The Voyage: An Official Minecraft Novel

by Jason Fry

  Almost without realizing it, he was beginning to make a new plan, turning bits and pieces of it over and over in his mind while gathering dry branches and arranging kelp in his furnace.

  Fouge was his best way home—maybe his only way home. He knew the way to the Stonecutter estate, and had stolen the maps created by Stax’s father. And Fouge was the one who had destroyed Stax’s life. Shouldn’t he be made to answer for that?

  But the thought of confronting Fouge and his minions made Stax shiver. They were veteran warriors, hardened by combat, and he had only a wooden sword that he’d never used in battle. But facing them was the only way Stax could think of that might get him back to his cats, and give him the chance to rebuild the house and life that had been taken from him.

  And if he was right about that, he needed to be heading east, not west. That was the direction the raiders had gone, after marooning Stax on this lonesome shore.

  After a few days, this was all Stax thought about; every evening, he’d sit on a rock on the beach next to his boat, staring down at the compass in his hand. The needle pointed east, and though east wasn’t the way home, it was the direction he needed to go.

  Stax was staring at the compass on a particularly beautiful evening when he heard the first gurgle from down the beach. The sound no longer made him jump in fright; by now he was used to it. It was the drowned, beginning their nightly rounds, and that meant it was time to go inside.

  “But not tomorrow,” Stax said as he stood up and brushed the sand from his ragged pants. “Tomorrow we’re going to be far away from here.”

  And that was how he realized he’d made up his mind.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Stax loaded his boat just as he had not so long before. This time, he didn’t call the tower a horrible place as he rowed away from it. Nor did he vow that he’d never see it again. That hadn’t gone too well the last time.

  He rowed east, cheered slightly by the fact that the shoreline was new to him. New, but no less bleak than what he’d left behind—beaches below desert hills dotted with green cacti. Only one thing was different: Stax no longer saw ruins on the shore or shipwrecks in the water. Why? He had no idea. Perhaps his tower was as far as long-ago explorers had bothered to come, before giving up on this land as a barren waste.

  Stax had prepared himself for another long journey, and vowed that this time he would stop well before dark instead of plunging on at night. While he rowed, he scanned the southern shore, looking for any sign of camps used by Fouge’s raiders. Any food they’d abandoned would probably be long gone, snapped up by hungry scavengers, but they might have discarded gear that he could use.

  It was midafternoon when Stax thought he saw something green ahead of him in the distance. He peered through the haze, curious and ready to head for shore if it was another of the ghostly underwater castles that had been so zealously guarded in the Sea of Sorrows.

  But this greenery was above the surface of the water. Stax kept rowing, and a few minutes later his mouth was hanging open. Ahead of him, unmistakably, were green hills, covered with grass and dotted with trees.

  Stax rowed harder, but this time he was driven by joy, not fear. A river marked the dividing line between the desert and this startling new green country. Stax brought the boat in to the shore, warily scanning it for monsters, and stepped wonderingly out into the grass.

  “I had forgotten what green looked like,” he murmured, getting down on his knees. Instead of sand, he was on soft soil, warm in the sun. And ahead of him he saw trees—birches and oaks, like at home—and orange tulips. Bees darted back and forth among the trees, intent on their ancient work of turning pollen into honey. The wind was fresh and clean, with none of the salty tang of the sea.

  After his days marooned in the desert, Stax felt like he’d been set free in paradise. He gulped down fresh water from the river, staring longingly at the fish wriggling below him, and wandered through the meadow he’d discovered, lifting up his hands so his fingers trailed through the trees’ leaves. And then he lay down in the grass, arms and legs stretched out as far as they would go, and let himself get reacquainted with sights and sounds he’d nearly forgotten: the springy feel of grass between his fingers, the murmuring of the wind through oak leaves, the buzz of bees going about their business.

  Stax lay there until he heard another sound he’d wondered if he’d ever hear again: the bleating of a sheep.

