by Gray, C. M.
‘Uurghh, get…off, damn riff-raff…tracker, gutter…snipe,’ gasped Bartholomew, as he thrashed at the water where the arm indicated Matheus must be. He was abruptly dragged down to the edge of the boat, his chin cracking on the side as Matheus used Bartholomew to pull himself above the surface.
Ignoring Bartholomew completely, except as purchase to stay afloat, Matheus addressed the closest sailor. ‘Help me out, you fool, don’t just sit there.’ He cast a look at the harbour mouth but The Griffin was nowhere to be seen. ‘Damnation!’ he cried and tipped Bartholomew into the water as he clambered aboard. ‘Get us back to the ship and hurry.’ He sat down and wrung water from his sleeves.
The sailors began to drag Bartholomew back into the little boat, which wasn’t easy as the merchant weighed as much as three normal men put together and he wasn’t doing much to help the effort. Matheus glanced over at the merchant ship as it listed heavily to one side.
Sailors were running around the deck, clambering over the sides and rowing around the boat in an effort to see what was causing the problem as the ship’s captain bellowed orders from the wheel.
The two sailors helping Bartholomew finally managed to pull him into the boat and he landed with a huge flop like a fat heavy fish. He lay unmoving and silent; a wheezing sound the only indication that he still lived.
The little rowboat got underway and, at the Hawk's direction, headed to the shore rather than the ship. Matheus needed to contact Belial and tell him of the mess the merchant had got them into after he, the tracker, had successfully located the quarry. He stared in disgust at Bartholomew lying prone in the bottom of the boat, completely spent by the recent ordeal, and almost felt sorry for him. But then, on reflection, decided that maybe he didn’t.
****
Three days later and The Griffin’s crew were once again looking out for sight of land. Finding the small island in this huge amount of open water was a formidable task, but the crew had faith in their captain, especially after finding the Isle of Skulls, which hadn’t even been on any charts. By Quint’s calculations they should sight Minster within two turns of the glass.
The crew were eager to get to shore. Mahra was certainly not made out to be a ship’s cat; she didn’t like The Griffin’s rolling motion. Several times over the last few days she had taken the form of an owl and flown alongside merely to get off the boat. The rest of the crew however, were contented sailors, eager to continue their Quest. They were taking their roles as heroes seriously now; Magician Clement's death had affected them all deeply. If he was willing to give up his life for this cause after only just getting it back; then they had become willing to give everything possible to see this strange Quest through; they didn’t want anything that had happened so far to have been in vain.
****
Chapter 12
A Rude Reception
The Island of Minster was sighted mid afternoon and Quint was congratulated once again on his navigation abilities. He tried to hide his relief at getting them there, as with great excitement, the crew looked on.
Minster was overwhelmingly green. A thick blanket of trees covered the island, growing right down to the edge with branches overhanging the shallows, regularly trimmed to an even height by the rise and fall of the tide. It gave the impression, as they got closer, of a huge neatly manicured bush from some merchants pampered garden. It was bigger than they’d first thought and appeared to be without any beaches, moorings or settlement of any kind, simply an unbroken green barrier to an unknown interior. Staying a good distance off, they sailed east in search of the harbour.
The sun was hot, the wind was light, and they moved gently through a sea so smooth, only the barest ripple hinted at the breeze that fluttered the sails. Birds and chattering monkeys called from the island and thousands of fish milled around the boat and the reefs beneath, sending Mahra and Tarent rushing to find fishing rods.
As The Griffin sailed slowly on, they finally started to notice signs of occupation. Several small canoes were sighted paddling in the shallows, but the occupants ignored their greetings and scuttled quickly back into the forest of branches when they got close. Mahra flew off over the island, returning a short while later saying that nothing was visible through the thick forest canopy, but they were getting close to a harbour.
A Customs boat eventually came out to meet them and a stern official stepped on board as soon as the two boats came together and demanded to know what business they had on Minster. He rudely harrumphed their story of being traders and seemed ready to order his armed marines to force them to turn The Griffin around, but when Tarent produced the contract of trade he hesitantly apologised.
