Natural Magic

Chapter 38 - Assault

Trevor floated on the edge of dreams. One moment in reality seeded a kaleidoscope of visions, to fold like an ornate fan again before reality. The shouts of industry, rolling barrels, intruded on his sleep like wooden thunder as he meandered the dividing line to the dream realm.

The swaying of his hammock in time with his breathing and the rolling of the ship became the heartbeat of his private world. The shouting became louder and less infrequent. It colored his visions with sharp red angles. He stirred, opening his eyes.

It was full night. There was only the bone glow of moonlight slicing through his room’s porthole. He realized his friends had neglected to remove his glasses when putting him to bed. Unfortunately this earned him a clear image of the merfolk face glowering down at him.

After the sulfur stink of the port, the smell of the merfolk approached rancid from the other direction. It was relatively subtle, a slimy fish pit. The frowning grouper face, edged with spiked scales, studied Trevor with a flicker of intelligence, like movement under placid depths. It was staring at Trevor’s throat.

Trevor screamed and thrashed. The merfolk lunged.

His hammock closed in around him, fending off the sloppy grab. The webbing bounced as the two struggled together, Trevor screaming and the merfolk glubbing. It drew its stone knife. Trevor’s struggling upended him onto the floor.

He started crawling around the desk on his elbows in the dark, hoping to circumnavigate the threat and make it to the door. He heard a series of wet slaps behind him, followed by a thunk of a stone point being driven an inch into a wood floor where his foot had just been.

His leg was immobilized. It might have missed his foot, but his clothes were now nailed to the floor. A rough, cold, wet hand gripped his calf. Trevor screamed again.

Feeling for the top of his desk, he pulled a hand hold which instantly gave way. A drawer. Something fell out of it onto the floor. It was an oblong leather thing, an ornate handle glinting in the moonlight. His quill knife.

He looked back at the merfolk, pulling itself along Trevor’s prone body. He looked back at the beautiful knife.

With a groan, he grabbed it out of its sheath and shoved it into the merfolk, which screamed and let him go. Trevor made a grab for the knife pinning him. It was too deep into the wood.

He curled himself around it, putting his back to the frantic attacker, hoping it would stay focused on its own injury. Putting two hands on the handle, he gave a mighty heave, and the point came free. A clatter behind him told Trevor the merfolk had dislodged the quill knife and discarded it, so he stood and made a few hopping lopes to the door.

Before he could grab the handle, it started to open. He ducked behind it as it swung inward, standing in the space it made of the adjacent corner of the room.

He heard the merfolk he had stabbed hiss. Through the crack between the door and the wall, he got a good look at it. It crawled around on its two arms, as there was a fish tail where legs would be on most anyone else. It was a dark blueish-green, and was wet with a dark ink substance Trevor realized was its blood. It bared irregular, sharp fishy teeth at whatever had entered the room.

“Where is he?!” the interloper shouted. It was Cookie. He heard slow, meaty slaps. He was hitting his fist into his other hand, Trevor decided.

“What didja do wit’im?!”

He watched the merfolk sit up as if on knees and bare its claws. In a flash, the merfolk was tackled by what Trevor could only describe as a greasy, bearded barrel as Cookie sprang into view and grappled with the merfolk.