Nicolai laid, wide awake. Across from him, his friends and the ship's crew slept in the hatch, their hammocks swaying gently as the ship rocked on the calm sea. Nicolai studied the men in each hammock as a scientist studies subjects in nature. He cared not about their identities, but rather focused on their strands of hair or the curves of their faces or the fold of their wool blankets, which would form new creases with each turn of their tired owners. He stared at them not out of longing or admiration or pity but with a deepened sense of the present. These men, he told himself, from so many backgrounds and differing families, rest here tonight so that they may awake tomorrow to continue their journey into Hell.
He sat up to shake the thought from his head. Sagemark was indeed a city of rough characters and questionable behavior, but it was a far cry from the dark abyss. Yet he could not deny that the idea of entering the port held for him the fear of pending demise. The urge to wake the ship's members, to have them steer the wooden behemoth in the opposite direction, rose in him. It swelled to become a lump in his throat that wanted to release itself as a cry. No, Nicolai chided himself, my paranoia cannot show through.
The bite of early spring brushed across Nicolai's face as he stepped onto the deck. He stared up at the stars. It was a remarkably clear night, the type only expected in a desert or on a mountaintop, not on a sea known for its overcast tendencies. Nicolai admired the thousands of stars that blanketed the sky, as if Ada himself had cast diamonds into the abyss and suspended them in time and space.
"With all those stars to guide you, you still appear lost."
Nicolai snapped his head to find Dmitri reclining against a coil of rope on the deck. He smoked a hashpipe, the embers of which cast a soft orange light on his expressionless face.
"Ever the prophet, aren't you?"
Dmitri lowered his pipe as he stood. Nicolai moved to step away but stopped himself. Yet the slight shift in his weight, the hesitation of action, was all Dmitri needed to read Nicolai's apprehension. He strolled to Nicolai, confidant that he would not move back, that he would not cast aside his words but that he would listen at this moment when it was just the two of them.
"The sea is calm. It could rock a baby to sleep. Yet here you are," Dmitri said.
"And so are you."
"To smoke, of course. It's a mild hashish, so it allows me to keep my wits, and it does help to settle my stomach, which still manages to turn even on still water." Dmitri paused to exhale, extending his pipe to Nicolai. "Will you join me?"
"No." Nicolai extended his hand as he declined. "I came up here . . . to reassess our situation. As determined as Petrov, and you, were to take this voyage, I do not trust this crew."
"They're a bunch of sailors. No worse than the ones you'd find at Knight's Harbor."
"They're smugglers. Men seasoned at evading the law."
"Such as those that transported us across the Tartic?"
"This voyage is different. They're carrying zy – poison - back to our people."
"An unfortunate cargo, yes."
Dmitri paused. He looked to Nicolai as he stuffed more hashish into his pipe, waiting for him to reply. But he found Nicolai's discontent had led him to look up to the night sky once again for respite, as though he would find a prophecy from Ada written in the stars.
"The last time we spoke we were on a ship similar to this," Dmitri said, knowing he would have to start the conversation anew. "Only we were headed in the opposite direction, toward salvation, away from danger. Now, with Petrov's uncle close to death, we leave the dream of Maricania behind."
"You know of Petrov's uncle?"
"A little drink coaxed the truth out of our friends."
"Our friends?"
"Yes, our friends. I know them well too."
"And yet you abandoned us?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Dmitri stood for a moment, studying Nicolai's face, as if the answer to his question relied on interpreting the strands of his hair that bent in the wind, or the angles of his jaw or cheek bones, or the dark green of his irises. Nicolai stared right back at him. It was the first time he had been able to see him up close since that fateful voyage years before. Dmitri was similar to him in height and stature but bore little resemblance to either him or any other Chenian he had met. His irises were a dark brown, nearly black, and gave him a quality that one had to become accustomed to if one were in a face-to-face conversation with him, for it seemed that he could hypnotize his audience, be it one or many, at any moment. His face, unlike Nicolai's, reflected a life hard-lived in the worst ghettos of Maricania. His leathery skin made him appear ten years older than he actually was, a look accompanied by the worn locks of his hair and his unwashed face. He looked like an indigenous native from a tropical paradise, who had been plucked and relocated to an urban slum, left to rot in an environment not his own. Yet here he was, standing before Nicolai, a spirit of distant memory.
