by Greg Weisman
And there it was. Lakeshire was southeast of their current position. Captain Thorne’s compass wasn’t pointing north. It was pointing toward home. What had Greydon said?
… Know that this will lead you where you need to go!
Where else did he need to go? Home. To Lakeshire. To his mother and brother and sister and Robb. Aram was somehow sure of it: the compass somehow knew the way home.
Of course, that wouldn’t make getting there any easier. Nevertheless, Aram felt his soul lighten. He had seen the compass as a burden—and because he had thought it broken, a ridiculous burden at that. But now he could view the compass as a gift. A last gift from a father he’d never see again.
He wiped a dirty, salt-encrusted arm across his eyes, stinging them into further tears. Then he pushed the feelings down and away. He couldn’t face them now.
Makasa repeated: “What are you on about?”
Having choked back his emotions, Aram stared at the map, trying to find something, anything, to say other than the truth of what he was feeling. And again, there it was.
Gadgetzan (capital of the Steamwheedle goblin trade cartel—and home of the helpful Charnas) lay to the southeast, practically in a direct line between where he knelt and Lakeshire.
He said, “Here’s Gadgetzan. As the crow flies, it’s the nearest large port, and it’s neutral territory. We won’t have to worry about the Horde. I can find a ship there.” He pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “Use this to book passage home.”
She studied the map, shook her head. “Gadgetzan’s not close at all. We should head for Feathermoon Stronghold, up the coast to the north. There’s a military outpost there controlled by the night elves. By the Alliance. Some trade, too. Even something akin to civilization, at least by the standards of Kalimdor.”
“The odds of me finding a ship to the Eastern Kingdoms from there are pretty slim.”
“The odds of you surviving a trek across Feralas are slimmer. There are gnolls here. Murlocs. Bears, hippogryphs, yetis. And don’t forget the ogres.”
“We’re trekking across Feralas, no matter which way we head.”
“The coast and the interior are hardly the same thing. You have no idea the kind of terrain we’d be crossing, inland across Feralas.”
“I probably don’t. But if we go to Feathermoon, I’m no closer to home. You’d be stuck with me still. But you get me to Gadgetzan, and you can consider your life debt paid.”
Makasa started to object—but fell silent. Aram watched her convince herself that finally throwing off the burden of Aramar Thorne—after six months aboard ship and three nights aboard that dinghy—would make her happy. He could almost see the idea of Gadgetzan lighten the soul of Makasa Flintwill, too. She pulled out a packet of hardtack, opened it, and offered half to the boy. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she said. And they trudged off.
Following the compass, they maintained a southeasterly heading. The shores had been rocky and bare, but within ten minutes they were trudging through a dense rain forest. The air was thick; the vines were thicker. The canopy of trees rose above them like ceilings of great halls in the stories of castles his mother had told him as a young child. He had never seen so many different shades of green. He felt an immediate urge to climb a tree, to leap from branch to branch above the loamy turf, to somehow paint the colors of the forest into his sketchbook. He longed to explore Feralas—not by crossing it—but in an upward spiral. His pace slowed. He approached the mast-like tree with the bittersweet memory of a climbing Duan Phen filling his thoughts. He would ascend this tree in her honor …
“Keep up,” Makasa barked at him, breaking the spell for the moment.
He trudged on behind her. This environment might be one Aram had never experienced before, but it was one in which Makasa felt right at home. She used her cutlass like a machete but didn’t care for what that was doing to its blade. Aram offered her the hatchet. It was small for the purpose, but Makasa Flintwill was a young woman of precision, and so it served her well enough.
Mosquitoes buzzed around Aram’s eyes and ears, driving him nearly insane. And the farther in they marched, the larger the mosquitoes seemed to grow. Soon they were as big as hummingbirds, big enough for Makasa to chop one or two in half—right out of midair.
