-11-
The Drop
Eight years later, Sebolt
The horizon was clear again today. No fleet of ships approached the coastline and storm clouds weren't rolling in to threaten the fire buoys, though Whik had seen a pod of dolphins come dangerously close to the floating objects that bobbed among the waves. He dangled his legs over the ledge of the outpost and curiously watched Carter, who pecked at his breakfast in the grass below. The tail of the mouse wiggled in wide circles as Carter ripped it open and spat out its fur. Lana just watched the falcon eat as she chewed on the grass, testing the limits of her tether.
Whik would never forget the day Marg led him into the stable and revealed the brown-coated mare that he would call his own. Lana and Carter grew up with him in Tannuchi. Whether out of jealousy or boredom, Carter would often swoop down and peck at Lana's mane. He had to keep the two separate when he was watching the coast, but they'd always find a way back to one another and cause trouble.
Whik's legs, which once featured torn and tattered pants as a child, were now lined with muscled shins, muddy breeches, and a pouch full of fernwillow buds. A thin layer of facial hair agitated his jawline. Blond strands fell over his eyes. Yet eight years had not taken away the youthful wonder and intrigue that he had felt when the mist cleared and unveiled the shores of Sebolt. He got the same feeling, of excitement and of marvel, when he stared out into the ocean and imagined seeing the island for the first time as a boy.
The sun had burnt Whik again today from hours of sitting in the wooden tower and watching the fire buoys for any sign of light. His lips felt coarse and flaky as he ran his finger around them, picking at the chapped skin. He cursed himself for not listening to Charlotte when she told him the cream of the lassidwater flower would do wonders for chapped lips.
The planks of the outpost were marked with countless tallies and the day the counts ended would be the day peace ended for Sebolt. The town guard had set up rotations for the scouts. Whik always chose the morning hours so he could do what he wished with the rest of his day. The task was simple enough; he was to sit in the outpost until midday and watch with squinted eyes for any flames on the horizon. If a ship approached the shore, the guard in the dinghy would light the fire buoy and signal Whik to pull a rope with all his might. The tug would send vibrations down the suspended rope that ran through the forest, ringing dozens of alarm bells scattered from the cliff to Tannuchi's main guard post.
The alarm had sounded only once, when Carl Fisher thought he saw a ship, but instead it was a wandering school of silver-scaled fish. He would never live the mistake down. Whenever the children of the town passed him, they puckered their lips and flapped their arms like a fish. Carl would just shake his head and walk to the tavern for a much-needed pint. Whik would never join in the bullying. He knew all too well what that felt like.
He was thankful to hear the crunching of leaves and the humming of Halloh Baker behind him. The young man rode through the forest with his steed to relieve Whik of his duty. "It's a hot one today," Halloh shouted as he approached the outpost.
Whik climbed down the ladder, took one last stare at the horizon, and considered his job done. "It sure is," he told Halloh, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
"Anything good this morning?"
"The usual. The most exciting thing was when Carter chased a mouse right off the cliff side, then swooped down in time and snatched it up."
"Damn," Halloh said, dropping his satchel near the ladder. "If that bird isn't remarkable, I don't know what is. Have you trained him to fetch you a pipe yet? I'm sure he could scout out enough fernwillow buds to make you see a dozen fleets on the horizon."
"I'm not trying to pull a Carl," Whik joked.
"You and I both. Enjoy your day. I'll be here burning to a crisp."
"It's not all that bad if you stay in the shade. Too bad it's such a trek down the cliff side. A dip every so often would do the trick."
"Then there would be no one here to protect the island from imminent danger. Who's out on the dinghy today?"
"Torra Grimley." Whik looked to the ground. He wished Halloh wouldn't have asked.
"That boy's had it rough. First Tully drowns and then a boar skews the woman looking after him. That family wasn't meant to have good luck."
"Perhaps," Whik said. Torra had said the water made him feel closer to his brother, so he insisted to take to the sea whenever he had the choice. Whik was reminded of Tully's death every day. "I'll see you for the feast tonight."
"I nearly forgot about the feast. This is going to be the longest shift ever. Can't tell a man to sit on an outpost while there's roasted fowl on the spit."
Whik was tired of conversing, so he picked up his bag and mounted Lana. Halloh waved his hand and chomped down on the piece of straw sticking out of his mouth before saying, "Save me some boar!"
