The Rose's Garden and the Sea

by Jackie McCarthy

  Oric took an enormous swig of ale and crashed his mug heavily upon the table, which had never seemed so close to him before. He stared at the table as though seeing it for the first time.

  “I know what you’ve done,” Rose repeated.

  Oric sneered at the candle. “So ye claim, Master Bees-wax,” he snapped at it, “but what might that be?”

  “One of the worst things a man can do,” Rose hissed. “You betrayed the holy bonds of blood.”

  “I ain’t been bleeding nobody—” Oric scoffed, taking another large gulp.

  “Sacred blood binds all families,” Rose spat, “and you sold your wife’s kin as if they were goats—”

  Oric kept a close eye on the table this time as he navigated his mug’s landing. He told the table, “I think ye’ll find I’m well within my rights to do so.”

  “What care have Arion and the Underworld for the laws of man?” Rose let her voice rasp. “You sin against the most ancient and sacred bonds of blood.”

  Oric looked at the candle with great fear. He rolled his eyes wildly to the side and caught sight of Rose. He was shocked to see the dark, blurry figure sitting mere feet from him, seeming to smolder from within. “And what are ye going to do about it?”

  “If you don’t fix what you did,” she replied, “you’ll be punished.”

  “By this little thing?” Oric guffawed. “I’d like to see ye try!”

  “Not by me, you mockery of a man,” Rose growled, “I’m a messenger of Arion. Your punishment will be in the flames of the underworld.”

  “I…who are ye?” Oric reached out a hand towards Rose. He felt heat rolling off the self-proclaimed messenger from hell and retracted his hand before it could burn.

  “I’m your nephew, Benson,” she said.

  “I don’t got no nephew,” Oric said uncertainly. “If that woman had a boy she wouldn’t have come begging to me.”

  “I was sent in a form that would have meaning to you,” said Rose deliberately. To Oric’s drugged eyes, the ghost boy had begun breathing fire. “That is all. If you remedy your great sin,” Rose continued, “I’ll be but a shadowy memory. If you don’t, I’ll return and drag you down into a never-ending pit of fire where you belong.”

  Oric studied her very seriously for a time, then threw his head back and howled. He tipped the hat on Rose’s head. “Ye filthy little thief, ye almost had me!”

  * * * * *

  “My hat was here this morning,” Sara heard her cousin Tavis yell. “What did ye do with it?”

  “I ain’t been up here all day, what with Mama’s sister and all,” cousin Clare replied, her elegant graces now gone. “Are ye sure it ain’t still in yer room?”

  Tavis slapped her sternly across the face, declaiming her impertinent answer. Clare yelped in surprise and pain.

  Sara held a hand over her own mouth to stop from calling out. She crouched in tense stillness on the bent roof above the laundry room window. Earlier that day she had done what had seemed impossible only hours before—she had stolen a tunic, breeches, and hose from the unguarded pile of laundry. Despite needing only those things, she had impulsively grabbed Tavis’s fine, if frayed, hat.

  “I leave tomorrow for the mountains,” Tavis reprimanded. “Of course my sister wouldn’t want my head to be burned by the sun, so it seems only right that she would patch it for me, wouldn’t ye think?”

  “Of course, brother,” Clare tried to calm him, “and I did begin patching it yesterday, but—”

  “I don’t want yer excuses!” Tavis yelled so loudly that Sara felt the roof shudder at his strength. “I want my cap.”

  Sara heard a door open and hurried footsteps enter.

  “What’re these raised voices?” Aunt Lea asked, fearful and upset. “And why ain’t the sheets drying?”

  Her light footsteps bustled to the window and Sara saw it swing open beside her. Lea’s hooded figure appeared. She flung a set of sheets over the drying line.

  Sara, too surprised to move, froze when her aunt’s face appeared mere inches from her own. She attempted to remain perfectly still, but when her aunt turned for another set of sheets, she spied her niece. Lea, too, froze in surprise.

