That night Mazelton was very careful with his food. It hadn’t been tampered with, but it never hurt to be careful. His hammock wasn’t comfortable anymore. As soon as he got in, he saw himself pinned, trapped by blankets or ropes and helpless to escape the canvas cocoon. They would pin him down and work him over with wooden clubs. He had seen it before. The kids in the clan would be showering and some of the older ones would grab someone, slam them down on a bench and start working them over with knotted, soaked towels. No broken bones, but a beating the victim would never forget. A way to thin out competition before the rite of passage- it was a well known fact that if you broke someone’s spirit before the rite they would die. That’s what they were doing on this boat. He was only here for four days… and they wanted to break him. Second class and supernumerary. Not really one of them.

Could he work for two days without sleep? Unlikely. And mistakes polishing could be fatal. But how could he sleep? Nowhere safe to hide on a boat.

He tried to sleep that half sleep you learned young in the clans. Enough to get you through the day, but shallow enough to wake at the first sound. It was never really enough in the clan. Even less so on a ship. When the morning bell rang, it didn’t half match the ringing in his head.

The third morning’s biscuit, broth and porridge were also free of tampering. Nobody said anything. Nobody even looked at him funny. But nobody talked to him either. That suited Mazelton. He got to recharging the cores buried in the hull under the waterline.

Once upon a time, or so he was taught, ships were made of metal. Buoyancy being what it was, they could float. It was mad to think of it- even the rabid ostentation of the Xia clan wouldn’t stretch that far. But it was true. He had seen too many records, too many pictures, too many remnants, all of which showed boats being made of metal. Mazelton could hardly conceive of metal being that cheap.

Boats in this era were made of wood, concrete, or algae polymer. Mostly wood. Which meant worms, borers, seaweed, barnacles, even mussels growing out of the hull below the waterline. They could slow the ship to a crawl, forcing the owners to dry dock, scrape clean and re-paint. The cost and lost time was horrendous. So they killed the little bastards in the cradle.

Spaced neatly along the inside of the hull were crude purification cores, scaled up massively. Each was carefully shielded, of course, in it’s fist sized flared concrete box. All the little stabbing rays would bounce off the back wall and scatter in a funnel in front of the box, scorching every inch of the wood with their invisible flames. Burning up all the tiny seeds that would turn into hazards to the hull.

Since the cores were so crude, the carvings didn’t degrade much. On the other hand, since they were so crude, they ran out of power fast. And there were more than a hundred of them, several hundred, spaced neatly across the hold and down into the bilges. The bilges were pumped mostly dry, but they never really got completely empty. The water was just above freezing, and he had to kneel down in it to charge the cores. It took a minute or two to charge a core this size, his own only held so much heat, and without an outside aid, it would take some time to recharge.

It occurred to him that he had no idea how much he was getting paid for any of this. He was getting paid, right? He got paid on the barge. The barge paid in Rads, which was good, but he knew some places used bits of metal, paper, or even just bookkeeping. Some places didn’t use money at all- just barter or communal service. Was food, board and transportation his payment? No way, right?

How the hell had he signed on as crew without knowing how much he was getting paid, or how? He could recite the name of every sky pride polisher in Old Radler, along with their favorite vices and where they got them satisfied. Somehow he got from there to kneeling in freezing, filthy, rat tainted water, shivering uncontrollably as he waited for the heat to rebuild under his heart. All for a biscuit he could build a wall out of, seaweed water and mushy beans. And all the kicks he couldn’t dodge, of course.

What happened? Just what the hell happened? There was a revolution. Someone, a lot of someones, tried to kill him. The person he liked, he melted… he got sick, ran, ran, ran. But he had always been running somewhere, right? So… what happened? His body convulsed in time to his mind. He pushed away the thoughts. They were only thoughts. Just a bit confused. Cores were real. There was one right in front of him, and it needed filling. Focusing on the work let him push away all the other stuff. When the lunch bell rang, he was faintly blue, and soaking.

Mazelton couldn’t quite remember what he did between lunch and dinner. More cores needing charging, likely. He couldn’t remember dinner either. He just collapsed back into his hammock and rode out the shakes. He piled every piece of warm, dry clothes he had on top of himself, wrapped everything in a blanket and just… hung on. Let the blood pump the warmth around his body. His mind, he sent off to do art.

In his mind was a fine long block of cedar heartwood- dusty pink and fragrant. That resiny smell that nothing else quite matched, but reminded one of both pines and spice. Wonderful stuff. He swooped in close, and the bit of wood was suddenly the size of a person. He picked up a sharp chisel and his little hammer and started scraping away all the bits that shouldn’t be there. Breathe. Chip. Breathe. Tap. Breathe, and blow away the curls. Breathe in the cedar. Breathe out everything else.

He wasn’t sure what he was carving, just yet. That’s how it always was, ever since he found that pictures could express his intent better than his words could. He just let his hands work. The wood chipped and peeled away, revealing the person hidden in the sweet red grain. Their cheeks were angular, gentle muscle flowing from under the ear in a smooth curve to the tip of their shoulder. The arms, never too bulky or thin, but always strong and active, and the whipping, snapping fingers at their tips so lively. They danced in the wood dust, the dust of this world, and were not stained.

