The First Chapter of a Novel of MIne
My lack of love for the Fantasy genre was pretty big talk amongst my friends in high school, some of whom were the stereotypical D+D nerds you see everywhere. ^^ When I was a sophomore in high school, one such friend insinuated that that the reason I disliked fantasy so much was because I didn't have the ability to write the genre. I took this as a challenge, at the time, and began an outline for a fantasy story. Well, a light-fantasy story, I should say, since I didn't incorporate much in the way of magic or fantasy creatures, instead opting for a sort of pseudo-historical piece taking place in a fictional world. Anyways, I outlined most of the plot before becoming distracted by the general business of being a teenager, and wound up abandoning it, never to think of it again.
My mother found my old writing folders in her storage unit a couple weeks ago, and gave them back to me. I started to read through my old stuff, most of which was embarassingly bad, and came across the old outline. It clicked with some of the ideas I was having currently, so I finished it, and started writing the story.
Before I can decide whether it's worthy of devoting time to, though, I first need to gauge how others respond to it, and since FF.net is sadly lacking a place for completely original content, I figured I'd post it on live journal.
This is a tentative pilot for a novel I'm considering, not to be mistaken for my original comic project, which is a completely different beast. If anyone would be so kind as to read it (it's an enormous undertaking to be sure) and tell me whether they liked or disliked it, and why, I would be very much appreciative.
Don't worry about sparing my feelings if you dislike it, ideas tend to sound much better in one's head than when others read them, and I just want to get an idea of its quality. ^^
TITLE: Those Who Lack Faith
GENRE: Pseudo-historical fiction with light fantasy elements
CHAPTERS: 1
WORDS: 4,618
I: The business of happiness
Dameon Charity's story begins on a vessel at sea; a wholly unremarkable fact if taken upon the letter of its word. Well, more a straight than a sea, to be precise, one which had served since antiquity as the single divide of the islands of Irenas major and minor, the islands in turn having provided a home for the Kathos church and it's members for three hundred years past. Even with this in mind, the fact which renders Mr. Charity's situation remarkable is neither his location nor his destination, but the fact that he remained above the water at all.
The ship whose services he had hired was called the fisherman's saint by her captain. This distinction must be given when saying her name, because even in her prime she was unfit for any sort of legal registration, and never once in her one hundred-fifty year life had she ever been in such remarkable quality as to pass the minimum requirements for recognition as a legal trade vessel. As such, she had never bore an official title, save for what her captains saw fit to give. Rather, the black market had a long tradition of giving her aliases, and she in turn was renowned for the almost exclusively illegal activities that she performed during the period of the year between winter and summer fishing seasons. As ships go, she was very tall, as robust as a corpse, and as swollen and dilapidated as diseased skin. She seemed to all who rode upon her to stay afloat, not so much from her own perseverance or dignity, but simply because the ocean could not bear the taste long enough to consume her.
On the subject of her captains, it need only be said that they were all sons of the clan of Ribsy, and that each was a s fine a sailor as his ship was a vessel. Four generations of Ribsy men could brag about their command of the Saint, and anxiously engaged all who would listen with their tales of her two-hundred year history (this number being the least severe of modest exaggerations on their part.) Never did they fail to point out how this ship, which was build almost single-handedly by an untrained fisherman, had lived a longer life than even the official trade vessels of the church. They did overlook, however (as is not uncommon among the elderly) the facts which were most obvious to those that had seen her: such as her perpetually being undermanned and ill-repaired, her grotesque visage, or the unstable slant at which she sat in the water. Indeed, aside from the family that cared for her, not one of the Saint's passengers in the past fifty years ever departed without feeling that they owed some benevolent angel heartfelt thanks for their surviving the trip.
Dameon himself was the sole exception to this rule, as he was never one to worry about things beyond his control. More to the point, he wasn't one to turn down the services of a man whom he had grown to feel was completely worthy of his trust (a rare distinction for any man, given the nature of Mr. Charity's profession.) Dameon was a very young man, only barely twenty-four, but possessed an adult bearing and a childlike disposition which seemed to simultaneously give the impression that he was both very wise and very foolish. More than anything he was charming and outgoing, the sort of person who could be the life of a party, but whose personality starkly contrasted many, and at times caused him to leave a sour impression with his peers.
***
That night, Dameon walked with a confidence not at all rare among men of his age, his hands concealed in the folds of the long coat that hung loosely on his frame as he leaned his body left and right in time with the swaying of the ship. With little more than an amused smile he walked down the narrow hall of the ship's first cabin floors; noticing without any particular display of emotion how easily the support beams overhead creaked in the violent waves caused by the stormy weather outside. The floorboards at his feet were more soggy and bloated than was probably correct for them to be, and bent without resistance at each of his steps.
“I suppose it's for the best that Nathan declined to accompany me, this time.” He said to himself with a smile, “A larger man than I might see the deck give way.” He continued walking, all the same, occasionally passing a crewman coming off of the late watch. At length, he found captain's door and, finding it ajar, simply knocked once before letting himself in. This was the fourth time he had used the Fisherman's Saint as a transport, and it had taken all of this prior experience to prevent him from cringing at the sight of Benjamin Ribsy.
