The Maiden in the Mirror

by Scott Hamerton

  "Drop weight!" someone bellowed, followed swiftly by the sound of ropes twanging as their knots came undone.

  All along the length of the blue ship, the nets that hugged its hull sprang free, spilling their contents into the forest. Minerva felt the rope in her hands go slack, and for a sliver of time, she hung unhindered in the air. A meager scream struggled through her lips as she tumbled backward, but her plummet halted abruptly. Suspended on something sharp, she dangled nervously beside the ship while the sound of panicked breathing flooded her thoughts.

  Unfortunately, nothing prevented William's descent. He cried out in horror as the nets gave out in his hands, sending him downward amid an avalanche of ill-gotten gains. He landed in a heap in the undergrowth, rolling with the clutter. Moments later, he emerged, seemingly unscathed and sprinting along beneath the ship as it sailed away with Minerva still pinned to its side.

  Searching for an explanation to her predicament, Minerva discovered the tip of a blade protruding through her dress at the shoulder; the same blade on which she had sliced open her hand. The netting that restrained it remained firmly attached to the ship.

  Above Minerva, a commanding shout went out, drawing her attention. The same swarthy sailor she saw before looked down at her dangling in the netting. In a single powerful bellow that bordered on a word, he halted the cutting of the nets. He seemed to contemplate climbing down to meet her, but his attention shifted quickly towards the massive warship closing in on them.

  Minerva felt her mouth go dry at the sight of the huge red vessel plowing through the trees. The mighty growths that surrounded her home failed to hinder its charge, breaking like waves across its hull.

  Several treetops wandered past Minerva's toes as the blue ship limped away, and she kicked off them, trying to knock herself free. Down below, William continued his valiant chase while Minerva did her best to dislodge herself, but couldn't get a good grip while the ship continued to list and sway. Above her head, a gallery of shutters clunked open and a row of cannons poked their noses into the sky, like timid forest creatures sniffing at the spring air.

  Minerva gritted her teeth and tensed up as the red ship swung in closer, casting its shadow over her position. Fire and ash erupted from the gun ports of the blue ship as it turned to cross the path of its advancing enemy. Minerva covered her ears and cowered. Dust and cinders rained down around her, poorly masking the sound of splintering wood and the cries of terrified sailors aboard the red ship. The power of the cannons thundered through the depths of her body as everything around her vibrated.

  Snapping her attention to the pressing task of escape, Minerva curled her legs backwards, searching for a way to lift herself up. The idea of successfully shoving herself off the ship horrified her, but not as much as the realization that instead of rising, the blue ship was sinking. The tips of the trees rose up around her, closing in as several toppled beneath the keel of the descending vessel.

  Minerva did her best to lift herself up and pull free of the blade, twisting like a poorly strung marionette, but her feet had nothing to stand on and her arms weren't strong enough to lift her alone. Once more, the face of the black man appeared over the railing, but he turned away almost as soon as he appeared.

  A yelp of terror, and the sound of crashing, drew Minerva's attention to the sight of a crate leaping into the dirt, nearly crushing William. Then another followed it. The crew above her jettisoned box after box from the sinking ship in a desperate plea to keep it skyward. Even an entire gun escaped through a hole in the siding of the wounded vessel, tumbling wildly across the ground and upending a tree.

  Minerva swung her feet back and forth, hoping to tear the seam open and fall free. Her heart skipped with elation at the sound of a sharp crack, expecting to be set loose, but fell to despair as a few thicker branches buckled beneath the keel of the ship. They were still sinking.

  Unwilling to let its prey escape, the titanic red ship tilted downward, aiming to ram the blue ship that was now in its path.

  In that moment, Minerva decided that even standing directly beneath a ship of its kind did not adequately portray its size. Especially when two of them are about to crush you like cheese in a vice, her inner voice added. Minerva yanked even harder on her lovely orange cloth. The sturdy fabric tore slightly in response, but remained wedged in place.

