by J. R. Rain
“I should have warned you, little man,” said Faux now, “but I doubted we could have passed the scrutiny of the passion flowers.”
Floyd nodded now. In truth, he was more interested in only the second book he had ever seen—and in the man reading it. Next to him, Faux shook her head and mumbled something about men and gnats and attention spans. Floyd wasn’t sure; after all, he wasn’t listening. Instead, he found himself drawn inexorably to the man reading the book with his back to him.
Floyd cleared his throat and mustered his courage. “Hello, good sir. My name is—”
“Floyd of Lyonnesse,” said the man turning. He carefully closed his book. “I have been waiting for you.”
“Y-You have?”
“Your aunt the queen told me all about your Journey last night. Fascinating stuff. I would like to hear more about it.”
“S-She did? Y-You do?” Floyd could think of nothing more dull than his little village.
“Of course he does,” said Faux, sidling next to him and extending her hand to the writer of stories. The man took it and kissed it, his lips lingering. Floyd couldn’t help but note the look in the man’s eyes. Or the sparkle in them. Both meant for Faux. Floyd was surprised to discover he was jealous. And why shouldn’t he be? Hadn’t he been kissing her just yesterday? He had been, and he’d quite liked it.
“Your Highness,” he said. “Always a pleasure to meet one of my readers.”
Floyd didn’t like the way the man said ‘pleasure.’ He also didn’t like the way the man continued to hold Faux’s hand. Floyd had never felt jealousy before, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Floyd,” said Faux sharply, effectively cutting off his rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Let me introduce you to one of Ireland’s greatest writers: Jonathan Swift.”
Floyd wanted to be angry. He wanted to storm out of the galley. But he was hungry, and the man intrigued him. Floyd had never met a writer before. And before yesterday, hadn’t known they existed. But here was a man who made a living with words and tales. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad.
“Thank you again for giving my nephew an audience, Mr. Swift. Surely, you are a busy man.”
“Not as busy as you think, Your Highness.”
“But surely you are in the middle of another fine tale. I absolutely adored the very fun and clever A Tale of the Tub.”
Swift, to his credit, turned a shade of pink and thanked her for her kind words. In response to her question he told the two that he’d been suffering a bit of writer’s block of late and had hoped this sea voyage would galvanize his imagination and his pen.
“But I am with little hope, I’m afraid,” he said. “The drought has been going on for nigh six months.”
“Perhaps you just need to find the right Muse, Mr. Swift,” said Faux playfully. Too playfully for Floyd’s liking.
Swift’s spirits seemed to lift. He winked. “Perhaps I already did.”
“What’s a Muse?” asked Floyd. “Do I have one?”
“If you are so lucky, lad. Perhaps I should return to my book before I turn you off from writing completely.”
The writer had just made a motion to sit again when a warning bell sounded outside. This was followed by some shouting and the running of feet. “Perhaps I’ll see what’s going on,” said Swift, and stood, nodding once to Faux.
Floyd turned to the elf for an explanation, and found her eyes closed. They remained closed as she said, “The captain fears a storm. A most unusual storm.”
“A most unusual storm?” asked Floyd.
“Supernatural, perhaps.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I do. Ravager.”
“But you just said he can’t travel across water.”
“He can’t, but his friends can.”
“What sort of friends?”
“Sirens,” said Faux. “Water nymphs of a dastardly kind. They can control the ocean, to a degree. We’re going to have to plug your ears.”
“My ears. Wait, what?”
It was then that something soft and silky slid into his ears and all sound abated for Floyd. This was followed shortly by the softest of words he had ever heard, just inside his ears.
Can you hear me, Floyd?
It was Faux, and she was in his head. He nodded, confused but intrigued too.
Good, let’s find the captain and Jonathan too. And as many shipmates as we can. They can all use earplugs.
But why? he asked, hoping he was doing this mind-to-mind communication correctly.