The old fish merchant sat in a worn leather chair behind a never-polished oak desk, the unnecessary bulk of which made the tiny cabin appear even smaller. He was a fragile skeleton of a man, a peasant's life not lending itself well to gluttony, and even with the substantial sums he made from his dealing with The contented (as the black market preferred to call itself) were immediately funneled away on church tithes and the upkeep of his home. He kept his face shaved, but missed the same parts of his chin with every attempt, resulting in a patchy beard that gave him an uneducated look that wasn't entirely deserved. His eyes bulged large and bloodshot in his sockets, and dark lines beneath them betrayed the countless sleepless nights his life had known.
Ever by his side, and ever more frequently silent, stood Dichali: Benjamin's head boatswain's mate. This much taller man stood with disciplined rigidity, his dark brown eyes radiating an icy mixture of distrust and hatred that he seemed to reserve for Dameon alone. Those eyes, and the yellow-tanned skin which accompanied them, were the traits that identified him as a member of the Akthia, a tribe of men indigenous to the Irenas islands; whose service as laborers, thanks in no small part to the sub-human status placed upon them by the church when it arrived, could be purchased by even members of the peasantry. At any rate, his animosity did not go unnoticed, though Dameon was no stranger to it, and thus paid it no special mind as he sat on a stool in front of the desk, smiling warmly at the pair.
“Good evening, Mr. Ribsy. As promised, I've come to see you. Your wish was to confirm our pay arrangements, yes?” His voice was polite, and pointedly questioning. Years in business had taught himwhat it meant when someone with whom he did business for a long while suddenly asked to go over such things. The old man returned Dameon's smile, an act which doubled the wrinkles on his face. For fifty-eight years he'd been alive, yet despite that fact, he had only just inherited the ship on which they rode from his father a few years prior. The Ribsy men mirrored their ship in more ways than one: Both in quality, and in outliving other's expectations for them.
“Dameon, my boy, I'd hafta say that the old saint and me have been good to you for a long time, wouldn't you?” his dialect was rural and unrefined. He waited for the young man to nod his concession before continuing, “She's a small boat, sir. Barely a ship, but her cargo bay can hold fifty-thousand hecates in spices or silver.” After a pause, he leaned forward, bringing his hand to his mouth as though guarding some terrible secret. “an' her hidden bay can hold about that much in opium and guns. So she more than earns her keep.”
Dameon sighed quietly, bored by the round-about way that Benjamin got to his point, but knowing that it was part of the game all businessmen played. A game he had finally mastered the rules for.
“You're quite correct, Mr. Ribsy, and a fair trade it makes for the pair of us, as the silver I place in the cargo hold is always yours to keep, and in all fairness, that's slightly more than the service you provide would generally be worth.” He returned formally, knowing that he couldn't be the first to suggest what Benjamin was slowly preparing to ask.
“Don't forget about the fines, please, ma' boy! An' the bribes add up fast, too. I dun keep much of what you give me.” Dameon was silent for this, but his eyes betrayed a bit of his surprise. Did Benjamin think an opium trader wouldn't know that even with fines and bribes he must surely take at least ten-thousand in profit from every venture?
“I admit that with a job like mine there are many expenses to take into account, Mr. Ribsy. However, your family should be more familiar with this fact than I. The Contented have been using your ship to smuggle goods to the capitol for close to thirty years, haven't they?”
“Aye, it's true, but my father was better with these things than I am. I'm very sorry if either me ship or myself have been a bother, sir,” He stopped a moment, before finally coming to his point. “But I need you to pay me a bit more this time around.” Dameon leaned back a bit, his expression locked in its place- a mask not betraying of his inner thoughts. Although his hands, which were clasped together in his lap, laying fully visible to the other men (he found it a wise policy to avoid hiding one's hands when in the company of business relations) did grip together tightly for a second. Likewise, he did also let an inaudible breath escape him when old Ben finally made his request. Neither of these were gestures of anger, mind, but rather frustration. Now that the old fisherman had asked for more money, Dameon was stuck with the difficult task of obliging him without making it too obvious he would not refuse any price for his service. It was games like this one, which required a great degree of emotional finesse, that Dameon always had the most trouble with.
“It's very strange,” Dameon started after a moment's pause. He withdrew from its pocket his silver watch, pretending to examine its face as second before returning the gaze of his emerald eyes to the ancient-looking face before him. He let his voice grow the slightest bit angry, deciding frustration to be the best emotion to feign first. “That a man should request more money for his services in the same breath that apologizes for those services being inadequate.”
“Aye, sir, mayhaps it is, but I'm a working man, sir. Working men are never good at asking for favors.” Benjamin was only a little distressed at Dameon's tone, far too old to be too easily shaken by a young man's anger.
“I should imagine! What a lofty favor this is, too, coming from a man who recieves fifty-thousand hecates in silver for three days of travel. Pray tell, Ben. How much more do you require, and why on earth do you ask it of me now?”
“It's the carnival, sir. This is the first one I've ever seen since taking over my ship.” He opened one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out a small wooden flask. His thin, arthritic hands pulled the cap away, and he took a long drink before continuing. “It's a legend to peasants like me, but nothin' else, you understand? While the carnival may bring riches to you who live in the shadows, it does nothin' for those of us who live at the mercy of the land and sea... but that's what's changed for me, since last time. Now I help you; I help the contented even though it puts ma' ship and ma' family name at risk. I think it's ma' right to prosper alongside you.”
“That's not entirely incorrect, I concede, but you still hesitate to tell me exactly how much 'prosperity' you feel is your right.” Dameon narrowed his eyes, surprised how hard it was for him to make a convincingly threatening glance. It was clear by the old man's reaction that he succeeded, though.
