100 — Legido

You lock eyes with Lander, both frozen in place as he — she? — is left holding the bandages that were being applied all around their torso. No words pass between you two, staring and left standing stupefied; the only sounds resonating within this secret place are of the creaking ship and commotion of the busy workers walking above deck. Your mind scrambles, trying to figure out what you should do. Do you alert somebody? Do you run away, never to speak of this again? You do neither of those options, instead gaping at the sight in this hidden compartment within the ship by the kitchen.

Lander clutches the bandages to their bosom, then reaches for the oversized hat. Their long hair, save for the shaved sides of their head, cascades over their shoulders, but other than that, you can’t discern any features that would’ve tipped you off to Lander’s true identity. Or, perhaps, this is the true identity; you can’t determine.

“I-I can explain,” Lander stammers. You’re uncomfortable, feeling like you’re imposing. Lander has been a tremendous ally during your time on this ship, and you’re compelled to back away, to leave Lander be and pretend you never saw anything. Although, in the back of your mind, you know you’ll always know, and this can never be unseen.

You start to apologize for your intrusiveness, but your efforts are waved away. “No,” Lander sighs, “it’s okay. I suppose someone was going to find out sooner or later. I just hoped my secret would’ve lasted a bit longer than this. But, if someone was going to discover it, I’m relieved it’s you.”

Lander secures the bandages around their chest with a clip, then gradually begins putting on their loose, white shirt. “My name is actually Landera,” they say, relaxing their shoulders and sounding somewhat relieved, as if the burden they’ve been carrying has been lifted a bit.

“Everything I’ve said is true,” Landera says, thrusting their other arm through the shirt sleeve. You make sure the secret door behind you is shut and secured, then sit crosslegged on the floor next to them. “I am from Luzigar, and my father is a shipbuilder there. Well, was. He was receiving contracts from the wealthy nobility. Except one day, he fell ill. It started out small, an uncontrollable, sporadic coughing fit, something he could work through. But then it got worse. He became too weak, too exhausted, to work long enough to meet demand. Doctors didn’t know what was the cause, or how to cure it. But he remained undeterred, and kept working.”

Landera’s gaze falls to the floor, stopping their progress of getting dressed. Spots of red are already starting to show through the bandages near their ribs. You look around for a needle and thread, and tell them to lift up their shirt so you can stitch them back together. At first, Landera looks reluctant to allow this, and you can tell they would rather tough it out, much like their father with the shipyard work. Upon further reflection, however, they change their mind, and gingerly expose the wounded area.

Next to Landera is a spool of thread, but a needle is absent. Being some kind of storage area for the kitchen, you find the bones of fish and other disposed food items lying about. Taking one of the fish bones, you recall the procedure your aita taught you, turning the bone into a needle. Doing this for the first time on your own, your craftsmanship is lacking, to put it nicely, but it’ll have to do. The gash is still bleeding, though not as profusely, and you’re able to start sewing the wound together, albeit while progressing methodically.

“He couldn’t keep up with demand, and then business began slowing down,” Landera continues while you work. “It became difficult to pay the workers at the shipyard, so my father was offered a loan from a local merchant. I warned him not to do it — it seemed too obvious that he was making a deal with someone with bad intentions. Sure enough, that turned out to be a costly mistake.”

Landera sighs, grimacing occasionally as you work the makeshift needle through their side. Or is the grimace from the story they’re telling? It’s difficult to discern which. “The man demanded repayment seemingly right away, and at an exorbitant rate. Of course, my father couldn’t repay. Just as I had warned him. The stress only compounded the illness, and soon, he was too sick to work. To pay off the loan, the merchant seized the business. My father is able to do the odd job here and there around town, but it’s hardly enough to sustain himself. And…”

Landera drifts off, lost in thought. You don’t want to disturb them, so you continue sewing. They suck in air through their teeth from a sharp pain, as you accidentally drive the needle through a tender area of the wound. You go to apologize, but again, Landera waves you away with their free hand.