The going was slow. The forest became less and less romantic. Sweat poured down Aram’s brow. It mixed with the dried blood on his forehead, and when he wiped another arm across his face, it came back bloody—and for a second he panicked, until he remembered the smack on the head the night before. His mouth was dry, and he was starting to feel a bit light-headed again.
“Water,” he croaked.
She looked back at him, over her shoulder. She scowled, of course. But then she nodded and knelt down. She tore up some thick vines and then snapped one in half. “Open your mouth,” she said. “Tilt your head back.”
He was dubious but complied, and she poured the liquid contents of the vine into him. It was warm but otherwise surprisingly clean and fresh tasting.
She snapped another vine open and drank herself.
He reached for another vine that was growing up the side of a tree. She slapped his hand away. “Not that kind,” she said. “Note the difference in color.”
“They’re both green,” he groused angrily. All thoughts of the differing hues he had so recently admired seemed a trivial annoyance just then.
“The difference in shade, then. See, this sea-green vine runs along the ground. That’s what you want. Those pea-green tree vines that grow near fadeleaf contain traces of poison. Probably not enough to kill you, but enough to make you too sick to walk or fend for yourself. And if you think I’m prepared to carry you out of here on my back, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Aram suspected that if push came to shove, Makasa would, in fact, carry him out on her back, but he didn’t want to poison himself to test his theory, so he simply nodded.
She pointed to the vines running slightly downhill along the ground. “Also, these should lead us to an actual water source.”
And they did: a small streambed overflowing from the recent rain, where both knelt and drank their fill. Aram washed the blood from his face and looked at his reflection in the water. He had a not insignificant bump on his head, but he was otherwise not too worse for wear. They followed the stream for a time.
Makasa, who had ever been on the alert, seemed particularly watchful now.
“What is it?” he said.
“We need something we can use for canteens,” she said.
He didn’t see how that was possible, but soon Makasa stopped in front of a stand of tall spur-covered plants bearing large spur-covered fruit, which Makasa called “palm-apples.” She cut two largish ones off the plant, borrowed the hunting knife, sat on a log, and went to work, carefully carving out a cork-size hole high up on each palm-apple. She gave one of the palm-apples to Aram and picked out two sticks. She instructed Aram how to use his stick to mash up the soft fruit within the husk. Periodically, they’d stop to pour out yellow palm-apple juice into their mouths. It was sweet as nectar—but lighter, more refreshing. Still, it was a long and painstaking process that took them a good hour. But when they were done, they had created two canteens out of the husks.
She held them underwater, and Aram watched the air bubble out. She pulled them up and handed one to him. He poured a short sip into his mouth. The water was cool and tasted of sweet palm-apple. She handed him a cork, and he sealed the receptacle. He held it upside down to test it. A tiny bit of water trickled out, but for the most part, Makasa’s creations were a complete success. And, as they walked on and the stream twisted to the southwest, they became essential.
None of Makasa’s knowledge or skills particularly surprised Aram. He didn’t much enjoy her company, but he had never once doubted her abilities.
They kept walking. The heat and humidity rose with the sun, despite the fact that the canopy of trees provided them with near-constant shade. Mak
asa seemed not to notice, but Aram was sweating like a pig and rapidly tiring. After another hour, he was relieved when Makasa stopped, giving him the mistaken impression they might rest. But instead, she squatted down near flattened grass to study some fresh, stinking scat on the ground. Aram, who had perhaps imbibed a bit too much palm-apple, felt his gorge rise—but managed to swallow it back down.
Suddenly, Makasa whispered, “Stay here!” and took off at a run, her tall body bent nearly in half to avoid hanging vines.
Aram had only a vague idea of what she was up to. But he drew his cutlass and stood at the ready for her to flush out, well, whatever she was attempting to flush out.
Minutes passed. The palm-apple canteen in one hand and the cutlass in the other were both starting to get heavy. The heat was oppressive, and he began to grow drowsy, his eyes drifting closed and jerking open, his head sinking slowly and jerking back up.