  Then the cold shadow of the red ship engulfed Minerva again, and every intricate detail of its exquisite design grew ever more apparent. Minerva kicked and flailed, succeeding handily in lodging herself further down upon the metal spike. What began as a calculated plan to vacate her position had now degenerated into uncontrolled thrashing, and she added her own voice to the shouts of the crews as the ship slammed through the trees towards her.

  Although truthfully, she was just screaming.

  As the ship bore down, Minerva could clearly discern the knots in the grain of the wood and the nails in the siding. She could see the twisted fibers of the ropes and the chips in the paint, and even the tiny curls of moss that spread across the surface of the hull. In a final desperate bid to save herself, she tossed her arms forward and turned her face away. The last thing she remembered, before miles of rigging and three hundred tons of driftwood ran her over, was the soothing voice of her mother's guidance.

  "You should use backstitching," said the ghost in her thoughts. "It's really strong."

  Chapter 3

  Lintumen Barrister

  Minerva noticed the pain first. It began as a dull drone in her left arm, but quickly grew into a throbbing ache that gave way to gut-wrenching agony. Bright lights exploded into her vision when she opened her eyes and she twisted onto her side, gasping for the air she needed to cry out.

  "Easy, now," whispered a graveled old voice doing its best to be soothing. A warm hand touched her forehead and her pain abated. "Just sleep, my dear. You'll be well in the morning."

  When Minerva awoke again, her pain was gone. She felt the soft press of a thick sheet laying over her and the comfort of a bed beneath her. After some time, she opened her eyes, only to be sickened by a wildly swaying world that couldn't decide which direction should be down. Some meager struggling revealed a dim chamber whose resident was an apparent pack rat, or more likely, the leader of a thriving family of pack rats.

  An army of trinkets and baubles, with mysterious forms and functions, did their best to smother and disguise the floors and walls. Cluttered bookshelves crouched in every corner while chests and cabinets lined the walls. Even the rafters weren't safe from the encroaching invasion of stuff. It was as if the entire space was at war, fighting for control of every available surface.

  It also smelled strongly of cinnamon.

  Everything suddenly spun again and Minerva felt nauseous. As she fumbled for equilibrium, her hand bumped against something glass, and it shattered loudly when it struck the ground. She groaned reflexively, cringing at the noise.

  "Easy, now," said the soothing gravel-voice, attempting to calm her. It worked surprisingly well.

  Then the room creaked angrily and shifted the other way.

  Minerva flopped her head in the direction of the voice. A wracked and ancient man sat not far from her, nestled carefully behind several stacks of books. Her first impression was of a man at serious risk of blowing himself into a fine cloud of dust if he sneezed too hard. Wrinkles and spots covered him everywhere, even on his wrinkles and spots. His sparse hair was so white and wispy that it floated in the air, like the ghostly apparition of hair from a past life. She could actually count the bones in his lengthy fingers, which currently supported a piece of string looped between them like a net.

  The man wore a mischievous grin as he tightened the string by pulling his hands apart. "How's that?" he asked.

  After a moment, the room no longer felt like it was seesawing back and forth with unfettered abandon. For a brief time, it ceased its motion entirely, and then it creaked with the effort and began rolling back the other way.

  The man
stood and approached Minerva amid a riot of popping joints. His slow, deliberate motion, combined with a long robe and a low ceiling, made his gait more of a slither than a walk. He lowered himself gracefully into a chair beside her bed that she didn't recall seeing before, and held out a glass of water.

  Didn't she just break that glass, she wondered.

  The man propped her up as she gulped heartily, and a grin attacked his face just then. It pinched his skin at the eyes and sent waves of flesh into a cataclysmic impact that wrinkled like cloth. Minerva couldn't decide if it was terrifying or amusing.

  "My, what beautiful eyes you have," he said. "You've been unconscious since you arrived, and I began to wonder what they really looked like. I'm glad to see them still full of life."

  "Minerva," she coughed, feeling strangely compelled to introduce herself through a weak smile.

  "Fascinating," he replied, as if learning a truly amazing fact.

