Curse of the Forgotten City

by Alex Aster

  Captain Forecastle shrugged. He turned to Tor. “So where will we be making port? Ponterey or Fort Sickim?”

  “We won’t be,” Tor said simply.

  The pirate’s eyes bulged. He pointed up at the sky without looking. “What nonsense are ye spouting, boy? It’s a full moon tonight!”

  Tor looked up; the shadow of a full moon was already starting to show. He had read that legend in the book and didn’t take it lightly. Still, he didn’t have a choice. “We’re on a tight timeline. We can’t afford to spend an entire night docked.”

  Captain Forecastle sputtered, then scoffed. “Ye won’t be on a tight timeline once yer in an underwater graveyard!” He muttered to himself, shaking his head as he walked the length of the deck. “A death wish! Fish below, help us. Captain Forecastle, on a ship during a full moon! We know better than that!”

  Melda raised her eyebrows at him and said sweetly, “If the decision isn’t to your liking, we would be more than happy to bring you back to your hole.”

  Captain Forecastle pursed his sun-cracked lips and straightened. “Unnecessary. I suppose we’ll face whatever wrath the sea has in store for us.”

  That evening, Tor asked the ship for a feast to keep their mind off the moon, which now shined whole above them, a gleaming orb like an eye. Watching. Waiting.

  A long table appeared on the deck, framed by richly crafted wooden chairs, a clean white tablecloth billowing atop it. One by one, gleaming silverware fell with tiny thuds from nowhere, before a dozen domed platters clattered into place at the table’s center.

  They took turns removing the domes, revealing steaming hot bacon-wrapped meats, almond-crusted fish, triple-baked pink potatoes, maple moraberry glazed chicken wings, and buttered garlic vegetables.

  Everyone ate like they were famished, especially Engle, who always had food on his mind, but no one as vigorously as Captain Forecastle, who sucked on bare chicken bones and licked oil from his fingers, making Vesper look like she wanted to gag. They watched him eat in silence as he dipped his hands into the whipped fruit and salad, foregoing silverware altogether, then lifted a soup bowl to his lips and slurped enthusiastically.

  He lowered the bowl only when it was empty, then bowed his head sheepishly at their stares. “It’s been…a while since we had a feast this mighty.”

  Engle blinked. “I’ve never seen anyone eat more than me,” he said, frowning down at his plate. He looked like he might just finish the rest of the food out of spite, but before he could lift the fork to his lips, there was a chime like a clock reaching midnight.

  And the ship stilled.

  Captain Forecastle hauled himself up with a groan and wiped a silk napkin roughly across his mouth, letting it drop onto his plate. “Get ready to see the sea as it truly is,” he said, before chugging an entire glass of ale. It dripped down his chin, then absorbed into his beard. “Because it’s not hiding its true face any longer. It’s just taken off its masquerade mask.”

  Tor stood, along with the others. He swiped a hand through the air, and their dinner disappeared, along with the furniture.

  Another chime rang through the night, echoing loudly across the water. Tor, Melda, and Engle found each other, backs pressed together, each choosing a direction to look.

  “The book says even mermaids can drown on a full moon,” Melda said quickly. “That means you can, too, Tor, even as a waterbreather.” She shook her head. “The sea can’t harm us if we’re not in it. Our best bet is to try to stay on the boat, by whatever means necessary.”

  Engle swallowed. “I read the same story, Melda. The ship’s no use if it’s shattered into pieces.”

  One last chime.

  Then, there was a knock. On the side of the boat, like knuckles against a door.

  No one moved.

  Three more knocks.

  Captain Forecastle turned to them, sneering, clearly still upset at not having gotten his way. “Well, are ye going to get that?”

  Tor swallowed. He, Melda, and Engle inched toward the starboard side. He peered over, to where the knocking had come from.

  A young boy looked up at them. His lips were blue, his skin bloated and pale. His hair was an inky mess plastered to his head. He stood firmly on the water as if it was as solid as sand. “Would you let me in? I’m drenched. And cold. So cold.”

