The Floating Island

by Elizabeth Haydon

  Ven’s heart pounded as the monster’s dark, tapered form continued forward, extending longer than the boat’s length from bow to stern.

  Suddenly it dipped deeper and vanished.

  “It’s diving,” Oliver said softly. The grip of his hand on Ven’s shoulder tightened slightly.

  Ven’s eyes met Char’s. His new friend appeared to be frozen in terror.

  The crew waited, tense and fearful, looking around, hoping that their next sight of the beast would not be as it reared out of the water with the ship in its teeth. They held their breath until a soft call came from above. All eyes looked up.

  The sailor in the crow’s nest pointed off the starboard bow, into the distance.

  At the edge of his vision Ven could see the enormous fin, now small from afar, moving away, disappearing again into the sea.

  The crew slowly began to breathe again, then went back to their posts, talking softly and seriously among themselves.

  “What—what was that?” Ven asked shakily.

  “Megalodon,” the captain replied, releasing his shoulder and moving to the rail, staring out into the sea where the fin had been heading.

  “It looked like the fin of a shark,” Ven said.

  “Aye, lad, it was. If you travel the sea long enough, sooner or later you will either see him, or meet someone who has. He’s an ancient monster, a deep sea shark from the time before history. Each of his teeth is bigger than my hand, and he has a mouthful of thousands of ’em. He is possessed of a hunger that can devour a ship and all its occupants without a moment’s difficulty, and he does from time to time. Vibrations or noise draw his attention, and so the only thing to do when he is sighted is to remain as silent as one can and hope for the best.”

  “Is—is there only one of him?” Ven asked hopefully, though inside his curiosity was itching again.

  The captain grasped the rail and looked off in the direction in which the fin had been traveling. “Now, that’s a good question, lad. Megalodon lives in the deepest part of the sea, where it is always night, along with more monsters and horrors than your nightmares could ever hold. He doesn’t come up often, but you see him often enough to know he’s not just a legend. Who knows how many are down there?”

  Ven swallowed hard. “What kinds of monsters?”

  “Oh, sea serpents, giant squid, clams the size of the hold of this ship. Dragons that own entire reefs, and defend them vigorously with fire more caustic than what burned that pirate ship of yours. Colorful fish with deadly poison in their quills. Eels as cruel and cunning as any man who ever lived. They’re the worst, as far as I’m concerned; their bite causes pain that cannot be healed. Tiny plants that can paralyze a man with one touch. Yes, the sea is beautiful beyond measure, but her depths are filled with danger, Ven.”

  Ven thought back to the “wonders” that Amariel told him of and shuddered.

  Oliver saw the expression of concern on his face and smiled. “We’ll be in Kingston soon, lad. Once you’ve seen the spectacular Island of Serendair, you will most probably never want to leave. And then you will never have to fear what lies out there in the deep.”

  Ven said nothing, but continued to watch the horizon. He thought he saw the giant fin one last time, almost too small to make out, disappearing over the edge of the world. No, he thought, I will see what lies in the deep up close one day.

  Because I’ve drunk too much of the wind.

  6

  The Floating Island

  * * *

  By day there was only work. There is so much to be done on a ship that I never had time to think. Mostly scrubbing decks and water barrels, helping the cook and cleaning the passenger cabins, and whatever other tasks I could do to make myself useful. It kept my mind busy.

  But at night, I lay awake in my hammock and listened to the creak of the ship, the sea wind howling, the snapping of the sails, and the sailors snoring all around me in the dark. Then all I did was think. I was too tired to sleep, too worried to rest. Too guilty to deserve sleep or rest.

  I wondered if my mother had taken my teacup off the table yet and put it away.

  * * *

  THE DAYS AT SEA PASSED, ONE INTO ANOTHER. THE SERELINDA sailed west, following the setting sun, through fair weather and rain, making its way homeward to the Island of Serendair.

