Poseidon's Scar

by Matthew Phillion

  It was a weird gig, and folks involved often called it the Department of What? Because the work was so hard to explain to laypeople, but Simon enjoyed the weird work.

  Downtown Boston housing prices were insane, so he expanded his search, and found Fogarty’s Folly, where a ferry ran into the city every day, meaning he could have the ocean breeze in his lungs as he commuted in, already logged into his laptop, rather than sitting in gridlock traffic. He’d had enough sitting in traffic in California to last a lifetime.

  All in all, the move was good for him, though he hadn’t quite figured out to make friends here yet. So, in the evenings, after work, he’d haunt the quaint downtown of Fogarty’s Folly, having a drink at a local pub, grabbing dinner at the roast beef place that looked like it hadn’t changed its décor in sixty years, and getting some soft-serve ice cream from a little shop, shaped like a giant plastic sundae, down by the beach. Simon was fit—part of the job requirements, really—but if this kept up, he’d be bursting through his shirts soon.

  On this particular evening, he’d picked up fish and chips from the local seafood takeout place and was debating whether or not to carry it home or find a spot to sit down and eat it. The sky, near sunset, was a peculiar combination of deep, almost purple-blue clouds above, a hazy yellow along the horizon. It didn’t feel natural, but it did look pretty. Simon found a bench, pulled the Styrofoam container from its greasy brown bag, dug out the cheap plastic utensils they’d given him, and decided to dine alone by the water. The sky was a bit creepy, but the temperature was pleasant. The smell of rain was on the air, but it was a nice night, overall.

  As he finished, he started thinking about getting a coffee at the Ishmael’s Donuts on the way home. Ishmael’s stood out here in Fogarty’s Folly because it was a national chain. The town seemed hell-bent on preventing chains from opening here. Clearly the local government had put some severe restrictions on how the building would look, because it lacked a lot of the signature exterior designs the chain used, offering an almost cute variation using old-fashioned wood signage that fit in better with Fogarty’s Folly’s historic vibe.

  Before he got there, though, Simon saw something out of the corner of his eye that caught his attention, one lone figure at the end of the peer, staring out at the ocean. He thought he recognized the man, and started toward him, confirming that it was, in fact, one of the locals Simon had conversed with a bunch of times. Jeb Sykes was an odd character, well-known around town, but not for the right reasons. He bounced between jobs: bar back, manual labor unloading fishing boats, sometimes just panhandling outside the coffee shop. He was nice enough, and folks in town wanted to help him out, either by throwing him some work when they could or some spare change when they couldn’t. Simon had talked to him pretty often and found him interesting in the way he seemed to be something of a survivor.

  “How’s it going, Jeb?” Simon said, strolling up the peer to join him.

  Jeb Sykes said nothing in return. Simon slowed his pace, wondering if something was wrong. Jeb never appeared to have a substance problem, but you never knew with folks, and maybe something had changed. Jeb lived a hard life, and Simon would certainly understand if he’d fallen to drink or drugs.

  “Jeb? It’s Simon. Simon Yee. You okay, buddy?” Simon said. His job training kicked in immediately as he freed his hands from his pockets, kept his gait loose and ready to move.

  “He has awoken, finally,” Jeb said in a creepy, almost whispered tone.

  Simon stopped walking.

  “What’s that, buddy?”

  “Long have we waited,” Jeb Sykes said. “Long have we built. Long has he slumbered. But he comes this way.”

  “Who’s this you’re talking about now?” Simon said.

  Jeb turned around slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair stiff and sticking up in all directions. His clothes looked unwashed, but that was sort of standard for the man.

  “You,” Jeb said, smiling a sickly smile. “Have you accepted the Old One into your heart?”

  “I’m going to need a little more context than that,” Simon said. He briefly regretted leaving his gear at home, but a stun baton felt like it might be overkill in this situation.

  “He is awake, and he comes to his children!” Jeb Sykes said. “Can’t you hear it? All I hear is his footsteps. Coming this way. We need to be ready!”

