If the Captain felt pain at the loss of his First when Rose showed up, however, it was nothing compared to what his disappointment awoke in her. Each time he called for “Ben,” it opened the wound of Benson, her disappeared brother. She might have seen him still in her strange dreamland—though she couldn’t understand how or why—but that wasn’t the same as having him with her every day, by her side at every moment.
Rose sealed her resolve. There was no point in crying over what had become commonplace. This was the reason she’d come aboard to begin with: to find Benson, wherever he might be. She would learn to sail, learn to read, save her wages, and one day would buy her own ship with which to reclaim him. In the meantime, she would wait.
“Go and fetch the Scribe, Hawkesbury,” Kaille sighed. “I’m tired of talking about him. You can’t work because of the suspense? Then let’s assuage you.”
“He’s a slippery fish to catch,” Jas said in answer, “I could try his cabin first—”
“I’ve seen him,” Rose broke in. They turned and gave her a disapproving look for eavesdropping, but she continued, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hear. I saw him not ten minutes ago. I’ll fetch him for you.”
The Captain and his sailor looked at one another. At the same moment, they shrugged. “Tell him to come here, boy,” said Jas, “and in a hurry.”
Rose nodded her haste and rushed off, grateful to prolong her absence from chores and happy to be of use to the Captain.
*
Chapter 2:
The Guardian
* * * * *
The Darker Side of Magic
A History of Magics
Chapter the Tenth
By Samjam Juggerram
*
The primary purveyors of dark magicks, especially in ancient lore, were said to be witches. Their brand of dark magic was called “witchcraft,” and tended to deal in small or local phenomena having to do with day-to-day life. A witch might hold a length of beetroot in her bustle for the duration of the full moon, for instance, in order to put a hex upon the health of her neighbor’s cattle or burn a Tustle Weed to make her mother-in-law’s cooking taste of mold.
In a nuanced study of magicians it shouldn’t be missed that the power of ancient men was considered to be “white magic,” or powerful magic of good intention, whereas witches were purveyors of “dark magic.” Countless stories have been written about the kindly old magician and the spells he cast that saved kings and kingdoms, but only tales of hags and blood-thirsty covens speak of the female element. There is no reason to assume that the ebb and flow of magical energies would be gender-specific, and yet the societal standard of witches and magicians would have the magic of men be powerful and good while the magic of women be weak and petty in nature.
Whether or not the ancient world truly had witches as we know them today is an issue forever debated by historians. There are (or so it was claimed) first-hand accounts of those taken to the site of a forest Sabbat, which was said to be a frantic sort of gathering during which witches from across the county came together to celebrate the movement of the stars and the passage of time. It was claimed that these gatherings would reach a fevered pitch of screaming and caterwauling. Often, the rites would conclude with the blood sacrifice of an innocent, which is to say, with the death of a child.
An account of one such observation was recorded and translated:
“They done took me at night, me and me unborn boy. I done passed out at me bed, but then waken up in one of those clearings. There be a goat and a symbol dug lil deep in the ground. And there be a [text damaged]—They done pulled me babe from me and had it kinda dangling from these sticks, like. Then they go danced and danced, with them unworldly screamings, and I thought I might just go and die. Me babe stare back at me, it just there bleeding out, it eyes turning cloudy, like. I ain’t never slept no more that I don’t see me boy up there like that, ain’t being ready to be born. I be bleeding heavy from it all, like. They done and drived sticks through me arms and legs. I done passed out and waken up again in me bed, the demon’s screamings still in me ears. Me arms and legs be healed—all closed up, like, by evil magic—but me unborn boy be gone. Me belly be empty.”
The account of this woman, taken down by a man of the law, went on to list several names, followed with the note that the accused witches had been drowned for their crimes. This story was but one of many leading to the persecution of witches throughout the realm.
