Tress of the Emerald Sea

“Well then,” Tress said, “I suppose if that’s the case, then I’ll find some other way to repay you. What a shame.” She took the last piece of the test cake before he could grab it, then popped it in her mouth.

Oh moons, she’d forgotten what it was like to eat without forcibly suppressing her gag reflex.

Fort rubbed his chin, then grinned. All right, fine. Each day of work providing adequate meals like this pays off two days of meals I gave you.

“Five,” Tress said.

Three.

“Deal,” she replied, “but you can’t tell the others that these meals are mine. I can’t afford to be roped into cooking breakfast and lunch as well. I have other work to do.”

The crew will get suspicious if two meals are bad and one is incredible.

“So the food is incredible, is it?” she said.

He froze, then grinned again. I underestimated you.

“Hopefully that’s catching,” she said. “You’re a resourceful man, Fort. You can come up with an excuse to put off the crew. Tell them you’re trying new recipes, but only have time to practice one a day. Plus, if we get that oven working, the things you make might not be so…”

Unique? he wrote.

“Unrecognizable.”

A deal, I suppose. Assuming you agree to make dessert each day as well. The Dougs have been asking for one that doesn’t melt the plates before it can be eaten.

“They’ve been asking for more of what you were making? Moons, how many of those bargain bin brains did Ulaam have?”

Fort laughed out loud. It was a full laugh, but not like Ann’s raucous one. More unrestrained than uncontrolled. It was the laugh of someone who didn’t care how they sounded or looked to others.

I’m wrong, she realized. He’s not worried about seeming silly by being taken advantage of.

Well? he wrote. Dessert?

“I want a flare gun,” she said, sliding her chopped meat into a pie tin, “with flares. Without questions.”

He eyed her.

Mask business? he wrote.

“Maybe.”

Will it help us with our predicament? He pointed upward toward the captain’s cabin.

“I hope so.”

Then you may have it. In trade for desserts for the rest of the trip.

“Until we reach our destination in the Crimson Sea,” Tress said.

I wasn’t aware we had one. Curious. Well, so be it. He wiped his hand, then held it out.

She shook to seal the deal.

Thank you, Fort said. Genuinely.

“For the food?” she asked.

For the trade.

“Why do you like it so much, Fort?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

I am a hunter by profession, he explained. It is a mark of pride among my people, and my family in particular, to execute an excellent hunt.

“…Hunt?”

Well, we’ve broadened the definition over the years, he explained. Turns out, a whole society of hunters doesn’t scale well. Who’s going to make the shoes? Bake the bread? Plan the weddings? He tapped, blanking the board, then continued, So, we choose our hunt when we come of age. This is mine. A worthy hunt, same as my mother. I record each great victory and send them home in letters to be hung in our family hall.

“Wow,” Tress said.

You’re impressed? Ann laughed.

“I am impressed,” she said. “Plus, I have a friend who’d love hearing that story. I hope you can meet him someday. Is…your trade deal with me today going to go in one of the letters?”

He laughed again. Tress, it would embarrass you to know how successful my hunt just was. Have you eaten my food? The first bite of bread you gave me was worth every meal I gave you in the past. And you have not only promised more, but are going to let me take credit with the Dougs? He winked at her. I’m going to brag about this catch for three pages! Now, hurry up. I want to try one of those pies.





THE PHILOSOPHER





Cutting apart a spore-filled flare while distracted wasn’t the best of ideas—but admittedly Tress hadn’t decided to be distracted. It happened naturally, like a case of the hiccups or the inevitable and relentless entropic decay of the universe.

As she pried the stiff wax-paper cap off the flare, she mulled over the pure joy Fort experienced when negotiating. It had always made her nervous to haggle at the market, as she didn’t want to make the merchants feel that their goods were worthless or their service unvalued. Yet Fort loved the haggling part.

And Ann, shooting the cannon. Tress thought about her while carefully pouring the spores out of the flare. Had Tress ever seen anyone so excited about anything as Ann got? Even Charlie with a freshly cooked pie hadn’t looked so content.

Tress tapped the flare carefully, then glanced at Huck, who had insisted on joining her at the worktable—but hid under a large soup bowl, holding it up an inch or so to peek out. He was mostly afraid of the spores at the moment, though she’d caught him hiding a lot more lately. Even when the cat wasn’t around.

“What’s that?” he asked as a pink stone sphere rolled from the center of the flare.

“The water charge,” she explained, holding it up to the porthole to show light through the pink stone. A shadow of water sloshed inside when she shook it. “When this breaks, the water floods out and ignites the spores. In this case, sunlight spores that burn with a bright hot light.”

“Oh,” he said, lifting the bowl higher. “So those don’t explode?”

“Nope,” Tress said. “But they could burn us as they create a bright flash and heat.” She set a cannonball on the table with a thump. “Now, one of these is filled with zephyr spores. So it will explode right good.”

Huck pointedly lowered his shield. Tress rolled the little ball of water-filled roseite back and forth on the table. She remembered sermons on the various Moondays, held at the very top of her island. On the Verdant Moondays, they’d been able to watch the alignment of sun and moon. She had always felt she was missing something at those meetings, since the alignment—from their side—looked like any other moonshadow, which happened every day. But apparently the sun centered exactly behind the moon only twice a year.

During such an eclipse, the preachers spoke about respecting the moons and about the meaning of life. Except every preacher who visited the island seemed to have a different idea of what the purpose of life was. Even two preachers from the same moonschool would disagree

That part had comforted her. If religion couldn’t get it together, then she could be forgiven for being a mess herself.

But now—as she dug in the remnants of the flare for the timer—she wondered. Each of those preachers had acted like they had the answer, like there was one purpose in life. All life. She understood the inclination. A single answer would certainly make things tidier. Two plus two is four. Water boils at a specific temperature. Also, the purpose of life is to learn to imitate the call of a marmoset. Go.