The Rose's Garden and the Sea

by Jackie McCarthy

  “It would appear that we had a local on board all this time,” Jas explained, “and not even your keen nose has caught a whiff of him. Furthermore, as fortune would have it, he is more than happy to guide us to and through his home city.”

  Jas stepped aside with a flourish to reveal a stout, somewhat greasy dark-haired man behind him.

  “Auk?” recognized the Captain with incredulity.

  * * * * *

  Rose returned to herself. She was walking quickly through the sweltering narrow streets of the stone city of Portridge. Panic had set in. Tall and slanting stone buildings with darkened windows pushed on her from all sides. Hooded, veiled crowds traveled quickly upon narrow walks, faceless shadows pushing Rose from the path.

  Rose was forced often into the gutters, to join the innumerable bodies already huddling there. They were without food or home, and for the most part lay still, bloated and weathered beyond recognition.

  “I used to have five sons,” croaked one of the few who seemed awake. The weather-beaten woman reached out with a claw-like hand. “Please, miss, please. Where are my sons?”

  Rose jumped back from her, only to step into an unkempt man who yelled, “Ye shouldn’t be here!”

  Rose gasped in surprise and fear at his face, which was dotted with oozing sores. She began to run. When far past his reach, she decided that running was the best thing to do.

  A chorus of pleading voices followed her as she sped out of sight:

  “Spare a coin, miss, oh please do…”

  “I haven’t eaten since last Tuesday…”

  “Ye can’t be here. It ain’t allowed…”

  “Where are my sons…”

  Frightened and soaked to the bone with sweat, Rose ran through the forest of begging hands, opening her mind so that the ferocious winds could take her away. She listened within her soul for Benson’s call.

  Mercifully, Rose slipped back to the eagle-winged sailing ship.

  * * * * *

  “How unlikely that he was born in this very city.” Jas was saying.

  “Well, if he had been born in another city, we would be having a different discussion, wouldn’t we?” said Kaille dryly, reluctant to be interested. He looked at Auk and gave it his best attempt, saying, “So, Portridge, you say? How…fortunate.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Auk answered in heavily accented tones. He spoke through the uneven, yellowing teeth and heavy lips of his ruddy face. “Born and raised, like ye said, right on the yonder.”

  “Charming,” Kaille said, aiming a smirk at Jas. “I can hardly wait.”

  Jas frowned, but said nothing.

  “Not much for looking at, but it’s the secret fishing capital of the Kingdom, you better believe,” Auk continued, scratching his round belly. “The most fruitful rivers of all the Duchies flow round about, and all o’ the fishermen bring their best catches here, where we’s got a deep bay and ships pull right up to the docks.”

  “It would perhaps be preferable for our noses to be further away—” Kaille began.

  “Auk has offered,” interrupted Jas, “to set up a meeting with a friend of his who knows experienced sailors looking for work.”

  Kaille grimaced in a reluctant attempt to smile, “Well, doesn’t that seem too good to be true?”

  * * * * *

  Rose wanted to stay on her imaginary ship, but her mind was pulled back to a flowery room. Her mother and sisters sat where she had left them.

  “Goodness! I think she left the inn!” yelled cousin Clare, a delicate hand cupped to her chest.

  “Rose is…impetuous,” Sara offered placating words. “The minute she’s told not to do something, she won’t rest until it is done. There’s no reason to worry.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that, little country mice. Cities are dangerous places,” Clare squealed, no longer trying to maintain her cool. “Mad or not, I do wish she hadn’t done that.”

  Sara was annoyed to find herself in the position of defending her sister. “She’s never been much for brains, I’ll be the first to admit, but Rose has always had a talent for getting out of trouble.”

  “The city is no place for a girl on her own!” Clare said with fierce finality. “Any manner of bad things can happen. Besides, it’s against the rules.”

  “R-rules?” asked Sara with uneasy curiosity.

  “Oh yes, women—and girls—are not allowed outside their homes without a male family member to escort them,” Clare recited, looking worriedly out the window. “It is rule number one, in point of fact. Pardon my language, but Illiam in the Sky, she doesn’t even have a veil!”

