Vol. 1 · The Blank Sea
Ch 24 Side Story II: Edmund's Notebook
On calm nights, Edmund would take out his notebook.
Not on deck. The deck had wind, waves, sailors passing on watch, and unsteady light. He’d found a corner at the end of the narrow corridor beside the captain’s cabin — bulkhead at his back, a fixed oil lamp overhead. The spot wasn’t ideal, but it was quiet.
He spread the notebook open on his knees.
It was a standard waterproof field journal issued by the Grand Academy. Dark blue cover, copper clasp, paper thick and coarse, treated with tung oil. It hadn’t left the inside pocket of his coat since the day he boarded the ship.
The first half was the voyage log.
The handwriting was narrow and square, like typeset. Every page followed the same format: date, position (coordinates or route reference point), wind direction, wind speed, barometer reading, sea state, cloud cover, visibility, events of note. The event entries were precise, restrained, free of emotion. “At 14:00, wave height ahead decreased approximately thirty percent; cause pending investigation.” “Sailor Armo reported loss of definition in left palm lines; referred to medical officer Bryn for documentation.” “Compass needle locked, temperature slightly elevated. Logged in anomaly appendix.”
At the bottom right corner of each page was a small page number he’d added himself in pencil, because the Grand Academy’s standard journal didn’t print them.
He turned to the middle of the notebook.
The dividing line was obvious. Not a drawn line — the handwriting changed. From upright, nearly uniform strokes with hardly any variation in thickness, to a slight italic with curves in the letters. Like the same person writing in two different states of mind.
On the first page past the divide he’d written a date in the upper right corner. It was the third day after they’d left Anchor Port.
Below it:
Iron Tooth Reef — Dockside fish stall
Species unknown. Roughly an arm’s length, silver-grey scales, firm flesh. Charcoal-grilled, brushed with sauce. Sauce base of salt and some kind of fermented fish paste.
Sauce too salty. The salt granules were coarse, not fully dissolved; biting into one now and then delivered a sudden jolt to the palate. But the fish itself was extremely fresh. Pulling the flesh from the bone gave a clean fibrous pull, no trace of mud or muck. The tenderest section along the belly had been charred to a faintly crisp edge — the first bite was crunch, then heat, then the taste of the sea itself.
If the salt could be controlled and a little lemon juice added — or those small green sour fruits native to Iron Tooth Reef — the balance would improve enormously.
Rating: 4/7.
Note: Castor, who came along, ate three. His assessment was “not bad.” This does not constitute a valid reference.
Aboard ship — Day 4 dinner — Hardtack
Standard naval ration. Flour, salt, a small amount of lard, baked and then dried. Theoretical shelf life: forty-plus days.
On the first day the texture was tolerable — a crust with some crispness, the interior dry but chewable. By the second day it had declined. By the third day the texture was trending toward building material. Biting down required considerable force, accompanied by an unsettling crack. I was not certain whether the sound came from the biscuit or from my teeth.
But.
After soaking in Hein’s hot soup for approximately two minutes, the internal structure softened. The resulting texture fell somewhere between bread and porridge, and the soup-saturated portions were unexpectedly satisfying. Especially when the broth carried a base note of onion and fish bone.
As a reserve ration, acceptable. As food, it requires the intervention of soup.
Rating: 3/7.
Note: Ronn broke a piece of hardtack in half and dipped it in cold water. I choose not to comment on this.
Aboard ship — Day 7 — Unidentified jerky from Castor
Origin unknown.
Castor produced, from a vest pocket, a palm-sized piece of dark brown jerky in the afternoon, snapped it in half, and handed one half to me. No explanation of what animal it was, when it was made, or why he carried it on his person. I accepted out of courtesy.
The texture was extremely tough. The first three bites made almost no headway. After that the fibers began to loosen, releasing a concentrated salty-savory flavor somewhere between cured and smoked. Chewing it to completion took a considerable length of time. I didn’t time it, but it felt like no less than a quarter of an hour.
The taste fell between leather and fresh meat. This is not a figure of speech. In the first few seconds, the mouth received feedback that was genuinely closer to leather — dry, rigid, devoid of moisture. But as chewing continued, the interior flavor gradually seeped out, arriving finally at something rough but not unpleasant: a blunt, salty richness.
Origin unknown. Did not dare to ask.
Rating: ?/7.
Note: After I finished, Castor asked, “How was it?” I said, “Chewy.” He nodded. Evidently this was a positive review. Perhaps to him it genuinely was.
Aboard ship — Day 9 — Kalaan dried fruit, brought aboard by Naia
She poured a handful from a small woven pouch and spread them on the deck for anyone to take. Dark purplish-red, smaller than a thumb tip, shriveled, faintly sticky to the touch.
The first taste was tart-sweet. Tartness arrived first — sharp but not biting, like good vinegar. Then sweetness followed, not the cloying kind of honey but the concentrated sweetness of sun-dried fruit. And last — most unexpectedly — sea salt. Not added salt. Naia said the fruit grew on cliffs above the sea, its roots in alkaline soil, the flesh naturally briny.
Very good. Tart, sweet, salt — three layers arriving in sequence, none crowding the others. By the last chew the pit was small enough to spit out whole, or to hold in the mouth a while longer; a final trace of sourness clung to the seed.
I asked the name. Naia said a Kalaan word, three syllables, a glottal sound in the middle. I tried to repeat it twice. She laughed. I chose not to attempt a third time. Cannot retain the pronunciation.
Rating: 6/7.
Note: Ronn popped five into his mouth at once, didn’t chew, and said “a bit sour.” This man has no palate.
Edmund set down his pen beneath the last review’s note.
He rested the pen across the notebook’s spine and leaned back against the bulkhead. The oil lamp’s flame swayed with the ship’s gentle rocking. He reread what he’d written. The curve at the corner of his mouth was slight, but on his face it amounted to a fairly relaxed expression.
Footsteps came from the far end of the corridor.
Edmund’s hand moved faster than his mind. In two seconds the notebook had been flipped back to the first half — the voyage log, the square handwriting. He picked up his pen and pretended to add a barometric figure beside the last entry.
Kael came around the corner of the corridor. He had a length of rope in his hand, something he’d apparently picked up on deck.
“What are you writing?” Kael asked. He leaned against the bulkhead, gaze falling on the open notebook.
“Voyage log,” Edmund said. His voice was level.
Kael looked at the page. His eyes swept from top to bottom — wind direction, wind speed, barometric pressure, sea state. At the very bottom, beside the barometric figure, there was a “4/7.”
Edmund’s fingers tightened faintly around the pen.
Kael saw the “4/7.” His gaze rested on it for about a second.
Then he straightened, shifted the rope from his left hand to his right.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
He left. His footsteps receded down the corridor.
Edmund sat there. He didn’t breathe out until the footsteps had completely disappeared. He looked down at the “4/7” exposed among the voyage records and rubbed his finger over it.
The ink was dry. It wouldn’t smudge.
He closed the notebook, fastened the copper clasp, and slid it back into his coat’s inside pocket. His knee popped when he stood. He bent at the waist and stretched for two seconds, then straightened his cravat and walked toward the crew quarters.
His back was very straight as he walked.