The Rose's Garden and the Sea

by Jackie McCarthy

  “Dez-dee-ash,” she spoke.

  Kaille repeated it to her satisfaction.

  “That’s very pretty,” he said. “You two have the same nose, is Ikpek here your brother?”

  Dezadeash nodded.

  “And what about this man?” Fenric gestured to the other cot. “Do you know Whyl?”

  Dezadeash looked at the man, considered him as though for the first time. After awhile, she shook her head.

  “Well, I suppose it was too much to hope,” Kaille resigned. “Tell me more about the Scribe, Fenric. Who is he?”

  “He is ‘scribe.’ That is…drawing words?” Dezadeash offered.

  “I know ‘scribe,’ but thank you,” Kaille said, flailing somewhat. “How do you know him? Is he your… master?”

  Dezadeash looked pained. “She follows him.”

  Captain Kaille tried a different approach. “Why were you on that ship?”

  “To…to go on water,” she said with difficulty.

  “No,” Kaille shook his head, trying to find easy words, “it was a royal ship. How did you get on it?”

  “I…I walked on it?” she answered, sounding uncertain.

  “Do you know ‘royal’?” Kaille pulled a coin from his pocket. He pointed to the face of old King Lukilar stamped on it.

  Dezadeash touched the coin and recoiled. “Dead man,” she whispered.

  Kaille sighed, recognizing a waste of time when he saw one. He stood to leave.

  “You two stay here,” he said, motioning for them to remain sitting. “When Fenric comes back we’ll figure out what to do with you. For now, don’t let anyone see you. We have enough problems already without whispers of a curse.”

  * * * * *

  Fenric had heard tales of Provinces that, after the National Guard was disbanded, instituted strict rules upon themselves. He had heard tell of cities where women were forced to where veils. He had no idea such rumors were true until he found himself limping down one of the thoroughfares of Portridge.

  Veiled women walked the streets shyly, grasping the arms of their male guardians. The huddled and desperate beggars moaned from where they lay, examples of extreme poverty and violence in full view.

  Fenric allowed himself to stagger slowly through the city, admiring the tall, ungainly stone buildings. Though it was, perhaps, inelegant to build upon the rough spires that shot up through sea and land, Fenric thought the use of natural formations as anchors to build ever skyward showed ingenuity. The architecture either mimicked or inspired the character of the people, and figuring out which was true was as fascinating a puzzle as anything.

  As he contemplated the buildings and the populace, Fenric kept a careful eye on the yellow-haired boy. He had stopped in front of a sign bearing the illustration of a mortar and pestle. The boy entered.

  An Apothecary? Fenric thought, what would he need there?

  Fenric hobbled up to the Apothecary’s, and then turned instead to the store across the street. Entering, he found himself among frocks and petticoats. The women’s dress shop sold plenty of garments like those he had seen in the town—heavy veils and long capes included—but he also saw styles more in keeping with the fashions elsewhere.

  “May I help ye, sir?” asked a small woman. Her husband looked on warily, clearly unaccustomed to seeing a lone man in a women’s store.

  “Ah…yes, please,” answered Fenric, keeping an eye on the blond boy through the dress shop’s open window. “I’m traveling to visit my niece, who I have promised a new frock for a ball.”

  “A ball?” asked the saleswoman. “You must be traveling far. Those things don’t hap’n much round here.”

  Fenric gave the woman a winning smile, saying. “What a crime, then, for such a charming companion as you deserves a turn on the dance floor.”

  Fenric winked at the shop woman, who blushed. Her husband growled.

  “Well, ain’t ye the sweetest?” the woman breathed, waving a hand of cheerful dismissal to her spouse. “How can I be of ass-istance?”

  Fenric peeked again through the window, seeing the blond boy still across the street. He said distractedly, “Ah, yes. Niece, Ball, that kind of thing. What about that pink one? That looks about right.”

  “A young girl, then?” the shop woman observed, lifting a simple knee-length frock from where it hung. “She hasn’t been presented yet?”

  “No, no,” Fenric said carelessly. The yellow haired boy was presenting the apothecary with coins. “She’s far too young for that. A child’s dress is just fine.”

