Short Story: Pardon's Day
A short story from the world of Aquan that I wrote with Kris Lewis
Since it’s getting close to New Year’s Eve, I figured I’d share this story that Kris and I wrote (he took the lead on most of it) about the crew of the Strega’s Folly celebrating their version, called Pardon’s Day, when sailors celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another. For Massimo, the day has a different, darker history.
Massimo flopped down onto the sand, rum splashing from the bottle clutched in his right hand. His face burning with drink and pent up frustration, he looked up into the night. A white trail of stars cut through the black sky and curled toward the horizon where the half-moon hung, casting its shimmering reflection on the obsidian Shardsea. Massimo’s ears filled with the roar of waves breaking on the beach.
He thought of Tosh, of the argument they’d had in their cabin only a couple of hours ago.
Tosh had come in, face glittering with confetti from the party the Brinholds were throwing on deck, to find him in bed, staring at the wall. She sat on the bed next to him and ran her hand between his shoulder blades.
“Should come out on deck. Brion shelled out the dubbies for a professional fiddler, and the roast duck is to die for.”
Massimo grunted his acknowledgement.
She leaned over, her lips almost touching his ear. “Couples are supposed to kiss right before first watch,” she cooed. “I’ve never kissed anyone on Pardon’s Eve before. I bet you haven’t either.”
“No, I haven’t.” Massimo said, turning to face her. His expression softened when he caught sight of her dark blue eyes. He sighed, steeling his resolve. Pardon’s Eve wasn’t a cause for celebration. It was a time to reflect on the harsher side of life, to see others at their basest, little more than snarling animals intent on survival. “Toshala, please. Not tonight.”
“And why not tonight? We have another year together, Massi. Isn’t that cause for celebration?” Tosh laughed, incredulous. “I mean given all we been through.”
“Sure,” he muttered.
“So what fecked up holiday did your mother make you celebrate this time?” Tosh snapped. “What did she do? Beat you with a length of chain? Make you torture small animals for fun? Dammit, Massimo, just once why can’t you leave that behind? I’m not your fecking mother, neither are the Brinholds.”
His golden eyes flashed as he sat up. “Please tell me all about your precious Pardon’s Day, Toshala. Tell me about the kisses and the music, and the rum, and the celebration. Really, I want to hear all about the deluded world that normal people have set up for themselves. If my mother has taught me anything it’s that Aquan is an ugly place, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to celebrate being here for another year of just trying to survive it.”
“Well if it’s so damned unbearable, why don’t you just go toss your maudlin arse overboard!” Tosh shouted. “Why are you always lumping me in with the rest of the world, Massi? I’m trying here. I really want you to see that not everything is as twisted as you believe. I—why won’t you see we’ve got something special here?”
“Nobody is special, Toshala. We all just like to think that way, makes life a little less brutal.”
Tosh clenched her fists. Her face flushed; her eyes shimmered. Massimo knew she was trying to hold back the tears. “I…” She bit her lower lip and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her.
“Fine,” Massimo said, falling back onto the mattress and staring at the ceiling. It was anything but fine. He closed his eyes.
He was back in the dark again, his fellow witchbred skittering over the damp rocky floor in search of the key.
Climbing out of bed, Massimo slipped on a shirt and trousers, and found the bottle of rum he’d bought days ago tucked away in the steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. The other side of Kilowa Island would be deserted at this hour; it’d be a good place to bury the truth in a sea of rum.
He had stumbled across the rocky ground alternating swigs and steps, toward the small bay he’d seen on their way into port.
Massimo burrowed the bottom of the bottle into the sand next to him.
How could she expect him to just throw away his past in such a small amount of time? It wasn’t as if one just dropped their burden on the sand and trudged the rest of the way up the beach. His mother had shown him too much, and it wasn’t as if everything she told him was a lie.
“Life is a struggle, Hejoré. Our Abyssal Lord teaches survival in a harsh world above all else. You must be the shark, not the fish.”
The Strega grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back to examine his bruised and bloodied face.
“You’re only alive because those around you have willed it so. With one flash of a blade, one cock of a hammer, even the slightest syllable,” she hissed, “anyone can end your life. The only way to survive is to end them first.”
And of course, she’d been right. He’d seen it in the behavior of pirates and politicians, merchants, and beggars alike. Tryta’s Pardon had nothing to do with living to see another year. It was only through the cold instinct for survival that one passed the years on Aquan.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to keep the echoes at bay. Growls in the dark. The stomach-wrenching sound of a skull being crushed. The coppery scent of blood on the air, and the warmth of it on his hands as he cowered in the corner of the cave, begging Merrow to find some other prey. He was a child again, selected for Culling’s Eve when Merrow deemed one witchbreed of several had earned his continued survival for another year. Each year, the week before Culling’s Eve, twenty witchbred were picked to be locked away in the Cave of Trials. Only one was permitted to leave the cave alive: the witchbreed resourceful enough to find the only key and escape on his own. With only a bucket of water and a loaf of bread, the witchbred were left to stumble about, fighting for resources until they found the key. This often led to brutal conflict and murder. If none of them made it out of the cave by Culling’s Eve, they were all left to die.