It was believed impossible to kill a witch. They were given status with the immortals, though unlike gods, they did age. This may be why the elderly were most often accused of the sin of black magic. Those said to be practitioners were “put away” from the world instead of slaughtered.
A popular method of disposal was to have them “drowned.” This meant that their live bodies were sunk to the bottom of a lake where, it was believed, they then lived until the end of days, tied forever to the rocks that had pulled them down. They were often buried alive in distant, deep graves, as well, and covered by large stones so that they wouldn’t soon claw their way out.
Oddly, fire was said to be the worst way to dispose of a witch. Though the burning would leave a charred body that many might consider dead, it was said that the witch’s evil essence would break free from her body—taking the form of acrid smoke—and then infect all those unfortunate enough to breath it in. A part of the witch would then live in all of them, so the superstition went, and in all their progeny to come, bringing bad luck and disaster for all their days. These people were said to be “witch witted,” and usually ended up being buried or drowned as well.
In reality, those accused of witchcraft were rarely any other than misunderstood or disliked members of their own local community. Reactions to life, grief, and mortality fall on a broad spectrum of human emotions, and in a time of intense superstition any person behaving in an unusual way was fodder for suspicions of the worst kind.
The question in hindsight remains, however, whether the innocents at the bottom of many lakes were the ones at fault for their differences or whether the truth of black magic lies in the righteous belief that everyone ought to appear the same.
* * * * *
The small shard of looking glass through which Sara had seen herself grow from child to young lady was propped before her. Despite being slightly tarnished by ash and smoke, it remained the unforgiving window through which the pretty girl contrived to find herself ugly.
Without ribbons or the will to work them, Sara sat before the shard, staring into her own mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. She had always seen a repulsiveness in them—a defect of body and character that, if she was very good, she might someday overcome. These days she saw in them only a despair that ate at her very bones.
Life had seemed hopeless enough after the fire that destroyed her village—had seemed impossible, even. But that was before they’d lost Rose. Despite being an intolerable pest, her eldest sister had served to hold the fragments of their remaining family together. Without her, all was the perhaps similar, yet all was set adrift.
Their mother remained as silent as the day they’d left their village behind. She barely ate, even when pushed, and sat stilly in her armchair by the hearth, her eyes wide but unseeing. Sara kept a candle burning in every corner to ward away the darkness. It was in the dark, after all, where her Mama’s dissonant keening still echoed—cried at full volume during the blackest part of the night.
Mismatched eyes met one another once more in the glass, framed as they were by her untidy blonde hair. Sara didn’t need to see her features to recall how much she disapproved of each one. Her reflection called forth an all-too-familiar feeling of remorse, often edged with panic. Yet, as ever, she couldn’t look away.
Sara was startled from her intense scrutiny by a sharp knock at the door. Rising, she called out to it, and heard the Landlord’s answer in response.
“We don’t need anything today,” Sara told him as she undid the iron l
ocks. The door opened a crack. “But thank you for checking in.”
“I’ve just had tea with another of my tenants,” said the Landlord, who Sara knew only as Pella. “There have been too many complaints of noise,” he added, pushing the door open so that she could see his dark face and pale hair. “This can’t continue.”
“I don’t know what you’re—” Sara began, throwing her weight against his pushing.
“I need to speak with your mother,” Pella pressed back with increased force.
Before Sara had time to think, she had answered: “She’s not here.”
“Do you take me for a newly hatched sun-robin, child?” Pella scoffed, easing back on the door. “Of course she’s here. None of you may go out without me.”
“I meant…metaphorically,” Sara mumbled her correction. She’d nearly succeeded in closing the entry. “She’s not available.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pella asked gruffly.
“She—” Sara considered, “she’s sleeping.”
“Yes, well I suppose she would be tired,” he continued in the same annoyed voice, “seeing as how she does no sleeping during the flea-bitten night.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sara demanded, echoing her Landlord’s ire.
Pella, however, wasn’t in the mood to play word games with an artless teenage girl. His countenance become menacing.
