by Paul Durham
“Are you all right?” Rye asked.
“Splinters,” Quinn said with a groan as he examined his elbows. “Lots and lots of splinters.”
Folly nodded, her wet hair dripping over eyes.
Rye rushed forward in alarm. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?” Folly asked.
“Your hair. It’s nearly as red as Lottie’s.”
Folly’s white-blond hair was stained the color of rust. Rye examined her scalp closely but was relieved to find it free of holes or punctures.
Folly pulled a strand down over her nose and crossed her eyes for a better view. “Huh. Must be from the barrels.”
“Well, that’s one way to drain the hogsheads,” Quinn said, looking out over the wreckage around them. A few remaining unbroken casks floated away with the current. “Do you think we need to open more?”
“That’s enough for one day,” Rye said. “Let’s head back before the River Wyvern realizes his belly is still empty.”
The rhythmic ping of metal caught her attention again. Closer now. They all turned toward the water. Through the shadows of dusk, a light drifted along the surface, making its way to the shore.
“It’s not the Wyvern, is it?” Folly asked in alarm.
“No,” Rye said in disbelief. “I think it’s . . . a boat.”
A small flat skiff eased toward them, a single lantern blazing at its helm. Its passenger set down his oar and stood up in the boat.
Rye had never seen the man before. He had hulking shoulders so thick his neck seemed to disappear into them, and hands as large as baskets. But his eyes were as watery and sullen as an old hound’s and the hair on his head looked like an ill-fitted bird’s nest. His accent was foreign, yet familiar.
“Which one of you is Rye?” he asked.
Rye and Folly looked at each other, then at Quinn.
“I am,” Rye volunteered hesitantly.
“Sum’n wishes to so see you, lass. Get in.”
“Someone like who?”
The large man blinked slowly, then turned and pointed to the lights of the barge twinkling on the river. “A very old friend,” he said.
Rye was quiet for a moment, a suspicion taking hold. Hopeful but still wary, she narrowed an eye. “I’m not going anywhere without my friends.”
The man sighed and stooped over to place a triangular dinner bell and brass striker on the floor of the skiff.
“Fine. I’ll make room. But be quick about it. No telling when that river monster is coming back.” He extended an enormous palm to help her aboard. “And it’s best not to keep the fortune-teller waiting.”
20
The Fortune-Teller
The boatman didn’t say much as he rowed Rye, Folly, and Quinn out to the fortune-teller’s flat-bottomed river barge. Folly’s and Quinn’s eyes shifted nervously over the water, wary of a reappearance of the River Wyvern, but the river’s secrets were shrouded by the dying light.
Rye’s curiosity was piqued by her unexpected summoning, and she studied the ramshackle boat as the skiff eased next to it. Its hull was a mosaic patchwork of mismatched wood and scrap-metal sheeting. Paper lanterns lit its long deck, and a dilapidated cabin sprang up from its center, candlelight glowing behind its shrouded portholes. Smoke puffed from a tin spout on its roof, fluttering up past the junk’s single mast and crimson sail.
The boatman tied the skiff to the side of the junk and stepped onto the deck, then reached down to assist the children. Rye extended her hand in return, but he simply clutched her under the arms and hoisted her as if she were no heavier than a bucket of grain. He similarly plucked Folly and Quinn from the skiff and deposited them on the deck next to her.
“You two have a seat with me,” the boatman told Folly and Quinn, pointing to a wooden bench that ran along the rails. “As for you, you’ll find the fortune-teller inside.” He thrust a thumb toward tattered silk curtains that hung like cobwebs over the doorway to the cabin.
Folly and Quinn cast concerned glances toward Rye.
“It’s okay,” Rye reassured. She had a suspicion as to who awaited her. It left her anxious, but not fearful. “I won’t be long.”