‘A contract for business in Minster is hard to come by and I didn’t expect to be seeing one on this…’ he studied The Griffin, and its young crew, ‘…this fine vessel.’ he finished with a sneer. ‘May I ask how you came by it?’
‘You may, but it is a contract legally entitling the bearer to conduct business here, is it not?’ queried Tarent.
‘It is,’ replied the official.
‘Then we are the bearer and wish to proceed into the harbour, we have business to conduct.’
The official regarded Tarent suspiciously. ‘Are you refusing to tell me where you got this contract?’
‘Well unfortunately, you came onto this boat acting in a rude and unprofessional manner. If a real official of this harbour wants to question us, in a polite way, then we'll be happy to answer any questions. Tell me. Who should I send my complaint to? There's a guild of Merchants in Freya, isn’t there?’ Tarent took up pen, ink and paper ready to write any details down.
‘Complaint?’ queried the official uncertainly.
‘Yes complaint, what’s your name?’
Sniggering could be heard coming from the Customs' boat; evidently the marines were enjoying the exchange.
‘Young man, please!’ hissed the official, now worried. ‘I’m sure you came by the contract legally, I’m not questioning that. It’s just that we get so few, new traders here...you and your crew are most welcome. We shall guide you in and I shall personally show you to your berth.’ He pushed Tarent’s pen aside and walked over to Quint at the wheel.
‘Run this flag up your mast, it shows you are a legal trader here and can be admitted into the harbour.’ He handed Quint a blue and white flag then shouted across to the Customs' boat to get underway. After an oily smile to Tarent, whom he obviously took for the captain of this strange boat, he walked to the side rail and stood with his back to the crew, silently watching the island as it slipped past.
‘What by the Source were you doing there, Tarent?’ whispered Quint, ‘He’s going to make our lives a misery in Minster. We’ve got our first enemy and we haven’t even arrived yet!’
‘If he was to question us freely and look closely at that contract, a contract that Pardigan stole, don’t forget, we may not even have got into Minster. We may have an enemy but at least we’re getting into the harbour, aren’t we?’
Quint shook his head and sighed. ‘I suppose so, but you gave us all a fright.’ He smiled at his friend. ‘Well done.’
As they headed towards the harbour, Mahra hung over the side, mesmerised by all the fish swimming around the coral heads. When a turtle popped its head up above the water to watch them glide past, her hand was reaching out like a cat’s paw, dabbing at the empty air in frustration, it was all Pardigan could do to hold on to her and stop her jumping in. The Customs official pretended not to notice.
Finally, as they passed around yet another forest-covered headland, Minster harbour came into view and the crew gazed at it, spellbound.
It was only as they got closer that they realised what it was that was so different. All the buildings, in fact everything, was made with trees. Not cut wood, but living trees. The jetties, the warehouses that lined the quayside, the whole town behind and houses over the hills, were all built from living trees with vines and flowers growing through them all. It wasn’t so much th
at the forest had been cleared and a town built, but a town had been grown in, around and among the forest; everything was alive and beautiful.
They were directed into the harbour and up to a good mooring, close to the merchant’s warehouses, and finally bid good day to their unwelcoming host who tipped his hat to Tarent, ignored the rest of the crew completely, and strode off into the town.
‘I’d like to think we’ve seen the last of him but I very much doubt it,’ said Quint. ‘Let’s go ashore and explore, we can unload the cargo tomorrow.
The air was heavy with forest smells, rich and earthy, yet also sweet and perfumed from the many flowers. The flowers in turn were home to bees, humming birds and honey fishers that darted about competing for the abundant supply of nectar. Birds sang happily, clouds of butterflies hung in the warm air and groups of small monkeys chattered from branches, their community alive and flourishing amongst the townsfolk.
‘What a beautiful place,’ said Mahra in awe. ‘This is a stronghold of Order, it has to be.’
