Samphyre

Brooss tapped his son on the shoulder. “Look, boy! The Samphyre is coming in.” Glad for an excuse to stand up and stretch, the father and son samphyre harvesting team, with more than a little pride at even so tenuous a link as samphyre in common, watched the huge cargo-raft approach the Deeport docks. The younger member of the harvesting team knew the story of samphyre, plant and cargo-raft, as well as anyone in town.

“The Samphyre was named after the salty evergreen, and often red, beach shrub that is so important to everyone, it’s almost an official character in our mythologies. A thousand years ago the oceans started to rise faster than nature could account for. Smaller islands disappeared and the larger landmasses everywhere else shrank. Tasmaynia was small even then, so we really couldn’t afford to lose growing space. Samphyre is especially revered because it is a food source that grows near the salt water, thus extending our options.

Unfortunately, the water rose so quickly we almost lost the plant. It grows well at the water’s edge, but not at all three feet under a cargo-raft.

Miraculous considering the upheavals that brought the old world down and the dark ages that ensued, a massive effort played out over the first four hundred years of Water Rise to keep this food source viable. The water would encroach, workers would relocate tons of sand, rocks, and salty salad further inland. The Island lessened, the population shrank in sympathy, but samphyre endured.

We in Tasmaynia don’t know anything of the world beyond Oz, not by hard news or rumour, but what we do know is that as far as the trade systems extend, ours were the only shores so blessed. And still, six hundred years after the rising plateaued, samphyre won’t strike on Oz’s beaches. This has worked to our benefit, and our port, Deeport (inland and west of the original, albeit deluged Devport), is one of the most prosperous towns in the trade zone, and the centre of samphyre trade.

Servicing that trade is one of the largest floating vessels in the thousand years since the legendary twin Spirit ferries that relayed between Tasmanya and Oz ran out of petro and gave up their ghosts. The Samphyre crosses the straight each full moon, never arriving or leaving empty. Capable of carrying thirty crew and fifteen tons of cargo, she’s always a welcome sight (who doesn’t love Melbernian bananas?).”

The harvesters considered their efforts. Yes, between themselves and the other two teams, they had met their quotas. The Samphyre would take back enough to profit; Deeport would profit, and the teams would not be paying for their drinks tonight.

***

“Medic! We need a medic!” The first man off the newly arrived cargo-raft looked quite average: skinny, dirty, dressed in wet woollen home-spun. Just two things distinguished him from the other people on the dock; he was running, and he was calling for me.

“Hoi! You’re looking for me. How may I help you?”

“Please, come with me, quickly. We’ve got a man down.”

We sprinted up the plank as he quickly filled me in on the nature of the emergency.

“Some ropes snapped shortly before land came into sight and a box slid out. It took down Nevin. As near as we can tell, he’s lost three toes and maybe broken his ankle. Our Aider did what he could. Bound the foot, but the owners don’t want the expense of a permanent full medic on board, so I’m damn glad I found you quickly.”

“Yes, well, as much as I love seeing the raft come in, I’ve learned that it’s a rare arrival when you don’t need my services. It’s usually a safe bet to be at the dock when you tie up.”

And it’s a good thing too. Attending to their dentistry and suturestry gets me on board before theirs or ours are set to trade. I fix fractures and my fee, drawn on the company that owns the Samphyre, is first pickings.

Broken ankles, or any fractures, are problematic in their own right. Extremely painful, but hardly the end of the world. The real concern was the raw empty space where three toes used to be. Infection trumps most other concerns. Nevin was writhing on one of the few cots, (shared and occupied in shifts).  I put my bag down and set myself to work.

“Nevin... Nevin! I know it’s painful, but I’ll give you poppy tincture for that.”

The production of PT is one of my specialities. The other that Nevin was in dire need of, Iodine, was also in no danger of running out. That’s one of the advantages of living on an island... plenty of seaweed, a great source of this valuable anti-septic. If I wasn’t trading in the practice of healing, the production of medicines would see that I’d never run out of customers, here in Tas or north in Oz. But whereas the medicines gave me something to sell during the dock trade, it was the healing which got me on board to stake my claim as the unpacking progressed.

“Thank you medic. That medicine of yours must be powerful, he’s out like an empty lamp. “

I jumped. I was so absorbed in Nevin that I’d forgotten Pete, the man who’d fetched me.

“Ah, Pete. Yes, PT could knock out a devil-in-heat.” I packed my bag and clipped it closed. “Providing his foot is kept clean, it should heal. Goes without saying, he’s finished on the boats. Will he survive unemployment?”

“No fear of being laid off”, Pete informed me. “He’s always shown himself an honest worker and comes from a family of weavers, so we’ll find him something to do around the compound. Sail repair most likely. I know this much; Three Goddesses he’ll be grateful to for his health when he comes to: Great Mother, Great Healer, and Her avatar - your good self.”

