by Alex Aster
So sorry to disappoint—I’ve taken the enchantment. Send my best regards to your very blue hair.
Signed Captain Forecastle.
Engle fell back onto the sand, eyes closing. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Blue hair?” Vesper said, an eyebrow raised.
Melda shrugged, undeterred. “Well, then, we have to find this Captain Forecastle.”
Engle snorted. “And just how do you expect us to do that?”
She held her head high. “I have an idea.”
Tor didn’t dare ask what this idea was, in fear that the small scrap of hope he still harbored in his chest would shrivel up and burn in the unrelenting sun.
Melda took the note from the box and held it carefully. They rowed back to the ship in silence, Vesper leaping over the side to swim for a few minutes, complaining of the heat. Once aboard, Melda did not waste a moment. She strode across the deck, up the stairs, and to the helm. To the mermaid. She gripped the railing, and leaned dangerously far over it, note in her other hand. Tor watched as she pressed the parchment to the mermaid’s delicate nose as if she were a hound.
Engle whispered, “She doesn’t actually think that will work, does she?”
Tor watched as the mermaid’s head dipped in a silent nod.
And the ship began to move.
* * *
The ship sailed quietly away from Indigo Isle, away from the coast, guided by the mermaid at its helm, who had apparently charted a course to the mysterious Captain Forecastle. For the first few hours, Tor, Melda, Engle, and Vesper stayed on the deck, watching. Waiting.
But the ship did not stop. So, when the stars came out and the sea looked like ink, they went to bed.
The next morning, Tor had just asked the ship to brew him a morning cup of cocoa when the wooden walls of his room groaned, and they came to a sudden halt.
He threw on clothes and ran up the stairs. The sharp beam of sunlight made him squint, reminding him he had been meaning to ask the ship for a hat. Melda and Engle were already on the deck, muttering to each other.
“What’s wrong?”
Engle was squinting, which was unusual. “We stopped, but I don’t see anything. No land in any direction.”
Tor whirled around. Engle was right. They had anchored right in the middle of the sea, no coast or island anywhere to be seen.
Then how had they reached Captain Forecastle?
Melda sighed. “Maybe I was wrong.”
Tor walked past them, up to where a wheel might have sat if this was a normal ship. He strode to the mermaid, to see her view.
He swallowed. “No, Melda. I think you were right.”
A gaping hole the size of Estrelle’s town square had been cut away from the sea and completely drained, all the way to the seafloor. Water rushed down its edges like continuous waterfalls, the rest of the ocean completely intact. Their ship sat perilously close to the edge, just a few feet away from tipping right over the watery cliff and straight down hundreds of feet.
Engle gasped. “There’s a man down there!”
Melda blinked. “I guess we found Captain Forecastle.”
The Moon’s Revenge
After its reflection was stolen, the moon swore vengeance.
Each full moon, the sea sits still, afraid to stir. Fish escape to its depths. Pirates stay in port. Even the wind is quiet.
Tides can rise and fall in minutes.
Ships might shatter to pieces.
The dead surface from the sea’s depths.
Beware a waxing moon. For when it becomes whole, chaos ensues.
And even mermaids can be drowned during a full moon.
7
Captain Forecastle
Tor wished for rope. It spooled at his feet, then down across the deck. Engle tied a knot around the mermaid and gave it a tug. “This should hold, I think.”
Melda gave him a look. “Very reassuring.”
Engle ignored her. “How do you think he got trapped down there?”
Melda sighed. “Probably not by being an upstanding seaman.” She turned to Tor. “Be careful. We can’t trust him.”
Engle rolled his eyes, “What’s with you and trust issues lately?” He threw a pointed look at Vesper, who was eating a fresh bowl of seafoam on the lower deck.
Before Melda could respond, Tor said, “She’s right. He’s probably a pirate.”
Tor grabbed the end of the rope; Melda, Engle, and the siren held the other side. Then, he jumped.