This brings Landera back to the present, back to this room. “I knew I had to do something. When I heard rumors about an expedition, I knew I had to join. The riches we could obtain could not only buy back my father’s business, but expand it! Except…” Their voice trails off, and they’re overcome with a look of shame or disappointment. “I had to leave my father behind. There’s no one there to care for him. I worry that… maybe I will be too late. That I won’t get the riches in time to save the business, and to help him live comfortably, to pay for the medical attention he needs. I worry…”

Even in the dim light of the lantern, their hazel-green eyes shimmer brightly, and a tear trickles down Landera’s weathered cheek. You pause your work, placing a consoling hand upon their shoulder. You can only imagine the pain they’re going through, knowing full well what it’s like to leave family behind in undesirable conditions. After a few sniffles, and wiping their hand across both cheeks, Landera takes a deep breath and nods, assuring you they will be alright.

“Anyway,” Landera says after a couple more sniffles, their voice still slightly shaky, “from what I’ve overheard at the shipyard, I knew life on a ship is no place for a girl. Most expeditions subject women and girls to the worst treatment — both in the tasks they are assigned and… in the conduct they endure. I know enough about ships, even as a girl, thanks to being around my father so much. So I figured I could pass myself off as a boy, disguising myself as a means of protection.”

Listening to Landera’s tale and of the difficulties her family faces, you think of your own family’s struggles along with hers. It feels like life on Legido has been hard on nearly everybody. Well, everybody who isn’t a noble, of course. It makes you wonder why more people aren’t joining on this expedition. Why all of your homeland hasn’t boarded a ship and set sail in hopes of a better life, leaving that place behind. Surely, whatever you find in the new world can’t be worse than Legido.

With a few more stitches from the fish bone needle, you sew up Landera’s wound completely. She tests out the sutures, twisting and contorting her body, moving her arm about. She seems content with the work done, nodding in approval.

“You won’t have to worry about me exposing your secret,” you say, hoping to put Landera at ease. Though still looking uneasy, she eventually accepts your well-intended assurances. Allies are difficult to come by, you find, and you’re determined to make sure you do nothing to ruin the bond you have with Landera.

“We should probably get back to the crew,” she notes, sounding slightly hesitant, but resigned to the fact that you must rejoin your shipmates, “before anyone starts to suspect something.”

You agree, knowing that, though the ship might be large, word and gossip can travel quickly. After collecting the rest of her belongings, the two of you discreetly slip out of the hidden closet. You shield Landera’s exit, making sure nobody sees you leave together, and you seamlessly mix in with the rest of the crew.

The two of you separately find your way to your beds, with nary an eyebrow raised upon your arrival. The crew and travelers are focused squarely on their routines, their nightly rituals. Switching into their sleeping garments — or simply undressing down to their undergarments — tucking their young children into bed and telling them tales to help them fall asleep, saying prayers to Xiatli, passing around a bottle of whichever libation is available.

You start to drift off, reflecting on the events of the day. There’s a part of you that feels betrayed, wondering why Landera had never come to you with this before. She’s been your only ally on board, and you value her camaraderie, especially as she showed to have your back during the aftermath of the storm. Have you not proven to be trustworthy? Then again, if life on a ship is truly that cruel, who could blame her for guarding her secret so closely. Perhaps, as your friendship grew to be more than great acquaintances, she would’ve confided in you, especially once the ship arrives at its destination — or a destination, so it would seem. That she’s telling you now, you know she’s placing her trust in you. And you know you will do whatever it takes to protect her secret.

The commotion from the deck finally stirs you awake the following morning. Lander is… wait, you mean to say Landera… She’s nowhere to be seen. Her belongings are still by her bed, giving you a bit of relief, but you still fear for her safety. As you make your way up, the fresh ocean air and usual bustle of crew activity invigorates you. It’s been countless days, weeks, even months since you’ve been aboard, but you’re finding yourself settling in with life at sea, becoming more comfortable with the lifestyle. You may not want this to be your life permanently, of course, but you’re no longer nervous nor fearful of facing the challenges it brings.

Repairs to the ship are nearly complete. The masts stand proudly once again, sails snapping rhythmically against the wind’s insistent pull. Large patches made from scraps of broken barrels and crates cover the gaping holes punctured into the hull. Your nose feels the acrid sting of fresh tar that seals the wood against the relentless sea. Above, the rigging has been tightened, creaking softly under the strain as it holds firm against the waves.

