Andrew Stewart - We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep

Perhaps he knows I am lying. But, instead, a counterstep—“I mean not to tarnish the legacy of a great man. You will forgive my own candor… but it is as though I feel we two can speak honestly.”

Another smile. That makes my gut twinge.

“Things will move fast now, Cantor,” he says, turning back to his large sheaf of parchment. “The hour of the final judgment draws near. We must all prepare.”

When I return to the forward compartment, to the balneary, I find Ephraim and Caleb and St. John pounding old linen in the slurry vat for the making of parchment. They look up at me.

Caleb and Ephraim are both visibly relieved—they must have thought I’d suffered the same fate as Lazlo. Perhaps I almost did.

St. John’s expression is unmistakably dour.

I take up a mashing paddle and join them, opposite St. John, who is glaring down into the vat.

“We were worried…” Caleb whispers, next to me.

“All is well,” I say. My hands shake as I pound at the tub of turbid, greyish water.

“L-Lazlo,” he whispers, even more softly. A question.

“We don’t speak of them,” St. John snaps, slinging a narrow look at me from across the vat.

Caleb goes pale.

Ephraim looks to St. John and then to me, cautious, as though expecting that I might take up my paddle and strike St. John down.

I want nothing more than to bring it across his smug face.

It takes everything in me not to. A red-hot steam.

But I know now that these are dangerous times. That I can’t risk being found out. Not if, as Caplain Marston says, our time is nearing the end.

St. John almost seems disappointed.

I pound at the mash vat with my paddle. A slurry cloud billowing—larger bits of linen floating, swirling in the water. Bright white. Cleaner than any of the old linens we would normally use.

“Where did this new cloth for parchment come from?” I ask.

“The interloper,” Ephraim says. “Caplain said they’ll make fine, strong parchment.”

“Also had these colorful adornments on them,” Caleb says, frowning. “Wanted to keep one, but St. John said I couldn’t.”

“You don’t want anything to do with Topside trash,” St. John says.

“What sorts of adornments?” I ask.

Ephraim glances at St. John before handing over the crate filled with the refuse that will eventually be ejected through the torpedo tube at the day’s end. Atop, an array of pieces cut away from the interloper’s uniform.

Silver-colored buttons and bars. Stripes.

And then a few of the patches I’d caught sight of briefly the last evening, on the interloper’s sleeve. A colorfully vibrant bit of round cloth.

My throat tightens.

A vivid blue sea. Yellow land, a palm tree with green leaves. The embroidered white letters at the base: CPN .

This image I have seen before. This image from my childhood.

“I heard from Brother Duncan that the interloper was brought to the chapel today,” Ephraim says. “I think it’s something to do with the Last Judgment.”

“Is it broken, do you imagine?” Caleb asks.

“It is not broken,” St. John says, knowingly. “It will fire true, guided by God’s hand.”

“Then why was a Topsider brought on board in the first place?” I ask.

“It’s the caplain’s business,” St. John replies curtly, effectively ending the line of conversation.

St. John must not know the interloper is a woman. He must not have heard that part when he was listening in on us. I doubt he would be speaking of the matter at all if he knew.

“I wonder where he’s from,” I say. I didn’t mean to say it. The thought just spilled out.

“Does it matter?” St. John asks sharply.

“I don’t understand about Lazlo,” Caleb says, heart still painfully fixed on the topic.

“He lost his faith,” St. John answers before anyone else can. No mistaking that twist of delight in his tone. “And that can’t be abided. Doubt must be burned out of us. Of course, I suppose some of us are cleverer at hiding our true feelings, aren’t they? Our transgressions?”

That barb is directed at me. At least I know I’ve gotten under his skin.

I look down again at the patch, wanting to hang on to it, to this memory that has been made manifest. That I am holding in my hands.

But, no, they’ll see. I toss it back into the bin. Take hold of my paddle once more.

After prayers, we sit down in the mess for what should be the grandest meal of the day. It has never been so meager.

Mushroom cake with a thin broth of fish. No bread, of course. Nothing of substance that might fill the stomach.

I cannot bear to take more than a few spoonfuls.

Brother Dormer trades me a tooth for the rest of my meal. A molar. Yellowed, but not pocked with rot.

A good trade.

Based on the rules agreed upon by the Choristers, we should divide Lazlo’s stash between us, but I suggest that we hold on to them, in case he comes back. Only St. John disagrees, but he is powerless in this decision.

Though the others will not say it, I know what they’re thinking. Lazlo will not come back. They never do.

I will collect all the teeth I can, and might just have enough to pay for a potentially dangerous request.

Only a select group of brothers are allowed admittance past the tunnel. Brothers O’Shea, Theodore. Brother Dormer is one of those who ferries meals to the back, Dormer, who is kind if not dense. Dull in the eyes.

He is the one most likely to carry back a message to Lazlo, for the right price.

The only question is what my message will say. Brother Dormer cannot read, as is the case for most of the second generation of crew brought on just after Caplain Amita delivered God’s wrath. I can write anything I want, and it will be private. Words of hope? What consolation could I bring?

We all know the fate that awaits the Forgotten.

“They sleep in hammocks, like,” Brother Theodore once told us. “In a compartment behind the engine room. Lowest level. All damp. All crammed together. Worse than the way we’re packed in here, yeah. An’ they work the machines, like. They chained up. The smallest work the reactor. Got to have water pumped into the core almost all the time. They given these suits that supposed to keep them from getting poisoned. But they don’t help after long. Yeah. They got to control the pump by hand. Control how hot the reactor burns. That’s what gets them. Suit don’t help when it burns hot.”

They lose all the hair on their bodies. Their skin becomes riddled with sores. They swell. They cough up blood.

They eventually die, from the inside out.

“Have you seen him?” I ask Dormer when the mess has cleared. “Lazlo?”

His eyes dart away. He gets nervous sometimes. He sits and rocks when he gets nervous.

“I know we aren’t supposed to talk about him.” I offer him another two teeth. A molar and an incisor. Pristine. Barely yellowed.

“Yeah, seen him,” he says, softly, running the pad of his index finger over his newly gotten tokens. He frowns.

“It true that he was sent back because he was planning on trying to escape?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Nothing so bad as that,” but I don’t tell him the rest. “As far as I know.”

“Where do they have him?” I ask, swallowing.

He, too, is saddened by Lazlo’s punishment. Everyone liked him.

But he doesn’t answer.

His silence tells me.

Lazlo doesn’t have much time.

In my bunk, I press my ear against the hull.

There’s a whale calling, out there in the darkness, faintly. If there are two, I do not hear the other. Just one voice looking for another, seeking with blind eyes. Not able to find them.