He bit his tongue so hard tears blurred his vision as he fell, fell, fell, until Melda and Engle pulled taut on the rope, and he came to a sudden halt, its rough strands burning his palms. “Sorry!” Melda yelled down. He looked up and saw the mermaid peeking over the entrance to the hole, the ship still slightly visible through the water. He was only about twenty feet down.
The ocean was a wall in front of him. Fish swam on the other side, schools of them. Coral bloomed far away. A shark swam over, regarded him for a moment, then swam off. He dipped a hand through and pierced the wall easily, his fingers coming back wet.
Little by little, Melda and Engle released the rope, sending him farther and farther down. He watched the sea the entire way, trying to distract himself from the distance below his feet. And the man who waited there.
The sea’s layers were fascinating—each different, just like the sections of the rain forest Zura. Closer to the sunny surface, the sea creatures were a rainbow of shades, like the painter who had imagined them had every color in his palette to choose from. He saw an orange clown fish, a blue wiry-legged starfish, a purple eel with golden spots that slithered like a serpent and changed its shade to green right before his eyes. A tiny lavender octopus swept gracefully by, its tentacles looking tangled together. It was followed by two others, one the pink of watermelon, and the other light blue with white smudges, as if it had decided to mimic the sky.
Farther down, it seemed as if the painter had used up all of his bright pigment. The creatures below embraced the darkness, their shades becoming more muted, just like traveling through Emblem Island.
It became harder to see into the ocean the more he traveled, and, for a moment, he wished for Engle’s emblem. Just to see what lived this far down—if anything. Though Sandstone was built into the seafloor, it was not far off the coast, not nearly as deep.
Tor knew they must be in the middle of the ocean, in some of its most vicious waters. He wondered, truly wondered, what lurked this far below.
His feet pressed against sand.
Tor whirled, prepared to defend himself against what must be a crazed man, after being stranded in such a place.
But the man before him was grinning. He had long, curled hair and tanned skin leathered by the sun. Swirling tattoos trailed from beneath his long sleeves all the way down to the tips of his fingers. He took off his captain’s hat, revealing a rather large bald spot with an eye tattooed in its center, then gave a bow. “Don’t get many visitors down here, as ye can imagine!” he said. His brow furrowed as he surveyed his surroundings, as if seeing them for the very first time. “Might we interest ye in some…er…fermented seaweed?” He pointed at a sad lump of dark green. “Or giant tube eel jerky?”
Tor resisted the urge to gag. “Um…no thanks.”
The man kept talking. “Ye sure? Caught it ourselves!” With a slicing sound, he quickly unsheathed a long curved and gleaming pirate’s sword from his belt, raising it high in the air. Tor took a step back.
The pirate jabbed the blade straight through the seawall, demonstrating how he had caught the eel. He wagged a calloused finger at Tor. “Takes loads of practice, and even more patience, but the taste is worth it!” He put the sword back and Tor took a breath.
Maybe he should turn around and claim he had the wrong deep-sea prison, Tor thought to himself.
; But they needed the compass to find the pearl.
“Are you Captain Forecastle?”
The man took a break from chewing on his foul-smelling jerky—which looked like it required quite a bit of chewing—and grinned. “Ye heard of us?”
Us? Perhaps the pirate was mad. “Er…yes. My friends and I are on a quest. And we believe you might have something we need.”
Captain Forecastle brightened. “A quest? Love ’em!” He leaned in, and Tor swore something crawled through the man’s long curly hair. “Especially the sea kind.” He pulled an extremely thin miniature sword from his front jacket pocket and began picking his teeth with it. “Now, what is it ye need?” he asked, tongue darting dangerously close to the blade.
“The compass from Indigo Isle.”
Captain Forecastle went still. He sheathed the teeth-picking blade and shook his head. “That compass was stolen from us long ago by the same pirates who got us locked in here, ye know.”
Tor felt the bite of disappointment, right in his chest. They had come all this way…
But perhaps the pirate could still be of use. If he could get him to say who had stolen the compass…
“How did you end up down here?”
