Soul Sailors
by M. W. Harris
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: A yacht race with a difference...
_____________________________________________________________________
It was a strange thing, Fearne thought as she walked down to the harbour. Here she was, feeling as good as a person could feel, and yet shortly she would scarcely remember her name. There was a fresh breeze, making the sea sparkle in the early sunlight and somewhere a bird sang, taking her spirits high into the air. Her heart soared with them, but she knew that as soon as she got into the harbour and stepped aboard her soul-yacht Blaine his thoughts, anxieties and mood would so fill her head that she would have no recollection of this walk until she made the same journey home, tired and beaten, in the dusk.
Of course she might not be beaten. Today she was excited as the race was the fabled Duke’s Gauntlet, the culmination of years of training, and her Blaine was the favourite. The soul-yachts were the pinnacle of the craft available. Not everyone had the soul, the connections in their head, to helm a soul yacht. Some could not even connect to the less sensitive fishing boats and ferries that made the fragile planet of Seaspray function smoothly.
Fearne’s world is a small watery world, sitting in the orbit of an insignificant white dwarf on the edge of the Farseer Galaxy. It is inhabited by two sapient species, one human, and the other not. The humans operate a prosperous farm and fishing based community spread on the innumerable islands strung around the planet’s equator and assisted by their co-habitants, one manifestation of which is the soul driven marine craft. The elite of these craft are the soul-yachts, although all sea-going vessels have soul.
Fearne thought nothing of this as she approached the harbour. Other vessels were already coming and going from the main pier. Some had brightly coloured pennants flying from masts and taff-rails. Some had fishing creels stacked high, and their helms cat-called across the water, passing insult and tips by simple voice as the mental noise in the harbour was too great for telepathy. A brief wave of nostalgia swept Fearne as she recalled her training with the fishers. It had soon become apparent that she was skilled, and her boat, Cran, had soon suggested she applied to the Harbourmaster, Jackson, to train on the next soul-yacht available. The result was Blaine.
As she stepped onto the quay she was conscious of the mental clamour as well as the physical uproar. Jackson, the harbour master, whistled to Blaine, and he slipped through the water and held station at the quay. As her lightly slippered feet touched the deck she felt the shiver of his emotions. His anticipation flooded her thoughts with pink and gold, and she realised that he too was happy. Ahead and aft there were other soul-yachts, most she recognised. Their sails, bronze, gold, copper and russet, glowed in the early sun.
A mile off shore a fleet awaited them. The yachts began to mill around the mother-ship. She had three satellite launches, like bridesmaids to do her bidding. A line was laid with buoys in the water, and far to windward a last lone launch put another orange balloon to show against the piercing blue of the horizon. The twenty lucky winners of the season’s racing eyed each other nervously and began to jockey for position. People aboard the mother-ship began to bustle with flags and whistles.
The idea was that when the time for the race came the flag would drop and a shrill whistle would denote the start. The yachts would then race twice around the circuit. The first one would win the gauntlet, the greatest honour. Fearne was unsure what else happened to the winner.
This was a hazy point. It was great fun to be part of the races, and Fearne’s family had benefited from the money and presents that came the way of the sailor’s families as people looked for fortune and placed bets on outcomes. You could see her father’s chest swell as he spoke to his friends in the harbour. However, what happened after you won was a complete mystery. The winners were never seen again, although surely only good could come?
The start was coming, Fearne needed to concentrate. It was too late to worry about all that now. The yachts began to reach along the start line. Some were close. It took all of their combined intuition and balance to avoid the other equally eager contestants. The line was between a buoy and the mother-ship, who Blaine called Frey. The sequence of whistles and flags was underway.
Suddenly two yachts lurched ahead, engaged in their own mortal combat. The only way round was backwards. Blaine squealed. His red rage filled her mind. She hardened aggressively but as the power came into the sail and Blaine shot forwards Frey’s massive brown hull appeared from nowhere. A spin, sails flapping. Blaine was screaming now. Fearne couldn’t see for spray and rage. More whistles far above, and the race had started. Blaine’s nose came hard onto the wind and they started last.
Her heart in her mouth and Blaine’s red fury still colouring her vision, Fearne tacked under the bow of the mother-ship and headed away from the fleet. She could feel Blaine tugging to go back, but instinct made her stick to her guns. Black began to invade her brain, seeping from Blaine’s disappointment and despair.
