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  The Ships of Aleph

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  THE SHIPS OF ALEPH

  Jaine Fenn

  Copyright © 2012 Jaine Fenn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.

  Any slights of people, places, or organisations are unintentional.

  The Ships of Aleph was originally published as a limited edition chapbook by Novacon 42.

  This edition published in 2015 by Tower of Chaos Press, Hampshire, UK

  www.towerofchaospress.com

  Cover design by David Hardy, www.astroart.org

  The Ships of Aleph

  Every day, I ask myself the same question: would I be happier now if I had never sailed off the edge of the world?

  As a child, I wondered what lay beyond the sea. One of my earliest memories is of asking my father that very question as he sat by the fire after a hard day hauling the nets. He said simply, ‘Such matters are for God to know, Lachin,’ and drew on his pipe. I may have pestered him further; I remember mother telling me to let him rest.

  But for me, God was not the answer. God was real, of course. He looked down on us every day; sometimes he answered our prayers. And sometimes – rare, terrible times – he sent punishment.

  I saw that for myself once. I was eight years old and had recently experienced a small injustice of my own. I was playing in the woods with my brother and his friends. The boys shook the tree I was climbing and I fell and broke my leg. They claimed it was an accident, of course. The injury healed slowly, and left me with a permanent limp. During my recovery I was housebound, and overheard the women gossiping. Our neighbour’s brother believed his wife had been with a peddler who had passed through the village not long before. The talk went too and fro, as such things do, until one stormy spring night he took her up to the cliff and pushed her over. He claimed she’d wandered out alone after an argument and must have fallen. The priest said the truth was for God to decide. So, the next time a storm rolled in, the man was pegged out on the cliff top above where his wife’s body had been found. Sure enough the lightning came, and the next morning he was reduced to a burnt and lifeless corpse. He was guilty of killing his wife, and God had judged him. But what of the wife? Had she wronged him, or was that purely gossip? We would never know now, and though the incident was talked of for years afterwards no one other than me cared that the full facts would never be known. I did not want gristle to chew over with my fellow villagers: I wanted reasons, explanations. I wanted the truth.

  Because the sea is the heart of life on the coast, it was only natural that my questioning mind kept coming back to that. I wondered at the tides: they came and went with the seasons, so something in the heavens must cause them – but what? I wondered at the fish: do they venture beyond the bay out into the Current? Perhaps, my father said, but we cannot go there. Why, I asked? Because our small boats would be destroyed in the open sea; besides, he added, we have no need: God provides.

  Though I loved to go out on my father’s boat, my lameness and my tendency to day-dream made me a liability. I was apprenticed to the priest, who taught me my letters and what wisdom he had. I used that knowledge to record my observations on the few scraps of precious paper I was allowed. I even created a table of tides, which some of the fishermen said was of use, though perhaps they were humouring me. Most people preferred knowledge passed down by word of mouth or won by hard experience.

  When I reached my sixteenth year, I persuaded the priest to write to his superiors in the hope of finding me a rich sponsor in one of the inland burghs. I began to dream of travelling to places where knowledge was prized, maybe even to Omphalos itself with its University and Cathedral.

  No reply came. But next spring, the Duke arrived.

  He came without warning, accompanied by fifty men and supplies sufficient to last the summer. He told us to gather by the well and explained that he had come to our ‘modest hamlet’ because our bay was the most suitable for his project. Before explaining what this project was, he went on to say that he had heard this place was home to a fisherman’s son with a keen and enquiring mind, he hoped to enlist this young man’s help.

  Around me, people drew back. My voice shaking, I asked what he planned to do.

  He told me he wanted to discover what lay beyond the Current. He would build a boat – no, aship – such as the world had never seen, and sail it further than any man had ever gone. He said that he would welcome anyone who wished to work with his engineers or improve his men’s scanty knowledge of sea-craft.

  Naturally, I was the first to volunteer.

  Though I was not alone in lending a hand, some thought the Duke’s obsession ungodly. My father was one such, although he did not forbid me to answer the Duke’s call. Perhaps he was even glad, in his own quiet way; certainly he was relieved I had found something to divert me. The way I saw it, there was nothing in the Scriptures forbidding exploration, and if God disapproved then he could easily have destroyed the great wooden skeleton taking shape on the beach.

  Our priest, after too much honey ale on Midsummer Eve, suggested the Duke might be an exile who had come here to escape the intrigues of his home burgh.

  The Duke’s men caused some disruption in the village, although they were well-disciplined, and the Duke paid the council more coin than we’d see for five years of sending salt fish inland. He was also liberal with his gifts of fine cloth and metal goods. At first I did not question this generosity, but then I began to wonder if the priest was right, if this was a man who did not expect to need earthly goods for much longer. My suspicions grew as the date of departure neared and several of the Duke’s men deserted.

  By now the ship was afloat, and had been out on short proving voyages into the bay. It would leave for good before the winter storms arrived.

