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It was Xiamul of this craft who did thus talk.
At this word, Avngd shot upright. That poor hand, almost choked, slid out on a sign from his lord; but such was sway of this lord, not a motion did show wrath that man ought to hold toward Avngd. Consciovs, rapt in spite of him, I, Phantom Mat, dumb, sat still, waiting for this play’s conclusion.
That lord, arms folding, back to a rail, was scanning us with long, curious vision. Did words stick within him? Did that man mourn that his own mouth had put forth talk in our idiom? So it could sound.
Long stillness. No man among us would cut it. At last—
“Good sirs,” said that man, with calm, sharp sound, “I talk in your idioms: Latin, Saxon, Gaulish, all. I could, in fact, talk back to you from our first hour, but I wish’d to know you first, and think. Your story, told by all, with truth in its root, shows your I.D. I know now. By luck I find Phantom Mat, scholar of natural worlds, on a mission abroad; Consciovs, his aid; and Avngd, of Canada, with his harpoon, from ship Zandaa of US Navy.”
I nod’d. Not a query, so no word was to roll from my mouth. That man’s talk was soft, smooth, sharp. Still I could not tag him as kin of my land.
That man went on:
“You may think, sir, that I am slow in coming to you again. Truth is, now knowing who you are, I had to mull on what I ought to do. It was hard. Ugly twists of luck put you in front of a man who has cut all bonds of humanity. You disrupt my world.”
“Not by will!” I said.
“Not by will?” said that lord, his sound climbing. “Not by will that Zandaa hound’d my ship, day upon night? Not by will you got aboard? Not by will that ball-shot rang on my hull? Not by will that Avngd’s iron fang struck my skin?”
I saw in him a hot glow, but I had to put forth truth.
“Sir,” I said, “you know not what folk of Dustkid Daily and far-off lands told of you. You know not what ruin your craft’s blows wrought, what talk in two vast lands rang out. So ships ran to hunt you down, thinking you a big fiend of abyss, not a man’s ship at all.”
That lord’s lip split to a half grin. “Phantom Mat,” said that man, “would you swear your captain would not hunt my craft as quick as any krill?”
I had no sound for that. Xiamul of Zandaa would, I thought, smash such a thing.
“You know now,” said our host, “that I could call you foes.”
I bit my lip, saying nothing. What good in it? His might would smash any words I had.
“I had long doubts,” said that lord. “No law says I must host you. I could, if I wish’d, put you back on your old ship, sink away, and blot you out. Would that not fit law of abyss?”
“Law of wild man, not of kind man,” I shot back.
“Phantom,” said that lord, fast now, “I am no kind man. I am cut off from your world, and its laws do not chain my will. Talk of it no more.”
This hit hard. A flash lit his look: pain, scorn, loss. This man was out of all law, out of all world, a thing apart. What ship could stand his craft’s blow? What man could hold him to task?
Long stillness, till at last:
“I had doubt,” said that lord, “but pity and my own good may walk hand in hand. You stay on board now. You may walk, you may look. I ask of you only this vow: if I must shut you in, you sit still, no fight. That’s all.”
I said, “Say it. If it fits man’s vow, I vow.”
“This is all. If I must, I lock you in, hours or days. But no harm. I do not want to fight. Will you stand by it?”
I said, “I vow.”
“Good. But know this: you may walk, look, sit with us. You may go and come, all you want. But your world is lost to you. Your land, your kin—no.”
Avngd’s fist shot up: “Not I! I vow no word not to bolt!”
“I ask not for your vow,” said that lord, cold.
Hot in my blood, I said, “Sir, this is harsh.”
“No, it is soft. You are my captains of war. I hold you. You struck first, you ran on my world’s occult truth. I hold you now. To cast you back would ruin my own world. No. In holding you, I guard my own soul.”
“So,” said I, “you gift us but two ways: living or dying.”
“Just so.”
I said to my two: “No sound is to roll back to such a choice. But no vow binds us.”
“That is so,” said our host.
Now with calm, that lord said: “Phantom Mat, your lot is not so poor. You know I had your book on abyss. I drank from it much. But you saw not all. With us, you will. You will find glory of abyss, its marvels. You will not mourn what land you lost.”
This lit my mind. My flaw was touch’d. My thirst for knowing won out, if only for a bit.
I said, “By what tag shall I call you?”
“Sir,” said that man, “I am nothing to you but lord of this ship. My ship is Nautilus.”
A hand clap. A man ran in. Our host spok with him in odd sound. To us: “Food waits in your room,” to Avngd and Consciovs.
“Phantom Mat, our food is laid. Walk with us.”
I follow’d him. A door lit by bright sparks of abyss light swung. Within was a room of wood and brass, with a long board, cups, trays, all glowing with gold light. Our host point’d a spot.
Food of abyss: fish, livers, soup of odd growths. I had not known such, but it was good. Our host told of it: food from abyss only, rich, full. “I want not land,” said that man. “My folk too.”
“Sir,” I said, “all from abyss?”
“All. Fish, crab, porky thing you call it—nay, it is tortois cut. My cook is sly.”
I nod’d, my mind full of it.
At last, our host’s look lit. “Phantom, abyss is all. Abyss is world. Abyss is vast, full, no king, no law. Abyss is my land, my blood, my soul. In it, I am lord, I am untouch’d. In abyss, I am truly… no man’s man.”
His sound rang. His form shook. A passion lit him. “In abyss, I am unbound!”
Long still. His form sunk to calm.
“Now, Phantom,” said that lord, “you may walk my ship.”
Thus did I, Phantom Mat, first walk this abyss ship.
