Karadra's Shipwreck

The Ship - Chapter 12

The few minutes he spent waiting for her passed like centuries. He felt like a fool as he sat on the bed and constantly shifted positions so as to look less pathetic when Maestra would enter the room. Tormented by his awkwardness, he hadn’t had the time to process anything, forbidding his mind from traveling back in time; all that had transpired before the violin’s melody had been erased.

The only thing he couldn’t forget was that he’d lost his knife while a captive of the pirates. An unpreventable loss, small compared to how things turned out, but this knife had served him more loyally than anything these past few years, and now, without it, he felt naked and helpless.

Maybe the fighting days are over. The possibility teetered in his mind, leaving a strange, unrealistic taste. The rest of his thoughts circled around Maestra. He allowed himself to imagine things that had no place in his world – almost as if they sneaked in through a crack in his subconscious and settled there like stowaways.

Soft footsteps approached the door and Arsik sprang up, wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs. A knock like the light rapping of a bird’s beak disturbed the quiet. Maestra came inside, floating into the room like a shadow. Her proximity sucked the air out of his lungs. She looked at him and smiled.

By wordless agreement, they both slowly sat on the bed. Arsik peered into her eyes. There was so much there. He tried to decipher something, anything, but didn’t know where to start. Her energy was different – intoxicating but with a certain weight to it, a familiar weight that enhanced his nervousness.

“Well,” she said, her beautiful chest coming into sharper focus as she straightened her torso. Arsik struggled to nudge his brain into functioning again.

“Why did you save me?” he blurted, interrupting whatever she’d been about to say.

“You needed help.”

Her eyes burned holes into him. Arsik c****d his head to the side and arched his eyebrows. “How did you find me?”

The first question had already proven difficult for her; the second one made her hesitate even more.

“Something inside me saw something inside you.”

Arsik froze. He mulled the words over in his head, pursed his lips, but produced no response. He stared at her in wonderment, as if there was a secret in the air and the game was for him not to reveal it first.

“You called me Berserk…”

“Berserker,” she supplied.

“I have heard it before, recently… I don’t know what it means.”

“You have heard of it? Where? From whom?” By the slight tension in her voice, it was a genuine question.

“I will tell you…” he hesitated. “Let’s take the crazy stories one at a time.”

At that, she graced him with one of her smiles.

“The Berserker is the spirit of rage, Arsik.” Elegant gestures accompanied her speech. “It is a heavy spirit for its Host to bear, challenging, but also strong and useful, and not the worst burden one can carry.”

Her words reverberated in his bones. He didn’t know why but felt their truth.

“You are saying that I am carrying a spirit inside me?”

“Yes, Arsik. You are a Host. You carry the spirit of Rage. That is what makes you a Berserker. It is an ancient term.”

Arsik thought of the Shaman and his words that night, during their conversation by the fire that burned human bodies. They had spoken about the Sentinel, Nature’s elements and the magic of the Crater and other religious matters that Arsik didn’t have the energy to fully absorb back then.

He looked at her again. “But… how? Why?”

With her unwavering smile, Maestra went on. “At some point in time, I can’t know how or when precisely, you summoned it.”

“Me? Never!” Arsik exclaimed like a child. With her index before her nose, Maestra asked him to be quiet, and Arsik hunched his back and bared his teeth.

“You summoned it,” she insisted in a whisper. “Even if you can’t remember when or why. The spirit heard you and came to you.”

Arsik rummaged through his memories for when this could have happened. There was no beginning or middle in this thread, though. Ever since he remembered himself, he possessed a volatile temper.

He grew up amidst fights in every corner of Saraport. He came home with bruises, scratches, cuts and a shitload of trouble, and next day it was the same all over again. Afterwards, it was the women and the rum, and later, the sea and the voyages. When he retired from being a sailor, the rum was all that was left for him. When, during all that, could he have summoned a spirit? And why?

On the other hand, how many times had he seen people praying to every god and every power in the world for aid? How much despair had he witnessed, and experienced himself, but also how much had he caused? Those he’d killed, Arsik had looked straight into their eyes. Many had been ferried to the world of the dead by means of his fists or his bare hands or his fingernails and teeth, while he stared deep into their eyes as their life spark flickered and went out.

That was something that profoundly changed a man. The warriors, the knights, the archers, even the wizards – they were all murderers, that was the world they chose, no denying that, but these murderers killed from the distance their weapon afforded them. Steel ripped their foe’s flesh in their stead, and they went on, believing they had witnessed all the horror in the world. They didn’t have the taste of it on their lips though.

Arsik did. Every person he’d killed, he’d come close enough to smell their breath. His body had fallen upon theirs; his eyes had bored into theirs, and he carried all that forever in his soul. Only rum could blur those images and calm his nerves, numbing him.