This alone would be enough to lift spirits aboard the ship. But it’s the excited shouts from the lookout that brings the crew into a near festive mood. An overwhelming surge of energy and excitement takes over the bow. Crew and travelers mob the area, whooping and pointing at the sky.

You push your way through the dense crowd, sneaking underneath legs and squirming between the pressed bodies. After fighting to get to the front, there it is — the most wonderful sight you have ever seen: soaring majestically above the waves, a grand bird unfurls its vast wings. The bird swoops and ascends again, its underwings flashing a brilliant white against the slate-grey feathers that stretch as wide as ship sails. Riding the tumultuous air currents, it seems to be a master of the skies as it glides effortlessly.

Everyone aboard knows what the sight of this bird implies — one doesn’t need to be a seasoned sailor to understand. Yet it doesn’t stop the people from enthusiastically exclaiming it anyway. “A bird! We must be close to land! We’re nearly there!”

People hug one another, exchange kisses on cheeks, and lock arms to dance a few jigs. Soon the entire ship is in celebration, flooded with the sweet sounds of instruments brought from below deck. Strains of a plucked guitar mingle with the rhythmic tapping of hand-held drums, called tamborils. The lilting melody of a pair of txistus weave through bright, joyful playing of bandurrias. The click-clacking of castanets snap in time, and even the vibrant music of a trikitixa fills in the gaps.

From across the bustling deck, you spot Gartzen. Though still a bit stern, his expression is less guarded than usual as he takes in the festive scene. Your eyes eventually meet, and his gaze sharpens — a flicker of recognition? Maybe something deeper? It’s gone before you can read it, and he abruptly turns his attention to something off to the side. You take a deep breath, preparing to cross the deck and bridge the gap between you two, feeling a bit of both apprehension and determination. But almost as if on cue, a boisterous crew member barrels into him, dragging him into the lively dance, and effectively pulling him away before you can reach him.

Laughter rings out, melding with the music that fills the ship from bow to stern. As the music vibrates through the planks under your feet, you can’t help but be swept up in the excitement. The collective relief is palpable after all this time of uncertainty at sea.

As you tap to the rhythm of the tamborils and lose yourself in the harmony, there’s an unexpected and loud crack, followed by a sudden lurch of the ship. The music falters, and a discordant note hangs in the air as the laughter dies down. The ship groans ominously, and the deck tilts slightly under your feet. Usually it’s so responsive to the helm, so what could be happening?

“Did we hit a rock?” one of the sailors shouts, but is swept away by another crew member as they rush off.

Captain Lema’s voice cuts sharply through the sudden quiet, his usual calm demeanor replaced by an edge of urgency. “To your stations!” he barks out, and the festive atmosphere evaporates as quickly as it had formed.

“Brace yourselves!” the first mate yells as the deck shifts once again. Cries of alarm ring out amidst the rush of sudden activity.

You follow the scrambling crew members, and there’s an overwhelming sense of foreboding as they hurriedly work to assess the problem. The captain stands at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel tightly with a furrowed brow in concentration. “The rudder’s not responding!” he shouts over his shoulder to anyone who can hear. His hands fight against the helm that now spins with a disturbing freedom, unguided by the usual resistance. “We’re drifting off course!” Below deck, the sounds of hurried footsteps and shouted instructions echo as the reality sets in: the newly repaired ship is still in a fragile state.

Gartzen approaches with a grim set to his mouth. “Need all hands checking the rudder ties,” he commands. Despite the residual chill between the two of you, the emergency melds every individual’s tensions into a singular focus. “Come on, we need to make sure it’s nothing a quick fix can’t settle.”

You trail behind the grizzled sailor to the aft of the ship, where the world seems to tilt more aggressively. This is supposedly where the rudder mechanism is housed, you recall. A few other crew members have already gathered, their faces etched with concern.