Nicolai did not know how long they stood staring at each other, but it seemed to be a sufficient time for Dmitri, for it was he who broke the silence.
"You are no doubt aware of the situation in Chenia at this point."
"I am aware of it."
"Does it surprise you?"
"How do you mean?"
"The state of relations between Czaria and Chenia. Does it surprise you?"
"I suppose not."
"You suppose?"
"No. It doesn't."
"Why did you hesitate to give such a firm answer?"
Nicolai stood, giving no reply, wondering where Dmitri was going to lead this line of questioning.
"In the days leading up to our drop off at Casis, I considered all that we could do once we reached Knight's Harbor. I imagined us staying in the ghetto for a few years, then saving our funds to move to a nicer place, maybe one of the Chenian neighborhoods in the country, where we could gather our resources and send for the rest of our family. But that night . . . when we spoke of my stepfather, I realized that time was not a luxury some of our people had. There was a reason why we had to be smuggled into Maricania: too many Chenians want to escape the conditions they face while the Maricanians want not to be bothered by our plight.
"I did not want to abandon you or the others. But I also didn't want to delude myself by following some pipe dream, of believing that we could save all whom we love by years of hard work and rare chances. I wanted to be not an average Chenian working day-by-day, but a possible asset to the cause our people face, a part of the solution."
Nicolai closed his eyes upon hearing those last few words. He knew of what Dmitri spoke. It had many names such as The Movement or The Resistance. It was an underground effort led by idealists and the disenfranchised. It was the reason Boris and the other men gathered on the rooftops each morning and night, talking of the old days while eating angelinos. They were not dejected residents but couriers, former militia of Chenia, ready to act in whatever way they could to help the motherland, whether it was smuggling Chenians – or weapons – across the sea or the borders or relaying information about home to those such as Petrov. It was men and women such as that, perhaps even Boris himself, who must have led Dmitri to them the night before.
"After you gave up your search for me, I went east to the great industrial cities of Maricania, with the sole intention of seeing how our Movement has progressed. Or rather how it hasn't. The dignitaries from Chenia, the supposed great men of our country, have all but forgotten the oppression they left behind. They've grown plump from greed and success, with their coffers full and their loyalties to the Eastern banks rather than their own people. A few I heard or read about made general accusations or vague references to what they believed should be done, but as far as action taken, they were either ineffectual or incompetent.
"As for any singular, effective network of Chenians able to effect change for our people, either in this country or at home, there is none. Beyond small-time smuggling operations, I learned people such as you and me are on our own. At times, when I was able to find those loyal to the cause, I would ask if any would go back to fight or protest or face the evil head-on as it should be. But the faces I met, their expressions, were not those of passion or action. They were the tired faces of men well past their prime, with little will to bring about changes, or the looks of men who have become soft and unwilling to fight for a cause save beyond providing for their own comfort. That is what has become of our people, Nicolai. They have become a nation of the pampered, with no soul and no country, derelicts clinging to dreams."
Nicolai watched Dmitri as he spoke. Dmitri's words were clear, like he had had this conversation many times before, but it lacked the wooden structure of a rehearsed speech. It was pure in its form and its intention. He talked freely and with no inhibitions. For perhaps the first time in his life, Nicolai mused, he was listening to not a man but a soul, expressing himself with no hint of fear, no worry of what his listener may say to rebuke or support his argument.
Dmitri stopped. He waited for Nicolai, somehow knowing that his mind raced to comprehend all that he had heard.
"You mistake the purpose of our journey," Nicolai began. "We did not leave to join a cause or engage in a revolution. We left to find and rescue the man who granted us safe passage in Maricania, Petrov's uncle."
"I remember him well. Tobin, Petrov's godfather."
"Yes, that's right."