She began to wonder if he would recover as she tacked back towards the string of soul-yachts heading for the first mark. Wind bent the sails towards the sea they skimmed through the water. A blue tinge of relaxation began to lift the thundercloud of Blaine’s mood. He seemed to be saying that if he couldn’t get what he wanted today he would enjoy being out on the ocean. Fearne felt her shoulders relax, and Blaine responded with more blue contentment. The line of yachts approached, and to her surprise she slotted in half way up the fleet. This was much better than she could have hoped, and she felt Blaine’s approval. He knew they were fast, and she felt some confidence creep back into his mind.
The yacht ahead was Palm, sailed by her friend Jess. In a swift lunge of the tiller they were past. The next two or three were passed as quickly. The mark approached, and some yachts were struggling with the strength of the wind to round against the tide. Using their momentum Blaine slid inside them, and Fearne pulled the sail in quickly to take advantage.
Now they were downwind. Blaine’s sails reached out and embraced the wind. There was only the one yacht ahead of them, and Fearne recognised Zara, with Kit at the helm. They were as fleet, as wise and as needy as Blaine in their desire for victory. The length of the run they jibed ahead of Blaine, always just out of reach. The bottom mark was reached, and then the line, and still Zara was ahead. They tacked in unison on the line, and instead of heading away to port, as she had before, Kit forced Fearne to head to starboard, far too close. There was less wind, Kit was trying to slow them down, allow the rest of the fleet to catch up.
Fighting Blaine all the way she hauled on the tiller, tacked round and missed Zara’s stern by seconds. Zara was playing catch-up now, with Kit sweating at the helm. She could imagine the rose bloom of Zara’s fury as clearly as she could see the gold delight of Blaine’s mind.
In the new wind there was no let up. Fearne had pulled Blaine ahead of Zara, but every step of the way was contested by tacks and blocking, despite the gains that the fleet were making. The mark loomed again, and Blaine shot round just ahead, but with Zara sitting in the slipstream. All that Fearne could look at was Zara and Kit. The tension was a bright white headache. A game of chess played in a downhill slide of shining spray.
The whistle, the cheer, Blaine’s gold aura of pleasure, all came as a complete shock. She could feel waves of baffled fury from Zara, and Kit’s total exhaustion somewhere in the background. She felt entirely empty, washed clean, and then the golden fireworks of Blaine’s total delight.
The mother-ship, Frey, was signalling. She was to come aboard. Fearne was scared. Helms never went onto other boats. This just didn’t happen. Someone appeared and looked over the side at Fearne. It was a tall, brown skinned, brown haired man, with copper coloured robes. He smiled, his face relaxed, he said,
‘Sailor of Blaine, come aboard.’
Tentatively she reached up and grasped the hand. It hadn’t occurred to Fearne that she might win, let alone to really wonder what would happen.
‘Come on,’ he laughed, ‘you’ve won, stop worrying, the Duke awaits, you remember, the prize, his gauntlet?’ His speech was slow, halting in strange places. Fearne went to follow, but a strange noise behind made her turn her head, and a man stood, tall, brown and wet. No-one had been there two minutes earlier. He wore a long shimmering robe, bronze in the sun. A smile, and a gesture to continue, but he didn’t speak.
The duke was in a sun filled cockpit. He was drinking from a jewelled goblet, and Fearne became aware of her own hunger and thirst. She was also exhausted, and very aware of Frey’s mind sitting close to her own, despite the duke’s obvious mental presence. He rose, welcomed Fearne and poured her a drink from his flask, and then greeted the man behind her with a bear hug and more drink,
‘Blaine, you did it, man that was some race!’
Blaine, the man? Fearne became conscious of their eyes. She had won the race, fair and square with Blaine. But this man, where did he fit in? They laughed at her confusion, both inside her head and to her face. Blaine spoke,
‘And now you are mine, little Fearne. I need you, to stay in this shape, to keep alive. When you win I can take human form again. When you die, I go back to being a soul-yacht. We are the other people of this planet, we call ourselves the soul-seekers. We need you to stay alive, but only the best and the most sensitive will do. Don’t worry, you will never want again.’
With that Fearne knew that she was truly trapped, and that there was never again going to be the chance to walk ashore, alone in her own head. She covered her face, and wept.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A yacht race with a difference...
