by Kevin Hearne
Feng frowned. “What happens if we are ensnared?”
“Then Vic and I will do ourrrr best to make surrrre ye don’t plunge to yourrrr death. But the best chance to surrrrvive is to be patient as we pass! Sing yourrrr own songs if ye must! Anything to keep the sirrrrens out of yourrrr head!” Luc checked their position again. “We arrrre getting close. Go below now. Boatswain Qobayne will get you situated. I know it will be a couple of crrrrowded hourrrrs with the otterrrrs, but ye have endurrrred worrrrse. Good luck.”
They filed down the stairs into the hold, with Qobayne shouting orders at them. Luc flew to the wheel, lashed into place for the time being, and perched on it with an air of foreboding.
“Where do you want me, Captain?” Vic asked once the hatch was closed and locked behind the last crew member.
“Stand overrrr therrrre, lad; face the hatch, and play catch.” Luc gestured with a wing to the starboard rail.
“Catch?”
“Yes. Eventually someone will burrrrst out of the hatch and head forrrr the side. You make surrrre they stay on the ship.”
“How do I make sure, Captain?”
“Ye knock them out. With rrrrruthless compassion and fearrrr forrrr theirrrr lives.”
Vic snorted and grinned, then let the smile fade away as it dawned on him that it wasn’t a joke. “You’re serious?”
“Only way to keep them safe,” Luc replied.
“All right!” Vic exclaimed. “I like this duty already!”
“Good good good good good!” Luc said. “Now we wait.”
The noises of the crew settling in below gradually faded as Qobayne and Feng got them tied up, and soon the The Puffy Peach continued sailing south in a peculiar silence.
Luc always enjoyed the few spare moments before the beginning of the sirens’ song. For that brief window of time it was just him and the ocean; he didn’t have to lead, didn’t have to fear anything, didn’t have to do anything except exist and appreciate it. Having those few minutes, in fact, was why he consistently led his crews past the sirens instead of taking the safer route along the coast of the mainland—plus the fact that the mainland held its own sort of dangers.
Vic wasn’t of a mind to fill the silence with conversation either, which Luc appreciated. The centaur flexed a lot and grunted softly as he did so, but these gentle sounds were mostly lost amidst the susurrus of the ocean.
Luc let the tranquility wash over him and swayed slightly on the helm, wishing such peace could last longer than a few minutes. It had been a tumultuous time for him since he’d lost his perch, and this small space of personal calm was much needed.
But then their course drew them close to rocky islands cut with caves and grottoes, and gleaming eyes saw their sails from a distance, and a chorus of voices began to sing a beautiful but deadly song, sweet as chiming bells:
Luc hooted in dismay. Once in a while the sirens rhymed and it was kind of nice, but they weren’t even trying this time; nor were they especially keen on establishing lyrical rhythm. It was a free-form tone poem this trip, the sirens depending on the sorcery of their voices rather than compelling musicianship to win the day. Nevertheless, some fists began hammering on the underside of the hatch belowdecks, the magical lure of honeyed throats already overpowering the crew. Clearly someone hadn’t followed instructions and covered their ears.
The intensity of the hammering increased.
Luc could see the boards of the hatch shudder and warp. There was real urgency, because money, fame, puppies, and pudding—those were compelling lures. Many folks had thrown away their lives for less, and without magical temptation. But Luc knew the sirens were just getting warmed up and the fragile, foolish two-footers were about to get hit with the main attraction.
“Get rrrready,” he told Vic. “The big pitch is coming, and nothing will stop those poorrrr bipeds frrrrom clawing out to seek death. Nothing but you, that is.”
Vic raised a hand as if he were in school. “Should I just stand on the hatch, Captain? Wouldn’t that prevent them from getting out?”
“Maybe. Orrrr it could brrrreak underrrr the weight and leave you to live out yourrrr life belowdecks. Thing is, they didn’t obey my orrrrderrrrs and shut theirrrr earrrrs. They need to pay forrrr that. I’m counting on you to teach them that lesson.”
Vic only nodded in reply and fixed his gaze on the bucking hatch. The next verse of the song was louder and more irresistible.
The hatch exploded open and Feng rushed out, mad and raving. “I want all the sexy fish tails! Give them to me! Yes, yes, yes!”
“I’m saving your life!” Vic shouted with glee as he drove his fist into Feng’s jaw and laid him out flat. The sirens’ song continued as Skånki clambered up from the broken hatch.
“Fish tails and beards!” Skånki hollered. “That’s all a dwarf wants! Wait for me, my darlings!”
“I’m punching you because I care!” Vic responded, and knocked out the dwarf with a mighty cross. The centaur seemed to take unusual pleasure in that particular strike to the noggin.
Alobartalus popped out of the hatch, one eyebrow cocked over half-lidded eyes and a lopsided smirk on his face. “I’ll see your fish tails and raise you a real elvish smolder, mistress!”
He took two steps before Vic’s fist hammered him to the deck and the centaur declared, “I provide this service for your protection!”
