From the Belly

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN THE MAN was cut from the belly of the whale, he was as soft and blood-mottled as a stillborn calf. Isaiah watched from the gunwales of the whaleship Merciful as Álvarez reached down with his pike and scored away at the flesh, and the body fell from the inner lining of the creature’s muscled stomach and onto the water with nothing more than a muted splash, buoyed to float by the grease and viscera coating the wave caps.

"Good gods above and below . . . " Bellamy said, low under his breath.

It was as strange as anything Isaiah had ever seen in his already considerably strange dreams.

How did he . . . Fallon said, voice echoing up from where he sat in the skiff, alongside the other members of the crew who were responsible for the fresh carcass.

Isaiah flinched when the bony point of the man’s cheek brushed against the whale’s stomach lining. Unconscious, he floated on the surface, coated with a thin, iridescent layer of rusty blood mixed with fat.

"Haul him up! Lice, the quartermaster, called down to the four in the hunting skiff. Line over port side, NOW!"

Isaiah stared, transfixed by the planes of the man’s face, before his arms, remembering their use, jolted into motion and threw down a loop of sturdy rope to them. Liu and Yesayan jumped to obey, and ran along the port-side railing to take up the wood and iron winches, hauling hand-over-hand to raise the skiff from water-level. The wind stung, sending up blood-mixed spray off the whale’s great slaughtered body. It was common knowledge that you couldn’t go very long onboard a whaleship without tasting blood. Isaiah spat it out, as the mineral taste soured in his mouth and made his stomach lurch.

Beside him, Bellamy had frozen, staring toward the spot inside the creature from where the man had fallen.

You . . . you heard her, Álvarez said haltingly.

. . . So we did, Bellamy said.

The man didn’t slip below the water like he’d seen the freshly dead do before. Whenever someone passed into the next realm on board and was duly committed to the sea, their canvas-wrapped bodies would be weighed down so that they could sink in peace and quiet below the surf. The look of the man, bobbing naked and ashen in the scummy foam, made him shudder deep in his bones.

The two pulling the ropes up on the main deck pulled fast, but another order cracked out over their heads. We haven’t all day. Faster to it!

Fallon snagged the line he had thrown down, and Hendricks roped the body in alongside the hunting boat. Álvarez returned to dutifully puncturing the whale flesh from his post, still-warm blubber giving way with a dense, wet, sawing sound. Isaiah wondered if the man’s skin, dead as he looked, would still be warm, too.

Let’s get him over—Chase, Bellamy, c’mere, Hendricks said, hopping easily from the dripping skiff. Bellamy hauled up the weight of the head and torso while Isaiah took the feet and legs. As they laid him down on the deck with a moist-sounding thunk, the crew clambered around them to see.

The man’s mid-copper skin was mostly intact, but he had the grayish pall of the grave on him. Although he was still slick with seawater and trails of the whale’s bodily matter, Isaiah could tell that he must have known war, or some kind of torture; he had only seen such brutal wounds on a few of the other crewmembers who had been in horrible shipwrecks or seen battle in another life. A harsh gash spanned the width of his neck, long-healed. Puncture wounds sprouted over his chest and abdomen, muddled with raised scar tissue.

He had been preserved inside the body of the creature, somehow.

Isaiah brushed a tangle of the man’s long, curly hair off of his face. He could have been sleeping.

Someone behind him began to mutter a quick prayer. Gods above, take up this lost soul and preserve us against such a—

First mate Sharpe elbowed his way past the crowd. Pardon. Let me see him. He crouched gingerly above the man’s head and floated a hand under his long nose. No need to fetch the surgeon, then. He pressed two fingers to where the jugular should be, indenting the skin painfully. Isaiah’s hand darted to his own neck instinctively.

Wait. There’s . . . there’s a pulse.

A wary hum came from the crew. Bellamy gaped as Sharpe stepped back to let Lice through, deferent. She reached down to confirm the reading with her own be-freckled fingers, and frowned as she spoke. "Bloody alive. Somehow."

