At that moment, another appendage sprang forth from Mimir’s body and plucked the sphere straight from its socket. Kazuaki’s hand shot up to his face to cover the injury sight, but he gave the demon no satisfaction by holding in his sounds of agony. A snarl was all that left the captain’s mouth as blood seeped from between his clenched fingers and trickled down his forearm. The pain caused him to take to one knee, but he righted himself back to standing. “That’s it then,” he muttered, trying to disguise the pain in his words. “A deal’s a deal.”
“It most assuredly is,” Mimir replied, dipping his hands into the well water. He flicked the droplets onto Kazuaki’s face but frowned when instead of being absorbed into the skin, they sizzled at the touch of his body. “Hold up now,” Mimir started, a strange concern in his voice. His face twisted into a look of displeasure. “It seems someone else has beaten me to the punch, Captain. You didn’t tell me you already suffered from a curse.”
Kazuaki snarled, his hand still firm over his bleeding eye as if it tempered the blinding pain. “How the feck you think I became an immortal to begin with?”
Mimir frowned. “No matter,” he said, throwing the eye down into his well. “Just an extra step. As soon as you cleanse your soul from your current curse, you can accept the conditions of mine.”
The captain squared his shoulders. He had it with Mimir’s rigmarole. “And how do I accomplish that?” he murmured, voice thick with irritation.
“Move your hand,” the demon instructed.
Hesitation was his first instinct; he did not wish to remove the hand holding in a socket’s worth of blood, but he needed to expedite the process. With all the mental strength he could muster, Kazuaki slid his hand down his face, exposing the open hole to Mimir. The creature scooped water into his palm and poured it into the socket. Kazuaki winced as the liquid sizzled inside his skull. It bubbled up and felt as if something formed in the open wound. Had that done it? Had Mimir ‘cleansed his soul’? He remained uncertain. There was so much confusion, Kazuaki found himself lost in the madness of it all.
“There we are,” the lesser god muttered. “You’ll be right as rain soon. Now go forth and finish your time on Panagea. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.”
“Only if I go to the Underworld when I die,” Kazuaki muttered with bitterness, too consumed by concern for Bermuda, and the seething pain of losing an eye, to pay much attention to what Mimir said.
Propelled forward by the need to return to the ship, and Bermuda, Kazuaki forced his legs to move despite the overwhelming sting in his brain. He did not creep too far before his last words to Mimir settled into him like the well water. Kazuaki stopped in his tracks. He felt Mimir’s gaze burning into his back as the unsettling, acidic feeling in his gut returned. He faced the demon again. Mimir’s stare shifted into a gradual, maniacal grin. Then he knew. “You’re a conman,” he whispered.
“Not in the least,” Mimir retaliated, feigning insult. “You’ll get your wish, Captain. By your own decree, when you die, I will release you from the nightmare that binds you to this earth.”
Kazuaki stood, unmoving. “And what nightmare awaits me after?” he forced himself to ask.
Mimir smirked. He hurled Bermuda’s severed hand into the well. As it disappeared into the darkness, Kazuaki felt a small rumble beneath his feet. He stepped back and five withered, blackened, finger-like roots pierced their way through the surface. Though they looked fresh from the earth, they appeared as deadened as the graveyard of roots that surrounded him. Another piece added to Mimir’s eternal collection. “All in due time, Captain,” Mimir replied. “Let’s just say, I’m very excited to finally have a friend.”
Kazuaki stared at the demon. The creature already tarnished his collected state. The lesser god’s presence deadened the captain’s wits since he first arrived at the well’s doorstep. By supernatural forces or not, Kazuaki chose his own words. His fate was sealed. The captain would not allow Mimir to cause one more undignified action in him. He would not sacrifice another moment of merit or respectability. With a clenched jaw, Kazuaki nodded, accepting his outcome. He turned on his heels and headed back for the ship. It would not be easy breaking the bad news to the crew; not of his condition, but after Bermuda’s and his experience with Mimir, he wouldn’t allow any of them to leave the ship. He may have traded one eternal nightmare for another, but he could spare his comrades from making the same mistake.