  Minerva waited anxiously for him to reach the conclusion that everyone else achieved, dreading the inevitable utterance of her most hated nickname.

  "I'm Lintumen Barrister," he said, defying her expectations. "I assume that you don't want to be called Minnie, just as I would prefer not to be called Lint. Can we agree to that?"

  Minerva nodded, and Lintumen lowered her down onto the bed again.

  "Did you make that gown?" he asked, motioning towards the black and orange garment hung at the foot of the bed. The hole through which the sword had pinned her in place was easily visible.

  Minerva nodded again.

  "Impressive."

  Lintumen turned to face her once more, pulling down the sheets on her left side. A writhing scar, purple and red with weeping scabs, stretched from below her elbow to above her shoulder. She almost vomited at the sight of it, but he flipped the covers over it.

  "That wound is healing nicely. I was worried that you would lose your arm. I suppose I should dress it again so that it doesn't distress you. Now, let's examine the rest of you." Slowly and diligently, Lintumen examined her forehead and neck, looked deep into her eyes, and had her cough while placing his ear to her chest, until he seemed satisfied. "Alright, now the tricky part. What's the last thing you remember?"

  Minerva thought hard about what she could remember about the mid-air collision, and mostly came up with muffled blackness and hazy shadows. "I think a flying ship hit me," she whispered, astounded at her own failure.

  Lintumen grasped her hands and smiled. "What's the last thing you remember about the ship hitting you?"

  To her surprise, Minerva vividly recalled the words of her mother, right before the impact.

  "If you can remember something that close to the event," he said with a chuckle. "Then I doubt there is any permanent damage. Rest some more. I will have some food and clean clothes brought in. I just hope we have something in your size." Then he stood and slid towards a heavy reinforced door and spoke into a metal funnel beside it. "Captain?" he said to the wall.

  A different voice returned to the room through the device. It sounded stretched and broken after it completed a maze-like journey through a winding hallway of brass.

  "What is it, Lint?"

  Lintumen grimaced. "The girl is awake, Captain. I request clean clothes and food for her."

  "Can she walk?"

  "Possibly. She needs rest, Captain."

  "How long?"

  "Several days, at minimum."

  "I'll dispatch a swabbie."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  Lintumen seated himself at the table once more, still gazing directly at Minerva. He seemed pleased, but said nothing, giving Minerva the impression that breaking the silence would be an insult.

  It wasn't long before the door clicked and clanked, and then crept open. A barefoot teen boy with mussy hair crept in. He wore only dirty linen trousers, a woolen shirt of similar cleanliness, and a rope belt. His eyes locked onto Lintumen as he entered, and Minerva swore he looked terrified. In his arms, he held a bowl of hot soup set atop a suit of clothes just like his own.

  "Put it on the table," Lintumen commanded without smiling. In an instant, Lintumen's demeanor shifted from caring observer to demanding overlord.

  The boy complied, releasing the delivery at arm's length. He tossed an angry glance at Minerva before darting out the door, making her feel suddenly indignant. Something clicked and clanged outside again before Lintumen moved.

  "They will probably call you Minnie," he said with a sympathetic frown, as he carried the soup over to her.

  Chapter 4

  Reinforcements

  "Oi! Captain Black! We're skyward, again!"

  The wiry voice stretched its words in inappropriate ways, straining the limits of its syllables. Its speaker was a shriveled old man in overalls, with greasy grey hair, whose body matched his voice, both tiny and wiry at half the height and a quarter of the weight of an ordinary man. He pointed triumphantly at the battered husk of the Phoenix, an enormous red galleon drifting above the treetops. He currently spoke to Captain Black, infamous captain of the Phoenix, a huge man in a poorly weathered black and red uniform that barely contained his girth. Belts of cloth bound it together in the weak points.

  The captain leaned against a tree and ground his teeth audibly.

  "Captain Black?"

  "I heard you, Squints!"

  "We goin' after 'em, cap?"

  "No. They hit our riggers dead straight. Too many wounded. We won't catch 'em."