At this word, Avngd shot upright. That poor hand, almost choked, slid out on a sign from his lord; but such was sway of this lord, not a motion did show wrath that man ought to hold toward Avngd. Consciovs, rapt in spite of him, I, Phantom Mat, dumb, sat still, waiting for this play’s conclusion.
That lord, arms folding, back to a rail, was scanning us with long, curious vision. Did words stick within him? Did that man mourn that his own mouth had put forth talk in our idiom? So it could sound.
Long stillness. No man among us would cut it. At last—
“Good sirs,” said that man, with calm, sharp sound, “I talk in your idioms: Latin, Saxon, Gaulish, all. I could, in fact, talk back to you from our first hour, but I wish’d to know you first, and think. Your story, told by all, with truth in its root, shows your I.D. I know now. By luck I find Phantom Mat, scholar of natural worlds, on a mission abroad; Consciovs, his aid; and Avngd, of Canada, with his harpoon, from ship Zandaa of US Navy.”
I nod’d. Not a query, so no word was to roll from my mouth. That man’s talk was soft, smooth, sharp. Still I could not tag him as kin of my land.
That man went on:
“You may think, sir, that I am slow in coming to you again. Truth is, now knowing who you are, I had to mull on what I ought to do. It was hard. Ugly twists of luck put you in front of a man who has cut all bonds of humanity. You disrupt my world.”
“Not by will!” I said.
“Not by will?” said that lord, his sound climbing. “Not by will that Zandaa hound’d my ship, day upon night? Not by will you got aboard? Not by will that ball-shot rang on my hull? Not by will that Avngd’s iron fang struck my skin?”
I saw in him a hot glow, but I had to put forth truth.
“Sir,” I said, “you know not what folk of Dustkid Daily and far-off lands told of you. You know not what ruin your craft’s blows wrought, what talk in two vast lands rang out. So ships ran to hunt you down, thinking you a big fiend of abyss, not a man’s ship at all.”
That lord’s lip split to a half grin. “Phantom Mat,” said that man, “would you swear your captain would not hunt my craft as quick as any krill?”
I had no sound for that. Xiamul of Zandaa would, I thought, smash such a thing.
“You know now,” said our host, “that I could call you foes.”
I bit my lip, saying nothing. What good in it? His might would smash any words I had.
“I had long doubts,” said that lord. “No law says I must host you. I could, if I wish’d, put you back on your old ship, sink away, and blot you out. Would that not fit law of abyss?”
“Law of wild man, not of kind man,” I shot back.
“Phantom,” said that lord, fast now, “I am no kind man. I am cut off from your world, and its laws do not chain my will. Talk of it no more.”
This hit hard. A flash lit his look: pain, scorn, loss. This man was out of all law, out of all world, a thing apart. What ship could stand his craft’s blow? What man could hold him to task?
Long stillness, till at last:
“I had doubt,” said that lord, “but pity and my own good may walk hand in hand. You stay on board now. You may walk, you may look. I ask of you only this vow: if I must shut you in, you sit still, no fight. That’s all.”
I said, “Say it. If it fits man’s vow, I vow.”
“This is all. If I must, I lock you in, hours or days. But no harm. I do not want to fight. Will you stand by it?”
I said, “I vow.”
“Good. But know this: you may walk, look, sit with us. You may go and come, all you want. But your world is lost to you. Your land, your kin—no.”
Avngd’s fist shot up: “Not I! I vow no word not to bolt!”
“I ask not for your vow,” said that lord, cold.
Hot in my blood, I said, “Sir, this is harsh.”
“No, it is soft. You are my captains of war. I hold you. You struck first, you ran on my world’s occult truth. I hold you now. To cast you back would ruin my own world. No. In holding you, I guard my own soul.”
“So,” said I, “you gift us but two ways: living or dying.”
“Just so.”
I said to my two: “No sound is to roll back to such a choice. But no vow binds us.”
“That is so,” said our host.
Now with calm, that lord said: “Phantom Mat, your lot is not so poor. You know I had your book on abyss. I drank from it much. But you saw not all. With us, you will. You will find glory of abyss, its marvels. You will not mourn what land you lost.”
This lit my mind. My flaw was touch’d. My thirst for knowing won out, if only for a bit.
I said, “By what tag shall I call you?”
“Sir,” said that man, “I am nothing to you but lord of this ship. My ship is Nautilus.”
A hand clap. A man ran in. Our host spok with him in odd sound. To us: “Food waits in your room,” to Avngd and Consciovs.
“Phantom Mat, our food is laid. Walk with us.”
I follow’d him. A door lit by bright sparks of abyss light swung. Within was a room of wood and brass, with a long board, cups, trays, all glowing with gold light. Our host point’d a spot.
Food of abyss: fish, livers, soup of odd growths. I had not known such, but it was good. Our host told of it: food from abyss only, rich, full. “I want not land,” said that man. “My folk too.”
“Sir,” I said, “all from abyss?”
“All. Fish, crab, porky thing you call it—nay, it is tortois cut. My cook is sly.”
I nod’d, my mind full of it.
At last, our host’s look lit. “Phantom, abyss is all. Abyss is world. Abyss is vast, full, no king, no law. Abyss is my land, my blood, my soul. In it, I am lord, I am untouch’d. In abyss, I am truly… no man’s man.”
His sound rang. His form shook. A passion lit him. “In abyss, I am unbound!”
Long still. His form sunk to calm.
“Now, Phantom,” said that lord, “you may walk my ship.”
Thus did I, Phantom Mat, first walk this abyss ship.
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