Beneath Ceaseless Skies #58 Read online

  Issue #58 • Dec. 16, 2010

  “Red Dirt,” by Ian McHugh

  “Lession’s Tower,” by Fox McGeever

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  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  RED DIRT

  by Ian McHugh

  Nieuw Holland, 1792

  The night we docked in Zwaanstadje, I dreamed of a red dirt plain. Its colour was of such intensity it fluoresced beneath the dry white grass and the olive foliage of the bushes that sparsely covered it. No creature moved, nor any breath of wind. The sun beat against my hatless head and I felt I stood too close to its flames.

  I heard a voice and turned to find its source. Red rocks broke the monotony of the plain. At first, I thought them merely boulders, for they had such a rounded shape. Then my eyes adjusted, or perhaps the dream developed perspective, and I realised it was a massif of gigantic stones. I looked upon the bones of the world after the world had worn away. The age of the place yawned in my mind, older, by far, than the paltry few millennia of God’s Creation.

  The voice came again, a bass dirge at the very edge of hearing. It was not a sound from any human throat, but the song of the land itself.

  I turned my back to the rocks—the heart of the place, I sensed—and fled. My shadow was like an anchor chained to my feet, dragging unwillingly behind me through the dirt. I ran, but the plain was without limit, and every time my feet struck the ground, I felt the vitality drain from me, leaching through my booted soles and into the parched earth.

  * * *

  I found Huon loitering in the scant shade of the Commissariat’s entrance. Even after months at sea, he had somehow managed to preserve a complete uniform free of rents and stains. I refrained from picking at the broken threads where a button was missing from my own dishevelled coat.

  I paused beside him, postponing the moment when we must emerge from the shelter of the walls. The afternoon heat was enough to scorch the lungs and parch the eyeballs in their sockets. The smell of woodsmoke from the indigenes’ fires pervaded the air. Inland, grey tendrils curled into the sky.

  “Well?”

  While I did not demand formalities of Huon outside the presence of the crew, it was a license I sometimes regretted.

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “The Commissaire demands a bribe before he will permit us to re-provision. The sum he has named is outrageous.”

  Huon snorted. “We should sail for Tasmanie. We could stretch our supplies that far.”

  “Only if we abandon our mission and cede all of Australie east of Nieuw Holland to the English,” I said. “Besides, after the debacle at Isle de France and with Piron working the crew into such a lather of resentment, I fear half of them would desert, should we put into a French port.”

  Odd shadows flickered in the corners of my vision as I squinted against the glare of the Commissariat’s plaza, paved in the piss-yellow local limestone from which most of the Dutch settlement was constructed. The orange, blue and white flag of the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie—the United East India Company—drooped like a hung man.

  Scabrous-looking native bushes separated the plaza from the gravel track that led to Zwaanstadje’s solitary, exposed stone finger-wharf. Tied up at the near end was the V.O.C. merchantman Enkhuizen, with the typical fat belly that tapered upwards, designed to avoid port taxes levied on the area of a ship’s deck. Beyond, our own converted cargo hauler, La Recherche, flew golden fleurs-de-lis on royal white.

  “There are whaling colonies along the south coast,” Huon suggested, as we stepped out onto the sun-blasted plaza.

  “Half of which are pirates, and the other half are English pirates.” I shook my head. “No, we will chart such colonies if we find them, but I do not wish to interact with them.”

  Huon subsided. He thought me too cautious but knew well enough when my patience with his second-guessing was about to fray.

  “The price the Commissaire has named is only his opening gambit,” I said. “I expect he will come down to something more reasonable quickly enough. What of the crew?”

  “I left Rossel to organise them for shore leave,” he said.

  He must have known that I would not have approved such an order, had I been present. I ground my teeth, but there was little profit to be found in countermanding him now.

  “I felt there was small risk of even the republicans among them deserting in such a godforsaken place,” he added, blandly. “The savants are ensconced at the inn.”

  “So we fervently hope,” I said. “Come, let us see if Monsieur Piron is still where you left him, and not up to mischief.”

