The Floating Island

  At the bottom of the pile Saeli began to laugh, an odd, scratchy sound that was so infectious that both Clemency and Ven joined in. Char and Ida struggled to remain straight-faced but eventually lost control, and within a few moments the entire pile of children was laughing uncontrollably.

  “What sort of nonsense is this?” demanded a harsh voice above them.

  They looked up to see Maurice Whiting atop his beautiful white horse, glaring down at them.

  “Nothing, Mr. Whiting,” said Ven evenly.

  “I cannot believe my eyes,” said Mr. Whiting. “You are out of jail? How can that be?”

  “By order of the king, that’s how,” Char piped up from within the pile of bodies.

  Whiting’s eyes narrowed into gleaming slits in the dusk. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He kicked the horse savagely and rode over to the front door of the inn.

  “Let’s rebury this thing and get out of here,” Ven said hurriedly. “I don’t want to leave him alone with Mrs. Snodgrass.”

  Quickly they pushed the dirt back into the hole. Ven found that again his Nain heritage helped, as the ground moved easily beneath his hands, so naturally filling in where it had been disturbed that a few moments later it was impossible to see where the hole had been.

  “See?” Clemency said importantly. “I told you Ven would be a natural at digging.”

  “Let’s get back to the inn,” Ven said.

  “Wait,” said Clem. “Bow your heads—I want to bless the ground.”

  While Clemency was praying, Ven looked up out of the corner of his eye at Ida. The girl was standing with her head upright, but her arms were casually at her sides, not crossed in front of her or on her hips as they usually were, and her face had lost its insolent expression. She seemed to be listening carefully for the first time he had noticed since he met her.

  “Your turn, Saeli,” Clem said.

  The small girl nodded, then closed her eyes. A moment later a small carpet of forget-me-nots and yarrow appeared, blending in with the rest of the grass of the field in the dark.

  And lingered there.

  When the flowers did not wither, Clemency turned in the direction of the small cemetery.

  “Rest in peace, Gregory,” she called.

  Then the five of them hurried back to the inn, the light of the bright star Seren, shining down on the place where the box was buried, giving way to the first ray of sun, turning the silver road golden.

  30

  What Came of It

  THE HEARTH FIRE WAS BLAZING INSIDE AS THEY ENTERED, BUT WAS not as hot as the words that were being exchanged between Mr. Whiting and Mrs. Snodgrass, who, though more than a head shorter than he, was standing up directly in front of him, her nostrils flaring in anger.

  “You will be payin’ for the damage your miserable hounds did to my property, Maurice Whiting,” Mrs. Snodgrass was saying coldly as the children crossed the threshold. “Every single hole will need to be filled in, every single gouge, every scratch in every door sanded and painted, every bloody bush restored.”

  “I will be doing nothing of the sort, you shrieking harpy,” Whiting retorted.

  “We found pieces of dried venison in the gardens outside the windows of Hare Warren,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. “You must have put them there to lure your dogs to Ven.”

  The inn door opened and Vincent Cadwalder entered, followed by Evan Knapp.

  “I did nothing of the sort!” shouted Whiting. “I have been at sea for six weeks, and just returned home a few days ago. I have not been anywhere near your bloody inn except in the presence of the constable. And if you slander me further I will have the constable arrest you, Mrs. Snodgrass.”

  “You are making some serious accusations, Trudy,” Evan Knapp cautioned. “What Mr. Whiting says is true—he could not have been to your inn until we came together.”

  In the corner Murphy let out a bored yawn. The old orange cat stretched lazily on the hearth until Cadwalder walked by. Then, with an impressively agile leap, he pounced on the steward of Hare Warren’s leg and began clawing at his pocket, yowling hungrily.

  “What are you doing, you bloody beggar?” shouted Cadwalder, slapping at Murphy. “Mrs. Snodgrass, get your cat off me!”