Captain Forecastle sat himself down on what looked like an overturned barrel, halfway dug into the sand. “That there’s a long story, but we were wrongly imprisoned, swear it to our last breath! A curse doled out from the sea itself, a curse for a curse…” He poked a finger through the sea wall. “And cruel as the rushing tide. Could try to escape by swimming through here, but would drown before reaching the surface. The curse even kept us alive, to suffer in this watery tomb for eternity. Don’t eat this because we need to.” He winked as he took another rubbery bite of jerky. “But because it tastes so nice.”
Tor nodded politely and was about to ask another question when the pirate interrupted him.
“What is it yer after, boy?”
Tor swallowed. Something told him not to say it, but the words tripped off his tongue nonetheless. “The Pirate’s Pearl.”
Captain Forecastle smiled again, teeth half rotted, some covered in jewels he unquestionably stole. “Now that, we can help ye find.”
Tor stilled. “How?”
“Well, we know where our compass is. We’ll lead ye to it, then to the pearl.”
Tor remembered Melda’s warning. They couldn’t trust a pirate. There was something about it in the Book of Seas, but he couldn’t remember the exact warning. “And in exchange?”
The captain grinned even wider. “Ye know, a true bargain is a scale. It must be even on both sides…” He shrugged. “All we ask is that ye free us.”
That didn’t seem so bad to Tor. They needed him out of the hole to help them find the compass, anyway.
“To be clear, by us you just mean you, right? It’s just…the way you speak?” He didn’t need to be unleashing some sort of sea spirit or demon by freeing the pirate.
Captain Forecastle frowned, then nodded.
Tor pretended to consider it, then sighed. “Fine. You have yourself a bargain.”
“Grand.” He put two hands on his belly, surprisingly bulbous for a man who had been subsiding on eel jerky. “Hope yer friends have strong arms.”
Tor was let up first. When Engle hauled him up over the side and onto the deck, Melda nearly collapsed with relief.
Vesper stood. “Did you get it?”
Tor scratched the back of his neck and winced. “Not exactly.” It took all four of them to get Captain Forecastle up. Tor was very sure they would drop him on more than one occasion, but at the end, the mermaid seemed to put in a little effort, and he made it safely aboard, flopping like a fish.
Vesper looked him over and scrunched her now-freckled nose.
Captain Forecastle didn’t seem to notice as he straightened and took a step toward her. “A waterbreather, eh? Look just like a mermaid, with that hair.”
Vesper stiffened, then promptly walked to the other side of the ship.
Captain Forecastle shrugged. He turned to Engle and Melda. “Now how on Emblem are ye four sailing a ship of this size?” He scratched at his beard, long, curly, and exceptionally unkept. “Where’s the wheel gone?”
“That is none of your concern, pirate,” Melda said with disdain.
Captain Forecastle gripped his middle and laughed. “Pirate? A pirate steals things, roams above the sea, is part of a crew, goes on quests.” He shrugged. “We’ve been stuck in those depths for years, would reckon the title of pirate wears off if ye don’t do much pirating.” He tilted his head at her. “Would say yer more of a pirate than us.”
Melda scoffed. “We haven’t stolen anything!”
He raised a thick brow. “Oh? Assume you went to Indigo Isle, in search for the compass, eh? If it had been there, would ye have taken it? Would it have belonged to ye?” He laughed again. “Besides, yer sails have gone gold at the edges. Someone’s stolen something.”
Tor looked up—and Captain Forecastle was right. Had they always been that way? Tor couldn’t exactly remember; the gold was too subtle.
Melda glared at him. “By your own logic, then, I’d reckon your title of captain has expired, too. Unless you had a ship and crew in that hole?”
Captain Forecastle stopped to consider that. He frowned. “All right, then, we’re pirates.”
Melda rolled her eyes. “Glad we got that cleared up.”
The pirate puffed out his chest and walked proudly across the ship. “Suppose ye’ll be wanting to know where we’re headed?”
Tor sighed. “Yes.”