  He looked dead. Tor was pretty sure he was dead. Yet here, and solid enough to be knocking on the ship’s side.

  Captain Forecastle nodded. “We must be in the Tortuga Triangle,” he said. “Famed for its ship-sinking storms. Those who have drowned rise to the surface under the light of the full moon here…” He shrugged at Engle’s horrified look. “We told ye.”

  Tor looked to Melda. She had tears in her eyes as she beheld the boy. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to go? A…better place?”

  The boy shrugged, blue eyes turning to stare at her. “I don’t know. They just left me behind. I fell in, and they kept sailing.”

  One by one, more figures emerged from the water, rising until their feet were firmly on the sea. And they each turned toward the ship.

  The boy looked back at the other figures and growled. “I was here first!” he yelled at them as they neared, some running. “I get first dibs!”

  Melda took a step back, almost knocking into Captain Forecastle. “First dibs on what?” she asked, breathless.

  “On a new body,” he said.

  Back in the middle of the deck, Engle gulped. “Well, they can’t get on, can they? The ship is big and—”

  Vesper’s eyes bulged. “The ladder!”

  Already, a woman had climbed almost to the top, her bloated face peeking up over the side. She grinned fiendishly. “Would love to have silver hair in me next life,” she said, eyes fixed on Vesper.

  Tor shot his hand forward, and the ship obeyed—the ladder fell away, and the woman’s eyes bulged before she slipped down its side.

  He peered over the railing once more, and there were dozens of them, surrounding the ship, fighting for who got to be closest, some trying to climb atop others.

  “There’s a man up there! Looks weathered, but he’ll do!”

  “I wouldn’t mind being a child again.”

  “I’ll take anything, get out of me way!”

  Melda gripped Tor’s wrist. “They’re going to find a way on here, we need to start moving, now.”

  Tor reached for the ship, sensing it around him. He pushed.

  But the vessel did not move an inch. It felt stuck, trapped, the sea around them having gone heavy as molasses.

  “Can you free it?” Melda asked, staring at his face, now twisted in effort.

  “I’m trying,” he wheezed out, forehead a mess of folds as he continued to push. It was like trying to move a boulder.

  The ship groaned, but did not break free.

  “You can ask the ship for almost anything, right? Ask for something helpful. Ask for—” Melda’s eyes brightened. “As for a fishing rod and a giant turnip!”

  Tor gaped at her. “What?”

  She glared at him. “You didn’t read all of the stories, did you?”

  “Um—”

  “JUST DO IT!”

  He blinked, and then there they were, on the deck. Melda wasted no time, grabbing the rod and turnip and shoving them at Engle. “You’re the animal expert. Care to catch a sea monster?”

  Engle grinned, then ran after her, to the front of the ship.

  “Keep them at bay,” Melda commanded over her shoulder.

  The dead were banging on the ship with all their might. Some were trying to lift others up onto the deck. They fell right back into the water, only to resurface. More followed, until there were hundreds.

  He asked the ship for buckets of water, which he, Vesper, and Captain Forecastle tipped over, onto the dead. They sank again to
the sea, hissing, momentarily subdued. But it only bought them minutes.

  They tried fire next, which only seemed to annoy the dead. They became more agitated, desperate, sinking their sharp, dirty nails into the wood. Some tried to punch right through the hull.

  “Not to worry, ships like this fine beast are practically impenetrable,” Captain Forecastle said, just as something smashed below. Wood splintered. “Er, practically.”

  Before Tor could run down and try to keep them from breaking in through the side of the ship, there was a sharp hiss and spin as Engle’s line went taut.

  It jerked forward, and Engle skidded across the deck. He would have gone flying into the water if it wasn’t for Melda’s quick arms pulling him back.

  Tor rushed to help, Melda holding Engle, and Tor holding her, leaning back as far as they could—

  And then they were off. Whatever Engle had caught with the turnip was big enough to pull the ship free from its frozen place in the water.

  The dead yelled and sank below to avoid being run over as the ship sailed away.

