The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 100
This particular pale albatross swooped down over Candlemas Packet—running close to our beam after the ravages of the storm—and then followed a sinking straight line across the wave caps toward me at the rail, veering up with one tuck of a wing to circle and come down again below me, hovering, sailing. The bird repeated this neat maneuver several times, adding innovations, such as a spin over the wavelets. I watched the performance unfold and was gradually and haphazardly reminded of another sort of performance—also a dance—that I had watched from a distance long before. Keeping apace, twirling and gliding, the albatross seemed magic. Iceberg cocked her ears, did not go to the alert, was complacent. I laughed, started, laughed again, then called down to the bird as it came even with me, perhaps ten feet below eye level.
“Who are you?” I said.
“You know who I am,” said the albatross, a woman’s voice. I do not apologize for this. That bird talked to me.
“You remind me of the sibyl,” I said.
“I am what you make of me,” she said.
“If you are the sibyl, I figured it out. I guessed. Reverend Longfaeroe helped, but I did it. I guessed a long time ago. I tried to tell Israel. Grandfather wouldn’t talk about you. He said you were a witch. Abigail believed me. She said you were cold and heartless, and afraid of Grandfather. Am I right? You did club me at Sly-Eyes’s party. I know. You are Lamba Fiddle. You’re my mother.”
“A very disappointed mother,” she said.
“Peregrine’s dead. Grandfather’s probably dead too. And Cleopatra and Abigail, do you know about them, and Sam?”
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m your son, Grim Fiddle.”
“No son of mine. My son had a true name,” she said.
“You mean that talk about Skallagrim Ice-Waster?”
“Do I? Ice-Waster, Rune-Carver, Wolfman, King of the South. Do I?”
“The closest I got was president on South Georgia. Thrown me out. I am bald, mostly. You should be disappointed.”
“A king is first king to himself,” she said.
“I don’t know what I want to be, if that’s what you mean. You talk a lot like Israel. He said he was motherly. They want me to save them. I don’t care.”
“Is there anything you care about?” she said.
“No. Why should I? Who cares about me now?”
“Your mother cares about you. Nothing you care about?” “Yes, there is. Grandfather. Your father,” I said.
“He is a trial for both of us,” she said.
“Is he alive? You must know he is!”
“I know more than that. What do you know?” she said.
“I suppose that I know that you are my mother, and that Peregrine is dead, and that if I could have my heart’s desire, I’d want Grandfather back.”
“Then you know what to do,” she said.
“Wait!” I called, for the pale albatross then pirouetted on a wave cap and swooped up above King James’s mainmast, circumnavigated Candlemas Packet, and veered away, to the west, until it was a dash in the gray sky, was one with the curvature of earth. I took special note, because that albatross had flown into the wind.
Some time must have passed between my confrontation with the albatross and my conference with Germanicus, Motherwell, Lazarus, Longfaeroe, Wild Drumrul, Half-Red Harrah, Otter Ransom, Jane and Violante and Annabel Donne and Toro Zulema, leader of the beasties on board. My memory is that it was hours; it might have been days. They came to me as men at arms might have come to their lord and master. They seemed cautious, anticipatory, looked at me as if intimidated, expecting the worst, defenseless before my temperament. I had seen that look before, addressed not to me but rather to Grandfather, Elephant Frazer, the Hospidar. It was the look of discipleship. They hung back, hung on my nuance. I no longer was required to explain or justify myself to them. They wanted something more perilous. They wanted kingship.
Germanicus, their spokesman, explained to me in a strong, contrite voice that he had spoken rashly about King James. His panic had been exhaustion. It would not happen again. Sean Malody had reported low morale but no major problems on board Candlemas Packet. Germanicus said he had solved his staffing problems, that King James was overcrowded but sure, and that he and Sean Malody had crews who would continue able. He said we could ride out a dozen blows like that one, if not one tempest a dozen times harder. I told him there was no tempest that powerful, that nature had limits, same as men. He smiled, moving in a way new for him toward me—deference. He was not afraid of me. He was • a proud man, gave me his pride while keeping enough for himself. It was the same for the others; together they stood there on the quarterdeck as my court, each with a posture turned to me. Lazarus was the least formal, the most manipulative. He was still queasy, did not look around, approached me in conversation with gasps and sighs. He managed to ask me what I was doing up here, alone, wailing like a dog. Was I discomfited? He phrased himself carefully, and it was a crucial change, as if my health were their well-being; I could be uneasy, could not be ill. Lazarus said people were despondent and anguished. Motherwell and Half-Red Harrah (a round, sturdy man, fat fingers, good hands) said Lazarus talked like a woman. Toro Zulema called me padrone and said his men were not afraid, took their strength from mine.