“Alright, first thing’s first,” Gartzen barks. “We need to check the tiller ropes. If they’re frayed or snapped, we’re adrift.” His arm swings out, fingers pointing at the thick ropes that you now know to be the lifelines between the wheel and your steering control. Your learning on this long voyage has been a patchwork of necessity and observation, but terms sometimes escape you like slippery fish.

Inspecting the ropes becomes a communal probe. Your hands run over the fibers, seeking any weaknesses. And there it is — a rope fraying at the edges. “Gartzen!” Your voice cuts through the murmuring sea, directing his attention to the damaged ropes. “Over here!”

Gartzen strides over, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the situation. “That’s our culprit,” he declares, his eyes scanning the damage before setting into motion again. “Fetch the spare ropes. No time to dally.”

While one crew member rushes to fetch the spare ropes, Gartzen directs the rest of you to start untying the damaged rope. The task is made more difficult by the ship’s constant movement, tossing you to and fro just when you believe you’ve got your footing, but you manage to keep your balance and work swiftly.

While a crew member is sent scrambling for supplies, Gartzen orchestrates the removal of the compromised rope. The ship bucks like a live creature beneath you all, testing your sea legs while you work to untie the threatening strands.

“Check the pintles and gudgeons,” Gartzen orders another, who nods and moves to the joints that hinge the rudder to its post. “If those pins are loose or damaged, the whole rudder could come off.” These terms are more foreign, but you diligently pay attention, taking in every bit of information you can in case something like this should happen again.

The crew member carefully inspects some metal fittings near the sternpost, then eventually nods. “They’re holding,” he calls out, a breath of relief in his voice.

“Right, let’s thread this new life into her veins,” Gartzen says as you all pull the replacement rope taut, grunting while securing it to the wheel with hurried hands. It’s a strenuous task, requiring all the strength and coordination you can muster, but you set your jaw and give it everything you’ve got. You refuse to allow another crisis on your watch.

With a final tug, the rope is declared fit. Gartzen allows a rare nod of satisfaction. “That should hold us for now. Back to your posts. Keep her steady,” he orders. As you disperse, the crew is relieved and claps each other on their backs and enjoy muted celebrations.

Your respect for Gartzen deepens like the sea beneath you, how calmly he handled such a near catastrophic event. You wish you could have a more engaging exchange, returning back to the relatively friendly dynamic you once had. Yet, knowing the divide that’s formed between you both, you opt to keep the exchange simple.

“Hey, great work back there,” you say with a meek smile. “That could’ve been much worse, I bet. It’s a good thing you’re around to keep everything under control.”

Gartzen snorts, but to your surprise, he appears to accept your compliment. He bows his head as a way of saying ‘thanks’, before reaching into the inner pocket of his weather-beaten coat to retrieve a pipe. It’s an old, well-used briar with a bit of a dark patina from years of handling.

“T’was just doing my job,” he says in a gruff voice as he pulls out a small leather pouch that’s worn soft from years of use. Focusing on the activity instead of having his eyes meet yours, he loosens the drawstring to reveal a supply of crumbly, dark tobacco. He pinches a small portion, carefully packing it into the bowl of the pipe.

“Well, still,” you respond, trying to think of something, anything, to say just to keep the conversation going a little bit longer. All you can think of is, “It’s a good thing you know how to do your job so well. Handling a busted rudder can’t be easy. I mean, you figured out the problem so quickly!”

You start to kick yourself internally, hearing how child-like your excessively enthusiastic compliment sounded. Gartzen doesn’t appear to notice, tamping the tobacco down gently into the pipe with a small metal tool. He checks the draw by pulling air through the pipe, inspecting it with a discerning look.

“I’ve seen worse,” he mumbles. He doesn’t seem satisfied with the pipe, so he adds a bit more tobacco, packing it less firmly this time. “We were sailing around the Cape of Ice many moons ago, Captain Lema and me. I was young — barely had my sea legs under me. And Captain had only sailed between Valendur and Luzigar. It was his first real expedition. Just following the coastline. Wasn’t supposed to be long, but the shore kept going and going.”

Gartzen strikes a match, shielding the flame from the brisk sea air with his other hand. Is he… actually speaking to you? And in a friendly manner? You tell yourself to stay calm, biting your tongue and focusing on attentively listening to him recount this tale.