  The woman continued trying to make conversation under the disapproving glare of her husband, who was now audibly grinding his teeth. Fenric, however, saw the boy leave the other shop and knew he needed to act quickly.

  Shoving a handful of coins at the woman, Fenric asked her with another wink to wrap the dress as a gift while he ran a quick errand. He crossed to the Apothecary.

  The shop’s many shelves all bore carefully labeled bottles of herbs and minerals. Several potions bubbled over various fires. The Scribe had to shake his head clear as scented smoke filled his senses.

  Fenric tried to discover what the boy had purchased by re-tracing his movements, but he soon found this to be a fool’s errand. There were far too many vials. He was about to leave, feeling at a dead end, when he remembered that Dezadeash had asked for “supplies.” His eyes rolled anew with skepticism as he recalled her claim that he would know what she needed.

  As an act of defiance, he grabbed three vials at random and paid. He did not believe in predetermination.

  Fenric hobbled back across the street and took the wrapped package from the saleswoman’s angry husband, who blocked the doorway and said nothing. Feeling rebellious, he tossed a final wink into the dark store, which was greeted with an approving giggle.

  Fenric turned and headed off after the yellow-haired boy.

  * * * * *

  Captain Kaille sat in his large cabin, plotting points from Auk’s rough drawing of Portridge onto his own navigation maps. Kaille often sat at his map table. It was a sturdy, circular place of serenity in a world sometimes atilt with change. It was a place to think and reflect. It was also, if he wasn’t careful, a place to brood.

  Like his map table, the Captain’s Cabin was Kaille’s haven. It was not ornate like that aboard the sinking ship, but indeed very simple. His bed sat solidly in the corner, his maps were laid out, his books lined up, and his clothes neatly folded. The wide set of windows behind the map table looked out through the back of the ship, displaying an often-grand view of the marvelous places they had been. Not always, though, he thought, not that night. That night it had been fire in their wake.

  The door creaked open.

  “A ten-penny for your thoughts?” Jas tossed a coin towards the Captain, which the latter caught easily. “Or your winnings for being an observant sot.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that my inferiors seek opportunities to let me win. I can’t decide if you made an easy bet in order to bolster my pride or to ease the blow of turning me into your obedient footman.” Kaille gestured for Jas to close the door. “So, now that I have done all you asked, how else may I be of service?”

  “Ah,” sighed Jas as he shut the door, “I see I have intruded on that Kaille.” Jas felt his hopes for a reasonable conversation deflate. He decided to speak frankly. “You need a new first mate.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do admirably in the role,” said the Captain. He picked up his pen and looked back at the navigation point he had just put down.

  “You know I won’t take the job,” Jas spoke with a sad smile. “A man has a place in his heart—”

  “—for only one ship,” Kaille finished, setting down his pen again in annoyance. He spoke with venom: “Spare me a repeat of that absurdity. You, backward thinking as you are, believe that your brother stole the love of your life—that Hawk-shaped travesty you call a sailing ship—but you’re wrong. It was his birthright, not yours, and you will never sail it. So, inste
ad of lying to yourself and wasting everyone’s time, why don’t you—”

  “Please,” Jas begged, eyes closed and visibly distressed.

  Kaille fought to leash his ire. The two sat silently for several minutes.

  When Jas spoke again it was with carefully restrained, slightly clipped words. “You appointed Hector as Second Mate when still in your right mind and he has performed his job admirably, so it follows naturally that he be promoted to First.”

  Captain Kaille said nothing. Unable to focus his attention on the map, he looked instead at Jas’ ten-penny.

  “As for a new Second,” Jas continued, “I have seen great promise in Auk McRae these past days. He has proven himself a hard worker and object of respect.”

  “Aye,” said Kaille, “he did a phenomenal job getting us beaten and covered in mud.”

  “He’s a bit rough around the edges,” Jas admitted, “but he’s an excellent sailor and leads by a good example. I think you should consider him.”

  Kaille snorted derisively, but held his tongue.

  “I’ll be below decks if you need anything,” Jas said, standing to leave.