Rye glanced up at the seabirds perched on the rigging before parting the curtains and stepping inside. The interior cabin was a cluttered burrow, the ceiling strung with hanging lights, herbs and kettles, and smelling of dried fish. The floor was covered with worn tapestries and a hodgepodge collection of modest furnishings. A stooped figure huddled over a large cast-iron pot, her silver hair sparkling in the lantern light. She pinched a strange assortment of spices into her simmering cauldron before brushing off her hands and turning to greet her visitor. The face that welcomed Rye was a maze of wrinkles melted by the ages. But when the old woman raised the folds of skin where her eyebrows had once been, sea-glass-flecked eyes twinkled at Rye.
“Hello, Annis,” Rye said quietly.
“Fine evening, duckling. Finer now that you are here.” Annis’s voice was an ancient but pleasant lilt, a remnant of a time and place far away.
“Let me look at you,” Annis said, shuffling over to her. With her bent back and hunched shoulders, they met eye to eye. “Your hair’s longer than when I last saw you,” she said, touching a strand of it with a crooked finger. “And you’ve lost weight,” she added, poking Rye in the ribs in a manner that tickled more than hurt.
Annis stepped back to her kettle and plunged a bowl inside. “Try this,” she said, handing it to her.
Rye eyed the steaming potion cautiously. On the Isle of Pest, this withered old woman was called Black Annis—the most fearsome of legendary hags, not to mention Slinister Varlet’s mother. But she had also become Rye’s unlikely friend.
“What is it?” Rye asked.
Annis dipped a second bowl. “Dinner, dearie. To put some meat back on your bones.” Annis sipped it with her thin lips, then flashed Rye a grin that revealed her toothless gums. “What else would it be?”
Rye pressed the bowl to her lips carefully. The rich, creamy broth was a medley of mild fish and flavorful spices.
“It’s delicious,” Rye said in surprise, and took another long sip.
“I’ll send bowls out for your friends, too,” Annis said with a pleased nod, and waved a hand to a small table where they both pulled up stools. “Sit.”
Annis still wore a simple frock, but now a delicate string of sea glass circled her neck and a matching bracelet dangled from her twig of a wrist.
“I like your jewelry,” Rye said.
“These old things?” she said, waving away the compliment, although she was clearly pleased that Rye had noticed. “I was expecting you, so I thought I might gussy up a bit. I don’t get much company these days, except for Horace out there and my old feathered companions. Sadly, none of them are much for conversation.”
“My friend Folly tells me you’ve been working as a fortune-teller,” Rye said skeptically.
Annis chuckled. “I hate that term. Fortune-teller just screams ‘huckster,’ wouldn’t you say? As you know, I don’t stare at crystals or read lines in people’s palms. I study eyes . . . and faces.” Annis’s own eyes narrowed, as if probing Rye’s face for clues. “I find omens in everyday events. There’s no magic to it if your Sight is keen . . . and you have the patience to look.”
Annis held Rye’s gaze without saying more. Rye was always terrible at the who-could-stay-quiet-the-longest game. Fortunately, Annis looked away after giving Rye a tight smile, as if she’d already found what she was looking for.
“Whatever you call it, that line of business has dried up like an August mudhole,” Annis said. “It’s a meager living under the best of circumstances, made even more modest if you don’t tell people what they want to hear.” She shrugged. “I’ve always been a bit too forthcoming. Ran into a similar problem on Pest in my youth. Luckily, I don’t require much.” She spread her frail palms and gestured at their surroundings, her skin the texture of dried leaves.
“Why are yo
u living on this boat?” Rye asked, feeling the rock of its hull underneath them. “Why did you leave Grabstone?”
“I could tell you it was too quiet without the thump of your feet,” Annis said with a chuckle. “But the truth is, it’s almost time for me to return home, and these old fins won’t take me there.” Annis wiggled her elbows playfully. “Besides, the gulls tell me there’s damp weather on the way. Sometimes, when it gets really wet, a boat’s the best place to be.”
“Aren’t you afraid of the River Wyvern?”
“Of course not, lamb.” Annis snorted. “Why would I fret over the wildlife?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rye said dubiously. “In case he gets hungry.”