Perhaps this was one of the Ælfflæd. Not the one he danced with, but some other one who watched him dance with satisfaction. The powerful legs curled under them, half crouched in a fencer’s pose, right arm extended, left back and ready to catch.

Oh.

Oh, I think I really did love you, my Jasmine. I never even won your name, but nevertheless, I did love you. Do love you. Even though you tried to kill me. “Not bad company for a parasite.” Relationships have started in worse places, right?

Mazelton could practically hear the statue scoffing at him. He nodded. Yes, he was an idiot. Yes, when he was less completely smashed he probably would feel quite differently about them. But shivering in his hammock, hiding from the farts and burps and noise and jolting waves and sheer bodily odor of two hundred unwashed souls, he missed his fragrant Jasmine. They could sing, and dance, and laughed at his jokes. They liked his art. Not just passively, but they engaged with it. Critiqued his dances sensibly. Saw the origins in his diadems, tracing their inspiration through their twists and angles. They always acted aloof, but wherever he was, they would appear. With that look on their face that made you want to make them smile.

Even if it was their job. Even if it was as coldly calculated and empty as a whore’s moans of passion, it was the best he had ever had. And maybe that lie was as good as it would ever be.

On the fourth and last morning aboard the Lady Dimmo, Mazelton awoke in pain. His exhaustion had beaten out his terror and he had simply passed out. One of his crewmates kicked him in the ribs to make sure he wouldn’t miss breakfast. He was so hungry that he asked for seconds. No seconds were available, but a helpful young sailor advised him to catch some rats “Since you are going to be down in the bilges anyway.”

Little shit.

He did go back down to the bilges. There were just so damn many cores down there, and he was recovering heat painfully slowly. The wind didn’t carry much heat, and while the food had a bit, it wasn’t much either. Usually, a job this size would see the polisher acting as a conduit, running heat from a raw core or sack of core dust, or even heat sponges, through their own core and then carefully blending it into the core they were charging. Here, he was just told to get to it. Screw em. If they don’t want to give him the supplies he needs, then they can leave half their cores empty. In fact…

Mazelton didn’t whistle while he worked. He simply emptied some cores to fill others, while recharging his own. And replacing the heat he dumped into the Bosun. These days he really didn’t care for anything less than a full charge.

The ship pulled into Sky’s Echo on the afternoon of the fourth day. The harbor didn’t reek of fish, trash or excrement, as the cold tamped down on the smell. Winter wasn’t here yet, but it surely wasn’t far off. Much like the fish guts, trash and excrement in the harbor.

The crew was mustered on deck, unloading the wooden cargo crates hand over hand to the stevedores on the shore. The ship’s carpenter was already fixing a stretch of rail, and Bosun Likka was leading some sailors in tarring ropes. The Purser, who managed the astounding feat of being both skeletal and having a distinct paunch, handed him four pea sized cores, already polished and with a very faint Great Wave carved in them. The North Sea Confederation, washing ashore. Their reach was farther than he thought.

“How long does it take to sail from here to the Cold North Sea?”

“Nine days or so, if conditions are good. Why? Thinking of heading back east?”

“Just curious.

The Purser followed Mazelton’s eye line to the Bosun.

“Don’t take it too hard. Bosun’s a Khorbanite- hates everything to do with cores, thinks people having a core is proof that they are inherently evil. Always going on about how polishers spread plagues, are unlucky, all that. You learn to ignore him. Great singing voice though, always a laugh off duty.”

“He have any kids?”

The Purser gave Mazelton a weird look.

“Not that I know of.”

Mazelton gave the Purser a genuine smile, formed his hands into the bird of parting and made a little bow. Pack on his shoulders, he made his way into town.

It had been late summer as he stood in the hidden garret in Old Radler with the Jasmine. It was early winter on the docks of Sky’s Echo a scant few weeks later. Somewhere along the way north west they skipped over fall. Some trees still stubbornly clung to tobacco brown leaves. The docks were still bustling, fish being hawked (to Mazelton’s continued faint nausea) with smoking and salting sheds set up just nearby. Down the coast one could see the vast kelp farms, their little swarms of boats showing black against the reflected sinking sun.

Mazelton knew little of farming but a person with a serious aquaculture operation was considered respectable even in Old Radler. It was the balance of it all- different types of kelp and algae grown for different purposes, all intermixed for healthy growth. Then within the kelp were grown sea fruits like mussels, oysters and clams on the sea bed, so many different fish born and raised within the kelp forest the aquaculturalist’s nets enclosed. Eternally perfecting a complex, virtuously producing system. And all, always, in harmony with the sea and the seasons. Smart people didn’t fight with someone who could feed a lot of hungry blades from one cubic hectare of water, even in the dead of winter.

