by Clay Held
They waited. Cold air rolled off the river, sticking to Simon’s skin and making his bones feel like ice water. He tightened his jacket around him and rubbed his hands over his arms, wondering all the time just who these friends could be.
Another hour passed in complete silence when Nathan began to look concerned. He paced up and down the river bank, his hands jammed into his pockets and his eyes fixed firmly on the river. Simon sat on the ground nearby, huddled into a ball for warmth, watching Nathan as he walked back and forth.
“Mr. Tamerlane--”
Nathan tilted his head but didn’t stop walking. “That is absolutely unnecessary, Simon. Please, call me Nathan.”
This got under Simon’s skin unexpectedly. “Got it,” he said. “Sorry.”
Nathan stopped pacing. He gave Simon a thoughtful look that seemed to last for hours, then finally he walked over and plopped down on the ground next to him. “No worries,” he said. “Better to have manners than not.” He flipped through his mental book again, then he checked his watch and pulled out his leather book. Simon peered over at it. It was a little bigger than a paperback, a journal of some sort from the looks of it. It was bound in dark brown leather with blood red material on the corners and the spine. A symbol of a leaf shimmered in silver on the cover.
“What is that exactly?” Simon stared at the leaf. “Spell book?” It seemed too stupid to be right, but how far off could he be?
“Close,” Nathan said, snapping the book shut. “It’s called a grimoire. It’s like a...like a textbook, or a planner, I guess, and a journal, good for keeping track of accounts and things.” Nathan ran his fingers over the leathery cover, his fingers tracing the leaf symbol. “It’s very important. Very necessary in my line of work.”
Simon stared at the silver leaf on the cover. It seemed familiar, like some half-remembered dream. Searching his mind yielded only ghosts of memories, phantasms without names or places to ground them. The closest he could envision was a woman’s voice, soft and quiet, like a lullaby. As hard as he tried to remember more, that was the limit of his memory. “What do you do?” he asked.
Nathan gazed off into the waters. “A lot.” His eyes flittered across the surface of the river, towards the crickets chirping just off shore, over by the trees and then the overgrowth. He eyed the grimoire in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was ash. “So you really don’t know anything, do you?”
Simon’s cheeks ran hot. “Yes I do,” he said, defensively. He took a small breath and asked what had been burning in his mind since the firehouse. “I know you knew my parents.”
“Tom, yes.” Nathan checked his watch again, the lines in his face crimping into a grimace. “Your mother, too, but only a little. Wonderful woman, especially to put up with your dad like she did.” A small smile forced itself on his face. “We used to work together, he and I. Used to track revenants out west.” He looked at Simon, who only stared at him. It was so strange, after all this time, to hear his parents talked about so casually, not like mysteries, but like people. Nathan cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair. “They were good,” he said. “As good as you can get.” He handed the leather book over to Simon. “Here, take a look. Probably none of it will make any sense, but no harm.”
Simon took the grimoire in his hands. As he opened it a small sensation like a raindrop ran down his neck. Unsure whether it was excitement or fear, he flipped to a page at random, only to find it filled with diagrams and notes, all handwritten and scrawled over every available inch of space. Flipping forward he found more drawings, this time they reminded him of his geometry homework, all circles and triangles and, off to the side, what looked like algebra equations, but with symbols rather than letters, none of which Simon had any hopes to recognize.
Impulsively, Simon flipped to the very front of the book, and on the first page was a handwritten inscription, which read:
NATHAN ALAN TAMERLANE
BORN IN A SUMMER STORM, RAISED IN THE RAIN
JOURNEYMAN - GOOD STANDING
DIVISION NO. 713
THE GREAT HALL OF THE FREE AND ACCEPTED MANCERS OF NOVA MUNDUS
REESTABLISHED 1680.
SIGNED, NICODEMUS LIMNIC, ARCHMANCER
“Inscribed by the former Archmancer himself,” Nathan said, a look of profound sadness on his face.
Simon handed the book back over to him, feeling he didn’t have the right to hold it anymore, let alone leaf through it at random. “Who are the Mancers of Nova Mundus?” he asked after a moment. The name was almost carbonated on his tongue.
