by Rob Scott
The wind was deafening, the howling roar of a winter gale. The sails filled, and all but the topmain – which ripped down the middle – held fast. The rigging was pulled so taut that the lines looked to be frozen solid. Captain Ford felt his ship heave forward, as if she had been thrown across the river. The force of the blast was overwhelming and he shouted as he nearly fell backwards from the helm. He held on, pulling hard to keep the rudder to port. Garec, Brexan, Kellin and Pel all tumbled to the deck; Brexan slid across and fell down the forward hatch, cursing Steven’s mother all the way.
Alen gripped as many lines as he could while Gilmour braced himself against the mainmast. He was shouting something, but Captain Ford couldn’t make it out over the wind; he was too busy trying to keep on course.
Finally, he turned and watched as the barge passed within a hair’s breadth of them.
Then it was over. The little brig-sloop had passed through the shipping lanes and was turning north for Pellia with the river current. The naval schooner, her sails hanging limp in the light of her watch-lights, drifted lazily backwards along the west bank. For the moment, the Morning Star and her crew were safe.
As the raised poop deck of the second barge passed, Captain Ford heard her captain shouting for his head.
‘Sorry,’ he called back, raising a deferential hand. ‘Sorry about that!’
The hoots, hollers and insults continued as the hulking vessel passed out of sight. Captain Ford corrected their course, feeling the seaward current beneath his feet. ‘We did it,’ he whispered, exhaling a long, cathartic sigh.
Steven bounded up to him. ‘You all right, Captain?’
Captain Ford laughed hoarsely. ‘Remind me never to do that again.’
‘Me either.’ Steven clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That was some fine sailing.’
‘Nonsense.’ The captain was sweating in the cold night air, ‘all I did was to crank her over and hold on for dear life.’
‘History will one day recall your greatness and poise under pressure,’ Steven teased.
‘I think I pissed myself,’ he said.
‘Don’t feel bad about that; Garec did too.’
Still lying where he had fallen, Garec cried, ‘And I’m not ashamed to admit it, either!’
Gilmour laughed and helped him up.
‘Captain,’ Garec said, ‘permission to help myself to your personal store of beer?’
‘Permission granted,’ Captain Ford said, ‘but save eleven or twelve for me, if you please.’
‘Done – rutting whores-’ he stopped. ‘What time is it, anyway?’ He peered at his wrist in the firelight. ‘Three and ten minutes. Is that enough time for a beer?’
‘Enough for one,’ Steven said, ‘a quick one.’
‘I’ll join you,’ Alen said. ‘I could use a bracer as well.’
The naval schooner, having tacked arduously along the west bank, didn’t catch up with the Morning Star until well after dawn. As he passed the Pellia headlands, Doren Ford was exhausted, but he was also excited at the prospect of sailing safely through the blockade and running northeast along the west edge of the archipelago. Another morning of rare winter sunshine lit the North Sea like an undulating carpet of precious gemstones.
When the schooner captain gave the order to heave to, Captain Ford complied without hesitation. He ordered the brig-sloop’s sails reefed and even had Pel toss lines to Prince Malagon’s marines as their launch came alongside.
After explaining to the officer leading the boarding party that he had no idea the brig-sloop had been shadowed upriver, Captain Ford encouraged the Malakasians to search his vessel, jib to bilge.
They found nothing illegal: no contraband, no political insurgents or partisans, no outlaw books, not even a sliver of fennaroot.
When asked where he was bound, Captain Ford explained that he had heard of some great storm that had apparently crippled the shipping industry in Falkan, and he was heading south along the Ravenian Sea, running empty in hopes of securing long-term shipping contracts from Orindale to Landry, or even Pellia, if the wind and tides were right.
The lieutenant nodded and started over the rail, then paused and asked, ‘Why’d you make that tack last night?’
‘Which tack?’ Captain Ford played dumb. He was so tired; he hoped the muscles in his face were sagging enough to make him look like the dough-head he’d been called.
‘Which tack? That suicidal tack across the river,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Why try that tack with almost no wind and at slack tide?’
