Ven looked over his shoulder.
A figure in a long gray cape stood outside the barred gate, its head cloaked in a hood.
Ven put down his quill and rose from the chair, rubbing his tired eyes. He walked nervously over to the gate and stared up into the hood, but could make out only the shadow of a face. He waited for the person to speak, but the cloaked man just stood, watching him, in the flickering lanternlight.
“Who—who are you?” he asked finally, his voice cracking. “What do you want?”
“A friend,” came the whispered reply. “And I want to help you.”
“How?” Ven blurted. His heart began to beat thunderously in his chest.
“I can get you out of here,” the man answered softly, his words masked by the sound of dripping water. “I can take you back to your home—your real home.”
“How?” Ven asked again, his face flushing.
The man in the hooded cloak stood silently for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder toward the staircase, then turned back to Ven and leaned closer to the bars of his cell.
“Do you want to go home, Ven?” he asked, his voice low and scratchy.
“More than anything,” Ven replied.
The hooded man nodded. “I can arrange that. I can get you out of here right now. Get your things.”
Quickly Ven checked his pocket for the jack-rule, then ran to the cot and pulled his hat out from underneath it. He ran his fingers over the albatross feather, wondering if it had brought him this newest round of good luck. Ven smoothed his rumpled hair and pulled his hat onto his head.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully to the hooded man. The man nodded, then walked over to the staircase and shouted up to the jailer.
“Guard!”
The word rang against Ven’s eardrums, and the voice, no longer soft, now sounded unpleasantly familiar. “Wait,” he demanded. “Who are you?”
The man in the hooded cloak walked back to the cell.
“I told you,” he said. “A friend.” With that, he reached up and pulled down his hood.
It was Maurice Whiting.
Ven jumped away from the bars, sputtering in surprise. Mr. Whiting reached toward him, a look of concern on his face.
“Be calm, now, my boy,” he said quickly. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you are no friend of mine,” Ven said. “Go away and leave me alone.”
“Hear me out,” Whiting urged. “You will change your mind when you hear what I have to say.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m sorry you had to suffer the hardships that brought you here,” Mr. Whiting said. His eyes grew bright in the light of the lantern. “You are in this place because it was the only way I could save you from the terrible danger you were in—and will still be in if you don’t leave this island and get back to your home as soon as possible.”
Ven continued to back away, eyeing Mr. Whiting distrustfully.
The man inhaled deeply, then exhaled and let his hand come to rest on one of the iron bars.
“I know you think that I am your enemy, but that was all for show,” Mr. Whiting said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper again. “I had to get you into the custody of the king, and make certain that people at the inn and in town knew you were there, so that you would be safe from the enemies who are really after you.”
“Who—who are those enemies?” Ven asked suspiciously. “Someone worse than you, who lies about me, insults me for being Nain, and has me arrested and thrown in a dungeon for something I didn’t do?”
Mr. Whiting’s other hand came to rest on the bars of the cell. He stared thoughtfully at Ven for a moment.
“Sometimes things are not as they appear, Ven,” he said, his voice soft. “Sometimes the people who seem to be your enemies are trying to help you, and those who seem the most friendly are using you for purposes of evil. Great evil.” Ven eyed him stonily but said nothing. Whiting leaned a little closer, so that his hawklike nose was protruding through the cell bars.
“You were attacked by Fire Pirates, were you not?” he continued. “So you know that they are among the most vicious killers roaming the world, but what you may not know is that they need people to help them, to buy the chemicals to make their terrible fire, to sell the spoils of their conquests, to keep them supplied—they need support. Do you know where they get that support?” When Ven did not answer, Whiting’s eyes grew even more bright. “They get it from legitimate ship owners and sea captains. People in the sea trade. Seemingly honest men—like the good Captain Snodgrass.”
Ven’s mouth dropped open in shock. “That’s a lie!” he shouted. His words echoed off the underground chamber, punctuated by the sound of dripping water.
“I wish it were so, boy. I know you want to believe it, because the captain seems a kind man, a good man—but as I told you before, not everything is as it seems. How do you suppose he found you, hmmmm? What is the possibility that a ship will sight a single young boy in all the vastness of the sea? How did it happen that the Serelinda was passing through when you happened to need it to be?”
Ven’s eyes narrowed. “It just was. They saw the albatross.”
Maurice Whiting sniffed. “Oliver Snodgrass was there to see the albatross because shortly before that, he was meeting with the Fire Pirates, delivering the catapults they used in their attack. The ships came abreast of each other in the dark the night before; I watched myself as goods were unloaded from the Serelinda into the long-boats and rowed over to the pirate ship in the darkness.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ven said.
Whiting smiled sadly. “I know you don’t, but you must, my boy. The people who seem to be your friends, who smile at you and make you feel at home in a place you don’t belong, are using you in ways you could not imagine, unholy ways that would make you fear for your life, and your soul, if you had any idea of them.”
In the back of his mind, Ven suddenly remembered something McLean had said to him on his first night in the inn.