  Our steps kicked puffs of dusty sand as we walked behind the low limestone promontory that partly sheltered Zwaanstadje from the sea. Upon it squatted an octagonal gun fort, fashioned from the same jaundiced rock, that served as the town’s nominal defence against the English and other pirates. In the fierce light, my shadow seemed unsynchronised from my steps. I put the illusion down to weariness.

  I noticed Huon stifling a yawn.

  “You slept poorly, Jean-Michel?”

  He nodded. “My dreams were troubled.”

  “As were mine,” I said. “This place has a malaise about it.” Enough so that it caused me to doubt my decision to resupply here even as I re-affirmed it.

  A trio of Dutchmen passed in the opposite direction, dressed in sober black and white. Their features had a pinched quality that seemed to me more pronounced that the usual retentiveness of Puritans. Silver badges tinkled on their sleeves, cast with the religious sigils—runes—of the Northern Churches. It was a curiosity of Zwaanstadje. I had never before witnessed such ostentatious displays of faith from adherents of the Green Christ.

  I paused before turning the corner, bothered by some detail. It took me a moment to pinpoint the strangeness. The hairs on my neck stood up. The Dutchmen’s shadows were too short for the time of day, tucked up beneath their feet, when the sun should have laid them across the ground and up the walls of the buildings.

  Huon observed my reaction curiously. I began to raise my arm to point, but the Dutchmen were already stepping through a doorway.

  Our inn was located on the boulevard that constituted Zwaanstadje’s east-west spine. The town huddled between the harbour fort and the Church of the Green Christ on its hill barely a mile inland, with its T-shaped pinnacle that signified both crucifix and pagan hammer. The boulevard’s breadth was much reduced by the stalls and shop-front awnings of the merchants that crowded its length. Mohammedans and Chinese wore robes densely embroidered with their native scripts. Tattoos were common, peeking past the edges of cuffs and collars. The air seemed full of the ringing of tiny bells from the badges on the sleeves of every Dutch man and woman.

  We found Piron, our expedition’s naturalist, artist and principle republican agitator, lounging with wine bottle and glasses beneath the awning at the front of the inn. His eyes had a bruised look that suggested this afternoon’s refreshment was merely a resumption of the previous night’s pursuits.

  Piron lifted his glass but made no move to rise. I elected to ignore the slight. Huon pulled out the vacant chair for me and fetched another for himself. I dropped my hat onto my lap and scratched my sweating scalp.

  “Monsieur Bertrand is in his room?”

  “Resting,” Piron replied. “Until he regains his land legs.” The astrologer had spent the majority of the journey from Brest resting in his cabin while he “gained his sea legs”.

  “He may have time,” I said, with a grimace of resignation to imply that the circumstance was entirely beyond my control. “We will be delayed here before we can resupply.”

  “The
n surely we must consider Batavia instead,” said Piron, “and circumnavigate the continent by the reverse route.”

  I glanced at Huon. He looked away with a shrug, not bothering to conceal the gesture from Piron. I bit back a terse remark, annoyed at his lack of support. At least Piron had made the suggestion often enough to reassure me he would not risk impoundment of the ship here in Zwaanstadje.

  Reprovisioning would not have been a consideration at all had our own countrymen at Isle de France not defrauded us so thoroughly. Not to mention that nearly a fifth of our sailors had jumped ship there. Huon suspected Piron of having a hand in the fiasco. I was unconvinced, but even so, Batavia, jewel of the Dutch Republic’s East Indian empire, was the last place on God’s Earth I wanted to take Piron and the seething nest of resentment that constituted my ship’s crew.

  “King Louis desires a colony on the Australien mainland,” I said, “and we need to find it before the English do.”

  Piron made an uncouth noise. “His ‘Nouvelle Orleans du Sud’.”

  Huon bridled at the insult to our monarch. “Monsieur, His Majesty’s agents in Sydney Town were confident that they could sabotage the English expedition from there, but their report was months old when it reached France, and it has been months more since our departure.”