The breeze and the shade of the forest calmed Whik's hot skin. He always enjoyed the ride back to Tannuchi, with the chattering of wildlife and sounds of swaying pines. If he were feeling adventurous, he would ride to the beach and practice shooting his slingshot with weathered pebbles. There was no time for that today, so he followed the ropes and bells.
He examined each ringer, looking for cracks in the pottery or creatures that would try to declare it home and muffle the ring. The guardsmen always looked to him to repair them. The job was tedious and rough on the hands, but Whik didn't mind feeling needed. That's what I get for being able to climb.
Whik forced his horse to a gallop in between the hanging outposts. He rode past Gordon's dilapidated cabin and the plots they had dug years ago for their fallen. The incident with Gordon felt like it happened a lifetime ago. Too much has changed. Geoffrey Marg lived in Eckrondale now, the northernmost city on the island. Whik had visited him countless times and often considered moving there, but Charlotte wouldn't leave Tannuchi.
The years didn't go by without incident. When Whik was eleven, a case of spotted fever swept across the island. Dozens passed by the time Frankford Millstone created a remedy for it. Even Charlotte fell ill with it, but she fought through and recovered. Others weren't so lucky. Margarie Govney was in bed for nearly a year. Marly, one of the town guards, witnessed his entire family die from the disease. For a while, the town thought another plague had been unleashed, but soon enough they had it under control.
Whik kissed a girl for the first time when he was thirteen. Her name was Kaily and she was beautiful. The kiss was awkward and sloppy, but soon enough they learned how to do it better. Whik saw her every day for a year, until her father found out. She told Kaily that she wasn't fit to marry an orphan, so the family uprooted and moved to Ashwood, a day's ride from Tannuchi. Whik snuck a visit in once in a while, but the distance took its toll and Kaily met someone else.
When he was fourteen, Whik broke his leg while climbing to check the ringers. He was in bed for weeks, but Frankford put all sorts of ointment and braces on him and soon enough he was climbing and riding again. He read Coliasus while he was resting. The book was violent and sad, but it told the story of Sonora's people, so he took in every word. He promised himself that before he died he would visit the isles of Kolos, to see the slaves for himself.
At fifteen, Whik rode the entire length of the island, taking a census for Geoffrey Marg. Their population had grown by a few dozen, though many of the young fell to early illness. There was nothing Frankford could do about that.
Still, the years passed like clockwork. At times Whik nearly forgot about the Larks, but there were always reminders to bring them up again. The way Charlotte watched him when he groomed Lana, like a mother proud of her son, but not quite. He remembered the Larks again when Tully died, but it was best not to think of that. The guilt was too much.
Whik checked the last ringer and rode back to Tannuchi. When he reached the stable, he tethered Lana to her post and tossed some horse-mash into her trough. It was a blend of pure peas and beans that Charlotte had baked. Whik always insisted Lana couldn't tell the difference between horse-mash and plain oats and that Charlotte was just wasting food fit for humans. Lana is just another child to her. She'd feed the birds our stew if they came close enough.
Pulling the stable door shut, Whik fastened the latch and headed towards the woodpile. He loaded a wheelbarrow with the driest of logs. The barrow swayed from side to side as Whik guided the cart down the dirt slope beside the forest. He cursed as a piece flew from the container and scraped the side of his leg, tiny splinters sticking into his skin.
He stopped and gazed out from the hill that overlooked his town. One thing will never change around here. He followed the sharp lines of the fissure parting the clouds that he felt partly responsible for. The damned hole in the sky.
The hill swooped into a shallow gradient and converged in a valley where Whik's cabin sat. Charlotte insisted they move into the cabin outside of the town when she first put eyes on it. Geoffrey Marg had urged her to stay in the walls of the town, for Whik's sake if not for her own, but Whik liked the cabin. It was small and quaint, but it was theirs.
Lush grass splashed across the terrain until it met the side of Tannuchi's wooden gates. The midday sun warmed the back of his neck as he reached into the barrow and placed five pieces of wood into his arms, one by one until the splinters poked at his skin. With a swift kick of his foot and help from the breeze, he pushed the cabin door open. The sharp angle of light darted across the entrance and illuminated a small kitchen table cluttered with clay pots and mixing bowls. Whik lifted his leg and slid a small tripod stool from the middle of his path.
"Whik, is that you?" Charlotte's voice still held some of its youthful charm, but the raspy undertone caused by her coughing bouts had clouded its purity. Whik had told her that she smoked far too many fernwillow buds, but Charlotte would not listen.
"Bringing in more wood for the fire."