“Our people,” Nathan said. “Nova Mundus, the New World. Witchbreed of all kind came to this land during the colonial times. Witches, wizards. Almost anyone or anything like us.”
The next question burst of him. “What about warlocks?”
Nathan hesitated. “No,” he said. “At least, not for long, usually.”
“Boeman said I was one. A warlock. Is there much difference?”
Nathan didn’t answer right away. His face was long and drawn out in the moonlight, and suddenly he seemed very aged. He looked out over the waters again, his eyes upstream. “Many differences, Simon. Warlocks are...” his voice was distant and low. “There’s a few big differences. That means a lot, where we’re going.”
“So, is that what I am?” Simon asked. “Are they bad, like Boeman? Am I--”
“Quiet.” Nathan jumped to his feet. “Stay behind me. Something’s here.” He motioned behind him.
Simon swallowed his question, suddenly angry to have been cut off, but he crept to his feet regardless, moving slowly, straining to look upstream, expecting Streaker or Boeman to come bursting out of the fog at any moment. The air had changed, he could feel it, and now something did seem to be happening. Someone, or something, was coming.
Silence cloaked the area. Simon finally stood beside Nathan, who held stone still, his hands held out at his sides. Simon strained to hear a noise, any noise, any clue of what to expect. His mind wandered from Boeman and Streaker to other possibilities, to bizarrely shaped shadow creatures that almost threatened to overrun his imagination. With a sudden, intense shudder Simon recalled his dream, questioning now just how much of it could be real, and how many other creatures might have been there. What else could be moving around in the night?
Splashing. A low, quiet noise out in the fog, growing steadily louder, yet Simon could not see where it came from. He braced himself as best he could, trying to steel his mind for whatever creature or beast was about to come sloshing out of the fog. Whatever came, horrible or unimaginable, Simon promised himself he would be ready, but his stomach started to churn, and he finally admitted to himself that he was ready to run, all the way back home if he had to. He stepped back, ready to take flight, when Nathan grasped him by the wrist and held him there.
The splashing grew. It was getting closer. Simon’s imagination went wild, filling his mind with terrible suggestions of what was coming. Everything turned inward on him, and he was awash in absolute, mind-shaking fear. Finally, a figure emerged from the fog.
It was a frog.
It made no sense, and his mind spasmed at the sight, but nonetheless a frog was advancing very deliberately on them, paddling himself along on a lily pad with a tiny stick he used for an oar. He stood about a foot tall and carried a tiny lantern on top of his twig. The frog paddled along, humming to himself as he made his way ashore. As it came closer his lantern turned out to be a firefly, which flickered one last time and flew away as the lily pad coasted to a stop several feet from the shore.
He swore his eyes were tricking him, but as the frog drew closer Simon could see the frog was fully dressed in a small and elegant uniform, like something an admiral might wear. On its head, though, was a tiny, floppy straw hat.
Nathan’s shoulders relaxed. He stepped closer to the water and whistled a small, songbird-like tune. The tiny frog cocked its head towards the sound, then after a moment, whistled back a response. Another whi
stle from Nathan, then the frog began to paddle towards them. When he reached the embankment Nathan stepped forward, waving Simon to follow.
The firefly flew high over the frog’s head, the light reflecting in his small, black eyes. The frog spoke with a thick Creole accent. “Dis’ the boy?”
“Hello,” Simon said quietly
“Oh he speak!” The frog smiled at Nathan. “He’s talent!”
Nathan spared a smile towards the frog. “Please, Lungwort, play sweetly with him.”
The frog hopped furiously. “Names! Names! Mind yourself Tamerlane, or I leave now!”
“Sorry,” Nathan said, smiling. He turned to Simon. “Simon,” he said, throwing a glance at the frog. “Please allow me to introduce you to, well, Mr. Frog.”
“Mr. Frog,” Simon said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Polite, too,” the frog said. He turned back to Nathan. “Dis’ the boy?”
“No, of course not,” Nathan said, rolling his eyes. “I brought an entirely different one all the way out here, just for fun. The real boy is still back at the fire.”
The frog eyed Nathan. “Tamerlane. Always too much trouble for too little return. Where do you want to go?”
“The Gate,” Nathan said. Simon’s neck tingled.
