The Floating Island

by Elizabeth Haydon

  And he had called Ven by his name without being introduced yet.

  “Erk,” he said. It was the only sound he could make.

  McLean looked up at him. His eyes, which were dark as night beneath dark brows and dark curly hair, sparkled with amusement. “I apologize if my pronunciation is bad,” he said, still speaking Ven’s language. “You are Nain, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Ven said, his surprise changing to delight. “But, if you will forgive me, you are clearly not. So how did you learn the language? And how do you know my name?”

  “I’m a Singer by trade,” McLean answered, strumming the strings softly and switching back to the common language. “That’s with a capital ‘S.’ The actual title is Storysinger. I make it my business to know as many languages as possible, so I can sing most songs. And you told Mrs. Snodgrass your name. Once you speak your name, it’s on the wind. Singers know how to listen to what the wind hears.”

  Then he went back to his work, plucking the strings of the odd instrument and singing a strange song very softly. Ven listened, spellbound. After a moment he realized the tune McLean was singing was one he had heard in childhood from his own grandmother, a song that told of a place in the mountain kingdom of the Nain on the continent of the Great Overward, where Vaarn was.

  Where Ven’s family was from.

  It was the story of the Great Dial, an ancient clock of sorts that worked like a sundial, only lit by the shadows of the fires that burned in mines within the earth. The tale was about the history of the world, as measured by the Great Dial, and what sorts of things had happened at each of the hours.

  The story was fascinating, but Ven was more entranced by the sound of McLean’s voice.

  * * *

  I have been trying to think of the right words to describe the way he sang, but none of them will come into my head. It was a pleasing sound that he was making, but when he ended a song I realized I couldn’t remember what his voice itself sounded like—whether it was high or low, rich or thin, sweet or harsh. It seemed, in fact, to be all of those things, as if all the sounds of the world were present in it at once. I felt I was listening to the universe singing in one man’s voice.

  * * *

  “So you know a lot about the Nain, then,” Ven said when the song was finished.

  McLean was tuning his instrument again. He smiled.

  “Not particularly,” he said. “Just the songs I’ve learned, and some of the stories. Being of another race myself, I have a fondness for the non-humans of the world.”

  “You’re of another race?” Ven asked in amazement. “You look human to me.”

  “My mother was human,” McLean said, plucking one of the strings and listening for its pitch. “But my father was Lirin, and a Singer, so I learned the secrets of the trade from him.”

  Ven sat down in one of the comfortable chairs before the hearth. “What are the secrets?” he asked, scratching his head absently.

  McLean chuckled, still not looking at him. “Perhaps you don’t know the meaning of the word secret, Ven?”

  Ven blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  “That’s all right,” McLean said, starting to play another tune. “I understand that secrets, by their nature, really want to be told. Everyone has a secret or two. Some secrets I tell, but most I keep.”

  “What makes you willing to tell one?”

  “Whether or not by doing so I can help someone.”

  Ven grinned. “Well, that seems a good way to decide,” he said. “Do you have a secret, McLean?”

  The singer smiled. “Of course.”

  Ven leaned closer. “What is it?”

  McLean chuckled again. “You’ll just have to figure that out yourself, Ven.”

  “Murphy said I could ask you for insights,” Ven said. “And that you taught him to talk.”

  “That’s true,” McLean acknowledged. “On both accounts. What insights do you want me to provide?”

  Ven thought for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to ask, tumbling over each other in his mind, fighting to be the first. Finally a big one made it to the front of the line.

  “Why do people think the inn is haunted?”

  McLean strummed his instrument. “Because they don’t know the truth.”

  “Ah. So the inn’s not haunted? Good,” said Ven, relieved.

  “That’s right, the inn’s not haunted, Ven,” said McLean. “It’s the crossroads.”

  “Erk,” was all Ven could manage to say. He waited until he could speak again. “The crossroads is haunted?”