  “But…that’s not how Mama described this town at all,” stuttered Sara. “She used to talk about how…about how she stayed here when Aunt Lea was getting married... about how she worked as a seamstress for pocket money…right Mama?”

  Sara looked longingly at her mother, who did not deign to respond.

  “Sweet cousin,” Clare tittered condescendingly, “that was well over twenty years ago. After Nic Pharus usurped the crown, everything changed. There’s rules now. And rule number one is that women are not allowed—“

  “But…Nic Pharus hasn’t enacted any laws,” Sara said, drawing on everything political she had ever heard adults discuss, which wasn’t much.

  “Not Nic’s rules,” Clare disagreed knowledgeably, making Sara feel all the more like an ignorant country bumpkin, “the rules set down by the town elders. The monarchy stopped looking out for us—and how could they help it, what with being usurped and all—and the kingdom guard was disbanded…I don’t claim to know much about politics, but I know there has to be someone in charge.”

  “But...” Sara faltered again. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we just find work?”

  “Silly!” said Clare. “Ye can’t go out on the streets on yer own, so ye must work where ye live. And this is where ye live. It’s just…well, a woman alone is a target for all kinds of nasty what-have-ye, especially now that there’s so many refugees without homes. It was chaos here before the Rules. Some girls…they’re ruined for life, I’ll tell ye that much. And that’s just the ones that survived,” she shuttered. “Trust me, it’s for our own good.”

  * * * * *

  “Good to have that issue settled,” said Jas as Auk’s surly figure stalked away. “But a more delicate issue concerns me, as you can imagine.”

  “That’s quite the active imagination I have,” Kaille retorted, his hope that Jas would have followed their resident fishmonger now lost.

  “Before we take on a new batch of strangers, perhaps we should take stock of the strangers already on board?” Jas counted on his fingers. “We pulled four survivors off that wreck: one man from the lower decks who shows every signs of dying—there was a small journal in his uniform pocket with the name Whyl Winesmith carved into the cover; one old man with a useless leg; and two Tikaani savages, one of which is a woman! We must put her to shore as soon as possible—the crew is already whispering about a curse.”

  Kaille screwed up his face in thought, grasping the gravity of these things as he hadn’t before. “We’ll set the slave girl down in Portridge along with the dying man, Whyl.”

  “Good.” Jas sighed in relief, glad to see his friend making decisions. “And what of the old man? They’re his slaves. Have you spoken with him yet?”

  “No. I’ve been told his name is Fenric. He was asleep when I called upon him, so I suppose that will have to be enough to be getting on with.” Captain Kaille rubbed at his rough beard.

  Jas opened his mouth to disagree, thought better of it, and began again. “You were on that sinking ship, same as me…a ship with walls made of gold. You’re a shrewd enough man to know what questions you ought to be asking.”

  “Or perhaps,” Kaille’s words bit at the air, “I’m finally being a shrewd man by not asking. I did notice the luxury of the ship, as well as the royal insignia upon the dead guards, if that’s what you mean to suggest. I also noticed, however, t
hat the ship had been undergoing a rather severe re-decoration, courtesy of a mysterious black galley and its collection of cannons.”

  “All the more reason,” Jas countered, “that these survivors warrant our attention.”

  “That’s why I intend to have strong words with them,” the Captain conceded. “And there is no time like the future for delving into that mess.”

  “Well, when you get around to it,” said Jas, lowering his voice to a whisper, “ask them why they were sailing on a royal galley, none of which have been seen since they fled from the wrath of Nic the Usurper ten years ago. There’s only one reason that ship should be out—”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Kaille interrupted, louder than he meant to. He too spoke in a murmur, “There’s no need to say it.”

  “You’re wrong, there’s great need,” Jas said, drawing closer. “Eli, old friend, what if this marks the return of the heir?”

  * * * * *

  Below, in the cargo hold, the old man named Fenric was also thinking about the heir. He was a scribe by trade, or so he claimed. To be accurate, Fenric was a spider—a weaver of intrigue and schemer of plots. Rose, who joined him once more, could feel mystery emanating from the depth of his being, though she could not tell if his intentions were good or bad.