That sly fox, Oliver Snodgrass! He certainly made good use of you, then, didn’t he?
“Using me how?” he asked Mr. Whiting uncertainly.
Whiting looked over his shoulder at the sound of the jailer’s footsteps as he approached. He waved dismissively at the man, who glared at him in annoyance at being summoned for nothing, then turned away and headed up the stairs again. Mr. Whiting waited until the sounds of the footsteps died away, then turned back to Ven.
“Do you know the stories of how the Floating Island was made? The wind blowing back the sea to reveal the earth for the first time?” Ven nodded grudgingly. “Well, what do you suppose comes to pass when something so rare and improbable as what you did aboard the Serelinda—what the captain had you do—happens?” He smiled. “Think about it, lad—you’re a Nain. For all that some humans consider people like you to be freaks, the truth is that you are of an ancient race, a race that still has a lot of old magic in it. You are a creature of the earth, like the rest of your race. Nain are never found on the sea, are they? Nain don’t swim; they’re afraid of the water, never travel on the sea. But there you were. And what did the captain do, upon pulling a Nain from the sea? Almost as soon as you could stand upright, he made you climb the mast. Why?”
“To—to help me get over the sea-shakes,” Ven stammered.
“Nonsense,” said Whiting. “A Nain, a creature of earth, traveling on the sea, at the top of a mast in the wind? Don’t deceive yourself, lad. By sending you up that mast, he was re-creating the birth of the Floating Island—earth, wind, and water. He was calling the island.” His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to just above a whisper again.
“And a few days later, it came. Didn’t it?”
Slowly Ven sat down on his cot.
That sly fox, Oliver Snodgrass! He certainly made good use of you, then, didn’t he?
Ven thought back to standing atop the mast with Oliver, watching a light streak across the sky
, then hitting the deck to the cheers of the crew.
I’d like to propose a toast, the captain had said. To Ven Polypheme, who this day has been pulled from the sea, gained his sea legs, and is the first Nain in my knowledge ever to climb the mainmast of a sailing ship at sea, and without question the first to summit the mast of the Serelinda.
Whiting was watching him closely.
“It’s easy to trust people who seem kind, isn’t it?” he said softly. “And to distrust those who seem cruel or harsh, like me. But one thing you learn as you grow up, Ven, is that many things are not as they seem.” He let go of the bars of the cell and began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the gate. “Oliver Snodgrass pulled you from the sea, saved your life, made you feel welcome, when you probably have never felt welcome outside your own family before. He gave you a job and treated you as if you were an adult. That must have been a heady feeling. How could you have known you were being used in an unholy purpose?”
“How—how is it unholy?” Ven asked nervously. “So what if he used me to call the Floating Island? Nothing evil or bad was done there.”
The sad smile returned to Whiting’s face.
“You think not?” he said, continuing to walk back and forth in front of the cell. “Did you take anything from there?” His smile grew wider as Ven’s eyes did. “No need to deny it—there is only one purpose for going to the Floating Island, and that’s to obtain some of the Living Water.”
Ven could feel the rough stone of the dungeon wall scraping his back through his shirt as he inched farther away.
“No,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “That soldier, Marius, went to put his name on the wind, nothing more.”
Whiting’s smile faded and he rolled his eyes.
“That fool,” he said, contempt in his tone. “That is like being a starving man who finds a great feast spread out by the banks of a rushing stream, stops to take a sip from the stream, and then crawls on, leaving the food untouched. The Living Water is the most precious substance in this world. It has powers that you cannot imagine. It is more valuable than diamonds, than gold, than any treasure you can name.” He stopped, and looked sharply at Ven. “And you, my boy, you have the natural ability to find it. The Floating Island is not the only source of the Living Water, but the others are said to be even harder to find, and almost impossible to reach. How simple it was, really, to have you climb up into the wind on the high seas, duplicating that same combination of earth, water, and wind that the island is made from, and, by doing so, summon the Floating Island itself. And you can do it anytime you want.”
Ven’s head was spinning. The walls of the tiny cell seemed to close in, making it harder to breathe.
“Nothing evil was done with the water,” he repeated, his voice wobbling.
Mr. Whiting stopped suddenly. “You think not? You are wrong. Snodgrass gave it, no doubt, to that harpy wife of his.” His voice turned cold. “Didn’t he?”
“She—she needed it,” Ven said, hating how shrill and squeaky his voice sounded.
Whiting’s face hardened.
“Well, that’s true, boy,” he said, “but I don’t know if you want to be the one giving it to her.”
“Why?”
Mr. Whiting looked above him into the dripping darkness, and when his eyes returned to Ven, they were shining with what seemed like fear.
“Because Trudy Snodgrass is a Revenant,” he whispered.
18
Upon Closer Examination
“WHAT IS A REVENANT?” VEN ASKED NERVOUSLY.
The endless dripping seemed to stop, the light in the lantern to dim, as Maurice Whiting considered his words.