  Mrs. Snodgrass stopped glaring at Whiting and turned around. “Murphy, stop that at once,” she commanded. The cat ignored her, and continued to playfully swat at Cadwalder’s pockets until something fell out. The constable stooped and picked it up.

  “What’s this, then?” he asked, holding it up. It was brown and dried like a thick twig.

  “Venison!” Clemency shouted. “It was you that planted it outside Hare Warren, Cadwalder.”

  “And you that must’ve called Ven’s name outside the Warren that night,” Char added. “But why?”

  “Because he’s working for Whiting,” said Ida smugly. “His room has all kinds of cast-off stuff from the White Fern Inn—torn handkerchiefs and ratty towels with ferns on ’em and such.”

  Everyone in the inn stared at her.

  “And how do you know that?” Cadwalder finally demanded.

  “Because I’ve been through it,” Ida said proudly.

  “It’s locked!”

  “Please,” Ida said. She looked at Cadwalder with scorn.

  The inn was silent for a moment. Then Mrs. Snodgrass turned back to Whiting.

  “You will pay for having my inn restored to its former state, Maurice Whiting,” she said. “Additionally, I will just have to go to town and suggest to the judge that he should look into all the problems at the crossroads. So many people have died or disappeared there, it might be good to know whether or not your vicious dogs were responsible. If they are, then likely you will be arrested. And I just might file a cause of action against you for all my lost livelihood and the money you’ve cost me. Faith, I’ve fed, clothed, housed, and employed that one all his life.” She pointed angrily to Cadwalder, who shrank away. “Maybe by the time we are done, I’ll own both inns on this road.” Her eyes blazed with anger.

  “She very well might at that,” said Evan Knapp. “I suggest you do as she asks, Mr. Whiting. I will be asking for another investigation of my own.”

  Mr. Whiting glared back at her but said nothing.

  “Get out of my establishment,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. “Go whitewash your inn. Now that you no longer have to paint your dogs, there should be plenty left over. I want that building shining like the sun when the judge gives it to me.”

  Mr. Whiting snatched his hat from the peg by the door and strode over to it. On the way he passed Ven and the other children, and stopped long enough to utter a soft threat.

  “This isn’t over, Polypheme.”

  “It’s never over with men like you until you die, Mr. Whiting,” Ven said with a smile. “Fortunately, as a Nain, I will outlive you by four times over.”

  Whiting stared at him intently for a long moment. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “Perhaps not.” He stalked up the steps and slammed the inn door behind him as he left.

  Ven felt a tickle pass his legs as Murphy walked by, rubbing against him.

  “That’s two you owe me,” the cat murmured, covering the words with a purr.

  “Check the wagon,” Ven murmured back, covering his own with a cough.

  “I am sorry for your difficulties, Mrs. Snodgrass,” Evan Knapp said. “How’s your young tenant that got hurt last night? That’s what I came to find out.”

  “He’s much better,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. She pointed to the table where Nicholas sat, eating a bowl of porridge. “Especially now that the shouting has stopped and he can get back to his breakfast. You can speak to him if you like.”

  As the constable went over to the table, she bent over to scratch Murphy, who was rubbing up against her ankles, preening proudly. “Well, don’t you look like the cat that ate the canary,” she said.

  “No,” Murphy replied blandly. “If I did, there would be yellow feathers sticking out of my mouth. Excuse me; I t
hink I’ll have a look around outside. There’s a wagon I have to check on.” He winked at Ven, who winked in return, then slipped out the back door.

  “Your supper from last night is still waiting, cold,” Mrs. Snodgrass said to the five children standing near the door. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come for supper?”

  The five exchanged a glance. “We weren’t feeling much like eating last night, Mrs. Snodgrass,” Clemency said quickly. “Our stomachs were a bit unsettled.”

  “I’ll say,” muttered Char.

  “Oh, you poor dears. Well, Felitza is warming up your soup. I hope you feel better.” She bustled away, humming to herself.