  “Mama,” Tavis whined from inside as Lea and Sara stared nervously at one another, “Clare was supposed to fix my hat, but instead it’s gone missing. I think she—”

  “But I did, Mama!” Clare pleaded. “I did patch it—”

  “Hush, both of ye,” Lea snapped, trying to keep steady eye contact with her niece.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Sara beseeched with the tiniest of whispers, “I promise we’ll return it. We just—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Aunt Lea said to her niece. She turned quickly and closed the window. Speaking to her children, she repeated, “Don’t be absurd. Ye mean that tattered old hat? It wasn’t worth mending. I gave it to the cat to whelp her litter in.”

  Sara realized she hadn’t drawn breath in a while and gulped in delicious lungfuls of air.

  “But Ma,” Tavis whined from inside, “that was my favorite—”

  “Ye’re to have a new one,” Aunt Lea insisted. “No child of mine will go on a long trip with a tattered hat.”

  “New?” Tavis seemed mollified, though not ready to drop the issue. “But Mama, Clare was supposed to—”

  “Yer sister doesn’t want ye to make a fool of yerself any more than I do.” Lea chided him. She raised her voice to make sure Sara could here, “We look out for each other. That’s what makes us family.”

  Sara fought back tears at these kind words as three sets of feet shuffled out of the laundry room.

  When she was alone again, Sara let herself cry.

  * * * * *

  Downstairs, Rose’s plan was falling apart.

  “Like I wouldn’t recognize my own son’s ridiculous cap,” Oric chortled, lauding himself as a sleuth.

  Rose’s heart had gone to live in her stomach.

  “I—” she thought quickly, but found nothing.

  “Excuse me, sir,” slurred a grey-haired man who limped up to the table upon his bandaged leg, “but were you talking to me?”

  Oric’s lip curled into a scowl. “I’ll thank ye to mind yer own business, stranger.”

  The man barked a laugh and sat himself down on Oric’s right with a sudden thud. His leg collapsed from under him. His mug splashed noisily.

  Rose recoiled at his familiar face.

  “Come now,” the gray-haired man said. “A man talking to himself might as well be talking to me. I’ve been known myself to yell at shadows!” The man roared in delight and slapped Oric on the back.

  Oric looked at the flickering candle again, disoriented. While he was distracted, Rose eyed the intruder rudely. She thought she saw him wink.

  “I’m Fenric,” the man said to both of them. He nudged her uncle in the ribs. “See, we’re not strangers now. In any event, my Mama always told me I shouldn’t drink alone, so you’d be doing me a great service.” Fenric belched, and added, “Plus, it’s bad luck to talk to yourself in a room full of guests.”

  Oric gulped heavily. “I ain’t talking to myself,” he hiccupped, clearly more intoxicated than he should have been. “This rat of a boy was trying to trick me into something before ye stopped me smashing in his head.”

  “What say? I didn’t see a boy,” Fenric chuckled, making an effort to match Oric’s slurred speech. “Did he leave before I got here or are you further gone that I thought?”

  “What’d ye mean, did he leave? The runt’s right here,” Oric reached out to grab at Rose.

  Because of his failing vision, Rose appeared closer than she really was. Combined with Fenric pulling the innkeeper gently backwards by the collar, his intoxicated grasping was met with empty air.

  “You see the lad right now?” Fenric responded to Oric’s surprised expression. “Mayhap you’ve become mad.”

  “I ain’t mad! That little bastard—” Oric made to lunge at Rose, but Fenric
held him back.

  “Oy, sir! Don’t act so hasty! What if it be an angry spirit?” Fenric gasped. “Don’t make it mad, I beg! What does it want?”

  Rose, who had been watching helplessly, felt a stomp on her foot. It was once again her turn in this ruse. She breathed to steady her nerves.

  “If you wish to escape the eternal flames,” she hissed, “you must buy back my mother and sister. You must take them into your home until they are self-sufficient.”

  “Ye pus-crusted sack of—” Oric began.

  Fenric grabbed at him imploringly, “It spoke to you? What did the spirit say?”

  Oric laughed and swallowed his ale. “My wife’s mooching family…father and brothers killed,” he mumbled, trying to rearrange his befuddled brain. “What in the seven hells am I supposed to do with four useless women? Besides, two girls ran away and the trader’s refused to pay me. Buy them back? Ha! I never sold them.”

  “Lack of coin for your sins is only the beginning of your punishment,” Rose whispered forcibly. Oric drank until his tankard was dry.

