by A. C. Cobble
“I’ll do my best,” assured Joshua, then he stepped forward and scrambled up on the railing of the crow’s nest.
The bottom of a huge, levitating island was passing overhead. It was filled with crags and pits where ages of weather had scored it. Some of it looked a bit loose, other parts looked stable enough to support his weight. The stone was the same black, porous stuff that made up the islands around them, except this bit was ten times the size of their ship and was floating fifty yards above the surface of the sea. He couldn’t fathom how it worked, but the idea that he might be the first man to step foot on such a thing sent a trill of excitement down his spine.
“Steady…” warned Crusoe, the man standing close, prepared to grab him if Joshua lost his balance and fell.
But the seas were calm, and underneath the island the blinding rain wasn’t a factor.
Joshua reached up and stuck his boat hook into a narrow fissure on the bottom of the island. He twisted it, catching the sharp tine of the hook in the rock face and digging it into the porous stone. Then, he jumped up, white-knuckled hands gripping the smooth shaft of the boat hook.
Below him, Crusoe reached up and pushed on the bottoms of Joshua’s feet, helping him scramble higher on the hook.
After a breathless moment, Joshua was able to reach up and grasp the fissure of rock beside his hook. He shoved his hand in, skinning his knuckles, but ignoring the pain as he felt the ship drift away beneath him. Crusoe stretched out, supporting him, but then their vessel moved too far away, and Joshua’s feet fell, dangling two dozen yards above the deck.
A fall from such a distance would break his legs, if not kill him. Of course, at sea in the tropics, the difference between the two was just a matter of time.
Knowing it was a mistake, Joshua sparred a glance down and saw the men had stopped rowing. They’d drift away to give maximum time for him to climb, then they’d circle back around. A line of rope trailed from his body to the hands of Crusoe. The sailor nodded, letting the line play out between his fingers, holding the end so that the others could climb up after Joshua.
If he set the spikes that is, if he tied the rope so they could dangle from it without plummeting down into the sea. Cursing himself for the delay, Joshua looked up at the bottom of the giant, floating island.
He was hanging from a long crag where he’d placed the boat hook and stuffed his hand inside. It was rough, and as he moved his other hand from the hook to the rock, he found an easy grip. He tested it, then unclenched the fist on his first hand, and placed it higher on the rock, slowly beginning to work his way up the fissure, climbing like a tropical monkey beneath the massive stone.
He was strong and agile, raised on the cliffs near home, used to maneuvering along the yardarms to adjust the sails, but this was an entirely different experience. First, he clung fifty yards above a rain splattered sea. Second, the vessel he’d arrived on was currently moving away from him. Third, there were no ropes, no handholds hammered in, no generational experience of the safest route up. He was left alone, rope tugging gently against him, clinging for a foreign rock face with near certain death below him.
He loved it.
Hand over hand, Joshua climbed higher on the bottom face of the island. He glanced down, eyeing the tail of rope that led to the ship where the rest of his crew waited patiently for him to hammer in the spikes. It was coiled around Crusoe’s feet, but he couldn’t tell how much remained.
Looking around, Joshua found a protrusion the size of his hand where a bit of rock had fallen away. The top of it was sharp, but he had to risk it. He grabbed the tail of rope and looped it over the outcropping. He tugged on it, wincing as the hemp line slid over the jagged rock, but it seemed strong enough to hold his weight. He looped it twice more, fashioned a sailing knot with the tail, and then drawing a deep breath, he let go.
He hung, swaying slightly, far above the sea.
Working quickly, he pulled an iron, horseshoe-shaped spike from a pouch on his belt and a hammer from a loop beside it. He held the spike up and struck it, nailing it down over the rope. Then he did another, and another.
Knowing he had little time, he tugged on each of the spikes, then the rope. It felt secure enough. He mumbled a quick hope to the spirits, and with his body dangling in the air, he grabbed the rock again and pulled himself up, slipping out of the harness and tying another knot so the rope was securely attached to the rock face.