“Hardly had enough supplies to make the journey,” he grunts, holding the flame just over the packed tobacco. He draws deeply, and the tobacco begins to smolder. “Sailing around nothing but ice, we considered heading back. But Captain is a stubborn man, a determined man. That is, until the rudder snapped.”

He puffs a few times to get a good light, then pitches the matchstick to the ground and promptly stomps on it to snuff it out. “I followed the first mate down there and could only stare at the mass of ropes,” he says, and you think you hear him chuckle. Or perhaps it was a cough. “So many ropes, spanning every which way. The first mate smacked me upside my head to get my attention. Ended up telling me what to look for. Just like what I done with you earlier. We managed to find the problem, but not before getting bucked about like the ship done turned into a bronco. Ship nearly capsized, we took so durn long to fix the thing. My bones were sore for weeks after.”

Gartzen settles the pipe in the corner of his mouth, and a thin wisp of smoke curls up to mingle with the salty breeze. He turns his attention to you with the pipe steady between his lips. “I studied them ropes for days, seeing where each one was connected to what. Never wanted to go through something like that again, ever.”

He removes the pipe and points it at you, as if to punctuate his statement. “Learn things like that, observe like that, you’ll be the most indispensable person in a crew. Too many people walk around like they know everything, but the sea? The sea will humble you. Learn you that you don’t know nothing. It’s all about watching, taking in everything that goes on around a ship, and respecting the sea.” His gaze lingers on you for an extended period, and you think he’s trying to tell you something, trying to teach you something. You nod, knowing this is not a lesson he gives out to anybody.

After a few more puffs from his pipe, with the smoke gently floating into the salty air, he nods, then abruptly walks off, heading above deck. The moment feels like a summer storm, one that approaches suddenly and without much notice, hits you with an inordinate amount of rain, then vanishes almost as quickly as it came, leaving you confused in the sunshine.

You return above deck, as well. The sea air tastes sweet, not its usual brininess, and you chalk it up to the successful solving of the rudder issue. Or maybe you’ve simply grown accustomed to it by now. You gaze overboard into the deep bluish green waters that splash into the side of the ship. The rhythmic sounds lull you into a daze as your thoughts drift off, thinking about home. How’s your family doing? How’s the farm? How’s the harvest? Well, you know the answer to that one, given how hot and dry the summer was, and how little rain you received.

You wonder how long this expedition is going to take, how soon you’ll find the riches that will help support your family. Same for Landera and her father back in Luzigar. You hope it’s not long. Even though you’re likely to be reprimanded by your aita and ama, you miss them and want to take care of them. You want to make sure they never have to worry about a poor harvest ever again.

As you consider what occupations you and your family can do, once you obtain your wealth, you spot something peculiar. Something floats on the water’s surface. It looks like someone’s thrown wilted lettuce overboard, and you wonder why food is being wasted in that manner. It’s not until you’re joined by someone else on board, some sailor taking long drags off a poorly crafted, hand-rolled cigarette, when you learn what it actually is.

The sailor nearly drops his cigarette into the water at the sight. He wordlessly points at it for a moment, his jaw practically on the deck. He stares at you, shocked. Is this a good thing? Something bad? You can’t tell. He quickly runs off, grabbing a few other sailors and telling them something loudly and excitedly. When they return, he shows them, pointing to the same wilted lettuce in the waters. Now, there are several long strands of it, and you begin to suspect there’s something more to this spectacle.

“Kelp!” they exclaim. They begin hugging one another, then pointing back at the stuff. “It’s kelp! I can’t believe it!”

A sudden commotion stirs at the bow. Voices rise, fingers jab towards the horizon. You narrow your eyes against the glare of the sun, the sea spray cool on your face. At first, what appears to be a series of large, dark clouds looms ahead. But as your eyes adjust, a startling clarity takes hold: those aren’t clouds. They’re colossal mountains, their dark silhouettes brooding and majestic against the skyline.

“Land, ho!” The lookout’s shout echoes from the mast, piercing through the murmur of the crew as he emphatically points ahead.

Your heart races, pounding like a tamboril. The end of your long journey is in sight.