"He paid not only for Petrov's voyage to Casis, but for yours and mine as well, not to mention that of Leo and Fyodor."
"He did."
"You know, for the same amount that he spent on all five of us, he could have set up Petrov on his own, perhaps at one of the boarding schools in the East."
Nicolai did not respond. He considered Dmitri words. As if Nicolai's silence was an affirmation of sorts, Dmitri continued, emboldened.
"He could have sent Petrov to Maricania in style, even in a little luxury. But he didn't. He chose to send with him five others, Chenians, to a land of Maricanians. Not for his benefit nor his protection, for none of us knew the new country nor did we have trade skills nor connections of our own to offer. He sent the five of us with Petrov, to give us a chance equal to his, an act more charitable in scope than any alms giving or free meal. We are indebted to Tobin in as much as Petrov is, whether of his bloodline or not."
Dmitri's argument built up a reserve of anger within Nicolai that slowly welled to the surface. Nicolai resented the implication that he took for granted Tobin's sacrifice. Each word from Dmitri's mouth quickened his pulse just a little more, contracted the muscles in his hands so that they would be ready to strike, and deepened his focus on Dmitri, so as to watch him ever more closely, should he decide to strike back.
"I know all this," Nicolai said, his words fettering out of his mouth, with each stressed syllable expressing his displeasure. "I am well aware of the sacrifices our families have made to get us here. I pray to Ada every morning and every night for every soul that still resides on the Frontier, for each family displaced from their home, for all of the departed that did not survive to see their hopes realized. That weighs on my mind and soul more than it does for any one else, including you."
"I believe you, Nicolai," Dmitri said. Nicolai, in his state of heightened perception, noticed that Dmitri's stance had become less intimidating. His arms hung loosely at his sides while his shoulders sank as he leaned in to speak, his voice more soothing and less stressed than when they first started their discussion.
"Do you?"
"Honestly, yes. I believe you love your country just as much as any Chenian, perhaps even more than us here on this ship. I know you would never turn down the opportunity to help another should you be presented with the chance. Your heart is kind. Your soul is pure. So why is it you hesitate more than any of us? You are no coward. That little display in the woods proved that. What is it that holds you back?"
Nicolai lowered his gaze to look at the deck. His stare was not focused on the wooden planks per se, but rather he considered those sleeping in the hull, whose lives would be forever changed once they made landfall in Chenia. Petrov, Leo and Fyodor, friends he held as brothers. So many Chenians had escaped their homes to come to Maricania, to start anew as strangers unwelcome in a land not their own, he reflected. They risked everything to escape certain anguish and even death. Yet here they were, the five of them, heading back to meet the fate no other Chenians would dare go back to face.
"Have you ever seen someone die?" Dmitri asked.
Nicolai stood, his posture unchanged except for his head, which he raised a bit higher. "Say that again," he requested.
"Have you ever seen anyone die?"
"Yesterday, when we were in the forest . . ."
"No. Not then. I mean in Chenia. Before we left."
"Why would you ask that?"
"Whatever fear you have now, I suspect it has to do not with what you experienced in Knight's Harbor, nor any other place in Maricania. No, it has to be something that happened in Chenia, before my stepfather and I found you. Perhaps an act . . . an unspeakable one."
Nicolai's eyes narrowed as he studied Dmitri. Suddenly it occurred to him that his appearance, disheveled and chaotic as it was, was perhaps no accident. It appeared the design of a man who invited stares from those who passed by, yet intimidated the same people from making direct eye contact. He was a man who could blend into the background, as any derelict does in the streets or on the rural highways, while at the same time keeping his facade of danger. His look, like his speech, was too appropriate for the skirmish they had faced.
"You knew everything that was to happen in the forest,” Nicolai began. “To me and the others, before it occurred. I mean look at you. No Czarian would think you a foe, a refugee turned to the Resistance. You look aged and hungrier than you are. No Czarian would consider you a threat, let alone a trained Guard. You knew the outcome, that you would succeed in saving us and that we would be obliged to go along with you on this trip. That's why you're not afraid."
