Isle of Wysteria: Make Like a Tree and Leaf

by Aaron Yeager

  “That’s never going to happen. Come on, we’ve got to pick the corn for the evening meals,” the taller one urged as the two boys got up and scampered off. As they left, Alder noticed an image hanging in the air above the altar. The image of the lady the boy had described stood there, dressed in a fine gown of purest white. She was elegant and graceful. The dress flattered her form beautifully and gave her a balance and poise that was truly radiant. Suddenly the lady’s expression turned to a scowl. Her hair burst into flames, and danced around her head like fiery serpents. She drew a sword from behind her, and began hacking into the surface of the altar, flinging chips of wood into the air. As she opened her mouth to scream, bits of food and saliva fell from her mouth.

  Alder leapt up in his bed, sweat beading on his face, but the clanging sound of the sword against the altar continued. Wiping his forehead, he realized that the pounding sound was someone knocking against his door. Alder rose but the door swung open before he could reach it.

  Athel stood there, her auburn-red hair snarled out in all directions like the woman in the dream. Alder yelped with fright and fell backward onto the floor.

  “Don’t laugh; I didn’t have time to brush it. The Captain wants us all on deck right now.”

  “It’s time for the offering,” Ryin said happily as he poked his head around the corner.

  * * *

  The sight of Umor elicited reactions even from the more experienced sailors on the Dreadnaught as they sailed toward its misshapen appearance. Partially formed from the remains of a lopsided volcanic island and partially fashioned by the works of men, it was a mass of stone and wood buildings without theme or structure protruding from the rock and dirt of the small island. It was as if pieces of buildings and land had simply been glued together at random and were now held aloft in the skies by the incomparably powerful sorceries of the Stonemasters.

  Flashes of light from several towers signaled the Dreadnaught toward the rockier part of the island. As the small patrol boat rounded Umor, the crew could see the means by which the guild had evaded capture by federal authorities for hundreds of years. Massive patchwork sails, dozens of times larger than those used by the largest warships, drug the island slowly along the winding jet streams of the thin upper skies.

  “I don’t see any other ships around,” Athel commented as she expertly slid along the footropes out to her side of the main yardarm and tied fast the bunt lines that had begun to come loose. “I was expecting to see hundreds of pirate ships around this place.”

  “Everyone expects that. That's why they never find places like this,” Spirea grunted as she clumsily clawed her way along the edge of her spar. There was very little to hold on to this high up and when the wind shook the yardarm, Spirea froze in place, gripping the wooden beam with three of her limbs while batting at the loose cordage with her free arm in an attempt to grab it without moving further out.

  “You look like a kitten when you do that,” Athel chided. “So, lemme guess, authorities are always looking for a large convergence of pirate ships, so when they find one they think they’ve found a guild stronghold, but in reality all they’ve found is a bit of empty sky where an exchange of goods took place.”

  “Something like that,” Spirea nodded, the wind blowing her raven hair into her face. “Only offerings are made directly to the Guild stronghold.”

  Athel heard the boson’s whistle calling for all hands on deck and started down the rope ladder affixed to the mast, but paused when she saw Spirea timidly sliding herself along the spar with all four limbs wrapped around it.

  “You know, there’s really no reason to be afraid of falling. The lifeline in your belt will catch you before you hit deck,” Athel reminded.

  “Shut up, Forsythia,” Spirea huffed as her shaking hand reached out for the ladder, “You do it your way and I’ll do it mine.”

  The cut stone of a dock was growing larger and larger before the ship. Athel got down on the deck and manned her section of the buntlines which ran up from the deck to the mast and then back down to the base of the sails. When the whistle sounded, each hand pulled on the lines and the bottom of each sail was raised, folding the sails in half so that they no longer caught the wind. Ryin and Hanner scampered up the rope ladders to bundle the sails up with gaskets.

  The ship slowed and then came to a stop, positioned perfectly in the dock. Men ran out along the wharf and threw over the lines that were used to pull the ship abreast with the edge of the dock so that passengers and cargo could be moved off ship.