  The Scribe sat stiffly on the thick wooden crates that made up Captain Kaille’s stowed cargo. He listened gravely to the sea water swirling and crashing upon the ship’s immense hull. Was it the cramped, dark cargo hold that made him feel so very claustrophobic, or was it the weight of his perceived failure?

  “You give up so easily,” observed the Tikaani slave girl in her slow, careful accent. Dezadeash, Rose named her without knowing why. Yurukktuk. The Teller. She had crept up to them soundlessly from the shadows. Placing a supportive hand on his shoulder, she looked at the Scribe with her lively purple eyes.

  “There comes a point at which even the most persistent fool must admit defeat,” the Scribe sighed. “Fool I may be, and perhaps this is my time. I thank you, dear girl, for your efforts. It means a great deal to me that you tried.”

  The slave girl cocked her head, “Am I to stop trying also?”

  “It’s over,” Fenric said with a finality that resonated through his heartstrings.

  “You must have patience,” Dezadeash smiled in confusion. “It has not yet begun.”

  “Begun?” Fenric jeered. “I know you spend much of your time in the spirit world, but surely even you have noticed that our ship was destroyed. This warrior you spoke of will never find us now, if ever he existed to begin with.”

  “All magics require complete balance,” said the slave girl, now frowning and shaking her head. “A ship sinking may be such an act.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you’re responsible for the attack on the Illiamnaut?” Fenric breathed in jest.

  Dezadeash said seriously, “The action and its consequence exist outside our ability to control. I may set a course in motion, but I do not say where it will lead. It is led by destiny.”

  “There you go, speaking your pretty, cryptic words. You would suggest that our mistakes and the tragedies they design are meant to be,” Fenric smiled wryly, “but that is all they are: pretty, cryptic words.”

  “No, no,” Dezadeash knelt in front of the Scribe, frustrated that she was failing to communicate clearly. She took his hand and searching her mind for the right words. “These paths we travel, this ship and its Captain—this is your destiny.”

  “Malkiaai? The one you saw in a vision? It’s the Captain?” Fenric asked, awed. “We are truly doomed.”

  Dezadeash gave him a silencing look. “The Captain is important, but it’s not he you seek. The one you want is near.”

  “Near?” Fenric raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How conveniently vague.”

  Dezadeash raised an eyebrow in return. “I do what I can.”

  * * * * *

  Daylight happened at the end of the world. From out the shadow of an ancient tree, the boy spied on the girl by the riverside.

  He was not ashamed to see her weeping. He knew she wouldn’t have wanted a witness, however, so he sat at a distance and endeavored to pretend. She noticed him anyway, and hid her humanity.

  “The breeze here is so chilly,” Rose laughed forcibly. “I’m shivering. It’s strange, right? I thought it was summer! Don’t you remember it being summer?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Benson without thinking.

  “What do you mean you don’t remember? You haven’t been gone long enough to forget,” Rose cut off her words, in which she heard her own panic. She swallowed and continued tersely, “Well, don’t stress yourself about it. It’s summer.”

  “I always liked that time of year,” Benson said. He looked up at the ancient tree above, noticing a bud forming on a nearby branch. “Long days are the best for exploring.”

  “Stupid thing to forget, then,” Rose crossed her arms, determined to be angry.

  “Some things aren’t meant to be held on to,” Benson attempted to explain.

  Rose cried, “And some things are!”

  “And some things aren’t,” said Benson with a weighty finality.

  Their gaze held. Rose broke the contact, absentmindedly picking up the pebbles beneath her and tossing them at their ruin of a pirate ship. The stones hit with gentle pings. “Maybe you’re right. It’s like…should I remember fire? I feel like I could if I tried to, only…I think I’d rather not.”

  He gave it some thought. “I suppose it all depends on what fire means to you.”

  “It means,” Rose bit her lip, “that something happened. I can’t remember exactly. Or…or I don’t want to…”

  Rose jerked a rock from the ground and threw it forcibly at the boat. She felt immense satisfaction when she heard the old wood crack. “When I’m not here, with you, the world is different. And if not for fire it would be the same. I want it to be the same.”

  Benson said, “Sometimes change is important.”