You are doing it fine. And it’s because the Sirens hope to crash the ship into a nearby island. She cocked her head again. A very mysterious nearby island.
Mysterious, how? he asked, as Faux pulled him along the now-hectic galley. Floyd sure wished he could have had any food at all, but that thought quickly fled when her next words gently filled his head: I see little people.
Except Floyd hadn’t a clue what she meant.
Chapter 8: Nor Any Drop to Drink
Faux’s quiet magic blocked the ears of all aboard the Mnemosyne so that they did not hear the deadly song of the Sirens. But that did not solve every problem. The storm rocked the ship, forcing heroic measures just to keep her on course, even with her sails trimmed. The galley slaves had to struggle to maintain direction and motion, and it turned out that the Sirens were not limited to song.
Floyd stood on the windswept deck, desperately clinging to a mast, because the severe rocking of the vessel made him seasick and he didn’t want to vomit in their cabin. Wild as the weather was, it did not prevent him from seeing what was beyond the deck, in the water: absolutely lovely young women, at least their bare top halves. They spied him and beckoned alluringly, their hair flaring and their breasts bouncing. He knew better than to go to them; he would drown in short order. But not all the sailors were that restrained.
Then someone joined him on the deck. Not a crewman, a passenger. In fact, it was Jonathan Swift, looking ill. He put his head close to Floyd’s head and shouted to be heard over the earplugs and raging storm. “You, too?” he inquired sickly.
Floyd’s resentment of the man diminished. He was a companion in seasickness? “Yes,” he shouted back.
After that, they got used to the shouting, so that it seemed almost like a normal conversation. Almost.
“I’m thinking this voyage is a mistake, at least for me,” Jonathan said. “You young folk can handle it, but I’m fifty-three. I never had good health; even as a child I suffered from dizziness, deafness, and depression, and my stomach seldom grants respite. At this moment I’m not sure I want to live to fifty-four.” He made a dry heave. “Maybe writer’s block isn’t so bad, at least if it’s on solid land.”
“Or at least on a steady ship,” Floyd said. If he had envied the man his literary status, at least in the eyes of Faux, he saw now how he was suffering. “I’m eighteen, and would hate to suffer another year of this.”
“Actually mankind may be born to suffer. Wisdom is incompatible with happiness. I have chosen wisdom, to the extent I can achieve it; therefore, I am doomed to be largely miserable.”
Floyd realized that Jonathan was a thinker, with a mind far more gifted and knowledgeable than his own. A literary snob. Better to set him straight immediately. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just an illiterate ignoramus.”
The man eyed him. “You speak metaphorically, as a king’s son?”
Oops. He had for the moment forgotten his present identity. There was no help for it but to come out with the rest of the truth. “It—it’s a pose. To get us safely on the ship. Please don’t tell—the Dowager—that I let that secret slip.”
Jonathan laughed weakly. “Your secret is safe with me. I value honesty more than status. I’m glad you came out with it. I knew immediately, of course, that your aunt is no Queen of Lyonnesse.”
“You knew? Then why do you treat her like royalty?”
“Lyonnesse is mythical. King Arthur’s homeland. According to the story, it w
as the southwest corner of England, and sank beneath the sea a thousand years ago. But it is also clear that Faux—the very name betrays her nature to the literate, as she surely intends—is no ordinary woman. There is something almost magical about her. My curiosity was instantly aroused, and I hope to learn more of her on this voyage. So I honor her little charade. And yours.”
So the man’s interest was intellectual rather than romantic. Floyd could live with that. “She is special. But I think I am not free to say more.”
“Nor need you. I like your discretion.”
“Don’t waste your time on me. I’m just a village lout trying to learn stories I can tell when I return.”
“Ah. A rite of passage.”
“Yes. So you will be best to ignore me, much as I regret saying it.”
“On the contrary, Floyd, I like you. You honestly know your place. You are a refreshing gust of fresh air in a world with all too many foul stenches.”
