Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  “Okay, fine. What would you suggest?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

  “As in all things, my Lady, I suggest we follow the rules of etiquette.”

  Athel rolled her eyes as he began scratching away on his scroll.

  “Now, Brahmin class families have the most restrictions for the first given name, although you do have some leeway when it comes to the middle name.”

  “Oh whoopee,” she grunted, twirling her finger around.

  “Euptella is a good strong name.”

  “No, I hate it when they take a boys name and just add an “a” onto the end of it.”

  “Possumhaw is quite well thought of.”

  “I’m not real fond of traditional names, I prefer modern names.”

  “Very well, then. Shagbark is generally considered chic and modern.”

  “No, that sounds like a boy’s name. It’s antagonistic and contrary.”

  Alder paused and looked up at her. “Are you just rejecting everything I suggest as a means of protest?”

  “Why yes I am, how insightful you are,” she answered curtly.

  Alder sighed, but continued. “In the Bursage family, it is traditional to name the first daughter after the Master Treesinger the mother trained under.”

  Athel clucked her tongue. “Yeah, that wouldn’t work for me, I actually went through quite a few instructors over the years.”

  “Oh really?” Alder asked, intrigued. “Was it to give you a greater variety of...”

  “They all quit.”

  “I see.”

  “I can be a difficult student, I guess,” Athel admitted, scratching the back of her neck.

  Alder said nothing, only continued to look through his scrolls. Athel guessed he probably had some curt remark right on the tip of his tongue, but he kept it to himself, as usual. In some way, wondering what comment he might have made bothered her more than actually hearing him make one.

  “Of course,” Alder continued, “the most formal method would be to name her after someone in your family line. You, for example, are named after your great-great grandaunt.”

  “Am I really?” Athel asked, leaning over the charts.

  “Of course you are, Athel Longleaf Forsythia, 1172 to 1371, by the Wysterian calendar,” Alder said proudly, pointing out the genealogy. “So, if we followed the same pattern, we would name your daughter after her own great-great grandaunt, Arolla Dogwood Forsythia.”

  Athel was impressed. She found that she actually liked the name Arolla quite a bit. Very much, in fact, but she wasn’t about to admit that in front of Alder. She knew he would get that self-satisfied little grin on his face that just drove her crazy.

  Suddenly Alder’s head popped up, as if he were reacting to some unheard noise.

  “If you will excuse me, my Lady, baby Strenner needs to be fed.”

  “Hey,” I’m not done yet,” Bunni squealed as Alder scooped her up and placed her on his shoulder. “Put me down, you poo-poo head!”

  “Isn’t Strenner asleep?” Athel asked as Alder walked out of the room. Athel strained her ears, but could hear nothing. A few moments later she heard the rattling cry of Hanner’s son rattling the timbers of the ship.

  “How does he do that?” Athel wondered.

  Alder walked into the galley, a corner of which had been sectioned off and rebuilt with a sleep and play area for the toddler. In addition to all of his other duties, he was now running a kind of ship’s day-care.

  Bunni Bubbles sulked as Alder set her down on the counter, but brightened up a little when he placed a cookie and a cup of milk before her.

  Alder hefted up Strenner from his crib, coddling him gently with soft tones while he did a quick check on the condition of the diaper, nose, and ears. Throwing a spitup cloth over his shoulder, he bounced the baby smoothly with one hand while he prepared the formula with the other. Coconut milk, crème, raw eggs, and shimba mushrooms. Shimba were mildly poisonous, but Hanner insisted that it was necessary to put hair on the kid’s chest, despite Alder’s repeated protests. Mashing together the ingredients into a thin paste, Alder heated the pan on the stove, then flipped the pan over, pouring the contents into a waiting bottle without spilling a single drop.

  Satisfied, Alder sat down with Strenner and began feeding him. Strenner gave off the softest little sounds of satisfaction as he drank. Alder could not help but smile at him. Bunni climbed up on Alder’s shoulder with her cookie in her mouth to get a better look.

