by Clay Held
At the foot of the table was a young boy, maybe five years younger than Simon, wearing coveralls and a mud-splattered white shirt. An entire field of freckles dotted his chubby face and a large straw hat covered a head full of dirty blond hair. He listened to the older gentlemen with the white hair, dressed all in white and sporting a very large, very bushy gray mustache. The old man waved his arms wildly in the air while he talked, pausing only to laugh and cajole the men seated around him, then to pull a small hunk of bread out of his pocket which he split between himself and the freckled boy.
Simon had not had time to even think about eating, but the site of the bread made his stomach ache. He was disappointed then that the grand wooden table was completely barren of anything to eat, but a passing crew member in a faded military uniform reassured him the table was never empty for long.
Most of the crew eyed Simon while Nathan spoke with the roof captain, the man Lungwort had called Mr. Winters. As Simon sat at the table, trying to avoid eye contact with the crew, his mind wandered back over the events of the past day--from the dream, to the dog attack, to the whole episode at the Paw with Mr. Boeman. Simon’s stomach knotted at the memory. How had Boeman frozen Sam at the diner? It was like he simply shut Sam off, every last muscle, and even though Simon now knew that magic was real, it didn’t stop the idea from terrifying him.
One crew member snored soundly next to Simon. It was the man he had seen earlier in the gray suit, but now his head laid on the still-bare table. Simon did not wish to disturb him--he looked very tired when he wasn’t manic--so Simon continued to watch the crew bustling through the dining room. Every now and again the room erupted with the clanging of pots and pans from behind the galley door, each time accompanied by much shouting.
Nathan leaned over and spoke quietly to Simon. “You hanging in there?” After a nod he continued. “We shouldn’t be too long--maybe a few hours, dawn at most, then we’ll have you somewhere safe.”
A large crash of pots coming from the galley stopped all the conversation in the dining room, prompting Mr. Winters to excuse himself from the table. Simon looked with the rest of the crew, but a moment later they all fell back into their conversations without a second thought.
“What’s going on in there?” Simon whispered to the man in the gray suit, who had lifted his head
“Meal might be ready, sounds like,” he said, before dropping his head back on the table with a dense thud. “Wake me when it’s time.” A moment later he was snoring again, his chest lifting and falling in short, quick breaths.
“We won’t wait for Cookie to finish the meal,” Nathan said, settling down next to Simon and fishing in his pocket. He pulled out the brown paper bag from the firehouse and handed it to Simon. “Here. Should hold you over for now.”
Simon peered in the bag, finding a small green apple and a sandwich inside. Grateful, he rewrapped the apple and placed it on the table and began on the sandwich quietly. “Thanks,” he said. The food did not help the nervousness in his stomach. Between bites he debated the best way to ask what was rattling around in his head. Finally he took a deep breath and swallowed. “What’s in St. Louis?” He tried his hardest to sound casual, like it was no big deal, but he knew he sounded scared.
“The Gate,” Nathan said. “We’ll be able to make it the rest of the way by ourselves from there. It’s too risky to travel by land.” He looked out one of the large windows, staring into the night for a moment. “Best for us to travel by water. Not entirely safe, but safer.”
Simon finished the sandwich. “So why can’t Boeman follow us by water?”
Chatter in the room choked and died off at the mention of Boeman. All eyes were definitely on Simon this time.
“What?” Simon looked from face to startled face. “Can Boeman--”
A startled cry rose from the older gentlemen at the end of the table. “Wait my boy, wait! Have you got no sense rolling around in that dull head? That name is a blight!” The old man closed his eyes and rolled his head. “Oh, oh this boy will be the end of this crew and this ship! Letting every loose thought drop out of his head like a squirrel losing his acorns!”
“Quiet, Hannibal,” said Mr. Winters, returning from the galley. He voice was deep and quiet. “Boy don’t know ‘bout the boogeyman. He thinks it’s just a bedtime tale, so cut him some slack.” Hannibal started to speak again, but Mr. Winters locked him down with a piercing glare, and the room fell silent again.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, almost a whisper. “I didn’t know--”
“There is nothing to worry about,” said Mr. Winters. “Just be mindful of names while on board The Idlewild.”