  Tor looked over Melda’s shoulder and could see the shadow of something gigantic beneath the sea, pulling the ship along, hook lodged in its mouth.

  “The fishing rod won’t last long,” Engle said through his teeth, gritting as the beast pulled harder and faster still.

  “Neither will we,” Tor responded, almost losing his grip on Melda. She groaned as her fingers began to slip, and Engle was pulled forward—

  Without any warning, they all flew backward. Tor landed on the deck with a thud, the wind stolen from his lungs. He gasped and gasped until the air returned.

  “The line snapped,” Engle said, face still red with effort. He stretched out a hand to help him up. Tor took it.

  Melda peered over the side of the boat. “I don’t see anything,” she said. “I think we got away from the dead.”

  Engle gulped. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. “And how do we get away from that?”

  Tor squinted. He couldn’t see it, not through the darkness, not miles away. But a second later, he stilled.

  A wall of water that bled into the night sky was rushing toward them, building on its way, already taller than a cliff. A hundred feet high, it swallowed up the sea, swept it all into its wrath.

  Captain Forecastle let out a low whistle. “Maybe we should have stayed in our hole, after all,” he said to himself.

  And maybe they should have listened to the prophecy.

  Tor reached blindly for Melda’s hand. And she reached for Engle’s. “To adventure,” he whispered.

  “To adventure.”

  “To adventure.”

  The wave roared on. Tor had to tilt his head to see its top. There was no way to avoid it, no way out. It was over.

  He closed his eyes.

  Vesper shook his shoulders and his eyes flew open. “I did steal something,” she said quickly, snapping a charm from her bracelet. It looked just like the snowflake they had used on the Calavera.

  But this one was in the shape of a cloud.

  She handed it to Tor, and he looked one last time at the rushing wall of water, so close he could feel its spray on his cheek, then pressed the charm to the deck.

  And, as if carried by a cloud, the ship rose from the water.

  Tor dug his fingers into the wood of the deck, steadying himself, melding completely with the ship. They were just inches above the water, and the wave was right there, almost atop them, cresting just above them—

  With a groan from the pit of his stomach, he gripped the invisible reins of the vessel and sailed it up into the sky, missing the wave by the length of his hair.

  Then higher still, high enough to smirk at the moon.

  Only when Tor was sure they were well out of the sea’s path did he dare rise from the deck, his legs shaking beneath him. He took a few wobbly steps to the railing and looked down. The sea sat far below, flat as a mirror, and nearly as reflective. The wave had vanished.

  “We’re…flying,” Melda said breathlessly, now at his side, shaking her head ever so slightly.

  “This. Is. Lightning,” Engle said, running his hands through his light brown hair, making it stick up in all directions.

  Captain Forecastle planted a heavy hand on Tor’s shoulder. “A captain of the clouds.” He laughed sheepishly. “Forget what we said earlier.” He shrugged. “Impending death…makes ye say things.”

  Dread coiled in Tor’s stomach. It had been too close—too close to dying. He hadn’t had a plan, or options, or a way out. He had ignored the book’s warning, and it had very nearly gotten them killed.

  The thrill of flying wore off quickly, it seemed. Melda frowned and whipped around to face Vesper, who was standing very still, watching the sky around her with quiet awe. “Were you just going to keep that cloud charm you took from the Night Witch’s castle to yourself? Didn’t think to speak up when those sea zombies almost boarded the ship? Or when we nearly died in the Devil’s Mouth?”

  Vesper swallowed. “I—I was saving it. For when we really needed it.”

  “And that was yours to decide, why?”

  Vesper glared back at her. “I didn’t want to waste it.”

  “No, you just wanted to steal it. Probably sell it to the highest bidder! Only gave it up because you were about to die, don’t pretend you did it for the good of us.” Melda scoffed. “If it was up to me you wouldn’t even be here.”

  Vesper looked as if she’d just been slapped.

  Engle laughed nervously, putting himself between the two. He placed a hand on Melda’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Grimelda. If it wasn’t for Vesper and her sticky fingers, we’d be among those sea zombies.”