He looked down and waved.
Crusoe, having moved back to the deck of the ship from the crow’s nest, wrapped around the rope and began to climb. Other crew members held the far end, so the man wasn’t swinging freely. The sailor shimmied up the rope as easily as other men might walk a street, and before long, a second man joined him on the line.
Joshua eyed the spikes he’d hammered into the rock and saw they were holding. He waved again, then crawled higher on the rock face, his arms aching from hanging on, knowing he’d find no rest until he made it to a vertical section so he could put his weight on his legs.
He climbed for half an hour, occasionally looking down to see if his companions were following along. It seemed at least a few of them had made it. He occasionally saw Crusoe’s head bobbing around the curve of the bottom of the island, the man’s face serious as he carefully found hand holds, and then toe holds as they climbed higher.
Yard after yard, Joshua made progress. His arms were burning, his fingers and knuckles were spotted with droplets of blood, but he kept going. He kept climbing after he’d lost feeling in his fingers, where he could only hope the muscle and tissue was still obeying his mind’s commands. He climbed until his bare feet could bear his weight, and kept going, ascending the side of the mountain, and then finally finding a flat ledge on the top of it where he flopped down, splashing in a puddle of rainwater, letting the cool drops from above soothe his burning muscles. He lay on his back, panting, resting, until Crusoe emerged and thumped down beside him.
“Mister Joshua,” acknowledged the sailor.
Joshua lifted his head and winked at the man. “Mister Crusoe.”
They waited, and were soon joined by two more men, who told them that they were the last to make the climb. After them, the ship had slipped out of reach of the rope, and the others were left behind. The captain was ordering the vessel to circle back around, but by now, the men below would be caught by darkness before they could make the climb, and it’d be far too dangerous to attempt at night in the rain.
“Just us, then,” acknowledged Joshua.
He struggled to his feet, shaking his arms to loosen his tight muscles. Holding a hand above his eyes, he looked out at the sea below, speckled by rain, still rolling with gentle waves. Then, he turned to the top of the island behind them. It was formed of rough, black rock, and parts of it sprouted verdant plant life. Dirt from the rock, or dust that settled atop. Seeds brought by birds, he wondered, or had these landmasses once been down below like the other islands?
“Rest up, lads, and then we’ll do a bit of exploring before dark,” he told the others.
The men nodded, taking the time to drink a bit of water and eat a bit of the food they’d hauled up on their backs. They had enough supplies for three days. After that, it’d be back down into the sea or they’d have to forage. Three days, enough time to explore the floating island, he thought.
The other sailors had found a shallow hollow to huddle in and rest out of the rain, but Joshua felt like he was bursting with energy, with the need to explore. He climbed on top of the ridge that housed the hollow and knelt, pulling out his simple steel belt knife. Working the sturdy blade beneath a hunk of rock, he wiggled it, eventually breaking the rock loose. As soon as it came free of the rest of the island, the fist-sized piece of stone began to float sluggishly higher.
He sat back on his haunches, startled. He watched it, wide-eyed, as it continued to float higher. Slowly, the rock drifted up to where it was level with his face. He sheathed his belt knife and hesitantly grasped the st
one. He found he could lower it with little difficulty, and when he let go, it began rising again.
“Bring it down here,” suggested Crusoe from where he crouched in the hollow. “There’s a ledge above us. We can take a look at it without all the rain.”
Joshua hopped down beside his companions and they all clustered around while he held the rock out beneath the ledge. With their bodies close around it, the light was not good, but as soon as the rock was out of the falling water, Joshua found it rose faster, bumping against the top of the ledge before he snatched it out of the air again.
“It’s like the water interferes with its ability to float,” he mused. He looked around the island they were standing on. “Could be why this entire thing is so low. Several days of rain forces it close to the sea.”
