771 RC, Falcon moon 1st Triphase; the storm-tossed seas of the Eastern Passage trade route.

With the exuberant energy of youth, Zatch clambered up the mast towards the crow’s-nest of his family ship, the Thorned Rose. She had been in service to their family for 40 years. Five-masted, and 1,100 tons, and agile as a monkey. Thorned Rose was as sharp a ship as her name implied. Built for speed and tall-sparred, she carried the utmost canvas possible aloft. 218 feet on the keel, a beam of 39 feet gave her an extreme breadth that was well appreciated by her crew of 48. With two babies on the way due any day now, the whole family was glad that their grandmother was still riding the waves with them as midwife and healer for the crew. True trade families, not merchants with more money than sense, manned their own ships with their large families. As soon as he was born Zatch had been carried on Kyra’s back, as a mother she never shirked her duties even as she worked the lines beside her cousins and brothers. By the time he was walking she had been first mate. Now just after his sixth birthday, she had taken over for his grandfather as ship’s captain.

His father, Richter, had been the first outsider hired grudgingly by his grandfather in decades. Zatch’s great aunt had retired to shore life. No one else in the family had a passion for charts or navigation, they had been forced to hire outside of the family in one of the larger towns far to the south. Perched on sun-bleached cliffs along the coast of the inner sea, his father’s village had been large enough to build a small university. His father pointed out its rounded bronze roof and telescope every year as they sailed past. The village had attracted a decent amount of scholars to their shores as well as some of the larger families of traders who used its deep harbors and still, turquoise waters as a sanctuary during the long northern winters. Richter had joined the crew and fallen quickly in love with the ship and then Zatch’s mother. They had married soon after, and he’d never left the waves.

Zatch took a deep breath of the clean crisp salted air. He paused one foot braced on the fifth sail, the Skysail, was his favorite bit of canvas on the ship where he could feel freedom pulling his clothes tight against him in even the slightest breeze. The sun heated the snowy white canvas of their sails, providing a warm glow behind him as he faced into the wind. Proudly he looked up at the last stretch of the mast before he reached the crows-nest. Few ships had enough mast to hoist a skysail, let alone the even smaller sixth sail. The Moonsail was a shining testament to the engineering prowess of his family’s shipwrights. It was made from green canvas, as was every topsail on their ship, identifying them as soon as they came over the horizon to any traders on the waves. Letting others know they were about to be overtaken en route to whatever port they were sailing for. Releasing his deep breath Zatch clambered up the last few yards of the mast to hop over the small railing onto the tiny deck of crow’s-nest

Most traders still piloted galleons, and a few even clung to their Carrack’s; horribly out of date though they may be. Their ship had been a revelation when she was unberthed for the first time, larger than their competitor’s ships yet faster. A laden galleon could only hope to make three to four knots and average 80 miles a day, and that was with a good breeze, he thought disparagingly. The Thorned Rose easily made Twenty knots and cover 320 miles a day on average. Zatch knew every square inch of their floating home, he reveled in her strength and speed. The year he was born, 765 RC, the family had utilized a new process to chemically bond bronze to the hull from the water line down. He still didn’t understand process himself, he just knew that the entire ship had floated in a bath of acid and chemicals until the metal had seemed to grow onto the ironwood of the hull, protecting it from rust. Most of the cost of building new ships was from importing the magical ironwood from the Rider’s valley. All of the best ships were made from the planking of such trees after they were treated the ironwood transformed into stainless steel giving it a measure of resistance to the weathering of salt and sea. When live, the trees plunged their roots deep into the earth and drew the iron from its depths into their trunks and branches. Even after the trees were cut they still behaved just like normal wood except ten times as heavy. It was when the sap dried up and left the wood that it went through a startling transformation, losing its suppleness, the wood solidified into true iron with a beautiful grain pattern of wood and all of the strength of iron and steel. The trees gave more strength in less time than forging such intricate pieces out of raw iron or steel would have.

