by Aaron Galvin
The cold of the North Atlantic against his human skin nearly punched the air from his lungs. He felt his eyelids ripped back. Saw swirling blue waters mixed with red from the Salt sting.
Spinning, spinning, spinning, he knew, his mind dizzied from the constant pressure changes. His body swung up and down, swayed left and right. His left foot smacked a pillar and sent him spiraling anew as the unrelenting power of twin steeds pulled him onward.
Smarta! He vaguely noticed the colored tendril-tails of the seahorses. Focused on the yellow one with bright orange rings as he swayed in their wake. Gotta get closa.
Hand over hand, Lenny attempted to pull himself closer to the steeds, every inch a struggle. He lost his grip when they unexpectedly veered right. Felt the rope burn rip through his hands, the quick stop and pull as he reached the end again, all his progress lost.
The turn. His conscience suggested. Ya reached the turn.
Darkness swirled in Lenny’s mind. His lungs cried for air. Arms went numb and jelly-like, his strength waning.
Gonna…drown…Pop.
Something brushed his foot, moving up the side of his right leg, chest, and then neck. Whiskers tickled his cheek and he felt rubbery skin against his own.
Lenny tucked his chin and opened his eyes. Endrees?
His father’s sea otter had attached itself to him. The otter wiggled its weasel-like nose. Then it nipped at him between the shoulders. The otter’s weight slithered off a moment later.
His vision blurred, Lenny thought he saw the otter with the tip of his hood in its mouth. He felt the familiar material slipping over his ears and head, the otter helping him don the Selkie hood.
Endrees squeaked at him.
Lenny guessed its meaning. He pictured the Salt form he had never before desired so badly. The black back, the white circles, sharp claws. He felt the changes sweep over his body and the rope binding his wrists slide easily off his now tinier flipper paws. His vision cleared and he watched the seahorses swim further up the tunnel.
Endrees appeared before him, paws folded. The otter squeaked, then ascended.
Love ya too, ya dirty rat. Lenny ascended. His seal nostrils breached the surface. Lenny drank in the oxygen and thought the stink of Crayfish Cavern never smelled so sweet.
Endrees chirped at him, then dove and swam after the seahorses.
Gotta face the music, eh? Lenny followed his father’s pet.
He watched Endrees rise and fall, spin and zag, as if its otter brain wouldn’t decide which direction it most enjoyed.
Lenny chuckled. Wondered how he had ever begrudged the love his father showed the pet.
The water lightened as they neared the end and it struck Lenny then he had no way of exiting his suit. No one to free him of his Salted form.
Endrees doubled back, stopping an inch from Lenny’s seal face. Blinking its beady eyes, the otter swooped in and hooked its sharp claws in Lenny’s mouth.
Ah. Lenny winced as the otter darted upward and back. He felt the Salt changes reverse, his seal body melting away and human form returning. The water seemed suddenly heavier, darker, and his mind panicked at the thought of how sluggish he felt. Lenny opened his eyes and found Endrees suspended in front of him. Thanks, pal. Promise I’ll make it up to ya.
The otter wiggled its nose again, then did a back flip and swam away like helping Lenny had been little more than a game.
Lenny kicked his human feet and struggled for the surface. Breaching, he sucked in air again. He heard the seahorses neighing and noted the waters churning nearby as the taskmasters struggled to stable them again. He swam toward the shoreline, watched surprise and shock sweep the faces of those come to witness his execution. None more surprised than Oscar Collins.
“How did he…”
Lenny made a point to chuckle as his feet found ground. He waded up the stony shore, onto the boardwalk, searching for the one face he wanted to see more than any other. There, he saw the rarest of sights: his father grinning.
I made it, Pop.
Declan nodded at him.
“It seems,” Fenton Fenton cleared his throat. “The Ancients have deemed you innocent, Captain Dolan.”
“Aye, boss,” said Lenny.
“No!” Oscar said. “He can’t have…how did he…”
“Whose laughin’ now, pal?” said Lenny.
“Test him again!” Oscar wheeled to face Fenton. “With one horse this time.”
Lenny clenched his fists.