A louder and more surprised rumble rose from the crowd. Hendricks and a few others crossed themselves rapidly, Bellamy cussed once again. Álvarez and Yesayan both spat hard over their respective left shoulders in quick succession, and Demir muttered a frantic line of prayer under his breath.

Isaiah stood motionless before he remembered to cross himself, the motion not coming as automatically as it should. His stomach tugged in a way he couldn’t place. From where he stood, he could see the slight, almost non-existent motion of the man’s pulse, fluttering weakly like a bird trapped under the skin.

Someone get Monteiro— Fallon started.

And not the Captain? A voice said, rising up from the rear of the crowd. A number of the crew started and shrunk back from where the man lay. You lot should know better.

As well-observed as Captain Erasmus Coffin was aboard the Merciful, he had an uncanny knack for walking silently about his ship. . . . What in the cursed name is this?

Sharpe sprung upright, falling into a natural attention stance that still put him a good half foot shorter than the Captain. Pulled him up just now, sir, he replied.

Coffin elbowed through the last of the crowd, and as he came upon the still-unconscious man, his eyes widened and he stopped short.

"Why did you bring him up?" Coffin asked, wheeling to face his first mate.

I only saw the body once it had been brought onboard, I—

Did he come from that damned whale?!

Aye, he was brought forth by the latest catch.

Coffin’s eyes grew wider still, and he stared down at the body, eyes darting over the scars. After a long, tense moment, he set his jaw tight.

"And whose damn idea was it, to bring him aboard?"

Fallon, Calder, Álvarez, and Hendricks were in the hunting party, sir, Sharpe said, with the air of someone who had just dodged a bullet. Coffin shook his head, as if trying to clear it of some thought, and stared back over the crowd, singling the four out with a brusque wave of his hand.

Well. Step up! Coffin called.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Suddenly, Isaiah was conscious of the fact that his hands were grimy and bloodied where he had touched the man, and shoved them in his thin linen jacket pockets.

Can any one of you lot explain yourselves? He said, turning on Álvarez.

"The body was just there, Sir." Álvarez looked down, not meeting Coffin’s eyes.

And you decided to take it upon yourselves to—

Bad luck to abandon a man lost at sea, Captain, Fallon said, piping up. In a whirl of motion, Coffin turned from Álvarez and laid a heavy, resounding slap square across Fallon’s face. Those closest to him flinched, but nobody moved from their spot.

"And worse luck for all the rest of you when there’s another mouth to feed! Coffin said, breathing heavily. Isaiah could feel his palms start to itch. If I wanted to hear an old wives’ tale, I’d have asked for one."

Fallon blinked rapidly but stood stock still, a patch of red already blooming on his cheek. Yessir. Captain, sir.

Coffin didn’t acknowledge Fallon’s words and turned on the others instead. Calder? Hendricks? Any further superstitions you’d like to inform me of?

"No. No sir," Calder said.

Me as well, sir, Hendricks intoned, eyes staying on Coffin’s well-polished boots.

I thought not.

The wind had grown as still as the man on the deck, and Isaiah watched carefully as his chest rose and fell by only the smallest of degrees. The Captain’s eyes searched the body once again, lip curled in something like disgust.

Butcher and try out that whale, before the gutshawks bother it. Even though Coffin had schooled his expression into one of cool authority, something in his eyes seemed wild. Loosed from its proper seat. Back to stations! I’ll not have a drop of whale oil lost aboard my ship.

"You heard him," Lice yelled, and the assembled whalers scrambled, scattering along the main deck, returning to the rigging and to their posts bearing knives and pikes and hammers to carve up the rest of the whale flesh, to take the creature apart piece by piece.

Isaiah shrugged off his jacket, not quite thinking as he did. The man must have been cold. If he was still alive, if he still breathed, then he could catch cold and get sick—

The Captain had turned to Sharpe, drawing close to speak under his breath. So long as he still lives, he’ll be kept locked below.

The brig, sir?