“Which means,” remarked Crusoe, “that when this rain stops, this island is going to rise back up again.”
Joshua looked out into the rain, wondering how long they had.
Bright sunlight on his face woke him. He blinked, staring up at the giant, brilliant orb, half-blinded by the light. Grunting, he rolled over, his body hurting from the rough rock he’d slept upon. It felt like a small man had been pummeling him with balled fists.
He sat up and covered a yawn, glancing about at his companions who still slumbered, hats or shirts pulled up to cover their heads from the rain the night before, serving the same purpose for the morning sun. He sat for a moment and then cursed, leaping to his feet.
The night before, rain had obscured everything more than a hundred yards away from them. Now, in clear morning air, he could see for leagues. He could see sparkling blue sea all around them. He could see islands of the atoll in the far distance. White puffy clouds hung high in the sky, and two dozen floating rock formations drifted peacefully around them. Each of those hung hundreds of yards above the water.
Scrambling, Joshua leapt and fell toward the edge of their island. Knowing what he’d see, he looked over the edge. The sea was hundreds of yards below them.
“Ah hells,” muttered Crusoe behind him, evidently woken by his panicked run to see how high they’d risen.
They could see their ship far below, trailing the island with sails down, people moving about on the deck.
“That’s too far to jump,” muttered the other sailor.
Joshua nodded his head. From hundreds of yards, a fall into the sea would be like falling down onto a cobblestone street. From such a height, it was certain to be fatal. Forcing himself to breathe, to think, he said, “The ropes we brought…”
“Get us maybe halfway down,” guessed Crusoe. “You think…”
“No,” said Joshua, shaking his head. “That’s still too high.”
He turned to his other companions and saw their glum expressions. They’d overheard him talking to Crusoe. Hundreds of yards in the air, not enough rope to get them down. Only a few days of food.
Glancing up, he scowled. After a week of constant rain, it seemed the weather had blown over. It was a beautiful day. No chance of rain, no chance of the stones beneath their feet getting wet and lowering to a safer distance above the water. If anything, the warm sun would dry the rocks beneath his feet, and they risked rising even higher.
“Do you think we’re stuck up here?” wondered one of the crewmen. “We could find some bird eggs. Give us enough time to… Maybe the captain’ll figure something out.”
Joshua shook his head. “Captain can’t get up here any easier than we can get down. Right now, he’s probably doing his figures, wondering if it makes sense to wait for us to get creative, or whether he ought to raise sail and make for Enhover.”
“If they sail off…” worried Crusoe.
“Aye,” agreed Joshua. “If they sail off, we’re… well, we’re dead.”
The men fell silent, each of them considering that they were now stranded on a floating hunk of rock, drifting far above the sea, leagues from solid land.
Joshua looked over the men, seeing their sour expressions, trying to comprehend that he’d been given responsibility for this group, and they were facing not just abject failure, but their demise.
He frowned.
Behind the little group, beneath the ledge they’d huddled under the day before, floated his rucksack. He’d put the floating stone in there to weigh it down so they could study it further in the light of day. The rucksack hung half a yard in the air. Now that the stone was dry, it must have more buoyancy. If one stone could lift his pack… He walked forward, looking at it, and the men followed his gaze.
“Spirits!” exclaimed Crusoe. “If we can get enough of those stones, we might be able to…”
“We might be able to float ourselves right down to the water,” finished Joshua. Eagerly, he reached forward and grabbed his pack. “Everyone, start filling up your sacks. Too few rocks and we’ll plummet to our deaths, too many and… hells, too many and we’ll float away. Keep the packs under the ledge so they don’t get away from us. Do one rock at a time. Watch out for each other until we can test the proper amount. Boys, we’ve got a chance, but we’ve got to get this right.
Half an hour later, he cinched his rucksack on tight, checking the straps, adjusting them, worrying the frayed canvass wouldn’t hold his weight.
