Hush-a-ba, Hush

The iron had been on Simon MacCallum's wrists near three hours when the older guard finally spoke.

"You're reading something."

Simon looked up from where he'd been watching the gap high in the east wall. Rain coming. Wind had backed northwest maybe an hour past, and he could smell it in the stone now.

"Just the weather."

"Navy?"

"Fisher. Deep water runs off the northern coast."

Geoffrey—he'd given his name when they first chained him—shifted his weight against the wall. The younger one, Edmund, had been fidgeting since sunset, but Geoffrey had the stillness of a man who'd learned waiting.

"My father worked supply ships," Edmund said sudden-like. "Before his back gave out—"

"Your father drank himself into the ground," Geoffrey said, not unkind but flat as hammered iron. "Left you with debts and dead man's stories."

The boy went quiet. Simon watched him retie his belt where the leather had worked loose. Good hands on him. Quick and sure. Finished with a rolling hitch, the kind you use when the load shifts.

"That's your father's knot," Simon said.

Edmund's hands stopped. "How'd you know—"

"It's a sailor's knot. Rolling hitch. Holds under strain, comes clean when you need it to."

"Aye. He used to say—" The boy stopped.

Geoffrey was watching Simon now, something shifting behind his eyes. "What'd he say?"

"Said it was the difference between keeping your load and losing it in a following sea."

The silence that followed had weight to it. Geoffrey leaned forward, just a fraction.

"My father said the same words. His father before him. Old navy saying: on the water, every detail can mean the difference—"

"—between life and death," Simon finished.

Geoffrey went very still. Then: "Edmund. Go check the north gate."

"What? Now?"

"Drainage grate clogs in heavy rain. Water gets into the lower cells if it's not cleared."

"But you said earlier that you'd—"

"I'm saying now that you'll do it. Go."

The boy stood, fumbling with his key. The chain came loose with a rattle and he moved to the door. Three knocks. Three locks turning from outside, heavy tumblers falling into place. The door shut behind him and Geoffrey waited until the footsteps faded down the corridor before speaking again.

"You're Simon MacCallum. The one who follows the carpenter from Stranraer."

"Aye."

"The one they hanged. For being a diviner. Speaking against the Church."

"They did."

Geoffrey studied him. Outside the wind was building, pressing hard at the gap in the wall. Simon could taste the storm proper now.

"Your lot claim he was a wizard," Geoffrey said. "That he could do—" He stopped. "That he did things no man should be able to do."

"He did things, aye."

"And now you're all saying you saw his ghost. Walking about. Talking to folk like he never died."

"I saw him."

"After they hanged him."

"Aye."

Geoffrey shook his head slow. "That's what they'll hang you for come morning. Not just following him. Spreading that story about the ghost."

"It's not a story."

"Isn't it?"

The wind outside had reached a keen, high and steady. Rain starting to hit the stone in hard drops. Geoffrey pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

"You served under someone once," Simon said. "Someone who knew his business."

"What makes you say that?"

"The way you sit. The way you watch everything. You've been under command."

Geoffrey's jaw worked. "Colonel Blackthorne. Northern campaigns. Hard man. But we lived when every other unit was getting slaughtered."

"What made him different?"

"Nothing escaped him. He'd walk the camp at night, check every man's kit, every weapon, every rope. Found a frayed line on a supply wagon once, had the quartermaster flogged for it." Geoffrey paused. "Said: that rope breaks at the wrong time, someone dies. Someone dies because you didn't look close enough, that's murder."

"And you never lost men to things that could've been prevented."

"No. Battle, aye. Bad luck, sometimes. But never to carelessness or not paying attention."

Simon nodded slow. "The carpenter was like that. Only more so."

"More so how?"

"He'd see things coming. Three moves out. Four moves. Like he'd already walked through it in his mind and was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up."

Geoffrey waited.

"There was a time," Simon said, settling his back more comfortable against the stone, "thousands of folk sitting on a hillside. We'd been traveling all day, teaching, and evening was coming on. Folk were hungry. He looks at us and says: get them arranged in groups. Fifties and hundreds. Precise about it—this group here, that group there, count them all proper."

"What for?"

"Feeding them."

"How many were there?"

"Five thousand men, not counting the women and bairns."

Geoffrey made a sound low in his throat. "That's—"

"Mad, aye. We thought so too. All that organizing when folk were hungry and wanting fed. But he insisted on it. Every man in his place. Every group counted and accounted for." Simon paused. "Then he fed them all."

"With what?"

"Started with five loaves and two fish."

Geoffrey stared at him. "That's not possible."

"No, it's not. But when he said to do a thing, it got done. When he arranged a thing, it worked. You learned not to question, just to do what he said."

"That's faith talking."

"That's eyes talking. I was there. I counted the groups myself. Handed out the food with my own hands. Collected what was left over after—twelve baskets full, because he wouldn't waste even a crumb."

The wind outside had reached a howl now, driving rain against the stone hard enough to hear it.

