The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2

by Ken Brosky

  It wasn’t Milwaukee’s port. Some of the warehouses had lots of glass windows, and all the piers were made of concrete and shaped like a “T.” Farther down the shoreline were a few docks with older buildings, and two tall cranes towering up into the night sky, little red lights blinking at the very tips.

  “Here’s where you see old Ishmael earn his worth.”

  I turned, surprised to see my sailor friend, not quite so surprised to see he was sticking with the wet, stringy hair look. The shadows seemed to have retreated for the time being, revealing an aged, pale face with long lines around his mouth. My mom called those “laugh lines.” I wondered just how long ago it had been since Ishmael had really laughed, much less had a genuine smile to share.

  “Them fish aren’t so good,” said the merchant as he stepped onto the deck of the ship.

  “Stop there,” Ishmael ordered, holding up one wrinkled hand. “Keep one foot on the plank if you know what’s good for you.”

  The man frowned but kept his left foot on the plank.

  The other shadowy sailors resumed unloading the sacks of fish, keeping their heads bent low as they passed the merchant.

  “As for the fish … they’re good enough,” Ishmael said. “The captain isn’t picky about price.”

  “I know that,” the merchant snapped. He tossed his cigarette overboard and rubbed his protruding belly. He looked like the father of any high school kid, with heavy whiskers and slightly unkempt hair that moved out of place in the breeze. “If he was picky about price, I wouldn’t risk my neck doing business with him. What do ya want for them?”

  “Good timber, nails, some oil for the winch, and as much nylon as you can spare so we can repair our fishing nets.”

  The merchant said nothing for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I knew I was going to like doing business with ya. It’s a deal.” He narrowed an eye. “You’re not messing with me, are ya?”

  Ishmael shook his head slowly. “The captain has no interest in trivialities.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” the merchant said, glancing at the captain’s cabin. He looked a bit uneasy—one of his feet kept tapping on the deck. “You know, just to make sure we’re straight. Not that I don’t trust you or nothing, but it’s not every day a stranger seeks me out in the middle of the night offering to sell me an illegal shipment of fish.”

  The shadows returned to Ishmael’s face. “The captain sees no one.”

  “See, that’s the thing that’s kinda creeping me out a bit.”

  Ishmael stared at the man, saying nothing. His dark eyes seemed as if they were fathoms deep, the full meaning of his gaze unreadable. But the set of his jaw indicated that there would be no more discussion on the matter.

  “Fine, fine,” the merchant said, taking a step back. “I have everything you need in my warehouse. Get those fish to my truck, and tell your boys to do it quick-like. I want out of here as soon as I can.”

  “As you wish.” Ishmael watched the man walk down the plank, hopping back onto the concrete dock. He sighed. “He’ll get a good deal on those fish. Somehow. He’ll find someone willing to buy them all up, and for a pretty penny.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  Ishmael shook his head, watching another shadowy sailor walk by with a sack full of fish. This sailor’s features were nearly nonexistent, as if the shadows had soaked into his skin and begun to wash away his mouth and nose and wrinkles, like a river smoothing out and polishing a stone.

  “I was once a callous fisherman,” Ishmael said. He pulled his wet hair back behind his small ears. “I took of the oceans whatever I could. Every fresh haul brought into port got me more money. I knew little of the consequences of what I was doing. I wanted only more and more and more.

  “But soon our catches shrank. So we spent more and more time at sea, filling our holds with as much as we could. What once took a day took three days, and then a week. Soon, no matter how much we fished, we couldn’t catch enough to fill our holds. Still, we continued, taking whatever we could pull from the sea.

  “Then one day I crossed paths with a shadowy man who promised me even more. More riches than I could ever hope to spend. And all we had to do was find a special fish. A species that only the captain of the Leviathan had seen before.”

  “The magic fish,” I finished.

  Ishmael nodded. “But I knew nothing about that back then. Not until I came aboard this ship and met the captain did I learn the horrible truth of it. And by then, it was too late. The captain’s curse had already infected me. Now, shadows cling to me like a jealous lover … and I am in thrall to the captain’s undying obsession.”

