Flowers for the Sea Page 3

  “That was her?”

  Hirat nods, face grave.

  “Dear gods.” She looks down at me. “Iraxi, I must know—do you feel cramping? Worse than normal? Like your insides are squeezing too tightly?”

  I want to spit venom for such a stupid question, but I blink instead.

  “Yes?” she asks desperately. I blink again. “Yes. Has the child moved?” I blink again and a little yip of glee pops from her throat. I want to knock her in it. “I must examine you. Forgive me.” I blink again, already prepared for the assault.

  She moves quickly, Hirat already tugging at my dresses, lifting me by my buttocks briefly to ensure complete access, to reveal my smooth, undamaged mound. Even my scars have flattened to mimic new skin. The metal cone feels like a ring of fire against my belly, but again, I am robbed of my expression. She makes quick work of measuring the child’s heartbeat, her smile bright and happy and infuriating. She then moves to the bottom of the table, her excited hands pushing my legs apart hastily, her fingers immediately slipping inside. Only to instantly recoil.

  She lifts her fingers to the minimal light and spreads them, a thin film connecting them still.

  “Your plug has dropped. You’ve begun labour.”

  I cannot respond, my voice still gone, my strength waning. But, somehow, I know she is wrong. I think of those tentacles below, of those massive wings above.

  This child has already been born. Into the sky and into the sea, this child is among this world.

  And it will swallow it whole.

  PART III: ROOTS

  IT FEELS AS IF a small eternity has passed. The cramping has ceased and my breathing has returned to its pathetic level of normalcy.

  The child has not moved in nearly an hour.

  “Did you see it?”

  My voice is hoarse and small in the tiny space, but by the reaction from Ket and Hirat, it was as if I’d rained down hell from my throat. Hirat grabs hold of my hand with a tenderness that makes my chest stutter, Ket laying a clammy hand on my shoulder.

  “What is it, my love?” he whispers desperately. It is then I realize he is on his knees, his eyes at level with mine as I lie on the table.

  I swallow several times before croaking again, “Did you see it?”

  Ket turns away suddenly and returns with a bowl of desalinated water. Hirat lifts me by the back of my neck and Ket guides the bowl to my parched lips. I drink with eagerness until it is dry and say again, “Did you see it?”

  The strength is returning to my limbs bit by bit, the water rejuvenating me. Reigniting my panic. Yet it is different, less palpable than before. As though it is fleeing me as quickly as it rises.

  “Tell me you saw it!” I spit through gritted teeth.

  “Saw what, my love?!” Hirat pleads, pressing my knuckles to his chapped lips. I want to pull away, but my rejuvenation is limited.

  “In the sea, the air,” I say, my conviction waning as the images pass before me again. The transparency of them makes me question my sanity almost as quickly. I frown, my eyebrows knitting, eyes falling downwards. Hirat captures my cheek in his rough palm, his gaze grabbing mine.

  “What, my love?” he asks again.

  I swallow, meet his gaze head on. Square myself. “Nothing,” I say.

  He nods shortly, then says, “How are you feeling?”

  Again, I hear the concern for me, not just the parasite within me. Not just for the fate of this boat.

  Before I can answer, Ket squeezes my shoulder and says, “You should rest, Iraxi, and not in the hammock. Waters have been calm. Take advantage and lie on a cot. The next few hours will be crucial.”

  “What else must she do?” Hirat asks, his eyes still in mine. I cannot look away, completely enraptured by something I’m unsure of. A tiny patter has begun just above my heart and I cannot stop it. I find myself reaching for his face with my free hand, my fingertips brushing over his scraggly beard, the coarse hair igniting my flesh. I long to feel it burn the sensitive skin between my thighs. I long to feel him against me, over me, inside of me.

  “We must prevent infection. The plug has shifted and I did not help the situation by—”

  “How, Ket?” Hirat pushes.

  “She must go into full labour soon. The child must be born right away, but over an hour has passed since the last spasm—”

  “How?”