“Captain’s raising sails,” warned Crusoe. “He’s going to sail away, Mister Joshua. If we don’t get down there, this is over.”
“He’s not going to sail away when he sees this,” insisted Joshua.
He drew a deep breath, gripped the straps of his rucksack, and then leapt from the edge of the floating island.
The gentle tropical breeze kissed his face, and his feet kicked involuntarily in the open air. The straps of his pack pressed beneath his arms, and he gripped it like his life depended on it, which it did.
Like a rock sinking through water, he dropped, but not fast, not quickly. He risked opening his eyes and saw between his bare feet. The sea moved with rolling waves, light flashing on the surface of the water. In the distance, he could hear startled shouts, and he knew the crew on their vessel must have seen him dropping.
Looking at the ship, he saw fingers pointed at him, saw the men realizing what he was doing. Briefly, he wondered how many of those rocks they’d need to float a vessel of that size, and he smiled.
He’d land hundreds of yards away from the ship, but he knew he wouldn’t have to swim closer. They’d come for him in the small boats. The captain, after seeing the crew drop, would do anything to collect them. He’d do anything to obtain the magical rocks that could float a man. The captain was a smart one — he led for a reason. He’d see the same opportunity that Joshua did. And he’d reward the sailor that made him that opportunity.
Mister Joshua, as he slowly fell, decided he was about to become a very rich man.
6
The Driver: a Short Story
Oliver stumbled and leaned, cradling the wine glass in front of him like a dragon’s hoard of priceless treasure. The sparkling golden liquid rose up the side of the crystal, threatening to spill over the edge. But at the last minute, he tilted his wrist, sloshing the wine the other direction, saving his drink. He laughed, raising the glass in triumph, showing it to the room, though few people seemed to care. He kept grinning, the wine secure, two bottles of the product already coursing through his veins.
Then, a blonde-haired bundle of energy crashed him to him, nearly knocking him over, the wine spilling like blood from a wound, splashing soundlessly on the carpet of the parlour.
“Hells,” he muttered, looking at the nearly empty glass.
“Where are you going, m’lord?” breathed his assailant, her full lips parted in heady excitement, her arms wrapped around him, trying to draw him close.
“To get another drink, it seems,” he complained.
“Good,” lilted the girl. “I thought you were going to sit with that harlot, Margaux.”
Oliver blinked down at the diminutive blonde girl, at a loss for words. He had been going to share
company with Margaux, primarily because she was a harlot, until his drink had been spilled. Had Josephine known, had the sly woman spilled his drink on purpose? Who would do such a thing?
“Come with me,” she said, “we’ll refill your glass.”
“Lead the way, Josephine,” he told her, surrendering to her machinations, though, in the haze of the drink, he wasn’t quite sure if he was the victim of a plot, or of a girl who’s head was buzzing like his own.
Clasping his hand, she dragged him through the parlour, dodging couches adorned with gaily dressed Finavian peers, steering him clear of women he suspected would also be accused of being harlots. He made an effort to remember the faces of the ones Josephine most assiduously steered him away from, just in case the night took a different turn than he expected.
The air in the room was filled with rank smoke from the small cigarettes the Finavian peers preferred. Laughter bubbled around them, along with the over-loud voices of those well into their cups. There was music, but no one could hear it. Light, bursting from cut-crystal lamps, thrust spears of illumination across the room. Most of the crowd spoke the King’s tongue, though he heard a smattering of native Finavian as well.
He supposed he ought to look for the speakers, as several years prior his father had mandated the Finavian peers convert to the King’s tongue, but Josephine had a hand on his wrist like a manacle as she dragged him through the party toward the bar.
The daughter of a chevalier, he imagined his father and brothers would frown on the liaison with Josephine. Not that it had occurred, but that it continued. A tumble was one thing, but weeks spent cavorting publicly in the parlours frequented by the nation’s peers was an entirely different sort of scandal.