  Jeb Sykes broke into a run, and Simon jumped back, unsure if he was about to be attacked. But instead he watched as Jeb darted off into the distance, yelling “Be ready!” at the top of his lungs, past Ishmael’s and up into the hills beyond. The wealthy residents are going to love that, Simon thought. At least Jeb was a known figure in town. The local cops would go easy on him. Maybe he just got into something he shouldn’t have ingested.

  Not for the first time, Simon found his eye caught by a simple, blocky building that was nearly central to the downtown. Perfectly square, he’d never seen anyone coming or going from it, but had been told it was a lodge, like a local version of a Masonic temple. Apparently, it was a traditional hangout for local figures, like the town counsel, the police chief, small business owners.

  Simon had been downtown almost every night since moving to Fogarty’s Folly, and not once had he seen the lights on. Really, there was only one place to see light emanating from the building at all, the elegant stained glass windows surrounding the front door, depicting ocean scenes. Otherwise the structure was windowless, with odd symbols etched on to the outside, again, not unlike some Masonic temples he’d seen in other towns.

  Tonight, though, he could see light through those windows, and from the roof as well, as if filtered through skylights.

  Simon looked back over his shoulder, out to sea, at that strange, two-toned sky. This weird little town just got weirder, he thought. He wondered, with no small amount of anxiety, if he was going to have to call this in to the home office or not.

  Chapter 18: Do I look like a Disney princess?

  The next morning—at least it felt like morning to Echo, though day and night this far beneath the surface was hard to determine—they gathered once again in the council chambers. Her father and aunt were both waiting for Echo and her crew, along with Grimmin and a few other familiar faces, including the woman, Kara Kor, who had helped them sneak into the city on their first visit. Echo noticed, somewhat uncomfortably, that Kara stood noticeably close to her father’s side.

  I’ll have to ask him about that little situation later, she thought.

  “So, you’re headed to New Scythia on our behalf,” Rhegis said.

  “Apparently,” Echo said. “Think you can fend off the vicious, man-eating mystery monsters until we get back?”

  “I think we can make do,” Rhegis said. “Before you go, though, we have a few things for you.”

  “Presents,” Yuri said. “You know what I miss? Presents. We don’t do presents anymore. Too much fighting for our survival going on for tchotchkes.”

  Someone—an ornately dressed servant, whose role was unclear to Echo—stepped forward with an oversized seashell, like an oyster’s. She presented it to Rhegis, who lifted it open.

  “You’ll be our representative,” Rhegis said. “And while you’re my daughter, we felt like you needed something a little more obvious to show your role here in Atlantis. This was to be yours regardless, but now seems like the appropriate time to give it to you.”

  He drew from the shell a crown of thin, elegantly worked gold, inlaid with pearl and other, more exotic gems Echo couldn’t identify. It swooped up dramatically, like a wave, and yet somehow wasn’t ostentatious. It conveyed royalty, but not excess, as pretty as it was. She hated it instantly.

  “I’m not wearing a tiara,” Echo said. “Look at me. Do I look like a Disney princess?”

  “Maybe not a princess, but if I take my glasses off, you kind of look like someone drew a mashup of Pocahontas and Princess Kida,” Yuri said.

  “I have no idea who either of those people are,” Rhegis said, sm
irking ever so slightly at Yuri’s quip.

  “I’ve been to the mainland and I have no idea who either of those people are,” Barnabas said. “I think Yuri and Echo just had a surface-dweller bonding moment.”

  Echo stared at Yuri like he’d just belched in public.

  “What?” Yuri said. “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “Since we’re speaking of compliments,” Rhegis said. “The rest of you will also be representing us and…”

  “We’re a hot mess,” Yuri said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Artem said.

  Muireann, who had been utterly silent so far, leaned in to Echo.

  “What about me?” she whispered.

  “Just listen,” Echo said. “Don’t worry.”

  Grimmin walked up to Yuri with clothing draped over his forearm.

