Savage Winds...Cold Heart
Chapter 02: A Stormsinger...Made
"
I beg you...no more...."
The words barely crawled away from his lips—merely a whisper—this plea as it was, struggling to be heard from being drowned out by the sound of the sea, the sailing vessel's body creaking and booming as wood buckled under rough waves, the clink of the lamps swaying...and the hiss-then-crack of the whip.
But none where there to listen to weak pleas.
A youth in early manhood was facing the starboard inside wall of the ship, chained standing up, his limbs spread wide and his back bare. Of dark complexion, he would be assumed to be born from the southern seas, most likely, with dark brown hair falling just below his shoulders, in heavy mats, stuck to the skin from the sweat that coursed down the body, a body under duress...and below the last strands of hair, upon and now merged to the bare back that was awash in golden lantern light, where seven fresh, criss-crossing marks of pain, bloodied lines in the skin, and broken open to air.
It was he that spoke the words, hoping for mercy. It was he that had tearfully surrendered to the pain, he who had earlier surrendered to a verdict of ten lashes, and before that, was surrendered to the justice of the Quartermaster, after having earlier surrendered to a temptation to steal more than was his given ration, to take directly from the Captain's quarters...to take from authority, willfully.
Much earlier—weeks turning into months...or longer—he had surrendered himself to this ship as deckhand and entertainer—he a bard with a fair gift at playing the drum that could summon a irresistible movement in the feet—because no other means were available to him to prosper in his country, his village, his family. But with the hiss and snap of the recent, seventh lash of the whip, he had surrendered all that that was left of self...except for his blood.
When pain has become so unbearable that even knowing the tenth lash would finally end the suffering—a tenth lash so close yet so far away—a thought that could provide no solace, here, the sense of self becomes...chaotic and unruly. And the broken young bard-turned-able seaman was entering a dark place within his own thoughts, seeking any means imaginable—and left to him—from which to hold onto sanity.
"Does the sound of the whip give you inspiration, minstrel?" mocked the Quartermaster as he raised the whip.
The air became electrified as a hiss preempted the eight lash. The Quartermaster of the merchant vessel, he that held the whip and stood only a few steps behind the youthful man, appeared to revel in the act, his duties to discipline fueling a sick sense of righteousness: a sense of right and wrong determined by the Rule of Law aboard this particular voyage. The joyful fulfillment of his duties made the situation all the more evil, and cruel...and he that was being flogged, he that was referred to as "minstrel," felt that with each lashing. It was a cruelty that put insult upon the payment that had to be made, however...to have to pay so much for transgressions done in order to end one type of suffering, and receive such a greater suffering.... The sense of being trapped, powerless, at the mercy of other men and unable to seek their recourse, their understanding, their commiseration, only their cruel domination over those determined weak, and those that would surrender...he had only wished to eat enough to quell the chanting hunger that sung from an always near-empty belly, a condition born from a lack of stores as the merchant vessel failed to reach safe port...and the weeks had carried on....
With the eight lash—as painful as the first and as painful as would be the following two as was deemed his total in payment—something...broke inside the youth. Sanity...broke, like lightning surging through every vein, blood vessel, sweat glad and pore, snapping every connection. The youth, began to laugh, speak, sing, cry and shout—a muttering of all forms of communication in wild attempt to be released, for even two more lashes, were more than he could bear. Chaos in the mind, brought about by chaos imposed upon the body.
A silence came...but was soon filled with a rush of wind and the sound of unbending leather as the ninth lash landed upon the minstrel's back side. With the unleashing of the stroke, the Quartermaster unwittingly unleashed something in the minstrel, as well—a cry from deep within pierced the air, the minstrel's voice booming with release. It filled the hold with a desperate sound, and also a word:
"ANYTHING!"
...and for the moment, the surprise stunned the Quartermaster in his task. This pause, gave the dark-skinned young minstrel a moment to breath...in and out, as deep as he could. With each exhale, the minstrel felt a change, a change upon his perspective of situation, a change of emotion that had switched from desperation, to desire, within the split-second moment of receiving the ninth lashing. The desire, burning and true from the dark place entered earlier...was of nothing but a clear and possessing need, for revenge.
"This is the Captain's ship...and his authority is over all that are in his possession...," the Quartermaster levied upon the flogged.
