Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369) by Marie Brennan Page B
Authors: Marie Brennan
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started to become intolerable—I began to grasp the truth of what was happening with Jake.
As related in the first volume of my memoirs, a tipping point in my life came early on, when at the age of seven I first learned how to preserve a sparkling and then dissected a dove to study what the wishbone was for. From those two events I formed an obsession with all things winged, which eventually settled more firmly upon dragons (though I still retain a great fondness for birds and some insects).
Jake’s tipping point was the Basilisk . From the moment he set foot on her decks, he knew—though he did not articulate it this way until years later—that he was home. He loved the great and complex array of rigging and sails that brought the ship to life. He loved the clever way the necessities of life were miniaturized and tucked into every available corner. He loved the tang of salt water and the whip of the sea wind and above all, the sheer feeling of freedom that came from being in flight across the waves.
I did not understand this at first. While I enjoyed being at sea, it was not an unmitigated delight. And Tamshire, my childhood home, is a landlocked county, so I had no personal familiarity with the way in which the ocean calls to some hearts. It was inexplicable to me that Jake, who had grown up in the quiet suburb of Pasterway and the busy streets of Falchester, would take so instinctively to the sea. But so it seemed to be; and if indeed it was a passing infatuation, as I had at first assumed, then it was exhibiting a notable failure to pass on schedule.
Of course, Jake being nine, he did not take to shipboard life in anything like a dignified fashion. Despite that early admonition from the captain and his experience with the sea-serpent, he went where he should not, touched things he should not. And one day when we were in the middle of the ocean, with the Basilisk standing almost motionless on a glassy plate, Aekinitos hauled my son before me by the scruff of his neck.
We were then in the region sailors call “the doldrums,” near the equator. Here the winds sometimes fail altogether, leaving sailing ships utterly becalmed. The sky was hot copper above us, the water flat gold below. I was on deck, taking advantage of the stillness to produce more finished drawings of the sea-serpents and wyverns. I did hear the commotion down below, but I disregarded it, as I had learned to disregard many of the noises and activities that periodically roiled the crew.
I did not even look up when a clump of people began moving toward me across the deck. Not until they stopped before me did I pause in my pencil work. Then, to my dismay, I saw Aekinitos standing with one hand clenched around the collar of my son’s shirt, and Jake looking both sullen and guilty. Sweat plastered his hair to the edges of his face in damp swags that could not muster the will to be curls.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Aekinitos gave a quick shake of his hand, making my son twitch. “Mr. Dolin caught him playing with this .”
The first mate handed him an object, which Aekinitos then thrust toward me. A sextant, I saw. “Whose is that?”
“Mine,” the captain rumbled. “Your boy stole it, and was using it as a toy .”
I had no doubt that Jake had borrowed rather than stolen it; what would he do with a sextant of his own? But such a distinction would not mean much to the captain, nor should it. “Jake,” I said, my own voice hardening, “is this true?”
Shame-faced, my son nodded.
We were gathering more of a crowd: not just the sailors who had followed Aekinitos and Dolin and Jake from belowdecks, but others who were up above, and Tom and Abby besides. The captain raised his voice slightly, no doubt for their benefit. “I cannot have such disobedience aboard my ship. For theft, the penalty is flogging.”
“Now see here, ” I said, shooting to my feet. My drawing board and pencil clattered to the deck. I knew enough of sea life
As related in the first volume of my memoirs, a tipping point in my life came early on, when at the age of seven I first learned how to preserve a sparkling and then dissected a dove to study what the wishbone was for. From those two events I formed an obsession with all things winged, which eventually settled more firmly upon dragons (though I still retain a great fondness for birds and some insects).
Jake’s tipping point was the Basilisk . From the moment he set foot on her decks, he knew—though he did not articulate it this way until years later—that he was home. He loved the great and complex array of rigging and sails that brought the ship to life. He loved the clever way the necessities of life were miniaturized and tucked into every available corner. He loved the tang of salt water and the whip of the sea wind and above all, the sheer feeling of freedom that came from being in flight across the waves.
I did not understand this at first. While I enjoyed being at sea, it was not an unmitigated delight. And Tamshire, my childhood home, is a landlocked county, so I had no personal familiarity with the way in which the ocean calls to some hearts. It was inexplicable to me that Jake, who had grown up in the quiet suburb of Pasterway and the busy streets of Falchester, would take so instinctively to the sea. But so it seemed to be; and if indeed it was a passing infatuation, as I had at first assumed, then it was exhibiting a notable failure to pass on schedule.
Of course, Jake being nine, he did not take to shipboard life in anything like a dignified fashion. Despite that early admonition from the captain and his experience with the sea-serpent, he went where he should not, touched things he should not. And one day when we were in the middle of the ocean, with the Basilisk standing almost motionless on a glassy plate, Aekinitos hauled my son before me by the scruff of his neck.
We were then in the region sailors call “the doldrums,” near the equator. Here the winds sometimes fail altogether, leaving sailing ships utterly becalmed. The sky was hot copper above us, the water flat gold below. I was on deck, taking advantage of the stillness to produce more finished drawings of the sea-serpents and wyverns. I did hear the commotion down below, but I disregarded it, as I had learned to disregard many of the noises and activities that periodically roiled the crew.
I did not even look up when a clump of people began moving toward me across the deck. Not until they stopped before me did I pause in my pencil work. Then, to my dismay, I saw Aekinitos standing with one hand clenched around the collar of my son’s shirt, and Jake looking both sullen and guilty. Sweat plastered his hair to the edges of his face in damp swags that could not muster the will to be curls.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Aekinitos gave a quick shake of his hand, making my son twitch. “Mr. Dolin caught him playing with this .”
The first mate handed him an object, which Aekinitos then thrust toward me. A sextant, I saw. “Whose is that?”
“Mine,” the captain rumbled. “Your boy stole it, and was using it as a toy .”
I had no doubt that Jake had borrowed rather than stolen it; what would he do with a sextant of his own? But such a distinction would not mean much to the captain, nor should it. “Jake,” I said, my own voice hardening, “is this true?”
Shame-faced, my son nodded.
We were gathering more of a crowd: not just the sailors who had followed Aekinitos and Dolin and Jake from belowdecks, but others who were up above, and Tom and Abby besides. The captain raised his voice slightly, no doubt for their benefit. “I cannot have such disobedience aboard my ship. For theft, the penalty is flogging.”
“Now see here, ” I said, shooting to my feet. My drawing board and pencil clattered to the deck. I knew enough of sea life
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