The brig, he said, matter of fact. Monteiro’s not to be called down. I won’t have this written up.

Isaiah darted down and tucked the garment around the man, too small for his broad shoulders. A hand seized the back of his shirt before he could finish. Coffin hauled him upwards, and Isaiah was tossed stumbling back to the deck.

If you’re so damn concerned, you can feed him from your rations, Chase, Coffin said, as Isaiah scrambled to recover. And if he dies, you can dispose of him yourself. He barked a toneless laugh.

Isaiah ducked his head, righting himself. Aye sir. The Captain turned heel, stalking back to his quarters below without another word.

Well, Sharpe said. You’ll get no relief from me. Back to it, Chase.

Hey! What’s that? Someone called from high up in the rigging as they continued work through to the afternoon.

Enough! You lot have jobs to do! Lice shouted. From just beyond the rail, the wind had picked up once more, the waves had grown choppy again, and in the whale dregs left behind there floated up a broken piece of intricately carved wood.

The sea carried it closer to the bow of the Merciful and it trailed a strange line of debris behind it from the barren, open ocean.

Calder was bold enough to stop his work for a moment to investigate. "It’s a railing."

Don’t be stupid, Hendricks said as she peered overboard at the carved chunk of oak. How long has it been since we’ve seen another ship? As if in response, a frayed corner of mildewy canvas, long since covered with streaks of mossenweed and limpets, ghosted after the wooden railing. . . . Back since we left the last supply post in Auld Taggart in the spring, at least, she finished.

Him that was in the whale had to come from somewhere, Bellamy supplied. Could be that he’s the last one alive, on whatever ship he came from.

Calder squinted toward the horizon. Last of who? Or what?

The debris floated unhindered off into the open ocean, and no other remains appeared. Fresh wind couldn’t blow away the smell of decay from the deck as the workers dissected the whale with speed and precision. Isaiah rushed to catch up as the crew returned to their work, and the man was brought down to the brig below.

V

I don’t like that he’s just lying down there.

Hendricks was in a foul mood. She still smelled of oil and soot, along with the rest of them. Isaiah had changed out of his work shirt immediately, but he was certain he still stank of whale remains just as badly as she did.

Down the aft-end of the deck, the tryworks were still burning, and the second shift was well in swing. Above them, gutshawks and black-tipped gulls had started picking at the corpse while the Captain had been busy settling the man’s fate. The sharks and flesh-loving fish had already scooped up a good amount of the creature by the time third mate Flores ordered shots to be fired. Warding them off was more important than it seemed, and the greener deckhands were kept busy beating back some exceptionally tenacious hawks until eventually Sulaimi took initiative. Sling-shot plucked them out of the air, one by one.

Hasn’t woken up yet or anything, Calder said. Oh, you starting a new one? He leaned over to where Hendricks was squaring off a fresh block of pale wood with a stubby knife.

Yeah, Morrow wanted to trade for it, she replied.

Weren’t they already owing coin for last month’s supplies?

Not my business if they were or not.

. . . Shoulda left him down there with the rest of that whale’s guts, for all the good it’s going to do us, Bellamy said. He sat scrubbing at the front of his top, mostly soiled still from work. His brow crinkled deeply, and the rough scrubbing didn’t seem to be doing him or the shirt any good.

Let me at that, Isaiah interjected, pulling the linen from his hands with a sigh. Your mum wouldn’t want you to wear a hole in it, after all the work she did patching it up for you.

Bellamy huffed, slouching back against the mast, but relinquishing the once bright green tunic. He’d worn tears in it long ago, and he’d had Isaiah help stitch up the spots his mother hadn’t gotten around to fixing back on land.

You think it’s better, then, Isaiah asked, not looking up at him directly. To let a man die. He could tell he was testing the group’s already sour mood. Deciding to prod at Bellamy was usually the safer choice; he was the more thoughtful of the lot. One wouldn’t know it by looking at him, with his prickly black hair and arms twice the size of Isaiah’s own.