  “You, Yuri Rodriguez, are a disaster,” Grimmin said.

  “Been told that my whole life.”

  “You are wearing clothes that clearly haven’t been washed in weeks, and have visible blood stains,” Grimmin said.

  “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to try to bleach those out,” Yuri said.

  Grimmin handed him the items in his hand.

  “These are…” Grimmin began, but Yuri unfurled the clothes and held them up in front of him.

  “These are balloon pants,” Yuri said.

  “They are loose-fitting garments favored by many of our outriders,” Grimmin said. “And given your relatively new powers involve you nearly doubling in size, we thought perhaps pants that would fit you in both human and were-shark forms would be useful. There’s a shirt as well that…”

  Again, Yuri cut him off.

  “This is a blouse,” Yuri said. Echo disagreed—it looked more like a short bathrobe, cut like a tunic with a belt to hold it closed in the front with loose sleeves. Not flattering, Echo thought, but the Atlanteans had thought his transformation through more than anyone else had.

  “Yuri, you’re literally wearing blood-stained pajamas and a tank top that is stretched out to within an inch of its life,” Echo said. “Just take the nice clothes.”

  Yuri eyed Grimmin suspiciously.

  “Thanks, I guess,” he said.

  Rhegis took stock of Artem in his unusual, Amazonian-made armor.

  “You, I assume, are content with your gear?” he asked. “If not, we can happily provide you with Atlantean armor.”

  “No, I’m curious to see their reaction, sir,” Artem said, rapping his knuckles on the breastplate. “But thank you for the offer.”

  Rhegis held out a hand to Muireann. She took it.

  “You we know nothing about,” he said. “You wear surface garb, which I’m sure is fine, but it might be less conspicuous if you had more traditional Atlantean clothes, at least when you first arrive among the Amazons.”

  “If you think so,” Muireann said.

  Rhegis gestured over his shoulder and two servants, one male and one female, stepped forward.

  “You don’t seem the type to wear armor, but my allies here have a few items you can take with you,” he said. The servants led Muireann over to a small table a few steps away. Echo watched as the ondine chose a deep blue top, form-fitting and long-sleeved, built to breathe in and out of the water. She found a pair of leggings in a silvery green and a sarong in the pale blue of tropical water, and added a pale headscarf, which Echo had learned the Atlanteans often favored on the surface, as unused to the beating sun as they were.

  Rhegis and Barnabas had an almost resigned stare down. The king shrugged.

  “I’m not sure we have the capability to make you look respectable, wizard,” he said.

  “I completely understand and totally agree,” he said. “Just call me your daughter’s personal magician. You know everyone just assumes we mages are weird anyway.”

  “That’s working on the assumption they even let you off the ship,” Artem said.

  Rhegis and Barnabas shrugged simultaneously and in such a similarly resigned fashion Echo almost screamed.

  “Lastly,” Rhegis said. “My sister has a few things for you.”

  Artem took an involuntary step back as Reina approached. Echo’s aunt had a pale sphere in her hands, a little larger than a softball.

  “This will let you speak with us here,” Reina said. “It’s an orb of sending. Just place your fingertips on the sphere like this.”

  Reina held the orb in her palm and touched all five fingertips to the surface with her other and the sphere lit up from within with a soft white light.

  “One of our magicians will be alerted,” Reina finished.

  “Does this listen to us when it’s not activated?” Echo asked.

  Barnabas let out a snort.

  “No, it does not,” Reina said, sounding mildly offended. “We are able to reach out to you in the same manner from another orb, but you have to touch the sphere to activate it.”

  Echo shot a quick glance at Barnabas, who was watching her. He nodded very subtly as if to confirm Reina wasn’t lying. Echo noticed Grimmin watch the exchange, but the old spy, whom Echo knew had no love for Reina either, just grinned slightly.

  “Alright then,” Echo said. “I guess we set sail for the land of the Amazons? Do we even know how to get there?”