Captain Ford gestured towards his crew: Hoyt (who had slept through it all), Pel, Kellin and Brexan stood sipping tecan and nibbling at breakfast. ‘Signed on a couple of new hands last Moon,’ he said. ‘They’ve been struggling a bit with the chain of command, so I thought I’d put the fear of the Northern Forest in them before we set out into deep water.’
The lieutenant, clearly amused, asked, ‘Did it work?’
‘We’ll see, my young friend. We will certainly see.’
‘Good voyage to you, Captain.’
‘Thank you, sir, and the same to you.’ He untied the launch and watched as the boarding party heaved away at their oars. Less than half-way back to the schooner, the lieutenant raised a blue pennant and his captain, watching from the quarterdeck, ordered the same pennant run up the schooner’s halyard. The Morning Star was free to go.
‘Set sail for Orindale, Captain?’ Hoyt asked, handing Captain Ford a mug of something that smelled suspiciously like beer.
‘To Orindale.’ Captain Ford took a big mouthful and swallowed, then shouted for his first mate.
JONES BEACH STATE PARK
Steven and Gilmour walked south along the Meadowbrook Parkway, a ten-mile stretch of highway connecting Jones Beach and civilisation. With their backs to Long Island, they could have been on any desolate road in South Dakota or eastern Montana, not twenty minutes from the most densely populated region of the country. Jones Beach in winter was windswept, barren and cold. Only the heartiest of joggers, cyclists and fishermen, and the occasional bundled-up nature photographer, ventured into the park before spring officially arrived in April.
Thinking ahead, Hannah and Jennifer Sorenson had provided hats, gloves and scarves, and a tiny pink snowsuit for Milla, complete with a matching bobble-hat and a pair of pink mittens. The trunk was packed with blankets and a small kerosene heater. They all believed Mark would send a force across the Fold – even if it turned out to be just a small exploratory group first of all – but though they were sure about the location, no one had any idea when it would happen.
The others were crammed inside Jennifer’s car, trying to keep warm. Garec insisted on sitting in the front; he was like a child, wanting to press all the buttons, twist the knobs and play with the electric door locks. He marvelled at the automobile, insisting that Jennifer drive back and forth along Ocean Parkway until he understood the basics of steering and shifting gears. He had shouted for her to stop when the car reached fifty miles an hour, and was a little embarrassed when Hannah told him fifty was comparatively slow. Now, with Milla in his lap, the two fiddled with the vents and listened to music, wondering where the smokeless fires were burning and how the car managed to generate such heat on such a frigid day.
When the first jet took off from Kennedy, banked over Jamaica Bay and whined noisily towards Boston, Garec burst from the car, bow at the ready. ‘Get down, you two! Get down!’ he shouted.
‘What is it?’ Steven turned on his heel, anxiously searching the dunes.
‘I don’t know what it is!’ He aimed at the jet, a mile up now and climbing.
‘Whoa, whoa, Garec.’ Steven took him by the wrist. ‘Don’t waste your arrows, my friend. It’s perfectly safe. We travel long distances in those.’
‘Up there?’
‘Up there.’
Garec said, ‘I want to go home. I’ve seen enough.’
Gilmour smiled. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’
‘I’m n
ot sure I’m feeling well,’ he said. ‘And what’s this language we’re all speaking all of a sudden? It feels funny on my tongue.’
‘It’s called English, and it feels funny on all our tongues. Don’t fight it.’ Steven took the arrow. ‘We have to get rid of these, though.’ He helped Garec out of his quivers and took the Ronan’s bow. ‘We might be off the beaten path, but if a park ranger happens to patrol out here, you’ll be in handcuffs before lunch. Let’s put these away.’
‘I don’t like being here without my bow,’ Garec said to Gilmour, trying to hide the fear that was almost paralysing him now.
‘We’ll keep it close by,’ Gilmour promised as he ushered him back to the car.
They drove together to the Central Mall, where a stone tower in the middle of a roundabout overlooked closed concession stands, a restaurant and public toilets. A wooden boardwalk flanked the beach for about a mile in either direction, with concrete steps leading down to the sand at regular intervals. Behind the boardwalk, vacant car parks were interspersed with rolling dunes.