Dmitri, rather than recoil as some con artist would upon the discovery that his tricks had been revealed, instead lifted his head a bit higher, as a mentor does when feeling pride for his protégé's accomplishments.
"Good, Nicolai, good. That insight you showed just now will serve you well when we reach Sagemark. Yes, my outward appearance allowed me to blend into the cityscape like a moth on soot. I didn't follow you. I didn't have to. I only had to keep an eye out for the Czarians that came ashore, the Guards we would eventually fight. They dressed as civilians and had all the forged papers. But their training gave them away. Their steps were forceful but light, so as to evoke power and speed, such as can be summoned at a moment's notice. Then there were their hands, which gripped their luggage too tight or hung by their sides, not in a relaxed manner of a pedestrian, but as weapons ready to be used at the first hint of danger. Each look they had was a veiled stare which allowed them to study those around them. Czarians can be a hard people at times but only Guards portray such attributes even in civilian environments such as a port or a boardwalk.
"The Guards wasted not a moment upon arriving at the Upper Northeast Shore. They did not expect any native Chenians to recognize them in such an affluent area. They paid a porter to store their heavier luggage and set off to find what information they could on the Resistance in Knight's Harbor. Petrov, Leo and Fyodor were unfortunate enough to leave that very same night. That caught their immediate attention, and well, you know the rest. They left that Guard in your flat hoping to find something further on your activities while the others went after Petrov. They lost his trail for a bit, but found it again thanks to your tracking efforts. That's when I entered the scene. Now here we are.
"I can't say for certain what their intentions were. I suspect that contingent wasn't the first to scout Maricania nor will they be the last, once enough time has passed and their commander has written them off as dead or missing in action. More will come, Nicolai, not just after you and me but for the rest of our brethren. Czaria's push against Chenia won't stop at the Sacred Plains or anywhere else on the Frontier. Their aim is eradication. Their goal is annihilation."
Dmitri stopped to stuff more tobacco into his pipe. As he withdrew his tobacco sack, he watched Nicolai, studying his face in particular. He stood as a man crafted in stone. Only the dark green of his eyes betrayed his otherwise stoic demeanor. They shifted to look down at the ground, then up to Dmitri, before turning to stare at the deck again. They showed the one aspect that Dmitri shuttered to consider: weakness. Weakness, he believed, was the one fault his people could not afford. It would be the death of them. Dmitri had seen it before, in the haughty language of the Chenian exiles of the East, those who had risen to prominence in business or in social status but would not lift a finger to the Resistance. He remembered it in the faces of the vagrants of Knight's Harbor, those who no longer stood waiting at the docks or the stables for day labor but rather took to the streets to demand alms from the passersby. He recalled it in the sounds of every drunk in every basement tavern of every Chenian ghetto in Maricania, as those refugees and the children of refugees sought refuge in drink. Now he was seeing it again in a comrade who was struck by the reality of the present situation, a harshness that rendered him useless through his inaction.
Dmitri shook his head at the idea of another scared Chenian. He lit his pipe as he leaned against the mast.
"That's enough for tonight, wouldn't you say?"
Dmitri shook his match to extinguish the flame, not even bothering to make eye contact with Nicolai as he expected him to leave.
"No, it's not."
Dmitri met Nicolai’s eyes, eyes whose dark green now showed focus rather than hesitation as they returned Dmitri's stare in kind.
"There has been too much left unsaid between all of us. For too long. Our tongues have been conditioned to hold themselves by our years spent in the company of our friends and family, who would whisper to each other the horrors faced in the Frontier, hoping that we wouldn't hear. But we knew. We knew the kernels of truth that we would later come to learn. Those bits of conversation would echo through our minds when we came here to Maricania, where we found not Golden Shores where we were welcome, but rather servitude forced upon us by a host that reluctantly took us in as an afterthought. And here, in Maricania, at Knight's Harbor, did we find honesty or truth when it came to our condition or that of our comrades? No, we found destitution and desertion among the impoverished and the thieves. The truth of Czarian aggression was obscured by the sight of cramped ghettos and the sounds of brutality beaten from us by the Shavice.
