Where the Blood Calls 1: The Call

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay. Shakedown cruise of the HMS Dawn Javelin.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented Leanne Shawler! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Shakedown cruise of the HMS Dawn Javelin.

I’ve heard it said a cry for help at sea is the loneliest sound in the world. Hard lessons have taught me otherwise.

They’re more like a clean-cut wound. Some can be treated, others bandaged with care and hope. But then there are those that cut to the heart—the kind that make you wonder if the blade isn’t waiting to strike again.

We’d arrived off the coast of Portlethen Bay in Scotland—the third stop for the Javelin’s shakedown cruise as a hospital dirigible. It was the Royal Navy’s newest experiment of what do with an Aetheric Dirigible fleet that wouldn’t upset the rest of the water-based Admiralty. As the Fates would have it, there was already work to be done—such as patching up the crew against their own bad decisions.

I sighed, closing my notebook with a snap before setting it on a nearby counter. The current subject of the morning’s work, and my mild frustration, sat nearby in a wooden chair. My medical station aboard the Javelin’s bow wasn’t exactly small; it was only a bit wider than a pair of fish carts. But the tall man in the chair added bulk that seemed to shrink the room. Rigging pulled taut against sails and elongated canvas bag above, creaking in time with the subtle roll of the deck as the Javelin’s keel cut the clouds.

“Seaman,” I said, drawing out the word as I rubbed my eyes. “How in the bloody hell did you manage this? We’re in flight.”

Seaman Evan Riley frowned, giving the ragged cut along his forearm a bitter glare. It was a touch sharper than the look he spared me. I’d grown used to it, but it still made my hackles rise. The man was taller than most, broad-shouldered with a clean-cut look and a square jaw that made him the sort the Royal Navy favored.

He also had the sense to rein in whatever it was about me that bothered him. Probably because I was a doctor who had access to plenty of sharp knives.

“Ma’am,” he replied, tamping down his irritation. “Found one of the main gears the hard way. I was inspecting the foresail when I tripped and fell into an open gearbox for the canopy. Someone hadn’t stowed the rigging properly.”

I swapped a quick look with my assistant, Surgeon’s Mate Blake McLaren. Recently of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, he was a red-headed firebrand with a notion that rules existed for interpretation. But he was as bad a stickler as I was for keeping things stored in their proper place.

“I’ll get the purified vinegar,” Blake said, turning toward the cabinets.

“Thank you,” I replied, then grabbed some cotton and a small bottle of water to wash the wound.

It only took a moment to wash the blood from the wound, leaving an ugly, jagged tear. Most likely not the last Seaman Riley would see in his career. Blake handed me cotton, and I dabbed at the wound. Riley hissed low in his throat as I cleaned the cut, as the sharp scent of red wine vinegar sliced the air.

“Yes, it’ll sting,” I said dryly. “Might make a nasty scar that won’t have a good story to go with it. I’ll see what I can do about making it less obvious—provided you keep still.”

“No stranger to being stitched up, ma’am,” Riley replied, gripping the chair. “Ready when you are.”

I arched an eyebrow at him while Blake grinned.

“Never said anything about stitches,” I replied.

“Er… I don’t follow,” Riley said, worry dusting his words.

Blake quickly strapped the sailor’s limb to the arm of the chair with a stained leather strap. It didn’t improve Riley’s nerves.

“What…?” he sputtered.

Blake patted the man firmly on the shoulders, then stood on the opposite side of the patient from me.

“It’ll keep you from twitching,” he explained in his usual Scottish burr. “The less you twitch, the easier it is for Doctor Thorne to work on your wound.”

Riley’s eyes cut between Blake and myself.

“But it’s just a cut,” Riley protested.

I shook my head a little.

“It’s a deep gash that could turn sour, costing you the arm. Now be quiet and let me hear your blood.”

“Hear my… what?” Riley’s voice rose a half-octave.

Blake grinned—my assistant had a wicked sense of humor. I swore he loved this part most when people had to face my Gift in action. That particular shock and surprise wasn’t the highlight of my day, but I lived with it.

“Your blood. My Gift,” I said. “Now, be still.”

