by Ethan Proud
Volker jumped into her lap and began purring in an attempt to comfort her.
“The sage, chamomile, and fennel have not helped?” Artemisia asked.
“As you said, the intent is more important than the herbs themselves. I do not think that I have it in me to dispel Kerfield’s ghost,” Gertrude said miserably. “Can you banish him from my home?”
“If I do that he may become lost amongst the planes. There are many destinations for tormented spirits. If he is not ready to cross over he will remain lost forever. Can you condemn him to that?” Artemisia asked.
Gertrude shook her head. Artemisia rarely had easy solutions, such was life.
The witch continued, “I can search the Underworld for a guide to help him cross, but if he will not go… that is his decision,” Artemisia said.
“Will it be that simple?” Gertrude asked.
Artemisia smiled tersely. “Summoning beings across the planes always has repercussions.”
Chapter Twelve
“We can take you out to the Kirean Isles, for a small fee,” a suntanned sailor with thick hair and a crooked smile said. “Five hundred shilling will get you there.”
Mycorr grabbed Beatrice by the arm and guided her away from the seaman.
“That was a good price!” Beatrice protested and tried to pull free of Mycorr’s grip.
“The dinghy that he inevitably owns would never make it more than three days from shore,” Mycorr said, his voice dripping condescension.
“I didn’t even have a chance to ask him what kind of vessel he had!” Beatrice said angrily as they walked further down the wharf. Slave boys wearing nothing but wide legged pants showed off the scars on their backs as they scraped the barnacles from the prow of impressive ships.
“He reeked of fish, more so than most sailors. And I have never met an honest fisherman,” Mycorr replied coolly. “Never ask a captain whether or not he can get you to where you need. The answer will always be yes, but the results will vary.”
Mycorr didn’t wait for Beatrice to answer, but instead grabbed a young urchin who was walking by him with a metal chisel in one hand and a bucket in the other.
“Lad, could you point us in the direction of a schooner that will take us to the Kirean Archipelago and back safely,” Mycorr asked pleasantly.
“For a fair price, you’ll want Captain Yaro who sails the Obesus Porcer. It’s a merchant vessel, but for a few coin he’ll take on passengers. He goes that a way often,” the dirty youth said pointing to the vessel in question. Mycorr handed him a token with the profile of Detrita stamped on one of its faces. The boy thanked him profusely and hurried after his tasks.
“What did you pay him with?” Beatrice asked.
“A charm that will help him avoid death once. He can trade it with his slaver for freedom or use it to prolong his own life. Either way, the coin is worth more than his life or that of anyone else who bears it,” Mycorr answered slyly.
“Do you have more of those?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes, but I only hand them out to those I pity,” Mycorr supplied.
“And you don’t pity me?” Beatrice said, not sure whether to be proud or angry that he wouldn’t give her a token.
“Not enough for the blessing of Detrita,” Mycorr said and flashed a grin.
“There’s the Porcer,” Beatrice said and pointed to a schooner with the name painted in large letters and a figurehead on the bow that depicted a heavy set pig giggling as waves lapped at its feet. Beatrice’s face scrunched. “I thought ships would have fair maidens, birds, or horses on them for speed or safety.”
“If you are a greedy merchant swine are more symbolic of wealth,” Mycorr said and made his way towards the ship. The crew was busy overseeing the slaves who loaded crates and sacks of goods aboard, maneuvering around each other on the gangplank as they came and went. Goats and pigs were carried up also, undoubtedly they would never see their destination.
A man with a ledger and crooked teeth stopped Beatrice and Mycorr as they approached the ship.
“The Obesus is not a passenger vessel. Unless you have some business being aboard, you should turn around,” he said matter-of-factly.
“We were told-” Beatrice started but Mycorr interjected.
“Captain Yaro will be more than interested in our offer,” Mycorr assured the man.
“Unless either of you will fetch a pretty penny at the next port, he is not interested,” the man said through gritted teeth.
“The offer is not for you. If Captain Yaro will not hear us, we will take our riches elsewhere,” Mycorr said stubbornly and turned to go.
“Wait,” the bookkeeper started, “I will call for him.”
The man hurried off, leaving Beatrice and Mycorr waiting for Captain Yaro.
They didn’t have to stand there for long before Yaro was headed down the gangplank. He wore an elaborate yellow jacket and a wide-brimmed hat that boasted pheasant feathers. He strode purposefully towards the pair before stopping and bowing while pulling his hat off with a flamboyant flourish.
“I have been informed that you wish to procure a position upon my vessel?” Captain Yaro said with a broad grin.
“Not exactly. We wish to charter it,” Mycorr answered and was met with a dubious stare.
“The cargo on this ship is worth with more than the two of you can earn in a year,” Captain Yaro said derisively as he turned to leave.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Mycorr said and the captain stopped out of curiosity.
“What could you possibly carry on yourselves that is worth a full shipment?” Yaro seethed.
Mycorr didn’t answer, but instead pulled a coin from his pocket and flipped it at the sailor, who caught it deftly. Yaro turned it over in his hands before he turned ghostly white. It was different from the coin Mycorr had given the boy, though its source was the same.
