by Matthew Cody
At first the blue water and the salt breeze were a welcome change, but the never-ending motion of the Leviathan tossing about on the ocean soon drove Max from the deck and back to their cabin, where she traded the ocean view for the bottom of a bucket. She spent the entire second day at sea nauseous and swearing that she’d never set foot on a boat again.
She felt terrible that her friends had to spend those first few days at sea working—Harold on deck and Mrs. Amsel in the kitchen—while she lay sick on her back in a hammock. She rarely saw Harold during the daylight hours and Mrs. Amsel only when she brought Max tea and tried to get her to eat. But in the evenings the two would return to the cabin exhausted from their duties, and Harold would tell Max and Mrs. Amsel stories about his family’s history. The once-shy trollson had really opened up since joining them on the boat, and Max learned the hard way that Harold prided himself on being an amateur genealogist (apparently, trolls were very serious about their family trees). He loved to go on about his ancestors. And on.
And on.
“My great-grandfather was named Makefist Stonemuncher,” he explained one evening. “And he married a giant daughter—that’s what we call our females—named Gwenda Lakestrider, and they had two trollsons and a giant daughter, which was unusual because many giant and troll folk only have a single child, and even more remain childless. Not enough room for more, you see.”
“Oh my,” said Mrs. Amsel. “So your full name is Harold Stonemuncher?”
“No,” laughed Harold. “My grandfather changed his last name to Van Dam. Had to get with the times, I guess. Anyway, Gwenda could trace her ancestry all the way back to the terrible giant Gogmagog of Great Britain. Legends say that Gogmagog was killed by a Trojan warrior, but family history states that he actually settled down in Iceland, where he became an authority on sheep husbandry….”
While Max appreciated the company, having to listen to Harold and Mrs. Amsel talk about the trollson’s exhaustive family tree only made her desperate to get better that much sooner. It turned out there were few things duller than troll history.
When she was alone, if she wasn’t getting sick into a bucket, she dug out the glass jars from her backpack and stared at her parents’ sleeping faces floating in the mist. Were they dreaming? she wondered. Back in the Summer Isle, Max had visited Shades Harbor, a town of ghosts and dreams. Carter claimed that he had seen their father there and that he’d been looking for Max and her brother. Was that what her parents were doing now? Were they searching for their children in their dreams?
By the second evening, she was finally well enough to take a turn on deck, which felt wonderful, although Mrs. Amsel had warned her that some of the sailors were not very welcoming of the passengers. The captain still hadn’t emerged from his cabin the entire time they’d been at sea. Harold and Mrs. Amsel were late returning to the cabin, even though Harold had promised them all a lecture on the Scandinavian Stonemuncher clan and their successful transition from pillaging to soy cropping. Max worried that something was up.
She slung her backpack over her shoulders—now that it carried her parents’ souls, she wouldn’t let it out of her sight—and set out to find her friends. It turned out Harold was still on deck hauling barrels, even though the sun had nearly set. A few of the sailors were sitting around on crates and laughing at him while they cracked jokes. Max watched as Harold hauled the barrels to one side of the ship, and then the sailors would snicker and point to a different spot on deck and he’d be forced to move them all over again.
“Harold, what are you doing?” she asked as he hefted a barrel for what seemed like the fourth or fifth time.
“Balancing the boat,” he answered, out of breath.
“You’re what?”
“Dridge over there said that the ship is off balance and if we don’t get it just right, the whole thing could capsize.”
“Who’s Dridge?”
Harold gestured to the group of snickering goblinfolk sailors. “Glad you’re up, Max. You look one-hundred-percent better.”
The sailors were laughing even harder now, and one was making faces. Max felt her ears burning with anger.
“Wait here for a minute,” said Max.
“Max, don’t,” said Harold.
“Just wait here.”
She hadn’t been of much use these past couple of days, but now that she was feeling better, she wasn’t about to stand around and let these goblin sailors turn Harold into the butt of a joke. She was still weak, however, and she’d yet to get her sea legs. She stumbled a few times, and the sailors laughed all the harder when they spotted her wobbling their way.