  “Wait a moment, ‘brothers killed,’ is this boy speaking to you from beyond the grave?” Fenric asked, suddenly terrified. “That’s not an angry spirit, that’s a vengeful one. I implore you, do what it asks before this inn runs red with blood.”

  A shadow fell over Oric’s brow and fear filled his eyes. Through the Heladon, he saw blood ooze from the ceiling and trickle from his rafters. A drop fell on his hand and he watched it dry.

  “You have until tomorrow night,” Rose growled as he examined the spot, “or I’ll come back and bring the forces of hell with me.”

  Fenric shivered, “Does it feel cold in here to you?”

  Cold was the furthest thing from Oric’s mind. His dead nephew had turned into a blinding pyre. He recoiled from the heat.

  “I’ll do what ye want,” Oric spoke through the beating of his heart. “I’ll do what ye want, just don’t set my inn on fire.”

  Unable to bear it for another moment, Oric gave a final gasp and passed out.

  His head hit the table with a hollow thud.

  Rose sat cautiously still, hardly able to believe it was over. After several moments she allowed a smile to grow across her face. She looked slowly over at Fenric.

  “Thank you—”

  “That was a disastrous, sloppy job,” Fenric reprimanded, completely sober. “Was that supposed to be, Heladon?”

  Rose blinked, “Y-yes…”

  “Heladon should never be mixed with alcohol,” Fenric berated. “It negates the most extreme edges of the effect. Also, it manifests a feeling of anger, which decreases the permanence of suggestibility. Who knows if these visions will still be with him in the morning.”

  “Yeah, well,” muttered Rose defensively, “good thing it’s none of your business.”

  “And yet,” Fenric said, “here we both are. Who are you?”

  “Rose,” answered Rose before she could think. She invented quickly, “I mean Benson. I mean, Benson…Rose.”

  “More like ‘Benson Thorn’,” Fenric raised a knowing eyebrow and began the strenuous task of standing. “Anyhow, Benson Rose, I am, as I said before, Fenric.”

  He held out a hand, which Rose reluctantly shook. “That’s it? Just ‘Fenric’?”

  “It’s enough for our purposes,” he answered.

  When she said nothing, he began again. “I believe our intrigue for the evening has played itself out. If I can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask. You would indulge me greatly.”

  “Yeah…I’m probably fine now,” Rose said, wary from being yelled at, and crossing her arms. She was ready to escape both this stranger’s odd gaze and her uncle’s heavy snoring.

  “Yes, perhaps,” Fenric said skeptically. “And yet, it often helps to know that help is there, should the need arise. You can find me at the docks. I’m on a ship called the Turnagain. It’s a merchant vessel shaped like an eagle in—”

  “I know of it,” Rose interrupted, noticeably paler.

  Fenric winked again. “I’m thrilled to hear it,” he said, tipping his hat. “Come by anytime. Ask for the Scribe.”

  Rose nodded, vowing at all costs never to seek out the mysterious man from her dreams.

  * * * * *

  “I wasn’t sure we’d be seeing you again,” Captain Kaille greeted Fenric some time later, as the Scribe limped heavily into the Captain’s Cabin. Quite apart from his gloomy visage of the morning, he was now whistling an energetic tune.

  “Captain Kaille, I’m so pleased to have found you,” Fenric smiled. “May I have a word?”

  “That’s funny, I’ve been trying to have a word with you all day,” said Kaille, setting down his measuring compass and gesturing to a chair. “Rest yourself.”

  “I apologize for being difficult locate,” said Fenric as he lowered himself awkwardly. “There always seems to be a never-ending list of tasks and errands that need completing.”

  “You must be familiar with Portridge, then,” the Captain said, cocking his head, “to have business there already.”

  “Oh, no, I have been assured it is none of mine,” Fenric chortled. “But sometimes one is fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time. Speaking of which, I’ve not yet had the opportunity to thank you for saving my life.”

  “It was nothing,” Kaille tried to keep resentment from his voice.

  “It was many things, Captain, none of which was ‘nothing’.” Fenric pushed.

  “Aye, well, nothing seems to be worthy of the word ‘nothing,’ or so I’m told,” Kaille said, laughing bitterly to himself. “I suppose that is fitting.”