  “We must anticipate that the English are already at sea, monsieur,” I added, mildly.

  Piron rolled his eyes. “Then we must make the best of the situation,” he said. He captured the half-empty wine bottle and filled two empty glasses, which he pushed towards Huon and myself.

  Huon examined the pale contents of his.

  “Capitaine Bruni,” Piron chided.

  With a sigh, I lifted the glass. I could discern little of its bouquet over the ever-present smell of smoke. I raised a toast. “To King Louis, long may he reign.”

  “Vive le roi!” Huon responded.

  Piron’s thin mouth curled. “Vive la France.”

  * * *

  I dreamed a second time of the red dirt plain. This time I was already in motion. The voice of the land was more strident this time. Guttural and nasal, it filled the air, rising and falling, speeding and slowing.

  Shadowy figures ran at my side. Sometimes they took the shapes of men, with long shadow spears in their hands. Sometimes they would change shape, becoming lean-bellied dogs, or great running birds, like ostriches, or else stretch out into the low shapes of giant lizards. Sometimes they were bounding creatures for which I had no analogue, with long tails and low heads.

  They harassed me, poking with their spears and biting at my heels, or simply placing themselves in my path. Their every touch bled my strength. I fought to evade them but, irresistibly, they turned me.

  The red bones of the world loomed, again, before me. Now my shadow reached out ahead, dragging me along in its wake. I tried to slow my suddenly headlong pace, but I could not.

  * * *

  Neglecting breakfast, I returned early in the morning to La Recherche to review the state of the ship and crew.

  Smoke curled into the cloudless sky. There were more fires than yesterday, ringing the landward sides of the town.

  The shadows on the buildings seemed alive with movement, although the air was too cool for mirages. The memory of my dream still lingered, fooling my weary brain into believing that I glimpsed animal shapes writhing there. I hurried my pace along the empty streets, wondering if I should just pay the Commissaire’s bribe and be done with the place.

  I found my ship in good order but the crew less so, exhibiting the after-effects of a reckless approach to the consumption of alcohol. Both the sailors on duty and our pair of excitable young ensigns were under the firm control of Rossel, La Recherche’s estimable Master Sailor. With him was our Sergeant of Marines, Delahaye—a ruffian and a lout, but by Huon’s account a good soldier.

  “How is morale?” I asked.

  “They have little love for this place, Monsieur Capitaine,” Rossel said. “But I do not think they are mutinous yet.”

  Yet. I concealed my dismay. “And if we are delayed here?”

  Rossel’s expression was answer enough. Casting my eyes over the crew, I noticed that many wore items decorated in Oriental lettering. Sunlight flashed on numerous cast metal badges. I saw too that bare wrists and ankles, and even some faces, were adorned with runes, ideograms or Mohammedan script. The majority appeared to be painted in impermanent ink, but several evidenced the rawness of fresh tattoos.

  Sergeant Delahaye said, “Would you like me to a put a stop to it, 'sieur?”

  I shook my head, reluctant to confess my ignorance as to why they should so quickly adopt the unusual local custom. Too, the sergeant’s bare-knuckled approach to discipline would likely be disastrous, given the present volatility of the crew.

  “Common sailors cannot be expected to comport themselves as gentlemen, Sergeant,” I said. “And few are exemplars of faith, in any case.”

  I gathered from the momentary sour twist of Rossel’s lips that he was similarly disenchanted with the sergeant’s methods. I chewed my lip for a moment, then added, “Let them know that we are likely to be in port here a little longer than we might prefer. I am not happy about it, but it is beyond my control.”

  “Monsieur Capitaine,” Rossel said. He hesitated before continuing, “one man has not returned from yesterday’s shore leave. Marchant.”

  I swore under my breath. Marchant was one of the junior helmsmen. Damn Huon for letting them ashore. “Send one of the ensigns out with a couple of marines to find him. And spread the word that our delay here will be short.”