  “I can get us to the general area,” Artem said. “It’s hidden, of course, but I think between myself and Barnabas we can find the entrance.”

  “Our ship is crewed by ghosts,” Barnabas said. “You’d be amazed at how badly deception magic and illusions work on ghosts. It’s come in handy surprisingly often over the years.”

  Echo wrinkled her brow, making a mental note to ask him about that offhand comment later.

  “Now all we need is a song,” Echo said. “You ready, Muireann?”

  “Of course,” the ondine said, gently draping the gifted Atlantean clothes over her arm. “I am at your service, princess.”

  “Oh no, not you too,” Echo said.

  Muireann winked.

  “Just trying to fit in,” she said.

  Chapter 19: Theories on transmutation

  Even with Artem’s memories, Barnabas’ knowledge of the places where time twisted differently on the open ocean, and a crew that didn’t need to sleep, they still needed a couple of days’ travel to arrive at New Scythia. They spent their time idly, Yuri and Echo catching up, the former excited to talk about what he’d learned about being a were-shark. They all worked to get to know Muireann better, with the newcomer open about many things and extremely closed about others, particularly the man who pursued her.

  Artem, as expected, was quiet. Barnabas waited until the second day to catch him alone.

  “Not the reception you expected, huh?” Barnabas said casually as he found Artem by himself on the deck close to sundown.

  “Please tell me you’re not here to have a heart-to-heart,” Artem said. He leaned against the railing casually.

  “No,” Barnabas said. “Not at all. I was just hoping I could pick your brain about their library.”

  Artem breathed a sigh of relief.

  “That I can do,” he said. “But I should warn you, it’s pretty unlikely they’ll let you in.”

  “I figured,” Barnabas said. “But if you and Echo are there, maybe I can help tell you what to look for.”

  “You’re not the only one around here who’s book smart,” Artem said.

  “Yeah, but I’m the one who has spent most of my life looking for hidden secrets in books,” Barnabas said. “I might be able to point you in the right direction.”

  Artem shrugged.

  “Fair enough,” Artem said.

  “Do they have a curator of some sort?” Barnabas said, tucking his hands in his pockets.

  “Of course,” Artem said. “They have a whole order. The Keepers of Athena. One of the old goddesses they revere.”

  “That’s interesting,” Barnabas said. “They never struck me as being particularly religious.”

  “They’re
not,” Artem said. “Their aesthetics scream ancient Greece, but they’re technologically advanced, not unlike Atlantis. Actually, they’re quite a bit like Atlantis, except they’re smart enough to avoid all the petty infighting.”

  “So, the Keepers of Athena are more like an academic order than a priesthood,” Barnabas said.

  “Exactly,” Artem said. “It’s more of an ideal than worship. For example, there are the Daughters of Artemis as well, the hunters and warriors. I’m named after her.”

  “Y’know, I always thought that, but I was afraid to offend you,” Barnabas said.

  “You? Worried about offending me?”

  “I don’t worry about offending most people,” Barnabas said. “I very early on decided you are the type of person I have a limited number of times I can offend, so I pick my battles.”

  Artem almost smiled.

  “Anyway,” Barnabas said. “I’ll give you a list of old tomes that might be useful, if they have them. A few writers and historians who are off the beaten path. I’m sure the Keepers will already know about them, but just in case.”

  “Fair enough,” Artem said.

  “I really hope they let me in,” Barnabas said. “A magician in the library of the Amazons. That’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “Yeah, keep talking like that and they are definitely not letting you in,” Artem said.

  “What if I use a spell to temporarily turn myself into a woman?” Barnabas said.

  Artem stared at him in silence for a full minute.

  “You’re pulling my chain,” he said.

  “Seriously, I can do that,” Barnabas said. “Spells that transform and transmute are classic arcane magic. It’s really not that complicated a spell.”

  “It… just turns you into a woman,” Artem said.

  “No, it turns me into anything I want to be roughly the same size,” Barnabas said. “I could look like you, for example. Or a giant sea turtle. An old man. A panther.”