“Well, he’s always hungry, dear,” Annis said, as if Rye had just declared that ice was cold. “That’s why I have Horace feed him. Sure, it could still choose to eat us, but that would make its breakfast much harder to come by tomorrow . . . and the day after.” Annis gave a dismissive wave. “Reptiles aren’t the brightest creatures, but they’re not stupid either.”
When she put it that way, it did make some sense.
“Horace is your helper?” she asked.
Annis nodded. “You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he too has the makings of an Intuitive. I’ve taken him under my wing, so to speak. I help show him how to see, and in exchange he fetches supplies and mans the boat.”
Annis sipped her bowl and licked her lips with a tongue that was more purple than pink. A keen eye flickered in Rye’s direction.
“So tell me, gosling,” Annis said, in a tone that signaled it was finally time to get to why she’d brought Rye here. “How is your Sight? Share with me what you’ve seen and I’ll do the same.”
“Little in my dreams, if that’s what you mean. I don’t sleep well, and when I do my dreams are dark and murky. But I’ve found Harmless.” Rye hesitated. “And Slinister, too.”
Annis just nodded in reply, as if Rye needn’t say more.
“You’ve seen Slinister? I mean . . . Slynn?” Rye asked.
“Not with my eyes,” Annis said, sharing a somber smile. “I know that he’s holed up in that dreadful Keep not far from here. I called on him myself but he refused to see me, his henchmen denying me entrance at the gates. That was many months ago. So I wait.”
“That’s why you’ve stayed here in Drowning?” Rye asked. “In hopes he might change his mind?”
“That boy won’t change his mind,” Annis said. “I’m just waiting for events to run their course.”
“But do you already know his fate?” Rye asked, leaning forward across the small table. “Do you already know Harmless’s? It seems the two are tied together.”
“What is fate but the result of a series of choices?” Annis asked in return. “Each choice you make takes you one step closer to your fortune.”
Annis leaned forward so that her face was close to Rye’s.
“Sight . . . perception . . . it’s all just an ability to guess what choices a person will make along the way. If you watch closely enough, you begin to recognize the patterns. Certain types of men and women are likely to make similar decisions, and those decisions are more likely to lead to a given outcome. But, remember,” she said, raising a finger. “Everyone has a choice.”
Rye tried to divine the meaning in Annis’s sea-flecked eyes but they remained as unfathomable as the ocean. She wondered whether Annis was referring to Slinister, Harmless, or herself.
“You told me that things will get worse before they get better,” Rye said.
Annis gave her the slightest nod.
“Worse than this? I hardly recognize Drowning anymore. Bog Noblins have gathered to overrun the village, Harmless and Slinister seem determined to destroy each other, and in the meantime the villagers have no one to help them with their struggle.”
Annis just returned Rye’s earnest look with a sad smile. Her silence was answer enough.
“Back in the Bellwether, you told me I could change the ending,” Rye exclaimed, slapping her palms on the table. “You said I just needed to be willing to pay the toll. What’s the toll, Annis? Please help me understand.”
Annis sat back and clasped her fingers. She cast her gaze to the bowl of soup in front of her, blinking eyes that seemed suddenly weary. “Sight is a cruel gift indeed,” she muttered to herself, then looked up.
“A storm is coming. Someone dear to you will be swallowed by it. That’s the toll. Who that will be, I cannot say, because there are still choices yet to be made.”
Rye felt the color drain from her face.
“Finish your soup, minnow,” Annis said kindly. “A warm belly will help you sleep soundly, and ensure that your dreams remain sweet. Even if just for a short while . . .”
Rye left the cabin, the web-like silk shroud falling over her heavy shoulders. Folly and Quinn were at the rails of the junk with Horace. Quinn held an enormous dead fish by the tail and Folly clutched a metal striker excitedly.
She watched her friends’ cheerful faces. She would get around to telling them about Annis, but not now. Her fatigue left her nearly speechless, like she was dragging an impossible weight. She couldn’t bring herself to think about the toll.
“Rye!” Quinn called. “You won’t believe this. We’re feeding the River Wyvern.”
Horace gestured to Folly. She reached up to the hanging dinner bell and rapped the metal triangle with her striker.
