The Boatman: Sharp Mere

By Alex Rooth

Among the water-filled rooms and winding passages of the Sharp Mere estate, a boatman sets out on a journey of discovery. In mortal danger for the secret he carries, he faces a stark choice: learn the meaning of freedom or die in obscurity.

This is a novella length story of around 30,000 words.

The Boatman was first published in 2015 under the pen name Edward Hendrik. This is a revised and re-edited version.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Rooth
• Release date: Nov 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386826354

Book preview

The Whitestone Plains

Before my fall from grace I was boatman to the Lord himself. I lived on the Whitestone Plains beside the Lake of Blue, a world apart from the busy thoroughfares and halls of the mid-levels below. The common folk and servants who toiled beneath our feet could not imagine the opulence above their heads. The wealth went far beyond the jewelled necklaces, golden bracelets and gossamer clothes adorning the guests of the Lord. Immeasurably more valuable than such trifles, the riches lay in the whitestone itself, the substance that formed my home and everything within it.

Boatmen shared the bounty, for though denied other possessions, our chains of office and arm rings were all of whitestone. These items bestowed honour and privilege, as did higher rank. I was fortunate to have inherited the title of Head Assistant Boatman. Our brothers the Lesser Assistants did not enjoy such favour. They were of lower status and had neither arm rings nor chains of office.   

I have seen few things to match the wonders of the Whitestone Plains. Imagine a flat sheet of smooth, pale rock, a table top for giant beings stretching as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by groups of houses and the occasional solitary palace. So flat is the rock that a ball placed on the surface will not roll. This is true the length and breadth of it, yet if you set that ball in motion it will continue in a straight line till it becomes invisible to the eye.

Equally marvellous was the skill of the invisible hand that had cut the channels for our boats. Some were straight, some curved in long flowing lines, some were winding, and some passed between high walls that obscured the view and hinted at vistas beyond. The occasional gate gave a glimpse of buildings surrounded by deep pools, the water clearer than crystal, welling up from the depths.

Boatmen could not leave their boats and enter the houses but I often overheard my passengers speak of these dwellings. Over the years I formed an impression of their design and interior as if I had been there myself. Many, it seemed, were built not for permanent habitation but for temporary enjoyment of the location or for taking shelter according to the season, whether from flakes of snow in winter or from the burning sun in summer. Water from the Lake of Blue flowed freely into the houses allowing visitors to cool their feet when it was hot. In the colder months the floor and walls gave out a gentle warmth. Like everything else on the plains the buildings were made of whitestone. Sometimes they pulsed with colour. At other times they reflected the world around them. Under a blue sky they were white tinged with azure; in winter they were pale grey.

The houses were built in clusters on either side of the canals as if to imitate a street in the artisans’ quarter of the mid-levels. Beneath the eaves, ornaments suspended from chains of whitestone made musical sounds when touched by the wind. Whitestone benches in front of the houses were seamless with the ground. Even the windows, carved into delicate lattices, were of whitestone. They were infinitely strong but lighter than silk. Each dwelling had several balconies and a flat roof, partially covered, from which a person could look down on the boats as they floated past.

The hand that had cut the channels and worked the whitestone had done so as easily as carving soft wood. Yet now the best artisans in the Mere with the sharpest tools at their disposal could not even scratch the surface of the plains or buildings. The ability to work the whitestone has been lost. All young boatmen tried at some stage to leave their mark but the whitestone could not be cut, broken, dented or deformed in any way. No more could you slice rock with a handful of breadcrumbs.

Occasionally I wondered at the purpose of the Whitestone Plains. They seemed constructed for no other use than to provide amusement for those so fortunate as to travel across them.

*

Boatmen enjoyed great privilege but the Lord and his guests were more comfortable still. In winter the upper floors of the dwellings along the Channel of the First Circuit were layered with thick rugs and tapestries to keep the rooms warm. I imagined there were few spots more pleasant in the Mere, but sometimes I craned my neck and looked at the small windows and balconies in the rock face high above, and wondered what luxuries surrounded the people there.

The whitestone boats that plied the channels and thronged the lake were central to the entertainments of the Lord. They were the principal means by which he effected private liaisons with many women unobserved. A group of boats would set off at once in all directions and moor along the canals or come together in a great fleet in the middle of the Lake of Blue. An observer up above would learn little of the movements of one individual among the throng. The Lord took many precautions to avoid detection, including having each guest wear a crimson cloak identical to his own. The laws of Sharp Mere were uncompromising concerning relations between the sexes but on the Whitestone Plains we felt ourselves exempt. The Lord himself violated the law with such regularity that we boatmen thought nothing of it.

Our boats were similar in overall appearance and design though each had its own idiosyncrasies as if conceived by a mind determined not to repeat itself in the act of creation. Even the colour of the whitestone varied, tinged by subtle rainbow hues. No one knew how old the boats were. I was proud of my craft and often thought of its unknown maker. I called it mine but I was just one in a line of many, stretching across endless years. The boat would remain long after I was dust.

The Lord favoured me and my boat but I did not flatter myself that it was due to my skill at handling the craft or to any affection he might hold for my person. He acknowledged me according to protocol and no more. It was the arrangement of the rooms below deck that attracted his attention, more spacious yet with more privacy than in the other craft. I knew well what took place down there.

The boats were housed within the shelters in which we lived. Before each trip the Lesser Assistants brought them out and set them on the water. In so doing the magic of the Whitestone Plains manifested itself though perhaps I should call it art or skill, for the plains and channels brought to mind the work of craftsmen rather than any form of sorcery. Yet unlike the work of such artisans, neither the mechanism of construction nor the workings could be explained. The surface of all water upon the plains, whether the canals, pools or the Lake of Blue itself, was exactly level with the whitestone edge that confined it, no more no less. It was like a bucket full to the brim such that one more drop would cause the water within to burst outwards and spill down the sides. Even if a boatman knelt and looked as closely as he could, so flawless was the join between the surface of the water and the land that he would not see the merest fraction, not so much as the width of a hair, of the whitestone side wall. Were the water the same colour as the rock he would think he contemplated a single solid surface.

An underwater incline so gentle as to be barely perceptible provided a ramp for the whitestone craft. Despite their weight they could be moved with little effort. As the boats entered the channel and passengers climbed aboard, the extra weight raised the level of the water and it broke free, spreading in a great transparent wave across the surface of the Whitestone Plains. There could be few sights in the Mere to rival that sheet of water as it raced outward, stretching thinner and thinner, sparkling in the morning sun.

Except maybe the curve of hip and thigh of one of the Lord’s many mistresses as she leaned forward to watch the expanding wave. The women on my boat were among the most beautiful in the Mere. I did no more than look for many years. Then I changed.

The Lake of Blue

I ferried countless women on my boat. Sometimes I took them from one group of dwellings to another for romantic assignments or secret business meetings with the Lord; on other occasions I took them to parties and banquets on the Lake of Blue. If the latter, many boats would be tied together and awnings with tassels of red and gold unfurled above the decks. Once this shelter had been raised the women took off their crimson cloaks and lounged against the rails or threw themselves down on plump cushions of coloured silk. They played Lords and Ladies or nibbled and picked at snacks on whitestone trays. In winter they wore furs softer and lighter than the feathers of a bird and warmed their hands in thick mufflers. When the weather turned hot they dressed in clinging silks and filmy gauzes.

It was a boatman’s duty to concentrate on piloting the boat and otherwise act as if invisible. He must not let himself be distracted. Sudden squalls across the Whitestone Plains were not uncommon and poorly handled craft could be dangerous for the passengers, particularly those already unsteady on their