“No,” said Fenton. “I will not.”
Oscar’s mouth fell open. “What did you—”
“You wished him tested against the Ancient’s will, young master,” said Fenton. “He has been. Even your father would say—”
“Let’s speak to my father about it then, shall we, Fenton?”
Lenny watched the old overseer’s lips purse.
“Very well,” said Fenton. “Though I believe he’s retired with his guests for the evening. We shall speak with him on the morrow.”
“Fine,” said Oscar. “But I want him locked in the stocks.”
Lenny stepped forward. “Boss—”
“Haven’t I already told you he plotted the whole escape, Fenton?” asked Oscar. “What do you think he’ll do if we leave him free to wander tonight? Why would he stay when he faces keel-raking again on the morrow?”
Lenny felt a pain in his gut as Fenton looked on him sadly.
“Guards,” the old Selkie sighed. “See Master Oscar’s order carried out.”
“What in a blue hole is this, Boss?” Lenny exploded. “Ya know it’s not right what ya doin’.”
“Son,” said Declan quietly.
“Why don’tcha test that son of a sea cook, Oscar, huh?” Lenny asked.
“You treasonous little whelp.” Oscar’s face turned scarlet. “I’ll see you—”
“What? Keel-raked?” asked Lenny. “Ya gonna do it again anyway, right? I’m done keepin’ my mouth shut, ya piece a—”
“Lenny!” Declan silenced him. “Keep ya mouth shut.”
Lenny felt strong hands take hold of him. “Get offa me!”
He struggled to fend off the taskmasters, but his fight mattered little in the end.
One wearing an Elephant Seal suit threw Lenny over his wide shoulder.
Lenny kicked, but found only air, as the taskmaster carried him through the crowd, bound for the stocks. He felt the crowd watching him, another spectacle to cap off the day.
“This iddn’t right!” Lenny shouted, past the point of caring. “The Crayfish talks about bein’ fair? Look what his son’s done to me!”
He noticed younger slaves whispering, a few going so far as to glare at the taskmasters behind their backs. He watched the elder slaves move away from the dock. Without Fenton and Oscar ordering them to follow, the crowd dissipated, as if Lenny’s words might taint them too.
Only one followed his captor back to the stocks.
His face masked in typical stoicism, Declan Dolan limped along the path and watched as the taskmaster locked Lenny’s limbs inside the stocks.
“Sorry, Declan,” said the taskmaster. “Following orders.”
Lenny watched his father nod as the taskmaster lumbered away. Only once they were alone did Lenny see his father look him in the eye.
“Couldn’t keep ya mouth shut, could ya?”
“Somebody had to say something,” said Lenny.
“Boss Fenton did.”
“Are ya freakin’ kiddin’ me, Pop? He’s the one had me keel-raked. Fenton—”
“Gave ya a chance to survive,” said Declan.
Lenny snorted. “Whattaya talkin’ about?”
“Oscar wanted ya hanged. Woulda seen it done too if he’d gotten the chance to talk with his fatha.” Declan crossed his arms. “Boss Fenton made sure that didn’t happen. He gave ya a shot at fightin’ back.”
“Keel-rakin’ me…” said Lenny. “That’s fightin’ back? That’s how ya see it?”
“Ya still her
e aren’t ya?” Declan’s voice rose. “Didn’t ya see Oscar’s face when ya came up outta the water?”
“I saw it. I also heard him say to keel-rake me again.”
“Yeah? Guess ya missed the part where Boss Fenton took up for ya again. Only reason ya sittin’ here and not back in that tunnel right now is 'cause he put his neck on the line for ya. But then ya had to go and run ya mouth off!”
Lenny watched his father sit down hard. Run his fingers through the same coarse hair he’d passed onto his son.
Declan sighed. “Why can’t ya eva just listen to me, boy?”
“Pop…” said Lenny, his voice quiet. “Whatsamatta? Wh-why do ya sound so nervous?”
“The things ya said back there—” Declan shook his head. “Ya threatened an owna. Put ideas in people’s minds about what’s fair and not. The Crayfish won’t let it go. Can’t let it go.”
Lenny sat up straighter. “I don’t understand, Pop.”