Mimir watched him exit and looked down at his well. His prison. His penitentiary until the next fool stumbled across the legend of the lesser god and his well of promises. He lingered atop the well’s decaying brick edging for as long as he could, soaking in the sight of freedom. Before long, otherworldly arms from the darkness reached up and pulled him down. As he fell back into the shadows below, he hoped Kazuaki cleansed his soul sooner rather than later. After lifetimes of sitting around his collection of silent body parts, traded from men and women of all time periods, Mimir looked forward to the company.
✽ ✽ ✽
The struggle of carrying a body did not slow the three crew members down. Granite’s brute strength made up for any inconvenience caused. They made it back to the ship in good time. It did not take long for those who stayed behind to spring to life at the sight of Bermuda’s bleeding form.
“What happened?” barked Bartholomew, eyes wide as Granite carried Bermuda to the deck below. Elowyn ignored his inquiries, following Granite to further assist Bermuda. The loyal mutt also disappeared into the deck below, pursuing Bermuda’s trail of blood.
Revi panted from the brisk pace Granite kept the entire time they made their way back. He glanced at Bartholomew as brothers Iani and Rennington Platts joined the crowd. “I ... I don’t even know how to explain it,” he breathed, dumbfounded by what he witnessed.
“Was there an ambush? A trap?” Iani inquired. Before he received an answer, he shook his head. “I knew this whole thing was too bloody good to be true.”
“Where’s the captain?” Bartholomew looked past Revi’s shoulder to see if he was close behind.
Penn emerged from below deck with confusion and panic. “I just saw Granite covered in Bermuda’s blood—what’s going on?”
Questions continued to barrage him like cannonballs from an enemy ship. Revi held up his hands and tried to answer as best he could under the current conditions. “We found the well,” he explained, exasperated. “She ... she traded her hand, willingly. Something to do with her heart.” Even Revi did not understand why Bermuda made such a bargain. He was not familiar with the intricacies of her reasoning. “She brought it on herself ... I ... I think.” Confusion crippled the man. He heard Bermuda make the deal, he knew she was cognizant when she accepted Mimir’s terms. But none of them wished for her to endure the consequences of what happened to her. Elowyn was a capable medical professional, but he wasn’t sure if Bermuda would survive long enough to enjoy whatever reward she gained from the lesser god. “Where is Jirin?”
The four men left aboard the ship exchanged glances, trying to make sense of what they heard. Rennington interjected to answer Revi’s question, “Sulking about after the captain yelled at him. Haven’t seen him since you all left.”
Bartholomew’s attention shifted to the distance when he saw a figure appear. A tall individual lurched forward after sliding down the faraway hill and advanced toward the ship. “The captain,” he breathed, relief in his voice. “At least he’s all in one piece.”
Kazuaki continued, hand still clamped over the hole where his eye used to be. He walked with necessity as his fuel. He regretted letting Bermuda go first. If he had been more persistent, he could have saved her from making a huge mistake.
“Captain!” Bartholomew called out to him, waving his hand above his head. “Are you all right?”
Kazuaki held up his hand, a silent indication he was fine. It seemed like a small eternity to return to the ship. Many steps later, he found himself at the ramp leading up to the deck. The capt
ain steadied himself with one foot on the planks before he felt footsteps rattle through the boards.
He assumed it was Bartholomew. The scholar could be a worrier. “I know it looks bad,” he muttered to the approaching shadow, silhouetted by the sun, “but I’ll live.”
“Not for long,” the voice replied, followed by the deafening shots of a pistol.
Jirin. Kazuaki felt the bullets enter his chest. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. There wasn’t much immediate pain with bullet wounds, but the area started to burn with an outward irritation that consumed his torso and radiated to his limbs. He had been shot countless times. It came with the territory of being a criminal in Panagea’s eyes. But this time differed from the rest. He felt the panic creep in. The panic that only belonged to those who feared death.
For years, he craved that panic. But it was only one of many emotions that ran through him now: determination to make sure Bermuda was okay, regret that he only tasted the thrill of mortality for mere minutes, rage that Jirin dared to betray him, apprehension of what awaited him in Mimir’s afterlife. When he fantasized about his death, this was not what he had in mind. Mimir stripped all the excitement from it. The strength of each emotion caused a stir of turmoil within the captain’s already suffering head.
