QSFer Joyce Chng has a new queer pirate fantasy out (bi, non-binary, trans FTM): Sailing the Golden Cheronese.
Neo has been raised to be their father’s son, to succeed him as the captain of the pirate vessel Sri Matahari and to sail the seas of the Golden Chersonese raiding and having adventures. They thought this was all that they needed or wanted until the beautiful Maria sought their help on her quest for vengeance. Together, they will avenge wrongs, encounter Naks and other wonders and find a magic all their own.
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Excerpt
Saints and Bodhisattvas
Where the straits interlaced each other with the confluences of currents and trade routes was the famed Golden Chersonese, a beacon of light, the center of all wealth and riches. Saints and bodhisattvas met there, allies in the inter-exchange of spirituality and learning. You would find your path there, they said. You would never hunger nor would you thirst. Bewitching creatures lurked in the Golden Chersonese, fantastic animals that populated your mind’s bestiary. Birds of paradise with tails that flamed like the sun, dragons with large flickering tongues and poisonous saliva, and large cats that roared and founded a city. It lured many explorers, sailors of the sea and wind. It lured me.
I was born in the middle, a straddler between two worlds, one of the sea and one of solid land. The midwife laughed and said I was destined to ride the waves, breathing both ocean air and the sap of sea almond and angsana trees easily. Ibu was perturbed by the midwife’s words, but she only held me, so she said, trying to protect me from the elements. I was in the middle, where the currents of life swirled like whirlpools forming at the wake of ships. At two, I was already swimming. At four, I stood at the prow of a skiff, the sea breeze on my face, the sea singing in my veins. At ten, I joined my father in his travels. I remembered soaring sunbaked stupas, the Sanskrit and Pali of saffron-robed monks, and the solemn tolling of gereja bells on Formosa’s hill. I remembered the fragrance of spices and sandalwood wafting through the narrow sunbaked streets of Melaka, the cries of the vendors hawking their wares.
When I turned eighteen, I was given my own perahu. Rare for a girl, but I was never a girl, never a boy either. I wore a lacy kebaya at home, a simple chinon and baggy trousers at sea. My hair was bound tight. I swung on ropes, unencumbered by loose strands of hair. My right hand held a dao, a gift from a friend whom I saved. His ship burned, his cargo gone, but he lived. He was grateful to be alive. I was a saint for saving him.
I fought with his dao, now my dao. With it, I explored the Golden Chersonese.
Then, she came into my life like a bodhisattva.
***
My men were loudly discussing the merits of cooking while they repaired my ship. Away from home, they longed for their homes, so they distracted themselves with repair work. Sleek, sharp of prow, my ship cut through the sea like a kris. Yet it was not invincible against the forces of nature. Wood wore down easily, got chipped and sometimes dented. The underside of the ship had to be scraped thoroughly. Months at sea meant abundant growth of sea life. The sharp edges of the shells on the ship’s sides hurt our exposed skin.
They joked about making seafood kari with the mussels as they removed them. On lean days we often picked them off the sides of the ship and ate them boiled in coconut water. I never liked them. I craved my mother’s nasi ulam. I missed the cleansing taste of the finely-chopped herbs and the bitterness of the fried shallots. But to play along, I laughed with them, like the way my father had taught me. In their eyes, I was the towkay’s son.
The last raid saw our rival, another band of lanun, trying to escape. In their panic, they rammed the prow of their perahu into the side of my ship. The sound of it made me sick to the stomach. It reminded me of breaking bones. We were lucky water hadn’t seeped in. We limped into our port, our lives and cargo intact. I was livid. We would have to spend the whole month repairing the ship and miss a season of plying the sea before the torrential rains returned. I hated returning to port and having to wait the rains out. For the repairs, I traded in a new chest of precious Chinese silk in exchange for tools and timber. I had intended the chest to be sold to a buyer. It felt like a bad start to the season.
Around this time, the dry season was nearing its end, ready to go but unwilling to leave. The land was parched, the grass a brittle brown, and the wind hot against my cheeks. It blew in gusts, stirring up puffs of dust from the ground. A large desiccated spider tumbled across my sandaled feet. The withdrawing tide exposed the seabed rippling with life. Tiny fish darted in the pools of clear water. Crabs waved their pincer claws. I leaned back into the warm sand, my arm across my eyes, glad for some respite. I only wanted the repairs done as soon as possible. The heat lulled me into a light nap.
I heard someone walking towards me, footsteps crunching on the sand. I glimpsed beaded slippers with glittering beads of vivid red and green. Beaded slippers? I raised my face then to the glare of the afternoon sun. She stood before me, imperious, the sunlight outlining a slim figure clothed in a vivid sea-green kebaya and red sarong. Young nonyas were usually accompanied by a stern matronly chaperone when they left their house, if they ever left it at all. They led sheltered lives. What a rare occurrence indeed.
“You must be the captain of the Sri Matahari.” The voice was young and confident, clear with precise pronunciation of the patois spoken in our parts of the Golden Chersonese. I got up quickly, dusting my chinon trousers as I surveyed the girl in front of me.
Author Bio
Joyce Chng lives in Singapore. Their speculative fiction has appeared in The Apex Book of World SF II, We See A Different Frontier, Cranky Ladies of History, Multispecies Cities and Accessing The Future. Joyce also co-edited The Sea is Ours:Tales of Steampunk Southeast Asia with Jaymee Goh. They wrangle fiction and nonfiction editing at the Hugo-winning Strange Horizons. Alter-ego J. Damask writes about werewolves in Singapore. Joyce has also written a sapphic YA fantasy duology with swordsmith clans.
You can also find “Saints & Bodhisattvas” in Scourge of the Seas of Time (and Space), published by Queen of Swords Press.]
You can find them at http://awolfstale.wordpress.com and @jolantru.bsky.social on Bluesky. (Pronouns: she/her, they/their)
| Author Website | http://awolfstale.wordpress.com |
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| Author Bluesky | @jolantru.bsky.social |