“Ah,” The old man shivered, his fear becoming more obvious, “A-as you know, sir, I serve as the foreman of ma' village. Err, a Ribsy man has held this honor since Agrathea led the chosen to this holy land. I do what's needed, sir, an' sometimes I have to take the village's expenses against ma' own credit. That's why ma' wife n' child still go hungry, sir, even with your generous pay. I need... just this one time, sir, upon my honor, sir... I need a double payment for the use of ma' ship.” Benjamin said this last part very quickly, and had started to turn away before he'd even started speaking. His fear wasn't unfounded. Collaborators who became too greedy in their dealing with the contented were often killed outright. Murder was far too common among the peasantry for the church to pay it mind, and replacement for the victim was a simple feat. There was no shortage of starving farmers willing to defy the church's edict and turn to the umbra mundi (the “shadow world” as the church was fond of calling the black market) for support.
“So, in honor of the carnival, and with your duties in mind, you wish for me to pay you a sum far larger than your contribution is worth?” Dameon scratched the front of his throat with his long fingertips. It was a gesture he intended to seem contemplative, though in all honesty he did it to prevent himself from smiling warmly. He was prepared to let the old man be so much more greedy, (as he had never been one to put much value in money, always finding it to be a commodity easily obtained and doubly easily spent) but this set up was fine. Shared prosperity indeed! He allowed the tense silence to oppress the room for a few moments longer before finally consenting. “The contented will take note of the timing for this rather unreasonable request, Mr. Ribsy, but I'll allow it this one time. Consider it my personal thanks for the years of service you've given me... was this an appropriate reaction?” The last sentence was spoken as an afterthought, and in a whisper, as he was asking it of himself, rather than Benjamin.
Twenty years seemed to melt of f the old sailor's face. “G-god bless ye, sir! I swear on ma' family name! This is the last time I'll ever ask.” The wave of relief which hit old Ben seemed to come all at once, and he was shivering and crying as he reached out to grasp the hand Dameon offered him. The younger man's face remained stoic as usual, though his eye betrayed a bit of warmth in response to the emotional display. Whether he had done a convincing enough job of making the favor seem a grave one to ask or not, he was certainly relieved that the one time he would be forced to talk business during the trip was finally concluded.
“You may speak with Mr. Nathan once we arrive at shore, then. Just tell him about the amount we agreed upon and that should resolve everything.” He rose abruptly, listening to the elderly man's profuse thanks without paying them real attention as he began to move his way to the exit. Dichali moved forward, coldly polite as he opened the door for Dameon, and dismissed him silently as the smaller man nodded his head in thanks.
As soon as he had maneuvered himself to the hallway outside, the heavy door was sent slamming back into its frame, and Ben began to excitedly babel to Dichali in the Akthian language (which was known to various degrees of fluency by members of the church, to ease communications with their servants.) no doubt speaking happily of the incredible deal he had managed to earn for himself. The act amused Dameon, who had begun to make random gestures with his face -from a deep frown to a melodramatic smile- to get rid of the numb feeling that tended to set into his features whenever he stayed in “business” mode for too long. People could be so incredibly strange, at times, especially when it came to matters of money. Making a deal was an act in which two men negotiate with lies, both knowing the other is lying while pretending they don't, and concluding when both had modified their lie well enough for mutual satisfaction. The one selling must pretend that he wants more for his product than he truly desires, and feigns hesitation to lower his stated price; while the one buying pretends to have less money at his disposal than he does, and claims greater misfortunes than are truly plaguing him. The logic behind how the bizarre ritual was born was completely lost on Dameon, but it was a game he refused to be easily bested in.
With soft footsteps Dameon made his way back to the guest cabin. It was the only well-maintained section of the entire ship, with the furniture free of dust and neatly bolted into place. Most of this upkeep was done at the labor of those who were forced to spend their evenings here, but nonetheless it was the only quaint, if not charming, area available to stay the night. Dameon entered silently, expecting his traveling companions to be asleep. To his surprise, his eyes were drawn to a dimly-lit lamp by the table, and Amalia's form hunched beside it, scribbling furiously. The young woman's features were shrouded in darkness as she attempted to keep most of the light concealed. This puzzled Dameon, until he saw his younger sister slumbering silently across the room. The storm outside had receded to a soft rainfall, making it clear that the Fisherman's Saint would survive still another journey that it probably didn't deserve to.
***
Amalia became aware of his entry just as Dameon was easing the bolt of the door back into its place. She cast a cold blue eye in his direction, a gesture almost invisible in the darkness, before nodding a half-hearted greeting and returning to her work. Dameon made his way over to her quickly, no longer worried about being quiet as he came to the realization that no noise he made could be louder than the turbulent sea outside. He fumbled his way into the seat across the little table and faced her with his usual passive expression.
“I had no idea you kept such early hours, not that I'm ungrateful for the chance to share your company!” There was always an unnecessarily theatric quality to his voice when he spoke to Amalia. She had been a lifelong acquaintance of the Charity family, though she had attempted to estrange herself from them when she became a more active participant in the Kathos church. When Dameon and Emille were orphaned she was forced to abandon this goal, in part because she couldn't leave children in need, but mostly because Dameon had pointed out to her that she was the only chance his younger sister would have for a positive role model, given his personality and the company he kept.
