Flowers and Firelight: Mutton Island Meetings

Fallen London
121

“I am close, closer than ever before, to Storm. I’m afraid He has always been terribly strong in the union that makes me up.” Absimiliard looks to Appolonia, “I think you can confirm that.” Their voice is jesting, and they laugh a bit, but underneath there is an awareness of how unstable they, like Storm, can be.

“So, yes, soon I think I must go. Yet I am quite angry with Him right now, so I resist. I suspect when He has enough of my importunate recalcitrance He will force the issue and blind me until I too give in – like both of you have – and come to listen to the wind on the heights.”

A pause, “But not quite yet.”

122

Appolonia nods at Absimiliard’s words. Yes, a part of the Captain. A strong part.

But she shakes her head at the words that follow.

&quotNo, I have never given myself to Storm. He rides in my eyes, and in my dreams, and offers many things. Love, omniscience, the secret Correspondence of the lover and beloved. But I have never given myself to Him. I avoid the winds and the well.&quot

&quotI have studied the rituals of the Third City too much, I think, to find anything romantic in it, despite his whispers, sweet as thunder.&quot

She turns to Eglantine. &quotIf you enjoy lore of that kind, I could show you my notes sometime on the directional wells of the Third City, and what it meant to be made sacrifice in one.&quot

123

Eglantine nods a little. “Good luck, when you do seek out the songs of the wind,” they murmur, to Absimiliard.

To Appolonia, they say, “Yes, thank you. I’d enjoy reading those, I think.” Their smile is sharply rakish. “But it doesn’t have to be romantic to call to a person. All it has to be is compelling. And it is that.” Their storm-touched eyes drift vaguely in and out of focus. “Later, I will dance in the winds, and dare them to lift me up into the night-of-the-mind, where the waking clouds call and the fires are cold as ice.” The focus returns, though touched with a hint of confusion. “Directional wells, you say? I’ll have to study that quite closely.”

124

She nods, expression solemn.

&quotIt is not the sort of notes I would bring to a place I expect to get wet.&quot

&quotBut I can tell you some of it, since you seem interested.&quot

“I know from a man who wondered into the mind of Storm – or was possessed by Storm? – that Storm has many of the Surface gods of rain and thunder inside it. Thor. Perun. Indra, Xolotl, Lei Gong, Set and Adad.&quot

&quotPerhaps you have seen that,” she adds to Eglantine, “if you have let the winds catch you?”

“There is such a storm god from the era of the 3rd city – Chaac, the rain god of all four directions. For Chaac, one willing sacrifice waits at each of the four corners, chanting the croak-song of frogs, and then is lowered into the karstic well of that direction to drown and enter the realm of that aspect of Chaac, to become escort and oracle. Voice of the Rain. Voice of the Wind.”

“Each direction was an aspect of Chaac, notable for its direction and color. East is red – Red Man Chaac, or Chac Xib Chaac. South is yellow. West is black. And north is white.”

“Now, we know that there are three surviving priests of the 3rd city currently in the Tomb Colonies – sometimes called the Snake, the Red Bird, and the Cat. These could be the drowned priest-oracles of the directions. Red Bird would be east, a bird the color of cinnabar, a color associated with death, and used to paint graves and skeletal remains.”

&quotThe cat – the mottled man – could be yellow or black, the colors of the jaguars of Xibalba, and thus south or west. The snake – the man with snakes for arms – could also be yellow or black, but very unlikely white.”

“Regardless, there is definitely one oracle-sacrifice missing.&quot

“The thunder sometimes urges me ‘NORTH’. I am wondering if that is why another sacrifice is needed. Something happened to the priest of White Chaac, of the north.”

“But, I also found a fragment that confirmed that the 3rd city was famous for five wells. Not just four. The four cardinal directions, and … and a passage to another place or realm? Another direction? Above? Or deep?”

“But that is not a topic to speak of in a public place.”

125

Eglantine nods thoughtfully. &quotI recall the thunder once telling me ‘never go North’,&quot they note. &quotDo not go North, never go North, it said. Given the ways of the Northridden, I’m minded to heed that.&quot They grimace slightly. &quotOnly anguish waits that way, I think, both for those that go and those they leave behind.&quot

They force a brittle-sounding laugh. &quotBut this is grim talk for a festive place. And the winds can wait. Better, perhaps, to feast and dance in firelight and warmth, and keep merry company, if one can find it.&quot

126

Appolonia smiles genuinely at Eglantine’s words.

&quotAgain, you draw me from melancholy thoughts to mirthful ones. It is kind of you. I must return the favor and find some occasion to make you smile.&quot

&quotThough,&quot she looks at them closely, &quotif you get tired of smiling sometimes, at least you can know that you have a friend who does not mind other moods. There is … time enough for both. And either can be restful if the other feels sometimes like a mask.&quot

&quotAre you all hungry?&quot She asks, offering another topic. &quotThe apple slices were delicious, but I think there is more to be had here at the feast if you want.&quot

Her eyes, though, are more on the dancing than the food.

Is it the sort of dance that three people could join? Or, a partner dance?

127

Absimiliard nods, “Food would be a good idea, but I’m afraid I must away. The tides are turning,” and indeed the surf has visibly drawn back in the past half an hour, “and my zailors are soon to be returning. Well, as soon as I call them back in.” Absimiliard smiles at the other two, “So, much as I’d love to stay, time and tide …” Leaning over briefly they kiss Eglantine.

With that they rise, and – pitching their alto up and loud, in a ringing tone clear enough to be heard over the sounds of battle or gunfire – calls out, “Ware the Hussy! Crew to the ship, we Zail on the tide!”

From all around there is assorted grumbling, but eight or nine men and women disentangle themselves from the crowds and head towards a longboat pulled up on the beach.

The engineer of the Brazen Hussy approaches, rubbing the side of his cheek with the steel hook that has replaced his hand, “If we’re back soon Cap’n we can have the boilers ready and a full head of steam in 75 minutes.” Absimiliard nods, approvingly, he continues, "Excellent, I hate rushing things, if there isn’t a battle afoot the added maintenance for rushing it is never worth it.

The two officers depart, talking ship’s business.