Isle of Wysteria: Make Like a Tree and Leaf

by Aaron Yeager

  “I think I smell the stench of Diades from here,” Spirea snarled.

  “Be careful what you say,” Jasin warned, “chances are you’ll end up serving alongside a Diade sooner or later.

  “Yeah, the Diade are people too...sort of,” Athel shuddered, realizing there were a couple books she wished she hadn't read.

  “Great, is working with them a job perk?” Spirea complained.

  “No, it’s great,” Athel said, letting her excitement renew, “the old wars happened because people didn’t trust anyone from the other kingdoms. It’s hard to trust someone you’ve never met, after all, so the Federal Navy intentionally mixes recruits from all the kingdoms on their ships. That way, when they return to their homelands, they take that experience with them and dispel the weird rumors that tend to crop up in the absence of real contact. It’s what’s kept the peace for hundreds of years.”

  “What pamphlet did you get that from?” Spirea quipped.

  “This one,” Athel said, holding up a pamphlet.

  Spirea groaned and placed her hands on her stomach. As her head hung forward, long strands of black hair covered her face. “Is there anything you don't get excited about?” she moaned.

  “Talking to you ranks up there,” Athel whispered to herself.

  Jasin took out a message crystal from his belt and broke the wax seal that bound it. Luminescent symbols and letters appeared in the air above its lavender surface. “Looks like you two have been assigned to the Dreadnaught,” he said, pointing ahead of them.

  Athel scurried over to the prow of the ship to get a better look. “It’s an ironclad,” she breathed quietly. Moored at the largest dock, the metal-plated surfaces of the massive capital ship shimmered in the morning light. Four decks of cannon ports lined each side of the vessel. Six pairs of massive sails pointed up to the heavens and down to the sea far below, as if the gods themselves had planted their staves at Dwarren to declare the Navy’s supremacy of these skies. Athel felt a sense of pride and belonging that she had never felt before as she pointed the ship out to Spirea.

  “Um, ladies,” Jasin interrupted, “that ironclad is the Prince Royal. Your ship is the one next to it.” As they came about, their view of the warship gave way to a smaller port where a little wooden patrol boat made berth. Barely bigger than the recruitment ship they were on, it looked like a frail toy next to the Prince Royal.

  “You’ll like it. My nephew is second mate on the Dreadnaught,” Jasin boasted.

  “That little thing is called the Dreadnaught?” Athel asked, disappointed.

  “When a ship is retired, existing captains may petition to adopt its name. When the previous Dreadnaught was retired, this ship’s captain was lucky enough to draw the lot.”

  “That’s an awfully big name for such a puny ship,” Athel said disapprovingly as she placed her chin down on the railing. The wood felt cold, and had no voice in it. Athel was having a hard time getting used to that.

  “Don’t look so depressed,” Jasin said, “you think you’re the first recruit that was disappointed because you weren’t assigned to a warship?” Jasin sighed and rubbed his face. “Everyone wants to shoot a cannon. The truth is more than eighty percent of the Navy’s income comes from the taxation of the trade routes you’ll be patrolling, so it’s a really important job. Besides, you’re a princess of Wysteria, there’s no way the brass would risk an incident by getting a member of a royal family killed in the line of duty.”

  “Great, I finally get off my island and it’s still right here beside me,” Athel complained.

  “So, why am I being assigned there with her?” Spirea asked, “I’m no princess.”

  “Probably to save on shipping costs,” Jasin surmised.

  “Thanks for the help, Forsythia,” Spirea snapped.

  “Shut up, Sotol,” Athel returned.

  Spirea ran her fingers along the wooden rails of the ship. “It’s all dead. All of it. It’s like we’re standing on a corpse. I hate this place.”

  “Well, the prisons back home are made of living wood,” Athel suggested, “you could be there with the rest of your guild right now.”

  “And whose fault is that? Don’t go fishing for thanks from me. You should be thanking me for letting you live to board this ship in the first place.”

  “Hey, I’m not the moron who thought the poop deck was where the bathroom was,” Athel retorted.