“This isn’t real,” he said, though he lacked conviction.
“The token is real, and will summon Detrita’s minions unless you take us to the Kirean Archipelago. The choice is yours,” Mycorr said. “If you do not believe me, you can trust the Fates and find out for yourself.”
“Only a fool would deal with Detrita or D’rij willingly, no sane man would carry these coins,” the captain spat.
Beatrice smiled. “It is certainly a fool’s errand we are on.”
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Captain Yaro accepted the vagrants.
Chapter Thirteen
The ship pitched violently with each wave, despite the calm appearance of the Phemeral Ocean and the bluebird skies. Beatrice emptied the contents of her belly over the rail for the umpteenth time that day. Captain Yaro’s crew had not been pleased with the additions of Beatrice and Mycorr, and they were even less pleased at the prospect of a detour.
Beatrice didn’t know whether or not Yaro had told his men of the curse Mycorr had placed upon him, but the ravens were a telltale sign of death. The black carrion birds followed the ship doggedly, despite its distance from the shore, and perched on the rigging, hopped across the deck and croaked at the sailors as if warning them of their demise.
One of the crew members sidled up to Beatrice. His arms were corded with muscles and veins popped up along their tanned length and she was reminded of the migrant workers back home.
“How much did you pay Yaro to take you to the isles?” he asked.
“Worried you won’t get your cut?” Beatrice asked scathingly as she wiped bile from her lips.
“Never said no such thing,” the sailor said stubbornly.
“We aren’t paying him,” Beatrice said adamantly.
The sailor snorted and pushed off the railing. “Everyone pays.”
Had Beatrice a smart comment to return to the sailor she never got a chance to say it as more vomit spewed from her lips and peppered the water below. She watched the fish, some larger than she thought possible, as they followed her chum trail. For the past three days all she could smell was the acrid scent
of stomach acid in her nose. She missed the first day they had set out when she could smell salt, fish, and sweat. Mycorr had sworn that she would acclimate, but she was just as green as she had been the first time she lurched over the ocean.
Beatrice straightened and brushed her hair from her face, not that it would do any good. With the humidity in the air and the brine that coated her, it was constantly kinking and twisting of its own accord. The crew bustled around pulling at ropes, adjusting the sails, and scrubbing the decks. To Beatrice it reminded her of the town offices in Northgate. Everyone had their own job to do to ensure that everything was functioning properly. Beatrice felt her stomach tighten as she thought of her hometown nestled in the mountains. Out on the open ocean, she could see for miles and felt utterly naked. She needed the Coprinia and Windgall Ranges ringing her in to feel truly comfortable. The limitless expanse of the ocean made her feel tiny and inconsequential. Her own desperate journey to return home seemed small in the greater scheme of things. She was one person amid oceans, mountains, gods, and Fates. What did her desires matter?
She was pulled from her existential crisis when Mycorr approached her. With his dark skin and wild hair he fit right in with the sailors, though he emanated a power that no human ever could.
“You cannot still be ill?” he asked her incredulously.
Beatrice didn’t answer but instead nodded her head in the affirmative.
“You humans are strange,” Mycorr said as he stared out into the endless blue and Beatrice puked again. He continued, “It’s all in your head. Stop looking at the ocean and find the horizon.”
“It’s harder than you make it seem,” Beatrice said ruefully. Her stomach was completely empty and all she could muster past her lips was yellowish bile while she convulsed in pain.
“You are just married to your own difficulties. Once you get past your own discomfort, you will find it easy,” Mycorr answered.
“You’ve clearly never been sick,” Beatrice replied bitterly.
“No, I have not,” Mycorr admitted before he left her at the rail.
Chapter Fourteen
Benjamin woke in the middle of the night as a chill overtook him despite the blankets and furs piled high on his bed. Dawn was still several hours away but he found himself wide awake. He stared at his window and shivered, although the curtains were drawn. Benjamin rolled over and tried to let sleep take him, but heard the rocking chair in the corner of his room creak to life.
“Ben,” James Kerfield demanded. “Don’t go back to sleep.”
The boy didn’t answer, but instead screwed his eyes shut tighter. He tried to ignore the cold feeling creeping up his spine and settling at the base of his skull. The ghost said his name again. He pulled his blankets over his head and curled into a ball.
Benjamin felt the covers being pulled back and a cold hand touched his face gently.
“I am here, you can’t hide from me,” Kerfield whispered. Benjamin still didn’t answer. “Do you know why I am here?”
The prone form beneath the blankets didn’t reply or move and James Kerfield sighed heavily.
“Your mother killed me, Benjamin,” Kerfield growled. “She didn’t give a damn about me. I’m dead, Benjamin. Deader than a doornail. Can you believe your mother is a murderer? You should. You could be next. Do you want your mother to kill you like she did me? You don’t, do you? If you keep ignoring me like this she will.”
With that, the presence left his room like a wisp of smoke. The cold dissipated from the room, but Benjamin didn’t sleep another wink that night.