The final and tenth lash was then given, and the minstrel who was in the youth of his manhood, at first reacted physically with a body surging upwards, thus releasing the pain of the whip, then sunk towards the floorboards, but remained upright, the chains holding him fast. His eyes sat open, staring at the wooden planks that formed the hull, a concentration on something so deep, that one could question whether he was aware that the end of the discipline had come.
Or so it was thought...for as the Quartermaster stood there, having delivered the tenth lash, and coiling up the whip, a figure stepped out of shadows deeper in the hold. It was the Captain, who had been observing the situation from a far. "Quartermaster...give him one more...so that I may be certain he never enters my quarters without permission."
The minstrel, though seemingly in another plane of thought, did hear these words come from behind him...and his body instinctively shuddered. Though so deeply fatigued and wounded from the flagellation, the minstrel's thoughts convulsed with a new despair. Was it that even rule and punishment had no meaning, that all could simply be left to one man's whim over another? It was as if in this moment, the minstrel gave away any sense of justice through rule, rule in fairness, fairness as equality—there is only power and the one that wields it, and he that wields it with impunity, may lord over all and do what he may. It is either be one that suffers, or one that causes the suffering.
In those few precious moments before a eleventh lash was ordered and then given, the features of the minstrel seemed to noticeably change, as if whatever youthful beauty was once afforded him was converted to a grim constitution, earned through withstanding the whip. It was as if his broken will sought refuge in rebuilding the body, hardening it, so that it may continue on....
There was the familiar hiss-then-crack surging through the cabin air...just before the minstrel's thoughts blackened entirely...and his head slumped forward and down into a pain-induced slumber.
He awoke, the minstrel. From his own eyelids peeling back, he saw the floorboards as a vertical wall...but that was the temporary illusion, as soon he came to his senses to realize he lay hard and flat upon the ground, still in the hold, which remained darkly lit by the swaying lanterns. His chained body had been released, but with consciousness missing, he had been laid upon the ground, to bleed, to rest, to eventually wake.
He was alone, and as time slowly passed and he came to his full senses, he also came to know the sensation of the aftermath of his flagellation. And it burned. His back burned with such fierceness, he had one thought, to seek refuge upon the deck, in the cool night air...so he desired. Moving slowly but with determination he brought himself to walk towards the stairs up to the main deck—a battle with his own body, which was so deeply drained from the ordeal. But here, the minstrel showed a will, a new beginning of resistance to everything that would hold him back.
Arriving on deck, he was greeted by the night, a coolness as well, to his relief. But as he stood fully out in the open air, the other sailors aboard took gaze upon him and...their eyes seemed to cause another burn. A mock here and a jeer there, and he knew right away that they as well, found some pleasure in his suffering, as if he that suffers more makes he the suffers less, feel better or stronger.
The hate grew. Pain, the wounds a lingering suffering, the mockery...he sought refuge. His mind found an idea to escape: climb the mast, to the lookout, where one can isolate themselves. And he moved, somehow finding the strength to climb, and high he did until he reached the crow's nest far above deck, and there, he slumped down to his knees. It was there, that he wind and coolness of the sea soothed his burning back, and soothed his chaotic mind. It was a sort of...peace.
And then he began to sing. It was the only thing he wanted to do, could do, and was left to do. He began to hum a melody that was inspired by...the pain, and the need for release, and...a sadness slowly turned to...revenge. His humming voice carried on the wind, the melody informed with his emotions. With the one power he had left—this bardic art that was his and his alone—he called upon the world, called upon the sea, a lament. But the grief and sorrow, as he hummed out his tune, turned again to vengeful emotions, the only recourse of a man who wishes to equate the suffering he feels upon they that delivered it.
It was then the wind picked up, the waves in the sea rose higher against the bulwark. And he kept humming this melody of revenge. With his palm, he began to slap a beat into the mast the rose from the crow's nest—like an antennae, it vibrated a subtle bass into the air. And the seas turned more violent. And his vocal chords reverberated with a harshness and the sea inspired him to continue. And with the wind, clouds were brought together above, separating the vessel from the sky....
He sung to the oncoming storm, caring no longer for anything but the melody he produced.
And when the first strike of lightning hit the bow of the vessel below him...he grinned
wildly.