“The strap on my bunk snapped in the storm. I got tossed on the floor.” She said irritably. As she spoke she gestured back to the bunks; lying on the floor was a large leather strap which had cleanly torn from the frame of the top bed. The ship had them installed to prevent passengers from being thrown from their bunks when waves rocked the vessel, though given the usually sub-par quality of this ship in particular, they couldn't be counted on in most situations. “I truly wish you'd find a more comfortable ship to travel on.”
“I've always found beauty in stubborn things, though, even if they aren't especially nice to look at.” Dameon replied, with a suggestive expression that his listener pointedly ignored. Amalia was six years his senior, and as a result of their shared history he tended to treat her as an elder sibling. “Aside from which, Mr. Benjamin is someone I feel I can trust. Those to whom one extends their trust are like family, and it's important for family members to support each other, is that not an appropriate reaction?” Amalia nodded her agreement with what he said, but a small, wry frown came upon her at the words 'appropriate reaction.'
“You were right to let him have a little more money. This business of yours destroys enough lives already.” She said this in her normal speaking voice, as the two of them had clashed often enough over his disapproval of the drug trade for Dameon to know the lecture verbatim.
“It's failure to moderate that destroys lives, with my business or any other. I much prefer to think that what I sell is an escape from sorrow.” Dameon said, still as perplexed as ever by her way of thinking.
“Even if you prefer to think that way, there are many reasons you're wrong. People grow dependent too easily. The flesh is too weak for some temptations to be allowed. It's all much more complicated than you like to make it.”
“Too complicated?” he repeated her words slowly, as if trying to understand their meaning. Amalia began to explain further, but decided against it. She had had this conversation with him twice before, and eventually came to the conclusion that Dameon's peculiar personality made certain perspectives completely alien to him. “I chose this occupation because I wanted to find a way to bring joy to others with my life. I wanted to find a business of happiness.”
“I know. You're not the sort of person who would go out of his way to cause others harm.” She responded. He wasn't the sort of person who would go out of his way to help others, either, though, and she blushed a little bit to be reminded that it was because of the advice she had given him that he became an opium dealer in the first place. Perhaps it was because of the guilt, but she decided to change the subject. “How much longer until we reach land?”
Dameon pulled his silver watch from its pocket once again, holding the face to the light. “About two hours. We can still wait a while before we wake our princess.”
***
It was the day of the funeral for Dameon's mother, many years ago, that Amalia had agreed to become his sister's guardian. At the time, almost one hundred grievers had gathered in the town's chapel, with Dameon at the forefront, crying inconsolably as he threw himself toward the casket's display, with those nearby gently barring his progress. It was a heartrending spectacle, one that tried the emotions of all who witnessed it, and it helped to add a degree of significance to the parting words the ministers delivered before the time came for burial. Dameon was only thirteen at the time, his sister only six. Before, there had been speculation as to who would maintain custody of the children until Dameon came of age, but such serious thinking was nowhere to be found on an event as sombre as this. Grief was the only thing to be considered, and after a time only the muffled sobs of those most affected could be heard.
After the service, Amalia felt she should be the first to visit the two children at their home. As the only neighbor who frequently spent time with them, it made sense that she be the one to console them in their time of grief. She entered the home, expecting to find Dameon in the same condition he had been during the funeral, and was thus surprised to find him sitting calmly in a kitchen chair. His eyes certainly had traces of sadness in them, but nothing to match the unbridled sorrow he had shown before, and it seemed mixed with frustration and confusion. When he became aware of her presence, he looked up at her inquisitively.
“Back there... at the funeral... that was an appropriate reaction, right?” He asked, his voice still hoarse from his earlier crying. Amalia raised an eyebrow at the question.
“What do you mean by that?” Before answering her, he stood from his chair, walking to the nearby window.
“On the day my Mother died, everyone was looking at me strangely. It seemed as if they were expecting something that failed to deliver. I eventually figured out what it was... people are naturally supposed to feel agony when someone close to them dies, right? However, I couldn't figure out how best to show such a feeling... I've never known it before.” He spoke with a natural eloquence he came into early in life, his voice not carrying an emotion.
“You aren't sad that your mother died?” Amalia inquired gently. Dameon looked at her again, and again she saw the traces of sadness in his eyes.
“I don't want anyone to think that Mother was someone so terrible that her children felt no sorrow when she died, or that I was ungrateful for everything she did. I am sad to lose her, to the degree that I ever feel sad, anyway. Ever since I was very young, though, I've felt that there was some fundamental thing that others have which I lack. Like there was an entire level of emotion which I was incapable of experiencing. I've created a game of trying to guess how I'm supposed to feel when something happens, and doing my best to imitate it. I'll become accustomed to it, eventually.”
At the time, Amalia was too confused to understand what Dameon was trying to say, but when she accepted the children into her custody some time later she eventually began to comprehend exactly what he had meant. Dameon was a boy completely devoid of passion. He did not love, nor did he hate. He was not envious, nor was he noble. He was a human being who lacked many of the traits necessary to fully earn such a title. After Dameon turned sixteen, old enough to be considered a man, he invited Amalia to continue to serve as his sister's guardian.
“I don't have the capacity to be a true parent, isn't that what you once said?” he had asked her, smiling. “Best to have you continue with the role, then. The church would smile upon such selflessness.”