"Ah, hurry! It's nothing but coals now and the stew needs more heat."
And your legs no longer work? He smiled to himself and walked across the kitchen floor, placing the logs inside the hearth like they were pieces of a puzzle. The coals glimmered with red and yellow as if he had woken them from a slumber. A translucent critter darted from one of the knots in the wood and scurried between two floorboards.
Charlotte entered the kitchen and threw a sheepskin vellum onto the table. "Whik, take a look at this." Whik brushed some splinter fragments from his arms. "Early this morning, I was in town and a courier dropped off this map to Frankford. He's been busy these past few weeks with some new project, so I asked him if I could get the first look at this map."
Whik watched as her hazel eyes scanned the calfskin back and forth, affirming that she had indeed found something of interest. "This map was found on the corpse of a young boy, a couple miles west of Eckrondale. Poor thing must have been alone in the forest. They found him curled up under a tree with this in his hand. It looks like a sketch from the early days of the island."
For a second Whik grew light-headed. The blurry talons of his eyelashes seemed to grow in size and overwhelm his sight, leaving nothing but a hazy film where his vision was once clear.
"Whik? Whik, are you okay?"
Charlotte looked worried. "It happened again, didn't it?"
Yes, it's getting worse. "No, I just got lightheaded."
"You sure about that?" He knew Charlotte didn't buy it for a second. "Whik, your nose."
Whik reached his hand up to the base of his nostril and felt a thin coat of glossy blood on the tip of his finger. He hadn't seen the phantom boy in seven years or so, since childhood, but his episodes of dizziness and nosebleeds had followed him through adolescence. The boy had shown up in odd places, at odd times. Whik remembered getting aggravated that the boy wouldn't stop following him. Whik even threw pebbles at him once, but nothing seemed to change.
He wiped the blood on his pants leg and refocused his energy on the map. "I'm fine. So, what's so interesting about this map?"
Charlotte held her glare for a few seconds as if she was going to address the unexpected episode, but eventually turned her attention to the map. "Tannuchi, there, is marked on the map, but the expansion of the town isn't on here." She pointed to a cluster of black lines in the south half of the island that formed the square boundaries of their town. "That means it must have been drawn less than a year after we arrived on the island."
"Go on..."
"Why would a child be carrying a map? An outdated one at that? We've never exactly had an abundance of them. And why would he be carrying it in the vacant woods of the western part of the island?"
"Maybe he was sent to fetch some medicine. The fernwillows grow out there, as I'm sure you are aware." Whik pulled a stool up to the table. "They don't know who the boy belongs to? Maybe his father gave it to him."
"Ridgewood is the closest town to where they found the body. Everyone is accounted for there. The Two Cities haven't reported any missing children either. Surely we would have heard if one of our own went missing."
"Things have been hectic lately," Whik said. "You remember when I would run off for hours on end?"
"How could I forget?"
Whik looked back to the map. "Your interest in old things really astounds me. I am surprised you are not more self-centered."
"Whik Winfield, are you calling me old?" Charlotte scowled and put a hand on her hip.
Whik laughed and said, "You're still young in my book… or map… or sheepskin… or whatever you spend your days staring at."
Charlotte rolled up the map and placed it inside a leather case. She stood from her stool. "I, for one, think this is a magnificent find."
"Did the guards tell you anything more about where they found it?"
"No. And you know what they did to the corpse?" Whik shook his head. "Nothing! They were going to leave the poor child to rot against a tree, or have his remains eaten by a wolf. I laid into them all right. I finally pressured them into returning tomorrow and giving the boy a proper burial. We've done everything we could to create a place here that can breed good people, but some always slip through the net. You're lucky I raised you and not some other wench."
Charlotte laughed, but then looked to the table. Whik knew exactly why. He hadn't spoken of his mother in years, but Charlotte never left his side and never brought her up. Charlotte was the mother he otherwise wouldn't have had.
Whik pushed the nostalgic feeling away. "Not everyone puts others in front of themselves like you do."
"You're learning. You want me to put myself first? Fine, you can carry the pot of stew to the tavern while I meet with Frankford. My arms are still marked with the burns from the last time I tried to haul that thing."
"Every time you make me carry this into town it seems like the pot grows in size and weight."
