She could think of too much to reply to that, and so said nothing. The water purled past her bow, the even breeze sped them on. The man on the wheel had a competent touch; he should have, he was one of Captain Vestrit's choosing and had been aboard her for almost a score of years. It was an evening to be satisfied, sailing south from winter cold back into warmth, and so her unhappiness pierced her all the more keenly.
There were things the boy had said to her, over the past few days, words he had spoken in anger and frustration and misery. A part of her recognized such words for what they were: Wintrow railed against his fate, not her. Yet she could not seem to let go of them, and they cut her like hooks whenever she allowed herself to think of them. He had reviled her yesterday morning after a particularly bad night's watch, telling her that Sa had no part in her being and she partook nothing of his divine force, but was only a simulacrum of life and spirit, created by men for the serving of their own greed. The words had shocked and horrified her, but even worse was when Kyle had strode up from behind the boy and knocked him flat to the deck in fury that he would so goad her. Even the kinder men among the crew had spoken ill of Wintrow after that, saying the boy was sure to curse their luck with his evil words. Kyle had seemed ignorant that she would feel the blow he had struck Wintrow as keenly as the boy himself had. Nor had he paused to think that perhaps that was not the way to help Wintrow develop kindly feelings toward her. Instead Kyle ordered the lad below to the extra chores he hated most. She was left alone to mull over the boy's poisonous words and wonder if they were not, after all, absolutely true.
The boy made her think. He made her think of things no other Vestrit had ever considered while on her decks. Half his life, she reflected, seemed to be considering how he saw that life in respect to the existence of others. She had known of Sa, for all the other Vestrits had revered him in a cursory way. But none of them had pondered the existence of the divine, nor thought to see the reflection of divinity in life around them. None of them had believed so firmly that there was goodness and honor inherent in every man's breast, nor cherished the idea that every being had some special destiny to fulfill, that there was some need in the world that only that life lived correctly could satisfy. Hence none of them had been so bitterly disappointed as Wintrow had been in his everyday dealings with his fellows.
“I think they're going to have to cut my finger off.” He spoke hesitantly and softly, as if his voicing of the fear might make it a reality.
Vivacia held her tongue. It was the first time since the accident that he had initiated a conversation. She suddenly recognized the deep fear he had been hiding behind his harsh words to her. She would listen and let him share with her whatever he could.
“I think it's more than broken. I think the joint is crushed.” Simple words, but she felt the cold dread coiled beneath them. He took a breath and faced the actuality he'd been denying. “I think I've known it since it happened. Still I kept hoping. . . . But my whole hand has been swelling since this morning. And it feels wet inside the bandaging.” His voice went smaller. “So stupid. I've cared for other's injuries before, not as a healer, but I know to how to clean a wound and change a dressing. But this, my own hand ... I haven't been able to muster the courage to look at it since last night.” He paused. She heard him swallow.
“Isn't it odd?” he went on in a higher, strained voice. “I was there once when Sa'Garit cut a man's leg off. It had to be done. It was so obvious to all of us. But the man kept saying, ‘no, no, let's wait a bit longer, perhaps it will get better,’ when hour by hour we could see it getting worse. Finally his wife persuaded him to let us do what had to be done. I wondered, then, why he had kept putting it off, instead of simply getting it over with. Why cling to a rotting hunk of flesh and bone, simply because it used to be a useful part of your body?”
His voice suddenly closed itself off. He curled forward over his hand again. And now she could sense the throbbing of his pain, the beat, beat, beat in his hand that echoed every pulse of his body's heart.
“Did I ever really look at my hands before, really think about them? A priest's hands . . . one always hears about a priest's hands. All my life, I had perfect hands. Ten fingers, all working and nimble ... I used to create stained-glass windows. Did you know that, Vivacia? I used to sit and plunge myself so deeply into my work . . . my hands would move of their own accord, it almost seemed. And now...”
He fell silent again. Vivacia dared to speak. “A lot of sailors lose fingers. Or whole limbs. Yet those sailors still . . .”