Amalia agreed. She wanted to be there to support his sister, Emille Charity, who was blessedly born without her brother's eccentricities, but there was another reason she wished to stay in his company. Whenever Dameon found himself in a situation where he was unsure which emotion was best to display, he would always turn to her for guidance. “is this an appropriate reaction?” he would say, and despite always being teasing toward her, he almost always listened to her advice. Deep down, Amalia stayed with the Charity family because Dameon terrified her. She was frightened beyond words when she tried to imagine the sort of creature he may one day become if he ever tired of his 'game' of impersonating a normal person.
My mother found my old writing folders in her storage unit a couple weeks ago, and gave them back to me. I started to read through my old stuff, most of which was embarassingly bad, and came across the old outline. It clicked with some of the ideas I was having currently, so I finished it, and started writing the story.
Before I can decide whether it's worthy of devoting time to, though, I first need to gauge how others respond to it, and since FF.net is sadly lacking a place for completely original content, I figured I'd post it on live journal.
This is a tentative pilot for a novel I'm considering, not to be mistaken for my original comic project, which is a completely different beast. If anyone would be so kind as to read it (it's an enormous undertaking to be sure) and tell me whether they liked or disliked it, and why, I would be very much appreciative.
Don't worry about sparing my feelings if you dislike it, ideas tend to sound much better in one's head than when others read them, and I just want to get an idea of its quality. ^^
TITLE: Those Who Lack Faith
GENRE: Pseudo-historical fiction with light fantasy elements
CHAPTERS: 1
WORDS: 4,618
I: The business of happiness
Dameon Charity's story begins on a vessel at sea; a wholly unremarkable fact if taken upon the letter of its word. Well, more a straight than a sea, to be precise, one which had served since antiquity as the single divide of the islands of Irenas major and minor, the islands in turn having provided a home for the Kathos church and it's members for three hundred years past. Even with this in mind, the fact which renders Mr. Charity's situation remarkable is neither his location nor his destination, but the fact that he remained above the water at all.
The ship whose services he had hired was called the fisherman's saint by her captain. This distinction must be given when saying her name, because even in her prime she was unfit for any sort of legal registration, and never once in her one hundred-fifty year life had she ever been in such remarkable quality as to pass the minimum requirements for recognition as a legal trade vessel. As such, she had never bore an official title, save for what her captains saw fit to give. Rather, the black market had a long tradition of giving her aliases, and she in turn was renowned for the almost exclusively illegal activities that she performed during the period of the year between winter and summer fishing seasons. As ships go, she was very tall, as robust as a corpse, and as swollen and dilapidated as diseased skin. She seemed to all who rode upon her to stay afloat, not so much from her own perseverance or dignity, but simply because the ocean could not bear the taste long enough to consume her.
On the subject of her captains, it need only be said that they were all sons of the clan of Ribsy, and that each was a s fine a sailor as his ship was a vessel. Four generations of Ribsy men could brag about their command of the Saint, and anxiously engaged all who would listen with their tales of her two-hundred year history (this number being the least severe of modest exaggerations on their part.) Never did they fail to point out how this ship, which was build almost single-handedly by an untrained fisherman, had lived a longer life than even the official trade vessels of the church. They did overlook, however (as is not uncommon among the elderly) the facts which were most obvious to those that had seen her: such as her perpetually being undermanned and ill-repaired, her grotesque visage, or the unstable slant at which she sat in the water. Indeed, aside from the family that cared for her, not one of the Saint's passengers in the past fifty years ever departed without feeling that they owed some benevolent angel heartfelt thanks for their surviving the trip.
Dameon himself was the sole exception to this rule, as he was never one to worry about things beyond his control. More to the point, he wasn't one to turn down the services of a man whom he had grown to feel was completely worthy of his trust (a rare distinction for any man, given the nature of Mr. Charity's profession.) Dameon was a very young man, only barely twenty-four, but possessed an adult bearing and a childlike disposition which seemed to simultaneously give the impression that he was both very wise and very foolish. More than anything he was charming and outgoing, the sort of person who could be the life of a party, but whose personality starkly contrasted many, and at times caused him to leave a sour impression with his peers.
***
That night, Dameon walked with a confidence not at all rare among men of his age, his hands concealed in the folds of the long coat that hung loosely on his frame as he leaned his body left and right in time with the swaying of the ship. With little more than an amused smile he walked down the narrow hall of the ship's first cabin floors; noticing without any particular display of emotion how easily the support beams overhead creaked in the violent waves caused by the stormy weather outside. The floorboards at his feet were more soggy and bloated than was probably correct for them to be, and bent without resistance at each of his steps.
“I suppose it's for the best that Nathan declined to accompany me, this time.” He said to himself with a smile, “A larger man than I might see the deck give way.” He continued walking, all the same, occasionally passing a crewman coming off of the late watch. At length, he found captain's door and, finding it ajar, simply knocked once before letting himself in. This was the fourth time he had used the Fisherman's Saint as a transport, and it had taken all of this prior experience to prevent him from cringing at the sight of Benjamin Ribsy.
The old fish merchant sat in a worn leather chair behind a never-polished oak desk, the unnecessary bulk of which made the tiny cabin appear even smaller. He was a fragile skeleton of a man, a peasant's life not lending itself well to gluttony, and even with the substantial sums he made from his dealing with The contented (as the black market preferred to call itself) were immediately funneled away on church tithes and the upkeep of his home. He kept his face shaved, but missed the same parts of his chin with every attempt, resulting in a patchy beard that gave him an uneducated look that wasn't entirely deserved. His eyes bulged large and bloodshot in his sockets, and dark lines beneath them betrayed the countless sleepless nights his life had known.