The frog croaked quietly to himself. “That’s not so far. Why you call the wild?”
“The land is hot,” Nathan said. “Dominion hounds are after us. We need the safety that only you and yours can offer.”
“Hot land, eh?” The frog rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Must be big.”
“Mystic,” Nathan said. “Can we count on you?”
“Heh,” the frog said, a small smile creeping across his lips. “All will be that was, no?”
“Don’t mock the Freemancers,” Nathan said. “We have business, and if you would, we would have you render us to our destination.”
“Not so fast!” The frog jumped off his lily pad onto the sandy shore. “You bring dis, dis big trouble, to me, and why do I offer you my help?”
Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “Because you know what’s at stake,” he said, stooping down. “Besides, you have never paid me for your nymph problem two summers back.”
“Didn’t I now?” The frog scratched his head. “I seem to remember giving you two vials of werewolf’s blood--”
“That deal was for five,” Nathan said. “I can forgive the debt, Lungwort, if you would grant us safe passage down your river.”
Lungwort clucked his tongue thoughtfully. He eyed Simon, his tiny black eyes examining every inch of him. “Very well, Tamerlane.” The frog hopped on his lily pad. “I will take you, but not without first the formalities!” The frog shook his twig at the two of them. “You know the order of things, Tamerlane. You know the rites. Your family helped write most of them, and I will not be without them tonight, of all nights!”
“The rites?” Simon looked at Nathan. The whole conversation between Nathan and Lungwort had left him utterly lost.
“I’ll explain later,” Nathan said. “Follow my lead.” He turned to face the frog. “My name,” he began. “Nathan Alan Tamerlane. Born in a summer storm, raised in the rain.” He followed with a glance at Simon. “Simon?”
Simon was still at a loss. “Huh?”
“Your name, boy,” Lungwort said. “Full name, and don’t try to skip on any of your middle names. I’ll know if you carry extra of them. It won’t taste right.”
Simon was confused, but he obliged the frog. “Simon. Simon Theodore Warner.” He looked at Lungwort, who eyed him hungrily. “No extra middle names.”
“The rest!” Lungwort shouted.
“That’s all,” Simon said. “I don’t have any other--”
“You’re mantle, boy!” Lungwort removed his hat, threw it to his feet. “I said no tricks!”
Simon drew a complete blank. He stood dumbfounded, staring at the frog. “I--”
“He doesn’t know,” Nathan said. “He’s never been told.”
Lungwort eyed Simon again. “Never told, eh? What game you play, Tamerlane?”
“He’s been in the Quiet his entire life,” Nathan said.
“No excuse,” Lungwort said. His eyes were laced with something frightening. “I still require his mantle.”
Nathan let out a deep sigh, then spoke. “Simon Theodore Warner. Born in a snowstorm, raised in a forest.”
Absolutely none of this made any special kind of sense. “I was born in March,” Simon said.
“I know,” Nathan said. “Freak snowstorm. It was special. That’s how we knew.”
“Is this so?” Lungwort rubbed his chin. “Theodore. Snowstorm and the Forest.”
Simon nodded, unsure really what to say or do. Around them the cicadas chirped louder then before.
Lungwort finally smiled. “Well, then, boy, let that be the last time you give yourself so freely!”
“He’s right,” Nathan said. “Your name, your mantle too, it’s all you, just, another way of you. Handing it out can be dangerous.”
Embarrassment and frustration rushed Simon. “Then why’d you tell him?” He glared at Nathan, betrayed.
“Because,” Nathan said, “we don’t really have much choice.” He turned to the frog. “Now, we’ve upheld our commitment, Mr. Frog. Would you do us the same honor?”
“Simon Theodore Warner,” the frog said, tasting the words. “Yes...Yes! You hide nothing. You carry no lies this night. Yes, yes of course, of course!” He hopped up and down happily. “We can make a deal.” The air around them began to tingle, and the hairs on Simon’s neck stood at sudden attention. “We can deal. Nathan Alan Tamerlane. Simon Theodore Warner. Yes! Yes! My name. My name!” The frog joyfully threw his floppy straw hat into the water and hopped high in the air, landing right in front of them. When he spoke, his voice was sunshine on the delta. “My name is Lungwort, boy, that you already heard. Captain Lungwort Girardeau Broussard. Born on the lovely waters, raised between the banks! Tonight we will take to the water with my love and my life--and by dawn, I swear to you, we shall render you to the Gate!”