Further along the beach, the outdoor amphitheatre was silent, awaiting another summer of concerts and night-time shows.
‘Come on,’ Steven said, ‘I’ll show you the beach. Mark always says you can barely find a place to sit out here when the weather’s nice.’
‘But not today,’ Hannah shivered. ‘We have the whole place to ourselves.’
‘For now,’ Alen muttered, smoothing gloves over stiff fingers. ‘Who knows how many will show up later?’
The beach stretched ten miles east from Point Lookout, across the bay from Rockaway. The Central Mall was about five miles from the point, near the centre of the park. An elderly beachcomber, looking almost swamped in a big padded parka, wandered around.
‘Maybe she’s looking for seashells,’ Steven said, and waved from the bathhouse, but she ignored him. ‘Right,’ he said to himself, ‘now, I forgot where we were.’
Jennifer asked, ‘How will we know if this is the right place, or even the right day?’
‘Good question,’ Garec said, ‘and this is a long beach, Steven, so how can we be sure Mark will choose this spot?’
‘A couple of reasons,’ Steven said, ticking them off on his gloved fingers. ‘First, Mark always talked about being a kid out here, playing with his sister, doing the regular beach stuff with his family, but every time he described those outings, he always talked about his father taking him up the beach to buy ice cream. Now, I know that isn’t much to go on, but I can’t see any other place out here for a kid to get ice cream. So I’m guessing the Jenkins family used to stake out their family plot somewhere nearby.’
‘Sure,’ Jennifer said, ‘that makes sense: two kids, restrooms right up the beach, why not? How else will you know?’
Steven replied, ‘We’ll know when, because I think the magic will tell us when. It always has so far, and I’ve no reason to think it’ll fail now. So I think aspects of this place will begin to fade slightly, to become blurry around the edges, and then I’ll know for sure.’
‘Because that’s what’s happened before,’ Jennifer said.
‘Well, yes and no,’ Steven said, ‘and I’m sorry to be so vague, but here, today, I’m betting on yes.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ Hannah said.
‘However,’ Steven went on, ‘I’d prefer it if you and Hannah left us now. Go back to the island and find a room, and assuming we’re all right tonight, I’ll call you and you can come and get us. There’s no reason for you two to stay.’
Jennifer nodded. ‘I agree,’ she said, clearly happy to get away. ‘I mean, I would stay if I thought we could do anything, but you’re talking about things I don’t even begin to understand. And you don’t need Hannah for this bit, do you?’
‘That’s right,’ Alen said, ‘the rest of us may be called upon today, but you two have nothing to gain by being out here. You should go.’
Hannah, seeing a fight coming, just shook her head.
‘But Hannah-’ Jennifer began.
‘No, Mom,’ Hannah explained. ‘I want to be here – I need to be here. Who knows what might happen? Everything could be lost just because we weren’t here-’
‘What can we do? Tell me honestly, and I’ll stay with you.’ Jennifer looked to Steven for support.
‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said. ‘I honestly don’t – but that’s why I think we need to stay. And come to think of it, how on earth will you manage to keep warm out here all day? You’ll freeze to death in this wind. You need the car.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Steven said. ‘We can break the lock on the restaurant, or that concession stand. Once we’re out of the wind, it’ll be warm enough – we’ve got the kerosene heater, or we can build a fire.’
‘And what if Mark doesn’t arrive today?’
‘We’ll stay until he does.’ Steven was adamant. ‘There’s got to be a payphone somewhere around here, so if it looks like we’re going to be camped out here for a few days, I’ll call your mother’s cell phone and you can ferry out food and more blankets, but we’re staying. This is the place; I’m sure of it.’
Hannah sighed. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but take these, in case you get bored later.’ She took some sheets of folded paper from her back pocket and handed them to him. ‘I’ll explain it all tonight.’
‘What’s this?’ Steven asked.
‘A little surprise for you,’ Hannah said. ‘I had my suspicions when I first met Gilmour and Garec. This clinches it.’