Max steadied herself as best she could and planted her hands on her hips. “Which one of you is Dridge?”
Two of the goblinfolk just shrugged, but the middle one, a pointy-nosed fellow with an eye patch and a crusty red cap, answered her in heavily accented English. “I am Dridge.”
“You’re making my friend balance the boat?” she asked. “Is this how you treat all your passengers?”
“No,” said Dridge, smirking. “Just him.”
“Well, how about cutting it out,” said Max. “The joke’s over and you’ve had your fun.”
“Fun’s not started yet,” said Dridge. “Days’ more fun to be had.” He stood up tiptoe on his crate so that he was more or less eye to eye with Max. “Young girl is careful, or her friends maybe swim rest of way to port, yes?”
Max understood the threat perfectly. If she didn’t bite her tongue, they could all pay the price. Grudgingly, she swallowed her temper and turned her back on Dridge and his buddies and rejoined Harold. A lot of help she had been.
“Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Harold. “I’ve got plenty of fresh water nearby—what do you think these barrels are filled with, anyway?”
From across the deck Dridge shouted, “Troll boy! Hurry with those barrels. This side of boat is tilting.” Then he and his friends went from snickering to outright guffaws. They laughed so hard one of them rolled off his crate, and this just made his friends laugh harder.
Max felt her blood rising again.
“It’s okay,” whispered Harold, seeing the look on her face. “Goblinfolk have a mean sense of humor, but there’s worse things than moving barrels around all day. Eventually they’ll get tired of it. I’ll see you back at the cabin soon.”
Harold knew. He knew what was really going on, and what’s more he knew the danger they would all be in if he caused trouble. For some reason, this just made Max feel worse. But she wasn’t helping him by standing around, and the truth was that after barely eating for two days, she was too weak to help him move barrels.
She searched for Mrs. Amsel and found the little woman coming out of the galley with a tray of food—cheese sandwiches and sliced apples. She was happy to see Max up and about, and gave her a sandwich and some apple slices for her supper.
“Mrs. Amsel,” said Max. “What do they have you doing?”
Mrs. Amsel shrugged the question away. “These men need a little extra help around the kitchen, that’s all. Dinner is running late tonight, but I’ll be along shortly. In the meantime, you eat. Get your strength back.”
Max didn’t believe her, but she didn’t want to press the issue any further for fear of wounding the old woman’s pride. But Max was sure that the extra help Mrs. Amsel was providing meant that she was now doing all the cooking for the entire crew. Judging by the slovenly habits of the sailors, Max could only imagine what state the kitchen must be in. The poor woman looked like she wanted nothing more than a nap, but with a solid grin, she patted Max on the cheek. “Now, I’d better get back to the galley. There will soon be a horde of hungry sailors to feed!”
Hours later Harold and Mrs. Amsel finally returned to the cabin. Mrs. Amsel was nearly asleep on her feet, and Harold so worn out that he didn’t even feel like talking. Max helped Mrs. Amsel into her hammock while Harold, who was far too large for an
y hammock, curled up on the floor with a flour sack as a pillow. Soon the both of them were fast asleep. Harold the trollson slept as quietly as a baby, while the dainty elfling housekeeper snored like a wood saw.
But after two days of lying around, Max could not sleep. Her body craved exercise. The sea was calm, and a bright gibbous moon shone in brightly through the porthole. All was quiet, so Max decided to risk a nighttime stroll on the deck. After all, no one had told her not to walk around, and if all the crew were asleep in their bunks, what would be a safer time?
Max stepped outside and breathed in the salty air. With the ocean before her and the stars overhead, and with the gentle hum of the Leviathan’s engine, she was almost able to enjoy the moment—but that would mean forgetting how these sailors were treating her friends. She stepped carefully along the deck, staying well away from the edge. If she somehow fell overboard out here in the dark, no one would even notice she was missing until dawn.