“They’re gonna kill ya, son.” Declan groaned as he stood. “And nuthin’ Boss Fenton says’ll stop ‘em this time.”
Lenny watched his father limp toward the boardwalk. “Pop…where ya goin’?”
“Gotta think on something, alone. See if I can’t figure a way to get ya outta this mess.”
“But ya said nuthin’ Fenton can do will stop’em.”
“Aye,” said Declan. “I said he can’t.”
GARRETT
Garrett’s stomach grumbled as he recalled the Nomad brothers’ promise to August they would finish with him by dinner. How many people live in your town? Are there any more who look like you? What did Wilda say to you? Garrett had answered the same questions countless times in the hours since leaving the dining hall. Yet for every answer he thought pleased Quill, the next sent the Nomad back to his brooding.
Quill watched him even now in such a way that Garrett recognized a new line of questioning to come.
“Look,” said Garrett before giving the Nomad a chance. “I’ve told you everything I know, okay? I don’t have any more answers.”
“But you must know—”
“I don’t know! Okay?” Garrett exploded. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know why I’m here. You keep calling me Orc. Saying Wilda is a Merrow and you’re a Nomad. When are you going to understand I don’t know what any of that means?” Garrett sat back. “I thought it was cool to change and swim, but now I wanna go home.”
Quill shook his head. “You can’t—”
“I know,” said Garrett. “That’s the only thing I do know.”
“An Orc who doesn’t presume to know everything…”
Garrett heard the sound of footsteps slapping the stone floor.
A beast of a man stood in the library’s entryway. Scars lined his body and a belt hung at his waist with knives and a long sword.
I’ve seen him before…but where?
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met such an Orc.” The man’s gaze fell on Garrett. He grinned, revealing pointed teeth. “But the whispers are true. The Crayfish hides one in his cavern.” He looked to Quill. “It seems the Unwanted are not the only unwelcome guests here.”
Garrett saw Watawa’s lip curl as he mumbled.
“Peace, brother,” said Quill.
“Peace?” the man scoffed. “Since when have you ever desired that?”
“You wrong me. I have always aspired for peace, Ishmael,” said Quill, a smirk teasing his cheeks. “If only my enemies would grant it on my terms.”
Ishmael threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “You haven’t changed a bit, old friend.”
“Nor you.”
These guys know each other? Garrett watched the two of them clasp forearms.
“When I heard a pair of Makos had come to this cavern,” said Ishmael, “one ugly as sin and the other near handsome as myself, I knew it could only be the bastard boys of Blue Breaker.”
Garrett saw Quill grin and also that Watawa did not seem to share his brother’s sentiment. He heard Ishmael sigh, watched him shake his head as he picked at the books on shelves.
“Knew I would find you in a library,” said Ishmael to Quill. “Always did have your head in a book when your father would’ve put a sword in your hand.”
Quill nodded. “And yet I recall giving you several scars.”
“Aye. More than I gave you…but many things change with the passage of time.” Ishmael’s hand moved faster than Garrett’s eyes followed. He snatched a dagger from the eel-skin belt it hung from and whipped it to the ready. “Should we dance again?”
“We are guests here,” said Quill. “It would be rude—”
“You and your codes. They’re only Selkies.” Ishmael sheathed his dagger. “Well, if we’re not going to fight, might as well drink. You!” He pointed to a servant girl. “Bring grog for me, my friends”—his gaze wandered to Garrett—“and this poor, despicable creature.”
Garrett glared at him.
“Ooh. I misspoke. It’s a feisty devil,” said Ishmael. “Were you anything but an Orc, I should like to buy you. Should I show you what I do to Orcs?”
Garrett saw Ishmael again reach for his dagger.
“Peace, Ishmael.” Quill stopped him. “Let the Orc alone and let us drink to old times. He’s only a lost calf anyway. No honor in killing him.”
“There is always honor in killing Orcs.” Ishmael’s eyes flashed. “Or have you forgotten what they did to your father?”
Watawa appeared from nowhere. “You forget your place, Red Water.”
Whoa, thought Garrett. He can speak English?