  Ven became good at reading the stars. The boatswain showed him and Char how to use an old sextant, the navigator’s tool, so when there was time between tasks, they took turns mapping constellations and planets, plotting the course they were traveling and comparing it with the navigator’s official one. After a few tries, they found they were right more often than not.

  But there were other ways to read the stars as well. Oliver had said that the shooting star they had seen the night Ven first climbed the mast was an omen, a sign of magical things to come the next day. After seeing the giant fin of Megalodon rise from below the surface of the sea, then disappear into the horizon, Ven began to understand what he meant.

  On clear nights, when the world seemed like nothing but endless moving darkness, he stared up into the black sky, watching the brightest stars wink in the sparkling diamond dust. He saw thin streaks of light fall almost every night. But on the night when one lingered in the sky again, leaving a shiny trail glittering behind it, he was fairly certain he would see something amazing, either magical or monstrous, the next day. The shooting star burned in his dreams that night, pushing away his worries of home, and making his curiosity itch fiercely.

  He was still dreaming of what would come when just before daybreak he heard a shout from the crow’s nest.

  “Cap’n! Cap’n! The island! To port!”

  Char’s head popped up from the pile of blankets to Ven’s right.

  “Can’t be,” the cook’s mate murmured sleepily. “We got at least a week’s sail left till Serendair.”

  “Maybe that’s not the island he’s talking about,” Ven suggested, rolling out of his hammock. “C’mon!”

  Abovedecks the crew was scrambling faster than Ven had seen. Oliver stood at the rail, a spyglass to his eye, staring out into the hazy blue dawn. Ven and Char shielded their eyes and looked in the same direction.

  The morning mist seemed to form clouds in the water. Rising from the middle of the clouds was the peak of what looked like a small mountain. The wind spun around it, making the heavy vapor dance in thick waves.

  “Blimey!” Char whispered. “Would ya look at that! I don’t remember seeing an island like that anywhere on the navigator’s maps.”

  “Nor do I,” Ven admitted. His gaze went back to the crew, who were preparing a longboat and hurrying around the decks at the captain’s command.

  Oliver looked up and saw him. He beckoned for Ven to come near.

  “How’s your sense of adventure this morning, Ven?” he asked. He sounded in a hurry.

  “Strong and well, as always, sir,” Ven replied.

  “And if you could do but one thing today, anything without limitation, what would it be?” the captain asked.

  Ven thought for a moment. His sense of adventure dimmed as his guilt returned.

  “I would get a message to my family, to let them know that I am alive,” he said.

  The kindly blue eyes of the captain twinkled.

  “Well, perhaps you will get the chance,” he said. Then he turned to the first mate. “What did we decide last time, Bill? Scroggins’s turn?”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” the mate said. “He’s waitin’ for word on his wife.”

  “Well, get him down here, then. And go ask among the passengers if anyone wants to pay to go over. There was a line of them last time—including Maurice Whiting.” Oliver looked back at Ven. “You want to see the Floating Island? It’s a chance you may never get again in this lifetime.”

  “Oh, yes, sir!” Ven blurted. He had never heard of the Floating Island.

  “Could be dangerous. Do you care?”

  “Not a bit, sir.”

  “Good,
” the captain said. “Climb into the longboat; we’ll be rowing out shortly. Have to get out there before it drifts away.”

  Ven didn’t understand what Oliver was talking about, but he checked his pocket for his jack-rule and, finding that to be safe, went up to the first mate. He was instantly helped over the rail and aboard the longboat.

  He sat for a few moments alone in the boat, amid coils of rope and bundles of oilcloth, until Scroggins, a thin sailor with curly black hair, climbed aboard, carrying a small sea chest.

  “You goin’ too?” Scroggins asked, taking a seat next to him. Ven nodded. “Well, good for you, lad.”

  Ven strained to see the island in the distance through the swirling clouds. He kept his eyes fixed on it as Oliver appeared at the rail again, two men, both passengers on the ship, standing next to him.