  He scrambled to his feet and peered through the trees, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him—and, for one wild moment, afraid that everything around him was some delusion brought on by exhaustion and stress. But no, two sheep were grazing on a hillside nearby, regarding him with dim interest as they chewed.

  Stax walked toward them slowly, trying not to scare them off. They paid him no mind, even when he reached out and felt the fleece on their backs, which was soft, unlike his salt-encrusted mattress.

  The moment Stax felt the wool beneath his fingers, his belly began to growl. Stax looked down at the plump sheep, thought of eating another meal of dried kelp, and shook his head.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” he told the sheep.

  * * *

  —

  Three hours later, Stax sat on the stump of an oak tree, licking his fingers and feeling far more human than he had in a long time. He’d eaten several slabs of mutton, which was a nice way of saying he’d devoured them with ferocious speed, burning his fingers and tongue because they were still hot. Then, with his hunger momentarily sated, he’d cooked the rest of the mutton, giving him enough food to get through the next week or so. He’d cut new oak planks to replace the weather-beaten, warped boards he’d salvaged from the shipwreck near his tower. He’d made a new, clean white bed using the new wool. And he’d built himself a little cabin with a roof of pressed dirt, just big enough to hold a bed, crafting table, and furnace.

  Stax wanted to hurl his remaining pieces of dried kelp into the ocean, but reluctantly decided not to. However much he hated the salty, chewy seaweed, it had kept him alive during desperate times, and if things went wrong he might need it again. No, he’d keep the kelp; it would be a useful reminder not to let his stores get so low that he’d be forced to eat it.

  The spot Stax had chosen for his cabin was a pleasant one. There was even a scattering of tulips and cornflowers in front of it, and for a little while Stax let himself fantasize about finding some bone meal and cultivating those flowers, so that with a little time and effort he could create a garden, maybe one with lines of flowers in blue and orange.

  “Not going to stay that long, though, are we?” he said to himself, as the sun began to dip toward the sea to the west. “Still, we’ll leave the cabin so someone else has a head start. That’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  He had walked around the area a bit, hoping he’d find something useful, like a cave with exposed iron deposits, and fearing he’d find something dangerous, like a nest of creepers. But he hadn’t found either, just trees and flowers and tall grass. The only oddity was a kind of groove in the grass behind his cabin, one that ran from south to north. Stax couldn’t decide if it was an animal track, like the ones sheep create while going back and forth between favored grazing spots, or a little-traveled road made by people.

  Stax decided he would solve this mystery in the morning, as it was nearly dark and he’d been yawning for the better part of an hour. He rose from the tree stump he’d been using as a seat, gave a last grateful look around him at the green meadow, and entered his cabin.

  Meeting Ramoa * Stax must choose * A disagreement in the night

  Stax slept better than he had in a very long time. His new woolen mattress was soft and clean, his belly was filled with something that wasn’t dried kelp, and no drowned squelched by his front door making hideous gurgling noises.

  In fact, Stax woke up only becaus
e he heard bells.

  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, opened the door to his cabin—completely forgetting to check for monsters that might have survived the morning sun by staying in the shade under the trees—and looked around.

  He still heard bells, and not just bells, but also the whinnying of horses, the lowing of cattle, and the braying of donkeys, along with human voices, calling out orders to animals, laughing, and even singing. They were coming from behind his cabin, not the direction of the seashore.

  It had been a long time since Stax had heard another person’s voice, and his first impulse was to run in that direction. But after an eager first step, he stopped. The last voice he’d heard was that of Fouge Tempro, as he and his raiders left Stax to die. What if these were more raiders and he blundered right into them as if he’d been invited to a picnic?

  Stax hurried back into his cabin, disassembled his bed, and strapped on his wooden sword. He felt a flush of shame at how pitiful a weapon it was, but it was better than nothing. He carefully shut the door of his little cabin, gave it a pat of thanks for keeping him safe, and headed across the meadow.