  Ket shifts beside me, clearly discomfited by mine and Hirat’s growing proximity to one another. My scent is permeating worse than ever, thickening the air. “Hasten labour. Walk—slowly, mind you—around the boat, maybe. But no stairs. You can tear, subject yourself to more . . . air. Um . . .”

  But she doesn’t continue so I motion to sit up, and immediately Hirat is on his feet, an arm around my mid-back to help me upwards. I shift until I am at the edge of the table, the movement laborious and taxing. Blood rushes to my feet and I stifle my groan, shutting my eyes and squeezing Hirat’s hand to relieve the discomfort. He takes the pressure well, even returns some of it, knowing preternaturally just how much is needed to feel relief.

  Ket watches in fascination, her muddy skin splattered with red clay. Her eyes are pointedly at the meeting of our hands, the orbs moist. A corner of my mouth tugs upwards.

  “With your permission, Ket, I’d like to begin my exercises,” I say once it is clear she has no intention of finishing her statement.

  She nods, then licks her lips. “Uh, yes, of course, Iraxi. That is best.” Her voice is airy, yet it is clearly a concerted affect. I tilt my head and watch her for an uncomfortable moment but say nothing.

  I squeeze Hirat’s hand twice and he responds with the other on my lower back, guiding me as I slide off the table and onto swollen feet.

  He does not turn back as we exit.

  * * *

  I wait patiently in my quarters as Hirat clears the deck of all other passengers.

  My sudden, unscheduled appearance above had been part of why Hirat had been so cross with me. My pregnancy upsets others, my belly a reminder of what is at stake, of the power I hold, yet again, over the heads of my people and of those who remain from other villages. Or of others’ shortcomings. I care not for their reasons, but the relegation has created a bitterness I feel with every waking hour.

  For once, I am not seething with rage.

  For the end is nigh. And, soon, I will be relieved of this duty.

  Another yearning disturbs my body, one that sensitises my skin to the very air around me. My nipples tighten to the point of pain, the blouse of my dress drenched with twin stains of weak milk. For the first time in weeks, I feel a tingling sensation at my apex not associated with the need to pee.

  I yearn for the touch of a lover.

  Echoes of the feel of Hirat’s beard shudder through me and I shut my eyes just as the door opens.

  “Iraxi? What is it?”

  There is a twitch in my womb, then languid stretching. Towards the door.

  There is no pain.

  “Come,” I say, my eyes still closed. It is Hirat, I know this. By his smell, by his voice. By the eagerness in those steps. His heat is undeniable as he kneels in front of me, my chair creaking as he settles his hands on the tops of my thighs.

  Slowly, I split them.

  The breath that leaves him is ragged, strained. Needy.

  His fingers dig into the muscle and I feel myself open to him.

  My womb settles gently, like a sigh, as his hands move upward, dragging my dresses with them. The sweat from his palms overwhelms me as they slide underneath my belly, stopping at the juncture of my torso and legs. My own hands grip the back of the chair and the top of the table, nails digging into softened wood until slivers bury themselves deep within the beds.

  “Stand,” Hirat says. And I do. With ease.

  We move until the waist-high bunk interrupts our dance. Then he is on me. His lips pressed against mine, flaked skin cutting mine, yet the touch is gentle, cautious. Loving, maybe. If only I knew what that truly meant.


  Mine eyes still deny me the pleasure of his face. Sealed loosely, yet heavy. So, it is a shock to me when his hands clasp the backs of my thighs, lifting me easily as if I’m lighter than air. I yelp, grasping at his shoulders until my back touches the thin pallet upon my underused bunk. He is over me, I feel him, but for once I fear his weight upon my belly and I shift, finding strength to nearly fight him, make him submit. We tussle, hands grasping for purchase, for heated flesh, ripping at tattered shreds of cloth.

  I am on top when he finds me. I hold myself above, hover until that callused grip is desperate enough to bruise. Then I ease down, he slips inside, and I open my eyes just as he closes his.

  PART IV: EPHYRA

  SLUMBER TAKES ME QUICKLY when we finish and I dream of blue-black skies filled with razorfangs, the faces of our young ones in their maws. I wake with a start to find Hirat gone and a twinge in my side.

  It is beginning again.