  Ven, Clemency, Char, Saeli, and Ida waited until the constable had finished talking to Nicholas, then came over to the tables where he sat.

  “I really am glad that you are better, Nick,” Ven said as Felitza came in, carrying their warmed-over soup.

  “Thanks,” said Nicholas. “I’m just glad those dogs didn’t shred my message packet, since the message in there is for you, Ven.”

  “What?”

  Nicholas unwound the cord on the ripped leather bag and reached inside. He pulled out a piece of oilcloth sealed with wax. At the sight of the seal Ven began to tremble.

  It was the Polypheme family crest.

  “The harbormaster said that some sort of huge bird—an albatross maybe?—had been circling the docks for hours. Finally it dropped this letter on the deck of a ship in port and flew away out to sea again. The captain of that ship gave the letter to the harbormaster, and he in turn sent for me to bring it to you.” Nicholas handed him the letter. “It’s got your name on it.”

  Ven nodded numbly. He recognized his father’s spidery script.

  “Wh—why does this bird keep following me?” he wondered aloud.

  His hand trembled as he broke the wax seal on the letter and opened it. His eyes wandered over the words, but they made no sense to his mind over the pounding of his heart. He swallowed, then read each word slowly.

  * * *

  Ven,

  First and foremost, our lives have been blessed with many good days, but your mother and I have never been happier than the day your message came on the wind. At first I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me or some deceit of a wandering magician, but when I heard you apologize for losing the ship, I knew it really came from you. Silly lad. As if you had a choice in what you did. We understand, and we are proud that you found a way to fight back in an unwinnable situation. I give you permission to stop worrying about this now. In fact, consider that an order.

  Second, you will be happy to know that Captain Faeley and many of your friends from the Angelia were spared from a watery grave. They were able to jump free of the ship before it exploded, and made it to the lifeboats. They believe that it was your actions that gave them this chance. The survivors are safe and well. Lodging was offered to them in Vaarn, but they were in a hurry to get back to sea again—something about chasing the wind or some other such nonsense. Anyway, they lived. So take that off your conscience as well.

  You were too young to remember when your brother Alton was little, but he used to be extremely fond of making tin soldiers. Quite talented at it, too. I gave him the position of Chief Modelmaker to put that strength of his to use in manufacturing. Jaymes has always loved to paint, and so now he paints ships. Brendan liked to cook, to boil things until they turned into slag, which is why I put him in charge of making pitch. I’ve always tried to use my children’s talents and interests in the areas that I needed in my factory, so they would be both good at what they did, and happy at it.

  Try to puzzle out how I was planning to put your talents to work. I’m certain you will have figured it out before we see each other next.

  And all of us, your brothers and sister, your mother and I, we all look forward to seeing you again. But before you jump onto the next ship to sail back across the world, you should take the time to decide what you want to do next.

  You’re at a crossroads in your life, my boy, a place of decision-making. A moment of truth, so to speak. There are many paths you can choose, many opportunities in front of you. You’re old enough now to set out on your own, to make your way in the world, to see its wonders. I wouldn’t be much of a father if I didn’t realize that might be the calling of your heart. Listen to that call.

  Make your way in the world, lad. Do whatever you must, take whatever opportunity comes, but come home and see us when you can.

  With great relief in the knowledge that you are alive,

  And pride that you are my son, I remain,

  Your affectionate father,

  Pepin Polypheme

  PS—Your letter came via albatross. The bird appears to be waiting to take a reply back to you. It is sitting on top of the house, making your mother and most of the neighborhood nervous, so I will keep this message short.

  PPS—I hope that the jack-rule survived your ordeal. If you see things as they appear through its lens, you are taking measure of the world correctly.

  * * *

  “Well, you children must be exhausted,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. “You are also covered with dirt. Go to the well, now, and wash up.” She tapped Ven on the shoulder as he walked by, and handed him a wet towel. “And you, young man—you’re a terrifyin’ sight. Wash that filthy face, laddie.”