And, of course, those predator fish formed nice cores, much bigger than the speck sized cores of prey fish. Nothing went to waste, not a single calorie, not a single rad. Mazelton shook his head and turned inland. Not his cup of seaweed water. He trudged off towards the town’s Coven.

The Worshipful Disciples of the Great World, were almost never the largest religious group in a community. On the other hand, they were usually everywhere- like dust. They would congregate in homes, holding hands and praying around dinner tables and in back yards. Once there were about forty or so, they would see about raising a shrine or sacred grove. Sky’s Echo was home to a good sized coven as it was sitting on a major transit point. Almost in the exact middle of the continent, where the great east-center water route ended, and the equally great south-center water route met. Going further west or north is where it got hard. Not impossible, far from impossible, just… not as easy. Not if you wanted to move serious quantities of goods and people.

The fishing was good near Sky’s Echo. The aquaculture was even better, and the dirt farming was pretty decent too. Tree farming was comically easy, and forestry was a major occupation. So a little knot in the rivers formed, the eddy swirling up the human leaves washing past, clumping them together before flinging them on to… whatever came next. This suited Dusty’s just fine. No Dusty would be selfish with their corpse. They would just pile up here for a while, die, and make the land a little bit better for whoever came next. Or be swept onward. Either worked.

The local Dusties had opted for a sacred grove, a bit inland. It wasn’t hard to find- there was a funeral on so he just followed the celebrants, and the steam from all the casserole dishes for the potluck. And it was massive. Just… massive. The Coven in Old Radler was at least four thousand souls, and they barely managed a nine hundred square meter rooftop in a deeply unfashionable part of town. Lots of potted plants. Here they had a forest.

Mazelton stood at the edge of the acre sized lot and tried to understand just what he was seeing. He could recognize a few of the trees- plum was well represented, and there were a few strategic yew hedges as wind blocks. A dense wall of pine, fir, spruce and balsam guarded the northern flank. The celebrants walked the winding paths singing and chattering between dense mounds of grasses, shrubs, trees- no two alike. Or at least, no two alike near each other. He didn’t get it. It was beautiful. Riotous, chaotic, defying the drabness of winter to spark vivid reds and green sprays.

The local Humble stood on a bit of rock and signaled the drummer to call the Coven to order. Rattatat TAT. Rattatat TAT. RAT TAT. RAT TAT. RAT TAT. By the third repetition, the Coven had grouped up into pods and families, all holding hands and smiling. There was a big cluster up front, the family of the deceased gathered around the bier to hear the reading of the division.

“Dearly beloved, we gather today to celebrate the life and death of Lemu Mahkah. We are blessed to have his family invite us today, to share his gift and this moment with them. Beloved, raise your voices and let the earth shake with your thanks!”

What a roar! The screams and ululations, the whoops and cries and the food pounding, hand slamming applause! The frantic noise went on for one minute, then two, then three. The family was determined to be the loudest, screaming and shaking as hard as they could. Grief was a selfish emotion, but at a Dusty funeral, everyone shared.

The Humble and the drummer lead them into a hymn, the old words winding around the evergreens and the neat little paths into the ears and hearts of the listeners. They were good words- words of love, and thanks, and remembrance that no parting was truly eternal. That the cycle of the world was closed, our mother’s arms wrapped around us, never letting go.

“Beloved, Old Lemu wanted us to keep it short so we will. I think a lot of you know what he was like- always wanted to do his part, never wanted to be parted from his family. So hear, my beloved, the division of Lemu Mahah.”

The celebrants roared again.

“To my beloved Grove,” more cheering, “I leave all my bones save my skull. I ask that they be ground and scattered where they will best serve the eternal cycle. When the summer comes, pick a blueberry and think of me.” The crowd applauded and yelled “I will!” and “It will taste so good!”

“To the apple tree in the corner of my garden, I offer my skull, and the rest of me that isn’t bones. And my thanks, for all the joy you brought me all these years, and for shading my first kiss with Leah. Thank you so much, old friend.”

“You old fool!” An older woman by the bier laughed and cried, her steel gray hair whipping around her shaking head. “You old soppy fool. That tree’s fat! Someone else needed that!” She covered her face and let the gasping barks escape. Her tall sons and daughters crowded in, hugging her. Some couples in the crowd aww-ed and no few gave their loved ones soft kisses. It was soppy, and romantic, and not a soul blamed Old Lemu. Somehow, you just knew his wife’s skull would be buried under that same tree, next to his. Not everyone had such a good end.

“That’s it. He wanted it short and sweet. So now for the part he really cared about- the feast! Eat up, laugh, and tell stories of our dear friend Lemu. Not gone from us, just going through some changes.”

The crowd cheered once more and descended on the tables groaning with food. Songs would break out spontaneously, growing and fading, mixing with the laughter and tears of the crowd. Someone had brought out something that looked like a lute, and struck up a tune. The drummer jumped in on it, and some of the kids started racing around the paths like little hellions.

Mazelton broke down and cried. It was the best funeral he had ever seen.