"It's good for you," Charlotte said, walking to the fireplace and grabbing the stew pot handle with a sleeve of deer hide.Soon enough the duo descended the path towards Tannuchi. From his elevated vantage point, Whik could see past the outer blockade and into the hundreds of buildings scattered within the township. Funnels of smoke rose from the chimneys and intertwined, dancing towards the intersection point between the first layer of clouds and the roofs of the hovels. When Whik and Charlotte approached the gates, familiar eyes stared at them.
"Well looker the wind's blown in," one of the guards shouted from atop his outpost.
Charlotte lifted her arms and laughed. "Jeral, don't act like you aren't excited to see us."
"Wouldn't be a normal day if you twos didn't greet my gates twice ‘fore sundown."
Jeral stood atop Tannuchi's gates like he was ruling a kingdom. His head may be full of mush, but he always has our backs. Jeral had lost it all during the invasion. Whik stayed up to the wee hours of the night weeks earlier and conversed with the town guardsman. Jeral had nothing left but the sight in his eyes and emptiness in his heart. He told Whik if he couldn't watch over his own children, he would watch over the children of Tannuchi. And so he dropped his sorrow and picked up his pike, pacing the walls of their town day and night.
Whik maneuvered the stew pot, which was now oozing with beefy broth, through the entrance. Children emerged from behind some hay bales and ran up to the pot with wide eyes. "Out of here," Whik told the children, who licked their lips.
Charlotte parted ways. "Drop the stew off and meet me in Frankford's study? Oh, and Whik, don't let Margarie Govney keep my stew pot this time!"
Whik nodded and continued on his way, abruptly halting as a child ran much too close to the still-hot cauldron. Nothing better to do than run around like chickens.
Whik heard the chatter of the tavern's guests from across the dirt path. The noise was amplified when Marty Baker stumbled out of the tavern doors and into the light of day, squinting as he flung his hands to his eyes.
"Is that Whik Winfield?" he slurred, nearly falling into the fence.
"No, Marty. No Whik around here."
Marty grunted, his face scrunched like a wrinkly pup. "You are Whik," he mumbled. "Curse all ya." He threw his hands in the air as he stumbled past Whik, who just shook his head and opened the doors to the tavern.
Fernwillow smoke rose from the pipes of old men. Whik tried not to cough. The bar patrons were probably seeing all sorts of things that weren't really there. Marty had been kicked out countless times for insisting there were seaslugs in his mead, but somehow he always found his way back into the tavern, pipe in hand.
A loud pop shot out from the fire in the hearth, startling the three women who were rolling dice in front of it. They erupted into laughter when one of them kicked over her mug. Dark beer pooled around the floorboards.
Margarie was grinning when Whik walked up to the tavern bar. She flashed yellow teeth and thick lips. "Look what we have here!" she shouted. Whik could never understand how she could drink so much. She was never without a beer, even when she was serving her customers.
"Some stew from Charlotte," Whik told her. He nearly spilled the stewpot when two men stumbled past him.
"Bring it around back," she said. "You have time for a drink?"
"I would, but have to go meet Frankford."
"Ah, nonsense." Margarie shook her head, her three chins jiggling back and forth. It always made Whik laugh to see her so merry, whether it was from the strong mead or not. She had watched five of her children burn alive in the invasion of Hemonstalia, and she deserved as many drinks as she wanted after that. "The boy will have but one."
Whik set the stew pot down on a stone slab and eyed the red streaks across his hands. He managed to burn himself again today. The deed was worth it, though. The tavern would be able to feed the entire town tonight. Laina Cull was cooking up five boars, Jasper was plucking the chickens and Tip Harlow said he'd brought fourteen seasparrows back from the coast, though Tip was known for lying and he had a poor shot. It was probably more like five birds and Jasper would cook the chickens for far too long. Yet if every family brought what they could, the town would enjoy a feast.
Margarie threw a stein of mead onto the oak counter and leaned over the bar. Her shirt was cut far too low for someone her age. Whik wasn't sure what was more repulsive: her grime-stained teeth or sagging cleavage.
"Thanks, Margarie. Too kind."
"Anything for you, dear. So when are you going to teach an old lady how to shoot a bow?"
"When you're sober enough to hold one."
She threw her head back and let out a deep laugh. Whik rolled his eyes and picked up the stein. He could feel the foamy head cling on to his lips as he swished the cool liquid around in his mouth. Anyone could doubt Margarie Govney's sobriety, but none could doubt her ability to brew delicious summerwheat ale.
She circled back around and slapped Humphrey Mellow for trying to climb over the bar. "Dang vultures around here," she said, wiping down a spill. "You seen Marty out there? He downed five pints today and I haven't seen one pence for it."
