by Kevin Hearne
“Absolutely!” Alobartalus nodded and tried to puff up with pride but instead puffed out in the belly area. “I am a member of the Sylvan Port Expert Rangers of the Morningwood.”
Captain Luc blinked at him a couple of times. “Errrr, doesn’t that forrrrm an awkwarrrrd acrrrronym?”
Feng snickered, but Alobartalus just shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Elves tend not to enjoy acronyms, so we don’t think about them.”
The parrot bobbed up and down on his human perch. “Neverrrr mind. You wouldn’t enjoy this acrrrronym eitherrrr. Betterrrr out than in, aye? An elvish sea rrrrrangerrrr. That’s what we’ll call you. Ye hearrrr me, Feng? He’s a sea rrrrangerrrr! You are not to tell the crrrrew about the acrrrronym.”
“Bwa ha!” the first mate burst out, then regained control of himself and nodded as solemnly as he could, which was not very. “Aye aye, Captain. Simply a fresh seaman, newly wet behind the ears. Hee hee.”
Alobartalus remained steadfastly elvish and did not think about what the acronym might be. His uncle might have been proud of him in that moment, but it was unlikely.
“Rrrright. Come along, then, elf. We could use cleverrrr hands on deck. We’ll get ye to the Sn’arrrrchivist in exchange for yourrrr laborrrr.”
Alobartalus grinned. “Thank you. That’s fantastic. I’ll just grab a few things.”
“Verrrry few! Be at The Puffy Peach in an hourrrr. We arrrre only loading more food and frrrresh waterrrr and then we sail.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Alobartalus saluted and returned to his tourist trap with a light step and a lighter heart. He crammed some personal necessities in a bag, wrote a note for his replacement, and locked up the Proudwood Lighthouse behind him. The lighthouse lantern, after all, was magic and didn’t require his upkeep; he’d merely been a rod-and-grease salesman, but now he was free. A month’s leave or more began today! He couldn’t stop smiling as he made his way down to the docks.
What if the Sn’archivist offered him gainful employment, obviating the need to ever return? What might it be like, living on his mentor’s private island—an island bereft of sunburned, pushy tourists—with access to his vast library, which no doubt smelled of ink and glue and dry paper? Would that not be the most spiffing of all destinies? Why, he might excrete glitter in sheer joy, the way the birds in the Morningwood did!
As he mounted the slippery surface of The Puffy Peach and inhaled the rank stench of salt, sweat, and fish, he grinned to himself and thought about all his dreams that were going to come true. He would sail across calm, pleasant seas, make friends with the pirates, and meet his hero. What could possibly go wrong?
When Captain Luc, Feng, and Queefqueg returned from their secretive trip to the lighthouse island, they brought along an annoyingly large box of pre-weeviled hardtack and something Morgan had never seen before: an elf. A real, live elf, although he looked more like a chubby kid in a bad Pelloween costume.
For all that she didn’t know much about pirating yet, Morgan was still surprised that the parrot was willing to take on such a wide array of people, most of whom were inexperienced sailors. If what she’d heard about elves was true, the fellow would only cause trouble on the ship with his elvish pranks, snotty attitude, and constant glittery escapades. Yet when the elf approached her, his smile was open and friendly.
“Greetings! I am Alobartalus,” the elf said, holding out his hand for a hearty shake.
“Morgan,” she replied, glancing down to see if his palm concealed a buzzer or possibly a secret squirt of glitter. “And this is my friend Tempest. And that centaur over there is Vic. You, um, might want to give him a wide berth.”
“Oh, I’m not in charge of bunks,” Alobartalus said, looking confused. “Have they not already been assigned? And what kind of hammock could hold those hoss hocks, am I right?”
And that was when Morgan realized he was perhaps the only member of their odd crew with any training for the sea and also that he was pretty likable, for an elf.
They pulled up the anchor and left the lighthouse behind. Under the gimlet eye of Qurt Qobayne, the crew had succeeded in swabbing up most of the blood and chum that had made The Puffy Peach so sticky and rank over the past several days. She was good as new and raring to go, and everyone seemed refreshed and relieved to be out of the Myn Seas and sailing into the fair winds of the Urchin Sea. Milly Dread had assured everyone that these waters were known for their delicious sea urchins rather than the city type of urchin, which was known for pickpocketing and the wanton spread of communicable diseases.