  “Stations, boys!” called the helmsman from atop the captain’s cabin. The last of the sailors made their way back onto the deck with armfuls of wood and heavy cardboard boxes, and the last one aboard—a big, burly man with a brown bandana over his head and white eyes that contrasted with his thickly shadowed face—pulled back the plank.

  The men began working the sails, running from place to place, untying ropes that made the area around the masts of the ship look like an unfinished spider web. In just moments, the unfurled sails grabbed the wind and the ship began to slowly move, cutting through the dark water. Something caught my eye: a blue sign hanging over the large windows of a building just beyond the northernmost dock, illuminated by a single yellow light bulb. I leaned on the wooden bulwark as we moved closer.

  Ludington Harbor.

  “We’re getting closer,” Ishmael said in a low voice. His hands wrapped around the bulwark’s wooden railing, squeezing so tight that the wood creaked and popped. “The captain can hear the fish’s music. He’s connected to that fish somehow.”

  “But what music?” I whispered. The ship was pulling away from the shoreline now. The lights from the nearby city reached into the dark sky, blotting out the stars. Ishmael followed my gaze and grunted.

  “It’s easy to take the stars for granted when you’re traveling the oceans. Out there, surrounded by water, the stars burn so bright I swear you have to shield your eyes. Sometimes, it’s beautiful enough to forget about our curse. For a moment or two.”

  He began walking toward the captain’s cabin. He was staring at something. I followed, curious. Clouds passed over the moon, blanketing the ship in darkness. I stepped closer to the cabin, careful of my steps on the creaking, rotted deck. Whatever Ishmael was looking at … it was hanging over the captain’s door. Both windows on either side of the door were pitch-black, no lights on inside the cabin. What kind of evil Corrupted lurked inside?

  Ishmael stopped, staring at the small circular object above the door. He sighed. “The captain has made some peculiar friends around the world. Some of them I swear aren’t human at all. Some are human, and those are the ones I fear the most. The ones who would willingly do business with a creature such as the captain. Are they willing participants, or are they under the very same spell that curses me to this ship?”

  I looked down at the deck. There was a soft, barely visible gold trail running along the wooden boards into the captain’s cabin. He’d been out recently. Very recently. Had he been watching the men unload the fish? Had he been watching me?

  “Once,” Ishmael said, “not long ago, we were traveling north, up the eastern coast of the continent. We stopped at a small port in New York in the dead of night. Strange men wearing long black robes boarded. They kept their hoods up to hide their features, and their presence made even the oldest sailors uneasy.”

  “The captain emerged from his cabin and bid the mysterious figures a good evening. One of the hooded men stepped forward. I had a terrible feeling about him. Somehow, he was not like the others. He spoke to the captain without fear. He told the captain that The Order had only servants. No masters but one: the dragon.”

  “The dragon?” I asked.

  Ishmael nodded. “I stepped closer to the captain. The cursed shadows clung tightly to my body, forcing out quick breaths. A gentle wind picked up. It smel
led like the ocean and stung my nostrils. A chill went down my spine as the hood of the man slipped back a bit. He was not human.”

  We walked closer to the door.

  I gasped. Ishmael simply nodded, unable or unwilling to take his eyes off the object. Above us, the clouds parted and the moonlight hit the coin. The dragon’s eyes seemed to glisten, staring down at me.

  “A gold coin,” Ishmael said, “for the first man to spot the fish.”

  I woke up with a start, as if I’d been falling in my dream right before I woke up. I leaned over, squinting as my sore eyes adjusted to the morning sun shining in through the windows. I opened my desk drawer, fumbling around until my fingers touched the cold piece of metal. I pulled out the gold coin, the one we’d found at the mansion.

  Yup, it was definitely the same coin as on the ship. The coin that Briar had said belonged to the Order of the Golden Dragon. What did it mean? How had the captain gotten one? How had the headmistress gotten one?

