Seaboys

Pan Toom scratched ice from the window. A fingernail's worth, not enough to reach the pebble of glass beneath the white cold. His pallet was hard against the wall under the window sill. The others said all new incomers took their chance with the winter nights. Thirty straw-filled mattresses were placed the length of the room in two interleaved rows. Each Seaboy had a cubit's length of space at the foot of his own bed measuring the width of his own pallet. Two other Seaboys' mattresses marked the boundary of this private space. Of course, Pan Toom's pallet being next to the window meant his boundary was the outer wall of the Seaboys' Mission. His space was empty, since he was wearing all of his clothes. The sacking blanket was too thin to offer much comfort, but he'd fought to keep it from the occupants of bed space #29 and #30.

It was dark, of course. Pan Demon had explained.

'As the world slows down and drifts away from the sun, the nights will become longer.'

'Do you remember the short nights?'

Pan Toom looked up at the oldest Seaboy, saw the white stubble on his chin and wondered just how old he was.

Pan Demon laughed,

'Of course not, Toom. No-one remembers them. I remember my father telling me about something called “The Evening”. He said that the sun hung low in the sky for hours until it died in a red sky. Sometimes it would rise red the next day. Imagine!'

In the Rattery, before Pan Toom came to the Mission, no-one explained anything, except how to slip a knife under a stranger’s ribs.

Pan Demon was gone now. Two ships had left for Africon only last week. Maybe more Seaboys would arrive soon. For now only Pan Demon's pallet was empty. Toom hoped someone would come soon and then all would move one pallet up. Toom missed Demon. It wasn't that he was kind. No-one had anything to be generous with, not even food. You got porridge in the wooden bowl that you carried to the refectory when the Mission bell rang the morning watch and soup in the same bowl when it rang the last dog watch. The Mission cook apportioned both with the same ladle, which had never seen water since Toom had arrived at the Mission. He wasn't quite sure how long ago he'd become a Seaboy. Before the hairs had sprouted, down there.

The Mission Bell rang for the middle watch. Pan Gerrit rose from his pallet and hopscotched to the door. A thin sliver of pale light illuminated one of the other Seaboys and then was gone, leaving Toom blind. He stared up at the rafters, imagined sailing to Africon, picking a route out by the stars. There were stories about men travelling to the Moon, once upon a time. Such stories were for the children of the rich, though, not Seaboys.

Toom woke with a start as the Bell rang the morning watch. The other Seaboys were stumbling in the dark, jostling and bumping into each other as the gathered up their bowls. The door at the end of the dormitory opened, just as Toom rolled his pallet and he took his place on the left of the final pair of Seaboys. They marched out of the Dormitory, along the corridor, joining other long queues of Seaboys before marching down a wide, wooden staircase to the refectory. They split into single file and each standing behind long benches next to long, deal tables.

At the head of the room was a more elegant table. Whilst still long, the legs were carved. Behind it were chairs, one of which had a high, intricately carved back. Toom had seen it close up once, when he'd served the Soul Captain at a banquet. Perhaps he shouldn't have spilled the soup, but he hadn't liked it when the bearded man had put a hand on his leg. The carving on the chair was a three-masted schooner. Toom enjoyed vessel recognition, much more than knots, he had to admit.

It was knots today. All day

Sheepshank, catshank, dogshank, bowline. Even the names were confusing. You were allowed one attempt at each. A failed knot meant Soul Mate Claggart beat you with your own rope. Granny knots were painful, but Toom just couldn’t get it.