“That kind don’t taste nearly as good,” she said. “Quite stringy.” And everyone inched ever so slightly away as the old woman went back to picking her cavernous nose and singing sea shanties as she filleted a pile of fish, carefully bucketing the chum.
As they sailed out into the crystal-blue waters, Morgan climbed up into the crow’s nest, taking her turn on watch. Luc made sure his new recruits—at least the ones who weren’t gigantic clumsy centaurs—rotated through their duties so they wouldn’t be ignorant rats, although he pronounced it “ignorrrrant rrrrats,” which sounded like a great name for a dwarvelish thrash-uke band. Morgan had no fear of heights or seagulls and loved her quiet time alone in the nest, looking out through the spyglass for whales, testy sea serpents, and lost, angry gryphons. Just now she was studying a yellowed and dog-eared copy of Ye Olde Pyrate Manual, which Captain Luc had lent her with either a wink or an annoyed twitch of his good eye.
The book was small and old, with fascinating scrawlings in the margins and salty pages wrinkled from years at sea. Although Morgan didn’t plan on adding either arrrr or yarrrr to every utterance, as the book suggested, she did enjoy the chapter on naming conventions, as a pirate captain was expected to select a moniker that either struck fear into every heart or made everyone think, Oh, the Tidy Captain Herbert? He must be rather pleasant! right before said Herbert and his dark-hearted crew tossed over their grappling hooks and keelhauled everything within an inch of its life.
The longer she spent on the ship, the more she thought about the many attractions of a life at sea in a position of leadership with a proper sort of hat. Her father would never find her here, and that arranged marriage could not be arranged if her address kept moving and her sword arm kept growing stronger. Pirate clothes felt like pajamas and were far less restrictive than what she’d been expected to wear as a lady. She enjoyed having her shorter hair clubbed back and kept tidy under a kerchief, and she’d grown quite fond of her beard. As a child, she’d been encouraged to brush her long hair fifty strokes every night, and now she spent that time oiling her beard instead, which was far more pleasant. No one made fun of her for keeping her beard or suggested she depilate, nor had anyone made sexist remarks. On the ship, everyone did their job, and nobody gave anybody guff. She was accepted, just as she was.
The pirate life, she realized with an internal yo ho, was for her! Now she needed the right name.
As she scanned down the list of appropriate epithets, she thought she might as well try a few on for size.
“The Nice Pirate Morgan,” she said to herself.
But she was sick of being nice. Her father had always urged her to be nice and a host of other things marriageable girls were expected to be: sweet, kind, generous, giving, attentive, fecund, silent, still, pretty, no, please, darling, your mouth is still moving, and it should stop doing that and instead smile. Thinking about it now, she was fairly certain what her parents really wanted was a goldfish or possibly a vase of fake flowers, not a daughter with a mind of her own.
Perhaps she’d rather go with a more traditional nickname, one to strike fear in the hearts of all who saw her flag and recognized her ship.
“The Vicious Pirate Morgan,” she said. “Morgan the Most Murdery.”
She smiled. It was good to know there were options, and she didn’t miss her old name
at all. Who named a child Harkovrita? Honestly? Almost as if someone was trying to make her life horrible on purpose. No one would fear the Dread Pirate Harkovrita. It was good, leaving that name behind as she started her new life.
“The Cordial Captain Morgan,” she growled, grimacing properly and squinting one eye, as nearly all pirate captains eventually lost an eye to some threat or other. The full effect pleased her enormously. In that moment she decided she wanted to be the captain of her own ship, although she still wasn’t certain what that entailed, as a profession. Was there a pirate university, perhaps, or a correspondence course? To whom would she pay taxes? Could she hire an accountant? They had not yet keelhauled anyone, stormed another ship, or taken anything resembling treasure, but she could deal with grog and fish and biscuits for every meal, which was described in Chapter 3, “Yarrrr, How to Get Scurvy in Only Thirty Dayes.”