Lithely he clambered up the ropes and spars trying to stow his restless energy. Something in the air prickled him, making it impossible to sit still. Exasperated, his mother had sent him aloft to put his energy to good use. He guessed being the captain of the ship and a parent had its advantages. With a final hop, he landed squarely on the large platform that encircled the mainmast. Breathing deeply he sought peace as he studied the horizon. Lightning crackled just at the edge of the world to the south of them, he rang the report sequence with the small hand bell attached to the mast to relay messages without having to clamber back to the deck. Each trading family had their own codes; five quick rings to indicate a weather report, a pause then one to four rings for which direction followed by three rings meant south, and then one to ten rings for severity of the storm he rang four times as the storm was still a ways off. He waited for the received single two quick rings a pause and two quick rings, or the repeat signal of three slow rings. Hearing the received tones echo off the still water he settled back in to watch the approaching storm.

Kyra smiled at the sound of the approaching storm to their south. Zatch had signaled down to the watch officer just as she had trained him to do. She wondered if he realized his secret love of storms was well known by his parents. She placed a work-hardened hand on Richter’s shoulder as he adjusted their course minutely with the large double wheel attached to the rudder chains.

Above them Zatch studied the approaching storm thinking about what kind of ferocious spirit must inhabit such a boiling mass of clouds, he recalled his first lesson about the elemental spirits that roamed the land only a few short months ago.

*******

“Zatch! Put it down now!” his mother called at him. He was leaning against the railings teasing a bit of wind whipped water into a cyclone on the rail. At her shout he jumped and the infant water spout hopped over the side and back into the sea angrily pulling a sliver of ironwood out of the rail and sending it like a spear into his finger before disappearing, he yelped and clutched his injured finger and put it into his mouth to suck the offending bit of ironwood out.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“You mustn’t toy with the spirits; they are as alive as you or I. They do not take kindly to man shaping them, nor trying to control them.”

“But grandmother summons them to help her with the winds when we need a bit of extra speed or some rain for the barrels,” Zatch argued spitting the fine sliver of Ironwood over the side.

“No boy she doesn’t, she invites them. While tiss true that one gifted with magic can always compel a spirit of their element to come and do their bidding, she has never done that nor would she teach someone to. To summon is to exert the will of the master over the slave. To invite rather is to ask, politely mind you, for the assistance of an ally. Which would you prefer, if you were the one called for?” she asked kneeling as she spoke, to look him intently in the eyes. After a few moments, he flushed and looked away, nodding at his understanding she picked him up and tossed him high until his laughter brightened the early morning mists.

“Quickly now before it is out of sight, give him a name, you altered him he is your responsibility.” She said pointing to the tiny spinning bit of wind and water skittering across the early morning mist.

Desperately Zatch glanced around for inspiration and saw the wind flag flapping in the wind, Vexillum he whispered the old word in the old tongue, and it seemed to carry strangely clear across the fog not muffled like other sounds.

“Do you have any of the magic?” he asked as she set him back on his feet.

“Not even a glimmer,” she answered smiling ruefully, “but your father has a touch of the green in him, just a hint of earth magic, it helps him keep our little floating garden alive around all of this salt.” They both looked at the riot of plants that grew out of every spare pot or barrel on the aft castle, and the bridge. If it produced fruit or vegetables and could survive high winds Richter would harvest clipping or shoot and coax it to life as a wanderer. Everyone was always grateful for fresh greens after a few weeks at sea and the occasional orange or hardy crab apple baked into pastry was never turned down.

His prized plant was a dwarf tea plant he had bargained hard for on one of their rare voyages far to the east before Zatch had been born. Tea was worth nearly its weight in silver and a luxury that few could afford to have with every meal. The green leaves where even now drying on a sheltered piece of canvas in the sun, Zatch’s hands were still died a slight green colour from helping prepare the harvested leaves. Each leaf had to be bruised and rolled to release the waxy coating before they could be dried then ground up into powdered. It was tedious work but the bitter green tea was the only thing that kept many of the crew from falling asleep during night watches and it helped to chase the cobwebs of sleep away in the mornings.