  “How can this ever be good?” Rose yelled suddenly. “I don’t want to live in that awful stone city, Benson. I don’t want to live in that world.”

  “If change feels easy, you’re probably not doing it right,” Benson teased. “Anyway, I didn’t say ‘good,’ I said ‘important.’ Change is important. I know it’s hard, and you know I’d help if I could. One day, though, you’ll wake up and realize you know how to live there.”

  “But why can’t I live here,” Rose cried, “with you?”

  * * * * *

  “I want my sister and her daughters to live with us,” Rose’s Aunt Lea said, unknowingly uttering a thought that summoned Rose from her brother’s side.

  “I know ye do,” grunted Uncle Oric, emerging from his parlor into the dining area of his inn.

  “And?” Lea urged, hands wringing her apron tensely.

  “What business is it of yers?” he said gruffly. “And what’re ye playing at by demanding I tell ye? I decided we should sell ‘em this evening, before they’ve got a chance to eat all my mutton like they’ve devoured my tea. I know a man by the docks who gives a fair price.”

  Aunt Lea clung to him in horror. “A fair price?” she cried. “She’s my sister! They’re my nieces! Ye cannot sell them!”

  “Oh, I cannot? I take ‘em to the docks and I’m sure to find that I can,” Oric replied, shoving his clinging wife into a chair.

  “Ye mustn’t sell them,” Lea amended, struggling to stand, “I beg ye!”

  “Mustn’t I?” Oric echoed himself, his short fuse lit. “This is my home! My home! And ye’re mine. What right has my property to tell me what to do? Ye think I’m heartless? They’re yer blood—I wouldn’t give ‘em at a low cost. They’ll be servants, not slaves, which is the best they could hope fer anyway. I’ll make sure they get sent to a nice factory. That’s the end of it!”

  Oric roared this last, tossing down his towel and slamming the inn door.

  * * * * *

/>   “What do you mean he’s gone?” Captain Kaille spoke with dangerously clipped words to his shipboy after seeing the Scribe’s empty cot. “His leg is maimed, Cricket, it isn’t as though he can move quickly.”

  “There was…I don’t know Cap’n, smoke or something, and I…” stammered Cricket as his dignity melted away. He stared nervously at his Captain through his untrimmed ginger bangs. “I got really tired…and…and I think our ship has been cursed!”

  “Don’t blame a curse for your inattention,” Kaille advised harshly. “That’s beneath us all. Go find him.”

  “But, sir,” Cricket pleaded, “we’re about to dock and Hector needed me to—”

  “Go. Find. Him.”

  * * * * *

  “I’m sure papa will take care of ye, anyway,” cousin Clare was saying, “what with ye being family and all.”

  “It means a lot that you’re so confident,” said Sara. “You’re right, this place is very different than what we’re used to. If we could just impose on you until we can find work, we could repay all your kindness.”

  “Oh, that again…” Clare chuckled, “Ye don’t really expect to find jobs, do ye? I mean, there’s a bit of laundry that wouldn’t mind a second hand, but only boys can do most of the work that Papa needs help with, so the four of ye don’t help a whole lot. Raising girls can be pretty troublesome here if ye’re not ready.”

  “What else would we do?” Sara asked.

  “I guess ye can help a bit for now.” Clare said, unbelieving. “But it’s like I’ve been saying, ye belong to Papa. Ye’ll stay with us at the inn and he will take care of ye ‘til he finds ye husbands, I suppose.”

  * * * * *

  “I won’t take care of ‘em,” Uncle Oric yelled at his wife, who had followed him out onto the street. Her dull hair was uncovered, which caused many scandalized mutterings. She was beyond caring.

  “Her family was stolen by raiders. They’ve done nothing to ask for this fate!” Aunt Lea gestured wildly at a woman lying on street. For all either could tell, the guttersnipe may have been dead. “What if it was us? What if it was me and Clare and Tav? Wouldn’t ye want yer brothers to take us in?”

  A beggar shuffled up to the couple on his knees, a hand outstretched. Oric considered him.

  “This is the last time ye’ll tell me what I do or don’t want,” Oric said, a dangerous warning in his voice. “Now get inside before the whole city sees ye.”