  McLean shrugged. “Perhaps not the right word. There is something wrong there. Since I am a Singer, I am able to only tell the truth, because the power of a story is in the truth of it. Lying, or being inaccurate, can take the power right out of a tale, and so Singers are sworn to always tell the truth. I don’t know if what disturbs the crossroads is a haunting, so I will not call it such. But there is something wrong there.

  “Now, the inn on the other hand, the inn is a wonderful place, a magical place. A safe place—as long as you are inside it. There are many more rooms than there appear to be, each of them with a unique magic or story behind it. It would be a fascinating place to explore, I would imagine. You might want to follow Clemency around sometime when she’s cleaning and have a look at some of them.”

  “I haven’t met Clemency yet,” Ven said. “Or Saeli.”

  McLean smiled. “I’m sure you will meet both of them shortly,” he said. “All the children from Hare Warren and Mouse Lodge generally eat together. And it’s almost time for noon-meal.”

  At his words the sound of soft footfalls came down the hall, and Mrs. Snodgrass appeared.

  There was something different about her that Ven noticed immediately, but could not put his finger on. She seemed healthier and younger, perhaps, her face fuller than it had been a few moments before, as if she had been a drying apple that was suddenly full of juice again. She had more vigor in her step, and all traces of gray in her red hair had vanished. She strode into the kitchen, calling for someone named Felitza.

  McLean stopped fingering the instrument. He looked off toward the kitchen and broke into a grin. “Did you bring it?” he asked.

  “What?” Ven said.

  “The Living Water,” McLean replied. “I didn’t hear it come in—it must have been in a diamond bottle.”

  “I—er—”

  The Singer waved a hand at him. “That’s all right, Ven. You don’t have to confirm it. I’m just glad to know the captain managed to find some more of it. She was getting pretty tired.”

  “Is Mrs. Snodgrass ill?” Ven asked worriedly.

  “I don’t discuss a person’s health with another person without his or her permission,” replied McLean. “But I’m sure you can see she is better after drinking the water.”

  “I was with the captain when he obtained it,” said Ven.

  The Storysinger looked up at him again for only the second time. “Where did you get it?” he asked. “The Floating Island?”

  “Yes,” Ven said, and he told McLean about all that had happened there. The Singer listened very carefully, as if he was memorizing what Ven said.

  “Thank you for telling me the tale,” he said quietly after Ven was done. He smiled. “That sly fox, Oliver Snodgrass! He certainly made good use of you, then, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he put me to work on the ship. And I learned a lot there.” He saw McLean’s smile grow broader, but the Singer said nothing more. “Is that why Oliver spends his life on the sea?” Ven asked. “Why he couldn’t take even a day to come visit Mrs. Snodgrass, after being away for so long? He needs to keep finding that water for her, to make her better?”

  McLean looked away again and returned to plucking a melody out on his instrument. The sound was harsh, and Ven realized a moment later that while they were talking, the music was keeping their words muffled so that no one else could hear what they were saying.


  “Captain Snodgrass makes his living as a ship owner and sailor, it’s true, but he is really searching for the places in the world like the Floating Island where he can find the Living Water for his wife, who needs it,” he said. “You’ll never find two people more in love than those two, even though they are almost always apart. And that’s the truth—since that’s all I am allowed to tell.”

  “Why doesn’t she just go with him?” Ven asked, perplexed. “That way they could always be together.”

  “She has her reasons for staying here,” McLean replied.

  The kitchen door banged open, and Mrs. Snodgrass emerged, followed by Char at a cautious distance.

  “So, do you boys want to go see Hare Warren now?” she asked briskly.

  “What is Hare Warren?” Ven asked, stepping casually between Mrs. Snodgrass and Char to give him more distance.

  “That’s the building where the boys stay,” Mrs. Snodgrass replied, untying her apron and hanging it on a peg near the kitchen door. “The girls live in Mouse Lodge. They are both out back of the inn.”

  “We saw them on the way in, I believe,” Ven said. “The round and square buildings?”