  Athel, Alder, and Spirea stood close to the fore mast, as they were instructed. Captain Evere walked up and looked them over sternly with his black on black eyes.

  “The Guild is a harsh place,” he began in his gravelly tones, “So do not speak unless spoken to. After the exchange, we’ll take you to whatever port you want and let you free. Disobey me, and I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  Dr. Griffin and Odger drew out the boarding plank and laid it down for the gathered men on the dock. Although their dress and manner marked them as coming from various kingdoms, they all held in common a filthiness that was not limited to physical dirt. Athel could feel a dark presence about them that was new to her. A spiritual void that became most poignant when she glanced into their shifting eyes, a deep and empty aura, like a corpse that walked.

  The largest and most decorated among them was obviously from Mesda, like Mina, but his white fur was clumped and dark from the stains of ale and bile. As his meaty tail flicked behind him in anticipation, the fading sunlight caught the metallic edge of a cruel barb that was fixed to the tip by a leather harness.

  He introduced himself as Guild Lord Jacques Afeir. As he mockingly bowed to them, a trickle of dark saliva escaped from the corner of his mouth. Mina fought to stand proud in his presence, but when he looked at her directly with his cold red eyes, her gaze lowered and she took half a step back behind her husband. Evere, on the other hand, showed no signs of intimidation, his black eyes remaining steady in their sockets as he spoke the words of oath and pledge to the guild.

  “That was well spoken,” Jacques said as he took a step forward. “I always knew you’d come back to us, ‘my little yeux.’ When my spies on Iea confirmed that you had broken out of the federal penitentiary, I knew you’d have nowhere left to go.” Jacques stepped to one side, giving him a better view of the culled Mina as he scraped the metal barb affixed to his tail along the deck. “Don’t think you’ll receive any protection from me this time,” he warned. “I cannot order my men to keep their hands off of a prize that so willingly falls into our grasp.”

  From her position at the mast, Athel could see Mina shudder, silent tears peppering the deck between her feet.

  “Your message promised a pledge and you will show it to me now,” Jacques ordered with a thin smile on his black lips. They were led down into the hold to examine the rows of crates meticulously ordered and lined. Captain Evere walked the men along the rows, boasting of the quality of the spice contained in the crates. Captain Evere stopped at the end of one row, before several crates of brandy, and addressed the men.

  “I have brought nearly twice the traditional amounts,” Evere explained. “The excess you may consider a gift. A reparation for old times and old wounds long past.”

  Jacques snorted and stepped up to Evere. “Some wounds never heal,” he said, tapping a dirty finger against the captain’s black eyeball. Evere did not flinch or even blink, as if he felt nothing at all.

  The men with Jacques eyed the brandy greedily, and even Jacques failed to hide his lust as he ran his soiled fingers along the edge of the crates. “One does not leave and return to Umor lightly,” he explained. “Reputations have to be maintained. Policies must be upheld. Mercy is a sign of weakness to our enemies.”

  Jacques straightened his back and tugged on the tattered edges of his coat, imitating the stereotypical stance of respectable businessmen. “I accept the contents of your hold and welcome you into the Guild
once more.”

  Evere nodded his head in acceptance.

  “The entire contents of your hold,” Jacques emphasized.

  “You go too far,” Evere protested, “It will take some looting before we have reserves to fall back on. This brandy comes at a great price and will buy the supplies we’ll need while my crew whets their knives on federal tithe ships. You take this and you condemn us to starve in the open skies.”

  Jacques stepped closer and whispered in Evere’s ear. “Or you can starve in my brig, little yeux.”

  The Captain’s anger flared and his face turned red and for a moment Athel thought he might strike the Guild Lord, but instead he took a step back and embraced Jacques in the pirate’s grip, grasping forearms. With a whoop and a holler, Jacques men began unloading the contents of the cargo hold, beginning most carefully, with the crates of fine brandy. A few bottles were opened and consumed before the crates even left the hold.