  “Precisely,” answered Fenric knowingly. “And I would like to follow my thanks with an apology. No man’s soul should rest easily when he has played a part—even an unknowing one—in the death of another. The sailor who carried me…I could tell without trying during our brief time together that he was a good man.”

  “He was,” Kaille said simply.

  The Captain drew in a breath to change the subject, but then changed his mind. He wanted the Scribe to know what he had been a part of. “We grew up together. His father was our House Man, but the difference in our ranks didn’t matter. We were as close as brothers.”

  “I am proved right,” Fenric encouraged, “that is most certainly not nothing.”

  “That night,” Kaille spoke through a haunted expression, “I saw him go—saw him sink below the waves—and yet I can’t accept that he’s gone. What kind of world could exist without him in it?” Rolling his eyes at his own words, the Captain reached to grab a bottle of rum. “You must think I’m pathetic, to cling like this. Everyone else does. The thing is, I’m no stranger to loss—I lost my father and brother both—but my father was a cross between a proud name a tall shadow who would come home once a year and my brother was too old to have any interest in me. I loved them, but I didn’t know them. I knew Ben. I knew him like a part of myself.”

  “To ask after what kind of world a terrible event has led us to is never a question to demean. If we fail to ask, are there not then things that we’ll never understand? What kind of world is this?” Fenric repeated. “A colder one, I’m afraid. I too played a part in the death of a childhood friend, though I was far more culpable than you,” Fenric admitted. He squinted as he remembered, face impassible. “I held him in my arms as he died, actually. It…it is a thing that never truly leaves you.”

  “Well,” said Kaille, drawing up straighter, “if you can’t change it, perhaps you can help me understand it. Explain to me, if you will, what I saw on that ship.”

  “Ah, Captain, I long to,” Fenric said, his arms open in a gesture of powerlessness. “And if all goes well, someday I shall. It could be—and I hope it’s the case—that we’ll grow to be the best of friends. But as of now I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Both the sharing and learning of my secrets is beyond what our newfound acquaintance can bear.”

&nb
sp; Captain Kaille’s lips formed a thin, frustrated line. “I respect that a man be allowed to keep his secrets, but you must put yourself in my shoes. You’re right to say that I don’t know you, but here you are on my ship, with my crew. What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “A fair question, and the reason for my visit. I did some business in town that has decided me where I must go,” offered Fenric. “I beg of you to take me to Chaveneigh, to the countryside of Dunsmere. I have a niece there who I’m overdue to visit.”

  Kaille clung to this. “That seems a mundane journey for a man rescued from a royal frigate. Is that where the ship was going?”

  Fenric looked uncomfortable for the slightest of moments, but then said cheerfully, “The Illiamnaut? I had only the roughest idea of where that ship was headed. I’m a scribe, you see, it’s my job to travel. I take passage on whichever vessels will have me.”

  “Oh, so you also excel at being the wrong place at the wrong time?” Kaille replied, sitting behind his maps again. “Good to know.”

  “Right and wrong, good and bad—what use is such speculation?” Fenric returned. “All I know is this: I’m alive.”

  “It’s an accomplishment, I suppose,” Kaille said, raising an eyebrow. He decided to pursue the issue no further. “I’m not going to Chaveneigh, but I’ll take you as far as Quillain, which is our home berth. From there I’m sure you’ll be able to find a ship going back to where you came from.”

  “My niece is in Chaveneigh, Captain,” Fenric corrected patiently. He gestured to Kaille’s map table, “The land I call home hasn’t been seen on any of your charts.”

  Kaille eyed him wearily, feeling suddenly very tired.

  “I will, of course, make it worth your while,” Fenric continued. “I left my niece with my gold and it’s a fair sum. You may name any price you wish for your services and I will beat it.”

  “That is odd,” Kaille said carefully. “Just a moment ago you were so poor as to require passage on any ship that would have you.”

  “I fail to speak clearly yet again, Captain,” Fenric replied smoothly. “The quest of a scribe is to document history as it happens. If this is to be accomplished, one must follow the story to ends of the earth. That is, one must if one is fortunate enough to find a thread. A ‘royal frigate,’ as you will no doubt agree, was just such a lucky opportunity for me. No, I assure you, money is no object.”