"Saw him stumbling out of here just before I walked in. Halloh had to take over the outpost shift for his old man again today."
"That's because he's sloppier than a corn-stew sandwich. That man couldn't see a hole in a railing let alone a fleet of ships on the horizon."
"Not one pence?" Whik said. "When will you stop trusting him? He has no more pence than I do suits of armor."
"How'd a boy like you get so wise?" Whik knew where this conversation was headed, so he downed the rest of his mead, threw a pence on the counter, and thanked Margarie for the drink. "I'll be back tonight for the stew pot."
Whik followed the path towards Millstone's hovel, running his fingers along the edge of the fence. The Talking Tree. The tree had meandering branches, which stretched to the grassy knoll and then back towards the sky. Large green capsules couldn't contain the white intestines of the flowers sprinkled across the tree, so they spilled over the sides.
Whik walked through the gap in the fence and ascended to the base of the giant. He read from the inscription.
O'er oceans and prairies we journeyed,
Through the valley of grasses we marched.
Of trials and tribulations we endured,
All in the name of destiny,
For no such place could we call home again,
But the sacred shores of Sebolt.
Dragging his fingers along engraved letters on the sign in front of him, Whik remembered the day that Carter had fallen from its branches. His falcon was probably off scavenging the forests for rodents, or soaring along the cliff sides of Sebolt. But one deep breath and a blow from the blades of a thistlewood plant and Carter would return to him. Whik had never imagined a bird would be his most loyal friend.
∞
Halloh Baker was running out of songs to hum. He leaned against the outpost railing and squinted into the sun.He lifted a hand to smear the sweat dripping down his cheeks.
Grabbing the carving knife from his side, Hallow scraped slivers of bark off a twig in his hand. He was getting antsy. Today, of all days, was not the way he imagined spending his time. He wasn't supposed to man the outpost today, but his father couldn't hold himself up let alone trek to the outpost on the cliff.
Halloh was used to covering up his father's recklessness, the same way that alcohol was used to cover up his father's pain. Halloh had told the guardsmen that Marty came down with something, a fever or head cold perhaps, though the guardsman must have known that Marty's idea of rest was a dozen pints in Margarie's tavern.
At times Halloh blamed his mother for all of this. Perhaps if she would have fought a bit harder back in Hemonstalia, when the sickness came to take her, she would have been able to hold them all together. But she had just sulked in her room every day, throwing bloody rags at Halloh and Marty when they tried to get some sun on her face. He was glad the sickness took her before the Larks did, though he wasn't sure if the latter would have been less painful.
Halloh wondered if she would have been proud of him for manning the outpost. He thought back to the day he had asked his mother if she was afraid to die. Someone once told me about this thing we call death, she had told him. They said that in our last moments, when our eyes roll back into the dark of our sockets and everything comes to a close, we see two lives. We see the life we've led and we see the life we could have led. We see what we've done and what we could have done. So no, dear Halloh, I don't fear death. I fear knowing what I could have done with life.
It was the saddest thing that Halloh had ever heard, before his mother said that animals were gathering in her room and the roof was lifting off their house, with bright orbs taking its place.
A scream ripped Halloh from the memory. When he saw Torra Grimley feverishly paddling towards the shore and the fire buoys lit on the horizon, Halloh thought he was having a hallucination of his own. He jumped up, threw a hand to his eyebrow, and looked to the horizon. Had Torra really lit the beacon?
"Halloh." The voice came from below, a low and grizzly hum. Halloh peered over the ledge. Hands wrapped around his ankles and pulled him from the outpost.
He moaned in pain as he hit the ground. The butt of his whittling knife stuck out from just below his knee, blood rising from his skin like a hot spring. The shock of blade against bone made him bite his tongue. He tried to lift his neck and spot the rope that would signal the alarm bells, but his attacker kicked the knife deeper into his leg and his vision blurred.
"Sorry, Halloh. You've served us well."
The last thing Halloh saw, before the man in the canvas mask knelt over him and put a dagger to his throat, was the dangling rope of the alarm bells that would never sound through the forest.
Author's Note: Poor Halloh. I really liked him, so it was a bit tough "casting him off" to whatever fate this masked man delivered
If you're wondering if you'll see young Whik again, don't worry, you will. Part Three will switch back to his story.
Who do you think the masked man is? There's clearly a rat hiding amongst the survivors, but who could it be? If you enjoyed this chapter, please don't forget to vote!