The song continued, and three more crew members rose from the hold briefly before sprawling into concussed oblivion on the deck, but Luc noted with satisfaction that neither Morgan nor Tempest ever emerged. That was good. They were indeed as smart as he’d thought.
The importunate cries of the sirens eventually faded as The Puffy Peach passed beyond their reach, forever denying them at least one meal of gullible bipeds. Filthy Lucre preened and enjoyed the hiss and roar of the ocean for a while, and he noticed that Pissing Victorious enjoyed it too: a time of peril braced by bookends of peace. He let the moment linger until Feng groaned and brought a hand to his jaw as he woke up.
“Rrrright,” Luc said. “Time to let the rrrrest of them know it’s okay to get back to worrrrk. Ye did a foine job, Vic. Qobayne has a rrrreplacement hatch to install—we need a new one each time and buy them by the dozen from Huxley’s Hatch Hutch in Humptulips. If ye could help haul it into position, that would be grrrrand.”
“Aye, Captain. Glad to help.”
Luc fluttered down the hatch and let Qobayne know that i
t was safe. He’d get the crew in working order soon enough. They’d make it to the tower of the Sn’archivist sometime this week and Luc had no idea what horrors or joys awaited them there. He’d never had a real reason to stop at the island until now, but he imagined the crew could use a break, and the otters could use a safe place to live out their natural lives. And besides, the Sn’archives were rumored to possess invaluable knowledge—the secrets to happiness and so on. He’d like to know some of those secrets, because ever since he’d lost his last perch, he’d felt a great many emotions but nothing like joy. He’d give up this treasure hunt now if he knew where to find such joy again.
And he knew that the real treasure would not be the friends he made along the way, because that was the kind of metaphorical crap that clogged up a cloaca. Real treasure was real treasure, metaphors were metaphors, and joy was a comfortable shoulder to perch on. He would find one to sail the seas with him again, or die trying.
Alobartalus woke up lying on the deck, feeling flaccid and enervated. And, if he was honest, a bit blue. He had a bone to pick with the centaur, who had seemed all too happy to punch him, probably so he could have all the gorgeous, intelligent, fish-tailed elf ladies for himself.
Wait. No.
Shaking his head, Alobartalus muttered, “They weren’t real. It was just magic. And magic is all about lies.”
“What’s that?” Morgan stopped and held out a hand. He took it, and she pulled him to standing. She had no new bruises, so she must’ve chosen to plug up her ears.
Alobartalus sighed and rearranged his pants, which had twisted underneath him as he fell.
“I just hate magic,” he admitted. “I thought that when I left the lighthouse, life would be simpler. Less cruel. That I could trust what I saw with my eyes. But apparently elves aren’t the only ones who use magic to torture people.”
Morgan cocked her head. “Very true. A magic rose put me to sleep for most of my twenties, and now I’m not fond of roses or fingernails. I like magic beards, though.” She stroked hers for emphasis and grinned. “If that’s why you left it behind, then what are you looking for? Because it was my understanding that most elves who leave the Morningwood are either looking for fresh rubes to prank or hoping to get in on the ground floor of exciting new multilevel marketing schemes.”
Alobartalus considered it. Part of being out in the world meant that he wasn’t going to take the usual elfin route and lie to people about everything. He liked this Morgan person, and she seemed honest and reasonable.
“Well, to tell you the truth, most elves you see out and about have been sent to spread the Morningwood seed among the human population, lest the elves die out.”
“Seedschpringå!” Skånki Jorts bellowed as he walked by with a cask of fish bits for the otters. “We dwarves go out to rid ourselves of violence, and the elves go out to make more elves. A Telling Cudgel’s a good bit different from a Morningwood rod, ain’t it?” He slapped Alobartalus on the back with a meaty paw and kept walking.
Alobartalus’s first reaction was typical of an elf: rage at the familiarity and the violent need to slip itching powder into the dwarf’s undershorts. But he stopped and took a deep breath and reevaluated. He wanted to be a true part of the crew, and pirate crews did a good bit of roughhousing and backslapping. So this was a good sign. A dwarf touching an elf in goodwill meant that Skånki saw past the general elvish dickishness and instead saw a fellow sailor.
“Oh, to be sure,” Alobartalus said to Skånki’s receding back. “A Telling Cudgel only gets planted once, but a Morningwood rod gets dipped in oil repeatedly every morning.”
The dwarf laughed heartily, and Alobartalus smiled, and Morgan looked slightly confused. “You guys seem really wound up about your wood.”
Alobartalus grinned. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you hear about our ball-bag competitions. Elvish moose-cheese balls and dwarvelish yak-cheese balls are kind of a big deal.”
Morgan grimaced. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Oh, but you asked where I’m going, didn’t you?” Alobartalus looked around, his hands on his hips. “I don’t really fit in with the elves, you see. So they sent me out to the lighthouse, where I could at least pretend to be elvish to fool the silly tourists, who didn’t know any better. But I wasn’t really great at that either, and all I could think about was how I’d always wanted to visit the Sn’archivist.”
“I keep hearing that name, but I don’t know who it is.”