“A Revenant is a person or thing that has died, but who lives on in an unnatural and unholy way after death,” he said. “Something that returns from the grave—usually because there is something in their lives that remained unfinished when they died. They are called by many names the world over, but in the end it comes down to the thwarting of nature so that someone who should be gone remains on the earth. It is evil, and unholy—and what they do to remain in this state of undeath is even more so.”
Ven was trembling as violently as the sails of the Serelinda in the wind.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“No, lad, I’m not,” Mr. Whiting said darkly. “Did you have the chance to observe the woman before you gave her the water, and then after? Did you notice a difference?”
Beneath Ven’s feet the floor of the dungeon began to shake. A heartbeat later, he realized it was not the floor, but his own body that was shaking.
He remembered thinking how Mrs. Snodgrass had improved once he had given her the diamond vial, how her face had filled out in places that before had seemed withered, how her energy had returned.
Like a drying apple suddenly full of juice again, he thought.
“You did, lad, I know you did,” Whiting said softly. “You saw the life actually return to her, because the life within that woman is artificial. She actually died long ago, when her son did, but her husband was not willing to lose them both. He had enough of the Living Water with him to save her—but their boy was too far gone to be brought back. They buried their child, but Trudy remains, ruling that tawdry inn with an iron fist by day.” His voice dropped. “Walking the crossroads by night—with the other undead buried there. She haunts the crossroads because she can’t find her way away from it—just like the other Revenants.”
“Stop it,” Ven whispered. “Stop it.”
“She sends you to bed as the sun goes down—doesn’t she?”
“Stop, please, stop.” Ven clapped his hands over his ears.
Whiting shook his head. “The captain warned you not to go there at night, didn’t he?”
You do not want to go to the Crossroads Inn at night. Do you understand what I am saying? Don’t start out on the road after the sun begins to go down.
Ven turned his back and leaned his head against the damp dungeon wall behind his bed.
“Leave me alone,” he said weakly.
Behind him he heard a sympathetic sigh.
“I know this is distressing, lad, but you must be strong and hold to your courage. The Snodgrasses have been kind to you, but for an evil purpose; they want you to live in their shoddy inn where they can keep you at the ready to call the Floating Island whenever Trudy’s unnatural health begins to fail. Doubtless you would have been happy to do so until the day when the first of your friends disappeared, the victim of that Revenant’s evil hunger. That’s what happens to the travelers who stay at the Crossroads Inn. Sooner or later they become food for the Revenants. Or they become Revenants themselves—which is why they cannot leave, like that Singer who is always on the hearth. The sailors on his ship all know this—why do you think they are all so afraid of her?
“Fortunately for you, I was traveling on the Serelinda with you; I can save you from this path of death, and undeath that you are unwittingly on. I will get you out of here today—though it’s dark in here, it’s only noon now. I alone have the power to drop the charges and have you released. We will hide at the White Fern Inn until night falls. Under cover of darkness we will hurry to Kingston Harbor and set sail away from this place.” Mr. Whiting inhaled deeply. “And I will take you home.”
Home. The word rang in Ven’s ears above the dripping water and the harsh tones of Whiting’s voice. In his mind he was suddenly back on the wharf in Vaarn, trailing along behind his father, watching his brothers and sister in the course of their work building ships, hurrying home to his mother in order not to be late for tea.
His chest squeezed so tightly it ached, bringing the sting of water to his eyes.
Home.
Slowly Ven turned around.
“You’ll take me home?” he asked shakily. “Home to Vaarn?”
Whiting nodded. “Yes. All the way to Vaarn.”
“My friends, too?”
The man nodded again. “We will stop on the way to
the harbor and have them released from Kingston jail. They can sail with us.” He smiled at the grateful light that was beginning to shine on Ven’s face, then his expression became serious. “But they will need to remain on the ship while we are on the Floating Island, of course. We can’t risk too much weight.”
Ven felt his ears pop.
“The Floating Island?” he asked. “We are going to the Floating Island? Why?”
The warm look on Whiting’s face faded, and he blinked.
“We should check on it, don’t you think?” he said quickly. “Who knows what might have happened to it when Snodgrass was there? For all we know, he might have even poisoned the water.”
Ven took hold of the bars of the cell, trying not to think about the sight of Oliver bending over the tiny silver stream. There had been respect in the sea captain’s gestures as he poured blue liquid from the diamond vial into the moss, then refilled it with the Living Water.
His own voice rang in his memory.
Captain, I thought you said we weren’t to take anything from the island.
Oliver had walked away, not looking back.
This place needs the water I bring it. It comes from a well that the wind cannot reach, a well from before history. A form of water that is as rare as the water of this spring. That water helps keep the island alive, in some respects. In return, I take a small amount of water from the silver spring, for my own purposes.
What do you do with it? Ven had asked.
Enough questions for today, Ven.
Down the hallway a jangling of keys could be heard.
Mr. Whiting looked quickly over his shoulder.
“All right, now, Ven, time to go. I will have the jailer release you, and then we must hurry if we are to make it to town in time to free your friends before we sail. We don’t want the sun to go down before we get through the crossroads, now, do we?”