The excitement of anticipation floods this town: it courses up cracked, cobbled streets and slanted alleyways, carried upon the faces and voices of its meagre population. It pools in groups and gossip of the gathered customers outside Torrence’s Groceries. It drips through homes in drowsy morning conversation across starkly laden breakfast tables, through the politely-requested privacy of a closed door, or into the unwilling ear of the still-asleep. It babbles from window to cart, headline to hearth, square to border, and back again.

The beating heart of both its destination and origin, is a single landed ship, heavy-laden with supplies, crew, and expectation.

A town, a moment, frozen forever, captured and suspended in a dawning sunbeam. It has no name; none that reaches beyond its slender island fringe. They go to find, capture, and bring it back, more valuable than any treasure, and proudly display it for all to see; for all to remember.

A dull, tarnished copper bell hangs from the door of Tar Gerright’s Post Office, ringing to let its owner know that a new customer requires one of his few vital services. The heavy, woodworm-chewed door wears multiple distinct coats of rich, deeply coloured paint, visible through chips and flakes, revealing their own little tale of pride and neglect. Kitt Johns holds the door open, his small cap-and-waistcoated silhouette stands in the beaming dawn-light that fights to push back the gloom. The outsized headwear of his father, fraying at the stitching, perches with uncertainty upon his head: the newly-appointed man-of-the-house until the ship returns bearing fame, riches, and Gloster Johns. Clutched protectively to Kitt’s chest is a modest bundle of letters, in his mother’s hand, addressed to the strewn vestiges of a disapproving family he has never met.

Leading back through the morning mist, a staccato pattern of footprints trails to a splashed puddle in the street, beside the low stone wall at the boundary of a haphazard garden in altitude-defying bloom. Cloistered at its centre, a well-loved thatched cottage and within, Joy Matchem sits at the breakfast table with two steaming bowls of porridge, where she awaits the arrival of her wife, Leanne. For once she has awoken first, eager to spectate the departure and so revisit the memories of their own reckless history. They both wear their years in different ways: the corners of Joy’s eyes and mouth bear more creases, Leanne’s hair threaded with more steel.

Adrift in her own thoughts, Leanne is looking up at the town’s central tower through the thin, warped glass of their bedroom window. It is both sentinel and beacon, watcher and watched, a rare concession to bureaucratic vanity reaching towards an unmatched apex, ever-clad in fresh, bright stripes of green and yellow. A single outward exhibition of the pride ensconced in every heart. Not entirely without function, its dome holds the scars of numerous strikes of lighting; a product of the storms that swell suddenly at these heights. Perched at the edge of this dome, where it surveys the terrain beneath, is a single bird, its black and grey feathers ruffled by the morning breeze. It serves as lookout, alarm-call ready in throat, for three others who, far below, are scavenging through the morning detritus.

From the indoor comfort of a rocking-chair, watching on, sits old Joe Catte, a thin dishevelled cap of white hair still perched upon his crown. As talkative as always, even if he remains the only person who understands. He names the birds and imagines their lives. His daughter’s husband, George Wrent, is hesitating at the front door as a heavy sigh escapes his lips. The key in his hand hovers by the lock; his thoughts and and forehead wrinkled by the task of informing Joe that Dawn will be departing today aboard the Zaira. George knows that Joe won’t understand. Joe won’t be able to tell George that he does.

Out in the streets viscous dawnlight pours across lichenous brick walls and overworked paths, to reveal and preserve a momentary topography. Few footprints or wheel tracks disturb the thin shimmer of dew, save those belonging to folk already at work in short fields; a stoic gesture to agriculture at an altitude where only hardy crops grow, with a resilience borne forth in bland tastes and firm textures.

Sam Preat leans on the arm of a stationary plough, arrested in conversation with Sam Lotrey, both clad in heavy boots and leather workwear, to shield against the weather; their cragged faces creased by a private joke already stolen away and scattered like chaff. Thick, stubborn gorse hedges attempt to baffle the worst of what blows through, but plenty still whips and whistles over, making difficult both fieldwork and communication.

Katrin Torrence is mid-stride entering the rear doorway to her grocery shop, tightly-curled whitening hair, barely tamed enough to sit above big, smiling eyes and a broad affectionate grin; her stout arms carry a large, coarse wooden crate piled with freshly picked root vegetables, which are being unloaded from a cart by her husband Will. They met as younger people in the fields, where a glance and a smile carried further than words, and patiently together watched a great oak grow from this seed, even now talking as little as they pleased, content simply with each others’ company.