Ever by his side, and ever more frequently silent, stood Dichali: Benjamin's head boatswain's mate. This much taller man stood with disciplined rigidity, his dark brown eyes radiating an icy mixture of distrust and hatred that he seemed to reserve for Dameon alone. Those eyes, and the yellow-tanned skin which accompanied them, were the traits that identified him as a member of the Akthia, a tribe of men indigenous to the Irenas islands; whose service as laborers, thanks in no small part to the sub-human status placed upon them by the church when it arrived, could be purchased by even members of the peasantry. At any rate, his animosity did not go unnoticed, though Dameon was no stranger to it, and thus paid it no special mind as he sat on a stool in front of the desk, smiling warmly at the pair.
“Good evening, Mr. Ribsy. As promised, I've come to see you. Your wish was to confirm our pay arrangements, yes?” His voice was polite, and pointedly questioning. Years in business had taught himwhat it meant when someone with whom he did business for a long while suddenly asked to go over such things. The old man returned Dameon's smile, an act which doubled the wrinkles on his face. For fifty-eight years he'd been alive, yet despite that fact, he had only just inherited the ship on which they rode from his father a few years prior. The Ribsy men mirrored their ship in more ways than one: Both in quality, and in outliving other's expectations for them.
“Dameon, my boy, I'd hafta say that the old saint and me have been good to you for a long time, wouldn't you?” his dialect was rural and unrefined. He waited for the young man to nod his concession before continuing, “She's a small boat, sir. Barely a ship, but her cargo bay can hold fifty-thousand hecates in spices or silver.” After a pause, he leaned forward, bringing his hand to his mouth as though guarding some terrible secret. “an' her hidden bay can hold about that much in opium and guns. So she more than earns her keep.”
Dameon sighed quietly, bored by the round-about way that Benjamin got to his point, but knowing that it was part of the game all businessmen played. A game he had finally mastered the rules for.
“You're quite correct, Mr. Ribsy, and a fair trade it makes for the pair of us, as the silver I place in the cargo hold is always yours to keep, and in all fairness, that's slightly more than the service you provide would generally be worth.” He returned formally, knowing that he couldn't be the first to suggest what Benjamin was slowly preparing to ask.
“Don't forget about the fines, please, ma' boy! An' the bribes add up fast, too. I dun keep much of what you give me.” Dameon was silent for this, but his eyes betrayed a bit of his surprise. Did Benjamin think an opium trader wouldn't know that even with fines and bribes he must surely take at least ten-thousand in profit from every venture?
“I admit that with a job like mine there are many expenses to take into account, Mr. Ribsy. However, your family should be more familiar with this fact than I. The Contented have been using your ship to smuggle goods to the capitol for close to thirty years, haven't they?”
“Aye, it's true, but my father was better with these things than I am. I'm very sorry if either me ship or myself have been a bother, sir,” He stopped a moment, before finally coming to his point. “But I need you to pay me a bit more this time around.” Dameon leaned back a bit, his expression locked in its place- a mask not betraying of his inner thoughts. Although his hands, which were clasped together in his lap, laying fully visible to the other men (he found it a wise policy to avoid hiding one's hands when in the company of business relations) did grip together tightly for a second. Likewise, he did also let an inaudible breath escape him when old Ben finally made his request. Neither of these were gestures of anger, mind, but rather frustration. Now that the old fisherman had asked for more money, Dameon was stuck with the difficult task of obliging him without making it too obvious he would not refuse any price for his service. It was games like this one, which required a great degree of emotional finesse, that Dameon always had the most trouble with.
“It's very strange,” Dameon started after a moment's pause. He withdrew from its pocket his silver watch, pretending to examine its face as second before returning the gaze of his emerald eyes to the ancient-looking face before him. He let his voice grow the slightest bit angry, deciding frustration to be the best emotion to feign first. “That a man should request more money for his services in the same breath that apologizes for those services being inadequate.”
“Aye, sir, mayhaps it is, but I'm a working man, sir. Working men are never good at asking for favors.” Benjamin was only a little distressed at Dameon's tone, far too old to be too easily shaken by a young man's anger.
“I should imagine! What a lofty favor this is, too, coming from a man who recieves fifty-thousand hecates in silver for three days of travel. Pray tell, Ben. How much more do you require, and why on earth do you ask it of me now?”
“It's the carnival, sir. This is the first one I've ever seen since taking over my ship.” He opened one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out a small wooden flask. His thin, arthritic hands pulled the cap away, and he took a long drink before continuing. “It's a legend to peasants like me, but nothin' else, you understand? While the carnival may bring riches to you who live in the shadows, it does nothin' for those of us who live at the mercy of the land and sea... but that's what's changed for me, since last time. Now I help you; I help the contented even though it puts ma' ship and ma' family name at risk. I think it's ma' right to prosper alongside you.”
“That's not entirely incorrect, I concede, but you still hesitate to tell me exactly how much 'prosperity' you feel is your right.” Dameon narrowed his eyes, surprised how hard it was for him to make a convincingly threatening glance. It was clear by the old man's reaction that he succeeded, though.