  Melda didn’t stand down. She continued to give Vesper a look that could shatter glass before sliding away from Engle and storming downstairs.

  Captain Forecastle rubbed his palms together. “Our first onboard squabble, how delightful!” He frowned. “Say, what’s the name of yer ship?”

  Tor turned away from him. “It doesn’t have a name.”

  The pirate let out a low whistle. “Every ship has a name, boy. Tis terrible luck if it doesn’t.”

  Tor ground his teeth. He couldn’t afford to ignore another pirate’s superstition. “Name it what you want,” he said.

  Captain Forecastle brightened. He ran a hand along the ship’s railing, then licked his palm from top to bottom, making Vesper’s lip curl in disgust. He nodded, then turned and declared, “This here’s Cloudcaster.”

  Engle shrugged. “I like that, actually.” He motioned around him. “Not terribly creative, but certainly good enough.”

  Vesper didn’t say a word as she left the upper deck. He hoped she stayed well away from Melda.

  Tor leaned against the side of the ship. He never thought he would be looking down at the sky. Engle joined him. They both stood staring, clouds like mist around them, the stars bulbous and bright, the moon a disappointed face.

  “What are we going to do?” Engle said. He motioned in the vague direction of Melda and Vesper’s cabins.

  Tor sighed. “Melda really doesn’t trust her.”

  “Well, I don’t think her stealing something from the Night Witch helped much.”

  Tor turned to his friend. He had heard Engle screaming again last night, thrashing in his bed from nightmares. By the time he had gotten up to wake him, his friend had gone silent. Tor had waited up another hour just to make sure. A part of him had hoped that being on another deadly adventure might have been somewhat therapeutic to Engle. Or simply distracting. But his nightmares were relentless.

  “Do you trust Vesper?”

  Engle bit at his cheek, tilted his head at Tor, and turned back to the sky. He reached for a cloud, only for it to go right through his fingers, not anything like the spun-sugar consistency he had likely ima
gined. He stared at his fingers disappointingly. “Cold. Clouds are cold.”

  “Engle.”

  He shrugged. “Why would Vesper risk her life by going on this journey if she wasn’t really trying to save her people from the Calavera? What could she be hiding?”

  Tor closed his eyes against wind that numbed his nose and whipped against his cheeks. His dark hair likely looked a mess. As he and Engle abandoned the deck—where Captain Forecastle laid on his back, hands behind his head, starbathing—Tor said, “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  The Golden Comb

  The fairest mermaid that ever swam had locks so golden, the sun became jealous. Her hair flowed in a halo, curls draping down her back all the way to her tail, which was made up of scales that glimmered like diamonds.

  No one can shine as bright as I, the sun said, so it banished the mermaid below the sea during the day. She could only surface when the moon hung high and darkness turned the ocean black.

  The mermaid mourned the brightness and blueness of day—but on one dark night she met a sailor, alone on the deck of a great ship. They spoke for hours, until the sky turned pink with dawn.

  Not wishing to be parted from him, the mermaid took a golden comb from her hair and gave it to him. “Comb the water with this, and I will find you,” she said.

  But before they could meet again the sailor’s ship sunk, and the mermaid watched her newfound love die, unable to save him, unable to surface while the sun still shined.

  He was lost, as was the gift she’d given him.

  It is said that whoever finds the comb, and uses it to brush the sea, will be able to catch a mermaid.

  And that mermaid will grant a wish.

  8

  Siren’s Wharf

  Tor knew the enchantment wouldn’t last forever. When he awoke, the ship had already started to sink beneath the clouds. Anyone looking up during the fine, bright morning would see a great ship careening toward the sea, looking like it had sailed straight out of the golden pool of sun.

  “Pity,” Captain Forecastle said. He was still laid out on the deck, and Tor imagined he must have slept out there, showering in starlight. He claimed it was good for the skin, giving one a glow from within, and Tor thought perhaps he’d been right. The pirate didn’t look as weathered as he had before. “Could’ve spent the rest of our days up here, with want of nothing.”