As she explored, she heard sounds coming from the rear, or the stern, of the ship. Max had once heard that you could sometimes find dolphins playing in the wakes of ships at sea, so she decided to watch the water from the boat’s aft. But she paused when she saw a small figure step out of the shadows.
Max backed away as quietly as she could—she didn’t want to deal with any of the sailors. This sailor’s back was turned to her, his face hidden from view, but he kept glancing around, as if he was afraid of being seen. Max stayed hidden behind a smokestack. Something told her to watch and wait, and after a few minutes, a large bird flew out of the night and landed on the sailor’s outstretched arm. It was a crow, and when it cawed at him, he shushed it and started whispering into its ear. Then it took flight again, and the sailor watched it disappear, before slipping back into the shadows himself.
Max waited for a few heartbeats, until she knew the sailor was gone, then ran all the way back to her cabin and slammed the door behind her. Poor Harold and Mrs. Amsel were both so exhausted from their day’s work that neither one of them even stirred at the sound.
Max sat in her hammock and tried to process what she’d seen. That sailor had been talking to a crow and then he let it loose. Why? Why bring a bird on board just to let it fly away in the middle of the ocean? There weren’t any islands this far out for it to fly to, nowhere to go unless…
Unless there was another boat.
Unless they were being followed.
Sleep was a long time coming, and when she did finally drift off, she was haunted by dreams of leering goblin faces staring out at her from inside glass jars.
At some point during the night, Max’s nightmares turned from fears of goblins to worries about her brother. In the dream, Max and her father were looking all over the house in Hamelin for Carter, but whenever they entered a room, they would just catch a glimpse of him going out another door.
When Max awoke, she was all alone in the cabin. Harold and Mrs. Amsel had snuck out early without disturbing her. It made her angry that they would be worried about waking her up when they were the ones who had to slave away all day. In her frustration, she tried to clean their little storeroom cabin, but there wasn’t much to tidy up. Two hammocks and Harold’s little pallet of smelly blankets was all there really was. Back home, when she was mad at her mom or dad, Max would make and remake the bed, just to give her hands something to do while she grumbled about how unfair parents were.
“This whole thing is stupid,” she murmured to herself as she refolded Harold’s blankets a third time. “I don’t want them worrying about me. Everyone tiptoeing around treating me like a—”
Max stopped herself. She’d almost said like a cripple. That was a word they didn’t use in her family, and she felt ashamed that she could even think it when Carter could be in who knew what kind of danger. But they were in danger, too. Someone on the ship was sending messages by bird. He was doing it in secret, and Max had a pretty good idea who he was sending those messages to.
She felt considerably stronger today, and she stepped out onto the deck determined to make herself useful. Unfortunately, the day had already taken a turn for the worse. A crowd had gathered around Mrs. Amsel as the sailor named Dridge yelled at her in a language Max couldn’t place. Harold stood behind her, fists balled in anger, but Mrs. Amsel held him back with a hand on his chest.
She stood there, stoically taking the sailor’s abuse as he waved a bowl of something in her face. Dridge, it seemed, was unhappy with his breakfast. As Max rushed over to the scene, Dridge switched to English.
“Slop!” he growled. “You feed us slop when you give troll boy whatever he wants! I see you sneak him food.”
“I will cook you something special,” said Mrs. Amsel calmly. “Just let Harold go back to work and I will go into the kitchen and—”
Dridge cut the little housekeeper off by emptying the contents of his bowl onto her head. Most of his crewmates shook their heads in disapproval, but a few of his buddies laughed. With as much dignity as she could muster, Mrs. Amsel wiped the porridge out of her eyes. Max expected her to unleash such a tongue-lashing as to make the sailors hide for a week, but she stayed quiet.
Not Harold. Apparently, the boy could handle all the abuse these sailors could dish out just so long as it was aimed at him, but seeing them humiliate Mrs. Amsel was too much.
With a monstrous—Max might even describe it as trollish—roar he grabbed Dridge by the collar and hefted the little sailor off his feet. Most of the sailors cried out in alarm, but a few actually cheered.
