Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

“It is never wise to drink too much of old Porabji’s brews,” she said. “I have had a word with him.” She passed Thrasne by, not stopping, and he stared after her in confusion. The night before was not at all clear to him. Part of it, he thought, he might have dreamed. And yet something was owed because of it, he thought. Something needed to be done.

Late that afternoon came wind. It was no small breeze. At first they welcomed it behind them, but the sailors soon began to shake their heads. They reefed the big sail, leaving only a small one at the top of the mast to maintain way. Later the wind fell, but the sailors did not put the sail out again.

“Storm,” said one of them to Thrasne. His name was Blange, a laconic, stocky man who looked not unlike Thrasne himself. “Last time I remember the clouds lookin’ like that”—he gestured to the horizon, where a low bank of cloud grew taller with each passing hour—”last time we were lucky enough to get behind an island and ride it out. Five days’ blow it was, and the ship pretty battered when it was over. I don’t like the looks of that.”

Certainly if Thrasne had been near Northshore, he would have tried to get behind something. He didn’t like the looks of it, either. The sky appeared bruised, livid with purpling cloud, darted with internal lightning so that sections of the cloud wall glowed ominously from time to time, a recurrent pulse of pallid light that was absorbed by the surrounding darkness as though swallowed.

The River surface looked flat and oily in that light, full of strange, jellylike quiverings and skitterings, as though something invisible ran across the surface. Swells began to heave at the Gift, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping.

“What’s it likely to do?” Thrasne asked.

“It’s likely to give us one hell of a beating,” Blange replied.

“Then let’s get that little boat off the owner-house roof,” Thrasne commanded. “We don’t need that banging around.”

They lowered the Cheevle into the water, running her out some distance from the Gift at the end of a stout rope. The two boats began a kind of minuet, bowing and tipping to one another across the glassy water between.

The wall of cloud drew closer even as they worked, still pulsing with intermittent light, muttering now in a growl that seemed almost constant. Obers-rom and the other boatmen were busy tying everything down that could be tied down and stowing everything else in the lockers and holds.

“Best take some of the spare canvas and nail it over the hatches,” one of the sailors told Thrasne. “Surely that’s extreme?”

“Owner, if you want to keep your boat and our lives, I’d recommend it. I’m tellin’ you everything I know, and I don’t know half enough.”

Thrasne stared at the wall of cloud. Perhaps the man was one of those doomsayers the River bred from time to time. On the other hand, perhaps he wasn’t. Blange wasn’t a young man. He had scars on his face and arms—from rope lashes, so he said. His hands were hard. One thing Blint had always said: “You pay a man for more than his strong back, Thrasne. You pay him for his good sense if he’s got any.”

So. “Tell Obers-rom what you need, Blange. I’m going to see what’s going on in the owner-house.”

What was going on was a card game among four of the inhabitants and naps for the other two.

“Thrasne,” burbled Eenzie the Clown. “Come take my hand. I’m being beaten, but you could fight them off. …”

“Yes, Thrasne,” Medoor Babji said in a chilly voice. “Take Eenzie’s cards and we’ll do battle.”

He shook his head at her, scarcely noticing her tone. “No time, Medoor Babji. The sailors tell me we are probably going to be hit by a storm. They say a bad storm. Anything you have lying around should be put away.’’ The sound of hammers came through the wall, and old Porabji sat up with a muffled curse.

“What’re they doing?” Eenzie asked, for once in a normal tone of voice.