‘Well we met the agent of Chaos earlier, so the balance is alive and well,’ said Tarent with a grin. ‘It’s a very strange place and no mistake. I wonder how they go about growing a building like this.’ He was examining the corner post of a warehouse, that as well as supporting the roof also had branches coming out to form the large doors and several of the windows. Other trees were growing to make the other walls and beams and a thatch of branches and leaves formed the roof. It was hard to tell where the forest stopped and the town began.
It wasn’t only the buildings that were strange, the inhabitants of Minster were an odd lot as well. For a start, the majority of people were no taller than Loras. Quint and Tarent towered over everyone yet they weren’t being stared at, so traders must be fairly common here. Everyone they met seemed polite, and several offered an ‘Evenin,’ the men touching a finger to their hats and the women dropping in a small curtsy. All the menfolk had beards, with all but the youngests’ being fluffy white. Below their beards they wore tight waistcoats over white lacy shirts and most were trying to balance tall black hats on their heads, many of which being almost as tall as the wearer. The Minsten women had their hair in plaits and wore long flower-patterned dresses, buttoned high to their necks, and all the Minstens had bright red cheeks, making it seem as if the entire population was walking around slightly embarrassed.
The crew of The Griffin ambled on past the last of the warehouses and on into the main town. There didn’t seem to be any order to the streets with buildings springing up where you might expect a road to continue. All in all it was a magical mixture of life that appeared to get on perfectly.
They bought hot honey filled pastries wrapped in large leaves from a shop, and sat down to munch them as they studied their surroundings. Several non-islanders walked past, most seemed to be heading towards a large building built in and around a massive, and clearly ancient, oak tree.
Quint stood up, sucking honey from his fingers. ‘I think we’ve found the local version of Blake’s, my friends. Let’s mingle, and try and find out as much as we can about Minster and any reference to the mysterious Hidden.’
Tarent handed them each a few coins and he and Quint walked over to the inn where a large sign hung from a branch of an old tree, proclaiming it to be ‘The Acorn Forest Inn.’
‘Well I think it’s been a fair few years since this was an acorn,’ observed Tarent. ‘This thing looks like it’s been growing forever.’ They gazed up through the mass of branches, many of which grew into the building to help make up the beams, walls and roof. Other branches went off in other directions, aiding with the construction of several neighbouring buildings and providing the chattering monkeys with a highway in the sky.
‘She’s an old un is The Acorn, that she is,’ cackled a little old Minsten through his thick white beard. He blew out a stream of smoke drawn from a long-stemmed clay pipe. ‘Why, the Acorn is the centre of Minster life and folklore. Any story about Minster worth telling will either start or end at the Acorn. Indeed, the very best stories start and end at the Acorn.’ He giggled at his wit and took a long gulp from a tin mug of ale, and then drew several times on his pipe to get it glowing good and hot before blowing out another huge cloud of smoke. ‘Why then I suppose it must follow that the very, very best stories start in, end at, and are all about the Acorn, stands to reason really…if yer get ter think’n about it much.’ He drained his mug of ale and upended it, looking at the bottom as if another drop may be holding on in a corner. He gazed over at Quint and Tarent. ‘Now if you young gents would like a tale of the Acorn, I would be right happy to oblige…if yer could see yer way to fillin’ me mug agen.’ He smiled hopefully.
‘We’d love to hear about the Acorn and all about Minster,’ said Quint. ‘We've only just arrived and know nothing about it. What are you drinking?’
‘Why Elder ale of course, tis the very best ale in the known world and that’s a fact.’ The old fellow smiled happily. ‘The name’s Feneggin. Now, you get me that ale and let’s get acquainted.’ He held a chair out which Tarent took while Quint went in to get the drinks.
The interior of the Acorn was gloomy and it took a few moments for Quint’s eyes to become accustomed to it. Daylight was trying to come in through several small windows, but a thick curtain of green leaves was hindering it. Small flickering lamps were set on every table and others were attached to the walls adding to the ‘twilight’ feel of the room. Smoke rose from the lamps as well as from the long pipes that many of the drinkers were puffing on and Quint held a deep breath before walking in further through the gloom.