  “What,” Kaille spat out his words, “you’re finished running my ship for today?”

  “It was a great joy to me this morning to spend time with the old you. I’d say ‘the real you,’ but I can’t be certain of that anymore. Whoever that was, I had hoped to see him stick around,” Jas said sadly.

  “I don’t need this from you, Jas,” Kaille retorted. “I don’t need you to tell me who it is that I ought to be. What do you know?”

  “Nothing, Eli. I know nothing,” Hawkesbury said. “I think you know I’m not your enemy. Neither is anyone else on board.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Kaille said, taking a drink from his bone cup. “We’re taught that monsters are made of evil and that bad people are just that, bad people, but none of it is true.”

  “Is that so?” Jas allowed himself to ask.

  “No. The enemy isn’t a villain or demon or army,” the Captain explained. “The real enemy is somewhere between the order I give and that sickening resolution that makes men follow it, even when they shouldn’t. No, especially when they shouldn’t.

  “Eli—” Jas tried.

  “But they do!” Kaille cried. “And then the monsters appear—except, it turns out, the monsters are ourselves. They wrap their slimy tentacles around the things you hold dear and…and squeeze until there’s nothing left.” Kaille’s eyes glistened. “There’s nothing left, Jas.”

  “I wasn’t aware that your life, your ship, and most of your crew counted as ‘nothing.’ You have the Turnagain,” said Jas, “and for what it’s worth, you have me.”

  “And what about,” Kaille asked, blinking rapidly, “when I make another mistake and lose all of that too?”

  “Evil doesn’t happen when you make mistakes, Eli,” Jas said compassionately. “You didn’t summon a beast by rushing into a rescue. I wish it was otherwise, but sometimes bad things…they just happen. I mean, you could sell your ship and go to live in a cave, and maybe then all tragedy would pass you by. But so would life. That’s what it is, the thing you’re actually angry at: it’s life. It’s chance. It’s fate. It’s the sun that warms us and the nights that chill. It’s the ship we sail on and the tides that bring us home. It is not, however—and damn you for suggesting it—your fault! For us, for the ship, and for the love of all the gods, stop blaming yourself.”

  The two locked gazes.

  Shifting, Kaille stared past his advocate for some moments before saying, disgruntled, “When did you become such a poet?”

  Then, he smiled.

  “We miss you up there in the land of the living,” said Jas, turning to leave. He made it halfway through the door.

  “Hawkesbury!” called Kaille.

  Jas returned. The Captain flipped the ten-penny coin back at him. He caught it readily.

  “Thank you,” Kaille said. Jas nodded and left.

  *

  Chapter 7:

  The Cap and the Mishap

  * * * * *

  Arion and the Underworld

  Persistent Myths of the Ancient Provinces

  By Archibald Schooner

  *

  The mountain kingdom of Illiamna was not always mountainous. At one time it was completely flat. A long, long time ago it was ruled by the three gods: Illiam, the eagle, god of the sky; Miseros, the whale, goddess of the sea; and Arion, the bull, god of the land.

  Before time, Illiam, Miseros, and Arion lived peacefully together, equal in their power and responsibility.

  Patient Illiam, god of the sky, had many important tasks that took up most of his time, such as herding the clouds, the stars, and the sun across the sky. Miseros too could be absent for eons at a time, guiding the tides and currents of the sea. Arion, left alone on his vast empty plane, grew very bored.

  Seeing their brother’s unhappiness, Illiam instructed him to sculpt an animal out of clay. When he had done this, Miseros splashed it with her magical waters and Illiam breathed into it with the winds of life. The animal shook off a layer of mud, revealing a thick fur coat beneath, and bounded off onto the plain.

  Being pleased with his new minion, Arion formed more figures out of clay. He made them in all shapes and sizes, and showed them each day to his siblings with excitement. Illiam and Miseros took pity and brought these to life as well. For a time, Arion found great happiness herding his odd collection of creatures.

  One of the clay animals, however, was man, and man did not like to be herded by the gods. One day, while the three gods were conversing, man escaped. He traveled to the far edges of the land, where Arion never went, and established his own towns and cities.