  "Then what—"

  "Send word to Sparks. Call in Cloudscorch."

  "Sparks, sir? Cloudscorch? Is a bit much, no?"

  "I want that ship in ashes, Squints! I want to piss on its smoldering remains! Do you understand me? No survivors!"

  Several birds took flight in response to the booming command of Captain Black, and then he turned and lurched his right leg forward, supported on a peg that stood in place of his left leg from the knee down. Long crooked black hair surrounded his face and chin equally on all sides, and it trailed in the wind.

  Squints grinned wickedly, shrouding his eyes with rising cheek skin that created a disturbing image of just teeth and nostrils. "Aye, Captain!"

  Chapter 5

  The Skyraker

  Other than their first encounter, Lintumen said very little to Minerva over the next few days. He changed the dressing on her arm when needed, and the remainder of his time he spent buried in his books. Sometimes she awoke to discover him embroiled in incredibly bizarre activities involving candles, crystals, and brass contraptions. It felt both impolite and dangerous to interrupt him, so she settled on observing him when possible, which led to a startling discovery. As best as she could discern, Lintumen didn't sleep.

  According to Lintumen, Minerva sustained the grave injury to her arm as the two vessels collided. Since then her health had recovered significantly, thanks to Lintumen's expertise. Returning home to her family now occupied the top of her list of priorities.

  "I'm aboard the blue ship?" Minerva asked one morning, weary of the silence.

  She was currently dressing behind a sheet hung from two nails in the ceiling, as up until now she had been wearing an overly long shirt that draped well past her knees.

  Left shoulder.

  She rolled up the leg of her trousers five times in an effort to keep from treading on them and adjusted her shirt to center before leaning down to fix the other leg.

  Right shoulder.

  The rope provided to her for use as a belt wrapped around her almost three full times. She reset her shirt again and tied off the cord.

  Left shoulder.

  Minerva sighed. The shirt she had received was no better than the nightgown she was just wearing. At best, it covered one of her shoulders while it slipped haphazardly off the other. She begrudgingly accepted the need to hold the collar closed whenever her hands were free, and moved to sit at the table with Lintumen.

  "The Skyraker," Lintumen replied, still looking down at his book. "A ninety-gun pirating
war frigate, with no associations, under the command of Captain Glass. She operates primarily as an armed escort or a plundering vessel near the Divara mountain range."

  "Who was that red ship?"

  "The Phoenix, a one-hundred-fifty-gun ship-of-the-line under the command of Captain Black of the Black and Red Consortium. The consortium is a fleet of fifteen vessels, of which the Phoenix is the flagship. It operates primarily between the Divara mountain range, the Sunrise Ports, and the borders of the Linoran Empire."

  Minerva mentally noted how much that sounded like a losing fight. "So, poor odds of turning around then," she quipped.

  Lintumen lifted his chin and looked sideways at her.

  "What about stopping? Maybe just a quick one to let me off? I could probably still find my way home."

  Silence stood in place of an answer. The ship wasn't stopping, and it certainly wasn't turning around.

  Minerva's fear of pondering the situation spurred a sudden change of subject. "No shoes for me?" she asked, sitting on her hands and wiggling her feet.

  Lintumen shook his head. "The leather soles impose unnecessary difficulty when maintaining your footing on deck. Usually only the captain and I wear any."

  Minerva took the opportunity to assess the attire of the man. Unlike her uniform, Lintumen wore plenty of clothes, including a pair of silken slippers. Much more than he needed, she thought, and everything he wore was immaculately neat, almost pressed. It reminded her of a uniform, or perhaps something regal.

  "What's your job?" she blurted, striving to keep the conversation flowing.

  Lintumen gave her another awkward stare.

  "I mean what do you do here? I heard that everyone on a flying ship must work in some way. Isn't that why I'm joining the crew until I get home?"

  Swiftly and victoriously, Lintumen smiled, but Minerva didn't know why, and the expression vanished just as quickly when she didn't reciprocate.