  “That was pretty funny,” Jasin chuckled as he walked over to the mast.

  Spirea's face twisted with anger, and she shoved Athel back. Spirea dropped into a fighting stance, ready to strike. Athel began to drop as well, but then thought better of it, letting her arms fall to her side. Jasin watched them sidelong as he trimmed the sails, the ship surging forward as it caught the wind.

  “Look,” Athel sighed, “This is stupid.”

  “Stupid because you will lose.”

  “No! I mean it is stupid for us to hate each other just because our families do. We can just keep fighting with each other until the end of time and it won’t change anything.”

  “What makes you think you will last that long?”

  Athel snickered and scratched her neck. “I'll be honest with you. I feel like my mother has control over everything in my life, and so any chance I have to assert myself is a welcomed one for me, even if it means choosing who my enemies won’t be.”

  Spirea seemed confused, as if she suspected that Athel's candor was some kind of a trick. Athel turned aside and leaned over the railing. Spirea slowly released her tension, then stood there furtively, as if unsure what to do. For several minutes neither one of them said anything; Spirea finally turned and leaned over the railing as well, a sick look on her face.

  “So,” Athel continued, “what do you say?”

  Spirea grabbed her stomach in pain and threw her head down, vomiting over the side of the railing, ending with a sickly moan as her body reacted to the rocking motion of the ship.

  “I see you also had the corn chowder for breakfast.” Athel sighed and turned around on one heel. “I’m going to go get a drink of water,” she announced.

  “I’d be happy to get it for you,” a voice said from behind her. Athel squeaked in surprise and jumped backward. Alder was standing right next to where she had been, bowing slightly.

  “How long have you been there?” Athel asked catching her breath.

  “The whole time,” he answered quietly.

  “You’re too quiet,” Athel complained, “we need to tie a bell around you or something so you’ll stop sneaking up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to be near you in case you needed anything.”

  “Yeah, well, you need to stop that because it’s kind of creepy.”

  Chapter Four

  The Crew of the Dreadnaught

  Athel, Spirea, and Alder walked across the gangplank onto the creaking patrol boat which had lost about half of its original paint somewhere along the way. A saluting officer waited to greet them.

  “I just can’t tell you how thrilled I am to finally have more women on board,” she beamed. “I’m Mina Duvare, ship’s navigator and first mate on the Dreadnaught.” Mina’s body was covered with silky white fur, from which her beautiful lavender eyes gazed out. Tall and lithe, her skirted Navy uniform strained to contain the curves of her voluptuous figure as her wide, silky tail swished behind her and her tall, foxlike ears twitched happily on top of her head.

  “Athel Forsythia,” Athel said saluting back, “and this is Spirea Sotol.” Mina saluted to Spirea, who only nodded wearily.

  “And this reed-thin young man,” Athel continued, “is Alder Bursage.”

  “Her husband,” Alder added, returning Mina’s salute. Athel slugged Alder on the shoulder and let out an embarrassed laugh.

  “Don’t tell them that, dummy, you’re not my husband.”

  “Fiancé then,” he said rubbing his arm.

  Mina led the three along the deck while Jasin b
egan carrying over their luggage. Propped up against the foremast was the ship’s only cannon, which was being worked on by a pair of crewmen shaking their heads.

  “The big guy is our gunner, Hanner,” Mina explained. “Nice enough guy, but don’t bother him too much right now, he’s expecting.”

  “Expecting what?” Alder asked.

  “A baby, of course,” Mina said snickering. “And trust me; you don’t want to be around him during one of his mood swings.”

  “He’s pregnant?” Spirea asked.

  “Oh, I've read about this,” Athel explained, excited to share. “In the kingdom of Iber, the males have the babies.”

  Spirea stood staring dumfounded for a moment before a thought occurred to her. “But if they have the babies, wouldn’t that make them the females? Why not just call them the females so it makes more sense?”

  Hanner bent over and picked up the entire cannon with one hand and walked past them. Up close, they realized how enormous he was, Athel’s head barely as high as his distended belly.