Through the murky, unlit shop floor and puddled outside the front door, waits the regular morning accumulation of customers, filling their empty wait with updates and predictions. Elderly Roswyn and Gordon Buckgrove stand arm-in-arm, supporting each other in their own individual ways. Time has truncated their own ability to travel particularly far or fast, but now they take a new joy in vicariously living out the adventures of their children, by regaling a captive audience with tales of their various exploits. Their prisoners, at this moment, are being informed with deep pride about the accomplishments of their son who, like many others, will be present aboard the Zaira when it departs. They beam and glow as though he were Captain, and not, simply through sheer circumstance, finding himself part of the crew.

Nearby, dividing the loose stone road that flows through, is a small triangular Square, at the centre of which lives a simple obelisk of coarse, carved rock. It wears a list of names, those loved and lost, in tribute to their sacrifices made and reminder of those who would sacrifice them, in a town that has experienced war only through the bright eyes of those leaving, and the darkened ones of those that return. The open space waits ready for decoration, an empty vessel that, by evening, shall be filled to the brim with the revelry of those that remain.

Comprising the remainder of this vital social hub, is the tavern. Sepia light tints through windows, where the dust and the echoes of last night’s parting celebrations linger heavy in the air. Tables still pushed aside, surfaces adorned with empty mugs and flagons, recently spilled drinks still drying on the hard tiled floor. Up its narrow, rickety stairs, Luzrin Shime lies awake in bed beneath a thick brown woollen blanket; his face bears the valleys and channels befitting his age, while his salted black hair shows a little more resistance. He is kept from sleep by the waterfall rush of talk and music still vivid behind weary eyelids. A quiet seeks to fill the vacuum left in the wake of so many departing customers and friends, so he allows the remnant echoes to ring as long as they please. Fond farewells already said, but a sadness for one to be missed shades the borders of his thoughts with a gloomy tinge.

The subject of that melancholy, however, is removing a light-coloured pair of trousers, his favourite, from a bag, where they had sat atop numerous garments all chosen with far too much haste for their intended journey. Sandy blonde stubble covers his chin, but one corner of his mouth is being irresistibly curled by hope: the promise of fame rejected when weighed against the simple chance of happiness at home. His thoughts whirl without friction, turning over and away to be replaced by the next before any traction can be found. A risk, a sudden single impulse set cascading to uncertain outcomes. Attempted sleep would only give doubts a stage upon which to thrive, so he occupies his mind with unpacking, unpicking his former choices piece by piece. The Zaira would function without Alistair Perran.

*

A small flock of golden leaves stipple the sky, frozen in their annual flight from an exposed sycamore tree that stands watch over the presently quiet dockyard. Its roots stretch deep down into the town’s foundations, and its seeds have scattered further than the breeze, having been carried off by past Captains. Some take one for luck, some for tradition, and some simply to find their way home. By the end of their six-month voyage, these thinning branches will be renewed and verdant once more.

The tree keeps vigil alongside a front of scraggly homes, assembled early to see ship and crew on their way. They line the dock like silent old friends, watchful, weatherbeaten faces that have counted every ship out, and every one that returned. On this particular morning they are joined by Jack Kinnett, tiredness etched across his face but his own personal duty to perform. In a small, sheltered nook he perches atop a rickety wooden stool, before an easel and canvas. In his lap, brushes and paints sit furled in a strip of fabric, ready to capture the dawn skies. Beyond them all lies an apron of rock and dirt, diligently swept by the ceaseless wind, and then a simple, sheer merciless drop to the surface below.

Then, cast in impressionist silhouette, is the Zaira. Charcoal hull against copper sky, three crisp upward strokes for masts, and the lazy arc of an anchor’s chain down to the weary, reliable docking mechanism that holds it, like so many ships before, in place. Scrapes are worn and torn into its surface from all the years of arriving and departing ships, delivering vital supplies or taking the venturous out into the world. A passing storyteller from the apron above might point out one of the larger chunks missing from the surrounding stone, while relating a tale of a wrecked ship to the next generation, as it was told to them.

Dawn Catte is shepherding a large case of clothes, tools, and sentiment, down a wide flight of worn granite stone steps, towards the dock. Her stride is purposeful but not rushed; it creates distance between herself and a reconsidered decision in pursuit.

In her wake, atop the stairs, stands Lillian Hargill, arm extended to wave, her face a mask of unprocessed emotion at the brief exchange and farewell to a lifelong friend. On her other shoulder rests the sleeping head of Alora, her daughter.