“I don’t follow,” Simon said. “It’s just a name.”
“Your name is you, my boy!” shouted Hannibal. “You bandy it about like that and things won’t stay quiet for you for long! You speak a curse like you did and you call out to it, call out to that curse, and you bring it here. You bring it down on us all!” The old man raised his arms, his great white mustache fluttering violently while he spoke. “We can’t have a curse on board! A curse like that is a blight to end all other blights! A wickedness to rattle the very gates of Thule!” He leveled his darkening eyes on Simon. “Even now, I feel if, it follows us, always behind us, ever waiting. You, boy, may have given it just the opening it needed, the opportunity to strike!” The crew began to murmur to one another worriedly, casting several looks between themselves and Simon.
“Ridiculous!” Mr. Winters slammed a fist on the table. “Superstitious nonsense,” he said. “Now be quiet,” he said to Hannibal, who fumed silently. The crew continued to whisper to one another. “All of you,” Mr. Winters said, his voice a growl. The crew settled down again almost instantly.
“Never a dull moment,” Nathan whispered to Simon. “The river types fancy their stories. Never mind Mr. Mustache up there,” he said, smiling. A moment later he added, “But all the same, probably best not to say Mr. B’s name around here, okay?”
Simon nodded. “I didn’t mean to--”
“You didn’t know,” said Mr. Winters over Nathan’s shoulder. “I think food’s ready,” he said, as another, louder clang of pots and falling pans erupted from the kitchen. “Cookie!” shouted Mr. Winters. “Cookie! Are you done yet?”
A tinny, hollow voice floated into the dining room from the kitchen. “You don’t rush art!”
Mr. Winters rolled his eyes. “Art is for the museums! Not the boiler deck!” He made for the galley door. “Cookie!”
“All right, all right,” came the voice from behind the door. “Honestly, how many lives have I saved, how many of you even know how to work a stove.” Simon looked up when the kitchen door swung open, expecting to see a man, short or tall, thin or fat, whatever it was, a part of him figured the voice had to belong to a man, of all things, but to his surprise, it did not.
A large, fat ghost drifted through the galley door into the dining room. He held a large bowl and a spoon, and while Simon could see partially through the ghost, the bowl and spoon appeared solid, and a foul, putrid smell wafted it across the room. Simon continued to stare as the ghost made his way to the end of the table, where it looked frustratedly at the freckle-face boy.
“Packet! You forgot to set the table!” The small freckled boy jumped up from his seat and scurried into the galley, leaving the ghost drifting in place a few inches off the floor. “Always forgettin’ the table settings,” he said to Mr. Winters. “Earl, I tell ya, one of these days that grandson of yours.” But the ghost did not finish his thought. Instead, his eyes fell on Simon and Nathan. Its translucent jaw hung open.
“Guests?” the ghost said, surprised. Then more irritated, “We have guests?” The ghost jammed the big wooden spoon in the bowl, already heading back towards the galley door. “Oh, figures,” he mumbled quiet loudly, “figures nobody tells the cook, nothing ever makes it back to the kitchen, these animals think these meals just plan themselves...”
“Cookie…” Mr. Winter
s started. “Don’t start with us now about guests, and you get my grandson out of that galley of yours right now. I don’t need him getting into any more trouble…” Another clang, the loudest one yet, erupted from behind the kitchen door, accompanied by an unearthly howl that froze Simon’s bones. Mr. Winters sprang to his feet. “What do you have in there!” he shouted, heading for the galley door, barreling straight through Cookie and bursting unceremoniously into the galley.
The ghost flipped around in the air and began gliding back to the kitchen, completely ignoring Mr. Winters. “Guests!” he shouted. “Of all nights! I have to change the whole menu now. Packet!” he shouted as he entered the kitchen. “Packet! Put the bowls back and find my large platters! Guests! Of all nights!”