  As Jacques turned to climb up the ladder, Spirea left her place among the crew and approached him. “Wait,” she pleaded, “I was not made privy to Evere’s plans and am therefore exempt from Evere’s oath. I am Spirea Maracon Sotol, heir to the Wysterian Guild, and I invoke the right of asylum in Umor.”

  “The Sotol Guild was crushed,” Jacques explained as he turned around, surprised, “but if its heir still lives then its chair among the Guild leaders still lives as well. What offering have you for your pledge?”

  Spirea faltered for a moment, until her gaze fixed on Athel and Alder standing at the back of the crew. She moved to speak then wavered, shifting her weight back and forth as if being pulled.

  “Are you sure you want to be doing this?” Evere cautioned.

  “Those two hands were unawares as well,” Spirea said, pointing a shaky hand at Athel and Alder. “Her family name is Forsythia, heir of the Wysterian royal family. Her life and ransom is my pledge to your Guild.”

  Athel's mouth fell open in shock.

  The Guild Lord huffed in awe and looked at Evere for confirmation. Evere turned his gaze away and Jacques smiled, revealing black-pitted teeth. “So I’d left your crew to starve,” he chuckled, “That was well played, my precious little yeux. A few cases of brandy are weak tea compared to the ransom of a princess.”

  Jacques took Spirea’s hand in the pirate’s grip. He smiled at her, but she kept her head low, refusing to meet his gaze. Strong, grimy hands grabbed Athel and Alder, dragging them despite their protests toward the loading ramps that led off the ship and into the Guild.

  Chapter Nine

  Reciprocity

  It took several hours for Athel to find what she was looking for. Rummaging through the fresh straw of their holding cell had uncovered successively greener and slimier layers of straw beneath, and released a smell that really defied description. Finally, in a cleared spot beneath the barred window Athel stooped over what she had uncovered; a single blade of grass that had grown up through a crack in the gooey floor. It withdrew itself slightly when she extended her hand toward it, then timidly wrapped itself around her small finger as she whispered to it gently and closed her eyes.

  Athel’s eyes darted back and forth beneath closed lids, until her concentration was interrupted by a hand rubbing her shoulder blade.

  “What are you doing?” she accused as she snapped her head back at him.

  “You had a mud stain on your uniform,” Alder explained as he balled up the rag in his hand, “I was just cleaning it off for you.”

  “Well, stop it,” Athel huffed. “The plants here have a really strange dialect and I need to concentrate. We can’t just break out of here at any old time. We have to wait for the right moment.”

  “Plants have dialects?” Alder inquired, tilting his head to one side.

  “Well, their root systems only form a loose community here, and their spirits are wild and untamed. It’s all emotion and no thought.”

  Alder blinked. “Well, then why didn’t you just say it like that in the first place?”

  “Because I thought you wouldn’t understand. Please, be quiet.”

  “I may be a man but I’m still a Wysterian,” he grumbled as he paced over to the door.

  “They’ve taken Spirea to the Guild shrine,” Athel said with closed eyes. “They’ll be swearing her in soon. I still can’t believe she sold us out.”

  “She’s a Sotol,” Alder said matter-of-factually as he bent over to pick up a piece of broken glass. “It’s in her blood.”

  “It’s not her blood. Spirea made her own choice. You put way too much weight on family lines.”

  “And you don’t put enough, if I may be so bold,” Alder observed as he pulled out a thick piece of straw and tested its strength. “Family name is everything. It tells us where we came from and where we are going. It is our roots and branches.”

  Athel chuckled. “Did my mother instruct you or something? Because I swear, you sound just like her sometimes.”

  “I accept that as a compliment,” he said, bowing slightly then jamming the tip of the straw into a puddle of green tar along a corner.

  “You have no idea how stifling a family name can be,” Athel complained. “To be told who you are, instead of asked. To have your destiny laid out before you. It’s like a concrete box.”

  “If I may be so bold...” Alder began as he affixed the piece of glass onto the end of the straw, the green tar gluing it in place.

  “Oh, please do,” Athel said as she knelt over the blade of grass, swaying slightly with eyes closed.