You’re too soft-hearted, Chase. But Fallon was right. It’s nothing but bad luck to throw a still-live man over, now that he’s been brought aboard, Bellamy amended. Isaiah applied a careful directional hand to the rough weave of his shirt and the grime loosened. Besides. Cap’n wasn’t anywhere near fond of keeping him. Gods know why.

Seemed damn well close to suggesting he go back from whence he came, Hendricks said, as she paused her carving to shake loose her locs from the bundle in which they were normally neatly arranged. Not certain I’d blame him either, she said quietly, folding the red and blue patterned scarf neatly and tucking it in her shirt.

Nor I, Calder said. He scratched at his jaw, a daub of grease caught in the patchy, light brown stubble.

"He’s still a person, though," Isaiah said, and it felt like a risk. By the time he’d had his small altercation with Coffin, the rest had already been set to their tasks. Nobody had seen him, and they didn’t need to know that his soft heart had earned him the punishment of half rations and duty owing.

And what then, if he stays . . . like that? Bellamy asked, nose wrinkling. Isaiah could feel him peering over his shoulder at his handiwork. "If having a human body inside that whale means the oil’s gone off somehow, and we’re already behind quota—"

Then there’s nothing we can do about it now, Hendricks replied, wood chips falling between her feet.

"Nothing we can do until we’re behind on charter and run up more signing debts over our take," Bellamy said.

Don’t even begin to talk about such things, Demir interjected as he strolled by, still in his work slops and looking haggard. "And don’t let nobody hear you even talk about running behind on charter. He rubbed a hand across his grey-flecked beard. You’re forgetting the ‘Coffin’ part of Pyle, Thacket, and Coffin Trading Company."

Can’t go disappointing daddy dearest, Bellamy quipped.

"Stop it. Someone’ll hear," Isaiah said.

Monteiro’ll judge if the man’ll survive, if she hasn’t done so already, Hendricks replied. Like I said, what’s done is done. Can’t very well get rid of him now.

Isaiah finally made a break in the layer of encrusted blood and grease, the green linen of the shirt poking through. There. I’ll not be your washerwoman. He held it out for the group’s approval and Hendricks nodded appreciatively. Not so bad now, huh.

Bellamy brightened, snatching the shirt back. A real blessing y’are, Chase. Inspecting it against the lantern light, he grinned widely and bundled it up in his lap. How’d you learn that anyway?

It’s nothing, Isaiah said, rolling his eyes and grabbing the shirt back to re-fold it neatly. My mum would have to fix up me and my pa’s clothes herself and eventually got tired of not having any help. Not like you city folk, just sending it off to a tailor down the street whenever you like. In the handful of months he’d been concealing himself within the crew of the Merciful, he’d found that staying casual, light, in his mention of his father was better than avoiding the subject entirely as he wanted to. It was good to give the others the sense that they knew what you were about; could get the size of you. Being seen as someone who kept secrets was suspect at best and dangerous at worst. You just have to know what you’re doing.

"And now we’re all stuck in the same great stinking tub in the middle of the ocean, that man along with us," Calder said with no small amount of bitterness.

Better than doing my mum’s washing . . . Bellamy said, glancing sidelong at Isaiah. He nailed the bigger man in his side with an elbow.

Hey!

Isaiah forced a laugh and returned to picking bits of grime and meat off his own work shirt, and the four of them fell into companionable silence. The cutting spray that had pricked at Isaiah’s face earlier that day changed to an unceasing wind that wound around them, buffeting the crowded deck jammed with people working on the second shift, around crates and supplies, stacked high with rope and empty barrels waiting to be filled with whale oil, racks of harpoon heads, axes, scrub brushes and heavy wooden wash buckets clustered in between it all. Isaiah was used to being out in the open air—six months at sea was more than enough time to grow accustomed to the way the sun beat down even on cold days, and the manner with which the clouds above their sun-bleached canvas sails changed shape before the wind did.