  I ease myself up and a wave of nausea eases over me like thick sick oozing in reverse. I allow the world to right itself as much as it will on this ship, then slip to my feet. Thousands of pins and needles dance along the soles, but I trudge forth, ignoring the discomfort to relieve the need to pee.

  My chamber pot has been moved and panic clenches my lower belly. I move quickly towards the door, but I do not make it past the Green Room. The current has turned a bit treacherous, tossing the boat back and forth, and I stumble into a long-dead kumquat tree, my bladder releasing almost as quickly. Paired with Hirat’s seed, the smell of my body’s release is heady in this small, humid space. But for once, my stomach does not turn, my face does not heat with embarrassment.

  Instead, I inhale deeply.

  The scent tickles the back of my throat and I lick my lips, my mouth salivating for a meal I’ve never had the pleasure of consuming. As I finish, the twinge becomes an ache, dull yet insistent. I stand and it sharpens like a jab, stealing my breath for a moment. My hand cradles the spot and I feel movement towards the contact. Panicked, I flinch away. Rustling sounds behind me and I turn to see the tree shudder then stretch, its thin trunk plumping, the brown leaves falling, buds snapping to attention, then filling, then slinking heavy and full, a green so lush it is nearly black.

  I gape at the sight, my heart clawing to escape my chest, breath motionless in my lungs.

  Until the child moves again. The movement so aggressive, I feel myself clench as if to stop my womb from falling out. Coolness, thick and viscous, inches its way down my inner thighs and I squeeze them together, waddling awkwardly away from the tree, towards the storage room and staircase beyond.

  Towards the surface.

  Sunset approaches and the child knows it, its movements anxious yet fluid. I feel my womb shudder but it is a mere sensation; pain does not accompany it and I feel something like gratitude for it.

  The sound of movement beyond the rotting wood stops me and the child punishes me for it by punching downwards again, but I clasp my belly and grit my jaw, tempted to strike at the roving stone. It settles, then stretches with me towards the slots in the weak door.

  “You smell of her,” comes the hushed whisper, the voice wounded yet tight with anger.

  It is Ket.

  “What I smell of is not important,” comes the rushed reply, desperate, appeasing.

  Hirat.

  “The way you gazed at her in my quarters,” Ket insists, her tone surprisingly, almost disturbingly even. “In front of me. Like I was not even there.”

  “It was a mere moment,” Hirat returns, impatient. “I was concerned for the child, my child alone. I was trying not to upset her any further.” A pause. Shadows play against the slats, but I can see no clearer than before. The darkened shapes converge and I hear the wetness of a kiss. “You know my heart belongs to you, my dearest Ket.”

  I pull in a hard breath through my nose and I am assaulted with the smell of his dead seed. My scalp engulfs with liquid anger, my fists tightening hard enough to crack air. The child vibrates within me but causes no pain, no further dramatic movement.

  “Are you sure?” Ket asks, and I want to burst from the room and rip each and every follicle of hair from her head, want to pluck her sweet eyes out from her skull. I want to bathe in her fucking blood.

  After tearing him equally apart.

  But I stand still, allow them to continue. Allow my heart to shrink just a bit more.

  “Of course, my love,” he says, his undertone calling her silly.

  I crack a sharpened tooth, blood rushing to the site.

  “Go on now,” he says. “I must get her tea, keep her settled until it is time.”

  “Then we will do what must be done?” Ket asks, her voice meek. I hate her weakness, her vulnerability. I mostly hate her ability to wear it much better than I. It flows about her, like fine silks against the lithe frame that is her soft and too-sweet voice. Whilst mine clatters about me, torn to shreds by my sharp angles and muscled inflection.

  Another kiss. A sigh. Red drenches my vision.

  “Then we will. Now go.”

  And she scampers off with a giggle that makes me shake with fury. I listen to Hirat heave a sigh then head down the stairs.

  After a few moments of breathing slowly in and out, in and out, I open the door and reach the staircase. The deck below me sounds busy with clinking dishes and excited chatter. Everyone has reported below and is now settling in for a meager supper. I hear my name briefly but ignore the rest.