  “You try telling him that he’s the female,” Mina chuckled.

  “What’s that?” Hanner asked as he turned toward them. His voice boomed like a fog horn, and Athel stepped backward, bumping into the other crewman and knocking him over the railing.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” The man screamed, and Athel turned around just in time to see his falling body disappear into the clouds below as he flailed wildly with his arms and legs.

  “By the Great Tree!” Athel screamed as she panicked, “Man overboard! Somebody grab a life preserver!” She sprinted across the deck, looking desperately for a length of rope she could throw to the falling man.

  “Ryin, cut that out and get back up here,” Mina chastened, “you’re scaring the recruits.”

  Ryin hefted himself over the railing, laughing wildly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mina said, patting Athel on the shoulder. “He does that to everybody. It’s become like his bizarre initiation for new hands.”

  “But...I saw him fall,” Athel said, confused, gripping a rope tightly.

  Ryin took his belt off and tossed it over the side. “It’s called a lifeline. Our uniforms have float-stones built into the belt,” he said, sighing with satisfaction. A few moments later the humming belt floated back over the railing and onto the deck.

  “Float-stones,” Spirea whistled, “It’s no wonder you don’t tell people about that. Those uniforms must cost a fortune.”

  “They do,” Ryin boasted. “That’s why you can get so much brandy for them.”

  “What?” Spirea asked.

  “Nothing,” he said waving his hand.

  Athel was still standing in shock. The realization that she had been tricked slowly settled into her mind. “That wasn’t very funny,” she said finally. “I really thought I had pushed you over the side.”

  “Second mate Ryin Colenat,” he said saluting. “If you want I can push you over the side too, so we’ll be even.” When Ryin smiled, Athel could see the likeness between him and his uncle Jasin. They both had that same twisted grin, like they had just stolen some woman’s undergarments and couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it.

  “This is Spirea,” Alder said saluting, “and I’m Alder, Athel’s reed-thin fiancé.”

  “Stop telling everyone that,” Athel said exasperated. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Well, then, what would you like me to tell them?”

  “Don’t tell them anything. Just...just stand there and don’t say anything.”

  Ryin glanced over at Mina, his eyes asking for an explanation, but she could only shrug back.

  Mina opened the hatch and led them below deck. The ship creaked as it rocked slightly from side to side; sending small trails of dust down through the damp air. Spirea wrapped her arms around herself as she looked at the wooden beams hesitantly.

  A door was opened with a creak of disrepair and a wide range of colors spilled out into the hallway. Rows of jars filled with bioluminescent liquids lined the walls, occasionally suspending some random animal limb or organ in them. From a table covered in shredded clothing and surgical tools, a man spun around in his chair. The array of lights from the jars reflected off his jagged features and doctor’s coat, giving him a wild look as he saluted them. His head was bald, except for a band of graying hair at the back of his head that had been grown long and tied into a pony tail.

  “This is Doctor Len Griffin,” Mina introduced. “He’s the head of our medical team.”

  “What team?” Ryin asked as he walked by with a bag of gunpowder. “Last time I checked it was just him.”

  “Quiet, I’m trying to impress the new recruits,” Mina snapped. “This is Athel Forsythia...”

  Dr. Griffin squealed in delight and sprinted across the room. “You’re a Treemaster, aren’t you?” he asked as he grabbed Athel by the shoulders. “I studied Wysterian biology back at the academy, but I’ve never seen one before in person.” He spun her around and adjusted his multi-lensed glasses, inspecting her body closely from top to bottom, pinching her waist and bottom clinically. “I’ll have to give you a thorough examination to familiarize myself with your anatomy.”

  Athel yelped in revulsion and jumped back from his grip. “That’s okay, I...uh...can heal my own wounds, so I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll want one of these,” Mina said, placing something in Athel’s hand. It was a small badge that read, ‘If injured, do not send to Dr. Griffin.’

  “And this is Spirea Sotol,” Mina continued.

