. It was no good. There was nothing to go on. Everything was always the same: Tain lying like a sandbank on the floor, Crail up there on the bed, wearing his mask of wrinkles. The cabin slipped and turned and spun and looped and the rest of the world went along for the ride. It was a marvel that he felt so well. He had never felt so well before. He knew he glowed. Only a single piece of grit spoiled his oyster bliss. He made it smooth with pearly dreams and forgetting. He knew it was there. Let it work its own way out; he was not about to bother delving for it.
His people. The thought popped into his dream and woke him up. There was a tempest and his people were up there, exposed between the decks. That single lucid thought was like a stone falling into a well. He was eyeless at the bottom of that well. The lantern must have run out of oil. He climbed up until he found that he was standing. He searched. He became nothing but the feelings in his fingers. Squid at the bottom of the sea. He chuckled at the idea of it. His fingers found his cloak. Finding the door was a larger quest.
The corridor was filled with the swinging suns of lanterns. Their blaze blinded him. The door at the stairway top was rattling. Something was on the other side trying to come in. Crashing thunder, felt as much as heard. He turned to face the first step. He put one foot in front of the other. His body was a puppet he hardly remembered how to control. He took it up the stairway. The door clattered and shook. He lifted his wooden hand and watched it turn the handle. Nothing happened. He leant against the door; it struggled to push him back but then gave way and he tumbled out.
He was kneeling in the throat of the roaring night. Its tongue sloped up wet under his hands. The pressure of its breath squeezed his eyes shut. It roared on and on and on. He felt a terror that, should it pause for breath, he would be swallowed up. The world shattered with a crash that left him deaf. Sudden white. Painful afterburn. He strained against the wind to open his eyes. When he did he squinted round him but could see nothing. He was reaching his fingers up to test that his eyes were really open when a livid crack appeared across the inky black. For a moment he saw the deck sloping up before him like a hill. The mast jutting out above his head was an axe waiting to fall. Beyond that the lurid gleaming foredeck funnelled up to the prow. Behind, the whole sky was strangely streaked and mottled and writhing like a wall of snakes. His eye could just see up to its flint-sharp top and realized that the ship was climbing an immensity of water. High above, where the wave edge touched the sky, Carnelian detected the faintest curling white. His heart stopped. The wave was breaking above them.
The light snuffed out. Ghostly scratches printed themselves wherever he looked. He tried to listen for the roar of the breaking wave as it raced down to get them. He waited for the unbearable touch of its cold thunder. Then the deck began toppling forwards. For a moment it hung, horizontal, floating suspended in the night. Then it started angling down. His nails dug their anchors into the deck but he slid forward all the same. On and on as the deck fell away ever more steeply. He hit something hard. One of the brass posts around the mast. He hugged it with trembling desperation. The world shook again. The post rattled in his embrace. It was a kind of ecstasy waiting for the lightning. When it came it revealed far below the abyss into which they sped. That well was the starkest terror. Down into the deep it screwed its wall of circling iron.
'Carnie.'
Impossible.
'Carnie.' The word was the merest rustling in his ear. He had only eyes and they saw only the well.
A vice gripped his jaw and swivelled his head round.
Something bleared in his sight. His eyes took time to adjust back to the dimensions of a human face. His father's face. 'Carnie,' it mouthed like a fish. 'Are you all right? What's wrong with you?'
The circle of his arms was torn open. His body was being dragged like a sack. He screwed his eyes closed. He could not bear to look down into the well again. His heels bobbed across the deck grating, catching like ratchets. They tugged free. The storm muffled. He realized he was inside.
'Are you all right?' a human voice asked.
He dared to look. His father's face wearing the chameleon. No. It was Keal, wild-eyed Keal.
'My p-people…'
At first Keal stared at him as if he were mad, but then he grimaced. They're lashed down,' he shouted, 'and safer than you or me out there.' He looked back towards the shuddering door with terror pulling the skin taut over his skull.
The well,' cried Carnelian, seeing it in his mind where his eyelids could not hide the sight.
'Let's get you back to your cabin, Carnie.'
Keal took his weight and helped him stagger. Carnelian patted the bulkheads. 'It's better not to see what's outside.'
Keal opened the door into the cabin. The corridor lanterns swung their shadows inside to where a figure was lumbering around like something in a trap. It was Crail, staring blind, mumbling over and over, 'Must get out, must get out.' Tain had fitted his spine up a corner. There was a blanket clasped to his chest. He peeped over this with no understanding of what he saw.
Carnelian settled them down with talk. He had to sit against the bunk because Crail would not let go of his hand.
'What's it like out there?' asked Tain.
Carnelian had watched his brother shudder with every thunderclap. The image of the well kept turning in his mind. 'It's just a storm,' he said. 'Now get some sleep.' It is the poppy, he thought. Its dregs have left a stain of dread in our minds.
Tain began a muttering whose rhythm was enough to insinuate familiar words into Carnelian's mind: '… our Lord in the Mountain, who is two Gods but also One, whose angels are our Masters that must be obeyed, I plead my prayer…'
It was part of what his father called the 'slavish superstition'. Carnelian slid his hand out of Crail’s grip, doused the lantern and lay down. He felt that he made a poor angel. A juddering came up into him through his back. His feet were higher than his head. His mind walked him along the corridor, up the stairway, through the door, into the raging night, the deck frozen in lightning glare, the prow cleaving a way into…
With a jerk he snatched his thoughts back into the cabin. His body was shaking. His body was levelling. The floor was bringing his head up. He pressed back against it. He ground his teeth, then gave a gasp as the ship began to fall. Down, the angle so steep he had to brace his feet against the bulkhead. Down. Down into the well until he was almost standing on the bulkhead. He tried to smother his fear with memories. The Hold. He thought of the Hold. Of Ebeny. Her gift. The Little Mother was there against his chest. He clutched her for warmth but the stone stayed cold. We are the lucky ones, he told himself. At least we have food. He squeezed the Little Mother. In truth, he envied those left behind their solid ground far from the abyss. The abyss. He scrunched up his ears in his hands to shut out the baying of the wind. Then before he could use his fingers as a muzzle, the scream came up from his stomach and he vomited it out.
Endless night. Swimming in a coruscating sea of dreams. Sometimes, when he came up for breath, he surfaced in the cabin, each time with surprise. The silver box was the tearful eye of the moon. He would smother its light in his hand, dip his fingers in, let the others drink, then dive back. There was no him, there was no where, there was no passing time, his unblinking eyes saw only the endless undulating vision of now.