Kazuaki’s hand slipped from the hole where his eye used to be as he listened to his blood flow through his veins. He waited for his body to realize its lung was pierced. He’d only been struck in the lungs once or twice before. It was not a pleasant experience. Immortality did not excuse him from feeling the pains of gunshot wounds and stabbings. The intensity seized him and took control over his body. While he felt every cell inside him scream, his mind went numb, too ravaged by the chaos in his brain.
Jirin’s sadistic smirk faded into a look of horror. His eyes locked on the captain’s gaping socket. Kazuaki could not tell what was going on as he stood there waiting to die, but the man looked as if he saw an apparition. “No,” he whispered, taking several steps back. “No!” Jirin shrieked. It was a blood-curdling scream. He dropped the smoking gun and threw up his hands, though nothing attacked him. He swatted at the sky like a lunatic. It was then the captain heard another gunshot. The back of Jirin’s head exploded upon the bullet’s impact.
Kazuaki dropped to one knee, bewildered. While Jirin’s body crumpled to the ground, he felt as if the veins where his eye used to be buried themselves deep into his brain tissue. He felt the same sizzling sensation when Mimir poured the well water into his socket. It was a feeling more horrid than any gunshot wound he endured. The captain thought he heard Bartholomew call out as several of his men ran down the ramp to retrieve him, but he couldn’t make out what they said. An ear-shattering sound reverberated in his skull that drowned out every other sound.
“Captain!” Bartholomew hit the sand and skidded in front of Kazuaki, putting both hands around the fallen man’s arms to steady him. They saw him get shot many times before, but regardless of the pain, he never fell. In any other circumstance, Kazuaki would have made short work of Jirin’s betrayal, but something gripped him. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. He must have done it; the captain must have ended his contract with immortality. Bartholomew’s eyes fell on the bullet wounds and then Kazuaki’s eyes.
In the same fashion as Jirin, Bartholomew’s face twisted into one of horror as soon as his eyes met Kazuaki’s. He fell back into the sand and skidded away, swatting and screaming at ghosts nobody saw. Kazuaki felt the veins plunge deeper into his brain once more. He closed his eye, forcing his palms over his face to stop the onslaught of agony. Several of Bartholomew’s horrified cries pierced through. The captain collapsed.
“Bart!” Rennington tried to jostle the scholar to lucidity, but he continued his delusional panic. He looked at Iani, exasperated. “What the feck is wrong with him?” he asked in a panic.
“Let’s get him inside,” Iani grabbed one flailing arm while Rennington wrestled the other. They struggled to drag him back up. Bartholomew’s paranoid kicks rattled the ramp as they pulled him along as best as they could.
Revi leaned over the captain, whose hands remained clenched over his face. “Cap,” he started, jostling his torso, “What do you need? What’s going on?”
Kazuaki laid there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each attempted breath. His damaged lung made traditional breathing difficult. His mind rattled a mile a minute, bouncing back and forth between surprise he was still alive, to Bermuda, to Mimir and his cryptic ritual, to trying to make sense of Jirin and Bartholomew’s meltdowns, to the pain that occurred in his brain after each man looked at his socket. He guessed the latter had something to do with that rat of a lesser god. He’d have to ask him when he accompanied him in the afterlife. “Get me back on the ship,” he muttered to Revi, his voice muffled through the hands that covered his face. He didn’t know if he would die, but if he did, it would be on his own vessel, not this damnable island.
Kazuaki felt strange. Something was off, aside from the bullets Jirin lodged into his lungs. The fear subsided, taking the feeling of relief with it. Through the cacophony of other thoughts that ravaged his mind, one leaped forward. Something Mimir said. He didn’t pay much attention to it in the heat of the moment. But now, with more questions than answers, the captain couldn’t help but wonder what Mimir meant by ‘cleansing his soul’.
Chapter Four
The reprieve of entering Malcolm Finn’s store was a harmonious gift known only to some. Once one stepped into the warm walls of his establishment, all the insidious metallic scents of the outside melted away. Instead of being greeted by the cold smell of iron, a person enjoyed the gentle embrace of lavender, the savory grip of thyme, or the herbal calm of sage. It was like entering a small world within a world. The aura beamed off the walls with the same warmth of the lights that loomed over the plants, mimicking the sun.