  “I wanna hold the baby,” Bunni urged, reaching out with her tiny hands.

  “I’m afraid he’s too big for you to hold,” Alder explained softly, “but you can say ‘hello’ to him if you would like.”

  Bunni hopped down and leaned in close to Strenner’s face. “Hi baby,” she said, waving her little arm and tilting her head to one side, causing her oversized pigtails to sway slightly.

  Alder removed the now-empty bottle from the baby’s mouth and said, “Do you want to say ‘hi’ to Bunni?”

  Strenner gave off a cute little grin, then burped, releasing a huge gust of fire out of his mouth. This startled Alder so much that he dropped the bottle, and would have dropped the baby had he not instinctively held onto him as Alder fell out of his chair and onto the floor.

  Alder’s eyebrows and hair were singed, but he was otherwise unharmed. Bunni, on the other hand, had taken the flame straight in the face, and was now running around the room in a panic, screaming. “Help, help, my hair is on fire!”

  Strenner cooed happily, as if proud of himself.

  “Hold still, Miss Bunni, I will get some water,” Alder said as he hurriedly placed the baby back down in his crib and ran into the kitchen.

  Bunni hollered and bellowed as she ran around the kitchen counter, her burning pigtails brushing past and catching alight the rows of dried spices that Alder kept there. “Put me out, put me out, put me out!”

  “Hey, Alder, is lunch ready yet?” Margaret asked as she strolled in. Noticing the spreading flames, her large glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose. “Great jetstream, the kitchen is on fire!”

  “I'll have it under control in a moment,” Alder insisted as he returned with a bucket of water and grabbed Bunni.

  “Hang on, I can do this,” Margaret announced, rolling up her sleeves.

  “There is no need,” Alder reassured as he calmly dunked Bunni into the water to put her out. Bunni made gargled noises in protest.

  “I've been practicing this. I'll draw the wind away to create a vacuum around the fire,” Margaret explained, getting excited. “Without air, the flames will die out.”

  “I’m nearly done now,” Alder said as he used a cup to douse one of the flaming pots of dried spices.

  Margaret closed her eyes and held out her hands. The air in the room moved. It most certainly moved. But it moved too fast and too strong. The microburst flung the pots off the shelves, sending them crashing about the galley. Tablecloths and tableware were thrown about, some thrown with enough force to plant them into the walls. The gust of air knocked Alder to the ground and threw Margaret back into the hallway with a thud.

  Margaret squeaked when she sat up and saw what she had done. Some of the burning pots of spices had landed on the tables, setting the tablecloth and place settings on fire.

  “Oh, sorry! Sorry!” Margaret panicked as she yanked as hard as she could on a burning tablecloth. The flaming fabric flew back over her head and landed on an open casket of cooking oil, setting it ablaze as well.

  “Please, Miss Margaret,” Alder pleaded as he took off his uniform jacket and used it to snuff out a fire. “You are making it worse.”

  “I’m sorry!” Margaret screamed. Her emotional state caused the air in the room to begin spinning about, fanning the flames from little hot spots into a raging inferno. Alder abandoned his efforts and shielded baby Strenner, who clapped his little hands and giggled happily at the flames all around them.

  “Martyr’s blood, what is going on down here?” Mina
yelled as she walked in, astounded to see the galley and kitchen on fire. In one quick motion, Mina raised, then lowered her hands, covering every surface in the room in a thin layer of frost and extinguishing the flames.

  Margaret stood up and ran off, hands covering her face in embarrassment.

  Alder stood up, holding a cooing Strenner, his uniform singed.

  Inside the fallen bucket, the layer of frost cracked and wiggled, until finally Bunni bubbles burst out from within, looking terribly upset. Her red pigtails had been completely burned off, leaving her bald. Bunni threw her head back and began crying in an exaggerated fashion, great fountains of tears landing on the ground alongside her. “My hair is gone! My beautiful hair! Now I'll never be able to play dress-up again! Waaaaaaaa!”