I blushed, but have to admit, our Goddesses do seem to work best in threes. Many of our Gods are said to work better in pairs. Not sure how the numbers work out across their sexes... but I wager their parties are wild.

Pete said, “I hope you’re ready to trade. There’s a glass blower back in Oz who’s worked out how to darken his bottles. The Medics back home would forget their vows and kill for as many as they can get, but I know we’ve got a few packed safe. Oh, and that box that brought Nevin down has a new fine tolerance weighter... I think you Southerners call them ‘scales’. If you wait around here, maybe check out what else might interest you, I’ll bring the weighter and some bottles, and we can work something out.”

He sauntered off, and a good thing, too. I didn’t want him to hear me squeal over the mere mention of those bottles and scales. Gods know how I’ll contain myself when he comes back. I decided to distract myself by looking over the cargo-raft and whatever wares were currently revealed during this unpacking phase.

***

G’yorge was used to sweating in front of his forge, but it was a cold sweat he was feeling now, perched precariously on a sail arm, so high above the cargo-raft’s decks. It went against his every instinct to look down, but he knew Brooss would be bringing his beach crop on board early enough to make trading worthwhile, and G’yorge had to make sure that Brooss was coming to tonight’s meet-up. The smith had a present for his friend. He hoped his friend turned up soon... it didn’t pay for a shore-walker such as himself to get too distracted rocking on water, swaying in the breeze, knocking heads with seagulls.

He turned back to the task at hand, employed by the Samphyre this morning to replace some cracked rigging rings. He’d remove them now and spend a few hours back at the forge, welding those he could and shaping new ones to replace any too far gone. He’d keep the scraps as part of his fee. There just wasn’t enough steel left in his world to waste.

***

“Here we go, Medic.”

Ten minutes passed quickly, absorbed as I was. He handed me a dark grey glass bottle. Not painted, nor chipped. A good weight and size. By Airmid’s med-bag, these bottles are perfect for tinctures. I’d still keep them in the dark, but the opaqueness would contribute to their content’s shelf life.

“How many do you have, exactly?” I asked.

“According to our inventory, we have three dozen. They’re expertly packed in straw and homespun. I doubt any are broken, but of course we’ll check before settling. As well as access back here, you’ll get six bottles for your work on Nevin. So up for grabs are the other thirty bottles, the weighter... and did you see anything else amongst our stock that interested you?”

Interested me? Seriously? Just about everything I saw on board reminded me of stories of Aldin’s cave. Tasmanya excels in the production of paper, meds and food, but Oz leads the way in wood, glass and salvage smithing, all here on board, and I was the first to see it! Interests me!

“Maybe a few little things”, I played cool. I wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’ll take thirty bottles all-up, and I’ll want to test those scales first, but since quality is assured before it even gets onto one of the company’s cargo-rafts, I expect I’ll be taking it, too. I’ll take a dozen bananas. Also, did I see spoons and needles?”

“You sure did. The spoons are standard sizes and the needles are the finest that we’ve been able to stock. They are expensive, but hey... metal, that’s the way it is.”

I could use wood for my spoons and bone for my suturing needles, but metal is better. “Ok, let’s put the order together and finalise it. I’ll be trading poppy tincture, iodine, and a new nutrient dense fruit leather I developed. This batch is apple and apricots”

Before I left, I checked on Nevin to give him some self-care instructions, but he was asleep. The Aider however, seemed competent to handle that side of things and he agreed to seek me out before the Samphyre left if he had any queries.

Walking back down the plank with my hoard I had to stop at the sight of a field of tables and wagons that had suddenly sprung up where hours before there had been a bare patch of dock. And buzzing around, as if from flower to flower, a whole hive of bumble people buzzing with excitement. While our four seasonal festivals were joyous events, they had a domestic feel to them. By contrast, these monthly bazaars, mixing locals with foreigners, even if more regular than our equinoxes and solstices, never diminished its exotic glamour.

I just hope nobody got stung.

Having weaved my way through the intricate maze of double sided excitement, all that was left was to navigate my way around the Deeport Guardians who appeared to be engaged in spear training.

***

“Oh gods” Janeene lowered her head, embarrassed because she recognised the voice, and in a town where everyone knew everyone else, she had no doubts that the other guards would also know it was her dad.

Spears at rest, butts against heels, held angled behind their backs to decrease the shaft profile (don’t let your enemy know how you’re armed), fifteen guards took a short break from their exertions to be entertained by about a minute of vehement swearing emanating from the top of the Samphyre’s tall mast.

The sergeant cut in, “Ok, fun’s over. A little more training and you’ll be free to explore the markets.”

***

An hour later I’d hauled the treasures back home and placed them onto the work bench in my clinic. Except the bananas, of course. The six that I didn’t eat straight away, I deposited in the pantry. A happy sigh. “Familiarity does indeed breed contentment” I muse to myself and any listening spirits.