***
When dawn came, Artemisia was reading from a book titled Spirits and Ghosts: How to Ensure your Loved Ones Cross Over. It was probably the most holistic or empathetic book in her collection. She had been reading since sundown and her eyes were red and ringed with dark bags, and she had found little useful information. She was already aware that she couldn’t cross over into the Underworld to find a guide for herself, and Detrita or her sons were the best bet if she was going to search the seventh plane for aid.
She wracked her brain, thinking of a soul she could summon or at least commune with, but her Aunt Dolores and Uncle Reed were basking in the glory of the seventh plane and not in the Underworld. Their love for Mission had trapped them in the Temporal Realm and as such they would make poor guides. The witch mulled over the possibilities before the most obvious came to her mind. Ruckstead. He knew Kerfield personally, and would be vested in removing the ghost from his wife and child’s home. With any luck he would have crossed over and she could find him easily enough. Calling a ghost was far less risky than summoning a demon.
Artemisia closed the book and felt a lump in her chest. Gertrude may not be ready to face her husband’s ghost and Ruckstead might try to stay in the first plane. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best that Artemisia had. She closed her eyes and debated a nap while Volker mewled from the corner. Her eyes snapped back open after only a moment’s turmoil. She had work to do, and sleep was a luxury.
Chapter Fifteen
Captain Yaro stared out at the horizon at the ship that was barely a speck, but close enough to be certain that it was indeed a vessel. He brought his eye glass up to his face, even though he didn’t need it. It was always better to double check your assumptions. The ship was flying no colors to be a naval vessel, and the Obesus Porcer was too far from any established trade route for it to be a merchant.
He collapsed the telescope and placed it in one of his many jacket pockets. Turning to his first mate, Carnegie Kilron, he said, “Put the men on the oars. We need leagues between us and those pirates.”
“Yessir,” Carnegie said before moving quickly to obey his captain’s orders. They were still carrying all of their cargo, and after a pit-stop at the Kirean Isles the Porcer still had its contractual duties to fulfill, none of which would be completed if the pirates misappropriated all of their goods. Not that merchant vessels were often left afloat after a raid by rogue sailors.
Yaro pressed his fingertips into his temples and blew out a long sigh. Beatrice Axel and her strange companion would be the death of him. And most of his crew.
He growled audibly and saw a flash of red when he saw Mycorr sitting above deck, munching on an apple. Apparently the young man thought he was above doing any of the actual work. Then a dangerous thought crossed the captain’s mind as he fingered the token in his pocket. He crossed the deck quickly and Mycorr looked up lazily.
“Yes, Captain?” he asked.
“I suppose you think this is some kind of game?” Yaro said.
“The nature of many of life’s riddles are simply games. You’d need to be more specific.” Mycorr tossed the core of the apple overboard.
“The ship on the horizon is something you conjured, is it not?” Yaro demanded.
“Are you accusing me of being some kind of wizard or warlock, summoning some illusion?”
“I am not so feeble minded,” the captain started, which earned him a snicker from Mycorr. “I am asking if they have been sent by your goddess.”
“I do not worship Detrita, though she dotes on me. But those, my liege, are pirates. I suggest you set sail before they are upon us,” Mycorr said pensively, seconds before the first oar slap was heard. It would be many hours before such a sound faded.
“We mean to outrun them,” Yaro sneered.
“Let’s hope fate is on your side then.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ruckstead was near the point of surrender. He had searched both day and night for Kerfield but had found no sign of his old protégé. Having already passed over, Ruckstead had no option but to remain on the third plane of the Underworld.
Just as those thoughts crossed his mind he felt a tug on his body and his surroundings blurred. Whatever intangible force had a hold of him it was familiar. When his vision finally stopped swimming he beheld a welcome sight. Artemisia’s brown eyes blinked dolefully and he stepped forward before feeling his body freeze.<
br />
“What’s happening?” he asked in confusion. Artemisia held up a hand before scuffing the chalk circle at his feet.
“I had to make sure I called you successfully before opening the portal. Summoning beings across the realms is more difficult than travelling across our planes,” Artemisia said. And indeed her skin looked haggard and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her hair lacked its usual golden luster.
Ruckstead entered the First Temporal Plane but his body still felt as ethereal as it did in the Underworld.
“I am still dead then?” he asked.
Artemisia nodded. “Indeed, I am not powerful enough to resurrect spirits and grant them their earthly bodies. I could bind your spirit to an animal or totem, but that would hardly be living.”
“Not that I have a body to return to,” Ruckstead said wearily. “I’m all too aware of my untimely end. It was better than facing the gallows for treason and murder though. At least Gertrude and Benjamin did not have to see it. How have they fared?”
“That’s why I called. They have been well, though it has been hard on them. The ghost of James Kerfield haunts them,” Artemisia answered slowly.
Ruckstead inhaled sharply. “Beatrice said he died in the battle against Vahrun.”
“More or less. So she is dead as well then?” Artemisia asked.
“Not wholly. She was returning to the Temporal Realm and I found her while she was travelling the Underworld. The Fates have ruled that she will never return to Northgate. Now tell me about James,” Ruckstead finished sternly.
“He… killed himself,” Artemisia reluctantly said as she recounted the events. Ruckstead’s countenance grew grave.