Isle of Wysteria: Make Like a Tree and Leaf

by Aaron Yeager

  Athel could not believe what she was seeing. How could we have all been disarmed without anyone noticing? Her mind raced, looking for a solution.

  “I am the crown princess of Wysteria,” Athel said in a commanding tone, “and as such I may carry out a peripheral tribunal for any of my subjects, and I hereby pardon Spirea Sotol, so this extradition stops here and now.”

  “I appreciate the gesture, Miss Forsythia,” Ms. Recaldier stated clinically, “but your authority is not recognized outside of your own borders. You are no more fit to pardon her than your captain is. And from the look of those you associate with,” she said, viewing the crew contemptuously, “I would assume you are not fit for the throne of Wysteria either.”

  Athel gasped. She could not remember ever being so wholly insulted.

  “Listen, stubby,” Mina spoke up, unable to contain her rage. “I’ve had enough of you talking down to us. The truth is that you need people like us a lot more than we need people like you. You couldn’t fight pirates if you tried. You can’t understand how they think, so you have no idea how to counter them. So instead of doing any real work you just find a nice safe place where you can sit and stuff paper and imagine that you are above the work we do that is the reason the Navy exists in the first place!”

  Mina’s monologue was cut off by the muffled slap of skin hitting skin. The sound seemed to echo off the adobe walls of the buildings around them as Mina’s head jerked sideways, the delicate white fur on her face flattened by the force of Recaldier’s slap.

  Everyone was silent as Mina caught her footing and stood before her attacker. The fur on Mina’s back and tail stood up straight and her silver claws extended out from the tips of her fingers, but she kept her voice steady as she spoke.

  “Do you even have any idea what’s been going on right under your nose here? People have been kidnapped and are disappearing. We caught a ship in the catacombs loading its hold full of people in crates, set for destinations unknown by parties unknown. We would never have detected their operation at all without the help of Spirea Sotol. She is a conscripted informant to an ongoing investigation, and under Naval codes 10.765 and 17.32-0 her extradition can be suspended until Captain Evere deems the investigation complete.”

  Recaldier sniffed and adjusted her glasses, looking Captain Evere straight in the eyes for confirmation.

  “It’s exactly like she said,” Evere seethed.

  Ms. Recaldier smirked and refused to look at Mina, instead keeping her eyes fixed on Evere. Athel could tell that Recaldier was impressed, but she kept it well hidden.

  “Your first mate’s interpretation of Naval codes is biased, Captain Evere. Ensign Sotol cannot simultaneously be a crew member of the Dreadnaught and a conscripted informant, so sections 10 and 17 do not apply to her. Wysterian extradition laws are simple and strict...”

  Her rant was cut short as she was hoisted aloft by the collar by Evere, who held her out before him like a wayward child.

  “Listen, you little troll,” he began, his patience spent. “There are only a few sacred things in this world, and one of them is a man’s wife.” Recaldier squirmed helplessly under his grip. Mina’s lavender eyes beamed with esteem for her husband as he defended her.

  “No one smacks her but me,” the Captain insisted. Mina was crushed and hung her head in disappointment.

  The officers in black looked to Recaldier, but she held up her hand and waved them back. Despite her feeble position, she smiled at Evere, a wicked smile of triumph. “Oh, you’ve finally done it, Evere,” she smirked. “Assaulting a superior Naval officer. I’ll have your commission shredded within the hour.”

  “Well, if I’m going to be charged with assault anyway, I might as well get my money’s worth.” Evere tossed the short woman across the road, causing her to roll a couple of times, kicking up a cloud of dirt. The officer in black dropped the chest containing their weapons and ran over, helping Recaldier to her feet indignantly.

  “I’ll be back shortly with a detachment to remove you from office,” she hissed, walking away. “Try to run and we’ll blow you out of the sky.”

