Beneath Ceaseless Skies #58 Read online

“Say on,” I told him. “You will not be thought a fool if you have a strange tale to tell in this ungodly place.”

  Rossel swallowed. “The shadows, Capitaine. They are everywhere, crawling around.”

  Huon said, “Perhaps the Dutch have good reason to believe they need not guard against thieves this night.”

  I allowed the reference to ‘thieves’ to pass. “Perhaps they underestimate the audacity of the French Navy,” I said, then to Rossel: “Do you believe they threatened you?”

  “They appeared to recoil from my shoes, 'sieur.”

  “You intend to proceed?” Huon exclaimed.

  I nodded, hiding my irritation that he would question me so openly before the crew. Having decided to act, I was reluctant to abandon my course. Success, I told myself, would both avenge Marchant’s death and renew the respect of the crew. “I do. Identify the men who have modified their shoes or painted their feet. Include the marines in your examination.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Capitaine.”

  Huon and Rossel executed my instruction quickly. Most of the sailors and around half of the marines, including Sergeant Delahaye, had protected themselves in some fashion.

  Rossel saluted. “What of the missing men, Monsieur Capitaine?”

  I was strongly tempted to leave them to their fate. But, looking at the doubtful faces of the crew, I saw that he was right to raise the matter. I said loudly, “I will take a party to search for our missing shipmates. I would not care to abandon any man in such a place as this.” My eyes met Huon’s as I added, “Including Monsieur Piron.”

  He scowled. Delahaye’s cheek ticked.

  “Wear my shoes, Captain,” said Delahaye.

  I nodded. “A sensible suggestion. Lieutenant, organise a party to remove what we need from the warehouses. Three marines to accompany me, and enough men aboard to defend the ship. You recall the stores we require?”

  Huon saluted, but his stare was uncompromising. “Yes, Monsieur Capitaine.”

  “Good. Monsieur Rossel, you have the ship while the Lieutenant and I are ashore. I want the port-side cannon charged and aimed at that fortress.”

  The sergeant’s feet proved daintier than mine, but with a small amount of cursing, I was able to squash my feet into his shoes. Following my example, Huon exchanged footwear with one of the marines. Rossel presented me with a pair of charged pistols.

  “You should finish the job, Capitaine.” It was Bertrand. He had cleaned his face, but the grey shadows of his inking remaining. “I believe I have determined the best combination of Latin phrases.”

  I stared at him a moment. “Thank you, monsieur. That would be appreciated.”

  He hurried away to his cabin and returned quickly with inkpot in hand. He instructed me to remove my coat and shirt, and I suffered him to mark the points of a crucifix on my chest, shoulders and forehead with Latin script. Dissolutio, I read upside-down among the words beneath my heart. Difficultas was prominent on my left shoulder and Perseverans on the right. Strange choices as words of protection. I opened my mouth to enquire what he was writing on my face, but the intensity of Bertrand’s expression disconcerted me.

  “Jean-Michel, do not wait for me past sunrise,” I said as I re-dressed. With Bertrand now writing on him, Huon replied curtly, “Understood.”

  Sacrificium, I read on his brow.

  I suppressed a shiver. “Good luck, messieurs,” I said to my officers, then loudly: “Vive le roi!”

  “Vive le roi!” the crew responded. Trying to feel reassured by their heartiness, I gathered my trio of marines and marched down the gangplank.

  * * *

  No stars were visible, only a rusted canopy of smoke reflecting the light of the fires. No lamps burned in the houses, and the smoke settled in the narrow streets between the terraces. Shadows gnawed at edges of the light cast by our lanterns. Dark limbs probed towards our feet. The packed sand throbbed with the song of the land, as loud in our ears as a storm at sea. Our own shadows tucked themselves tightly beneath us, heedless of where the lamplight told them to lie.

  We had travelled perhaps half the distance to the church when one of the marines gave a sudden cry and dropped his lantern. It burst with a splash of burning oil. His fellows dragged him clear, beating out the flames that had caught on his trousers. The poor man was shaking visibly.