The kitchen door drifted shut behind the ghost. Simon stared for a long time while the crew eventually fell back into their murmurings. Without Packet to talk to, the old man with the white mustache stood and was walking his way over to Simon. He stood there, for several moments, fiddling with an old tobacco pipe before finally speaking. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “Not everyone speaks of the river same as I do.” He pocketed the pipe and straightened his jacket. “There, I am completely forgetting my manners!” He stretched out his hand. “Forgive me, my boy. I am Hannibal Hewn. Born by the river.”
Simon looked over at Nathan, who gave a small nod, and Simon stood and tentatively shook the old man’s hand. Despite his age Hannibal was surprisingly strong, and he gripped Simon’s hand with confidence and determination.
“Simon Warner...” Hannibal said, his mustache twitched wildly when he spoke.
“How did you know my name?” Simon withdrew his hand, never taking his eyes off the man.
Hannibal chuckled. “Why, counting yourself an acquaintance with the captain is not without its array of privileges, my young friend! Come, tell me, what business have you at The Gate?” The old man’s eyes glimmered like two tiny twin moons, but his question rekindled the knots in Simon’s stomach.
“We, uh...” Simon looked to Nathan, who stood up from the table.
“Nathan Tamerlane,” he said, stretching out his hand. As Nathan did this, Simon caught sight of a small silver ring on Nathan’s hand. The ring bore the same leaf symbol as Nathan’s grimoire, but the symbol was under what appeared to be a large green gem, possibly an emerald.
Hannibal must have seen the ring too, for he eyed Nathan’s hand a moment before shaking it. “Ah, yes,” he said, his eyes still on the ring. “Yes, yes of course! Ha! A good man for it!” he said quickly, releasing Nathan’s hand and pulling out his pipe again. “Good man, yes, a Tamerlane, I see.” His words trailed off suddenly as he became forcibly interested in his pipe.
Lungwort appeared at the head of the table, standing on a tall stool. “The river be with us tonight!” he announced to the room, almost in a singsong voice. “She wants to see us make good way to Zebulon’s Dare!” Every crew member in the room cheered at this news, even the sleeping man next to Simon let out a small whoop between snores. Mr. Winters appeared again, coming this time from the stairs leading up to the bridge. A deckhand followed behind him, his arms overloaded with papers and rolls of yellowed maps. Winters spoke quietly to Lungwort, who motioned for them to spread out the aging yellow rolls on the table. Together they spread out the maps and Lungwort began studying them furiously, hopping across them furiously, even producing a small pair of spectacles when he leaned in close to read.
Simon had not recognized the name. “Zebulon’s Dare? Is that named for someone?”
Hannibal let out a hearty laugh. “Hardly, my boy!” he chuckled. “It’s a name, yes, a nickname of sorts for the Gate. A very special place, right off the river.”
“Special?” Simon asked. “Special how?”
Hannibal smiled, a mad twinkle in his eye. “Oh, my boy, I’m sure you’ll see just why before breakfast.” He turned to Nathan. “Taking the boy in for questioning, no doubt?”
“Hardly that,” Nathan said. “He has an appointment with the leadership. I am escorting him.” Nathan’s words were sharp like glass. “Nothing more.”
Hannibal eyed Nathan for a moment, then, clutching his pipe in his mouth, said, “I see. Officials. Yes, well, then. Let me leave you to your peace. Farewell, Simon.” Then, over his shoulder, Hannibal added, “You too, Mr. Tamerlane.”
“What was that about?” Simon asked when they were alone. “Who are we seeing?”
“No one,” Nathan said, his voice low. “At least, not yet. Not that I know of. Here, follow me.”
They made their way to head of the table, where Lungwort still hopped excitedly across the maps. He was studying one particularly ancient-looking yellowed chart with great interest.
“Pardon us, Captain,” Nathan said. “Might there be a place where we could rest before we reach the Dare?”
Lungwort’s hugely magnified eyes focused on them and blinked. Simon swore the frog was frowning. “Yes, your rooms, yes.” He turned back to his maps. “The boy will be in our finest stateroom.”
“Stateroom?” Simon felt uneasy by this. “I don’t need anything special.”
“They’re just rooms,” Nathan said. “Named after states, that’s all. Nothing fancy.”