  The officers in black began dragging Spirea away. She kicked and punched, gouged and lashed, but they held her fast with vastly superior strength, her protests barely causing their arms to move as they held her. A string of cursing left Spirea’s mouth that made even jaded sailors like Ryin and Odger flinch.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Ms. Recaldier mentioned, tossing a scroll with a wax seal at Evere’s feet. “We didn’t discover Ms. Sotol’s true identity until now because her personnel records were falsified. She could only have done that with the help of her captain. That’ll add another five years to your sentence.”

  “It was one of my best forgeries,” Evere admitted, picking it up.

  “Yes,” she concurred. “If we hadn’t received that anonymous tip, we never would have learned her true identity. ”

  Upon hearing this, Spirea’s rage intensified, and focused on Athel. “You!” she screamed, “You told them!”

  “I would never,” Athel protested weakly, dumbfounded by the intensity of Spirea’s rage.

  “Who else knew?” Spirea hissed. “Curse you Forsythians! I spit in your face, Athel!” Athel could only look on in horror as Spirea was locked and collared into an armored wagon, which drove off. Spirea’s curses rose up into the air long after the wagon had disappeared from view.

  Athel couldn’t believe what was happening. The rage in Spirea’s eyes was the most intense and sharp that she had ever seen before. If it had been someone else, she could have just shrugged it off, but Spirea was not just someone on the street. She was someone Athel had grown to think of as a friend and seeing that in her friend’s eyes racked her soul to the very core. A sense of justice began to well up within her, and she felt Alder place his hand reassuringly on her back.

  “I didn’t do it,” Athel insisted.

  “We know,” Mina reassured.

  Athel spun around on one heel to face her captain. Her mind was made up and her will was resolute. “We have to save Spirea, Captain Evere.”

  Evere moved to speak, but Athel had already leapt off, opening the doors to the dry dock and entering. As she climbed up the scaffolding around the ship, her mind was already three steps ahead of her body. They could set a watch on the penitentiary and discover which ship would take Spirea back to her homeland. From there, the Dreadnaught could close in with the prison ship during the night from the lee of the starlight, and then send over a carrier pigeon to deliver one of Dr. Griffin’s potions to put the whole crew to sleep. Then they could pull Spirea out and engineer a small explosion to go off in her cell. Nothing major, just enough to blow out the floor beneath her. By leaving a small scrap of her clothing caught to an exposed timber, the crew would simply assume, when they woke up, that their prisoner used some kind of witchcraft to put them to sleep, then tried to blast the door of her cell open, but mistakenly made the explosion too powerful, taking out the floor beneath her and sending her falling to the violent seas below.

  Athel knew her plan would work. No matter that they didn’t have a carrier pigeon handy, nor that her plan was exactly the same plan that Adama used in Reichmaster, the third book in the Tanabori series. All Athel knew was that she needed to rescue her friend from the firing squad, and the only way her mind could deal with the stress was to retreat partially into her world of adventure books. In her mind Athel imagined herself rescuing her friend heroically and watching Spirea thank her with tearful eyes.

  It was perfect. Athel smiled and reached up to grab the rope ladder that would lead her to the yardarm where she could untie and unfurl the upper sail, but her hand grabbed only air.

  Athel caught herself on the edge of the gunwale and looked up. There was no rope ladder because there was no mast. For a moment, she looked around, thinking she might be on the wrong ship, but it was definitely the Dreadnaught, for it was still painted black from Alder’s labors, and bore the Imperial Navy
emblem on the forecastle.

  All the masts had been completely removed, both top and bottom, and the nose had been rebuilt and reinforced to hold the rigging for the new sails, which stretched out before the nose of the ship in three great horizontal strips.

  “What is this?” Athel complained.

  “Beauty, isn’t she?” Evere said proudly, patting the side of the hull. With the sails in this configuration she’ll catch the wind better than any ship in the sky. Ten knots faster than even a Navy Interceptor.”

  “Except that now there’s no way to steer her.” Athel complained. Even as novice as she was, she could still see the inherent flaws in the design. “This ship can only travel in the direction the wind blows, and you can barely see ahead except for the two thin slits in between the sails.”

  “Yes, but...” Evere began.