  “A family name brings its own trials, but it is far worse to have nothing. A vacuum is unbearable, and one will fight their whole life to break free from it.” Alder shoved the piece of straw through the view-bars in the door, angling the piece of glass so that he could see down the hall.

  Athel paused for a moment. She was surprised to find that she was considering his words quite seriously. To her, lineage had always been an obstacle, but here was someone who had obviously worked very hard to earn the right to carry a family name.

  “Our guards appear to be celebrating quite vigorously,” Alder observed before a metal brandy mug slammed down, breaking the straw out of his hands.

  “Shove off back in there,” the surly jailer bellowed from the other side of the door, brown liquor dripping down his filthy beard as he staggered to peer in through the view port.

  Alder stepped back to clear his senses of the stench, and that is when he noticed something was wrong with Athel. Her body slumped lazily and her eyes were rolling back. When she began to fall over he moved quickly to catch her, coating one arm with the thick slime that covered the floor as he caught her.

  Athel groaned as her eyes half opened. She snuggled her face into his chest, letting out a sweet sigh of contentment.

  “I’m sorry,” Alder explained as he helped her to her feet, “but I didn’t want you to get dirty.”

  Athel sighed Privet’s name then realized where she was. She jumped back out of Alder’s grasp, nearly falling over again before she caught herself.

  “S-sorry about that,” she stammered. “I-it’s the brandy. The brandy we brought is being drunk and spilled all over the island and soaking into the ground. It was a little overpowering.”

  “That doesn't sound normal. Anyway, there is no need to apologize. I was happy to save your uniform from being soiled,” he said as he inspected his sleeve.

  Athel felt her cheeks burning and her anger rose.

  “Yeah, well, no one asked you to.” she said curtly as she bent back over the blade of grass. She couldn’t understand why she was suddenly being so rude to him, but she definitely felt embarrassed and irritated, and felt like it was his fault somehow.

  As the blade of grass wrapped itself around her finger again, the jailer outside the door began vomiting loudly.

  “Something’s wrong,” Athel said, her closed eyes and head jerking from side to side.

  “What is it?”

  “I told you to be quiet.”

>   “Well, then complete your thought. Don’t just say ‘oh no’ and then expect everyone else to stand by without an explanation.”

  Without opening her eyes, Athel pointed a finger at a corner of the cell. “I need you to go stand over there. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, madam,” Alder said sharply as he walked over.

  “Shhhh,” Athel hushed.

  The sounds of the jailer’s sickness ended, followed by a fleshy thud as he collapsed to the floor and began snoring loudly.

  “Does it have something to do with our jailer’s illness?” Alder asked insistently.

  “Okay,” Athel huffed, “I order you to touch the tip of your tongue to the wall.”

  Alder looked at the filthy moss-covered wall before him. “Will that create some kind of connection that will make it easier for you to talk to the plants or something?”

  “No, it will make it so you cannot speak. Now, do it.”

  Alder clucked his tongue indignantly and touched it to the cleanest spot he could find.

  * * *

  “Blood binds when given, blood binds when taken,” Jacques said solemnly as he drank deeply, then rubbed his cut thumb against the Umor seal on the side of the bronze goblet and passed it to Spirea. She hesitated for a moment, then pulled the dagger across her thumb and took the goblet; rubbing her blood across the seal as well, she drank deeply the amber liquor.

  “I thought it appropriate to use the brandy your former crew brought us. A nice touch, don’t you agree?” Jacques said spitefully.

  Spirea looked at her bleeding thumb. “I felt nothing when the blade cut me, or when I drank the liquor. It should have burned, but it didn’t.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Jacques said, frustrated. “Regret is for the dying, and doubt is for the dead. Your grandmother was as tenacious and cold a Guild Master as any I had ever met. That’s a lot for you to live up to.”

  Jacques leapt up onto the altar and pronounced a toast to the small gathering of men in the room who cheered and continued to drink. The hall was ringed with the heraldry and coats from hundreds of looted vessels from nearly every kingdom in the League.