“Ah,” The old man shivered, his fear becoming more obvious, “A-as you know, sir, I serve as the foreman of ma' village. Err, a Ribsy man has held this honor since Agrathea led the chosen to this holy land. I do what's needed, sir, an' sometimes I have to take the village's expenses against ma' own credit. That's why ma' wife n' child still go hungry, sir, even with your generous pay. I need... just this one time, sir, upon my honor, sir... I need a double payment for the use of ma' ship.” Benjamin said this last part very quickly, and had started to turn away before he'd even started speaking. His fear wasn't unfounded. Collaborators who became too greedy in their dealing with the contented were often killed outright. Murder was far too common among the peasantry for the church to pay it mind, and replacement for the victim was a simple feat. There was no shortage of starving farmers willing to defy the church's edict and turn to the umbra mundi (the “shadow world” as the church was fond of calling the black market) for support.
“So, in honor of the carnival, and with your duties in mind, you wish for me to pay you a sum far larger than your contribution is worth?” Dameon scratched the front of his throat with his long fingertips. It was a gesture he intended to seem contemplative, though in all honesty he did it to prevent himself from smiling warmly. He was prepared to let the old man be so much more greedy, (as he had never been one to put much value in money, always finding it to be a commodity easily obtained and doubly easily spent) but this set up was fine. Shared prosperity indeed! He allowed the tense silence to oppress the room for a few moments longer before finally consenting. “The contented will take note of the timing for this rather unreasonable request, Mr. Ribsy, but I'll allow it this one time. Consider it my personal thanks for the years of service you've given me... was this an appropriate reaction?” The last sentence was spoken as an afterthought, and in a whisper, as he was asking it of himself, rather than Benjamin.
Twenty years seemed to melt of f the old sailor's face. “G-god bless ye, sir! I swear on ma' family name! This is the last time I'll ever ask.” The wave of relief which hit old Ben seemed to come all at once, and he was shivering and crying as he reached out to grasp the hand Dameon offered him. The younger man's face remained stoic as usual, though his eye betrayed a bit of warmth in response to the emotional display. Whether he had done a convincing enough job of making the favor seem a grave one to ask or not, he was certainly relieved that the one time he would be forced to talk business during the trip was finally concluded.
“You may speak with Mr. Nathan once we arrive at shore, then. Just tell him about the amount we agreed upon and that should resolve everything.” He rose abruptly, listening to the elderly man's profuse thanks without paying them real attention as he began to move his way to the exit. Dichali moved forward, coldly polite as he opened the door for Dameon, and dismissed him silently as the smaller man nodded his head in thanks.
As soon as he had maneuvered himself to the hallway outside, the heavy door was sent slamming back into its frame, and Ben began to excitedly babel to Dichali in the Akthian language (which was known to various degrees of fluency by members of the church, to ease communications with their servants.) no doubt speaking happily of the incredible deal he had managed to earn for himself. The act amused Dameon, who had begun to make random gestures with his face -from a deep frown to a melodramatic smile- to get rid of the numb feeling that tended to set into his features whenever he stayed in “business” mode for too long. People could be so incredibly strange, at times, especially when it came to matters of money. Making a deal was an act in which two men negotiate with lies, both knowing the other is lying while pretending they don't, and concluding when both had modified their lie well enough for mutual satisfaction. The one selling must pretend that he wants more for his product than he truly desires, and feigns hesitation to lower his stated price; while the one buying pretends to have less money at his disposal than he does, and claims greater misfortunes than are truly plaguing him. The logic behind how the bizarre ritual was born was completely lost on Dameon, but it was a game he refused to be easily bested in.
With soft footsteps Dameon made his way back to the guest cabin. It was the only well-maintained section of the entire ship, with the furniture free of dust and neatly bolted into place. Most of this upkeep was done at the labor of those who were forced to spend their evenings here, but nonetheless it was the only quaint, if not charming, area available to stay the night. Dameon entered silently, expecting his traveling companions to be asleep. To his surprise, his eyes were drawn to a dimly-lit lamp by the table, and Amalia's form hunched beside it, scribbling furiously. The young woman's features were shrouded in darkness as she attempted to keep most of the light concealed. This puzzled Dameon, until he saw his younger sister slumbering silently across the room. The storm outside had receded to a soft rainfall, making it clear that the Fisherman's Saint would survive still another journey that it probably didn't deserve to.
***
Amalia became aware of his entry just as Dameon was easing the bolt of the door back into its place. She cast a cold blue eye in his direction, a gesture almost invisible in the darkness, before nodding a half-hearted greeting and returning to her work. Dameon made his way over to her quickly, no longer worried about being quiet as he came to the realization that no noise he made could be louder than the turbulent sea outside. He fumbled his way into the seat across the little table and faced her with his usual passive expression.
“I had no idea you kept such early hours, not that I'm ungrateful for the chance to share your company!” There was always an unnecessarily theatric quality to his voice when he spoke to Amalia. She had been a lifelong acquaintance of the Charity family, though she had attempted to estrange herself from them when she became a more active participant in the Kathos church. When Dameon and Emille were orphaned she was forced to abandon this goal, in part because she couldn't leave children in need, but mostly because Dameon had pointed out to her that she was the only chance his younger sister would have for a positive role model, given his personality and the company he kept.
“The strap on my bunk snapped in the storm. I got tossed on the floor.” She said irritably. As she spoke she gestured back to the bunks; lying on the floor was a large leather strap which had cleanly torn from the frame of the top bed. The ship had them installed to prevent passengers from being thrown from their bunks when waves rocked the vessel, though given the usually sub-par quality of this ship in particular, they couldn't be counted on in most situations. “I truly wish you'd find a more comfortable ship to travel on.”