  “Payment will be due upon your return to the ship,” the captain was saying to one of the men, a soldier. The man nodded curtly and climbed into the longboat, causing it to sway a little in the air. Oliver looked the second man up and down, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whiting,” he said regretfully. “We have to consider the weight; another man would be just a little too much.”

  “Throw the boy out, then,” Mr. Whiting said crossly. “I am willing to pay handsomely.”

  “I’ve already promised him,” said Oliver. “I’ll give you first preference next time. I’m very sorry.”

  “You’ve promised him—a Nain whelp—and that matters?” demanded Mr. Whiting. “Toss him out—let him go next time. I have thirty gold crowns right here.” He dangled a red cloth bag in front of the captain.

  The look of regret disappeared from the captain’s face. He turned his back on the man and climbed into the longboat, then signaled to the crew to lower it and loose the ropes.

  “Away,” he said, taking his seat. “Take your oars, gentlemen.”

  Ven looked up at the side of the ship as the longboat was lowered into the water. The passenger Oliver had left behind, Mr. Whiting, a tall man with a hawk nose dressed in elegant clothes, glared down at him with undisguised rage from the deck. Ven swallowed and picked up the long, flat paddle and set it into the iron oarlock opposite Scroggins. The soldier took up his oar as well while the captain steered the boat with the rudder.

  “What is this place we are headed to, Captain?” Ven asked excitedly, his back to the island as they rowed.

  Oliver smiled. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small conch shell, then placed it on the seat beside Ven.

  “Once we are well clear of the ship, take a look at that,” he said. “Ever put one of those to your ear and listened to the sound of the sea wind?”

  “No,” Ven said. “Shells like that are rare in Vaarn. My brother Jaymes has one in a cabinet that a sailor gave him, but he nearly twisted one of my fingers off when he found me with it when I was little. So I never did get to hear the sea.”

  “Ah, but you tried, didn’t you?” the captain said. “If he hadn’t caught you, you would have put it to your ear, yes?”

  Ven thought back. “Yes,” he said, pulling on the oar.

  “Interesting how folks just know to do that, even when they’ve never seen a conch shell in their lives. You can keep that one, by the way. Now you have one of your own.” The captain stared over Ven’s head, into the morning light, but said nothing more.

  The excitement in Ven’s stomach expanded like soap bubbles, making him feel light-headed. He continued to row with all his strength until finally Scroggins told him to ease up; they were almost to the shore.

  Ven picked up the shell and turned his head to see what was behind him. The sight took his breath away.

  The Floating Island must have been drifting toward them while they were rowing nearer to it. It loomed ahead, the pink sand of its beaches gleaming in the sun, ringed with seaweed. The clouds that circled it were rolling still, the thick mist beginning to surround their longboat. In the center was the mountain, though Ven could not see it very well in the mist. From what he could glimpse it appeared to be covered with trees of every imaginable color.

  He looked down at the gray-white shell in his hand. It was wide at the top, with a spiral of pointed horns that curled down to the narrow base. Inside the shell was smooth and pink.

  The mist was thicker now. Oliver nodded to Scroggins. The sailor put down his oar, stood up in the longboat and took hold of the anchor rope. He leapt out of the boat, landing in water up to his waist, and hauled it to shore, anchoring it in place.

  The captain turned to his passengers.

  “First, some rules and a story, before we go ashore,” he said, his voice soft and serious. “This island is a ship of sorts. More than that, it is an ancient ship. As such, it is to be respected and treated with utmost care. This place is the home of the sea wind. You are about to enter the wind’s garden. Anything that grows here remains here. Do not pluck a single flower, or pick a single piece of fruit. You may take nothing from this place that belongs here, even a grain of sand that can’t be shaken from your boots. We are sailors, and we cannot afford to have the wind angry with us. Is that understood?”

  Ven, Scroggins, and the soldier nodded.

  “There are many stories about how the world was made,” Oliver continued. “Whether any of them are true, only the one who made it knows for certain. But it has long been said that five things were used to make it: fire, water, wind, earth, and the light of the stars, which is called ether. These five things, these elements, were called the Paints of the Creator.