  “I can’t believe you could be this irresponsible!” Athel criticized. “You redesigned the ship so that it can only be navigated with a Stormcaller on board.”

  “You see...”

  “But you didn’t wait until we actually got the Stormcaller to join our crew. It never occurred to you that he might turn out to be a twig.”

  “If you would just...”

  “So now Spirea faces the gallows because we’re stuck with a ship that can’t turn, because you couldn’t wait three days before you started construction on your little project! I am so disappointed in you!”

  Athel paused to catch her breath. She was so frustrated she could barely think straight. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was highly inappropriate to talk to a commanding officer this way, she also knew that at that moment she didn’t care.

  “Are you done?” Evere asked finally.

  “Yes,” Athel said, pulling a strand of red hair away from her face.

  “Then let me introduce our new navigator.”

  Evere stepped aside theatrically, revealing a blonde woman with thick-rimmed glasses, who looked very uncomfortable in her Navy uniform, tugging at the edges of the short skirt as if hoping that she could get them to cover more of her legs.

  Athel looked at the woman for a moment in confusion. With her hair done up in a military bun and her face neatly washed she looked so different. Suddenly the connection clicked and Athel nearly fell over from shock.

  “Margaret, the shopkeeper?” Athel asked aloud.

  “Hello,” Margaret said timidly. “We’ve never been formally introduced. My name is Margaret Gerstun, from Stretis. Invini is my cousin. He came out here to stay at my place when his father disowned him.”

  “You’re a Stormcaller?” Athel asked in bewilderment.

  “I’m not as good as my cousin, but I promise to work hard and get better.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Escape from Thesda

  “Leave the food pouches, just load the water and secure the mooring lines,” Evere called out as he pulled the release lever to the dry dock main doors. The crew tossed the boxes they were loading aside and instead began rolling water barrels up the loading ramp and into the cargo hold of the ship. The dry dock itself was a large wooden dome fitted on top of a crevice in the rock cliff, the Dreadnaught sitting nicely between two rocky walls.

  Gears groaned and turned and the far end of the dome split, slowly opening to reveal the rising morning sun peeking up between the two sides of the crevice.

  Alder came in through the small personnel entrance to one side and slammed the door behind him. “I’m afraid the Naval Police have arrived ahead of schedule,” he announced, bracing himself against the door.

  “Stand aside,” Ryin called out as he ran up to Alder, shoving him away from the door. “What, do you think you’re going to hold them back with your puny frame?” Ryin picked up an iron bar and slid it through the door handles. Standing back, he snapped his fingers and the bar curled up with a metallic groan, tying itself in a knot.

  “That’s a very useful talent,” Alder commented as the two ran back toward the ship, “but how would a knot make it stronger?”

  “It’s more fun that way.”

  Mina and Athel closed the ship’s cargo doors from the inside as Alder and Ryin climbed up the rope ladders hanging from the side. Evere rushed up the internal ladder onto the quarter deck, where the rudder controls had been replaced by a carpeted space where Margaret stood apprehensively.

  “It’s all up to you little lady,” Evere encouraged as the last of the mooring lines were detached. Margaret adjusted her glasses and rubbed her hands together to warm them from the morning chill. Spreading her hands aside, she closed her eyes and the air began to hum sweetly. A gentle breeze wafted by, barely stirring a few strands of Margaret’s blonde hair.

  Evere looked around suspiciously, as if waiting for something more to happen. The breeze was barely enough to billow the sails before the ship. “I certainly hope you’ve got more in you than that,” he urged.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. There was a thump on the personnel entrance, and the muffled shouts of soldiers could be heard. Margaret closed her eyes again and another gentle breeze wafted through, billowing the sails and inching the ship forward.

  There was a loud crash at the personnel door as it buckled inward, threatening to break.

  “Let me clarify what I mean, little lady. You MUST have more than that in you!”

  “I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I don’t do well under pressure.”

  Athel climbed up on deck and looked around. “What’s going on? I could get out and walk faster than this.”