  As he’d expected, the sounds were coming from that groove in the grass that he thought might have been a road. Stax approached slowly, eyeing the animals and people going past. There were donkeys weighed down with chests, cattle accompanied by drovers yelling “hi-hi” and “chk-chk-chk,” sheep hurried along by barking dogs, and traders in sumptuous robes, looking down their noses from atop sleek, muscled horses.

  Stax stood and watched this parade in amazement. For one thing, he’d never seen such a caravan—there weren’t any in the part of the Overworld he’d called home. For another, he was a little stunned to be near people and animals again. After the near-silence and solitude of ocean and desert, the caravan seemed incredibly busy, a live thing pulsing with noise and color and eternally in motion.

  “Hi,” Stax called out, his voice sounding rough and strange to his ears. “Hi! Hello there! Hello!”

  At first nobody noticed him, except for a tamed wolf who quickly determined he was neither a sheep nor a threat and therefore unimportant. But then two bearded men saw him standing among the trees. Their backs stiffened in alarm, and one of them reached for the sword at his waist. Then he seemed to think better of it, elbowing his companion and pointing in Stax’s direction.

  The two swaggered over while the caravan passed by behind them.

  “What’re you, then?” the taller one asked. “Beggar? Hermit? Madman?”

  “I’m not any of those things,” Stax said, the words spilling out of his brain faster than his mouth could give them form and threatening to tumble over one another. “My home was destroyed and I was marooned on a desert shore—”

  “What’s that? Quit mumbling, you shaggy ruffian. Whatever you are, stay out of our way and off the road, or you’ll pay the consequences.”

  “This one ain’t no threat, Chigam,” his shorter companion said. “Why, look at that, his sword’s made of wood. Hand-carved, by the look of it.”

  Chigam peered at the sword at Stax’s waist and grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “Haw haw! You planning on fighting an apple, friend? Or dueling an envelope? Haw haw haw!”

  “My home was destroyed and my possessions…” Stax began, but trailed off. It was obvious the two men weren’t listening.

  “Ritzo? Chigam? What’s going on here?”

  The newcomer was a slim young woman wearing a green tunic above pale blue trousers. She had a bow over her shoulder, and a quiver filled with arrows tipped with bright yellow feathers. Her hair was curly and black, spilling over her shoulders, and her eyes were gray in a pale face. She had spots of red in her cheeks as she frowned at the two guards.

  “Nothing, Ramoa, just keeping this vagrant off the road,” Ritzo muttered.

  “Vagrant?” asked Ramoa, peering at Stax. “Is that how you describe yourself, sir?”

  “What? No. My home was destroyed and I was marooned by pirates. I tried to get home across the Sea of Sorrows, but I couldn’t find my way and came this way instead. From the desert. That’s where I was marooned. In the desert.”

  Ramoa had listened to this explanation with her lips pursed and her head cocked to one side. Stax was aware that he was rambling, but couldn’t seem to stop—talking with someone else again felt so strange.

  “You rowed here from the Sea of Sorrows?” Ramoa asked. “That would mean you were marooned in Desolation Bay. You’re a brave man, Mister…”

  “Stonecutter,” Stax said. “Stax Stonecutter. For a while there I was afraid I’d never see another living soul ever again.”

  “Sea of Sorrows, bah,” said Chigam. “This one’s lying or crazy or both. Leave him, Ramoa. We’ve got a job to do, remember?”

  “Yes, we do,” Ramoa said. “We’re a caravan, Chigam. A caravan is made up of travelers banding together for protection. And Mr. Stonecutter here is a traveler. That means he’s welcome to travel with us, if he wants to, and lend his skills for the greater good.”

  “Greater good?” scoffed Ritzo. “His weapon’s a sharpened stick. His weapon’s flammable.”

  “And some of us have no weapons at all,” Ramoa said. “Are you good with animals, Mr. Stonecutter?”

  “Yes,” said Stax. “I raised sheep and cows and pigs and chickens at home. And cats.”

  “I don’t think we’re driving any chickens or cats on this trip,” Ramoa said with a small smile. “But we’ve got plenty of the rest. Why don’t you walk with me? I want to know more about how you survived Desolation Bay.”