Whiteness blinded him, his world was light and movement, closing his eyes hid nothing from the insistent glare that washed even the faintest shade of relief away from his closed eyes. Panic blossomed and he struggled against the pressure that covered his body; flight, freedom, falling, he plummeted through the air as the light vanished plunging him down into roiling clouds of stark grays and bruised greens.

Below him, waves roared and spray screeched as it was torn viscously away into the air, whipped into a frenzy by the tempest that was all around him. Wind buffeted him hard enough to stop his headlong plunge into the waves, grasping him it spun up, among the angry torrent of noise released by the storm, a foreign sound of metal on metal, it tolled out across the waves, piercing the cacophony painfully with its mournful and forlorn tone. Twice it rang before the crunching of breaking timber cut it off as cleanly as a knife. Dizzily he was buffeted up, down, and around, back and forth, his slight frame was tossed with wild abdomen, little regard from the maelstrom for his fragile mortal shell.

A scream was torn from him as he was spun further up into the whirling black cone of the water spout, his loose shirt snatched away by greedy fingers; rain lashed him leaving raw red skin exposed to the elemental fury all about. Anger was his all-knowing master, shutting down all thought but rage. Furiously he struggled against the oblivion taunting him from all around; anger washed away the cold, violence shrugged off the encroaching peace of oblivion, wrath lashed out pitting his tiny form against the primordial forces arrayed against him.

Clenching his jaw his teeth felt ready to crack at his infuriated denial of fate, curling into a tight ball, he fought on against the storm. Time passed as he was tossed about while he pitted his will directly against the storm, desperately wresting his fate away from its fickle winds; all his energy flared out from his skin against the unstoppable forces he pitted himself against until finally, the storm paused.

Screaming like a fury, he flung his arms out, stretching his will all around him, he could feel his life-force being drained away to fuel his desperate fight, righteous indignation added strength to his struggles; until the storm quieted, muted just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Gently he was wafted up and studied by the vast power at work, he was swept into the eye of the storm, sunlight bathed him as though it was amused by the tiny grain of life that refused to succumb to its fate. His concentration wavered as he reached the end of his energy; at the first sign of a flicker, the storm dismissed him, sweeping him away as though amused by his antics. Darkness claimed him at long last; he was carried limply aloft, and then sped due west high above the white-capped waves cradled by crackling bands of lightning.

Dazed He opened his gritty eyes, salt cracked and flaked off of and fell stinging his eyes, he sat up abruptly shedding more salt like a snake shedding its skin.

“What happened? Where was he?” He struggled desperately to recall anything from his past; anxiously he glanced around, echoes of thunder seemed to ring mockingly off the jagged cliffs all around him. He was barely out of the water on a thin, mostly pebble beach that was hardly above the high tide line.

“Zatch…” the name seemed to hang on the breeze fading away with the last vestiges of the storm as it raged out over the turbulent water. Hobbling up the beach Zatch clutched desperately at his name, fleeting feelings and have thoughts flitted through his pain-wracked brain. Sand and salt left a trail as he stumbled north towards the distant glow of a lighthouse just visible over the cliffs. Stumbling Zatch caught his foot on a loose board and pitched forward into the rough ground, darkness raced to ease him down into oblivion, he didn’t stir as he fell prone into rocks. Above on the cliffs facing east, a shadow stirred and detached itself from the shadowed rock face.

“Interesting.” murmured the shadow as he moved smoothly down the sheer rock wall he perched on, leaving his breakfast of hardboiled eggs and bread for the gulls. He seemed to fade in and out of sight as his carefully crafted clothes allowed him to blend into the shadows just lightening with the passing of the storm and encroaching dawn. He studied the fallen boy, about six or seven he guessed, stooping he carefully probed the knot swelling out from the tousled raven black hair, the boy didn’t stir in the slightest. Carefully he picked the oblivious boy up and stood rising smoothly without jarring the child.

“What am I to do with you little ship rat? Nearly drowned, dropped from the clouds sheathed in lightning, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would never believe it, best get you to the abbess, she always knew how to tame a rat be it street or ship.” chuckling at his ruined morning of storm watching, he carried Zatch into the wide sewer tunnel that led below the city.