_____________________________________________________________________
It was a strange thing, Fearne thought as she walked down to the harbour. Here she was, feeling as good as a person could feel, and yet shortly she would scarcely remember her name. There was a fresh breeze, making the sea sparkle in the early sunlight and somewhere a bird sang, taking her spirits high into the air. Her heart soared with them, but she knew that as soon as she got into the harbour and stepped aboard her soul-yacht Blaine his thoughts, anxieties and mood would so fill her head that she would have no recollection of this walk until she made the same journey home, tired and beaten, in the dusk.
Of course she might not be beaten. Today she was excited as the race was the fabled Duke’s Gauntlet, the culmination of years of training, and her Blaine was the favourite. The soul-yachts were the pinnacle of the craft available. Not everyone had the soul, the connections in their head, to helm a soul yacht. Some could not even connect to the less sensitive fishing boats and ferries that made the fragile planet of Seaspray function smoothly.
Fearne’s world is a small watery world, sitting in the orbit of an insignificant white dwarf on the edge of the Farseer Galaxy. It is inhabited by two sapient species, one human, and the other not. The humans operate a prosperous farm and fishing based community spread on the innumerable islands strung around the planet’s equator and assisted by their co-habitants, one manifestation of which is the soul driven marine craft. The elite of these craft are the soul-yachts, although all sea-going vessels have soul.
Fearne thought nothing of this as she approached the harbour. Other vessels were already coming and going from the main pier. Some had brightly coloured pennants flying from masts and taff-rails. Some had fishing creels stacked high, and their helms cat-called across the water, passing insult and tips by simple voice as the mental noise in the harbour was too great for telepathy. A brief wave of nostalgia swept Fearne as she recalled her training with the fishers. It had soon become apparent that she was skilled, and her boat, Cran, had soon suggested she applied to the Harbourmaster, Jackson, to train on the next soul-yacht available. The result was Blaine.
As she stepped onto the quay she was conscious of the mental clamour as well as the physical uproar. Jackson, the harbour master, whistled to Blaine, and he slipped through the water and held station at the quay. As her lightly slippered feet touched the deck she felt the shiver of his emotions. His anticipation flooded her thoughts with pink and gold, and she realised that he too was happy. Ahead and aft there were other soul-yachts, most she recognised. Their sails, bronze, gold, copper and russet, glowed in the early sun.
A mile off shore a fleet awaited them. The yachts began to mill around the mother-ship. She had three satellite launches, like bridesmaids to do her bidding. A line was laid with buoys in the water, and far to windward a last lone launch put another orange balloon to show against the piercing blue of the horizon. The twenty lucky winners of the season’s racing eyed each other nervously and began to jockey for position. People aboard the mother-ship began to bustle with flags and whistles.
The idea was that when the time for the race came the flag would drop and a shrill whistle would denote the start. The yachts would then race twice around the circuit. The first one would win the gauntlet, the greatest honour. Fearne was unsure what else happened to the winner.
This was a hazy point. It was great fun to be part of the races, and Fearne’s family had benefited from the money and presents that came the way of the sailor’s families as people looked for fortune and placed bets on outcomes. You could see her father’s chest swell as he spoke to his friends in the harbour. However, what happened after you won was a complete mystery. The winners were never seen again, although surely only good could come?
The start was coming, Fearne needed to concentrate. It was too late to worry about all that now. The yachts began to reach along the start line. Some were close. It took all of their combined intuition and balance to avoid the other equally eager contestants. The line was between a buoy and the mother-ship, who Blaine called Frey. The sequence of whistles and flags was underway.
Suddenly two yachts lurched ahead, engaged in their own mortal combat. The only way round was backwards. Blaine squealed. His red rage filled her mind. She hardened aggressively but as the power came into the sail and Blaine shot forwards Frey’s massive brown hull appeared from nowhere. A spin, sails flapping. Blaine was screaming now. Fearne couldn’t see for spray and rage. More whistles far above, and the race had started. Blaine’s nose came hard onto the wind and they started last.
Her heart in her mouth and Blaine’s red fury still colouring her vision, Fearne tacked under the bow of the mother-ship and headed away from the fleet. She could feel Blaine tugging to go back, but instinct made her stick to her guns. Black began to invade her brain, seeping from Blaine’s disappointment and despair.