  I put the coin away. “Briar!” I whispered.

  No answer. I fought back tears. All I could think about was the empty water in my dreams. The intense loneliness.

  “You’re the hero,” I whispered, wiping my eyes. “Tough it out. Come on, Alice.”

  Downstairs, Mom was making pancakes. Dad was reading the paper, sipping coffee. I played it like I was really tired—that way, if they were still mad at me about getting suspended, I could feign exhaustion and go back to bed. I didn’t want to hear any more lectures. All I wanted were a few pancakes and a good training session.

  “Well, it’s a pretty nice thing to do,” Mom said.

  I sat down at the table. “What is?”

  Dad grunted. “The city’s new hotshot CEO is setting up a foster home.”

  I leaned over so I could look at the front page. Sure enough—there was Sam Grayle’s smooth mug on the front page, smiling broadly as he cut the tape on a brand-new foster home. He was looking right at the camera, his eyes no doubt searching for me. See? Those eyes said. I’m holding up my side of the bargain. Again.

  “It’s probably a P.R. stunt,” Dad said.

  Mom handed me a glass of orange juice. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s already the toast of the town, what with his bank halting all of the home foreclosures in the area. He doesn’t need more good publicity.”

  “Oh yes he does,” Dad murmured, reading my thoughts. “Bankers always need more good publicity. And I’d love to know what happened to the lady who ran the orphanage in that mansion. I bet Grayle killed her.”

  I nearly spit out my juice.

  “Swallow small gulps,” Mom suggested, handing me a plate of pancakes. “When you’re done with breakfast, you can get your weekly chores done. You’ve been slacking all month on them.”

  “OK,” I said, looking down. At least the pancakes were delicious.

  “Do you have to put in any hours at the library this weekend?”

  “N …” I stopped, then shoved a forkful of pancakes in my mouth. Chase was meeting me at the library at three o’clock. If he kept his word, I’d be able to confront him. “I, uh, was going to go in and work on the shelves,” I said. “I’m a little behind on cleaning there, too.”

  “Just let us know when you’ll be back,” Dad said. He sipped his coffee. “That’s the only way you’re leaving the house this weekend.”

  “OK, OK. I get it.”

  Back in my room, I opened my laptop and sent an email to Briar, hoping that wherever he was, he’d at least read it. I made it quick and to the point:

  NEED YOUR HELP. MAGIC FISH. SEA CAPTAIN. CURSE. DRAGON.

  SINCERELY,

  THE HERO.

  That finished, I went back to my map and put a star right next to Ludington Harbor, which was on the northwestern border of Michigan.

  “All right, brain,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s do one more math problem, and then I promise I’ll let you take a break and watch and hour’s worth of music videos on Youtube.”

  I opened up the website that let me measure the traveling distance from port to port in the Great Lakes. There was no button that would let me measure the distance from Ludington, so I had to figure out another way. I looked up “Lake Michigan” on Wikipedia and searched for its measurements. The maximum width of the lake was 190 kilometers, which gave me a rough estimate of the distance between Michigan and Wisconsin at its widest point … but of course the Leviathan wouldn’t be sailing directly across because Ludington was northeast of Milwaukee … so she would be sailing diagonally, which would add a little distance …

  “Crap!” I said, rubbing my temples. I’d drawn a diagonal line from Ludington down to Milwaukee, then a horizontal line from Milwaukee to the western shore of Michigan, then a vertical line up to Ludington. I’d drawn a triangle. And no matter how hard I racked my brain, I couldn’t figure out how I might be able to measure that long diagonal line.

  OK, I thought. A guess was going to have to be good enough. If the Leviathan was traveling at 8 kilometers per hour, and it had to cover about 190 kilometers …

  The captain would arrive sometime tonight.

  “Crud,” I whispered. My hand reached for the magic pen.