“You like me? But—”
“And of course I may better unravel the intriguing mystery of your faux aunt if I associate with you. So I do have an ulterior motive to cultivate your acquaintance.”
That did put it into perspective. “True.” He was relieved that at least that much of the deception was over.
Now Jonathan caught sight of something beyond the heaving deck. “I say—is that what my fevered eye suggests?”
“A bare-breasted water nymph? Yes, the Sirens are out in force, trying to lure the ship into wreckage.”
“Ah. So Sirens really do exist. Reminds me of Stella. The body, not the wreckage.”
“Who?”
“Of course you wouldn’t know. I speak of Esther Johnson. She’s my closest friend, back home in Dublin. I write letters to her, to ‘Stella,’ detailing my life. Four years ago we almost married, but the social politics were complicated, and we didn’t, to my everlasting regret. And we are of different stations.”
He had a secret love that was frustrated? Floyd’s dislike faded further. “How did you come to know her?”
“I tutored her when she was just eight years old. Sir William Temple hired me. I suspect she is his natural daughter, though of course I never said a word. Her mother was his wife’s companion and housekeeper, a fair-looking woman. You know how it is.”
“I can guess.” Indeed, he was learning.
“Stella was such a bright and pretty child. I liked her from the start, and she liked me. But of course she was too young, then.” He smiled reminiscently. “What a woman she became!” Then, perhaps realizing that in his distraction he might have said too much, he shifted the subject. “Have you a secret love, Floyd? No, I don’t need to know her name! Just whether you understand.”
That was easy to answer. “Yes. More than one, maybe. I wish I could be with any of them, especially two girls my age, but I can’t.”
He nodded. “Two. You do understand. So many would not.”
“One’s prettier than the other, but the other might be better for me, if I had the choice. And the wit.”
“Exactly. There are two for me too, both named Esther. I call the other Vanessa; she pursues me, with an eye to seducing me, which aggravates Stella. But I can’t marry either one without mortally hurting the other. So I am in stasis, unable to act, and I temporize. Perhaps if I had more emotional courage.” He sighed.
“But of course you don’t want to hurt either of them! I understand that perfectly. You’re a nice person.”
Jonathan laughed. “Nice? There are those who would emphatically disagree with you. I am smart, not nice.” Then he changed the subject again. “I hate mankind. There are too many people in this world! And nothing to be done about it. Such questions bother me.”
“Maybe we should start eating the babies,” Floyd said facetiously.
Jonathan laughed. “Now there’s a thought to shock the world! What an idea! I could call it ‘A Modest Proposal,’ and sing the benefits of it. Floyd, I believe you are helping me get past my block!”
“More likely it’s the seasickness,” Floyd said.
“That, too,” the man agreed ruefully.
Then there was a crash and a severe jolt, and the ship’s motion stopped. Simultaneously, the storm abated. “Oh, no!” Floyd shouted. “I think we just ran aground.”
“At least we are stable, for the moment,” Jonathan shouted back, starting to look less waxen.
Then they looked at each other. The Sirens’ song had stopped the moment of the crash. It seemed that their job had been done. The silence was almost eerie. They removed their earplugs, ready to put them back if the singing resumed.
Soon Faux, as the Dowager, appeared. “There you are, you naughty boy! Why did you sneak out?”
“Blame him not, Madame,” Jonathan said. “He merely sought to spare your tight cabin the stench of his sickness. I came here similarly. We are comrades in misery.”
“I see,” she said, her haughty irritation artfully fading. “It was a bit rough, I confess. But now it may be worse. The captain says the naked water spirits distracted the helmsman, and he steered the ship onto a rock. The hull is staved, and water is leaking in. The horse is up to his ankles in it. He is not pleased. The ship won’t sink, being landbound, but it will take a week to bail out the bilge and repair it so it is seaworthy again.”
“So the Sirens succeeded after all,” Floyd said.