  “Calm down, I’m sure Alder can fix you,” Mina said curtly as she plucked up Bunni by the hem of her tiny skirt.

  “Put me down, you mean old lady,” Bunni protested as she kicked and spun in her grip.

  “Just who are you calling old lady?” Mina asked curtly, dropping Bunni back down into the bucket.

  Bunni splashed and gagged in the water as Hanner and Captain Evere ran into the room.

  “What the squat happened?” Hanner asked, looking around.

  “Strenner is fine,” Alder assured as he walked over. “However, he seems to have some kind of...condition.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Hanner asked as he picked up his son with his massive hand and examined him. “He looks the spittin image of health to me.”

  “Well, to be precise, he breathed fire,” Alder explained, trying to be as polite as possible.

  “Aw, did you have your first flamer?” Hanner cooed as he ticked his son. “His first flamer and I missed it, blasted sentry duty.”

  Alder furrowed his brow. “Am I to understand that this is normal?”

  “Well, of course it’s normal, runt,” Hanner assured, slapping Alder on the back and knocking him to the floor. Iberians use fire-magic.” To prove his point, Hanner snapped his fingers and created a glowing ball of flame in the air above his hand.

  Mina covered the flame in ice, and it fell to the floor and shattered. “That’s enough fire in the galley for one day, don’t you think, big guy?” Mina warned.

  Alder looked confused as he rose to his feet. “But I was under the impression that one had to train for years in order to use magic.”

  Everyone else laughed heartily.

  Alder straightened himself, looking befuddled. “I’m afraid I do not understand what is so humorous.”

  Hanner placed his hand on Alder’s bony shoulder. “Mastering magic takes years of study and hard work, so most people don’t bother, but everyone has it, runt. It’s a sign that the gods love us.”

  Alder coughed. “Even babies?”

  “Oh yeah,” Mina shared. “But they haven’t learned to control it. I remember my niece once sneezed and accidentally froze her mom to the chair she was sitting in.”

  “But it can also be learned? Like the way you learned sonic magic, even though you are not from Artice.”

  “Sometimes it can be learned,” Mina clarified. “And sometimes it can’t. No one really knows why. I guess it’s just up to the gods who they allow and who they don’t.”

  “I see,” Alder said, growing quiet.

  For the next few hours Alder spent in silence as he cleaned and repaired the kitchen and galley. Other crewmembers came in occasionally to help for a few minutes and talked with one another before returning to their duties. They passed in and out of Alder’s little world without really becoming a part of it. Bunni, for her part, sat and pouted in a corner, wearing a bonnet Alder had made to cover her head. Occasionally, she would up the bonnet to rub her hand against the bald head underneath, then went right back to pouting.

  That night, Alder took no joy in his dinner preparations, producing an uninspired stew made from the vegetables that had been scorched by the fire in order to use them before they went bad. A couple of the crewmembers turned it down without even trying it, and, in what was becoming a tiresome custom, Alder was forced to make dinner a second and third time in order to accommodate the special orders they requested instead.

  “I wish to devour the unborn!” Hanner demanded, slamming his fist into a freshly constructed galley table. The noise was so loud that it jarred Alder out of his thoughts as he stood over the stovetop, pots boiling.

  “I beg your pardon, what was it you wish me to prepare?” Alder asked between the columns of steam.

  “I wish to devour the...”

  “Eggs,” Mina shouted, placing her head on the table. “He would like some eggs.”

  “Ah, yes, thank you,” Alder replied. “Would you like them poached, fried, boiled, scrambled, or...?”

  “I wish to devour the unborn!”

  “...yes, scrambled then.”

  Alder’s eyes glazed over a little bit as he used one hand to take out a frying pan, sprinkle some grapeseed oil into it, and then crack four eggs into it, while stirring Ryin’s porridge with the other.

  “Hey Alder, where is my porridge?” Ryin called out, leaning back against a wall.

  Alder looked and realized to his dismay that the porridge was burning. Quickly he scooped off the top layer and doused it in milk in the hope of saving it.