  “What happened?” I demanded, shouting to make myself heard.

  He stammered a response. “Monsieur Capitaine, a shadow ran across the light at my feet. The shadow of a man, with no man to cast it.”

  The darkness seemed to press even closer. The marines peered fearfully into it. No doubt our dead sailor and his missing shadow were as prominent in their minds as in my own.

  “Are you fit to continue?” I asked the injured man.

  He gathered his resolve. “Yes, Monsieur Capitaine.”

  I gauged the distance remaining to the Church of the Green Christ. Its bells still chimed defiantly against the night. “Good. Let us proceed.”

  * * *

  Approaching the church, we had a clear view down the rear slope of the hill to the great blaze the indigenes had set. The trees were crowned in fire, the dry grass and bushes at their feet also aflame. In between, the trunks appeared to dance, like gnarled stick-men.

  On the ground before us, shadows writhed in the flickering light of the bonfires around the church, all the shapes from our dreams and the corners of our eyes. I looked back down the hill at the illusion of movement, if illusion it was, among the burning trees.

  Calling the shadows, the Commissaire had said. Making them, I thought. Could it be that the indigenes were shaping the dreams of the land?

  We continued our advance. The dancing shadows recoiled from our tread. I began to hear the voices of the assembly in the churchyard, singing the strident hymns of the Green Christ. Beneath the gate was a paved labyrinth of rune-carved stones. As we stepped across it and onto consecrated soil, the song of the congregation became abruptly stronger, drowning altogether the roar that emanated from beneath our feet. This close, the ringing of the church bells pummelled the ears.

  I worked my jaw to pop my ears, as one habitually does in the calm at the storm’s eye. Then I realised the condition of the people before me. Their faces were grey, soot rubbed into their skins. Their hair was loose and crowned with oak leaves. No few—men and women alike—were shirtless and whipped themselves with switches of birch while they sang. All were unshod, the soles of their feet tattooed with runes. I saw adults and children walk upon beds of hot coals laid around the bonfires.

  I crossed myself, conscious of the words written where my fingers touched. “Let us find our shipmates quickly,” I shouted, “and be gone from here.”

  We circled the church. People we passed regarded us with sullen expressions and red-rimmed eyes, but none sought to interfere with our progress.

  We had almost returned to our starting point when I heard an exclamation in French.

  It was our two missing sailors, their faces as sooty as any townsman’s. They all but grovelled at my feet, babbling over the top of each other, so relieved were they to see us.

  “Forgive us, Capitaine. We did not realise.”

  “We were afraid to try and return to the ship.”

  “The shadows!”

  On another occasion, I would have berated them. As it was, I felt only relief. I asked if they had seen Piron.

  “No, Monsieur Capitaine. Not this night.”

  “Damn.”

  I dithered over whether to continue our search in the Oriental quarter. I pictured Sergeant Delahaye’s battered knuckles and wondered what we would find if we did locate him. The din around us made it difficult to think. It would be convenient in the extreme if Piron could not be found.

  The pain of my compressed toes inside Delahaye’s shoes tipped my decision.

  “We have small chance, I think, of finding Monsieur Piron before morning,” I said. “We shall return to assist with the removal of goods fr
om the warehouses.”

  Neither sailors nor marines were able to disguise their relief.

  * * *

  Crewmen emerged from the warehouse in pairs—one man loaded with a sack or crate, the other with a lantern to light his way. Our two rescuees followed suit without waiting for instruction, eager to redeem themselves.

  “Piron?” Huon asked, with studied casualness, adding another chalk mark to his tally board.

  “He was not at the church.”

  He looked up, then nodded once, his expression unmistakeably relieved.

  “What more do we need?” I asked.

  Huon pointed. “The rest of that flour, and then we are done.”

  I handed my lantern to one of my marines and joined the line to collect a sack. A second marine copied my example. I hefted the sack on my shoulder. “I will see you back at the ship,” I said to Huon.