“They did,” she agreed. “It’s a great nuisance. Possibly we can find games to divert us. Charades, perhaps. Well, come, boy; you’re soaked, and your father the King would be most annoyed with me if you died of a chill. We must get you dry forthwith.” She glanced at Jonathan. “You too; it is unfortunate you don’t have a woman to keep you in order.”
“It is indeed,” Jonathan agreed sadly.
Faux bustled him into the cabin, where she made him strip his sopping clothing, wash off with a cloth, and get into a dry shirt and breeches. “He knows, of course,” she remarked. “Just as I know his physical incapacity with women. Nobody will tell.”
“You knew he knew?”
“Silly boy, I read his mind, and a fine mind it is. He is surely Britain’s unhappiest literary genius ever. But we all benefit from playing our parts.”
There was a knock on the cabin door. It was the captain. “I regret we have a problem, Madame.”
“Of course you do,” she responded, and Floyd knew she was reading his mind and knew all about it. “The Mnemosyne is stranded for a week for repairs. It will be dull, but we can handle it.”
“Yes. We have supplies for the duration, except for one: we expected to pick up fresh water at the next port. We will run short.”
“Water!” Floyd exclaimed. “We’re surrounded by it.”
“Potable water,” the captain clarified. “We will become thirsty. Some may die.”
“The galley slaves,” Faux said. “They are expendable.”
“Yes. Unless we send a mission to the island to fetch fresh water. It’s green, with trees; there has to be a spring somewhere. Unfortunately—”
“It’s dangerous,” Faux finished.
“The men are spooked,” the captain agreed. “They have heard wild stories of little people infesting isolated islands. Not to be credited, of course, but there may indeed be unknown dangers. We shall need to send a party of volunteers, if we can find any.”
Floyd thought of the plight of the oarsmen, chained in the flooding hold, but unable to drink the salt water. If not for Faux, he could have been one of them. “I’ll go!” he said.
“Thank you, Prince,” the captain said gravely. He had evidently hoped for this. The highborn were notably less superstitious than the lowborn. “I will personally row you ashore in the lifeboat. However, you should not go alone.”
“He will not go alone,” Faux said. “That would not be fitting.”
“Madame, you can’t possibly—”
“Of course not. It is no place for a royal woman. I shall sequester myself in my cabin for the duration,
and do not wish to be disturbed.” She frowned with royal authority; she would be obeyed. “But I sense that there will be another volunteer.”
“As you say, madame,” the captain agreed dubiously.
Floyd strapped on his sword and donned the protective helmet Faux handed him. The prince was ready to make a bit of a man of himself.
“I will be with you, invisible,” Faux murmured. “You need not fear the little folk; they are of our number, distantly related. I do not know them personally; they have been long apart from the mainland.”
“Thanks,” Floyd said, relieved.
“But I prefer not to reveal myself unless necessary. Try to handle things on your own.”
“I will try,” he agreed.
“Please me in this, and I may please you in that.” For a moment she was Amelie again, then Trudy, before she faded out.
One or both of those girls? In a mood to please? That could be glorious!
They went to the lifeboat, which was already tied to the stern, ready to be boarded. It was loaded with empty water flagons. And there stood Jonathan Swift, also freshly attired, with a stout walking staff. “The word is that you are in need of volunteers,” he said to the captain.
The captain did not remark on the man’s obvious physical weakness; the need was desperate. “Very good, sir.”
Floyd was glad to have the man’s company. Obviously Swift did not believe in little people, or if he did, he was not concerned about them. That was encouraging.
The three of them boarded the craft, and the captain rowed. It seemed he had been unable to roust out any frightened crewman. Or did he have reason to join them himself? That was curious.
Floyd looked around and saw Sirens in the water, but they neither sang nor flashed; they merely watched. It was almost as if they wanted the volunteers to land. That was disquieting.
Chapter 9: The Little People
The trio fought their way up a sandy embankment, leaning into the wind. Floyd wondered just where Faux was, knowing she could float above the ground and thus wouldn’t even leave a footprint.