“Grand!” He took off his hat, then reached inside, his arm going farther than was supposed to be possible, disappearing all the way up to his shoulder as he rummaged around. Finally, he pulled out a spyglass, opening it up with a flick of his wrist.
He put an eye to the telescope, and Engle looked like he was about to say something, then shrugged. “Nuttier than a cashew,” he murmured to Tor, before returning to a bag of saltwater taffy Vesper had given him.
Tor watched as Captain Forecastle looked through the spyglass for a few moments, nodding and muttering to himself, before flipping it over to look through the opposite end.
Melda gave him a pointed look. “Tell me when Captain Cuckoo picks a direction.” She shook her head as she retreated down below.
Tor ventured over to where Captain Forecastle stood, twisting the spyglass longer and longer in his hands until it stretched more than five feet, the weight tipping the pirate a few degrees short of falling off the boat. “Um—how is that going?”
He closed the spyglass up to a tiny stub in half a second. “Swimmingly! Now, let us think a minute on where to go.”
Tor wanted to ask what on Emblem had he been doing before, but forced himself to be calm.
Captain Forecastle tipped his head this way and that while he muttered to himself. “Well, they’d have first gone to Troutsnout, to get provisions, maybe Amara if they had some gold to spare—beautiful city, that—then, straightaway to Scuttlepig to sell... No, that’d be too risky, too many people looking for the pearl, they’d go somewhere less seedy, somewhere with plenty of buyers. Somewhere it would be hidden, ’til talk of the pearl surfaced again.” He pointed a finger at nothing in particular. “That’s where it’d be, no question!”
“Um—and where is that?”
Captain Forecastle gripped him by the shoulders, close enough that Tor’s eyes watered at his stench. “Perla, my boy! The City of Seekers.”
Perla. A major fishing city, one he had always wanted to visit.
Tor nodded. He could work with that. “Great. I’ll set a course,” he said, trying to sound more experienced than he was. Captain Forecastle was no doubt trying to find a way to commandeer the ship—he didn’t need to know how the vessel worked. Or about Vesper’s bracelet, which w
as undoubtedly valuable. “Why don’t you go find a room below and get freshened up? Everything you need should be waiting for you.”
Captain Forecastle nodded, thankfully lowering his arms. He sniffed himself, then frowned. “Suppose we could use a bath.” He smiled. “Maybe four.” He planted a hand on Tor’s shoulder, laughing, before walking away.
When Tor was sure the pirate was downstairs, he went over to Vesper. Soon, they were staring down at the shell charm’s map, coating the deck in color. “That’s us, and that’s Perla,” she said. “It’s far. Six days’ journey, if the wind’s on our side. Seven if it’s not.”
Tor swallowed. They didn’t have much time. By Vesper’s own assessment, and Melda’s arenahora, the ice keeping both The Calavera and Swordscale prisoners would only hold for ten days longer.
“Then we have to hurry.”
Vesper nodded. She turned away, and Tor took a step forward. She had been distant the last day, avoiding them more than usual.
“Are you all right?” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, as if shocked he was asking her such a thing. “I’m fine. Worried about my people, obviously.” She smirked. “It’s also no secret that your friends don’t like me.”
“Engle does.” He shrugged. “Though, honestly, it might be because you keep giving him sea snacks.” Tor frowned. “Melda just…has a hard time trusting people. We all do, after…” He cleared his throat. “She wants to trust you. We all do.” Tor held her gaze. “We can, right?”
For a moment, Vesper stilled. Then, she smiled. “Of course you can.”
* * *
It was afternoon before Captain Forecastle surfaced, wearing a fresh cotton shirt underneath his tattered jacket, and a new set of pants. His boots weren’t caked in sand anymore, and his beard looked freshly combed through, no crawling critters in sight.
He gripped the sides of his now-gleaming hat. “This is a fine ship ye got yerselves.” He peered sidelong at Tor. “How did ye say ye procured it?”
“None of your business, pirate,” Melda said, giving him a pointed look as she passed him by.