"There was another time," Simon said quiet, "in the city. Temple courts had been turned into a market—merchants everywhere, money-changers, folk selling doves and lambs. Place was chaos. He walks in, picks up a bit of cord lying on the ground, and braids it into a whip right there while everyone's watching. Just standing there, working the rope with his hands." Simon's voice dropped lower. "Then he cleared the whole courtyard. Maybe two hundred men running for the exits. Tables going over. Money spilling everywhere. But it wasn't rage, understand. Was colder than that. More controlled. Like he was correcting something that had been wrong for too long and his patience had finally run out."

"One man did that?"

"One man. With a bit of rope."

Geoffrey was leaning forward now, not bothering to hide that he was listening close. "And you followed him. Even knowing what he was."

"Knowing what he was, aye."

"Even after the Church condemned him as a heretic. Even after the English took him and—"

"He told us it would happen. Months before it did. Said: we're going to the city. They'll condemn me there. They'll hand me over to the English. They'll kill me." Simon paused. "Said: three days after and you'll see me walking again."

"And you did."

"I did. So did the others. So did five hundred folk gathered on a hillside to see for themselves."

"Your lot's story is that he walked through walls afterward. That he appeared in locked rooms where no man could enter."

"I was in one of those rooms."

Geoffrey shook his head. "You're asking me to believe—"

"I'm not asking you to believe anything. You asked why I followed him. I'm telling you."

The silence stretched between them. Geoffrey opened his mouth, closed it again. Finally: "The king signed your writ yesterday. Come morning they'll walk you out to the courtyard and take your head with an axe. That's what's written and sealed."

"I know what the writ says."

"Then why aren't you—" Geoffrey stopped himself. Started again. "Most men are afraid the night before. I've seen it enough times to know."

"Should I be afraid?"

"Most men would be."

Simon was quiet for a long moment, watching the gap in the wall where rain was starting to mist through. "Let me tell you about the night I learned what his words really mean."

Geoffrey settled back against the wall, pulling his cloak tighter.

"We'd been with him all day," Simon said. "Teaching folk, healing some, the usual. Evening came on and he says to us—just says it casual-like—'We're crossing to the far shore tonight.' Simple as that. Not we'll try to cross. Not if the weather holds. Just: we're crossing."

"You got in boats."

"Aye. Eight of us in one boat. Good solid fishing boat, thirty feet bow to stern. The kind I'd grown up in, the kind I knew like my own hands. He climbs into the stern, finds this old leather cushion someone had left there, puts it under his head, and goes to sleep. This was before we'd even cast off from shore."

"In the boat."

"In the boat. While we were still tied up. We pushed off, raised the sail, started across. Water was calm as worked bronze. Sky clear. I remember thinking it was a perfect night for a crossing." Simon paused. "We made maybe a mile out. Far enough that we couldn't turn back easy if we wanted to. Then the sky went this color—not the natural dark of evening, but this sick grey-green. And the wind hit us."

Geoffrey had gone completely still.

"I've been on that water thirty years," Simon said, his voice dropping lower. "My father before me, pulling fish from those depths. His father before him. Three generations of MacCallums working those runs. I've seen storms that sank whole fleets. I've seen waves that ate villages on the coast." He stopped. "This was worse than any of them."

"How bad was it?"

"The waves came in sets. Three, four at a time, then a pause while the next set built. But these weren't natural. They were too big, coming too fast. First one came over the bow and knocked James clean off his feet—and James was a big man, strong as an ox. We got the sail down quick, but by then it didn't matter. The wind was driving us and all we could do was bail water and try to keep the bow pointed into the waves."

"How high were they?"

"Couldn't see the tops of them in the dark. Just these walls of black water coming at us with white teeth of foam at the crest. We'd go up and up and up until it felt like the boat would flip backward, then down so fast your stomach dropped into your feet." Simon's voice had gone quiet now. "And water coming in. Not spray—solid water. The weight of it. We bailed with anything we could grab. Hands, cloaks, buckets. Didn't matter. For every gallon we threw out, two more came in."

Geoffrey was barely breathing.

"The boat was sitting lower in the water. Getting sluggish. I knew—we all knew—that we had maybe one more set of waves before we went under." Simon looked down at his hands. "And he was still sleeping."

"Still sleeping."

"Head on that cushion. Water sloshing around his feet. Boat pitching like a wild horse. And he was sleeping like a bairn in his mother's arms."

"What did you do?"

"I looked at him and something broke inside me. Not anger, exactly. More like—" Simon stopped, searching for the word. "Like he'd made us a promise and then forgot we existed. Here we were drowning, and he was sleeping through it. So I crawled back to him—had to crawl because the boat was pitching so hard—grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. Shouted right in his face: 'Master! D'ye not care that we're going down? D'ye not care that we're dying?'"

Geoffrey leaned forward. "And what did he do?"