  Ven grinned and rubbed the damp cloth over his face, then handed it back to her and started out for the well once more. Mrs. Snodgrass’s brows drew together disapprovingly, and she stopped him again and wiped his face herself. She started scrubbing hard, as if Ven had pitch stuck to his face. Then her eyes opened wide, and she broke into a delighted smile.

  “Why, young Master Polypheme, ’tis no dirt that’s darkening your chin! Faith, you’ve sprouted a beard!”

  * * *

  She whirled me around and led me over to the tavern, where there was a large looking glass behind the bar. In my shock I stumbled into Otis, the bartender, but he merely stepped aside and allowed me to stare at myself.

  And there it was.

  A single whisker protruded from the bottom half of my chin.

  From out of the corner of my eye I saw McLean smile to himself. I didn’t know if when he blessed my beard the day before he had done so by accident, or had known somehow that it would be coming today. Or perhaps in speaking about it, calling it by its name, he had used some power to bring it forth from deep within my chin where it was sleeping. In any event, I could feel his smile all the way across the room.

  I looked back into the looking glass again and couldn’t help but grin myself. If a man’s beard is the story of his life among the Nain, I suppose this was a sign that my tale was under way.

  And even though it was only a single whisker, I think, in all due modesty, that it looked well on me.

  * * *

  “So will you be staying in Hare Warren for a while, Ven?” Mrs. Snodgrass asked. “Or will you be going home?”

  Ven remembered what McLean had said.

  Home is where you decide to stay. Where you decide to fight for what matters to you. A man can have many homes, but he has to be willing to stand up and call them his own. Then he is never again uncertain whether he has one or not.

  * * *

  It’s nice, when you’ve come to believe that you’ve lost your only home, to discover that you have two.

  * * *

  “I believe I will be doing both, Mrs. Snodgrass,” he said. “But for now, I’m going to stay.”

  31

  The Royal Reporter

  * * *

  The next morning found me at Elysian Castle once more, standing before the king in his puzzle room. I had come to give him my answer—that I was honored to accept the position of Royal Reporter, and would be happy to act as his eyes and ears out in the world, looking for the magic hidden there.

  * * *

  KING VANDEMERE LEANED FORWARD IN HIS CHAIR. “THE FIRST TIME we discussed this, you asked me what I was looki
ng for out in the world. I need to ask you the same thing, Ven. What are you looking for?”

  Ven thought for a moment. His mind was still reeling with all that had happened, so he thought back to before his birthday, to what he had been wishing for on all the days before that.

  “I’m looking for the Ultimate Adventure,” he said. “I want to see the world, too, the way you do, Your Majesty. But, you see, unlike you, I am hoping to find something specific out there.”

  “The Ultimate Adventure?”

  “Yes—something that is so momentous, so perfect, so utterly thrilling that it finally satisfies my curiosity for good. Something so amazing that the itch goes away. I have no idea what that would be, or where—but I have this feeling down deep in my guts that it’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to find it.”

  “And then, when you find it, what will you do?” the king asked.

  “Be happy, I suppose,” Ven said. “Or at least satisfied. And I expect I will have seen enough magic along the way to have stories to tell for the rest of my life, even if my beard never grows in any more than this.”

  The king smiled broadly. “Well, this works out well for both of us, then. I will pay to allow you to travel in search of that adventure, and in return you can report everything you see back to me.”

  Ven thought about it. “I’d like that,” he said finally.

  “Then you accept?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Ven said, the words still seeming unreal. “I accept.”

  King Vandemere smiled broadly. “Excellent!” He rang for a page, who entered the room a moment later, bearing a large silver tray on which a book with a blue leather binding lay, its edges trimmed in gold. The king reached out as the page approached and snatched the book from the tray. He tossed it to Ven.