He returned to the here and now. “I don’t know how or when I did it. I’ve nothing to do with such things. I…”

Reaching out, Maestra brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and then let it drop again. “It doesn’t matter, Arsik. You didn’t do anything wrong. We attract what we are, you see. The spirit came to you and you went to it. It was meant to be. Don’t torture yourself.”

Arsik scrunched up his brow. “What is it going to do to me? Who is it?”

He recalled the gravelly voice in his sleep, prior to the melody and his rescue. The voice had also called him a Host.

“I do not know who it is, or… I can’t be sure, anyway, but you can find out. Possibly a dead warrior.”

Lies were disguised behind her sentences, or some sort of secret. Arsik had learned to see through people’s words, even people who wielded them more eloquently than him. He didn’t want to ruin their moment though. A part of him just let it go. “Yes, but why?”

“To help each other, Arsik. Quite possibly you needed its power and it needed something from you in return.”

He didn’t like that last part. Was she calling him weak? In some neighborhoods, that kind of comment would earn you an iron-clad fist on the side of your head.

“A dead warrior?” he asked.

She nodded. “His spirit was trapped somewhere, for some reason – we can’t know for certain, not yet. Usually, spirits like that have suffered some grave injustice, and in their despair for their tragic fate have lost their way towards peace and have been caught between dimensions. Their only way out is to find a Host to carry them, but they’re not welcome everywhere. Not all bodies and souls are the same and, often, these spirits wander around homeless, forsaken.”

“Homeless?” Arsik’s eyes bulged out like a child’s. Her compassion for those spirits was plainly audible. “You mean that… that my strength isn’t mine?” he asked defensively, and her smile widened.

“Men,” she remarked wryly. “It is yours, my irascible friend. It is simply that the spirit provided you with even more strength when you needed it. I cannot say exactly how much, but a Berserker can exhibit tremendous power.”

Arsik narrowed his eyes. He had started hearing hidden meanings behind her words again. “Is that why you saved me? For the power of the spirit inside me?”

“That too,” she affirmed.

“How do you know all this?”

Maestra faltered. “I found out,” she finally said. “Just as you are finding it out now.”

Arsik wasn’t convinced. “You said… That something inside you saw something…”

She interrupted him, smiling and leaning towards him. “You were lucky, my sweet Arsik.” Her words mesmerized him. “In your misfortune, I mean, when I saw you on that cross.”

She seemed genuinely moved, almost to tears. Arsik had started growing suspicious. “A lot of people are on those crosses every day,” he said pointedly and absently stroked his temples.

“It is so. Such is the truth of our world. We don’t control the ink; we can only read the writing. But sometimes, we are given the opportunity to correct.”

“And how do you know what I did to end up there? You don’t know anything about me. Why save me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, irritating him more.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Maestra judged Arsik couldn’t handle much more at the moment and softened her voice. “We will explain everything to you, Arsik, I promise, but in due time. I would like you to be rested and strong… and calm!”

Was that a dose of fear in her words? Arsik would never harm her. He had already decided he could kill for her.

When he opened his mouth to reply, he remembered the rest of them –the captain, the creature, the ship and so many unanswered questions– but, of its own volition, his mind dragged him back to the violin.

“I heard you,” he said, and she knitted her brow. “In the dark. When I was on that cross, I heard your violin.”

Frowning, she angled her head and looked at him through narrowed eyes, puzzled. “But I wasn’t playing, Arsik. I haven’t even taken the violin out of its case all day. It wouldn’t be much of a rescue operation if I gave myself away by playing music, now, would it?”

Arsik laughed but shook his head. “I heard you, Maestra.” He liked the sound of her name rolling off his tongue. He wanted to get used to it. “I heard your melody, it was beautiful… And he heard it too. It, I mean… The Spirit.”

Maestra raised her brows. “Oh!” she said, with some of that subtle, foreign accent again. “I see you learn quickly, that is good!” Proud for having impressed her, he nodded, his lips sealed, to hide the ugliness of his smile.

“So, it wasn’t you playing?” Arsik was trying to understand.

“No, Arsik. I mean, it may have been, but not at the time you heard the melody or at the place you were. It is hard to explain. You may have heard my violin, but I wasn’t playing it at that moment.”

That wasn’t making any sense, but he didn’t mind. “Where are you from?” he asked.

Her chest rose and fell by a deep breath. “Where I come from?”

He nodded. “Yes. Your name is Maestra. Do you have a last name?”

“I do. Hearthworn.”

Arsik searched through his memory. The name didn’t ring any bells.

“That was the name I grew up with, but of course, not the one I was born with. Hearthworn is a human name, and as you have noticed, I am an elf.”

She playfully showed off her beauty by straightening her back. Arsik swallowed the bait immediately and without protest. “Yes, I- I see that- I mean, I noticed, before. They have a name for you, for your race…” He hesitated.

