The next day was fifteen or so more miles travel to Nowhere. The Vallor Pass would be trying and bitter cold, but Slate had learned that the weather on the eastern shores of Aelioanei was always much warmer than that in the north, and the prospect of such warmth and his new company made fifteen miles go by quickly.
Slate and Pilotte entered the very oldest parts of the Yellow Forest during their hike. Above the snow, droves of woodneedles worked extracting tiny bugs with their long, thin beaks, making the forest sound like a woodshop. The Yellow Forest had plenty to eat for Slate as well: there were patches of mushrooms springing up wherever the snow had not covered the ground. Pilotte didn’t care much for fungus, and so he got the greater portion of the small game the pair was able to catch.
At the base of Vallor Pass, Slate and Pilotte stopped to sleep for the night in an old hiker’s lean-to. There was warmer weather ahead, and Slate had been able to walk off some of his heavy heart. But the boat ride ahead was not something he was at all excited about.
The next morning’s hike over the pass didn’t take but two hours. At the top, the warm air from the Anir greeted Slate like an old friend. The temperature rose as Slate and Pilotte came down the eastern side of the mountains, allowing for Slate to remove his heavy coat for the rest of the trip to Nowhere, which sparkled like a jewel on the coast in the rising sun.
Slate was excited to see the wild place he had heard so much about from Arianna. While he had explicit recommendations from Mrs. Falls to find the first transport south, he figured looking around the city beforehand wouldn’t hurt. And putting off the boat trip was an added benefit. He set with Pilotte onto one of the walking paths that looped through the beach that surrounded the city and readied for excitement.
The sweet, rich smell of honeymarrot palms and their fallen white petals guided the way through a maze of slap-dash shacks to where the sandy path turned into a proper street. Commercial businesses started appearing in stretches of three and four along the sides of the street as Slate made his way into town. Eager to sample what exotic delights Nowhere might have to offer, he stopped into a store that had a wonderful smell wafting out from its open door. Pilotte waited outside, scaring passers-by to the other side of the street.
Inside the shop, Slate found a clear-fronted box stacked with trays of glistening baked goods: breads, cookies, bundles, cakes, and candy, in every color imaginable. There were even chocolate-covered windhoppers and spiced dried fish for the daring. Slate spent some time trying to decide between a clant bunch and habricotte bread, before finally settling on a frosted cranberry fold. He asked the clerk behind the counter for two of the folds, plus the biggest bone they might have behind the deli, for Pilotte. The clerk ducked into the back, then reappeared with a two-foot larts rib. He wrapped the goods up in banch paper, then turned to total them on a ledger. Slate paid and rejoined Pilotte on the street outside.
He ate his fold and wandered. In the artisan quarters, he saw incredible glass and jade carvings, and listened to a man who could sing two notes at the same time. He lost three pieces of goldquartz in a game of chance right on the street that he was pretty sure he couldn’t have won anyway.
When the sun went down and the streetlamps were lit, Slate realized he had wasted his whole day without ever making it to the harbor. Figuring it was too late now, he yawned his way into a small inn called the Breakaway. Slate was conned out of a sizeable portion of his goldquartz by a clerk at the hotel, who made up a number of tourist charges that a noddy-headed Slate agreed to.
In the morning, after kicking himself for having paid the no breakfast fee, Slate ate his remaining cranberry fold and headed for the city harbor with Pilotte, to try to find their ride south to Airyel.
As Slate approached the harbor, a series of haggard beggars stumbled at him asking for money. Some were younger than he, but most were gray and wizen. A number of them mumbled things about being Veterans of the Ha War, which Slate had never heard of. He felt bad about having nothing to offer, but he worried that his remaining pieces of goldquartz might not even cover his trip, if he could even find anyone that might be open for charter.
The water in Nowhere’s harbor was full of garbage and human waste from the nearby shantytown that used it as their latrine. Though the waters were unsightly, the strong winds from the northwest carried the stench away on salty-sweet air, and the orange-pink sky was a beauty to behold that morning.
There wasn’t much activity at the harbor, just a few old sailors and blissful retirees scrubbing down their boats and making repairs to the music of the surf.
Slate walked down to the far end of the last pier, to get a clearer view of the horizon. The strong winds there precluded the peaceful viewing that Slate had hoped for, and he was forced to turn back. He made for the closest barricade against the wind, the hull of a boat with the word Calamity painted in sparkling blue on its side. Looking up, he saw an older man on the deck.
“Hello!” Slate called up to the stranger.
The man responded, “Hello to you!”
“Headed out today?” Slate asked.
“Are you kidding? Did you see that sky? Red at night, sailor’s delight. Red in the morning, sailors take warning! There’s a storm blowing in, son!”