"And I was bracing myself for him to tear strips off me, understand? You don't wake a commander like that. You don't grab him and shake him and shout in his face. I expected fury. Expected him to tell me I was a fool, that I should've trusted him, that I'd broken discipline." Simon smiled small. "But he just opened his eyes. Slow, like I'd woken him from pleasant dreams. He looked at me first—really looked at me—and there was something in his eyes. Not anger. Almost like concern. Or bemusement. Like he was surprised I'd forgotten something important."

"Then what?"

"Then he looked past me at the storm. Stood up—steady on his feet, which shouldn't have been possible with how the boat was moving—and turned to face the wind." Simon paused. "And he said it. Quiet, not shouting. Like he was talking to a fretful bairn who wouldn't settle. 'Hush-a-ba, hush.'"

The cell was silent except for the sound of rain.

"And Geoffrey—" Simon met his eyes. "The wind stopped. Not died down gradual. Stopped. Cut off like someone had shut a door on it. The waves—those massive walls of water—they just flattened out. Went from chaos to glass in the space of a heartbeat."

Geoffrey's jaw had gone slack.

"The only sound was water dripping off our clothes and the boat settling lower as the weight redistributed. We just stood there, soaked through, hands bleeding from the ropes, staring at him. And he looked at us—looked at me—and there was this gentle puzzlement in his voice when he asked: 'What're ye so afraid for? D'ye still not trust me?'"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. What could I say? We just looked at each other, and someone—might've been James, might've been John—whispered: 'What is he? Even the wind and the sea do what he tells them.'" Simon paused. "And I realized then—he'd said we're crossing to the far shore. Not we'll try to cross. Not maybe if the weather holds. He said we're crossing. And he's the one who—" He stopped.

"Who what?"

"Nothing. Just—when he says a thing will happen, it happens. Every single time. Without fail."

Geoffrey shook his head slow. "If that's true—if he really had that kind of power—then why did he let them hang him?"

"Because he said they would. Same certainty. Same—" Simon was quiet for a moment. "He also told me how I'd die."

Geoffrey went very still.

"Was years after. We were on a beach one morning, cooking fish over coals. Salt thick enough to taste. He pulled me aside, looked at me in this way he had, said: 'When you're old, Simon, they'll stretch you out. Won't be your choice where they take you.'"

"What does that mean?"

"The gallows tree. He was telling me I'd hang. Arms stretched out on the crossbeam, someone else putting me where I didn't choose to go."

Understanding came slow across Geoffrey's face. "But tomorrow morning they're taking your head with an axe."

"Aye."

"That's not hanging."

"No. It's not."

Geoffrey opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "So you think—because he said hanging and not beheading—that somehow tomorrow won't happen the way the writ says?"

"I think when he says a thing, every word of it matters. Every detail. He didn't say we'll try to cross to the far shore. He didn't say three days more or less. He didn't say you'll die one way or another." Simon paused. "He's more precise than any commander you ever served under, Geoffrey. And he doesn't miss things. Not ever."

"So what do you think happens tomorrow?"

"I don't know. But I know it won't be an axe and a block."

Geoffrey stared at him. "You're either the maddest man I've ever met or—" He stopped.

"Or what?"

"I don't know."

The rain was hammering down harder now. Somewhere in the fortress, metal struck metal in a rhythmic clanging. The gate working loose, maybe. Or chains. Geoffrey glanced toward the sound, frowning.

"Storm's getting worse."

"Aye."

"And you're not worried about any of it."

"I've been in worse storms than this." Simon reached for his cloak, worked it free from where it had bunched under him. Folded it twice to make a cushion. Settled it against the wall. "This one's just weather."

"What are you doing?"

"Getting some rest. It's been a long day."

"You can't—you can't just go to sleep. Not the night before they—"

"Why not? I'm tired. And tomorrow will come whether I sleep or not."

"But that's—you can't just—"

"I learned something that night in the boat, Geoffrey. He said we're crossing to the far shore, and then he went to sleep. Slept through a storm that should've killed us all. Slept because he'd already spoken the end of it, and he trusted his own words enough to rest." Simon laid his head down on the makeshift pillow, adjusting until he found a comfortable spot. "Took me years to learn how to do that. How to sleep during storms."

"But this isn't the same. This is—"

"This is just another storm. And he said I'd die with my arms stretched out on the gallows tree. Not my head on an executioner's block. So either his words mean something or they don't. Either he sees the end of things before they happen or he doesn't."

Simon's eyes were already closing. His breathing began to slow and deepen, settling into the rhythm of genuine sleep.

Geoffrey watched him, and something old and carefully guarded began to crack. "How?" he whispered. "How can you possibly sleep?"

But Simon was already gone, anchored to nothing visible, held by nothing but words spoken years ago on a beach with the smell of salt and cooking fish. Words that said: not yet. Not this way. Not by the axe. You'll reach the far shore.

The storm built outside, wind and rain lashing the walls. The locks held fast. The chains held fast.

And in the cell, a Scottish fisherman slept while an English soldier sat watching, and old certainties began to crack and shift like ice breaking up in spring.

Outside, the metal clanging grew louder.

The wind shifted direction.

And the rain came down.