“The Meteor Elves,” she provided. “Yes, it is a tad inelegant, but it is the truth, I believe. Our tunnels stretch deep under the ground, as do our cities. There was a time that our race dug hungrily in search of the Meteor. We took our color from it.”

She pointed at the fiery red streaks on her white hair. Arsik seemed surprised. “So, Hearthworn isn’t your real name?”

She shook her head. “That is the name I grew up with though, and the one I remember. We lived in Evergrace back then. That name held power once. Not so much anymore.”

Arsik knew nothing about Evergrace. The place she described definitely wasn’t part of the South, or the neighboring kingdoms of men. Never during his voyages had he heard that last name or that place, and that was very strange. “I’ve never heard of it,” he said.

“It was famous… Once,” she answered with a smile, confusing him more.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly after a while. “Thank you for saving me, Maestra.”

Her whole face transformed by a brilliant smile. She smiles with her eyes. “It was my pleasure, Arsik.”

Silence stretched between them. Arsik’s gaze traveled from her eyes to her lips – he couldn’t help it.

“How about you?” she blurted.

Arsik thought of her question and barked out a laugh. How many times had he been asked about his last name and where he came from?

“What about me?”

“Where are you from? What is your last name?”

He remembered the story about the iceberg and the wolves and laughed again. Maestra looked at him curiously, amused by his jollity.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, “but I just remembered something very funny!”

“What is it?” she inquired, eager to join in the merriment.

He explained to her about the pirates. He told her the entire story, about Phaelo and the tavern, Talos and the jungle, but not in the right order. First, he told her about the guard and his questions, and the ludicrous answers he’d received – Arsik wanted to lighten the mood, and Maestra laughed heartily, momentarily forgetting the need for quiet. Then he told her the rest, about the native tribe, the temple and the Medusa, about Golderim and what followed.

Maestra watched him, enthralled. She angled her head this way and that, fascinated by his story and the ordeals Arsik had been through, frequently commenting on how lucky or how strong he was. She seemed to genuinely and tirelessly enjoy his tale.

Arsik was an impeccable storyteller. In the taverns, the few times he would be in a good mood, he’d share stories from his voyages; he had a gift for that. In the past, many used to tell him to become a bard or a poet, but he always rejected the idea; as the years passed, fewer people told him anything in general. At that moment, though, something of that old spark had been revived and he was enjoying it. He held Maestra’s attention and admiration and juggled them expertly, like an acrobat leaning this way or that according to the audience’s response. He was winning her over, step by step, and it was common knowledge that whoever lost at gambling, fate balanced the scales by allowing them to win in a different department.

Arsik had always been a terrible gambler.

Hours passed in this joyous way. Outside, light had started creeping into the dark, and the color of the sky was changing as the ship kept dutifully following its unknown course. A solitary candle had been lit on the nightstand, but now it was almost depleted, leaving them in the hazy light of dawn that was stealing into the room.

Arsik looked outside the porthole. “Where are we heading?”

Like thunder, the question interrupted the tale towards the end. Maestra glanced at him with gleaming eyes. He was certain they weren’t traveling north – Thetir Island was nowhere to be seen. Passing by its shores would be inevitable when having any reasonable destination.

Maestra didn’t answer. She reached out and stroked his cheek, once with her palm, once with the back of her hand. Arsik felt electrified. He grasped her hand reflexively. Three fingers fit into her palm. His wounds, though, reminded him of everything he’d been through. He pulled his hand back in pain but, more than that, because he didn’t wish to repulse her.

Maestra brought his retreating, mutilated hand back decisively. She kissed the center of his palm, where the nail had only recently penetrated his flesh, and then she went on to kiss his fingers, both those that remained whole and those that’d been reduced to stumps.

A thousand expressions contorted Arsik’s face as he watched her. He seized her by the hair on the back of her neck and pulled her to him fervently. She responded with a moan that burned his skin. He found her mouth with his, her tongue exploring the empty space. Ashamed though he was for his lack of teeth, he didn’t stop. His forehead caught on fire and the rest of his body followed suit.

Fumbling, he relieved her of her cloak. Underneath, a flimsy black dress covered her body. He took it off hastily in his raging hunger for her and they lay back on the bed. Her warmth engulfed him as he entered her body. Her hands were anchored on his back. Their joined movement was fierce, rhythmless, but at the same time, it sealed them together perfectly and searched for its own unique pulse.

There was chaos in their harmony and harmony in their chaos. Her moaning was music to his ears. With his fingers tangled in her hair the whole time, he was drowning in a myriad fragrances arising from the earth, from the ancient tunnels of the Elves and the power of the Meteor that gave life to their world. He remembered the explorer’s side he’d buried inside him, the seafarer. His hands traveled over black curves and valleys. Her breasts were mountains and her hair were roots; her legs guarded the secrets of the jungle and Arsik wanted everything – voraciously, clumsily, fiercely, until his body could stand it no longer.