Perfect Circles

A Sorcerous Mist-1

Quirk stood on the quay, stared out to sea and swore. Nothing. A few yards of choppy, green sea, and then the whole world faded away into grey fog.

He could hear ropes creaking in the thick, damp air. Men grumbling quietly to themselves. The hulls of the boats bumping and jostling against the wooden spars of the jetty, as if impatient at being tethered for so long. He could taste salt and smell the familiar, sharp tang of fish. But he could see nothing.

For three days now it had sat there. It crept a little inland, washing over the town like a slow flood. It stretched out to sea, all the way to the ends of the world so far as any one knew. And there was nothing to be done about it.

He cursed again. There wasn"t a breath of wind on his face whichever way he turned, no suggestion of a breeze to blow the great sea-har away and let them sail. He thought of the cargo of smoked fish in the hold of Sheerwater, the weight of all those herring in all those barrels sucking her down into the water as if a sea-serpent had hold of her. He dreaded to think what the cold and damp was doing to the fish. And the Western Isles four days sail away even when the fog did lift.

He cursed again, but the wind still refused to stir.

Quickly, for perhaps the twentieth time that day, he walked back along the quay, the wood beneath his boots shiny and slippery with water and the crushed remains of fish. He ignored the squat, rounded shapes of the inshore trawlers, their crews listlessly mending nets, caulking hulls, coiling lines. He strode angrily between small towers of barrels overflowing with salt and the smooth, metallic shapes of fish. He kicked at the nets that had been thrown into rough piles, ready to be checked and folded. Only back at the sleek, lithe lines of Sheerwater did he stop. Standing next to her there as she chafed at her moorings, he could barely see up to the top of her mast.

McBride stood at his customary station next to the tiller, watching over the boat, one eye always on the short gangboard crossing to the quay. As ever when they were in dock he looked wary, mistrustful of the land they were tethered to. He rarely went ashore. What it was he feared there, this man who feared nothing, Quirk had never yet found out. Some event in his past, or some series of events, quietly haunted him. Something that had happened to him or to those close to him. Whatever it was, whenever he did make one of his rare, lone forays into port, his eyes were as wide and his breathing as laboured as any fish hauled up in a fisherman"s nets.

Yet he was a tall, strong man: the strongest man on the boat. His hair was long, lashed into a single sheaf with beautifully-knotted leather thongs. His face was worn and a little raw, like ship"s timbers long-exposed to the elements. Here and there it was mottled and pocked, as if he had once been encrusted with barnacles. Quirk trusted him like no one else. Over the years they had sailed together, his seamanship, his knowledge of wind and water, the sheer strength of his arms, had brought them safely around or through many storms. When he thought of him, Quirk saw him standing there at the tiller, seeming to hold in check the force of the whole sea, roaring orders to the rest of them. At times like that, even Quirk did what he was told.

Quirk walked over to the tiller, glancing around the boat at the furled sails, at the crew being kept busy mending sheets and cleaning decks.

“How are the men?” he asked.

“They mutter about Captain Crellin, the Phynnodderee.”

“Crellin is a fool. A bully and a coward, the worst kind of man. The Phynnodderee is probably half way to Gaul now in a thousand pieces, her cargo back in the sea.”

“Aye.”

McBride generally acted as spokesman for the rest of the crew when it came to speaking to Quirk. At the same time, Quirk relied upon him to control the boat and relay his orders to the men. It was difficult being caught between Captain and crew like that.

“And you?”

“The men know if Captain Crellin has made it to the Western Isles, he"ll get a good price for his cargo and ours will only fetch a half its worth. At the same time they know the risks. We"re all just impatient. You"re right not to sail in this.”

“It can"t last for much longer.”

“No.”

McBride looked over at the quay then, his wariness clear in his eyes. He nodded slightly in that direction.

“Visitor.”

A roughly-dressed man, a beggar perhaps, had walked along the quay and stopped at Sheerwater. His clothes looked old, often-repaired, ragged. His hair was roughly cut. Quirk was put in mind of some great, old crow perched there on the quay, his feathers greying and unkempt but his eyes still sharp beads of black. Over his shoulder, the strap of a leather bag.

A hawker, perhaps, hoping to sell them some useless trinket.

“Captain Quirk?”

“What can I do for you?”

“May I come aboard?”

McBride exclaimed quietly beside him.

“If you can give me one good reason why you should do so,” said Quirk.

The stranger smiled at that. “Because I wish to book passage with you. It will make it difficult if I am unable to come aboard.”