  “A crazy woman and a cat-herder with a pretend sword,” Ritzo said. “You two are perfect for each other.”

  Ramoa scowled as Ritzo and Chigam departed.

  “People need people,” she said, and for a moment she looked sad. “Even fleabitten louts like those two. One day they’ll figure that out. Well. Anyway. Come walk with me, Mr. Stonecutter.”

  “Okay,” Stax said. “But can I ask where you’re going?”

  Ramoa laughed. “Knowing where you’re going is always a good idea. We’re bound for Tumbles Harbor. It’s a big town to the north, a couple of days’ walk up the coast. They have a big fair every month. That’s where all these animals are heading. There’s a mining company, and a lot else besides.”

  “A mining company?” Stax asked, his spirits lifting.

  “Tumbles Extracting, or something like that,” Ramoa said. “I don’t know, I’m not really a miner. I don’t feel right if I can’t look up and see the sky. Well, Mr. Stonecutter? Would you like to join our caravan? You’re welcome to, and frankly I’d recommend it. These lands are unforgiving for a traveler without proper gear.”

  Stax considered. The compass dropped by the raiders was pointing east, and heading off course for a couple of days didn’t seem right. On the other hand, was he really going to face Fouge and his warriors with no armor and a wooden sword? And perhaps there was another way home: If Tumbles Harbor really had a mining company, someone there might know of his family, and be able to tell him how to get back to the Stonecutter estate. His father might even have set up one of his outposts there. Tumbles Harbor sounded like the kind of place he was likely to have visited.

  “Mr. Stonecutter, I hate to rush you, but I have duties to attend to,” Ramoa said, hands on her hips. “Are you coming with us, or is this where we say farewell?”

  Stax looked behind him, to where he could just see the walls of his little cabin amid the trees. He reached into his pocket and felt the compass that might lead him to Fouge. And he looked at the animals and their drovers, heading north.

  “I’ll come with you,” he told Ramoa, who smiled at him and inclined her chin for him to follow.

  Ramoa led him toward the back of the caravan. The drovers waved to her or tugged at the bills of their caps, but they seemed to regard Stax u
neasily, muttering to themselves or averting their eyes.

  “Nobody here seems to like me,” Stax finally told Ramoa, who shrugged.

  “You look like a wild man, Mr. Stonecutter,” she said. “Your clothes are covered with salt and torn, your shirt’s burned through in the center, your boots are falling apart, and you’ve got a ragged beard.”

  Stax ran his hand over his chin and discovered his stubble had indeed grown into a patchy beard.

  “I hadn’t realized,” he said. “I must look a fright.”

  “You’re certainly a striking figure,” Ramoa said with a little laugh. “It’s obvious you’ve been through quite the adventure. But the people in our caravan don’t want adventure, Mr. Stonecutter. Or can I call you Stax?”

  “I suppose,” said Stax, looking in the direction of his cabin.

  “Would you prefer Mr. Stonecutter?” Ramoa asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “What? No, Stax is fine.”

  Stax was aware he wasn’t making the best first impression—or second impression, maybe—but it was faintly shocking being among people again, and he still wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision by joining the caravan.

  “If you’re feeling formal, my name is Ramoa Peranze. But don’t be, it’s just us. Anyway, Stax, these people just want to get their animals and goods to Tumbles Harbor, and they want the journey to be as unexciting as possible. Thing is, the Overworld doesn’t always cooperate. But I don’t need to tell you that, seeing how you survived Desolation Bay.”

  “I didn’t know that was its name,” Stax said. “But you know it. And the Sea of Sorrows too.”

  “Yes,” Ramoa said. “Dangerous places, particularly the Sea of Sorrows. It’s crawling with drowned, and the Old Ones have several monuments there. Difficult to find a safe route through there, even in good weather.”

  “The Old Ones,” Stax said, rubbing at his chest. “So that’s what they’re called. One of them gave me this burn.”