“As foolish a thing as I ever saw!” boomed a deep voice, and all at once the mob turned quiet as the door to the captain’s cabin creaked open.
The captain of the Leviathan differed from his crew in that most of them could at least pass for human if you didn’t already know their true nature—ugly little humans, but humans nonetheless. The captain was another matter. Dressed as a fisherman he might have been, in his longshoreman’s coat and hat, but his face was more animal than human, with a turned-up nose much like a bat’s and two round dark eyes like pools of ink. His fingers ended in long black claws. And he was big, nearly as tall as an ordinary man, but broader in the shoulders and powerfully built. Harold may have still towered over him, but the captain had a dangerous look about him that said he’d seen plenty of trouble.
Max scurried backward from the horrible captain, and the rest of the crew quickly parted to let him pass. His black-eyed gaze drifted over each of his men in turn until he got to Harold, who dropped Dridge to the deck.
“My boys sometimes claw at each other, but I don’t take kindly to passengers gettin’ into spats with ’em,” he said.
“The troll boy’s a menace, captain!” cried Dridge.
“And what do you say to that, trollson?” said the captain. “What should I do with someone who picks fights with my crew?”
Either Harold was too scared to say anything or he didn’t want to cause trouble for Max and Mrs. Amsel. But Max wasn’t going to stand by and watch. “He didn’t pick the fight,” she said. “Dridge did.”
She pushed her way through the crowd of sailors and took Mrs. Amsel by the arm. “Dridge poured his breakfast over her head. Look.” Mrs. Amsel still had lumps of oatmeal in her hair to prove it.
“Hmm,” said the captain. “And who are you?”
“Max.”
“Toss troll boy overboard, Captain Hob!” said Dridge.
“You should keep that mouth of yours quiet, Dridge,” said the captain.
“But, curse them, Captain, they started it!”
“The elfling poured her porridge on her own head, then?” Captain Hob asked.
“Aw, it was just a bit of fun, is all,” said Dridge.
Captain Hob stared down at the goblinfolk sailor. “You want to have fun, go back to poking bilge rats with a stick. Let the passengers be.”
Dridge looked away and muttered something under his breath, but he nodded.
“And you all,” said the captain, pointing to Max
and her friends. “You’re confined to your cabin from here on out. I see you on deck riling up my crew and I will let you swim the rest of the way. Understand?”
Max and the others nodded, then hurried back to their cabin. Although the captain had pronounced it like a punishment, Max couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t just made the voyage easier for them on purpose. Confined to their cabin meant that Harold wouldn’t have to haul barrels and Mrs. Amsel wouldn’t have to cook.
As for Dridge, the captain gave him his own punishment, and that evening Dridge grudgingly delivered the dinner tray to Max’s cabin, while the next morning he was out on deck “balancing the boat” as his crewmates laughed.
The Peddler’s Road had changed much since Carter and Leetha had last seen it. The road’s path through the Summer Isle was long, and at different points it was a grand stone highway, while at others little more than a dirt trail. But wherever the road reached, no weeds troubled it, and trees had a mysterious habit of falling over next to it but never across it. It was said that the Peddler’s Road couldn’t be blocked. Until now.
With the Peddler gone, his road was falling into ruin. The cobblestones here were cracked and ruined, and wicked-looking vines, covered in inch-long thorns, snaked across the ground, ready to trip the unwary traveler. Bridges that crossed streams and creeks had all crumbled, and these were hard crossing because the waters flowed fast and angry now. The Peddler was dead, and other, less pleasant forces were gobbling up the road’s power with alarming speed, and soon there would be nothing left.
Worst of all, the Peddler’s Road hadn’t simply been a road; it had served as a fence to keep the wilderness in check. But now all was breaking its bounds, and the few bright spots of civilization would be in peril as the wild spread. Leetha warned Carter that unwholesome lands like the Dark Moors, even the Bonewood, might spread unchecked without the Peddler’s magic to keep them at bay. She worried that they might even threaten the Deep Forest, home of the elves.