Calder stared out at the rapidly darkening horizon, while Hendricks continued to chip away at the indistinguishable wooden form in her palm. Isaiah breathed deep, but the freshly-burnt fatty scent of the tryworks hit the back of his nose harshly.

The brig where the man from the belly was being kept didn’t even have that. No wind, barely any air to breathe.

What happens if he wakes? He asked, against his better judgement.

I dunno, Hendricks said, the carving knife sitting idle in her hand for the first time since they’d sat down. Fetch the Captain, I suppose. See that he gets a place and duties.

You saw his face. Putting him to work is the last thing he’d give two hard shits about, Bellamy said.

Nobody’s doing a damn thing without his go-ahead now. Especially seeing how Fallon got it, Calder said, voice low.

Bellamy’s mouth tightened. I don’t like it much.

Nor I, Calder said. Another mouth to feed. And bad luck to boot. He spit over his shoulder with an air of finality.

That was the trouble with sailors, Isaiah mused. They were more than content to pinion the mechanism of their lives on something as shifty and nebulous as superstition, but when faced with something truly out of the ordinary, they didn’t know how to place it. Anyone or anything beyond the order of things was a liability.

Good fortune for him though, he said, careful not to look up from a particularly wretched grease mark on his vest.

"To be half-alive like that, and under Coffin’s mercy? I’d rather just sink like a stone. Have done with it," Calder said.

Isaiah plucked at the stain intently. Perhaps.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FIRST BRUSH of evening deepened into a velvety darkness that wasted no time falling over the Merciful. Clouds had moved in sometime after third shift took over, and Isaiah had spotted Sharpe fretting over the look of them, spyglass in hand.

The rest of the evening was occupied by eating dinner, drying his shirt, playing a game of gin-jack and losing a not-insignificant amount of tobacco in the final hand with Bellamy, who claimed it was pure justice for Isaiah elbowing him so hard earlier. He gathered up his things only a little bit peeved, re-shuffling his cards twice after to ensure they were all present and accounted for. His mother had always taught him to keep careful hold of a full deck, no matter if you won or lost with them. With a tilt of her head, she’d remind him that the cards would know if you cared for them well. Things always remember, she’d say.

Isaiah laid down for the evening and the usual anxious feeling curled up tight in his gut more prominently than usual. It had been a good long time since he’d had any eerie dreams, and as he cinched his eyes shut, he hoped that none would come that evening. Mention of his father usually made him nervous about the possibility, regardless, but something about the presence of the strange dead-undead man from the whale’s stomach unsettled him.

It was only as he was attempting to empty his mind that the thought of food floated up from gods knew where. Dinner had come and gone and he’d polished off his own meal without a second thought. The man in the brig might not have woken yet, but guilt pealed through him. He should at least try to find something to bring to him. Just in case the man did wake up, in a strange place, chilled to the bone, and alone in the dark. It was only decent.

The kitchens weren’t forbidden ground to regular crew like Isaiah, but they weren’t necessarily a place to loiter either. He eased out of his bunk and crept to the opposite end of the middle deck, where small brick-closed stoves and one hulking iron oven stood at the far end of the space, partially walled off from the area between the bunks where they ate their meals. With the cook long since retired for the evening, her assistant, Tania, was occupied swabbing down the floor. Isaiah coughed tentatively.

Um, ’scuse me.

What is it? he said, barely looking up.

I . . . was wondering if you had anything? Leftover, I mean.

You’ve got some nerve. Get gone, rations are set until we restock.

I was charged with feeding the man who got brought aboard—

"Heard about that. Should’ve thought twice before finishing off your own portion, Tania said with a snort. Not my problem."

I know, but I’ll be sure to remember next time— Isaiah started.

"Of course you will."

There was only one surefire way to get what you wanted aboard the Merciful, but it was by no means ideal.

I’ll owe you, he said, edging in front of Tania. Log it down in the ledger, whatever you think an extra portion is worth, it’ll be official money owed once we account for debts accrued back in Shaliston Port.

"Cook said, specifically, that he wasn’t to get