  “It is said that when the Creator made the world, it began as a piece of a star that broke off from its mother and sped across space, until it came into orbit around the sun. So ether was the first element to be born. Fire burned on its surface, the second element. Then the fire died back into the center of the world, where it still burns to this day, and the world was covered with water, the third element. The wind, the fourth element, rose up from the water and blew it back, revealing the land, the earth, the last element.”

  Oliver began buttoning his jacket. “I don’t know if there is any truth to the tale—as I said, only the one who actually did the creating knows that. But legend says that when the wind blew back the sea, revealing the land, a tiny piece of earth floated to the top of the waves, like a pebble or a clod of dirt in a river. That tiny piece of earth was this island.

  “This island, then, was born when land was born, at the very beginning of the world, and is the child of both wind and water. So it is a very old place, a magical place. It floats about the sea at the pleasure of the wind. A man may see it once in his life, or many times—or never. Each time a man is given a chance, he should be respectful of it. So walk carefully—this is a fragile place, and unlike other islands, it is not connected to any ground below the sea. We don’t want to up-end it, now, do we?”

  “No, sir,” Ven and the two men whispered.

  “Good. All right, then, out you go, and take care to be quiet. Scroggins, hold the rope fast. You first, Ven.”

  Ven nodded and stood up. Carefully he climbed over the board that had served as a seat, then stepped over a coil of rope onto a clump of oilcloth, preparing to climb over the side.

  “YAAOW!” the oilcloth screeched.

  Ven’s feet flew out from under him, his backside went up in the air, and he fell backwards out of the boat with a loud splash.

  “What the—” Oliver said angrily. He grabbed the oilcloth and jerked it from the floor, revealing a dirty face, dark hair, and wide, dark eyes.

  “Char! What are you doing here?” the captain demanded.

  “Er—followin’ your orders, sir,” Char said sheepishly. “You told me to look out for Ven. Couldn’t do that from back on the ship.”

  Ven stood up in the surf, dripping seaweed from head to foot.

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  The anger in the captain’s eyes softened into amusement.

  “Well, I can’t very well discipl
ine a crew member for following my orders,” he said. “Good thing you don’t weigh much, Char, or I’d have to leave you in the boat. But seeing as you and Ven add up to a man between you, I suppose we can risk taking you ashore. Get out of the boat.”

  The moment they set foot onto the pink sand of the beach, Ven understood what Oliver had meant about the Floating Island being the wind’s home. Inside the swirling clouds of mist a stiff breeze blasted, warm in some moments, cold in others. The forest they had seen from the boat seemed just beyond their sight in the haze of moving vapor. Ven’s heart pounded as they crossed the sand, his hair blowing wildly around his face and in his eyes.

  “It’s like we’re in the sky,” he whispered to Char. “Like that mountain’s rising out of the clouds.”

  “Blimey, I hope there’s not a giant around here somewheres,” Char whispered back nervously. “Don’t giants live in mountains in the sky?”

  “Nonsense.” The soldier snorted. “Fairy tales. I cannot wait to be in port, so that I can get back to the real world, and no longer have to endure all the superstitious talk of sailors, all the silly tales of mermaids and albatrosses and giants in the sky.”

  Scroggins rolled his eyes. “If you don’t believe in the magic of this place, why did you pay a hefty price to come here? There was a line of others that wanted your seat in the boat, and couldn’t have it.”

  The soldier paused, then turned around and stared at them through the billowing mist.

  “The legend of this place is known to every man who spends his life as a soldier,” he said tersely. “It is said that if you put your name on the wind here, it will be carried far and wide, across the whole world, even to places that are unknown. Into the ears of everyone the wind touches.”

  “So you are willing to believe superstitions as long as they can make you famous?” Scroggins said disdainfully. “You’d never make it as a sailor anyway; you’re too selfish.”

  “Enough talk,” Oliver said sternly as the two men glared at each other. “In this place, one should listen, not speak.”