Eight-year-old Massimo knew there were other witchbred out beyond the walls of the cave, eagerly waiting to see who would emerge on this Culling’s Eve. As best he could tell, there were only two others left in the cave with him, and they had no idea he was there. For days he had crouched in the corner, praying none of them could see as well in the dark as he could, too scared to move lest he get sucked into the brutal struggle for survival. He would siphon water from the bucket with the spell he had learned from his mother, but he hadn’t eaten since being locked away. He wanted to live as much any of them, but he wasn’t willing to get witchbred blood on his hands to do it. These children were like him, abused and unloved, toys for their mothers. Their only crime was being born, and he wasn’t about to execute them for that.
“What say we find the bloody thing before we kill each other over it?” one of them said, his voice cracking. Massimo had come to know the witchbreed as Tartan.
“Right, find it for you, you mean,” another one--Fabrizio--replied.
“Well nothing says only one of us can escape, idiot. That’s just the way it’s always been.”
Massimo could hear pebbles skitter across the floor and rocks hitting the walls as they upturned them in search of the hidden key.
“Right then,” Fabrizio said. “One of us finds the key, we let the other know, hey?” He said this even as he’d found the key among the rocks on the floor. It looked like any other rock, only engraved with a glyph. Fabrizio must’ve felt the glyph with his fingers because he tried to put the stone in his pocket. It slipped from his fingers and chimed like a bell as it hit the floor.
“What was that?” Tartan mumbled as he whirled. “It’s the key, isn’t it?”
“No, just my lucky dub,” Fabrizio lied.
“Liar!”
Massimo looked on in horror as Tartan charged Fabrizio. Fabrizio picked up a rock and slammed it against Tartan’s head as the two collided. There was a loud crack!, and Fabrizio fell backward, Tartan straddling him as he choked the life from him.
“Serves you right, blaggard,” Tartan gasped out before he fell over, blood pooling beneath his head.
Massimo stared at the two, horrified. He wasn’t sure how long it was before he finally built up the courage to crawl across the floor on his hands and knees and find the key. He was met with solemn stares when he finally stepped out of the cave into the dim Merspire twilight. His mother waited behind the other witchbred, beaming with pride.
“You did it, hejoré! You found your strength. The others won’t dare to cross you now,” she told him, mussing his hair. He basked in his mother’s pride, letting her warmth fill the void that had been created inside of him after the massacre inside the Cave of Trials.
Later, when he told her in private what had really transpired, she had beaten him senseless.
Massimo took another swig from the bottle and dropped backward into the sand. He lay on his back, eyes half-mast. How could he celebrate this night? He’d dreaded it for so long. His chest ached when he though about Tosh back in the cabin, hurt and angry.
“Can’t hurt a witchbreed, but you can sure as Acheron hurt the love of your life. Ironic, hey?” he asked himself.
“Irony is sailing at sea with a shipful of men for three months, but having to wait to get back to port to find some companionship,” Gage said as he sat down beside Massimo.
“You follow me out here?”
“That I did, sirrah,” Gage said, as he ripped the bottle from Massimo’s hand and inspected the label.
“I suppose Tosh sent you out here to talk some sense into me,” he said, just a little angry.
“On the contrary,” Gage slurred, “Someone said they saw you leave with a bottle of Tawny Cragwich. Harlot drown me if I was going to let you have a rum as fine as that all to yourself.” He took a swig from the bottle. “Though Ms. Flemmish is looking absolutely miserable. She was in a fine mood before. Makes a man wonder what transpired.”
“Makes me wonder how it’s any of your business,” Massimo snapped, sitting up. He pulled his knees up, leaned forward and propped his elbows on them as he stared out to sea. Gage opened his mouth as if to answer, paused, and then took another swig of rum before he passed the bottle to Massimo who took another nip.
“Look, she couldn’t possibly understand. She hasn’t been through the same things I have. Year after year, we do what we must to survive, and it’s not a beautiful thing. So why celebrate and pretend as if it is?” Massimo asked.
Gage blinked, then smirked. “Someone wants to talk, hey?”
Massimo shook his head, his face flushing as he turned to look down the beach. “Nevermind,” he said.
“Poor little bastard,” Gage said, absently as he toppled backwards into the sand, laughing.
Massimo glared down at him. “I’m glad I could amuse you.”
“Oh, there’s nothing amusing about it,’ Gage said, still laughing. “Ok, so maybe there is. It’s just tragic and beautiful at the same time.”
“What do you mean?”
“A beautiful change is happening and you’re sad about it. Imagine that. Ooo, boy. Haven’t had a laugh like that in a long time,” Gage said, trying to rise to sitting again, is hand on his side.
Massimo picked up a shell and threw it into the surf. “Well if you’re just going to be cryptic…”
“Nothing cryptic about it. Massimo, you’re finally waking up!” Gage said.
“What in Acheron does that mean?”