“So why are you cleaning your windows?” Slate asked.
“It’s not that the windows need to be clean, son, it’s that I get to work on my boat,” the man explained. “Where you hope to be heading? Back to my worst nightmare with that hairy monster there?”
“He's not a monster, he’s Pilotte,” Slate said. “And my name is Slate Ahn, and I am looking to travel to North Airyel. Do you know anyone that might be leaving today, despite the red sky warning? I have four pieces of goldquartz I can pay.”
“Hid Hidli,” the man introduced himself. “Don’t ever tell a Nowherer that you have goldquartz, son. This ain’t the town to be flashing money around.”
“Okay.”
“Or, do whatever the hell you want! I don’t care. What do you want with the traitors in Airyel anyway?”
“I have a delivery to make. And I’m looking for my father.”
Hid stopped cleaning. “How old are you, son?” he asked.
“I’m almost seventeen, sir,” Slate answered.
“When’s the last time you saw your father, Slate?”
“Just before summer ended,” Slate answered. “He left because there wasn’t any work left in Alleste after the Great Hall burned down. He’s been sending me back money. But then I got a letter that he wanted me to join him, so I left home.”
Hid took off his hat and scratched at his scalp, taking in a deep breath as he squinted into the rising sun. “Too bad, about the Great Hall, isn’t it? Then Kale, in Aislin. Island’s had a hell of time lately. Tell you what. I was thinking of making a try at an itchy fish today anyways…”
“Itchy fish?
My wife would never let me hear the end of it if she found out, but whenever it’s about to storm big like this, I go down to Harson’s Island and try for an itchy fish. Incredible creatures. The things are huge, some fifteen feet long. They have a big old sail on their back, and they’re the color of emeralds in the moonlight. They go into an absolute frenzy before a big storm, leaving their usual waters to snatch up the fish that show up to eat all the goodies the storm dislodges from the sea floor. Storms like this one is shaping up to be.”
“Has anyone ever caught an itchy fish?” Slate asked.
“Stories say that people used to,” Hid said, “But like anything good, everyone jumped on it. Fished ‘em to near extinction. Anyways, to my point, you can’t make the trip back north from Harson’s Island at night with the moon where she’s at this time of year, so I usually camp out down there by Airyel after itchy fishing. If you want to come with me, you are welcome to. But I warn you, things may get a little rocky!”
“Oh, that’s okay, Mr. Hidli, I would just really appreciate the ride,” Slate said, relieved.
“
Well, alright then! And call me Hid. It’s off to Magri for business! Or so we tell the wife, right?” Hid said with a wink. “Come on up, we’ve got some work to do. Do you know anything about sailing?”
Slate admitted, “I’ve never been on a boat. To tell you the truth, I’m sort of terrified by the ocean.”
Hid tried to contain his disbelief, swallowing hard and smiling down at Slate and his wulf. “There’s nothing to be terrified about in life, if you know what you’re doing, Slate. We’re gonna have to teach you about the sea!”
Slate and Pilotte climbed up the galley plank to board the Calamity as the soft rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Hid gave a tour, explaining that the vessel was an old postal boat he had converted using wood from the Passage Islands. The traditional sailboat out of Nowhere had a much narrower keel, as compared to the Calamity’s wide, flat bottom, which Hid used to access pearl beds that deeper-water vessels were unable to reach, and a fully rotating boom, which let him switch directions easily.
It wasn’t difficult for Slate to learn what little sailing skill the Calamity required. There was just a single mainsail, which allowed Hid, who was usually at sea by himself, to have greater control, and over the years, he had mastered how the Calamity’s design best rode the particular winds of northeastern Aelioanei.
“Slate, you seem to be a natural,” Hid said after giving a brief lesson. “You know, my father said that a sailor is born, not made. Also said that the only true sailor is the small-boat sailor. See, we gotta know how to make the wind carry us from one place to another. Have to know about rips and eddies, bar and channel markings, know about how the weather works. And most importantly, a small-boat sailor has to be able to learn the little quirks that give a boat its personality. How to coax her, bring her gently about. You’ll get that all soon enough too, I’m sure!”
The happy old sailor sang over the crash of the waves as the Calamity's sails caught a strong wind, which tried as hard as it could to lift the boat right up out of the ocean. The little craft leapt and stuttered over the breakers close to the pier, and then began to pick up smooth speed once it was free of the harbor.
“We’ve got to take her east now, aim for the clouds,” Hid called.
Slate gripped the wheel with white hands as he described a foamy arc through the sea, and bit down hard on the anxiety that was trying to knock him over.
Chapter 8