Flashback Tunes of the sea

[Timothy Mered]

1st Summer 514AV

Sylvester Mercator was a merchant of many abilities, but it was Spinespider, his right hand man that added a violent weight to his every word. The bald dim-wit, born of an ox and a bull, proud owner of a leather whip with shark teeth in it, instilled fear in slaves and sailors alike. Too doltish to realise that his Myrian blood would've added to his reputation in ways that being born of cattle never could, Spinespider instead relied on other rumours to add to his reputation. Legend had it he sacrificed the intestines of his victims to Rhysol after he'd dragged them out with a hook and one of the slaves swore that he was in fact a priest of the vicious God.

Tim could scarcely imagine what Sylvester had said or done to earn Spinespider's unwavering loyalty, but the brute never questioned his superior. Not even if Sylvester commanded him to cease his favourite activity, whopping those who had the misfortune of being in his vicinity. The man's obsession with ants and other small insects, one which would've marked any other man as a hermit, was the only thing that signified him as human, Tim thought.

So when the mindless brute came plodding down the lower deck, whip in hand, keys dangling from the other, and marched straight over to him, Tim nearly saved Spinespider the effort of dragging out his guts as his heart launched itself into his throat and remained stuck there. Without a word, the chains around his wrists and ankles were removed and he was dragged upward. Stiff from idleness, his legs swayed underneath him, but Spinespider had not the patience to wait for some vermin to regain its balance or adapt to the fiery red of the setting sun. Several sailors shot a fleeting glance at him before averting their gaze and reassuming their tasks. Slipping and stumbling over the planked deck, Tim was pushed into the captain's hut. "Do as 'e says," was all Spinespider grumbled before slamming the door shut and leaving Tim in a narrow corridor with another door three feet ahead.

Astounded, Tim stepped forward and carefully opened the door.

"As I expected," Sylvester's voice sounded. There, at a large Mahoney table, bolted to the floor, occupied only by a silver plate, a map, a quill and a vial of ink, sat Master Mercator himself. His bony finger curled. "Come closer."

Tim obliged, keen brown eyes boring into him.

"I've been told you sing."

"I tries to. Sumtimes."

"You try to," Sylvester corrected. "Some times. Well, sing me a song, I've been hearing too much Shanties than I deem healthy." With clipped, straight movements, the captain prepared his handkerchief, sat up straight and gently sliced the delicate food in front of him, patiently waiting for his ears to be caressed.

It was a good thing the ocean was still that day, for even the slightest rocking would've knocked Tim off his feet as he queried his mind for an appropriate song. Seven more ticks passed before his subconscious latched on to a hazy memory. A song his mother had sung him on a summer eve. It had been a lovely day, though he couldn't quite recall what had made them so happy then. The melody was simple enough, the beat and rhythm soothing on the ears. When he started, he only worried his voice would be too gruff or shallow for the occasion:

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life’s fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?


He held the last note a bit too long, and it quivered more than he would've liked before it faded and he dared to lay eyes upon Sylvester again. No applause or smile came, only a slight inclination of the head, biding him to carry on.

[Timothy Mered]

1st Summer 514AV

Tim besieged his mind for another song. What did this man even like? Happy songs? Sad ones? Someone as groomed and well-kept as Sylvester Mercator was completely unreadable. The man continued eating as if he wasn’t even there. His movements were measured and weighted. Not gracious, but clipped and calculated as if driven by machinery.

Tim sucked in a deep breath, folded his hands behind his back and began to sing:

King death was a rare old fellow
He sat where no sun could shine
And he lifted his hand, so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine

Sylvester wasn’t even looking at him. The balding captain studied his map with one eye and his meal with the other. There was a slight hiccup in Tim’s voice as a waft of roast chicken hit his nostrils. All he’d been having aboard the ship was stale bread, water, broth and some smashed together groceries resulting in a thick, slimy brown goo that was best consumed with your nose pinched and your eyes closed. At least he was doing his mother proud by downing it all without complaint.

The Scholar left all his learning
The Poet his fancied woes
And the Beauty, her bloom returning
As the beads of the black wine rose.

All came to the royal old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow
And pledged them in Death’s black wine.

Sylvester was done eating before Tim hit the last note. A stiff laugh escaped the man, and Tim didn’t know if he was genuinely amused or merely scoffing at his attempts.

“You still have much to learn,” Sylvester said, his voice cold, sharp, and to the point like a dagger.

“Yes Sir,” Tim said. A mistake judging by the grim lines on the captain’s forehead.

“Can you read notes?”

He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it and shook his head.

“Vanthis?” Sylvester called. An old, worn-out, dreary looking woman, not quite unlike a turtle in pace and appearance came shuffling out of a door to the side that had escaped Tim’s attention before. “Fetch me my music please.”

Almost a chime passed before Vanthis came shuffling back. Her baggy cheeks threatened to fall off when she said, "here, Master Mercator," before handing Sylvester a small pile of books. The smell of worn and torn paper lingered like a heavy fog in the air. Sylvester waved Tim over.

“Come here, don’t be frightened.”

But there was very little in the man’s voice to keep his legs from shaking or his hands from trembling as he approached the desk. “Vanthis, bring the boy some hot gin and water, and a slice of your apple pie too.”

Vanthis bowed like an ancient tree, forced into bending by a strong gust of wind and Tim thought he heard her bones snap back into place when she rose again. Unfazed by her tardiness, Sylvester flipped through some of the books before he turned a small, brown one over to Tim.

Afraid to even touch something so valuable and fragile looking, Tim just kept staring at the cover page.

“Can’t you read?”

“Music for Beginners: An intro-” he swallowed down a gulp, “an introduction.”

“Would you like to read it?”

Tim narrowed his eyes. The man was up to something, no doubt. Why else would he trust a priceless book to some low-life Sunberthian? As if by divine intervention, Sylvester read his mind.

“You’re wondering why I’d let you have it?” The sly merchant leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingerstips together. “You are to be a slave, boy. Of that there is no doubt. You will work every day of your live, you will toil and you will do as others tell you or bear the lash.”

“Now,” Sylvester cleared his throat, “why do you think I bought you?”

Tim raised his shoulders, “I dunno. ‘Cause I was cheap?”

The merchant chortled. “Because you are young, and anyone your age from Sunberth, in your condition, is a valuable asset.” For a moment, only the soft creaking of the ship and rustling sails could be heard. “But that alone would mean I could earn maybe ten mizas off you, fifteen if I am lucky. That would harldy cover the travelling expense. But what happens to your worth if you become blessed with a heavenly voice?”

“It rises?”

“Precisely. And you’ll live a better life too, full of pleasantries and special occasions.”

Slowly, the concept began to dawn on him. This sounded a right lot better than plucking cotton, like some of the other slaves had mentioned. He could still become someone and possibly even earn money on the side, until he would have enough to buy a house of his own and…

“Why me?” he asked. “Why just me? Why not the others?”

Sylvester froze, his posture tensed. The boy was treading on some mighty thin ice. “Because you’re special,” he said, “and that is that.”