“It’s mean you’re no longer content to merely exist, dolt,” Gage said as he gave Massimo a stinging clap on the back. “You really want to live. You’ve been existing so long, simply stumbling through life, day to day to meet your needs that you never really learned how to live.”
“I fail to see the fecking difference.”
“Existing is eating, sleeping, dodging bullets and,” he looked sidelong at the witchbreed, “pleasing your mother because that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Massimo’s shoulders slumped.
“Living is doing all of that, but also stopping to enjoy a sunrise or appreciate the beauty of a distant squall over the Shardsea, or maybe understanding that each day we have here is an adventure, not a chore.”
“And it just takes the flash of a blade to destroy it all,” Massimo muttered.
“Which is why we celebrate that the blade hasn’t flashed yet” Gage said.
Massimo snorted, and ran his hand through the sand, shrugging. Gage took his hand, squeezed it, and locked eyes with Massimo. Though he wanted to, the witchbreed couldn’t pull his gaze away from those verdant orbs.
“Existing is the feeling you get when you’re starving and you need to go looking for food. Living? Well, that feeling you get every morning when you wake up with her in your arms and realize that the Harlot has let you two have another day together? That’s living.”
“If that’s what living is, then why are so many people climbing over each other to get to the next day?” Massimo asked. “Why aren’t they content to feel that?”
“Because they don’t have a lass at their side begging them to live,” Gage said. “Honestly, I couldn’t give the arse of a wharf rat what happens between you and Toshala, but I do know this: If you don’t get busy living with her, she’ll start living without you.” Gage laid back and began moving his arms and legs, making sand angels on the beach. “And what a waste of a pretty young man that would be.”
Massimo rose from sitting, brushing the sand off his rear. “I’ll leave you and your Mr. Tawny Cragwich to your rendezvous,” he said, looking down at Gage and trying not to smile. Gage was the strangest person Massimo had ever met, taciturn and moody one moment, wise and gentle the next, and never without his strange sense of humor.
“They say if you share a kiss with a lass just before first watch on Pardon’s Day, you’ll be together forever. Far as I can guess, you have about twenty minutes to get back to the Folly,” Gage said before reaching for the bottle. “If Brion must sail away without me, ask her to at least leave me a book or two, hey?”
Massimo rolled his eyes and looked up the beach, inland, toward the rocky ground. Twenty minutes to get to the other side of the island, hey? He ran, tilting his head into the wind, his black hair shimmering in the moonlight as it slapped at his face.
His mother had been right. Cold instinct was necessary for survival. But what was the point of surviving if one couldn’t take enjoyment in his existence? He thought again about that Culling’s Eve ten years ago. He had been the only one in the cave not to fight, and he had been the one to survive. Fate perhaps, telling him that one day he would be able to live without becoming a monster?
He could hear the ship’s bell in the distance as he hit the other side of the island. On the eighth chime, first watch would begin. He bounded over the sand, his feet barely sinking in as he raced toward the Folly’s gangplank. With the exception of the bell, all was quiet, the crew anticipating the start of the new year.
Massimo opened himself up to her, and nearly tumbled backward as he was hit with a wave of anger and regret and despondency. He’d been closed off since that morning, trying to keep Tosh from feeling his misery, but now he was feeling hers. The pain he felt reminded him there was an opposite side to that emotional coin. There was love and joy. Something worth living for.
He leapt up the gangplank, pitched over the rail, and landed in a crouch on deck. Scanning the bow of the ship where the crew was assembled, many red-faced and smiling, he finally found Tosh at the prow, staring out to sea.
Four. Five. Six.
He put a hand on Tosh’s shoulder and she whirled around, glaring even as he cupped her face in his hands, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to hers.
Seven. Eight.
Warmth spread from the pit of his stomach and up his spine. Tosh relaxed in his arms, took him in a gentle embrace, her hands on his back. He could feel her anger receding, instead being replaced by the same warmth he felt throughout his body. Her breath tasted of sweet wine; the quick beat of her heart was a soothing lullaby.
The crew around them erupted in cheers and the fiddler struck up a new tune amidst a chorus of, “Harlot Bless Ye’s” and “Wind and waves afore ye’s.” The Harlot had seen fit to give them another year.
Their lips parted, and he leaned back to gaze into Tosh’s shimmering eyes. She smiled coyly as she bit her lower lip.
“So this is why you celebrate Pardon’s Day,” Massimo said, feeling even drunker than he had while in his cups.
She only nodded.
“Tosh, I’m sorry. I just don--”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s a new year. Clean slate. No apologies.”
“I love you,” Massimo whispered, feeling his heart slam inside his chest as the warmth again flowed through his body.
“I love you too,” she said. They drew in close for another kiss.
Massimo chuckled against her lips. “I think I enjoy celebrating Pardon’s Day.”
“Just wait until the day after,” Tosh said. He could feel her lips turn up into a grin. And then he couldn’t feel anything beyond their love colliding, warm and sparkling like Pardon’s Day fireblossoms.
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