Slowly, I passed a hand over the jagged tear in his flesh. The blood stirred beneath my touch—restless, disobedient, and far too eager to run. It threatened to well up and trail over Riley’s arm at any moment. I wasn’t in a mood to let it.

My Gift stirred with a thought. The seaman’s blood sang back in reply—a soft melody, reminding me of an old, half-remembered sea shanty. I softly hummed along, the wooden creak of the Javelin’s hull in the background, as I brushed my fingertips over the wound, gentle as a spring breeze.

Gifts were new, having only appeared three years ago, if the Admiralty’s ledgers could be trusted. They weren’t common, and mine was rarer than most. A Bloodsinger.

Some claimed it was a curse, others a boon; a few called it dark witchcraft. I had enough problems in my life to borrow the baggage of those labels, so I simply tried to ignore them. Besides, it wasn’t like I asked to be Gifted in the first place.

Riley’s blood welled up under my fingers, rippling like the tide.

“Ah,” Riley hissed, face bunched from pain and no small amount of disgust.

“Shush,” I ordered.

His sputtering didn’t surprise me—most reacted that way. But I kept on, humming with the blood’s song, giving it weight and power. In reply, the blood neatly pulled the wound closed inches at a time.

As it did, Blake crouched down, using a cotton rag to catch the stray blood that inevitably leaked out. When done, it took nearly a minute, but I felt like I’d run a mile by the time I sat back, drawing a long breath.

“Done,” I said with a tight nod. “Not quite good as new, but you won’t lose the arm. Also, you’ll barely have a scar.”

Seaman Riley frowned at his arm as Blake unstrapped him. Once liberated, Riley slowly flexed his arm, testing the motion. The faint scar looked red and raw—after all, the body isn’t pretty when it heals. But the seaman’s wound now looked like a cut that had been healing nicely for weeks.

Blake appeared then with an ample supply of bandages and another grin.

“Unless you like pain, or want to attract the wrong kind of faeries, let’s bandage you up to get you on your way.”

Riley frowned harder, eyes still on his arm. He looked confused, surprised, and a little concerned. The first two made sense; while the last was the boil I wanted to lance. My chair groaned as I sat back, taking another long breath—bloodsinging was a bit draining—but also to set my line of approach.

“So, out with it.” I said, tugging at the front of my officer’s waistcoat. Royal Navy officers who roamed the seas below had to wear blue frock coats. We in the Aetheric Dirigible Corp were a bit more scaled-down for efficiency. “Still embarrassed over having slipped? Unnerved by the bloodsinging?” I paused before I ventured the last one. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m a woman officer, a surgeon, aboard a Royal Navy vessel?”

The tall seaman went a little wide-eyed as if he’d taken a hit to the gut. He pursed his lips, color fleeing his cheeks a little as he looked anywhere but at my face. Almost as if he desperately wanted an escape hatch to dive through.

“Well… I… er…” he stammered, then his words tripped over themselves onto the floor. “Begging your pardon, Doctor… ma’am. Women officers are fine, just a woman surgeon is a bit uncommon.” He blinked, face a concerned mask. “Much less one with a Gift like that—with the blood, I mean.”

I’d like to say I was surprised. The Gifted were highly prized, but carefully watched. The Royal Navy couldn’t care a whit if a Gifted was a man or a woman, only what they could do. Still, old dated stigmas in the Royal Navy ran deep.

Riley fidgeted in his seat when the silence stretched too long, but he had the discipline to wait until dismissed. I inclined my head, offering a thin smile.

“It’s quite all right, Seaman. My Gift’s a bit disturbing, but it’s all part of why the crew calls me ‘Banshee’ when I’m not looking, eh?”

Riley winced, while Blake coughed, covering a grin. Blake was the one who’d told me about the nickname. Obviously, Riley had heard it before.

“Yes… ma’am,” the big man replied, sounding a bit lost for what to say. “I doubt anything bad was meant by it…” his words stumbled to a confounded stop.