“Watawa,” said Ishmael easily. “Still swimming in your brother’s wake, eh?”
“I swim the currents the Ancients sing to me,” said Watawa. “My brother listens to their songs, as should you…traitor.”
Garrett watched Ishmael unsheathe his dagger, slowly this time, allowing its blade to screech. He held it aloft for all to see.
“Now it is you who forget your place,” Ishmael spat. “Call me traitor again and I take the only eye you have left.”
These dudes are gonna kill each other. Garrett’s heart thudded against his chest as the three Nomads stood motionless, each waiting for the other to move first.
The library doors echoed open and Garrett saw the servant bearing a cask of wine and silver cups nearly drop them upon seeing Ishmael with his blade drawn.
“Saved by a Selkie,” Ishmael laughed, sheathing his blade. “It seems the Ancients love you after all, priest.”
Garrett watched the scarred Nomad snatch the tray away, pouring the wine even as he returned to join the others. “To old friends,” he toasted, then drank down the contents of his cup.
Garrett noted Quill followed suit. Watawa did not.
“What’s wrong, Open Shell?” Ishmael asked. “You used to have a great love for the grog. I remember more than a few nights watching you swim circles.”
“I partake no longer,” said Watawa quietly.
“Your Ancients require that, do they?”
“No. I have the choice.”
“Well, here’s to your Ancients and your choices.” Ishmael poured another cup. “As for me, I choose dinner. Saw a bunch of giggling, Blowhole buyers gathering in the dining hall. Thought I might find you first rather than be left among them. Shall we be off?”
“Aye,” said Quill. “I too have a fearsome hunger.”
“For Orc?”
Garrett watched Ishmael grin at him. He looked at Quill.
“Conversation,” said Quill. “I’ve heard rumors of Bulls warring against the Great Whites. Perhaps I can convince you to speak with your cousins and have them turn their bloodlust elsewhere.”
“A Bull’s lust goes wherever there is blood. It matters little to us whose blood it may be,” said Ishmael, downing another cup. “But you have your father’s silver tongue, no doubt, so I’m sure you will convince me before the night is out. Perhaps I can finally convince you to bed one of the Crayfish’s Silkies. There’s a pre
tty black one I’ve my eyes on. Perhaps she has a sister.”
Garrett squirmed, repulsed by the easy way Ishmael spoke.
Quill, however, seemed to take it in stride. “Very well. We’ll sit to dinner and wage our words, and in the morning—”
Ishmael waved Quill’s words away. “In the morning I’ll have a headache the size of an Ancient and you’ll remind me what I agreed to. I know your works.”
Quill grinned. “Shall we be off then to have our war of wits and words?”
“Aye. Might as well get this over with.” Ishmael drained another cup. Wiped his mouth and looked at Garrett. “Can’t say that I’ve ever drank with an Orc. Don’t mean to start tonight. The sight of you makes my stomach turn.”
The feeling’s mutual, jerk. Garrett thought to say.
“I will stay with him.”
Garrett saw Watawa stand tall.
“I don’t suppose the Crayfish would like the rumors of an Orc enslaved in his cavern confirmed.” Watawa glanced at Garrett. “Unless you would rather go and be stared at and whispered about all night.”
Garrett thought back to the hooded men at the Boston pier and the way he’d felt as their eyes followed him. He imagined listening to Ishmael’s vile talk and taunts for another hour or two.
“No,” said Garrett. “No, I’ll stay.”
Watawa nodded. “Girl,” he said to the servant. “Bring us food, please.”
“Please?” Ishmael mocked. “The son of Blue Breaker…”
Garrett watched him shake his head as he left the room, hugging the bottle of grog. Quill nodded at his brother, then followed Ishmael out and closed the doors.
Garrett heard the hearth fire pop.
“Alone at last…”
Garrett turned. “Y-you speak English.”
“Aye,” said Watawa. “You seem surprised.”
Garrett nodded.
“I spent many years talking. My wits scrambled with grog.” Watawa frowned. “I have since learned to listen. Forgive my brother his many questions. His heart lays heavy with the need for answers no one can give.”
“W-what kind of answers?”