“You wish to book passage? To where stranger?”

“I have need to travel towards the Western Isles. You are set there with your cargo of smoked herring are you not?”

“You seem to know much about me and my business.” Quirk still had not moved from his position at the tiller next to McBride. He stood there with his arms folded, much of his suppressed anger clear in his voice.

“You and your ship are well known in this port. So large and fast a vessel.”

Quirk knew the man was trying to placate him, trying to get round him with his easy praise. A part of him fell for it though.

“We carry cargo, not passengers. Everyone on this ship works.”

“I can pay well Captain.”

“You can? Even if you had a pot of Faerish gold it wouldn"t help you. In this fog we can"t navigate. And with no wind we can"t even move.”

“I can find our way in this fog.”

“No one can.”

“I can.”

Quirk was intrigued now, and a little off-balance at this unexpected turn of conversation. “Well, well. And I suppose you can arrange for the wind to blow too?”

“Aye, I think I can, if you"re willing to take me.”

Quirk snorted, laughing openly. At the same time he was disconcerted. This was no ordinary stranger. Everyone born and raised on the island was wary of magic, knew well that unhuman creatures walked the land. And Quirk, a sailor, was more superstitious than most. His life was spent at the mercy of the sea, and the gods and demons who lived there.

At the same time, he had found it best over the years not to show any of this fear to his men, to appear the fearless sceptic.

“And what is your plan, old stranger? Will you blow us all the way to the Western Isles yourself? Or will you row?”

“Captain.” It was McBride beside him, speaking quietly so no one else would hear. There was something a little like fear in his voice, this man that had shouted down tempests before now. His eyes were wide, concentrating on the stranger as if caught by some glamour.

“What is it?”

“The stranger. I have heard stories Captain. We all have. I"m thinking maybe I know who this is. You know the name. Mannanan Mac Lir. The sorcerer. The great sorcerer. We must be careful.”

Quirk kept his eyes on the stranger whilst they talked. “Just stories McBride. Mac Lir is a myth.”

“It makes sense. They say he can shroud the island in mist if it is threatened, that he can control the weather, navigate with his eyes closed.”

“And do they say also he begs passage on cargo ships when he needs to travel?”

“Not that I know. But if this is him, why does he really want passage I"m wondering? Where is he really trying to get to?”

Quirk snorted. “He"s just a man in need of a boat to get him to the Western Isles. If he does happen to be a powerful sorcerer too then I"m sure he"ll look after us on the way and pay well.”

McBride said nothing else. He didn"t need to; he knew Quirk had heard him.

“I can not make the wind blow Captain.” The stranger spoke now, as if he had been listening to their conversation. “But I know one who can. If you"re willing to make the journey to Slieu-Whallian and visit Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag, the Witch Queen, then we can still be in time to catch the morning high-tide.”

Few spoke so openly of the Wycka. Among sailors it was almost unknown to do so, except perhaps when they were far at sea and out of their power. That the stranger so casually invoked the name of the Witch Queen shot icy water down Quirk"s spine. He was in a difficult situation now; clearly this was no ordinary man. He had heard plenty of tales of the prices people paid for using Wycka magic. He feared their ancient, night-time, woodland magic of blood and cobwebs. At the same time, he was conscious of his entire crew looking on, listening to every word, conscious of his position with them.

“The Druidh say the Wycka"s touch carries disease, that they bring down plagues, consort with spirits and with the Faer, the Little People.”

“You mustn"t believe everything the Druidh say either.”

A few sailors had drifted over as the conversation had continued. There was an audible gasp from them now. Only someone powerful or foolish would be openly critical of the Druidh in such a public place. Quirk feared them as much as he feared the Wycka. Perhaps more: their hard, bright, green magic seemed somehow less human. And the control they held over the lives of the islanders seemed to grow greater with each season.

He was in a tricky corner and the stranger stood there still, smiling gently as if they were discussing the weather. He could see only one way out. And, who knew, it might even allow them to get their cargo to the Western Isles after all.

“Very well. I will visit Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag and ask for her help. Although I do not see why she would wish to. It is a four hour walk to Slieu-Whallian. Assuming I"m not turned into a beetle and squashed I can be back by first light to catch the ebb. You are welcome to spend the night on board if you wish.”

He turned to McBride, who looked clearly troubled by the whole situation. “You have Sheerwater. Look after our guest.”

McBride nodded. “Take a lamp.”

Quirk reached up to one of the ship"s booms and picked off a brass and glass lantern, its base full of fish oil ready for the night watch. It would be as dark as peat out of town.