You’re fourteen: you will work. If not in the fields, then on the boats.
Amber, who as a ‘feral child’ has spent the majority of her life without adult guidance and support, is unused to adhering to rules and regulations. Being told she had to use her powers for the greater good or find a talent beneficial to society did not go down well, particularly as she has spent a good deal of time coveting the selfish existence she can now lead. Her ‘gift’ of healing is a bad memory of the past which she has no intention of using (apart from on herself, of course), and there’s little use for her other powers – alchemy and telekinetic control of metals – with regards to Shaman’s survival, so she’s been forced to search for undiscovered abilities in the practical world. Thus far, she has been unsuccessful. As a farmer, Amber is atrocious; plants are too delicate for her metal-hardened touch, and her self-appointed teacher did not greatly appreciate it when she transformed an entire crop into gold out of boredom. The action would have cost the whole of Shaman their daily ration for a week if she hadn’t corrected it at the last minute. She’d had been similar failures in other fields – construction, repairs, care of the vulnerable – failures easily pinned to lack of willingness to cooperate and follow instructions.
Finally, after being shunted from department to department, she’s wound up with the last self-established organisation which would take her: the fishermen.
It’s a simple enough task. There’s a very small fleet of wooden boats; fairies are paired up, given a boat, a map, and a net and sent on their way. Some of the lucky ones get fishing rods and bait. Amber has been assigned one of the old Merlin Rockets on loan from one of the fairies who found it in the gallery; the hull and burgee are a pretty sort of bright blue and the sails are a clean white. She and her partner – a red-skinned boy a bit older than her who introduces himself as Alexi – have been given a net, some crates and a few worms as bait, as well as a roughly sketched map of Shaman to navigate with. The map doesn’t fill Amber with a whole lot of confidence, since most of the landmarks will be underwater and thus invisible.
Shooting Alexi a silent glare to let him know where he stands, she climbs aboard and starts fiddling with the jib sheets. Since she’s the novice here, Alexi is the captain – the one who steers – and she’s simply the crew. The mechanics of sailing a little fourteen-foot Merlin Rocket are very simple. There are two sails: the main sail (held in place by the boon, a long metal pole which sticks out at a perpendicular angle from the mast and which is the main sail attaches to) and the jib or headsail, which are controlled by a series of ropes. The burgee (a little flag) at the top of the mast indicates which direction the wind is blowing in. The basic design behind a sailing boat is thus: the wind, blowing against the main sail, is attempting to push the boat over. It is the job of the crew to distribute the weight on the boat to ensure that it does not capsize – usually by leaning out of the upside – and to control the jib sheets (ropes controlling the jib sail). The captain steers the boat using the rudder, ensures that the centreboard (a flat piece of fibreglass under the boat which keeps it upright) is in place, controls the angle of the main sail and directs the crew. Even without the spinnaker (an extra sail which makes the boat go faster, typically used in racing) up, manual sailing is an adrenaline sport made all the more exciting by the prospect of an open, empty ocean. If something goes wrong out there, you’re dead.
The minute they set sail, Amber’s age-old bitterness vanishes. Here, at last, is something she can do without being told how – something inspiring and addictive which she doesn’t need to be prompted to do. At first they simply tack (an easier but slower turning manoeuvre) to change direction, but very quickly Amber feels comfortable enough to attempt a few gybes (a more dangerous and difficult but faster manoeuvre) and before long they’re far out of sight of land. Judging by the little tors and trees occasionally sticking out above the water, they’re probably somewhere over Ily Moor – the map has long since flown out of Amber’s hand. She very quickly learns to read the wind, so she doesn’t need Alexi’s directions to know when to tack or gybe and apart from the roar of the wind and the slapping of the water against the hull, there’s mutual, glorious silence.
They must be getting somewhere near the Outer Border now – heading northwards toward the Silver Cove. Amber’s hair streams out behind her, turning a deep and beautiful gold to match the sunlight reflecting off the early-morning water.
This is life, Amber knows it now. She was born for the open sea.
amber*---------
mallos and adele-----
living breathing gold---
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