  I must not be caught heading to the top deck.

  We’re not allowed above at night. In the beginning, the night sky drew many of us to stargazing and quiet laments. But within a two-moon period, one by one, nearly one hundred and fifty of us were slipped below the dark surface. There was rumour of Sirens, the elusive beasts who cut our nets, the temptresses who drew lonely, desperate fools to their deaths.

  Until we learned of something much more sinister.

  Far-sea fishermen had warned us with fanciful tales of night beasts who took to the sky, blotting out the stars, muting both moons and all their brightness and all in order to hunt. They did not rest once the sun was eaten by the horizon. The night was theirs and everything that dared to cut through the ocean’s surface. We land-dwellers never saw them and the longboaters did not know where they perched, if they did at all. Perhaps they continuously chased the night, like we who chase a land long drowned.

  They’d taken a child that time and it was the child’s screams that had alerted us to the existence of razorfangs. Birds of the seas. Slick things with maws the size of a grown man while standing a head taller, pointed black beaks lined with rows upon rows of tiny teeth sharp enough to tear through our bones like soggy paper. We watched in horror as that poor boy was lifted into the air by his delicate feet, then disappeared below with a dive so sharp, the boy’s beaded necklace stayed upon the waves. We use the incident as folklore to keep the children below, aside from high noon. Most do not remember the screams.

  We thank those same godless depths for it.

  Heeding Ket’s words, I ascend slowly but still make it above in time for half the sun. The seas have stilled again. I reach the bow and lean against the railing. I take the horse from my bosom and study it, really study it for the first time in what must be years. In the beginning I’d stare until I swore I could see the imprints of my father’s fingers imbedded in the wood. Now, in this moment, I feel my breathing slow with each caress of my father’s knife, for once feeling the warmth, the pride of his little horse. The little horse he made for me.

  He made dozens of them over the years, my very first carved proper within a week of my first tooth. That one lasted until I was four. It didn’t die, really, it just . . . became a nub, you see. My father took great care in these engravings, sanding them down to perfect replication, then lovingly coating each in a thin layer of a family recipe. As a child I had no concept of the adoration and heart my father put into each and every one.

  Until he stopped.
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br />   It was years later, eleven years to be precise, when I asked him to make one last horse. I hadn’t meant it to be so, yet one year later, our world was reduced to ash.

  But I like to pretend this is the first horse he’d ever made. The one who cut my teeth, who soothed my throbbing gums with the dueling taste of sweetgrass and honey. The first one to taste my father’s blood race with love as he thought of his daughter, of me as I giggled in the bassinet, my mind drifting as it always had until my schooling years.

  I like to believe I am holding his love, a love just for me, a love that has always been mine.

  The thought stings and my eyes are leaking. I swipe at my face with my left fist, my right clenching hard.

  Last time I came this close to recalling, to feeling my father, I went on to break three men’s noses. I’d been obsessed then, rubbing the wood so hard, I’d eventually soften its burlap saddle to near-erasure. There had been a comment, I felt the sting behind my eyes as I remembered my father telling me let it go, ’raxi, let them stew in it, I felt the breath pass his lips, curl into the whorls of my ears and stay there, the intimacy of tone and pitch and a squeeze to shoulders and I swear, I swear I remember these three at the burning and I simply . . . reacted.

  My fist clamps tighter, the memory ghosting over every part of my body.

  The child settles, my womb cinching closer to it. Another shudder.

  Still no pain.

  The comfort of solitude is lost on me as is the warmth of the sea air. The winds are calm, yet I find no joy in the creatureless and clanless moment.

  The child shifts. Hugging my spine, nearly clawing at it.

  I am alone no longer. And so, I return the horse to my side and sigh.

  “Do you love him?”

  Amit. Again, that feeling of utter stupidity clouds me almost immediately. Just hearing his voice sets me on a precipice just about the clouds. The feeling annoys me, but I sense a smile. I can’t help it, really. Just like back on land, when I still had hope, when I still felt joy. I am reminded and I ache in a way I’d been hiding from since the fire. I shift and the tiny horse prods the side of my breast.