"You spent months, years, looking for an icon, listening for a voice to identify our struggle, to call out to others to join the Resistance, so that some of us may head back to Chenian soil on ships such as this, to become martyrs to the Cause. Yet no leader rose, no patriarch emerged, no one strong enough to gather a force large enough to qualify as a scouting party. The best you, or any of us, could find were a handful of middle-aged men past their prime with arthritic hands and bruised souls, who spend their mornings and nights speaking of a time in the old country that has long since past. As for those we have found of our generation, well, they are so far removed from Chenia that none would recognize the land, let alone fight for it, should any of them ever decide to go back.
"Yet whatever sliver of the Resistance remains, the Czarians appear bent on destroying it. They sent their Guards to settle the matter, to spy, deceive, split our loyalties and murder what few of us showed potential to escape or warn others. You knew this. How you came to know this exactly, or for how long, I don't know. But you followed them rather than warn us. You waited until almost a moment too late and then you led us in fear onto this boat. Now we find ourselves disoriented, unprepared for the fight that lies ahead.
"Despite what you may think, there are among us those who understand your zeal. Not only those of us on this boat but others on the mainland. Yes, those on rooftops, but also the derelicts in the streets, the laborers crowded into one-room flats. The lost and the forgotten, those with only the unspoiled memory of what their homeland was or the undying hope of what their country can be. Every single one of them wants what you want. They are far from being the icons you seek or the heroes that Chenia needs at this moment. But that spark, that potential to be something more is there, where it remains. Burning. Barely alit. Until a breeze stokes it alive to rise and consume, to inspire and be inspired, to answer the call of action that Chenia has been dreaming of for so long.
"Such hushed voices need hope and nurturing, until they are able to act of their own accord. They do not need the deceit, the delayed truth, the tactics you used to drive us on this ship. And certainly, they do not need to be lectured on the sins of the past, on memories dredged up in some twisted mind game.
"Was what I experienced unspeakable? Perhaps. I honestly don't know. You found me as I was, broken, abandoned, a lost soul. I know not what happened before. None of that matters now. Not right now. What is of importance is our commitment, that pact between all of us, to remain together, to retrieve Tobin and return to some sort of safe normalcy. No past and no disagreement will keep us from that goal.
"I need to know that you understand that. I have to have assurances that you will not abandon us again, if in fact you are truly committed to helping us. Will you give me your word?"
Nicolai stared at Dmitri. He saw no attempt at deception nor did he see any effort to express truth. He saw, for what may have been the first time, a man's soul laid bare, exposed, with no pretense to conceal any fact from any spectator.
When Dmitri did answer, an indeterminate amount of time had passed. It was still night, but the sky appeared lighter, with the first glint of early morning on the horizon.
"Very well, Nicolai," Dmitri answered in a flat, dry voice. "You have my word. No more lurking in the shadows. Any acts of disappearance for long periods of time are over for me. Done. I remain committed to your cause. In a manner you deem fit."
Nicolai withdrew a few steps. He studied Dmitri again but again he found no indication of dishonesty.
"Thank you," Nicolai said.
Dmitri bowed his head. Nicolai turned to descend into the galley.
"Shepherds rise."
Nicolai paused. He did not turn his head, for he knew who sang. Rather, he titled his head as if to amplify the sound to his ear. The voice rose and fell steadily just as the ship rocked on the small crests of the ocean.
"To keep watch
As narrow blades dance in a sea of green
With tall woodland guardians,
Swaying to the melodic calls
Of heavenly skyward giants,
Angels and cherubs of the night,
Messengers of Ada.
'Go forth to protect,'
They cry,
'May your staff be your spear a
Against wolves and jackals,
While stone and sling become one
To strike as lightning 72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTYZrQxtwpj
Upon your mortal enemies.'
Stay vigilant, keep on watch,
So that when the time of safety arrives
Your voice may ring true
With words of assurance
And songs of comfort,
Knowing that Ada has blessed you
With a land of peace."
Nicolai paused, just long enough to allow Dmitri to notice, before continuing down the stairs.
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