Then he heard the distinct sound of metal cracking wood! That woke him up. Then he heard another—stranger—noise. At first he couldn’t fathom what it might be, but as it approached, he realized … it was Makasa! And she was … whooping? Yes, Makasa Flintwill, no more than a hundred yards away and closing, was swinging her iron chain over her head and whooping like a lunatic. It wasn’t exactly a dignified sound, and a week ago he would never in a million years have imagined it emanating from his current traveling companion. But there it was.
Then there IT was! A great boar—easily two feet high, two feet wide, and four feet long—was bearing down on Aramar Thorne. Its curved white tusks—backed by a massive head and brawny shoulders—seemed more than equal to Aram’s cutlass. But he stood his ground.
The boar lowered its bristling head to better aim its tusks at Aram’s guts—when Aram heard metal whistling through the air.
Suddenly, the boar seemed to grow a harpoon haft out of its back.
The boar stumbled and rolled, took Aram’s legs out from under him, and deposited the boy on his face, reopening the cut on his forehead.
Still, the end result was boar meat for supper.
But not venison. Because despite her prowess as a hunter and tracker, Makasa never even noticed the huge stag watching their proceedings from the trees.
They dubbed their meal “Lord Bloodhorn,” and the good fellow served them well.
Makasa had prepared the meat, while Aram—raised beside a forge—collected wood and started a small fire. He also went searching for water and found another small stream not far away, where he drank, washed again, drank again, and filled both canteens.
The night cooled off considerably, but they were comfortable beside the fire, eating their fill. Aram even grew complacent, lying back on the green turf with his hands folded behind his head, his eyes closed, and a sated grin on his face. But with a kick to his thigh to get his attention, Makasa reminded him to remain on the alert for predators—not to mention ogres.
Nevertheless, killing her own supper seemed to have put Makasa in a better mood than usual. It didn’t suddenly make her a sparkling conversationalist, but she, too, gave off an air of contentment, which to Aram was a considerable improvement over her typical demeanor.
He pulled out his sketchbook and began sharpening his coal pencil with the knife. For a time she just watched him work. In fact, she waited so long to get around to saying her standard, “You better not be putting me in that blasted book,” that Aram nearly forgot to reply. But he summoned up his, “I promise I won’t sketch you unless you ask me to,” as he tried to sketch his father from memory.
It didn’t come easy. The coat helped a bit. He pulled the collar around his face and inhaled deeply, and perhaps imagined the smell of his father surrounding him. But he still couldn’t get his efforts to come out right. Was that his father’s nose? And that didn’t seem at all like Greydon’s smile.
He frowned at the sketch. He realized his memory of his father’s features was already dimming. It had only been four days. What would he remember of Greydon Thorne in a month? By the time Aram made it back to Lakeshire, would the man be reduced to the kind of shadow he had been to his son six months ago?
Six months ago, Aram was told to put his brother and sister to bed. Selya had been fussy. Every time he had started to leave her room, she had said, “Don’t go, Aram.” He stayed with her until she fell asleep, so it was nearly an hour before he returned to the hearth to find his mother, Robb, and Greydon speaking in low tones—about him.
They quieted when Ceya noticed Aram and gently touched both men on their shoulders.
Greydon stood abruptly. “I’ll be at the inn,” he said. No one made any attempt to convince him to stay at the Glade cottage. He turned to his former wife. “Think about it. I’ll be back in the morning.”
He left without another word.
“Think about what?” Aram asked.
“He’s leaving for Stormwind Harbor tomorrow,” his mother said.
Aram darkened. “Well, he has been here a whole day.”
“He wants you to go with him.”
“What?”
Robb said, “He wants you to join his crew for a year.”
Aram’s heart raced. Childhood dreams of the sea momentarily filled his vision. How many years had he dreamed of exactly this? Of sailing beside Greydon Thorne? Of exploring the great wide world of Azeroth?
