Chapter 25

Tirad cannot draw anything but the image of the Oxan fire and the picture he has in his head from Lealy, imagining her with burnt face and hair, pink burn marks and deformed eyes and ears. He has no image of her body, just an agonised face covered in smoke and lips that shudder with fear. The whole six days he has spent on the sea with Dalia, he had tried to sketch her, but her image like herself seems too slippery, sliding away from Tirad’s mind. He has drawn Narivan, as he is still lying in front of him, with a pale and feverish face. His hair is wet and tangled due to constant sweating and wet cloths Dalia puts on his forehead to bring down his temperature. He has become worst the last two days. The infection must have gotten to his blood and to the other parts of his body. Dalia and Tirad ride the boat and take care of Narivan in turns. Dalia is sailing now. The sun is going down and she will ride until dark. They will turn off the engine after dusk to rest for the night. Tirad is very tired. Dalia must be frustrated too. But they don’t have any other choice. They have about two weeks to get to Atlan and another four days to reach the island that Narivan had shown them on the map. But these six days has felt like six years to Tirad. He is already sick and tired of the sea, the endless water, the wheel and the rudder, raw and dried fish and a path that may lead to nowhere. This route was Narivan’s idea to avoid any contacts with the ships. They had indeed avoided ships on their way so far, and had only seen a couple of boats from afar. Tirad has gotten used to the boat’s shaking but still not happy of the devouring silence. He is used to living on the crowded Saviour Ship where children, pilgrims, masters and maids are always walking about loudly. Sometimes, he was annoyed of the constant comings and goings and the noise and had wished for a complete solitude, away from all the chaos and the people. Now he doesn’t know what to do with this everlasting loneliness. All he does is reviewing the events of the last week in his mind, over and over again.

He yearns for a Spawn-Scorching ceremony, yet he knows even the purest flames can’t heat up the cold he feels, every time he remembers the things that had happened – the cold that slides down from his neck onto his spine like a snake, shaking him with fear and despite. He feels the hole in his heart has become larger after the turbulent events, unable to fill it in or soothe its pain. He can’t recall the sequence of the events anymore. The real and imaginary images just circle around his mind like endless waves: the burning harbour, Hurmaz being thrown into the sea, the bursting blisters on Lealy’s face, Mart’s coins, the young woman with her healthy island-born baby, his removed Saviour tattoo and blood! The blood that spilled from the guard’s head, the bloodstains on the iron rod, the blood scattered from Narivan’s torn leg, the blood that lead to death by Tirad’s hand. He has killed, not just indirectly, but also willingly. He no longer blames himself for the deaths of Hurmaz, Lealy and the innocent women and children refugees since he knows now what it is to kill intentionally. He is ashamed of himself. The two swollen bodies must have been found by now, the naval man and the guard. Can any Spawn-Scorching ceremony cleanse him of this heinous fault? Can he ever be forgiven by the sea for the act of murder? He is waiting for the punishment of the sea, as the Saviour has promised.