  There was another thud and the doors to the dry dock burst open. Dozens of black-suited soldiers streamed into the room, aiming their crossbows and shouting orders for the crew to surrender.

  “Now would be the time, Ensign!” Evere ordered.

  “Stop yelling at me!” Margaret screamed, on the verge of tears.

  Several of the soldiers took out grapnels and tossed them up, snagging the ship’s gunwale and halting its agonizingly slow departure. Several warning shots were fired across the deck, forcing Evere and Athel to duck for cover.

  “Now, woman!” Evere screamed.

  Margaret let out a shriek and the air responded. A powerful microburst tore through the dry dock, knocking soldiers to the ground and sending Evere and Athel rolling across the deck. The sails of the Dreadnaught strained under the pressure and the ship lurched forward, breaking the grapnel lines and speeding out of the dry dock. There was a horrible tearing sound, and the ship stopped again, floating to a halt just at the edge of the crevice. Athel took to her feet and looked ahead in dismay. All three sails had been completely torn apart by the force of the gale, hanging and flapping limply in the dying breeze.

  Evere saw the damage and stomped over to Margaret. “I thought you said you were a certified Stormcaller.”

  “I am,” Margaret insisted, tears streaming down her face. “I’m certified as a novice.”

  “Well, that’s just GREAT!” Evere screamed, kicking a loose cannonball across the deck.

  A volley of arrows whizzed past, impaling themselves on crates and lantern posts. One caught the captain’s hat dead on and knocked it off of his head.

  Mina leapt up onto the poop deck at the rear of the ship. Clapping her hands together, she released a wave of sonic energy that blasted back into the dry dock, knocking the soldiers to the ground. She then let out a long, dreary tone that intensified until it passed beyond Athel’s hearing. The air trembled and the soldiers in the dry dock clutched the sides of their heads, assaulted by powerful waves of energy.

  Athel ran back across the ship to the quarter deck where Margaret knelt, devastated, and stooped down to look her in the eyes. “Margaret, I know you can do this. Just push out the noises around you. Hear only what you want to hear. See only what you want to see.”

  Margaret nodded obediently, wiping a tear from her face. “But how can I move the ship with the sails torn?”

  “Leave that to me,” Athel encouraged. Taking out her staff, Ath
el ran across the deck, leaping onto the forepeak, which was just a couple of feet from the rock walls of the crevice.

  Athel jammed her staff into the rock wall and closed her eyes. The thin blades of wild grass growing there wrapped themselves around it, and she began her work. Linking root system to root system, bridging gaps between plants, and growing new roots across distances without any greenery, she built a living link further and further down into the island, extending for miles deeper and deeper as she searched.

  “What are you doing, lass?” Evere asked.

  Athel was having difficulty laboring over such vast distances; her whole body was trembling with exertion. “I'm calling someone to help us, just hang on,” she managed to say between labored breaths.

  Mina's arms finally dropped in exhaustion and the men in black uniforms cleared their heads and came to their feet. They aimed their crossbows at her but Ryin leapt before her and sent out a spell of his own, the runic tattoos on his arms glowing brightly. The metal components of the crossbows glowed red hot, forcing the Naval Police to throw them to the ground.

  There was a terrible screech of bending metal and cracking wood as the wall of the dry dock was forcibly pulled away from the outside. Through the giant hole stepped a massive construction golem, looking like a centaur with Ms. Recaldier wearing the control gloves riding on its back.

  “Lass, I think we are in trouble,” Evere commented as he looked up at it. It was easily as big as their ship.

  “Can't talk, working.” Athel said through clenched teeth, beads of sweat dripping down her face.

  The construction golem braced its four legs within the dock then reached out with its powerful hands.

  “Who is the small one now, little Allister?” Ms. Recaldier called out, loose strands of hair obscuring her face. She closed her fingers and the golem copied, grasping the Dreadnaught and pulling it back in toward the ever-growing mass of Naval Police officers.

  With Alder's help, Captain Evere aimed their cannon and fired, but only managed to break off a small chunk of the creation's torso.