“Seaman Riley,” I said, sitting forward slightly with a smile. “It’s fine. We all serve at His Majesty’s pleasure in the Royal Navy—each to our own abilities. Just remember, while Captain Vane holds sway across the Javelin, this medical bay is my domain. You can trust that no matter what, I do everything in my power to keep my patients safe. Something to think about while you let that arm finish healing up.” I indicated the door with a nod. “Dismissed, Seaman.”

“Aye, Doctor.”

The man gave me a hasty salute, which I returned, before he scrambled out of the medical bay like all hell was hunting him. With Riley well and gone, Blake stopped hiding his grin behind a cough. I tossed a brittle look at him, then went about cleaning the chair and medical bay.

“Yes, I know, I could’ve been less barbed about that,” I said sourly.

Blake nodded thoughtfully, collecting the last bloody rags to wash.

“Oh, maybe a wee bit,” he replied airily. “You didn’t quite hit him like a hammer, but the man did leave sporting a few new bruises around the ego.”

I stopped scrubbing an errant bloodstain on the floor. It was Riley’s, so I heard the lingering refrains of the old sea shanty. Truth was, the blood was already in the cloth, so all I was doing was working on the wood out of frustration. The sway of the ship smoothed off a few rough edges of my nerves. I felt a soft rumble as the Javelin’s ballasts shifted to bring us to a drift.

Finally, I surrendered my wool-gathering with a sigh.

“You’re right; he didn’t deserve all of that. I’ll speak with him later. It’s just—” I sat back on my boot heels, pinching the bridge of my nose, “—confound it, Blake! I’ve heard the talk saying I’m a walking curse. I thought maybe taking a stand, one crew member at a time, would nip it in the bud.”

Blake set down his rag, turning to lean back against one of the tiny counters. Quietly, he folded his arms, staring at the stained wooden bulkhead across from him.

“That makes a bit of sense,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But would it work?” He shrugged. “Not sure. It’s an uphill climb against superstition, Doctor. You stumbled out half-alive and bleeding from the wreck of an Aetheric Dirigible. Then led the rescuers to anyone still breathing by singing to the dying among the wreckage—saying their blood called you.”

I stood up, tossing my spent rag into a nearby bucket.

“It’s when my Gift appeared. I can’t help how it took hold,” I muttered bitterly, putting my hands on my hips. “At least it kept those bloody resurrectionists at bay when they came hunting the dead and dying as the squall passed.”

Blake shook his head. “Oh, no doubt. You stumbling about covered in blood—and singing—sent them for the hills.”

“None of that means I’m cursed,” I complained.

A mischievous grin brushed his face. “That depends, Doctor. Those resurrectionists thought it bad luck you kept them from stealing any gold teeth!”

I would’ve replied, but the words caught in my chest. A hum trembled under my skin. Slow and quiet, it was a mournful song—lonely and wanting words it’d long forgotten.

“Blake,” I breathed, staring at nothing, “there’s trouble—”

“What?” Blake asked, narrowing his eyes.

Muffled shouts from on deck chased a tawny-haired Junior Petty Officer into view—Miles “Lifter” Perkins. He collided breathlessly against the doorway.

“Doctor Thorne! Mr. McLaren! The fishing town! There’s a problem…”

“Slow down, Mr. Perkins. Take a breath. What’s the trouble?” I asked, reaching for my stained, russet satchel.

“Water leapers hit the village. Several hurt,” the petty officer panted. “Captain’s taking a group ashore, and called for you both on deck.”

I blinked. “Leapers? You mean water leapers?”

Water leapers, or Llamhigyn y Dŵr, were nasty beasts. Giant frog-like nightmares with bat wings, they ambushed the unwary in packs, looking for a quick, juicy meal. Many a fisherman had gone missing to their appetite over the generations—especially since 1815.

The young man bobbed his head vigorously. “Aye, Doctor, I know.”

Blake’s scowl turned thunderous.

“Boil your head, Lifter, you can’t be serious. Here? In Scotland, on the coast? They’re Welsh freshwater problem.”

Lifter shook his head, raising a hand to hold off another outburst.

“Tell those Llamhigyn y Dŵr that. Lookout spotted five of the things leaping over the Portlethen Bay docks. Nearly took a man’s arm off.”

“Five?” I slipped on my satchel. “We’ll figure the why later. Get moving!”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.