Marie Brennan: Voyage of the Basilisk

I had been to sea before, but never for the purpose of being at sea. My previous voyages had been a means of arriving at my destination, nothing more. While that was true to some extent now—I did have an itinerary of places we intended to visit—the ship was to be my home for the duration, rather than merely a conveyance. I must confess there was a feeling of excitement to it, as if I were a child achieving something magical, though sailing had never been a girlhood dream of mine. That first evening, as we rode the tide out to sea, I stood with Jake in the bow and laughed into the wind. Perhaps it is hindsight only that says I knew this was the beginning of something significant. Perhaps not.

We headed first into northern waters, the seas around Svaltan and Siaure, taking advantage of what little summer that latitude could afford. Much of the region becomes icebound for the better part of the year, the sea freezing solid or nearly so for miles around. Nowadays, of course, we have icebreakers—vessels whose engines can force them through the pack—and owing to this, much polar exploration has become possible. At the time, however, we lacked such ships. The Basilisk was not even fitted with the kinds of reinforcement that could protect her against ice. But it hardly mattered, for what we came there to observe was only ever seen in the summer months, regardless.

The debate over the migration of sea-serpents was an old one. Sailors had reported them in latitudes ranging from the tropics to the far north, and some claimed the great beasts moved with the seasons. Others disputed this, citing various facts to support their position. Tendrils above the eyes and around the snout, for example, were often reported on tropical beasts, but rarely if ever on arctic ones. In the mid-latitudes, serpents were often seen year-round; those in the north were generally larger than those in the south, suggesting that perhaps they were different species. Round and round the points had gone, but most of those engaged in the debate were arguing from data that amounted to little more than anecdote and hearsay. I aimed to change that.

“There’s no easy way to prove it in one direction or another,” Tom said our first night at sea. He and I were dining in the wardroom with the captain and his officers, which is a courtesy sometimes extended to passengers. The table had low railings around the edge, which helped prevent our dishes from sliding into our laps when the seas were rough. That night, however, there was only a mild swell: enough to serve as a reminder that one was at sea, but not enough to inconvenience. (Unless one happened to be Abby, who struggled greatly with seasickness at first.)

I said, “If it were possible to mark the serpents, as they do with cattle or His Majesty’s swans, we could know for certain. Simply brand them with something to indicate the latitude at which they are found, and the date, and then see if you find them far distant in a different season. But even supposing we could persuade them to hold still for such an operation, how would we ever find them again? Needles in haystacks do not enter into it.”

Aekinitos nodded. He did not need me to tell him how vast the sea was, and how dangerous its creatures.

Curious, Tom asked, “What is your opinion, sir? Do you think they migrate?”

The captain gazed meditatively at the beams supporting the deck above. “They do not behave the same, those in the north and the south. You know of this?”

“Do you mean their method of defense?” I asked. “Yes, of course. It is one of the key points in my broader consideration of taxonomy. How much does extraordinary breath matter, in terming something a ‘dragon’ or a mere ‘cousin’? In the tropics, sea-serpents suck in water and then expel it in a great jet.”

“It can kill a whale,” Aekinitos said. “Or crack the hull of a ship.”

He sounded entirely delighted with this, as if admiring another man’s strength, and nevermind that said strength could mean the end of him and all his crew. I said, “If they expel the water from their stomachs, rather than as a form of breath—and the observations generally agree that this is the case—then it is not extraordinary breath, and traditional taxonomy says they are not dragons. Regardless, this is not seen in the north. The serpents there constrict their prey instead.”

“It is not breath,” he agreed. “We have killed sea-serpents before, and in their stomachs, we find water. But only in the south. Is this because they are different?” He shrugged. “Perhaps it is only because the water in the north is colder.”

This was precisely my theory: that the variation in behaviour was due to environment, not species difference. Filling one’s stomach with icy arctic water would be a tremendous shock to the system. But that did not prove migration one way or another; for that, we would need better observation of the creatures themselves.

Achieving this was no easy matter. We had no difficulty finding the serpents; among our equipment was a set of very good telescopes, and during those first weeks Tom and I spent hours staring through them, our hands going cold inside our gloves, watching the great coils rise and fall through the chill blue waters of those northern waves. The men in the rigging soon developed a habit of bellowing down to us any time they spotted one—which became tedious when we were engaged in other, more pressing work. But that was in movement, at a distance, and we only ever saw bits at a time. This was the sort of data upon which the current theories had been founded, and it was not enough. To establish anything for certain, we needed to do as we had done before: hunt one of the creatures, like mariners out of a tale.

Much like sharks, sea-serpents can be attracted with chum. To do so is a risky business, however, if there is more than one serpent in the neighbourhood.

We had to choose our spot carefully, in waters that, according to the Svaltansk sailors we questioned, were less haunted by the beasts. This meant it took us several attempts to attract our prey, but it was a sacrifice all were willing to make, if it meant not attracting four at once.

The sailors took in fish, chopped them up, and filled a tarpaulin with the stinking results, which the jolly-boat carried some distance away before tipping it over the side. Then those aboard rowed with all haste back to the Basilisk, for the entire purpose of that part of the exercise was to make sure the bait was not too close to the ship. This having been done, several lookouts were posted in the rigging to scan the waves for coils, telltale wakes, or dark shadows moving beneath the surface.

The first three times we did this, our watch was fruitless. Countless other predators and scavengers came to enjoy the bounty—and in fact they, not the fish, were our true bait, for while sea-serpents will swallow any meat they can get, no matter how small, they prefer to eat larger creatures such as arctic sharks. Despite the lure, however, we saw nothing draconic in the water.

Our effort was not entirely wasted, for the hides or meat or teeth of various predators will fetch a good price in the right places. We had a good hunt of our own. I keenly felt the need for our expedition to turn a profit whenever possible, though. Much discouraged, I told the captain we should abandon the effort and move on; but he was not a man who abandoned anything without great cause. He insisted on trying once more.

The day was a bright one, the sky an intense blue that only seems possible at sea. The air for once was warm enough that I was prepared to call it “bracing,” instead of complaining that I could not feel my fingers. We caught and butchered our fish, cast our bait, and waited.