  “Yes. The round one is Mouse Lodge—rectangular’s Hare Warren, where you both will be housed. I have only one room left—you’ll have to share.” The boys nodded.

  “What’s the rent for the room?” Ven asked, taking out his wallet. “And do you take scrip?”

  Mrs. Snodgrass drew herself up. “I’m the wife of a sea captain. Of course I take scrip,” she said severely. “But whatever Oliver paid you won’t last long if you have to pay for your room and board. On top of that, you won’t be able to get passage home.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Ven admitted. “When the harbormaster releases my papers, and I work up the courage to go back, I can always work as a deckhand again on the way back, I suppose.”

  “Well, a better idea is that you hang on to your money and work for your keep here,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “That’s what all my young tenants do. You help around the inn, and in return, you get your meals and stay in Mouse Lodge or Hare Warren for free. Does that seem reasonable to you?”

  “That seems more than generous, thank you,” said Ven. Char nodded.

  “All right, then, follow me and I will show you the accommodations,” said Mrs. Snodgrass.

  She led them through the kitchen and out the back door to a stone pathway that led through the gardens and across the field behind the inn to the place where the two smaller buildings stood.

  “What sort of work needs to be done, Mrs. Snodgrass?” Ven asked as they walked past flowering bushes and trees with lacy green leaves.

  “All kinds,” said Trudy. “What sort of work are you good at?”

  “Char can cook,” Ven said quickly.

  “Oh, can he now?” Mrs. Snodgrass said, eyeing the cook’s mate. “Wait till you taste what my Felitza can do. Perhaps he can help her; we’ll see.”

  “Is—Felitza your—daughter?” Char stammered.

  “No,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “I—I don’t have any children of my own. Felitza is the kitchen girl.”

  Ven cast an eye around, noticing that the lawn was full of dandelions. “I can weed,” he offered. “I could set to clearing out all these dandelions, if you’d like.”

  From over near the round building he heard a strangled gasp.

  The little girl they had seen tending the flower beds when they first arrived turned around with a look of horror on her face. Ven could see she was of a different race as well. She was tiny, only coming up to just beneath his ribs, with a heart-shaped face, large green-gray eyes, and caramel-colored hair that hung in a long braid down her back. She looked like she was about to cry.

  “It’s all right, Saeli,” Mrs. Snodgrass said quickly. “He just doesn’t know. It will be all right.” She turned to Ven with a look of displeasure. “You don’t want to be messing with the Spice Folk’s sun harvest, now, do you?”

  All the blood left Ven’s face. “Uh, no, ma’am, I most certainly do not.”

  “Have you ever noticed,” said Trudy, “that one day a field will be green, and then the next day, it’s completely covered with dandelions?”

  “I live in a city,” Ven said. “I only see dandelions rarely, and then one or two at a time, in between the cobblestones of the street.”

  “Ah. Well, trust me, out here, one day they appear like a gold blanket in the grass. And that’s because the Meadow Folk gather the sunlight when the light is ripest—they alone know the day of the Harvest. Light is their source of power. Dandelions are what they use to collect that light. They use what’s left of the last year’s crop of light-power to grow the dandelions, which are almost colorless. Then they open them, like umbrellas, and the clear blossoms absorb the sunlight. That’s why they appear so quickly, and so bright yellow. When the Folk are done collecting the power, the dandelion flowers lose their color, dry up and blow away. That’s why you can wish on one before you blow on it—it’s got a little magic left over from the Harvest.”

  “Oh,” said Ven. “Well, then, I guess I shouldn’t pull the dandelions, then.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. She walked up to the door of the rectangular building, which had neatly whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, and rapped sharply.

  “Females are not allowed in Hare Warren, and males are not allowed in Mouse Lodge,” she said. “One of the posted rules. Of course, this does not apply to the innkeeper.”

  A moment later a tall young man opened the door. He was human, and thin, with a shock of dark hair and the very beginnings of a mustache. Ven guessed he was about fifteen years old.

