The Gloomcatcher

08: Favors Come With a Price

    Neriath cursed, her arms itching to lunge at him, "it is not too late to change my mind."

    "I say two or you're getting none. Decide quick or by now you know how spontaneous she can be. She'll have you dead before I can even blink."

    He swallowed, "fine, fine, t'en give me two Qreude."

    Neriath handed him two coins and they set off with the boatsman on his long boat. Throughout the ride, he complained how they had practically harassed him into taking them to Nulakin, acting ignorant of the two coins he tucked in his waist belt after he had tested them under his teeth. The two of them bore the weight of his blabbering in silence.

    The mainland grew distant and the lazy waters of the Bay, that surrounded them, rippled and sparkled in the breeze and the last rays of sunlight, floating without tide or current in everlasting indolence. By striking the water with his oars on either side, the boatsman propelled the vessel over the rippling surface of the beautiful Bay of Vercona.

    "Where are you from?" Orephnil asked, tilting his head as his body swayed with the motion of the boat.

    She raised her eyebrows at the question, almost as if in distrust so he added, "you're not from Filhayal, I presume?" He always felt as if she was not from Filhayal. Something about her way of behaving seemed a little different.

    "I am a Filhayali," she replied, uninterested.

    "A Fil'ayali manslayer," grunted the boatsman.

    Manslayer. That's what they had called her.

    "I will not hesitate an inch to push you into the sea," said Neriath, "say another word and you'll find yourself drowning."

    "I know 'ow to swim," he smirked.

    "Brilliant then. You can find your way back to the Bay."

    A small smile crept upon his face, amused at her quirky reply.

    They sat in silence after that as he rowed the boat and two hours later, moored it by the jetty. The moon was high above on their heads now as they got down on the wooden landing. A gentle breeze carried the faint scent of salt and seaweed.

    The harbor's heart was a maze of wooden docks that stretched out like eager arms, their wooden planks creaking softly underfoot-almost inaudible. On these docks, a motley crew of ships had found their temporary homes. There, a proud three-masted schooner rocked gently, its sails furled for the night. Nearby, a cargo ship loomed, its massive steel hull emblazoned with colorful containers from far-off lands.

    The docks were lined with grizzled fishermen mending nets, sailors in crisp uniforms loading provisions, and workers scurrying about with clipboards and flashlights. The air was filled with the mingling scents of freshly caught fish, and the faint aroma of hot food drifting from a nearby waterfront food stalls. A majestic lighthouse, its towering form casted a reassuring beam of light across the water. Its rhythmic flash sliced through the encroaching darkness, a beacon of safety for ships returning from distant voyages. As twilight deepened, the harbor's lights began to twinkle like a necklace of pearls.

    They scurried along the pier, avoiding the slapping nets filled with fishes and barrels until they reached before one of the mahogany ships. It was a full-rigged ship with three masts, a remarkable work of smooth, brownish-black timber. The hull was wooden black floating on the water. The name 'Palinurus' was etched on the wooden body in dark, beveled letters. Above it, from the rail capping of the port side, was a large gangplank placed against it, touching down on the ground as men hurried on it. There was a man, with a parchment and a pen, a corduroy sailer's cap tucked under his arm, guiding the loading of hulks and containers.