  “Are you a Wysterian too?” Dr. Griffin asked, reaching out to grab her.

  “Don’t touch me,” Spirea ordered, placing the blade of her dagger to his throat.

  He pulled his arms back and saluted her instead. “And what is your name?” he asked, turning his attention to Alder who saluted smartly, but did not answer.

  “Tell me your name,” Dr. Griffin repeated much louder as he leaned forward. Becoming concerned, he pulled a metallic device out of his pocket and banged it against the wall causing it to hum quietly. “Perhaps there’s something wrong with his hearing,” he mumbled as he pressed the device against the side of Alder’s head. Athel dropped her face into her hands in embarrassment.

  “I can’t find anything wrong with his hearing,” Dr. Griffin muttered, studying the translucent images that appeared in the air above the device. He grabbed Alder’s head and twisted it to one side, making a strange cracking sound.

  “Um, Dr. Griffin, his name is Alder Bursage,” Mina interjected. “And as near as I can figure, he’s not able to speak right now.”

  Dr. Griffin released the boy and scratched the stubble on his chin. “I think I have an elixir for that.” He then produced a small vial of green liquid and poured it over Alder’s head and shoulders.

  “There, that should do it,” Dr. Griffin said confidently as he folded his arms. “It’ll stain your clothes and possibly your hair, but you should be cured. Now, tell me your name.” Alder only stood there indignantly dripping and said nothing. After a few moments, Dr. Griffin’s expression grew more and more angry. Finally, he grabbed Alder and started shaking him violently. “What is wrong with you? Why won’t you tell me your name?”

  “Are you damaged?” Athel hollered. “Just answer his question.”

  Alder lowered his head but did not answer.

  “Is that it? Okay, fine, you can speak,” Athel reversed.

  “I was only doing what I was told,” Alder defended.

  “No, you were trying to cause me trouble, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  Alder bowed deeply. “Please forgive me for doing what you told me to do.”

  Athel huffed and folded her arms in frustration.

  Dr. Griffin began sniffing the air suspiciously and then grew concerned. “Is something on fire?” He slammed the door, leaving the three alone in the passageway.

  “Are all Navy Doctors as crazy as this guy?” Spirea asked, re-sheathing her dagger.


  “Every last one of them,” Mina admitted, shaking her head. “You’d have to be crazy to accept minimum wage when you could be making a fortune in a proper hospital.”

  “Is that all we make?” Spirea asked warily.

  “You’re a deckhand,” Mina explained, placing a furry hand on her shoulder, “you make half of that.”

  “If you can make half of it it's hardly a 'minimum,'” Spirea complained.

  There was a deafeningly loud bang and the whole ship rocked to one side, forcing everyone to grab onto something to keep their feet.

  “The cannon’s working again,” Ryin called down from the hatch at the top of the ladder.

  While Athel and Spirea exchanged worried glances, a small chubby man waddled down the passageway wearing a pair of bandoliers filled with a wide array of chisels, files, and rock hammers.

  “This is our Stonemaster, Odger Jhonstin,” Mina said apologetically.

  Odger walked up to Athel, looking at her suspiciously.

  “Hello, I’m...”

  “Wait,” he interrupted as he raised a dirty finger and poked her cheek, leaving a streak of grease.

  “Did...did you just poke me in the face?” Athel asked, astonished.

  “Sorry, I sometimes see things that aren’t really there, so I have to be careful when I meet new people,” he said slowly.

  “Yeah, last year he got engaged to this girl before he found out she was pretend,” Mina added.

  “Stop making fun,” he whined. “It’s a legitimate medical condition that I have no control over; it’s not the same thing as having an ‘imaginary friend.’”

  Odger walked on, muttering something to himself. Down at the end of the passageway, a gray-haired, old man put down a bucket and started quietly cleaning. Athel immediately noticed something strange about his uniform, and after a moment she realized that all the angles of the seams were off.

  “What’s his story?” Athel asked as Alder pressed a handkerchief against her cheek to clean it off. “Stop that,” Athel said, slapping his hand away.