“Go on,” Horace said to Quinn. “Give it a good toss.”
Quinn hoisted the fish with both hands and hurled it over the side, the force of his throw spinning him in a circle, and he found himself deposited backside-first on the deck. Folly let loose a belly laugh that Quinn, and even Horace, couldn’t help joining.
After two more offerings to the River Wyvern, Horace rowed them back to shore without incident. The three friends made their way to the Dead Fish Inn and slipped inside undetected. Folly set Quinn up in a vacant guestroom and soon joined Rye at the window of her bedchamber. The black water continued to flow leisurely under the bridge and toward the sea. The surface wasn’t broken by fish, gull, or mythical River Wyvern. Only the dim lanterns of Annis’s junk bobbed on the surface.
“Can you see anything out there?” Folly asked hopefully. “Any sign or signal?”
Rye shook her head.
“Well, that was underwhelming,” Folly said, and bit her lip. “I hope we got it right.”
“I read the same thing you did, Folly. I don’t think we missed anything. I mean, Tam’s Tome didn’t say what would happen after we emptied the hogsheads.”
Still, it was perplexing. When she’d lit the Luck Cauldrons, they had flared blue, their smoky plumes racing into the sky like ghostly tendrils. Rye would have thought that a Call for the Reckoning, one meant for all Luck Uglies near and far, would be much more impressive.
“Let’s give it an hour,” Rye said, “then check again.”
Folly slumped from the window and collapsed on her bed. Rye followed her lead and deposited herself in her blankets on the floor with every intention of waiting out the hour. But after their grueling day, both friends soon drifted off, the bedchamber silent but for their snores.
Rye dreamed of her friends—of those days that seemed so carefree, when they’d played in Drowning’s alleys and graveyards. She had visions of catching salamanders with Lottie at the edge of the bogs—before they crawled with Bog Noblins. She could feel Abby’s warm embrace and taste her bumbleberry pie. And, more recently, she remembered leaping across rooftops, hand in hand with Harmless, before she had ever heard of Slinister Varlet or Fork-Tongue Charmers.
When Rye awoke, the room streamed with the light of a new day, and for a moment, it seemed that everything she’d seen and heard the night before was part of her dreams. She heard the muffled squawk of Baby Fox down the hall, crying for his breakfast or a linen change.
“Rye, Folly!” a breathless voice called from the door. “Come out here. You need to see this.”
“Do you think we accidentally poisoned the River Wyvern?” Folly asked.
Rye shook her head in disbelief. “I think we’d have to poison a hundred of them to do that.”
Stretching before them, upstream and downstream as far as the eye could see, and continuing under the bridge and into the ocean itself, the River Drowning flowed red as blood.
21
Echoes of a Distant Call
Rye and Quinn sat on the edge of the great arched bridge, Rye’s oversize boots dangling over the unseemly red waters far below them. They weren’t alone. Despite their fears of the River Wyvern, curiosity compelled many villagers to come see the river for themselves, and speculation ran rampant as to what the ominous changes might mean.
“I never seen anyt’ing like it,” a stone carver said. “The river was its normal color just last night. A nice brackish swill.”
“It’s an omen,” a straw-haired peddler warned. “A warning. Them Bog Noblins are coming and it won’t be long now.”
Rye and Quinn exchanged glances before quickly turning their eyes downward, trying to disappear.
Another villager speculated that it was a curse, while still others suggested it was evidence of some unknown tragedy far upstream.
“I’ve seen it like this once before,” a weaver woman croaked over the banter. She looked nearly as old as Annis. “Long ago, when I was a wee girl, River Drowning bled for a whole week.”
The stone carver and peddler turned to her in surprise.
“Was it an omen?” the peddler asked. “Did the Bog Noblins follow?”
The weaver shook her head of gray hair. “Not Bog Noblins. Worse.”
The other villagers’ eyes went wide.
“Worse indeed,” she muttered with a click of her teeth. She pulled her shawl snug over her shoulders and hurried off with urgency, the peddler and stone carver chasing after her with questions.