  I was not surprised when the Duke offered me a place on board. He asked others too, but although my fellow villagers were happy enough to pass on their expertise for the right price, all the electrum in Omphalos would not have persuaded them to sail with him. What fool would venture into unknown waters on a ship crewed by inexperienced sailors and captained by a man who appeared to have a death-wish? Yet if I did not go on this voyage I’d spend the rest of my life wishing I had. I held off giving the Duke my final decision for as long as I could.

  In the end the choice was made for me. The day before the departure, the girl I had set my heart on told me she would never marry me, and our dalliance had come about only due to my association with the Duke. So in the end I left my home not in the spirit of discovery, but to spite a feckless wench.

  On the morning of the launch I was scared beyond reason, but determined not to show it. I waved goodbye to everyone I had ever known with a smile fixed hard upon my face.

  The ship was fast, and within half a day we were free of the encircling arms of the bay. It was another day before the Current began to tell, forcing us rightwise, even though we tacked into the wind which came, as usual, from outwards. ‘God’s constant breath’ the villagers called the breeze that blew ceaselessly inwards from the edge of the world, though out here it was not so much a breath as a scream. The great rudder strained, and my advice was constantly called on in minding the sails. It did not matter to the Duke that we were being swept around the circumference
of the world, provided we also progressed away from land but I found myself wondering if we would fetch up on the far side of creation.

  For three days and two nights we continued fighting the sea and making what we could of the wind. The Duke used his optic glass (an instrument I eyed up with envy) to observe the way ahead, hoping to glimpse the edge of the world. As the Scriptures had little to say on the matter, theories abounded as to what it might look like: according to the Duke, some scholars said it was a great wall, others a void men’s eyes could not bear to look upon, others still that the sea arched up to meet the sky and there was no edge at all. We saw no change in the horizon, and if the Duke’s optic glass revealed more, he did not say.

  On the third night, a storm blew up. As the sun set cloud piled on cloud, racing to meet us. The more superstitious men made the sign of the Eye, seeing the oncoming storm as God’s judgement. The sails were reefed. Against my advice, the Duke ordered the oars deployed; he would not give up the headway he had made, even in the face of God’s wrath.

  Then the storm was upon us.

  I remember an indeterminate time of soaking panic, of seeing men washed overboard and hearing the masts groan like the unquiet dead. Some of the oars splintered – killing one rower and injuring several more – before the Duke saw sense and shipped them. Finally, the aft mast snapped.

  When the storm finally spent its fury he ordered those men still able to row to go back below. I saw the futility of this command, for we had no idea whether we were still heading for the edge, but the Duke had a powerful presence, and I felt the need to do something, if only to stave off fear.

  So I rowed, along with every man still capable of doing so, even the Duke himself. I think I slept as I pulled on my oar, for I remember jerking awake at a shout. Then I heard the low rumble filling the ship, and saw the rowers abandoning their posts and running up the ladders. I followed them, too dazed to be afraid, to find that the Duke’s quest had been successful.

  Behind us, the sky was lightening towards dawn; ahead it remained clouded and dark. But I could see enough to make out a great lip over which the sea disappeared. The spray coming up from the drop shrouded the whole scene in mist, giving it a deceptive tranquillity. Without landmarks to provide a sense of scale I had no idea how far away we were. Then I looked down, and saw the speed of the frothing sea that carried us towards the edge, and knew that we were lost.

  The Duke shouted something about ropes and holding fast, which I barely heard above the now-constant thunder, but when a ship goes down the last thing you want is to be attached to it. Instead I fetched one of the float-bladders we used to rescue sailors who fell overboard. As the Duke lashed himself to the remaining mast, I tied the bladder to myself.

  I both felt and heard the impact that destroyed the ship, and just had time to be surprised – we hadn’t fallen yet, so how could we strike anything? – when everything turned to chaos. Wood split, men fell, and I tumbled down the rising deck and over the side. In my last sight of the Duke I saw the cross-spar fall from the remaining mast. It crushed him instantly.

  Then I was in the roiling sea, unsure which way was up. My head came out into air, and I gulped a breath before a wave broke over me and I was turned around. I clung to my float, eyes closed, battered by water and occasionally wood – and softer things. One of these clawed briefly at my arm before being whirled away.

  The sound of rushing water changed and deepened. I opened my eyes to see the world tilting, a crazy view of black lightning-laced clouds filling the sky. Sky meant breath – I breathed again, though the effort was almost too much.

  I was going faster than any man ever had. Though I knew I should try and observe the process terror and exhaustion got the better of me and I screwed my eyes shut.

  The next time my head broke the surface I took a breath. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes to darkness and a strange sensation. I felt as though I was floating, not falling, yet I was no longer in the water. Eerie silence had replaced the roar of the sea.

  How interesting, I mused. No one ever predicted this about the edge of the world: there is no air, and yet you float!

  However, because there is no air, you also drown.

  ***

  I woke up in my bedroom.