  I made it to the library at 2:55 pm, waiting nervously outside by the benches where Chase had first shown me how to counter-riposte. I was convinced he wouldn’t show. A cool autumn wind had picked up, rustling the dry leaves on the trees. More leaves blew across the grass, rolling past my feet. A wind coming in from the east. Perfect for a ship sailing southwest.

  Then, like magic, he appeared. OK, it wasn’t magic—he pulled up in his car and got out just like a normal human being, but I was surprised to see him nonetheless.

  “Chase,” I said, standing up and licking my lips. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

  “I always keep my word,” he said. His hand reached up for his hair, checking it against the wind. “Always.”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  He shook his head, crossing the grass and grabbing two long sticks that were lying beside one of the old empty benches. He tossed one to me. “Don’t talk. Fight.”

  I hefted the stick in my hand. It was light. Bent awkwardly. Definitely not a good facsimile of a foil. But before I could say another word, he came at me, swinging his stick wildly. I whacked the stick away, falling back and nearly tripping.

  “Woah! Time out, time out!”

  “No,” Chase said, launching another attack. I riposted as best I could, but it was only a few attacks before his stick slipped through my defense and connected painfully with my left arm.

  “Ouch! Chase!” I jumped back, looking at my arm. The sleeve of my blue t-shirt was ripped. The skin was cut. “You ripped my shirt!”

  “You don’t like that shirt anyway,” Chase said. “You like your violet shirts. Now come at me. Are you mad?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then come at me!”

  I launched an attack, whipping my stick wildly left, then right, then downward. I stabbed. Then I stabbed again, pushing him back.

  “Good,” he said. “Faster now! Faster, Alice!”

  I swung again, losing control. He counter-riposted, hitting me right in the stomach. I fell back, then came at him again, this time keeping control.

  “Faster!” Chase ordered.

  I swung faster. He parried what he could, but my stick connected with him a couple times. I aimed right for the number of his jersey, swinging and counter-riposting and stabbing that number 12 again and again. I wanted to tear away that jersey and make sure he never wore it again. I wanted to hurt him.

  “OK, stop.” He lowered his stick but I swung again anyway, connecting with his elbow. “Ouch, damn it! We’re done. We’re done.”

  “What the heck was that all about?” I asked angrily.

  “You need the killer’s instinct,” he answered, grabbing my stick. He threw both of the sticks onto the grass. “The best athletes have it. It’s that drive to finish the job. It
’s the absolute power over your opponent. Relentlessness. You haven’t had it yet. You always start strong, then you back up and play down to your opponent. Go for the kill, Goodenough.”

  He turned and walked back to his car. “Chase!” I called out, following. At his door, I grabbed his arm and pulled him around. The force seemed to surprise him. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me after the game,” he said. “Come to the game. See me play.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  He opened the door to his car. His left knee buckled and his grip on the door tightened to keep him from falling. A look of strain spread across his face.

  “Chase, listen to me! The …”

  He shook his head, getting inside and shutting the door. His car’s engine roared to life and he pulled out of the parking space.

  “You bonehead,” I muttered.

  There was only one thing left to do. I walked into the library, giving Mary a wave as I grabbed the duster. I made my way to the back of the library, taking a book titled How to Tie Sailing Knots off the top shelf of the Reference section.

  I started reading.

  Later, at the bus stop, I couldn’t keep my foot from tapping anxiously on the sidewalk as I peered down the street. The magic boots were good for tapping because they had such hard soles, but they were a dreadful fashion statement. I could walk normally with them so long as I focused, but the desire to paint over their dreary gray-brown color was absolutely overwhelming.

  I glanced down the busy street again. The bus would take me to Greendale High, which was where the baseball game was tonight. On the offhand chance one of my parents was driving down the street at this exact moment, I could only hope they wouldn’t recognize the baggy gray UW-Milwaukee sweatshirt I was wearing. Technically, it belonged to Trish. And with the hood up, it would be hard for a person driving by to get a good look at my face. I had on the magic boots and my shoes and fountain pen were tucked away safely in my purse. In other words: Alice Goodenough was ready for battle.