  Less accustomed to heavy labour than the crew, I quickly regretted my display of solidarity. I gritted my teeth and trudged onwards. The eyes of the men returning from the ship widened in surprise when they saw me.

  Either Huon or Rossel had taken the initiative to douse La Recherche’s lights. Passing the corner of the darkened Commissariat, the sailors ahead of me were shuttering their lanterns as they approached the end of the wharf and came into clear sight of any watchers that might have been left on guard in the fort. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel surface of the wharf.

  Gunshots cracked. Muzzle flashes lit up the underside of the ship’s rigging. Screams and a confusion of shouts followed.

  I froze for a moment in shock. There came another ragged volley of shots. “Mutiny!” I cried.

  Lanterns burst on the wharf, lighting knots of struggling figures as sailors turned on the marines stationed at the foot of the ship’s gangplank. Other sailors scattered away from the fighting, anxious not to be mistaken for mutineers. A marine fled shrieking down the wharf, his jacket aflame, and tumbled down the banked rocks into the water.

  I drew my sword and a pistol. With my three marines beside me, I charged the nearest group of fighters. A marine toppled in front of me. I fired my pistol into the face of his opponent, then hurled it at a second mutineer, distracting him while I lunged with my sword.

  Bodies surged past, sailors crashing into the melee, followed by another squad of marines. The mutineers broke and ran. Huon tripped to a halt, panting, to watch the phalanx of marines pursue them up the wharf.

  One of the fallen men at our feet gave a sudden cry, abruptly choked. Huon’s lantern swung wildly. Shadows crawled over the sailor’s face and down his torso. His hands and heels clattered on the stones. A marine screamed, lurching to his feet, as the shadows crawled up his thighs.

  Huon caught my arm and dragged me backwards. The marine looked towards us, searching for our faces behind the lantern’s glare. He gave a final wail of despair as the shadows engulfed his head and stood, an upright darkness in the shape of a man, his arms still reaching for help.

  “My god,” I heard myself say. “My god, my god.” As though some disjointed part of my mind was trying to offer a prayer but could not recall the first line.

  Shadows feinted towards our feet, probing for weaknesses in our defence. One covered the toe of my borrowed shoe. I kicked away in alarm.

  Down the wharf, a man cried, “I can’t move! They’re on my legs!”

  “To the ship,” I cried. “To the ship!”

  I began to run, then stopped.

  Huon held his lantern high. Horror mixed with anger on his face as the shadows reached his chin.

  “Damn your foolish pride, Antoine Bruni,” he said.

  The shadows covered him.

  “Jean-Michel!”

  I fled with a howl, as if I could outrun his accusation and make it unsaid.

  “Let them aboard!” I bellowed at the marines holding the gangplank against the crowd of sailors, mutinous and not, desperately trying to flee the wharf.

  The sailors fell back from my flailing sword, several falling into the water as I surged up the plank. I carried the marines before me and, with the weight of sailors pressing behind, burst onto the deck.

  The press of fighters scattered across the deck in diminishing knots, the mutineers quickly losing their appetite for struggle as their fellows who had escaped the wharf simply slumped onto the deck. Several ran for the far rail and dived over.

  The splashes of their landing resounded in the falling quiet.

  “Enough!” roared Sergeant Delahaye, striding about and striking aside the weapons of his marines who thought they might mete out some punishment to their surrendered foes.

  “Enough,” I echoed him, faintly. “Enough.”

  I stabbed the point of my sword into the deck and looked around. “Where is Rossel?” I asked.

  An ensign pointed a bloody hand. “Fled overboard with the others, Monsieur Capitaine.”

  I stared at him with creeping dismay. Rossel? A mutineer?

  Damn my foolish pride.

  * * *

  The fires had guttered by dawn, the majority of the smoke dissipating on the morning breeze. The crew gathered on deck, pensive and sullen, the fight beaten from them with the crumpled bodies along the length of the wharf in plain sight. The ground was still. The hunting shadows were gone, and with them the voice of the red dirt plain that had plagued us through the sleepless dark. Most of those who’d been knocked into the water during the battle had been retrieved safely. Of Rossel and those who had fled overboard with him, there was no sign.