  At least, so I thought when I opened my eyes; that I lay in my bed in the room where I had slept all my life. But the bed was against the wall, not under the window as it should be and when I looked around I discovered other out-of-place details. I recognised the wooden puzzle my father had fashioned from different colours of driftwood, but it was next to my bed, not on the high shelf I had relegated it to when I grew tired of it. And the clothes chest my brother and I shared lacked the large splotch on the lid where father had spilt limewash on it while he was recoating the walls.

  I sat up. I ached, but not badly, which was unexpected because ... ah, because I had died! In which case, this had to be Heaven. Or Hell, although I saw no sign of the expected fiery rivers and cruel imps.

  When I stood I found another argument in favour of this being a place of celestial reward. I went to adjust my stance to allow for my shortened leg and discovered that both legs were the same length. I sat down again and felt my shin: there was no lump, no bend.

  A miracle to be sure, but Heaven was said to be perfection, so why was the room not as it should be? And why was the scar on my wrist, a burn from a foolish accident one midwinter, still there? And, if Heaven was where I should find my heart’s desire, why was I still in the village I had died trying to escape?

  I stood again, and opened the shutters. The view outside was as I expected, save for a faint mistiness.

  I went downstairs, almost stumbling as I adjusted to my restored leg. The kitchen and parlour were the same as upstairs, familiar yet subtly wrong, not least for being empty: my mother or sister should be here. I called out, not expecting an answer, and not getting one. For the first time I felt a flutter of fear: if this was not Heaven it must be Hell, and that implied things were likely to become a lot less pleasant soon. I decided to face my fear. I opened the door.

  On the threshold stood an angel.

  I recognised the description from Scripture – a bronze being in the form of a perfect, shining man – even as I felt immense relief that I was not, in fact, damned. Having never expected to meet such a being, I had no idea how to react. The Scriptures told of those lucky enough to receive angelic visitations prostrating themselves in awe, but although I was both impressed and disconcerted, I felt no inclination towards abject worship. Instead I stepped back to let it in, as though I were receiving a normal caller into my home.

  It showed no offence at my lack of piety, and merely walked across the threshold. As it passed me it said, in a clear but not particularly angelic voice, ‘I expect you have some questions.’

  Some questions?! Where to start?

  I thought for a moment, then raised my most immediate query: ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘You are not,’ it said. ‘You were saved, though the others on your ship perished.’

  I wanted to ask why I alone had not died, but that seemed impertinent. Instead I said, ‘So this is not Heaven, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, though I did not.

  ‘You do not sound surprised or disappointed to find that you have not reached the reward the Scriptures promised.’

  The angel’s voice showed no emotion and its perfectly proportioned face was as immobile as a mask. I had no idea if my unexpected behaviour was angering or pleasing it. ‘I did wonder,’ I said carefully, ‘but I have found small differences from my expectations, and so concluded it was not. May I ask where I am?’

  ‘You are beyond the world. However, there is nothing to be afraid of. You will find this a pleasant place to live.’

  I had no idea whether to be grateful for the reassurance or concerned I was not being given the option to refuse. I reminded myself that I was lucky to be alive, and said, ‘Thank you.’

>   ‘Food will be provided for you, though you may also wish to cultivate a garden. I suspect the contents of the other cottages will be of more interest to you, though.’

  Did I imagine amusement in the angel’s tone? ‘I assume I am alone here,’ I said.

  ‘You assume correctly. And you are advised not to stray more than a thousand steps from this house. I will return.’ With that it turned and left.

  I watched through the open door as the angel walked out of the village on the path down to the sea. It was soon swallowed by the mist.

  I stayed where I was for some time, thoughts running through my mind in time to my racing heart.

  Finally I resolved to follow the angel. It had not forbidden me to do so, and I would stop before I went beyond the limit it had set.

  Though I had never counted the number of steps from the village to the sea, I knew it to be far less than a thousand; yet, once clear of the village, the path merely continued as it had, a narrow track through the low grass. The further I went, the thicker the mist became, though in truth it was more like smoke, being not at all damp. By the time my count reached eight hundred I could barely see the path. I carried on for fifty more steps before unease forced me to turn around.

  Back in the village I examined the re-creation more closely. The detail was perfect, right down to the newly mended rope on the well-bucket and the yellow foxtails and late-blooming purseflowers nodding in the verges. I decided to investigate the other cottages, as the angel had suggested. I started at the modest home of the widow whose daughter was betrothed to my brother.

  I was not sure what I’d expected, but what I found certainly surprised me. The place was full of books.

  The village priest had had a shelf in his study holding a handful of religious works – Morius’ Lives of the Saints, Campur’s On the Transience of Souls and suchlike – but here every wall of every room was covered with shelves, and every shelf was full! I scanned titles until I found one I had heard of: The Travels of Alban the Tall. Alban was said to have visited every burgh in the world, and seen the sun both rise and set above the sea. I pulled the book out carefully, placed it on the table in the centre of the room, and began to read.