  * * *

  Monsieur Bertrand had joined Huon and Piron at breakfast when I returned to the inn. I addressed him first, “Good morning, monsieur. You have re-discovered your land legs?”

  Bertrand, a grey little man and impervious to sarcasm, smiled faintly. “Regrettably, not yet, Capitaine Bruni. I am so far unable to stomach any food.” His place setting was indeed bare apart from a steaming lemon drink.

  I restrained myself from further remarks at his expense and sat. To Huon, I said, “Marchant did not return from shore leave.” He started to rise but I waved him back to his seat. “I am handling it.”

  The shadows of the early morning pedestrians were distinctly shorter than they should have been for the time of day. A most disconcerting sorcery—more so, as I began to wonder at its purpose. I rubbed my eyes, tiredness compounding irritation from the smoke of the indigenes’ fires.

  My companions all looked as haggard as I had appeared to myself in my shaving mirror. They had, too, a peculiarly pensive air. I wondered if they had been arguing.

  “Should we transfer to an inn with more comfortable beds?” I enquired.

  Huon cleared his throat. “Capitaine, you mentioned yesterday that your dreams had been troubled. Was that also the case last night?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  The three of them exchanged glances. Piron said, “It appears we have all experienced identical dreams.”

  Over his shoulder, I spied one of our marines, shoving his way through the crowd on the street to reach us, his mouth open as if to raise a shout of alarm.

  * * *

  The body was sprawled in the nightcart alley behind a dilapidated whorehouse. The ensign sent to find Marchant had posted the rest of his squad at either end of the alley. A handful of sailors, clustered sullenly at the nearest entrance, pushed past the marines in our wake. Half-dressed Oriental girls observed in silence from the rear balcony of the whorehouse, while Rossel waited, fists on hips, with the white-faced ensign.

  “Monsieur Capitaine,” the ensign quavered, “he has no shadow.”

  Marchant’s body lay in sunlight, but cast no darkness beneath it. It was as though it had been cut free of the earth and no longer quite touched it. The hairs rose on my neck, my head filled with hunting shadows and the red dirt plain, and the strength that had bled from me as I tried to flee my dreams.

 
“My god,” Piron breathed.

  I sent the ensign into the whorehouse for a blanket to carry the body and longed wistfully for a reason to have excluded Piron, precious little benefit though it would have been.

  Bertrand, unperturbed, knelt to prod at the corpse.

  “He has been dead at least half a day,” Rossel growled.

  “He refused to protect himself, Capitaine,” offered one of the sailors. “He would not have heathen symbols on his skin.”

  “Protect himself from what?” said Huon.

  “The shadows, Monsieur Lieutenant.”

  My gaze strayed to the rippling darkness on the building walls. Not tricks of the light, after all. My skin crawled. I looked down at my own shadow, tucked tight beneath my feet.

  “Capitaine Bruni...” Piron began.

  I held up my hand. “Not now, monsieur.”

  The glances the sailors shot between us were not lost on me. Rossel glared at Piron, who sneered back. Now I knew why the bastard Commissaire thought he could extract such an exorbitant bribe.

  The crew were reluctant to handle their shipmate’s corpse, crossing themselves repeatedly. I crossed myself before I grabbed an arm and ordered them to help me lift him onto the blanket. Marchant was surprisingly light for a man his size.

  * * *

  “One of my crew lies dead, monsieur!” I bellowed, thumping on the Commissaire’s desk, with Huon, Rossel, Piron and Bertrand all crowded behind me. “His shadow stolen by sorcery!” I jabbed my finger at him. “I hold you responsible.”

  “Heer Kapitein, please, we are reasonable men...” the Commissaire replied. He raised his palms in what started as a placatory gesture but became defensive, his silver badges jangling as I leaned over the desk.

  “Reasonable men do not use murder to improve their bargaining position.”

  The Commissaire affected bewilderment. “I am sure I do not...”

  “The V.O.C. officials responsible for this settlement—you, monsieur—deliberately withheld the information from myself and my that could have saved that man’s life.”