on the seaward side of the central mountains.
Hurriedly
I threw my possessions into my travelling bag and barged up the stairs. I was
not alone in my desire to catch an early glimpse of Charybdis: it seemed that
every traveller was above decks. I pushed through the crowd and joined Blackman
by the rail. The lofty peaks were far behind us, and we were free-wheeling down
a steady gradient between verdant foothills. The vench, released from their
labours, were passengers themselves now upon the first two carriages of the
train.
Blackman
touched my arm. ‘Look. The river St Genevieve. And keep in mind that this is
but a minor tributary of the Laurent!’ He pointed across the valley, to where a
geometrically perfect arc of water tipped itself from the edge of an escarpment
and tumbled fifty metres, all rainbow-spangled spume and thundering power. The
river surged on between the pastures, boiling with visible rips and eddies
where the treacherous corals tore it from beneath like razors through silk.
Soon,
the torrent bisected the outskirts of the township: neat, white timber
buildings, A-frames and Dutch-barn houses. For a kilometre the track paralleled
the river, until the shining iron rails terminated at the station and the water
surged and tumbled on its headlong race towards the river Laurent and eventual
rendezvous with the Sapphire sea. At last we had reached Charybdis.
After
the medieval hustle and bustle of Baudelaire, Charybdis seemed a rural
paradise. The avenues were wide and tree-lined, and the tall, timber buildings
stood in their own grounds. Even the centre of town, where the station was
situated, was spacious, and the pace of life unhurried.
We
climbed from the train with our bags and strolled from the station, into a
large cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall trees aflame with copper leaves.
‘Sinclair!’
Loi
jumped excitedly from a horse-drawn trap and ran across the cobbles. A giant of
a man, whose smile seemed a mixture of tolerance towards the Messenger’s
impetuosity, and amicable welcome, climbed down more slowly and followed her.
Loi
hugged me, and then made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, Shipmaster Sigmund
Gastarian of the Golden Swan - the finest master on Tartarus.’
The
big man, garbed in sailor’s breeches, an armless vest and a tricorne, smiled
modestly. He shook hands with Blackman and myself. ‘She exaggerates,’ he said
in a quiet voice at odds with his appearance, ‘and from all I hear we have you
to thank that she is still able to do so. Welcome to Charybdis. I’ve booked you
into the Jasmine as my guests. When you’ve refreshed yourselves, we’ll eat.’
The
Jasmine hotel was one of a dozen three-storey timber buildings that lined the
Mariners’ Walk, overlooking the wharves of the river. There was much activity
along the Walk. ‘Sailors all,’ Gastarian explained, as the trap pulled up
outside the hotel. ‘The race commences the day after tomorrow, and the teams
are making last minute preparations.’
The
lavish meal that the Shipmaster threw in our honour lasted all evening and well
into the early hours. Present were the crew of the Golden Swan - some
twelve youths of my own age, and their escorts - a five-piece band playing
shanties, and, later, a slew of masters and crews from competing ships. There
was a strange air about the party that ensued, a mixture of apprehension at
what the future might hold, and a devil-may-care determination to live for the
minute. I recalled what Greaves had told me about the mortality statistics, and
as I looked around at the drunken, happy faces I wondered how many of them
might survive this year’s race.
There
were speeches and toasts, declarations and promises - I recall Gastarian
telling a hushed crowd how we effected the rescue of the Messenger, and
demanding from me a few words, but I cannot for the life of me remember what I
said, except that it received a roar of approval and the reward of more drink.
I recall seeing Loi
Hurriedly
I threw my possessions into my travelling bag and barged up the stairs. I was
not alone in my desire to catch an early glimpse of Charybdis: it seemed that
every traveller was above decks. I pushed through the crowd and joined Blackman
by the rail. The lofty peaks were far behind us, and we were free-wheeling down
a steady gradient between verdant foothills. The vench, released from their
labours, were passengers themselves now upon the first two carriages of the
train.
Blackman
touched my arm. ‘Look. The river St Genevieve. And keep in mind that this is
but a minor tributary of the Laurent!’ He pointed across the valley, to where a
geometrically perfect arc of water tipped itself from the edge of an escarpment
and tumbled fifty metres, all rainbow-spangled spume and thundering power. The
river surged on between the pastures, boiling with visible rips and eddies
where the treacherous corals tore it from beneath like razors through silk.
Soon,
the torrent bisected the outskirts of the township: neat, white timber
buildings, A-frames and Dutch-barn houses. For a kilometre the track paralleled
the river, until the shining iron rails terminated at the station and the water
surged and tumbled on its headlong race towards the river Laurent and eventual
rendezvous with the Sapphire sea. At last we had reached Charybdis.
After
the medieval hustle and bustle of Baudelaire, Charybdis seemed a rural
paradise. The avenues were wide and tree-lined, and the tall, timber buildings
stood in their own grounds. Even the centre of town, where the station was
situated, was spacious, and the pace of life unhurried.
We
climbed from the train with our bags and strolled from the station, into a
large cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall trees aflame with copper leaves.
‘Sinclair!’
Loi
jumped excitedly from a horse-drawn trap and ran across the cobbles. A giant of
a man, whose smile seemed a mixture of tolerance towards the Messenger’s
impetuosity, and amicable welcome, climbed down more slowly and followed her.
Loi
hugged me, and then made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, Shipmaster Sigmund
Gastarian of the Golden Swan - the finest master on Tartarus.’
The
big man, garbed in sailor’s breeches, an armless vest and a tricorne, smiled
modestly. He shook hands with Blackman and myself. ‘She exaggerates,’ he said
in a quiet voice at odds with his appearance, ‘and from all I hear we have you
to thank that she is still able to do so. Welcome to Charybdis. I’ve booked you
into the Jasmine as my guests. When you’ve refreshed yourselves, we’ll eat.’
The
Jasmine hotel was one of a dozen three-storey timber buildings that lined the
Mariners’ Walk, overlooking the wharves of the river. There was much activity
along the Walk. ‘Sailors all,’ Gastarian explained, as the trap pulled up
outside the hotel. ‘The race commences the day after tomorrow, and the teams
are making last minute preparations.’
The
lavish meal that the Shipmaster threw in our honour lasted all evening and well
into the early hours. Present were the crew of the Golden Swan - some
twelve youths of my own age, and their escorts - a five-piece band playing
shanties, and, later, a slew of masters and crews from competing ships. There
was a strange air about the party that ensued, a mixture of apprehension at
what the future might hold, and a devil-may-care determination to live for the
minute. I recalled what Greaves had told me about the mortality statistics, and
as I looked around at the drunken, happy faces I wondered how many of them
might survive this year’s race.
There
were speeches and toasts, declarations and promises - I recall Gastarian
telling a hushed crowd how we effected the rescue of the Messenger, and
demanding from me a few words, but I cannot for the life of me remember what I
said, except that it received a roar of approval and the reward of more drink.
I recall seeing Loi
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