To the rear of the ship, a rope is in the process of being tied into a knot by the anxious hands of Natt Chamber, his unshaven face turned back towards home, his gaze more distant still. Sleepless eyes rest exhaustedly on the sun-glazed town that has framed his every memory for seventeen years, but he carries the set jaw and squared shoulders upon which hang an inner determination. The knot will be untied, worked into a new configuration, untied again, and so on until his hands act without thought.

Beneath his feet, a patchwork of planks across the deck, both old and new, tell their tale of a ship with a deep history. Experience earned from voyages past has taught the old where to flex without breaking, while optimistic newcomers take the place of those who, through strain or age, were forced to relent.

In a dim, cramped cabin beneath these planks, Captain Rufus Hollitt is leant forward over a sturdy table of wood and iron, splayed hands astride a map of known territories. The tired leather of his face wears all the many years that have come before, but is still home to the terse eyes, honed and polished by countless voyages, that now survey their route from above. A long coat of deep green, trimmed with gold, flows down past his waist. Like the Captain it is well-kept despite its years, but still unavoidably bears the scars and seams that tally the passage of time. A small, buttoned-up pocket stitched onto the left side of his chest holds the sycamore seed that he received just a gull’s call away in a small ceremony that grows more recent in memory with each passing year.

Behind him, downlit by the soft glow of a gently-swaying lantern, Eleanor Reed holds a ledger documenting the present state of Zaira’s crew and supplies, from which she has just finished delivering a morning briefing. The handwriting is functional but scratchy, in contrast to her pristine brown waistcoat, white shirt, dark blue trousers, and buffed brown leather boots; her posture a little straighter for being able to leave the baggage of her family’s pride back on land.

Forty-three names on the page, the construction of another patchwork assembled from local means: those raised on stories of hope and heroes now looking to leave their own mark on history, and those who survived long enough to learn every trick except how to stop. In concert their goal is one of discovery, to chart the treacherous layout of the Shards and to finally open the skies to safe, new passages.

Orryn Buckgrove is simply trying to find his berth. A leather bag of clothes hefted on his shoulder, and distracted thoughts already building a picture of his return. His awareness of the danger ahead places it at the boundaries of thought, beyond the horizon where it waits to be encountered at another time. The distance beneath his feet to the ground so far below, by contrast, sits so large and present as to be almost normal, so instead his focus rests upon his safe and successful return to a proud family and comfortable home.

On the bunk that he is standing beside, sits Gloster Johns in the process of unpacking his own belongings, imparting familiarity to his surroundings: from his wife, Morah, a book of pressed flowers taken from the garden they tend together, and cost them so much. From his son, the knitted cap that kept his head warm and safe from the winds of his first year. These are both fuel to the hope he carries in his chest that his return will herald a change in their fortunes.

The worn, black leather of Grace Verlinnick’s boots are resting on the desk that runs the length of the wall in the surgeon’s quarters, as she is rocking back in her chair, tired eyes closed, and platinum hair momentarily unbundled in a fleeting, private attempt at rest away from the crew. Hard surfaces protect, and her callouses have had thirty years of contact with all imaginable forms of suffering, so for her crew’s survival, as well as her own, she keeps herself at a distance, and her vulnerabilities well-hidden: she knows that it’s much harder to remove a demolished leg from a friend than a stranger. Her preparations have been characteristically extensive and fastidious, and the launch would be uneventful, so she allows the stillness to wash over her as she affords herself a brief moment of respite.

In the quiet of the Navigator’s cabin at the fore of the ship, a new reflection smiles back at Jim Barlow from the small mirror on his desk, that stands amid scattered heaps of freshly-cut chestnut hair. The face, his face, beams like the recognition of an old friend in a busy crowd. It is a day of brave choices and new directions, and he wears the anticipation of introducing himself to the crew. The stillness creates a space for the Melody to surround and embrace his thoughts, bringing with it a heightened sensitivity to distant surroundings.

*

A bell rings, a bird calls, steam rises, and dew drops begin to fall.

Captain Hollitt inhales a breath, leans back to a stand, and flexes out the clenched hands that have been in contact with the desk.

“Thank you Stanchion Reed; commendable attention to detail,” he mutters, while nodding with approval.

“Thank you, Captain.” she responds, straightening up yet further.

“All looks well organised, everything seems to be on schedule to take today’s best winds,” continues the Captain, a wry smile creasing the corner of his mouth, “but I’m old enough to know how far that can carry us. It’s a rare thing to see a plan survive its own execution.”