She began to wonder if he would recover as she tacked back towards the string of soul-yachts heading for the first mark. Wind bent the sails towards the sea they skimmed through the water. A blue tinge of relaxation began to lift the thundercloud of Blaine’s mood. He seemed to be saying that if he couldn’t get what he wanted today he would enjoy being out on the ocean. Fearne felt her shoulders relax, and Blaine responded with more blue contentment. The line of yachts approached, and to her surprise she slotted in half way up the fleet. This was much better than she could have hoped, and she felt Blaine’s approval. He knew they were fast, and she felt some confidence creep back into his mind.
The yacht ahead was Palm, sailed by her friend Jess. In a swift lunge of the tiller they were past. The next two or three were passed as quickly. The mark approached, and some yachts were struggling with the strength of the wind to round against the tide. Using their momentum Blaine slid inside them, and Fearne pulled the sail in quickly to take advantage.
Now they were downwind. Blaine’s sails reached out and embraced the wind. There was only the one yacht ahead of them, and Fearne recognised Zara, with Kit at the helm. They were as fleet, as wise and as needy as Blaine in their desire for victory. The length of the run they jibed ahead of Blaine, always just out of reach. The bottom mark was reached, and then the line, and still Zara was ahead. They tacked in unison on the line, and instead of heading away to port, as she had before, Kit forced Fearne to head to starboard, far too close. There was less wind, Kit was trying to slow them down, allow the rest of the fleet to catch up.
Fighting Blaine all the way she hauled on the tiller, tacked round and missed Zara’s stern by seconds. Zara was playing catch-up now, with Kit sweating at the helm. She could imagine the rose bloom of Zara’s fury as clearly as she could see the gold delight of Blaine’s mind.
In the new wind there was no let up. Fearne had pulled Blaine ahead of Zara, but every step of the way was contested by tacks and blocking, despite the gains that the fleet were making. The mark loomed again, and Blaine shot round just ahead, but with Zara sitting in the slipstream. All that Fearne could look at was Zara and Kit. The tension was a bright white headache. A game of chess played in a downhill slide of shining spray.
The whistle, the cheer, Blaine’s gold aura of pleasure, all came as a complete shock. She could feel waves of baffled fury from Zara, and Kit’s total exhaustion somewhere in the background. She felt entirely empty, washed clean, and then the golden fireworks of Blaine’s total delight.
The mother-ship, Frey, was signalling. She was to come aboard. Fearne was scared. Helms never went onto other boats. This just didn’t happen. Someone appeared and looked over the side at Fearne. It was a tall, brown skinned, brown haired man, with copper coloured robes. He smiled, his face relaxed, he said,
‘Sailor of Blaine, come aboard.’
Tentatively she reached up and grasped the hand. It hadn’t occurred to Fearne that she might win, let alone to really wonder what would happen.
‘Come on,’ he laughed, ‘you’ve won, stop worrying, the Duke awaits, you remember, the prize, his gauntlet?’ His speech was slow, halting in strange places. Fearne went to follow, but a strange noise behind made her turn her head, and a man stood, tall, brown and wet. No-one had been there two minutes earlier. He wore a long shimmering robe, bronze in the sun. A smile, and a gesture to continue, but he didn’t speak.
The duke was in a sun filled cockpit. He was drinking from a jewelled goblet, and Fearne became aware of her own hunger and thirst. She was also exhausted, and very aware of Frey’s mind sitting close to her own, despite the duke’s obvious mental presence. He rose, welcomed Fearne and poured her a drink from his flask, and then greeted the man behind her with a bear hug and more drink,
‘Blaine, you did it, man that was some race!’
Blaine, the man? Fearne became conscious of their eyes. She had won the race, fair and square with Blaine. But this man, where did he fit in? They laughed at her confusion, both inside her head and to her face. Blaine spoke,
‘And now you are mine, little Fearne. I need you, to stay in this shape, to keep alive. When you win I can take human form again. When you die, I go back to being a soul-yacht. We are the other people of this planet, we call ourselves the soul-seekers. We need you to stay alive, but only the best and the most sensitive will do. Don’t worry, you will never want again.’
With that Fearne knew that she was truly trapped, and that there was never again going to be the chance to walk ashore, alone in her own head. She covered her face, and wept.
About the Author
M. W. Harris says she's old enough to know better. Born of mixed Scottish and English parentage in Essex, she's been a resident of Scotland for the last 25 years, currently living on the Firth of Clyde with her long-suffering husband, a teenage daughter and three cats.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.