  “We must retrieve our dead,” I said. Men crossed themselves and made signs of warding.

  I did not call for volunteers but marched alone down the gangplank. I had neared its foot before the plank shook with following steps—the two sailors I’d retrieved from the church. A moment later, Monsieur Bertrand scuttled after them.

  We stopped beside the nearest fallen sailor. The body cast no darkness beneath it. Bertrand pointed to a rune on the man’s right foot. “I believe this sign is imprecisely rendered. You see?”

  I could discern no difference between that sign and its correspondent on the corpse’s left foot, but saw no reason to doubt the astrologer’s claim.

  “Pick him up,” I said.

  Sailors and marines hurried past us as we lifted the dead man.

  As with Marchant, the body seemed too light.

  How much, I wondered, did a man’s shadow weigh?

  * * *

  I wrapped Huon myself and bound the body for burial at sea, while the sailors and marines did similar service for their mates. I sent the ensigns to resume the search for Piron, instructing them to also recompense Monsieur Van Hulsen for his broken lock. Then I stood on the quarterdeck, by the wheel, and stared at nothing.

  The Commissaire came in person, escorted by a squad of V.O.C. mercenaries, who lay the shadowless corpses of Rossel and the half-dozen who had fled with him in a neat row along the wharf. I allowed the Commissaire to board alone. His bloodshot eyes swivelled to observe the gun crews still posted beside their cannons. I noted the smears of grey around his ears and at the edges of his beard.

  “Kapitein,” he said. “Last night our warehouses were broken open and a quantity of goods removed. They corresponded closely to the manifest you left with me.”

  He bristled, expecting me to profess innocence.

  I offered him Huon’s smudged tally board. “These are the goods now stowed in our hold. Name a reasonable price and I will pay it before we cast our lines. Attack my ship, or any of my crew currently ashore, and I will demolish your fortress and all of your warehouses. Sergeant, please escort the Commissaire from the ship.”

  He held up the tally board to stay Delahaye a moment. The badges on his sleeve tinkled as he gestured at the wrapped bodies still on the main deck. “I will name you a price, Kapitein Bruni,” he said. “But you have paid a fool’s price already.”

  Piron was located a short while later, sprawled in an alley behind the Chinese
temple. He had been beaten and robbed and left for the shadows. Sergeant Delahaye would not meet my eye while the ensign reported Piron’s fate.

  * * *

  We have given our fallen shipmates a Catholic burial at sea. But even as I led the crew in prayer, I wondered if there was any purpose to it, except for those who had the bitter fortune to fall on deck at the hands of their shipmates.

  The crew remain mutinous. Only their lack of a leader, and their terror of this land of smoke and shadows and red dirt dreams off our port bow, keeps them in check. For how long I cannot say.

  Piron’s fate rankles me as much as it does they. Sergeant Delahaye has taken to drinking alone in his cabin.

  Our course to the Pacific keeps us continuously in sight of the coast. Never a day passes that we do not see smoke from the indigenes making shadows in their fires.

  Our misadventure has cost a score of men their lives and, I fear, their Christian souls. If in my dreams I should ever revisit the red dirt plain, I am certain I will find their shadows dancing among the others imprisoned there.

  May the curse of Christ rest on Zwaanstadje and upon every godforsaken son of a bitch who resides there. Pride dictates that we attempt to complete our mission, but already I am determined to tell King Louis that there is no profit to be had for France upon this fatal shore.

  Copyright © 2010 Ian McHugh

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  Ian McHugh is a graduate of Clarion West. His stories have won Australia’s Aurealis Award and the grand prize at the Writers of the Future contest. He is the author of "Songdogs" in BCS #27, and his other recent sales include stories to Analog, Asimov’s, Cosmos, Podcastle, and Year’s Best Australian SF & Fantasy. His full bibliography, along with links to read and hear stories online, can be found at http://ianmchugh.wordpress.com.

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