The Floating Island

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “Char—” Ven started to say, but the driver angrily snapped the reins, and the wagon started away without them.

  “That’s all right—I’d rather walk,” Char shouted after the wagon. “Somethin’ stinks bad in that wagon.”

  “Hope the demons at the inn get ya,” the driver shouted back. “Nain scum.”

  The boys stood in silence for a moment in the dust from the wagon wheels.

  “Demons?” Ven asked finally.

  Char shrugged. “The sailors in the Rest are afraid to go to that inn,” he said. “They think it’s haunted. But you know sailors. They think everything’s haunted. They’re very superstitious.”

  “Well, they aren’t the only ones who think that about the inn,” Ven said. “The captain didn’t want us to go there in the dark.” His scalp started to itch.

  They watched as the wagon drove out of sight. “You didn’t need to do that, by the way,” Ven said quietly after a moment. “You should have taken the ride—your feet hurt.”

  “Not as much as my conscience would have if I’d ridden with that snob while you waited,” Char said.

  Ven shrugged. “My father says you have to ignore that sort of thing,” he said, watching the human population of the city mill around in the streets. “When you’re of a different race, people distrust you because they are afraid. If you don’t give them reason to dislike you, it becomes their problem, not yours.”

  Char looked both doubtful and disgusted. “I dunno. Seems ta me that his fear means sore feet for you an’ me. That makes it our problem. Come on. We may as well get started. If we leave now we might make the inn by noon-meal.”

  They started down the dusty road heading south. Just beyond the ivy-covered gates it was cobbled like the streets of Kingston, but once it got away from the city the road became little more than a dirt path, with deep ruts carved by wagon wheels over time.

  After a little while they heard another wagon approaching, this one pulled by two red-brown horses. The wagon was piled high with summer squash, and as it came near to them it slowed. The driver, an older man with gray hair, waved them over.

  “You on your way to the inn?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Char answered.

  “Well, hop in, boys, and I’ll drop you there,” the old man said. Ven looked at him questioningly, and the driver nodded and pointed toward the wagon bed. “Hurry, now.”

  Ven and Char scrambled to the back of the wagon and climbed aboard. The driver whistled to the horses. The wagon gave a lurch, and then began to roll down the road again.

  In the back amid the squash a thin girl with a sharp face, pointy chin, and dirty blond hair was sitting. She scowled at the boys, thumbed her nose at Ven, crossed her arms, and settled down more comfortably in the vegetables.

  It was the pickpocket.

  Ven coughed, then leaned closer to the driver. “Uh, sir,” he said, “did you know there’s a—a girl back here?”

  The old man chuckled. “That’s no girl, lad, that’s Ida. She’s a wildcat. Don’t get too close, now—she’s got claws.”

  “Ida?” Char asked. “You got a last name?”

  “No.” The girl sneered.

  “Ida No,” Ven said. “That’s precious.”

  “Shut up,” Ida said. She hurled a squash at Ven and hit him in the forehead.

  The boys looked at each other and exhaled deeply.

  After a short while a white building appeared in the distance. As the wagon got closer they could see it was a large inn with a tall stone fence around it and iron gates in front. The stone from which it was built had been whitewashed so that it shone brightly against the green fields and trees, many of which were white-trunked birches. All the flowers blooming in the gardens were white as well. The lawn was perfect and green. It was beautiful, and fancy, and not very welcoming at all.

  A sign out front read:

  The White Fern Inn

  “Is this the inn at the crossroads?” Ven asked the driver.

  The old man shook his head. “No, we have a ways to go still. This here’s the White Fern. You could never afford to stay there, lad. And even if you had all the money in the world, they still wouldn’t take you—no children allowed.”

  “Hmph. Probably just as well,” Char said. “Who’d want to stay in an all-white place anyway? You’d go bonkers tryin’ to keep from getting everything dirty.”

  Ven said nothing, but continued to look down the road, watching the girl out of the corner of his eye.

