
[art by
high noon]
username;;iBrevity
name;;Niao
(Chinese for "bird")
affectionately called "Little Bird" by crew
gender;;female
where they live;;Baozhai tells her stories of how she came to be on the evenings she counts her gold. "One day we pulled the net from the sea and you were nestled in among the fish and sharks," she says, or, "One morning a storm blew by and left a scattering of feathers and an egg on my deck, and three days later you hatched." Niao listens to these stories with the rapturous attention of a convert and nods along, as though she remembers rising from the ocean in a nursery of seafolk or being cradled in a porcelain egg.
In truth, Niao doesn't know where she came from, and the crew doesn't either. But that doesn't stop the quartermaster from affectionately tugging her wings when he tells her a story or stop the navigator from ruffling her hair between the arch of her pale horns as he teaches her how to sail. They became quickly family, this mess of men and women from distant lands and melancholy pasts, these people who accepted her into her ranks like she was not some strange winged child but one of
them. So she listens to Baozhai's stories and she thinks about the quartermaster disentangling her from the net she woke in, or the navigator peeling eggshell from her wings and hair. She thinks, fondly, of home.
She is built thin and fragile like the birds are and she is nimble on her feet when the storms come and the ship shivers with the power of the sea but she must be careful not to fall. Baozhai tells her her bones are slender and hollow; she strokes her hair and bandages her sprained ankle and tells her sternly do not be so careless. Niao does not call Baozhai 'mother' but she reads the books the crew bring to her and imagines that's what the captain is, regardless of title. Baozhai calls her 'little bird' and sets her on the wheel and shows her how to steer and Niao thinks about those books that depict mothers clasping daughters to their chests and teaching them how to fly. Niao would like that, she thinks, but she likes this better; Baozhai's work-roughened hands laid over her own, their knuckles shifting with the wheel, their hair scattered by the wind the sea brings them.
The boat is called the
Santa Maria and Baozhai tells her one morning that it belongs to Niao. "I've written it into the will," she says, her voice warm with laughter. "But more importantly, I've told the men. They'll look after you if you look after her." She says 'her' like the ship might one day talk back, like when Baozhai runs her hand down the railing the
Santa Maria warms to her touch. Niao nods solemnly and traces the whorls in the wood, smiles at the way the waves make the deck shudder. "She's mine," she repeats, in the same way someone might say, "I'm home."
On clear nights Baozhai teaches her how to read the stars. She says, "Look for the brightest one. It'll always lead you home." Niao looks and memorizes the constellations and thinks about home and the stars and the sea, the press of a calloused hand on her shoulder, the crew's gentle ribbing, Baozhai tipping her hat over her face to hide a genuine smile. Niao nods solemnly, points at the star that shines so brightly it leaves after-images behind her lids, and says, "Show me."
[584/600]

[art by
//_Asher_//]
[
full size here]