“What game is this meant to satirize?” he asked in return. “You’ve ears, girl, and the ability to use them. Don’t pretend deafness to your Mama’s screaming—that eerie midnight calling— that you hear with as much clarity as I and the rest of my tenants, more even.”
“I didn’t mean—” Sara began.
“Your brother told me something of your story,” Pella said, referring to his brief encounter with Rose, “so I know you’re not without your struggles. But if my tenants are unhappy, then I must be also. Months without a silent night have stirred their minds into fear and superstition. A few more nights of this and I won’t be able to defend your family from accusations of witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft?” Sara exclaimed, letting go her grip on the door. “We’re in mourning, not—”
“Then mourn quietly,” Pella scolded, pushing his way inside. “It’ll do none of us any good to have your mother buried alive. And—as I have no desire to be a part of that—if she can’t keep quiet, I’m going to have to kick you out.”
“But my sis—” Sara started in protest before realizing she had almost revealed Rose’s disguise, “but we paid for these rooms!”
“Your gold will be returned,” Pella said sadly, “and in full.”
“But we have nowhere else to go!” Sara cried at him.
“Then we must find a way to make this situation work,” Pella said pointedly. Without another word, he disappeared from Sara’s vision and she closed the door behind him.
As she turned back to the room, sinking in upon herself, a sudden movement drew her eye to her mother’s chair. For a heart-wrenching instant Sara thought it might have been her Mama, returned to them from her lethargy at last…but it was only her youngest sister Tobi coming to sit at their mother’s feet.
“You scared me,” Sara said, trying to smile unconcernedly. “Aren’t you getting tall?”
Tobi said nothing, but stuck out a spiteful tongue at her older sister and disappeared again within the second room.
Sara sighed, leaning against the door as though to hold out all the world. It would push its way in, she knew. It was only a matter of days.
For the hundredth time, Sara cursed her mother, whose empty green eyes looked unseeingly forward. She cursed Rose too for having the gall to abandon them.
* * * * *
Rose entered Fenric’s cabin to find him engrossed in his writing. Leaning on the solid doorframe as the ship swayed upon the mild waters, Rose cleared her throat. “The Captain wants to speak with you on the bow,” she said icily, the residue of her frustration yet to wear off.
“I shall be there presently,” Fenric said, his tone placid and unassuming. He looked up and gestured for her to enter. Reluctantly, she closed the door and approached. “Tell me, Master Rose,” he said, holding out a sheet of paper towards her, “what does this say?”
The page he held had written upon it a handful of letters. Rose drew nearer so that she could clearly observe them. Her instruction of the alphabet was as yet incomplete, but the Scribe had focused on these letters in particular, and she knew them well.
“It says your name,” she told him, taking a seat and crossing her arms. “Fenric.”
“That’s very good,” Fenric praised. He nodded with the pride of a schoolteacher and chose to ignore her insolent gaze, taking up his pen once more. “I’ll need you to be very sure of recognizing the word.”
“I’m sure,” Rose said stonily. Unable to hold in her resentment for another second, she blurted: “What exactly are you playing at?”
Fenric continued the writing he’d begun without reacting to the bitterness in her words. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” he murmured.
“What you’re doing…the comments you’re making,” Rose explained, “…about me.”
“Master Rose,” Fenric said, looking up at her with concern, “in the game we’re playing, it does neither of us any favors to doubt one another.”
“Game?” Rose asked, taken aback. “I gave up everything to be here, this isn’t a game—”
“All life is a game, Benson Rose,” Fenric said, finishing his letter and blotting it adeptly. “It may be one of strategy or of luck, or—if we’re fortunate—a game with no purpose save enjoyment. Whatever it may be, however, we do well to recognize that it is, in fact, a game. Only then can we discover the role we play in it. If we do so mindfully, we’re more likely to have our influence felt. Furthermore, if we find ourselves in a game with a winner and loser—one of life and death—we’re all the more likely to conquer and survive.”