  “I’m very sorry,” Alder apologized as he set down Ryin’s saucer.

  “You burned it?” Ryin complained, sniffing at the dish.

  “I've never known you to burn anything,” Captain Evere commented as he took a bite of stew.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Alder apologized.

  “Hey Aldi, I know you are busy right now but could I get some more apple juice?”

  “Of course, Miss Athel.”

  “I told you to call me Athi.”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Ugh.”

  Alder rushed back to the kitchen. Ryin took a spoonful of the porridge and his face twisted with odium.

  “The whole thing tastes charred,” Ryin complained.

  “I will happily remake the dish for you if you like,” Alder offered.

  “I’m just disappointed,” Ryin said spitefully. “I mean, you only did one thing right as it was and now you're not even doing that.”

  “Hey, Ryin, why don’t you back off, okay?” Athel warned. “He’s not your waiter, you know.”

  “But he is the ship’s cook and I...”

  “So go suck on a ration packet,” Athel said, forcefully this time. “This is a Navy ship, not a restaurant.”

  “Navy ship? We're not a Navy ship anymore. If anything we’re a...”

  Ryin glanced over at Captain Evere and Mina, and saw their stern expressions.

  “Fine...just...fine. You know what? I’m going to go eat in my quarters,” Ryin huffed, leaving the room.

  “Same ol’ Colenat,” Hanner grumbled as he tossed a peanut down his throat.

  Margaret pulled out her notebook and began scribbling. “Never ask a Wysterian to remake your food.”

  After dinner, Alder found himself moving slower than usual. As he placed the pots and pans into the dishwater to soak, he turned around and saw Athel standing there.

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked kindly.

  Alder’s instinct was to simply deny it and return to his work, but instead he dried off his hands on his apron and sat down next to her when she pulled over a pair of stools.

  “May I ask you something, my Lady?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever think about what your next life will be? I mean, the one after this one?”

  Athel exhaled and tapped the tips of her fingers together. “Um, not really. I mean, death is kind of a scary thing. Maybe the scariest thing. I guess I try not to think about it too much.”

  “But you know it’s there, right? Like, you know it is coming. Your next life, I mean.”

  “Sure, I guess so. Why so serious all of a sudden?”

  Alder lifted an
eyebrow at her

  “I mean, more serious than you normally are,” Athel clarified.

  “It’s just that you know something of you will remain. No matter how small, something of who you are now will carry with you into the next cycle, the next season. You know that no matter what, you will always exist.”

  Athel kicked her feet. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Does that comfort you?”

  “What?”

  “Does that make it easier? I mean, is it easier to deal with death when you do choose to think about it?”

  Athel thought long and hard on his question. “I suppose it does. Quite a lot, in fact.”

  Alder nodded slowly. “Be grateful for that. It is a rare gift.”

  Athel reached over and rubbed her hand across his back. “What is bothering you, Aldi?”

  Alder opened his mouth and then closed it again. Athel rubbed his back encouragingly.

  “It’s just that, back when I was a house-husband with Madame Bursage, she always taught us never to complain. She taught us that no matter how bad things appeared, it was really just a vagary of perception. She taught us that there existed many people out there who suffered more than we did, people who would look at our situation with envy.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

  “But in all the places we've visited, I've never found them. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in the whole world as cursed as Wysterian men. We have such a short lifespan. I’m barely a newlywed and I'll be lucky if I live another seven years. We seem to be the only people in the whole world with no magic at all. Even the children of other islands can use at least some magic.”

  Alder struggled. So much of his training involved hiding his feelings, it was often hard for him to express them. Athel took his hand and held it reassuringly.

  “I-I’m sorry for complaining, but, if magic is a gift from the gods, a sign that they love us, then why do the gods despise Wysterian men so much?”

  Alder looked up, eyes swimming. “What did I do to make them hate me so much?”

  Athel took Alder in her arms and held him tightly. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think of anything that would make it right. All she could do was hold him, and show him that she cared.