But almost immediately those childhood dreams seemed childish. Irresponsible. Irresponsible like Greydon Thorne. A man who could go to sea and leave his wife and child behind, with no word, no coin, no concern. That wasn’t the kind of man Aramar Thorne wanted to be. And, anyway, if Greydon really wanted Aram, wouldn’t he have asked his son himself?
Aram became aware his parents were staring at him. Waiting. Finally, he said, “He never mentioned that to me.”
His mother said, “He wanted to make sure he had our approval first.” Robb rolled his eyes, and Ceya acknowledged, “He wanted my approval first.”
“Well, tell him no,” Aram said quickly.
“Why?” said Ceya and Robb, almost in unison.
“Because. Because I’m apprenticed at the forge.”
“We can get you out of that,” Robb said with a wry smile. “I know the blacksmith.”
“Then tell him no because I don’t know him. Because I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you two or Robertson or Selya. Besides, I love Lakeshire. This is my home. I’m not a sailor. I’m a blacksmith.”
Aram watched them both nod absently. It seemed settled. And then it didn’t.
“He’ll be back in the morning,” Robb said. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
“It might be different if he stayed for a while,” Aram said. “But I’m not going to change my mind about him in one night. He abandoned us. I don’t trust him. I don’t like him. He should have stayed dead.”
Ceya bit her lip.
Robb shook his head. “Don’t say that, boy.”
“Fine. I’m sorry. But it is what it is.” It is what it is was one of Robb’s favorite truisms. Aram thought he’d scored a couple points with it.
“Go to bed,” Robb said crossly.
Aram rounded up Soot and took the dog to bed with him. A few minutes later, his parents retired to their room, which had a common wall with the chamber he shared with his brother. Robb and Ceya were up late talking. Aram couldn’t make out their words, but he could hear his mother crying and Robb trying to comfort her. Her son thought Greydon Thorne responsible for her tears, and they made him angry with the man. Well, angrier. He was sure he’d never fall asleep, but the rhythm of Soot’s breathing beside him eventually lulled him into slumber …
He should have stayed dead. Had he really said that?
He thought he could feel his heart crumbling to dust in his chest.
Talk about ridiculous. The way his feelings for Greydon could swing between extremes was truly preposterous to Aram, even perverse. But it was what it was. Aram missed his father. And the guilt of leaving him behind to die, of tearing
up his picture, of harsh, harsh words said and thought and felt, rushed back at Aram like the seas crashing over the rocks of Feralas.
“By the gods, I’m a brat,” he said. He saw Makasa’s eyebrow rise half an inch and belatedly realized he had spoken out loud.
“You’re just realizing that now?” she said with a happy growl.
“Yeah, actually.”
This answer seemed to surprise her. She sat up. She bit her lip, an unconscious gesture that stunned Aram, and not just because this woman—who seemed completely devoid of anything resembling maternal feeling—had, for one brief moment, actually reminded him of his mother. No, what stunned him most was the sense of indecision that bite on the lip represented.
She said, “He wasn’t perfect. But he … loved you.” Saying the word love out loud seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth, but she forged on: “You were all that mattered.”
“That’s not true,” Aram said, a knee-jerk reaction. But he softened. “I mean, I wasn’t all that mattered to him. There was something else.”
She started to protest, but he stopped her. “He told me there was something else. He just never got around to telling me what. Then he was out of time. And now, we’ll probably never know.”
She actually nodded.
He said, “But the thing is, I always pretended that because something else mattered to him, that meant I didn’t. And I know that’s not true. I’ve always known that. But …”
“But, by the gods, you’re a brat.”
He shrugged his acquiescence.
They were silent for a time.
Aram watched her. She had turned her thoughts inward and that introspection made her look young. It made her look her age. She was seventeen but behaved as if she were thirty. Usually, her inherent competence and cranky disposition lent credence to the illusion. But not just now.