  Man multiplied and expanded, and soon grew weary of living at the edge of the world. After countless generations they forgot why they were hiding, and so they ventured back to the center of the land.

  Arion, herding his now-vast flocks, was shocked to see man’s return. He had forgotten about them also. When he tried to push them into line, they defied him. Arion’s temper—as hot as a bull’s—erupted. There was a great battle, and when the dust had settled, Arion had succeeded in forcing man to his will.

  But Man was not to be underestimated. When Illiam pushed the sun into the sky, Man behaved well, doing as they were told, but when the moon took its place, Man schemed for freedom. Using all of their numbers, they dug a very deep tunnel into the ground.

  One day, when Arion had come to shepherd them, Man told him that one of their number had wandered off and was lost. Eager to reclaim all of his subjects, the great bull demanded to know where his minion had last been seen. They pointed Arion towards their tunnel and he fearlessly went in.

  While Arion traveled deeper into the earth, Man covered the top with soil and stone. They said their own magic words—words no gods had ever heard—to cast a spell upon the land so that the bull would be unable to escape.

  Before long, Arion reached the end of the tunnel and, with none of his flock in sight, turned back only to find his way blocked.

  Furious that he could not escape, Arion bucked and kicked wildly at the rocks and dirt above him. Though he could not kick his way out, the ground gave way to his violent movements. Each time his horns or hooves struck the earth, the ceiling was pushed violently upwards, forming on the surface a mighty mountain peak.

  Man, thinking themselves victorious, had joined hands in a circle surrounding the blocked tunnel. They sang in celebration. From the middle of their circle, the first peak—the imposing volcano Hyufer—sprang like lightning from the earth. They were all tossed backwards as fire erupted into the sky. The ground shot high with peak after peak as the bull raged into the night.

  Many hours later, when Arion’s temper had finally subsided, Man looked through the dust and smoke to see towering walls of stone in every direction. The island continent had been divided into sections, and the singing circle of Man had been divided
along with it. The steep cliffs of these new mountains were too steep to climb, and so, knowing they would never see their loved ones again, Man traveled out towards the sea.

  This is how, for better or worse, Arion became god of the Underworld and Man gained dominion over the land. This is also how humans created their own hell.

  * * * * *

  Rose was correct in believing that Heladon would play tricks with her uncle’s mind. A rare plant found primarily in the stark mountain regions of Kentshore, Heladon developed a hallucinogenic poison as a defense against the grazing goats of the Kent Range Highlands. Shepherds of the region destroy the weed where found, having all been witness to a pair (or even entire flock) of goats running, as though in sheer panic, off the side of a mountain.

  Heladon had long been gathered regionally for use in poultices, owing to its astringent properties. It would later gain popularity as a recreational drug used by the monarchy and royal court of Illiamna. Causing susceptibility to suggestions and light-induced hallucinations, the drug led to a fierce and fiery era in which the nobility of the realm would sometimes light themselves afire to mimic the pyres that lived in their minds.

  Rose had gathered much of this from her limited experimentation, which is why she waited until it was dark and many fires had been lit in the common area of her uncle’s inn before tipping half her vial of dried petals into his tankard of ale. She had just managed to slip the container back in her pocket and retreat into the shadows when Uncle Oric returned to his private table. He collapsed upon his ale, eager to render blurry the harsh edges of his evening.

  From a bench in a dark corner, Rose—still in boy’s clothing—tried to remain inconspicuous among the shadows. She glanced only occasionally at her uncle, pretending to listen with the inn crowd to a traveling minstrel as he tuned his lute.

  After a quarter of an hour, Rose noticed Oric’s expression begin to change. His jaw grew slack and his eyes grew dark. He stared at the flame of his candle as though it spoke to him.

  Oric was considering entering into a dialog with the rudely flickering flame when he felt a presence join him. The manifestation whispered, “I know what you’ve done.”

  To Rose’s horror, Oric’s eyes re-focused, though he spoke to the candle. “I don’t water down my mead, and I’ll fight any man who says I do.”