Confused, Steven tucked the pages into his jacket and took Hannah in his arms and whispered, ‘Please, go now. I just want you safe. Soon this’ll all be a distant memory.’
‘Promise?’ Hannah said.
‘I do.’
‘Well, when it is, I want to go someplace and get naked.’
‘As long as it isn’t in Eldarn, I’m right there with you.’
As she kissed him, Steven felt the tension leave his shoulders; his legs threatened to buckle. The wind off the water brushed the hairs on the back of his neck and he would have been content to stand there all morning, feeling her body pressing up against his.
Garec shattered the moment when he asked suddenly, ‘Where’s Milla?’
Alen said, ‘She’s right-’
‘Shit!’ Jennifer pushed past the others on the boardwalk and ran to a little pile of clothes: the pink snowsuit topped with the little girl’s matching hat and mittens. ‘Milla!’ she screamed, panicked.
‘There she is.’ Garec pointed down the beach at the distant figure making for the water.
‘Holy Christ,’ Hannah said, running for the steps, but Alen was already ahead of her, bounding wildly across the sand. Steven, Gilmour and Garec followed.
Steven cast off his own jacket as Milla dived into the surf.
The gull was still cawing when Mark woke, the side of his face dusted with a layer of white sand. He blinked his eyes into focus and searched as far as he could see without moving. At the edge of his peripheral vision, the ancient stone tripod supporting the Larion spell table stood unattended. The hilltop was quiet.
Nearby, Mark spotted the branch he had used to kill himself – his former self. It was within reach and, with a fluid motion, he rolled over until he could reach it, grabbed it and rose to a wary crouch. He checked out the side of the dune he had been unable to see, but still there was nothing.
‘Where are you, shithead?’ he whispered, following the slope into the marsh and around the confused tangle of banyan roots where he had hidden from the coral snake.
He was alone.
Standing over the table, Mark hacked impotently at it with the branch until, sweating and frustrated, he gave up and tossed the battered limb back into the swamp. Then he tried to tip the table over, hoping to stand it upright and roll it downhill. He thought perhaps it would crash through the brush and sink in the enchanted pool, where it would be guarded for ever by tumour-ridden tadpoles and sentient diamond-headed serpents. But it was too
heavy; Mark couldn’t get it to budge.
He leaned on the table edge and considered his options. He couldn’t stand by while evil used the table to open the Fold and bring about the end of Eldarn, nor could he defeat himself. Lessek’s key was missing, and it would take days to excavate enough of the hillside to shove the granite artefact into the swamp – and even then, there was no guarantee it would shatter, or sink forever out of sight. He would have to go back to the marsh, maybe use one of the banyan roots to dig up and then drag loads of slick mud and rotting leaves, enough to grease the hillside, making the slope slippery ‘Mark?’ a voice called from somewhere behind him.
He leaped to one side and crouched down, expecting another fight, then he heard the strange voice again.
‘Mark, is that you?’ The voice was gentle, non-threatening. It appeared to be coming from the opposite side of the dune, the side he had forgotten, the side leading out to the azure sky and freedom. ‘Mark? Mark Jenkins?’
‘Who’s there?’ he asked softly, inching his way across the hilltop. ‘Who is that?’ When he stood, Mark could see down the other side, to the beach.
His father, young and lean, wearing his old bathing suit and carrying a beer can, was looking up at him.
‘Dad?’ Mark slipped in the loose sand and tumbled to the base of the hill. Embarrassed, he regained his feet and shook the sand off himself. ‘Dad?’
‘Mark? Where have you been?’ His father leaned over to help him up. ‘Your mother and I have been looking for you for an hour. She’s convinced you drowned out there somewhere.’
‘What?’ Confused, Mark hugged his father like he had as a five-year-old, throwing his arms around the older man and clinging as if it was the last time they would ever see one another.
‘Whoa, whoa, sport,’ Arlen Jenkins said as he hugged him back, ‘you’ve only been missing a little while, but your mom is upset. You know how she always tells you not to wander off. There’s too many people out here, Mark, too many strangers.’