The air continued to pulse with a strange flow of energy. The cicadas all stopped. True silence pressed around them again, and the moon glowed brighter than before. Simon glanced around him. “How?”
“How?” The frog was shouting now. “How? Boy, they do not call me Captain for nothing!” He hopped onto Simon’s shoulder and let out a loud, echoing croak.
The water exploded in front of them, a huge shower of water rupturing into the air. Simon jerked and threw his hands to his face in reflex, and when he had rubbed the water out of eyes, before him was a grand riverboat, large and completely aglow in orange lights. It was exactly like the ones he had read about in school. Twin smokestacks rose into the air with a quiet, towering majesty all their own, and magnificent windows flooded every last plank and nail of the antique vessel in light. At the rear a huge red waterwheel spun lazily, and two large boarding ramps at the front were folded up towards the sky. A true bear of a man appeared on the uppermost level of the boat. He had fierce, fiery eyes and a snow-white beard, cleanly trimmed. “Orders, Captain?” he bellowed down to them. Lungwort gave a nod, and then the bearish man was leaning over the railing and shouting to a swell of men who had all appeared suddenly from every door and window, spilling out onto the decks of the ship. More men appeared and began lowering the boarding ramps straight down into the water. The very edge of the ramps came down exactly on a log floating just offshore. Lungwort hopped excitedly, skipping over the plank entirely, landing squarely on the deck railing. “Ready the boilers!” He shouted. “Make the way for a quick departure!” The roof captain on the upper level nodded and disappeared. Lungwort spun around and faced Nathan and Simon, his face beaming with warmth and joy. “Greetings my friends, great and wonderful greetings! Come aboard!” More crew hustled along the deck, attending to their duties while the roof captain continued to bark orders. “I am pleased to grant you board and passage on my fine and lo
vely ship,” Lungwort said, his little eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “My beauty, my love, The Idlewild. She be the Belle of the River, and she and my crew shall take you safely on your way. Welcome, welcome now! Welcome and hurry!” Lungwort hopped away onto the deck, vanishing in a flurry of crew, leaving Simon momentarily mystified on the shore next to Nathan.
Nathan wasted no time hurrying out onto a log and hopping onto the boarding ramp. Simon stumbled on the log, raising alarmed cries from the men not to touch the water. Lungwort continued to hop about the strange crew, croaking more orders as others scurried to ready the ship. As they boarded Simon noticed all their clothing was from all different times and places--here a man in colonial clothing, there a man in tattered rags with a simple straw hat. As Nathan and Simon followed Lungwort to the bridge a man in a modern gray suit hurried by, great coils of rope slung over his shoulder. The man’s eyes were wild with joy and he wore a smile to match.
Lungwort croaked more orders to the crew. “Get her ready!” he bellowed. “Get that coal in the fire!” He looked to the roof captain. “Manage the turbines, Mr. Winters, and make ready for the muddy waters of the Gate! We leave at once! Our next stop, St. Louis!”
CHAPTER SIX
THE GATE
Simon and Nathan sat with the boat’s crew at a gigantic wooden table in a large dining room. Oil lamps lit the big room in a dim, yellow light, and all along the walls were ominous windows opening up into the night, revealing an occasional glimpse of the stars, clouds, and, every so often, the moon.
It was well past midnight, but the crew showed no signs of weariness. Several of them spoke excitedly to one another, laughing and telling stories at a fevered pace. Several of them gathered around one man, an older gentlemen with wild white hair, who spoke bombastically from the far end of the table. His voice carried over all the others until Simon could clearly hear him from the other side of the room. The man spoke of life along the river, transitioning seamlessly into days of old, and then bouncing just as quickly to tales of all the animals he had known, great and small, and the hidden lives of each. Yet more members of the crew hurried in and out of the dining hall, coming and going from their work through one of the many doors, never fully stopping, but still finding moments to exchange greetings with one another, and always to steal a glance at Simon.