Because of my position in this community, I had one of the better shacks available in town. Sandstone walls and a properly thatched roof, it was warm and waterproof. I appreciate it, really. Compared to the standard wooden shacks that housed most of our community, most of which I’ve visited during my rounds, oh yes, I know how good I have it. None-the-less, I prefer being outside. If I’m not midwifing, fixing bones or lancing boils, gardening or cooking, teaching or studying, I like to give over my afternoons to reclining in the hub of my ‘365 Herbs’ garden, studying The Books of Airmid. The books, named for our goddess of herbs based eclectic medicine, were composed centuries ago, some say by wizards, a fusion of the best healing knowledge the old world discovered with a guestimate of what future diminished tech and resources could sustain. Biology hasn’t changed in all this time. Our bodies are the same as the ancients. Our herbs are the same and germs are the same. But so little of the tech is recognisable. Concerns for another day. 

Today I just want to rest amidst the scents and the hum of the bees. It’s a full moon, the Samphyre is in, and that means the crew and many of our twelve hundred locals will spend the night making merry around the docks. I know I’ll be there.

***

Once a month the people of Deeport pray to the Moon when she is full. We thank her for a day of good trading. We pray for a night to remember. And while we’re blowing our kisses to the moon, walking to parties around the docks, on a night so bright as to forego the need of torches or candles, the only night we’re awake from dusk till dawn; the senior staff of The Samphyre are at the harbour shrine making offerings to Nodens the Ocean Master who gave us samphyre, and Nehalennia, Our Lady of Safe Ocean Crossing, for the continued safety of the Samphyre and all cargo-rafts.

***

Most anyone in Deeport can do most anything, but sometimes a specialist was needed. When it comes to working in metal, G’yorge had quite a following. He almost decided not to come tonight. It had been a long, profitable day of climbing up and down masts, fabricating and installing some specialist parts for the cargo-raft, occasionally dropping a tool and expressing his frustration. Now he was exhausted. But these lunar lit events are hard to resist, and besides, he had agreed to catch up with Brooss.

He was glad for the hard bench and warm cider.

“Excuse me.”

G’yorge looked up. He recognised Pete from previous monthly commissions, but couldn’t remember his name.

“I’m looking for the Medic”

“Hay-Lee? What do you want her for?” He said more gruffly than he meant. He was glad to be there, but didn’t kid himself about how tired he really was.

“Oh, Hay-Lee. Didn’t think to get her name earlier. One of our men on board was worked on by her earlier. He’s been out of it all day, but he’s awake now. He wants to thank her.”

G’yorge liked Hay-Lee. Most people did. He’d heard about what she did earlier.

“I don’t think she’s arrived yet, but if I see her, I’ll let her know.”

Pete thanked G’yorge and sauntered off to find some of his crew mates to drink with while he waited.

A couple of minutes later Brooss turned up with his wife and son.

“Brooss, over here!” the smith called.

The family came over, took seats around G’yorge’s table.

“Very busy day”, G’yorges opened the conversation. “Almost wasn’t going to come, but I just had to show you these.” He placed two thin, slightly curved and expertly sharpened blades onto the wooden surface before the samphyre harvesters. “The steel is folded, strong, and if you treat them correctly, fairly rust resistant.”

Father and son took up a blade each and examined them closely. Good weight. Good length. Brooss whistled his admiration for the quality of these tools of his trade.

“Sweet Brigid! They’re perfect. We couldn’t possibly afford both of them.”

“Afford”, G’yorge grinned. “They’re made from that metal you gave me a couple of moons back. Remember that salvage you found after that old building finally collapsed down by the beach. I’d have never known about it if it wasn’t for you finding it while harvesting the area at that time. I got enough out of it for a dozen tools, some of which I profited by this morning. You owe me nothing. Just keep me in mind if you find any more.”

They usually used sharpened abalone shells for cutting samphyre.  Found in abundance on the same beaches they worked, the shells did the job well enough. They were the standard cutters used by the harvesting teams. Ah, but steel knives. Stronger than shell was all the reason needed if one was simply being pragmatic, but steel was so rare that these knives were treasure in a world that had scant use for the silver and gold that motivated the ancients. Looked after well, they would become heirlooms.

“Thankyou G’yorge. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Just let me know how they perform for you. And remember what I said about finding more steel.”

Just then he saw Hay-lee walk on by.

“I’ve got to see Hay-Lee about something. Remember to let me know how they handle. Catch you later.”

He slid out from between the table and bench and walked off to pass on Pete’s message.

***

Brooss tapped his son on the shoulder. “Look, son! The Samphyre is going out.” Glad for an excuse to stand up and stretch, the father and son samphyre harvesting team, with more than a little pride in their new knives, watched the huge cargo-raft depart the Deeport docks. The younger member of the harvesting team knew the story of samphyre, plant and cargo-raft, as well as anyone in town.