A long serving bar ran along the far wall with several people standing and talking over the music, played by a motley assortment of musicians in the corner. The music was unlike anything Quint had heard before. Three Minstens were blowing horns of some kind, stuffed onto lips lost in waves of fluffy white beard. Each was given to standing up once in a while and blowing an especially complicated mixture of noises. As they did so, their cheeks puffed out and their faces creased in concentration. The one standing now was blowing so hard it seemed to Quint that there must be a bee stuck in the horn which the player was furiously trying to dislodge with every breath he could muster; the sound that filled the room was high pitched and wailing.
The drummer, who played an assortment of drums, gongs and even bottles filled with different amounts of liquid dangling on a frame, was too tall to be a local. He had long scraggy white hair, was dressed head to foot in black and wore a sombre expression. He in turn was given to mad bursts of drumming that didn’t really seem to be part of what anyone else was playing. After each eruption of sound he would go back to a steady rhythm and stare straight at the wall, as if the outburst hadn’t happened at all and he’d deny any knowledge of it if ever asked.
The final member of the band was another Minsten. He was standing up on a stool, his eyes closed in concentration while playing a large heavy wooden instrument with strings. He hugged it close to his body, the fingers of one hand flying up and down the neck pressing hard on the strings while the other hand plucked furiously lower down, coaxing deep thrumming sounds from within. Unfortunately, while the little man played, he was getting his beard tangled up and was constantly stopping to untangle himself mid tune.
Quint walked over to the bar and was joined a few moments later by Pardigan.
‘What a weird place, eh? Have you seen the band?’ Pardigan was doing all he could not to giggle at the efforts of the musicians. ‘They’re rubbish!’
‘Tarent and I are outside with some old man who’s going to tell us about the island,’ said Quint. ‘Where are the other two?’
‘I saw Tarent as we came in. Loras is watching the band over there,’ Pardigan indicated a table that Loras was sitting at, watching the antics on stage. ‘While Mahra is with me over at the table by that group of younger Minstens, at least I think they’re younger, it's hard to tell when they’ve all got beards.’
‘
Well good luck, see what you can find out and have a good time. Oh, and look out for Loras, will you?’ Quint’s last words were drowned out by the drummer playing a long solo on the glass bottles ending with a smash as one flew to pieces sending liquid all over a horn player. The drummer faced the wall again and continued tapping out a slow rhythm as if none of this had happened. Loras turned around and grinned over at them in delight.
Clutching a tray of drinks, Quint made his way outside to the table.
Tarent glanced up as he set the tray down. ‘Feneggin here was telling me about the Hidden folk, they’ve all apparently gone from Minster now but he was saying he remembers them well.’
‘Oh, I remember the Hidden all right,’ said Feneggin, accepting his ale. ‘Call themselves that but they weren’t hiding much back then. Was about twenty summers since we saw the last one here at the Acorn.’ He sucked noisily on his pipe. ‘See this has the makings of a good story already, cos we started at the Acorn see.’ He smiled. ‘They used to come in and trade in those days. You had to keep your eyes on them, funny little things the Hidden, smelt strange and were filthy dirty. Anyhow, one night an awful fight broke out. Two local boys got to drinking and there was an argument with one of their traders. Well, they’re only little people the Hidden, so these two strapping great Minstens shouldn’t have done what they did, should they?’
Tarent glanced at Quint; neither could help but smile at the thought of this little Minsten calling anyone else small or calling any Minsten strapping for that matter.
If he noticed anything, Feneggin didn’t say, he simply continued. ‘The Hidden may have a nasty reputation but it’s just talk n’ rubbish really. They used to get accused of just about anything that went wrong, from stealing babies to cakes getting burnt, never any proof of course, and this one was minding his own business apparently.’ He sucked noisily on his pipe and gazed up at the tree remembering.