Putting the spyglass to her eye, she scanned the turquoise waves all around. Behind them, the Proudwood Lighthouse rose stiff and white above the waves, with just the faintest hint of lavender at its tip. A tall elf with golden hair stood on the walk, waving to her in a way that suggested he might need rescuing, and she waved back cheerfully but noncommittally. The tumescent trees of the Morningwood mirrored the lighthouse on the other side of the strait, an explosion of dark bushes hugging the coast, rimed with a sparkle of glitter. She swung the spyglass down and spotted a pretty pod of dolphins skimming along beside the ship, ever hopeful for some bit of fish tossed overboard from Milly’s cleaver. Looking ahead, she saw nothing but seemingly endless blue and a sleek ship speeding toward them, black sails billowing.
Wait.
That wasn’t right.
Following the instructions in Ye Olde Pyrate Manual, she rubbed her eyes comically, jaw dropped, and looked again. The ship was still there, but it was now just a tiny bit closer, which was not what one generally wanted out of a ship bearing Pyrate Flag Number 17, affectionately known as “Exactly What Thy Skull Would Look Lyke wythe Seventeen Swords Stuck yn Yt.”
“Ship ho!” she shouted.
All activity on the deck halted; all eyes turned up to her.
“I thought you told me I couldn’t use that word?” Vic shouted back.
“No, she means there’s a ship coming toward us,” Alobartalus said, but not in a dickish way.
“What see you?” Captain Luc cried, in that uncanny way he had of avoiding anything with Rs when time was of the essence.
“Black ship. Um, fourteen guns and four sails.”
“Which flag?” Luc squawked.
“Number seventeen.”
“Ah, crrrrackerrrrs. Quickly down, lass. We’ll need all available talons to fight this one. Can ye see anything else that might help us?”
Already climbing down, Morgan held up the spyglass once more as she clung to the net. “It’s riding low in the water. The captain has a really big hat. And it’s covered in brown worms.”
“The hat is coverrrred in worrrrms?”
“No, the ship. Probably not worms. Wriggly brown things. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“So few things do on the sea,” Luc called. Morgan blinked as she recognized the aphorism from the manual, where she’d found the list of “10 Cryptic Thinges to Say When You Don’t Wante Yer Crew to Know Ye Have a Case of Anxiety Shittes.”
But something caught her eye. She wound a leg around the netting, secured her elbow, and held up the spyglass again, leaning into the wind.
“Captain, they’re sending a signal! With flags!”
Now she had Luc’s attention. “Call it out, then, lass! Let’s see if you’ve been studying yerrrr semaphorrrre.”
As the crew hastened to prepare for a skirmish under the orders of Feng and Qobayne, Morgan went on full alert and began calling out letters.
“N! E! E! D!” she shouted.
“Yes, yes,” Captain Luc peevishly squawked. “Need what?”
“A! I! Um…”
“Aim? They need to aim? Well, that ain’t my prrrroblem! I’d like it if they didn’t aim atall!”
“No, Captain. It’s hard to read the flags, as there are little brown things crawling up the signaler, and he keeps dancing around. I believe it’s A-I-L.”
“Need ail?” Captain Luc considered it. “Gods of Pell! Looks as if these scalawags are boarrrrding us for craft beerrrr when all we have is rrrrum, and they be bad spellers to boot! Well, let ’em come. They can’t have me ship’s grrrrog, lass, so come on down and help fight ’em off!”
Morgan was too high up to read the parrot’s facial expression, and if she was honest, he didn’t actually have facial expressions that she could read, but he did seem pretty pleased about the idea of a fight.
By the time Morgan’s boots hit the boards, the captain was merrily squawking at everyone to fluff their loins and prepare to fight for their lives and their grog. Morgan was on grappling-hook duty just then, so she went to her assigned spot beside Tempest, who was already twirling a wicked iron hook while she watched the other ship approach. The new elf stood on Morgan’s other side, twirling his hook with a maddening speed that suggested he was no stranger to grappling. The hook felt good in Morgan’s hand—sturdy and real. It was her first fight with something other than an angry sea serpent, and she’d been studying and was certain she knew what to do. She put a knife between her teeth and grinned, her blood fizzing with salty excitement.