  A little farther down the road on the same side as the inn was a large pen. He could hear the sound of barking from a long distance away. As they got closer he could see that it was coming from a dog compound.

  Ven looked at Char, whose eyes were wide as saucers. Inside the huge pen were dozens of dogs, all black as the night, with thick shoulders and necks, barking angrily as the wagon passed. The driver clicked to the horses to make them pick up the pace, which they did willingly, passing by the noisy compound as quickly as they could.

  “What—what is that?” Ven asked the man nervously.

  “Mr. Whiting’s guard dogs,” the driver answered, slowing the cart down as the barking faded away in the distance.

  “Mr. Whiting?” Ven’s face went suddenly pale.

  “Yes, he owns the White Fern. Raises killer dogs and sells them to people who have places they want guarded. I suggest you stay far away from there.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Char muttered.

  Ven noticed that the girl’s face had turned the color of milk, too, but she merely pulled an apple out of her pocket and began to munch on it.

  The three children sat silently among the squash in the back of the bumping wagon until at last on the other side of the road a small cemetery came into sight. The road widened, then came to a point where it crossed with another road that ran north to south.

  And there, at the far corner to the north past the crossroads, was an inn.

  The building was larger than the White Fern, but not as fancy. It had two wings, both with two stories, and was built of stone with a thatched grass roof. An enormous chimney rose from the center of the two wings. Behind the inn, two smaller buildings could be seen, one round, one rectangular, each about a hundred yards away from the main building. A small girl kneeled outside one of them, tending a bed of brightly blooming yellow flowers.

  A large green sign stood out near the road, painted with gold letters and a strange symbol that looked like a circle with a spiral inside. The sign read:

  The Crossroads Inn

  “All right, lads and—er, Ida. This is it, out you go,” said the driver pleasantly. He climbed down from the wagon and patted the horse, then grabbed a bushel basket and made his way to the door, which was standing open. “Good morning, Trudy, love,” he called into the doorway. “Got some nice squash fer ya.”

  Out of the doorway came a small, stout woman with red hair that was turning gray near her ears. Her face was lined, her eyes tired, but her cheeks were rosy. Even though she looked a bit pale and haggard, Ven saw something in her that seemed strong and reassuring, something that reminded him of his own mother.

  “Mornin’, Jeremy,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. “Will you take it ’round back for me?”

  “Of course, darlin’,” said the old man. “Bye the bye, I brought you some new guests.” He nodded at the boys and Ida.

  The woman walked closer to the wagon. “Well, well, Ida, back so soon? Did the constable send you?”

  The girl nodded curtly.

  “All right, then,” said the red-haired woman, “but if so much as a spoon disappears from my inn this time, I will reach down your throat and dig around inside until I find it, do you understand?”

  Ida nodded again, then strolled into the inn. The woman turned to the boys.

  “And who might you fine gentlemen be?”

  “Ven Polypheme, Mrs. Snodgrass,” Ven said, putting out his hand. “Captain Oliver of the Serelinda
told me to come see you.” His voice faltered. “He, um, said to tell you that you would be happy to put us up.”

  The red-haired woman shook his hand. “Oh, he did, did he?” she said with mock severity. “Well, now, wasn’t that nice of him? He’s very free with offering my hospitality. Next time I see that Oliver Snodgrass I shall have to remember to thank him with the toe of my shoe in his backside.”

  “Oliver—Snodgrass?” Ven asked, amazed. “The captain is your husband?”

  “Ah, he neglected to mention that, did he?” said Trudy, pulling herself up straight and trying to look stern. “Yes indeed, I am the legendary wife of the great Captain Snodgrass. I hear there are stories about me from here to the edge of the Seventh Sea.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” whispered Char. “There surely are.”

  “And who might you be?” Mrs. Snodgrass asked. “Oh, wait! I do remember you. You’re the mate of the Serelinda’s cook, are you not?”