“You’ll be in Transylvania,” Lungwort said. “Nathan, we were going to put you in Absaroka, but the room took on water damage. You can thank Madam Mamzelle for that. We put you a cot in the boiler room. It’ll have to do.” Lungwort hopped off his stool. “I need to see to something up in the pilothouse. Please excuse me,” he said, hopping out a window.
“I don’t think I need a room,” Simon said. “Not really. I can just stay here in the dining room.”
“Nonsense.” Nathan snatched the apple from the table and pocketed it. “Let’s find our beds. I can find my own way, but let’s get you set up in your room.” He headed towards one of the many windowed doors where light was eagerly spilling out into the inky blackness outside. “I think it’s right out here and to the left. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Only about a hundred places it could be.”
The Transylvania room was absolutely nothing like Simon imagined. Instead of the cold stone floor, there was thick green carpet, and instead coffins and cobwebs on the walls, there was clean white paint, albeit a little yellowish in spots, and a few old paintings of what looked like a colonial settlement. More of the same large, windowed doors on the far side of the room looked out into the night. All in all, it was more motel room than dungeon, and after an hour of sitting on the bed and staring out the windows, the name made no more sense than when he had first opened the door.
A large bed filled the room, and the day’s events began to lay heavily on his shoulders. Getting some sleep would ease his burden, help him recharge for when they reached the Gate, or Zebulon’s Dare, whatever they called it. Everything seemed to have too many names. He collapsed onto the bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow, and for the first time since the drowning, he had no nightmares.
* * *
Simon would never know how long he slept or if someone had come knocking right as his head hit the pillow. Whatever the case, he was completely exhausted as he answered the door. Sleep pushed hard against his eyes. “Yeah?”
Nathan thundered into the room and to the windowed doors. He locked them with a loud click.
“We’re here,” he said. “Grab your bag. Anything you unpacked. Grab all of it.” He spun around. “Do you still have the fork I packed you?”
“Huh?” was all Simon could manage. “Yeah, I should.”
“Have it out,” Nathan said. “Be ready. It’s almost dawn.”
Outside the sky had already begun to lighten. The first fiery blossoms of red and gold were beginning to bloom over the trees far off on the horizon, and just across the river the faint outline of buildings were just barely visible. Further up the river a large bridge caught the first rays of sunlight, its metal supports starting to shimmer bright yellow and orange as dawn crept over St. Lo
uis.
They made their way around to the front of the boat, their feet stomping down hard on the deck as Nathan suddenly broke into a run. Simon scrambled to keep up.
“Don’t stop!” Nathan shouted over his shoulder. “Get out the silver!”
“The what?” Simon’s side was already starting to hurt. He never had been a runner, and the boat really was a lot longer than he would have figured.
“The fork, Simon! The fork! Get it out!” Nathan glanced back over his shoulder. “Simon hit the deck!”
Simon’s back rippled with ice as a heavy weight took him down from behind. Lifting his head he saw him, standing on the deck not ten feet from him, a large beast with pitch black eyes and mangy, wild fur.
Streaker.
Nathan mumbled a curse and spun around, but Streaker ignored him, his full attention on Simon. The dog did not hesitate, lunging forward, snapping its jaws viciously. Simon fell back and covered his head.
The deck of the boat shimmered for an instant, a brilliant flash of gold and red, there and gone in a moment’s breath. Simon didn’t have time to ponder it, for the hound suddenly bellowed, a harsh, guttural cry that made Simon’s bones ache. After a moment he lifted his head to see the dog dizzily shaking its head, small puffs of smoke and steam rolling off his fur. The smell of burning fur and sulphur filled the air.
Nathan stood behind the dog, his bag of salts clenched in his outstretched hand. “Hey. Hellhound.” He rattled the bag of salts. “Get.”
Streaker’s fur was sizzling, exposing cracked skin in places. It snarled at Nathan, wild, angry teeth flashing in the dawn as Nathan hurled a large wave of salt through the air. The salt exploded against the hound, tiny silver sparks erupting like firecrackers all over its body. The air was rotten now with the smell of singed fur, and Streaker fell back as larger puffs of oily black smoke rolled off his back.