“I've always found beauty in stubborn things, though, even if they aren't especially nice to look at.” Dameon replied, with a suggestive expression that his listener pointedly ignored. Amalia was six years his senior, and as a result of their shared history he tended to treat her as an elder sibling. “Aside from which, Mr. Benjamin is someone I feel I can trust. Those to whom one extends their trust are like family, and it's important for family members to support each other, is that not an appropriate reaction?” Amalia nodded her agreement with what he said, but a small, wry frown came upon her at the words 'appropriate reaction.'
“You were right to let him have a little more money. This business of yours destroys enough lives already.” She said this in her normal speaking voice, as the two of them had clashed often enough over his disapproval of the drug trade for Dameon to know the lecture verbatim.
“It's failure to moderate that destroys lives, with my business or any other. I much prefer to think that what I sell is an escape from sorrow.” Dameon said, still as perplexed as ever by her way of thinking.
“Even if you prefer to think that way, there are many reasons you're wrong. People grow dependent too easily. The flesh is too weak for some temptations to be allowed. It's all much more complicated than you like to make it.”
“Too complicated?” he repeated her words slowly, as if trying to understand their meaning. Amalia began to explain further, but decided against it. She had had this conversation with him twice before, and eventually came to the conclusion that Dameon's peculiar personality made certain perspectives completely alien to him. “I chose this occupation because I wanted to find a way to bring joy to others with my life. I wanted to find a business of happiness.”
“I know. You're not the sort of person who would go out of his way to cause others harm.” She responded. He wasn't the sort of person who would go out of his way to help others, either, though, and she blushed a little bit to be reminded that it was because of the advice she had given him that he became an opium dealer in the first place. Perhaps it was because of the guilt, but she decided to change the subject. “How much longer until we reach land?”
Dameon pulled his silver watch from its pocket once again, holding the face to the light. “About two hours. We can still wait a while before we wake our princess.”
***
It was the day of the funeral for Dameon's mother, many years ago, that Amalia had agreed to become his sister's guardian. At the time, almost one hundred grievers had gathered in the town's chapel, with Dameon at the forefront, crying inconsolably as he threw himself toward the casket's display, with those nearby gently barring his progress. It was a heartrending spectacle, one that tried the emotions of all who witnessed it, and it helped to add a degree of significance to the parting words the ministers delivered before the time came for burial. Dameon was only thirteen at the time, his sister only six. Before, there had been speculation as to who would maintain custody of the children until Dameon came of age, but such serious thinking was nowhere to be found on an event as sombre as this. Grief was the only thing to be considered, and after a time only the muffled sobs of those most affected could be heard.
After the service, Amalia felt she should be the first to visit the two children at their home. As the only neighbor who frequently spent time with them, it made sense that she be the one to console them in their time of grief. She entered the home, expecting to find Dameon in the same condition he had been during the funeral, and was thus surprised to find him sitting calmly in a kitchen chair. His eyes certainly had traces of sadness in them, but nothing to match the unbridled sorrow he had shown before, and it seemed mixed with frustration and confusion. When he became aware of her presence, he looked up at her inquisitively.
“Back there... at the funeral... that was an appropriate reaction, right?” He asked, his voice still hoarse from his earlier crying. Amalia raised an eyebrow at the question.
“What do you mean by that?” Before answering her, he stood from his chair, walking to the nearby window.
“On the day my Mother died, everyone was looking at me strangely. It seemed as if they were expecting something that failed to deliver. I eventually figured out what it was... people are naturally supposed to feel agony when someone close to them dies, right? However, I couldn't figure out how best to show such a feeling... I've never known it before.” He spoke with a natural eloquence he came into early in life, his voice not carrying an emotion.
“You aren't sad that your mother died?” Amalia inquired gently. Dameon looked at her again, and again she saw the traces of sadness in his eyes.
“I don't want anyone to think that Mother was someone so terrible that her children felt no sorrow when she died, or that I was ungrateful for everything she did. I am sad to lose her, to the degree that I ever feel sad, anyway. Ever since I was very young, though, I've felt that there was some fundamental thing that others have which I lack. Like there was an entire level of emotion which I was incapable of experiencing. I've created a game of trying to guess how I'm supposed to feel when something happens, and doing my best to imitate it. I'll become accustomed to it, eventually.”
At the time, Amalia was too confused to understand what Dameon was trying to say, but when she accepted the children into her custody some time later she eventually began to comprehend exactly what he had meant. Dameon was a boy completely devoid of passion. He did not love, nor did he hate. He was not envious, nor was he noble. He was a human being who lacked many of the traits necessary to fully earn such a title. After Dameon turned sixteen, old enough to be considered a man, he invited Amalia to continue to serve as his sister's guardian.
“I don't have the capacity to be a true parent, isn't that what you once said?” he had asked her, smiling. “Best to have you continue with the role, then. The church would smile upon such selflessness.”
Amalia agreed. She wanted to be there to support his sister, Emille Charity, who was blessedly born without her brother's eccentricities, but there was another reason she wished to stay in his company. Whenever Dameon found himself in a situation where he was unsure which emotion was best to display, he would always turn to her for guidance. “is this an appropriate reaction?” he would say, and despite always being teasing toward her, he almost always listened to her advice. Deep down, Amalia stayed with the Charity family because Dameon terrified her. She was frightened beyond words when she tried to imagine the sort of creature he may one day become if he ever tired of his 'game' of impersonating a normal person.