  “I’m Ch-ch-ch—ch-ch-ch. Char. Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  I was afraid that he might faint. At any moment I expected his eyes to roll back in his head, he looked so frightened.

  * * *

  Trudy’s face softened. “Well, then, Char, you surely have suffered enough; that cook’s the grumpiest sailor that ever drew breath. Get your things, come inside, and we’ll find you boys something to eat.”

  She led them into the inn, which was warm and inviting inside.

  * * *

  The front door was made of heavy wood on which a golden griffin was painted. I wanted to touch it; I’m not certain as to why, but I had to struggle to keep my hand from reaching out and brushing it as we walked past. In the center of the inn stood an enormous fireplace, wide enough to roast an ox whole, with a large stone hearth at its base. Some chairs were clustered around it, none of them occupied. The only person in the area I could see was a man who sat on the far edge of the hearth, playing a strange-looking stringed instrument and singing quietly, as if to himself. Next to the fireplace a wide stairway led to the upper floor.

  On the left side of the hearth was a large bar with stools in front of it. A tall, roundish bartender with a bald head was drying glasses with a white cloth. Two men in traveling clothes were sitting at a nearby table, arguing quietly.

  To the right were three long tables and an open door that led into a large kitchen. Ida sat at one of the tables, eating some bread and cheese and running the bread knife over the sole of her boot. She did not look up when we came in, but ignored us and continued to sharpen the blade, munching away.

  Other than that, the inn was empty, except for a large orange tabby cat that was eyeing us seriously.

  * * *

  Mrs. Snodgrass scratched the cat behind the ears. “This is Murphy,” she said fondly. “He’s an old ratter from one of the captain’s ships—the best he ever had, in fact. Retired from the sea now, he lives in the inn. Murphy knows everything that goes on around here, though he rarely tells.” She patted the cat again, and looked up as two rough-looking men tromped down the stairs, nodded to her, and left the inn.

  The argument in the bar was growing louder. Ven looked over to see that the men were now glaring, occasionally jabbing each other in the chest with their pointed fingers.

  * * *

  It reminded me of my brothers discussing business, actually.

  * * *

  Ven coughed politely.

  “It must be very hard to be alone here, with all the strangers that come through,” he said.

  “Ah, yes, ’tis a very scary thing, a poor woman like me, all alone, without a husband to protect her,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. She looked over her shoulder. The noise from the argument at the table had gotten very loud. “Excuse me a moment.”

  She walked over to the two bickering men, both a head taller than she, seized them each by an ear and slammed their heads together with a resounding thump. Then she returned to Ven.

  “So sorry,” Mrs. Snodgrass continued. “Yes, it’s a very frightening thing, to be a poor, weak woman all alone out here.”

  Ven grinned. He glanced over at Char, who looked even more terrified than before. Then he remembered the crystal vial in his pocket. His skin started to itch; from the moment he had seen the crystal vial, his curiosity had been nagging at him. He stepped forward and spoke softly to the innkeeper.

  “Er—may I speak to you alone a moment, Mrs. Snodgrass?” he asked, his curiosity itching so fiercely that his palms were sweating.

  The red-haired lady nodded, then gestured for both boys to follow her. Char clutched his hat as they made their way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Snodgrass gave them both apples and cheese.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Char?” she said, pointing to a stool at a long table. “You look like you’re about to faint.” Then she led Ven back into the hall.

  “What did you want to say?” she asked.

  Ven unbuttoned his shirt pocket and carefully removed the vial. He handed it to her as gently as he could.

  “From the captain,” he said.

  Mrs. Snodgrass exhaled, and Ven noticed she looked even more tired and drawn than he had first thought. She took the bottle.

  “Thank you,” she said simply. “If you and your friend are still hungry, there are biscuits in the crock near the fire.” Then she turned and walked away down the hall, deeper into the inn.