The black ship sliced through the water like a sharp pair of shears through silk, headed straight for them but aimed to pass on the port side, where their cannons could be brought to bear—or, more likely, where they could mount a boarding operation. The figure holding the flags had been swarmed with the wormy brown things and was waving his pennants with no clear message, while the man with the biggest hat—always the captain—was screaming bloody murder.
“Hal! Hal!” he screeched.
“I’m not Hungrrrry Captain Hal!” an insulted Captain Luc squawked back, flapping into the air. “And I don’t carrrre if you be thirrrrsty, as we don’t have ale!”
The black ship rudely ground itself against the port side of The Puffy Peach, and Morgan spread her legs to weather the shuddering wood. Somewhere, the clop and slide of hooves and the splatter of tea suggested Vic wasn’t doing quite so well, but Morgan felt alive and was only waiting for her orders.
Finally, Captain Luc shouted, “Grrrrappling hooks! Now, you dogs! Let’s grrrrapple!”
Morgan’s hook was the first to fly through the air and clank over the other ship’s railing, sticking on the first throw. She pulled her line taut as Alobartalus expertly tossed his hook and Tempest missed, her hook clattering down between the ships. Clank-clank-clank! The hooks landed all along the rail, the old and new crew helping to yank the invading black barque closer so they could swarm over the side with swords raised. Morgan had expected the other crew to behave likewise, as that’s what the manual suggested happened during a dogfight. They were all supposed to meet in a clash of swords and evil laughs and threats. But the other pirates all seemed too busy running around and shrieking as sleek brown forms raced and clambered and squeaked, scurrying between legs and clawing up breeches.
“What are they?” Alobartalus asked.
“Uh, what kind of elf are you that you’re not one with nature?” Tempest shot back.
“Not a very good elf, and thanks for the reminder,” he said stiffly. “But still, what are they?”
Morgan cocked her head. “Otters?” she said. “Like, really seriously hyped-up otters?”
But she didn’t have time to consider that bit of strangeness further.
“Attack while they be incapacitated!” Captain Luc cried, and as one, the crew leapt over the railings and crawled onto the black galleon. The parrot flapped in the air between the ships, just out of reach of any stray cutlasses—not that the invading pirates had the
good sense to use them.
They hadn’t even shot their cannons once, which didn’t jibe with what Morgan had heard about such skirmishes. Perhaps the other captain was hoping to take the ship while it was still in good condition? Her captain, of course, had likewise refrained from putting holes in the black ship, so maybe there was some agreement in place to avoid damaging future goods or blowing up the very ale one craved.
Remembering not to tongue the small dagger between her teeth, Morgan landed on the other ship, sword out, prepared for her very first fight….
But none came. The other pirates were too busy freaking out.
“Who wants a little?” Alobartalus cried in a very unelfly way, but it appeared that no one wanted any.
“Why won’t they fight?” Tempest asked. “Mr. Stabby is ready!” When Morgan looked at her friend, she saw the dryad’s hair lifting like branches, small leaves shaking as if in a storm.
Confused, Morgan grabbed the nearest pirate by the filthy cravat and pulled him close, putting her cutlass to his throat. “Nrph ner,” she growled, before remembering that there was a knife between her teeth. She spat it out and tried again. “You there. What’s happening? Why do you want our ale?”
“Ale? Ale?” the man sputtered. “We don’ want ale, ye fool! We want aid! Aid, as in help! It’s the otters! They’ve gone bonkers!”
“Otters? Bonkers?”
The man gestured to the chaos on deck. Even Captain Luc’s crew had joined the pandemonium as sinuous brown otters zipped and rumpused everywhere, climbing up people and reaching paws into the moist caverns of their mouths, searching for shellfish, finding only terrified tongues, and getting a bit bitey when dissatisfied.
The man sighed. “The otters. In the hold. They escaped. They’re hungry. And bored, I reckon. Smart things, otters.” And then he screamed, as an otter had zipped up the inside of his pants leg and was causing unsightly bulges here and there.
Morgan released him and picked up her knife. “I’m not getting anywhere with this oaf, and I can’t fight someone who won’t fight back. Where’s their captain?”