Lilac loved this place. It was her paradise. The second she entered her papa’s greenhouse, the healing power of the plants sucked the toxins in her blood dry and replaced it with peace. She looked forward to the feeling as she slid into the door and closed it behind her, maneuvering four large water jugs and the sample of jam with her. To ease the heaviness they created in her arms, she set them in a corner on the ground, trying not to cause a ruckus.
Malcolm was in the middle of a class. He did not look his age when he stood before his plants and the admiring eyes of four eager students. As a child, Lilac remembered when he taught more than thirty at a time. The numbers dwindled as the industries flourished. The want for efficient synthetics replaced man’s desire to get his hands dirty. Nobody wanted to watch nature grow in exchange for hard work anymore. But whether there were thirty students or four, those who sought to learn from Malcolm Finn possessed dedication, often traveling outside their respective divisions to find him. He operated one of only two greenhouses left in Panagea’s entirety.
His operation seemed small to some, housing only a handful of various fruiting plants and herbs. The countless species she read about in books as a child went extinct long ago. They were the stuff of myths and legends now.
Lilac beamed with pride as her father explained the medicinal qualities of the peppermint plant. “It’s a world wonder,” Malcolm addressed his students. “Peppermint can soothe an ailing stomach, provide relief for headaches, boost your energy, and perhaps most important of all,” he popped a single leaf off the plant and ripped it into quarters, “it can freshen awful breath.” He placed a quarter of the leaf into his mouth and chewed, handing the other pieces out to the students for them to sample.
The students let out small, obligatory chuckles as they tried the little offering. Malcolm wished he could’ve allowed them to try a larger sample, but it was his only peppermint plant at the time; growing another had been a struggle, and he wanted to conserve as much of it as he could. Everyone whispered to one another about the depth of flavor and the uniqueness of the taste on their palates. Malcolm delighted in their hushed banter as t
he students exchanged ideas on what peppermint might pair well within a culinary setting.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything at the moment which would help you reproduce your own peppermint plant,” Malcolm started, crossing the warmed room over to a different table. “But I’ll give each of you a cutting from one of these thyme plants. Make sure your soil is well-drained and upwards of 70 degrees. Then you’ll have thyme in no time.”
The students’ laughter was more genuine this time. They huddled in a circle and sniffed the thyme, breathing in the richness of its scent. Malcolm drew his focus away from the students when he caught Lilac’s shadow from across the room. “Ah,” he extended a welcoming arm her way, “and here comes the most beautiful flower of all.”
The students looked up, all smiles. “Hello, Miss Finn,” one of the younger women greeted. A series of ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ followed from the rest. They were all familiar with Lilac’s presence. She was almost as much a staple in Malcolm Finn’s store as the plants.
“Hello, all,” Lilac smiled, “I trust papa isn’t boring you too terribly, is he?”
“Nonsense,” Malcolm interjected, wiping his soil-covered hands on an old rag. “If I were boring them, they wouldn’t be doing so well. They’re thriving just as well as these carrots they planted at the start of the semester.” He motioned to the back of the room with pride, where the students cultivated a small carrot crop. Although they were one of the easiest vegetables to grow, he showed how impressed he was with the level of love his students poured into the process. It was a rare thing to encounter youth who exchanged hard work for a slow reward.
Lilac raised her brows and did a slow clap. “Congratulations! Not an easy feat, what with all the oil leaking into the soil these days.”
The woman did not exaggerate. The ground became so contaminated over time, that Malcolm made a special trip to the Southern division several years ago. Though it was illegal to transport soil from one division to another, he did so without raising alarms. Away from the prying eyes of the public, he found a miniature piece of land that remained relatively untouched by industry. Less than a year after he shipped in a carload of the soil, the virgin land was claimed by the Southern Time Father. A church now stood where he dug up that dirt. Darjal Wessex loved his symbols of righteousness, especially when the coffers poured wealth into his pockets. Even in its separation from underground chemical leaks, the soil was not perfect. Pollution caused the rainwater to act as an enemy to the ground.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 6