  Ven watched until he could no longer see her, then looked around the inn once more. It was clear that at one time the place had been very grand, and could hold enough guests to be a small town all by itself. Whatever it was that Oliver had warned them about, whatever was wrong with the Crossroads Inn, had left it standing all but empty.

  Music caught his ear again, and he looked over at the fireplace, where the man was still playing his strange instrument, singing softly to himself. Ven listened as the song came to an end. Then he thought he could hear soft applause coming from the corner near the hearth. The singer smiled and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “Who is he singing to?” Ven wondered aloud, looking closely but seeing nothing.

  “The Spice Folk,” a scratchy voice said behind him.

  Ven turned quickly around, but there was no one there. No one new had come into the inn, and the two men whose heads Mrs. Snodgrass had bashed together were still in the bar, looking a little dazed, too far away to have spoken.

  “Who is speaking to me?” he asked, feeling a little foolish but more curious.

  There was no answer.

  Ven turned around again and looked back at the singer. “Spice Folk?” he asked. “What are Spice Folk?”

  He heard a rumbling sound, like a throat clearing.

  “A kind of Meadow Folk—little spirits who tend to the spices and flowers of the fields. You know—fairies.”

  “Fairies?” Ven asked excitedly. “I thought they just existed in stories.”

  “They think the same thing about Nain,” the voice said, sounding amused. “They will certainly be intrigued by you. I advise you to keep your room door securely locked.”

  “And may I ask who is speaking to me?” Ven said. “I don’t want to be rude, so I’d like to look you in the eye and not have my back to you.”

  “Certainly,” the scratchy voice answered. “Turn around again. You must have missed seeing me the last time you did.”

  Ven spun around quickly, but still saw no one there. “I would like to make your acquaintance. My name is Ven,” he said, his eyes scanning the empty inn. “May I ask what yours is, sir?”

  “You’ve already made my acquaintance,” said the voice. “And my name is Murphy.”

  11

  Hare Warren

  * * *

  I had never imagined that a cat might be able to talk.

  But then again, I had never imagined that fairies might really exist, or merrows, or giant ship-eating sharks. I had never imagined that a Nain might summit a mast on the high seas, or walk on a Floating Island, or fight pirates.

&
nbsp; I was quickly learning how limited my imagination had been up until now.

  * * *

  “I DO BEG YOUR PARDON,” VEN SAID, BOWING POLITELY TO THE CAT. “I didn’t mean to overlook you.”

  Murphy seemed to shrug. “Not a problem. I’m used to it.”

  “So you used to sail with the captain?” Ven asked, feeling a little foolish.

  “For ten years,” the cat said. “Caught rats for him on three different ships. But those days are over. Now I stare at the guests until it bothers them, and sleep by the fire a lot. It’s my job to catch any mice that come into the inn, but none ever do. Saeli has warned them about me, so they stay away.”

  “Who is Saeli?” Ven asked, sitting down in a chair in front of the cat.

  “She lives in Mouse Lodge,” said Murphy. “I suspect you will meet her sooner or later.”

  “What’s Mouse Lodge?”

  The cat rose slowly, then stretched. “That’s more than enough questions,” he said a little crossly. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know. I take that rather personally. Trudy told you I don’t like to tell what I know that much. If you want answers, ask her. If you are looking for insights, ask McLean. He’s the one who taught me to talk in the first place.”

  “Er—who is McLean?” Ven asked quickly as the cat ambled away.

  Murphy stopped, looked back over his orange shoulder, and rolled his eyes. Then he strolled over to the hearth, curled up at the feet of the singer, and went to sleep.

  Ven watched the cat for a moment, then slowly made his way to the hearth. The man Ven believed to be McLean was in between songs, twisting the wooden knobs on the neck of his strange instrument to tune it. Ven stopped at a polite distance.

  “Good afternoon, Ven,” the singer said, not looking at him but continuing to adjust the instrument.

  Ven’s eyes opened in shock. The man had addressed him in the language of the Nain, which he had rarely heard spoken outside of his own home before.