“Then why are you setting me up for failure?” Rose yelled, unable to contain her frustration. “In here you teach me letters and treat me with respect, but out in front of people you say that I’m weak and feminine!”
“In front of people, exactly,” Fenric smiled, as though feeling the situation explained.
“I don’t understand,” Rose moaned, her frustration giving way to confusion. “I thought you wanted me to be here…”
“And what’s suggesting that I don’t?” Fenric inquired.
“You…you keep saying things,” Rose said lamely. “Things that make people laugh at me…you’re like a bully.”
“Yes, well I suppose laughter can hurt sometimes, if we’re unprepared,” Fenric replied, beginning to catch the sense of her unease. “I like to think of it as the very best of distractions.”
“It’s not a distraction!” Rose found her voice again. “It’s bringing attention to things that I can’t hide. They’re laughing at me. Because of you!”
“Tell me, Benson Rose,” Fenric leaned his elbows against his table and looked at her thoughtfully, “do men have bulging muscles? Do you? Do men have facial hair? Do you? No? And did you truly believe that your peers would simply not notice your shortcomings? What is it that you’re doing, exactly, to keep them from being suspicious of you? Nothing that I can see. So I try to be of help.”
“By pointing those things out?” Rose demanded, incredulous.
“Yes, precisely,” Fenric said with a nod. “If your companions are made aware of your embarrassment over being less muscular or less hirsute than you feel you ought to be, then they’ll view it as your genetic inferiority and stop short of questions. Always remember this: clothing alone does not a disguise make.”
Rose swallowed heavily. This was exactly the point she’d been most unsure about with the Scribe, and exactly the reason for her frustration. Did he know what she was? Had he recognized her as the girl who’d walked down the stifling black stone alley? Some days she was sure that he must, and
yet, with how ruthlessly he teased her, it seemed impossible that he would bring a woman aboard. “D-disguise?” she stammered, “I don’t need a disguise…”
“Come now, Master Rose,” Fenric said smoothly, “there’s no need for such artifice between us. Your true identity is the reason you’re of such interest to me.”
Rose blinked several times, each release of her eyelids wiping away a question she’d been too frightened to ask.
“You…you know?” she hissed. “Why did you fight for me to be part of the crew? You don’t expect me to…to do for you…”
“Please, say no more!” Fenric interrupted, seeing a look of disgust on her face as she considered what an old man might want from a young woman. “I will always tell you the truth. And the truth is this: I haven’t asked you aboard to take advantage of you.”
“Oh,” Rose said, her shoulders hunched as she rearranged her memories of the man. “I guess you know then that my name isn’t Ben—”
“Ah!” Fenric interrupted once more, lifting a lined hand. “I amend my earlier words. Let our only secrets be our given names.”
Rose frowned at him. It struck her as odd that he would admit his name to be an alias. Yet, she knew he wasn’t the type to make mistakes. What was he playing at by letting that slip? She felt the desire to run away, wondering what monstrous things a man had to do before required to forsake his own name. This thought was too unsettling. She tried to think instead of her own problems on the ship. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“The same things you were doing, except with awareness and intent,” Fenric said nonchalantly. “You must recognize that the character of Benson Rose is but that, a character. He draws upon all that you are, but he should not—must not—be you. He can be a proud boy who is insecure about his inability to grow a beard. He can be a fastidious boy who takes care of his cleanliness privately. He can be an adventurer. He can love women. He can be whoever you want him to be. He is your tool. He is your weapon. Let others laugh at him, what has that to do with you? Make his insecurities your strengths.”
“I…” Rose considered, trying to look upon her shipboard life with a new degree of detachment. Could she hide what she felt for the Captain behind a character of competence and strength? Could she stand up to Cricket with her brother’s self-confidence? “I hadn’t thought of it this way.”
The Secret's Keeper and the Heir Page 4