Alobartalus sighed dreamily. “The Sn’archivist is an elf—the most lofty, pure, and erudite of elves, called to sacred service by Pellanus themself. There have been many Sn’archivists over the years, but the current one began his service during the reign of the Great King Glosstangle centuries ago. He lives in a tower on the Sn’archipelago and is tended by the Sn’archdruid and his Sn’acolytes, who feed him and manage the construction and maintenance of his Sn’archives.”
As he talked, Morgan cocked her head like a confused puppy. “I don’t understand. You’re talking about an archivist and his archdruids and archives on an archipelago, right?”
“No! Absolutely not! Oh, my poor ignorant human. The elvish Sn’ prefix elevates all these things to the level of the divine! Most writers merely write whatever foolish drivel comes into their heads, but the Sn’archivist is taking dictation from the gods themselves!” Warming to his topic, he began to pace and gather a crowd, so he put a little showmanship into it. “The Sn’archives contain the direct words of the two-headed god Pellanus, whispered to the faithful and most hallowed Sn’archivist. Each of his many tomes is handcrafted of the finest gryphon leather, the pages pounded from Morningwood birch and bound with unicorn sinew. His ink is made from the juice of the Apples of Knowledge mixed with the blood of…Well, don’t worry too much about that. It dries into a deep, rich purple and that’s all you need to know.”
With perfect timing and dramatic flair, he flung his arms up just as the mists parted, revealing the gleaming white tower of the Sn’archivist rising up from its rocky promontory over the sea.
“Oooh,” the crowd said, as if on cue. “Ahhh!”
“Enough o’ that!” Captain Luc broke in, flapping up from Feng’s shoulder in annoyance. “Less awe, morrrre all-hands-on-deck. Ain’t nobody jibbin’ or swabbin’. If I’d wanted ye to listen to unrrrrrealistic drrrreams, I’d have let you out to hearrrr the sirrrrens!”
Alobartalus hung his head, for he hated to be called out by the captain. He wanted to be a good seaman, strong and true with direction and vitality, and did not want to be seen as merely a messy waste. With one last, fond look at the Sn’archivist’s tower, he climbed into the rigging to do his job, for all that the view made him want to break out in song.
He was finally here! After all this time. After all those dreams.
He was about to meet his hero and perhaps learn his own truth.
Captain Luc expertly docked the ship, with the entire crew—Alobartalus included—on their best behavior. Most of them, he knew, were anxious to avail themselves of the Sn’archdruid market, where many visiting ships traded their goods and where the Sn’ale was said to quench every thirst and coat the throat all the way down.
“I hear they make Sn’oods that are somewhere between gray with an a and grey with an e and can hide a person in the mist,” Tempest said as they all stood at the rail, looking down at the colorful stalls of the market and the monkish figures bustling about in tidy cassocks.
“Qobayne said the druids made gorgeous bows out of pliant, gleaming Morningwood, and I’ve been wanting to take up archery,” Morgan said, then quickly corrected herself. “Sorry. Sn’archery. How much do you think that sort of thing costs? Is it more because it’s, er, holy?”
“I don’t know, because all I care about is getting my mitts on a Sn’orkel,” Vic cut in, his tail switching nervously and making the girls edge a
way from his huge, clattering hooves. “Skånki said it can help you breathe underwater, and that seems, uh, pretty useful. To some people. Not me, probably, because I’m not scared of water, but it might be nice to have around.”
As the gangplank clattered against the dock, Alobartalus gave them all a brief salute. “All that sounds great,” he called as he jogged down the salt-crusted wooden boards. “Good luck with all that Sn’uff.”
The moment his feet hit the sand, Alobartalus felt a lift of hope, as if the very particles of the Sn’archivist’s island were magical. He felt stronger, taller, more elvish—he even reached up to touch his ear tips, and he would’ve sworn they were somehow longer and pointier. As he hurried up the winding stairs to the small door set in the base of the tower, he could feel his dream finally coming true. He would knock, and at first no one would answer. But then, after he’d waited an appropriately long time to prove his dedication, the door would open. He would be put through a series of elaborate tests, which he would fly through, because this is where he was meant to be. He’d told Morgan that his dream was to meet the Sn’archivist, but really, it was to become the next Sn’archivist. If anything could impress the naysayers back home, it would be to see the name of Alobartalus listed on a plaque here and spoken only in tones of awe by whatever poor sod took over Proudwood Lighthouse.
Wait. No. Not Alobartalus.
Sn’Alobartalus.
Finally, after walking up the endlessly winding staircase within, Alobartalus would meet his mentor in the top room of the tower, where the ancient but still ethereal Sn’archivist would smile a kindly smile and say something like, Long have I waited for the son of my heart to take up my pen, and Pellanus has sent thee here. Let us partake of cucumber sandwiches as I teach you the deepest secrets of my Sn’archives that thou might take up the torch of knowledge and be lauded amongst all elves as my chosen successor.
It didn’t have to be exactly that sort of speech, but Alobartalus really hoped it would be. Cucumber sandwiches were great.