  * * *

  Even a fifteen-year-old human can sprout a mustache, which is at least the beginnings of a beard. I found my hand going to my own chin, which was still as smooth as glass, and sighed.

  * * *

  “Vincent, I have two new charges for you,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “Ven Polypheme and Char, this is Vincent Cadwalder, the steward of Hare Warren. He’s responsible for your obedience of the rules, so pay attention to him. He works at night as the watchman and stablekeeper, so he sleeps through breakfast. Try not to disturb him in the morning, if possible.”

  The older boy extended his hand.

  “Polypheme,” he said briskly. “Char. Welcome.” He opened the door wider and beckoned for them to come in.

  Inside the building was a tidy center corridor with a table and two chairs, a woven rug, and a small fireplace. Off the center hallway were five doors. A wooden sign was posted above the table.

  * * *

  Hare Warren House Rules

  Make your bed daily.

  Keep your room clean.

  Lock your door.

  Do not touch anyone else’s belongings.

  Report all infractions to steward, even your own.

  No females in Hare Warren.

  No food in the rooms.

  Likewise no spirits.

  No teasing the cat or Spice Folk.

  Mind your own business.

  Behave like gentlemen.

  NO EXCUSES!

  * * *

  “You’ll take your meals in the inn itself—no food in Hare Warren, as you can see,” said Mrs. Snodgrass, pointing to the list of rules. “Business at the inn has been off for a while, so the meals are not as plentiful or as fancy as they once were, but the food is healthy and filling. Breakfast is served whenever it’s ready—usually shortly after sunrise. Noon-meal is served promptly at noon. Tea is available at quarter past four, and supper is served in the summer at seven o’clock. In winter, tea is the last meal of the day and is extended to a more generous portion, so that you can get back to Hare Warren immediately after the meal is over.”

  “Why?” Char asked nervously.

  Mrs. Snodgrass looked at him seriously. “So you can get to bed before it gets dark.”

  Ven and Char exchanged a glance. The look on the innkeeper’s face was as so
lemn as the one on her husband’s had been when he warned Ven not to start for the crossroads at night. Ven’s itch returned.

  “Well, at least we’ll be safe from the ghosts at the crossroads,” said Char jokingly. “After all, no spirits are allowed in Hare Warren.”

  “Amusing,” said Mrs. Snodgrass dryly. “Well, then, I will leave you with Vincent to get settled. See you at noon-meal—which is in precisely fifteen minutes.”

  She turned on her heel snappily and strode back to the inn.

  “Glad to see she’s feeling better,” said Cadwalder. “All right, then, lads, this will be your room.” He pointed to the first door on the left. “Next door is Jonathan Conroy and Lewis Craig, then the door to the privy closet outside. Please make sure that door’s always closed, especially since my room is the one next door—I can get very cranky if I wake up smelling sewage. And finally, the last door is Albert Hio and Nicholas Cholby. The cleaning of the privy closet rotates from room to room by week, and aren’t you lucky—this week the duty falls to your room.”

  “Great,” muttered Char. “I miss the heads on the ship, where you can do your business, it disappears into the sea, and you never have to think about it again.”

  Cadwalder did not smile. “Well, things are very different here,” he said. “If any of us had anywhere else to go, we would.” He went to his room and returned a moment later with two keys. “Keep these safe at all times—I have a master key, but these are the only other copies. The room should be stocked with blankets and such. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” said Ven and Char simultaneously.

  “You’re welcome,” said Cadwalder. “See you at noon-meal.”

  The boys waited until Cadwalder had gone back into his room. Then Ven went over to the door and slid his key into the lock.

  He turned the handle and opened the door.

  The room was small and tidy, with a window near the ceiling and two beds on short wooden legs topped with mattresses stuffed with hay and a blue and white quilt. A washstand with a basin stood between them, and each bed had a small sea chest at the foot of it for personal belongings. Under each bed was a chamber pot for emergency use, should the weather be too cold or the night too dark for a run to the privy closet outside.