Wretch on the Beach

 

“Wretch on the Beach”

     Scout lies on his stomach propped up on his elbows.

     He wipes the dust and smudges from the lens of his monocular and trains it on the shoreline. This is the fourth day since he began studying the enemy’s forces on the coastline.  He has watched the tide recede steadily into the Fellink Sea. 

     Earlier this morning was the first time he noticed a piece of driftwood washed ashore.  It lies motionless just a hundred yards away from the enemy’s boats.  Brought in by the tide, it waits for the tide to return and take it adrift once again.

     Scout inspects the driftwood with the monocular.  Unless his mind and eye deceive him, what Scout thought was stray piece of driftwood could be a corpse.  What may have been branches shooting off the driftwood are in fact limbs splayed out in uncomfortable angles.

     It must be a corpse.  It has been lying very still on the shoreline since before the crack of dawn. 

     Even after acquiescing the fact that there’s no life in this body, Scout can’t help but wonder.  He can’t see the chest rising and falling even with the magnification of the monocular.  If the pitiable wretch wore clothes, they are torn to shreds and plastered against the skin, adhered by a layer of salt water so thick that it’s indiscernible from flesh.  The body bears no indication of this creature’s allegiance. 

They could be a sailor tossed overboard during a storm.

They could be a pirate who conspired to mutiny and found themselves overboard.

They could be an unfortunate traveler who was separated at sea.

They could have been part of the Sapphire Wyrm’s crew who suffered some unenviable fate at sea.  If this is the case, Scout shouldn’t mourn the loss of one of his enemies.  Still, his focus is centered on the brine-covered wretch and the stories they could tell and the dreams they had which are now relinquished.

His mind wanders whether he wills it or not.

Reining himself back to the task at hand, Scout crawls to a nearby shrubbery.  Beneath the foliage are a loaded crossbow and a duffel bag containing other essential gear. Scout rifles through the bag and produces a leaf of parchment, a slate of smooth wood, and a stick of charcoal. 

He studies the coastline dutifully and begins the patient work of etching a map the shore, the bluffs that overlook it, the woods that flank it, and the boats of the Sapphire Wyrms that are beached a little over a hundred yards to the north.

The work isn’t great.  His hand smudges the charcoal, the distances are approximate at best, and he isn’t the greatest artist.  Still, it will help inform the Duke about how to best defend against the assault from the Wyrms. 

Once he has finished etching his approximations on parchment, he'll need to reposition himself and begin surveying the enemy camp on the coast to make his report as thorough as possible. 

As he continues his work, his mind returns to that unfortunate shape on the shoreline.  His eyes visit the shape of their own volition as he surveys the shoreline.  They also spot dark shapes in the clear blue sky to the south.

Just as vultures hover over the steppes that border the Khemar desert, hoping to find some waylaid mortal who is without water for too long, so do the Penestelle raptors survey the shoreline in search of organic refuse.

Good for them, Scout thinks as he trains the monocular on the angular forms that swoop from the heavens toward the corpse.  Vicious birds need to eat too.

As they descend, their silhouetted forms become brighter and more saturated with shades of grays and of blues.  Their black beaks and razor-like talons become more visible as the avian scavengers approach the corpse.  The four birds land and encircle the unfortunate one on the beach whose bones will be washed to sea after the tide comes in.

A raptor takes two steps to the body and makes the first peck into the salt-crusted flesh. 

The corpse jerks with the impact of the tearing beak, then pulls itself free of the raptor’s clutch and begins to writhe sporadically. 

Ah, the driftwood is alive after all, Scout thinks as his nerves send a jolt of palpable fear through his limbs.  He involuntarily drops the monocular and reaches beneath the shrubbery to his loaded crossbow.

Steeling his mind and his hands, Scout resolves to intervene.  He rises to a knee and aims the steel tip of the bolt that it aligns with the raptor who took the first bite.  He notes how the wind buffets the blue and gray wings southward and adjusts his aim to account of the unfortunate distance and weather conditions.

Even as he watches the flesh being sheared from the wretch on the beach, doubt seeps into his mind.

The Blue Sapphires will notice what’s happening.  They’ll find you.  They’ll outnumber you.  You’ll capture you and torture you.  They’ll make you wish—

The bolt flies from the coastal bluff and strikes the raptor where its black beak meets its gray feathers.  Shards of beak and a gout of blood spatter out of the bird’s face and the raptors quickly observe what happened.  The three unhurt birds gaze upon the wound on their comrades and the bolt in the mud of the shoreline.  From that brief glimpse each has instinctively surmised that there’s something on the cliffs.

Those empty and vicious yellow eyes crane harmoniously to the cliffside.  Their gaze falls on Scout in a matter of seconds.  His hand fumbles within a quiver until it snatches a bolt and begins to reload.

He hears their wings beating as they approach—primordial dreadful drums that signal the advent of death’s stalwart companions.

Scout strains to pull the crossbow’s string back as he loads the next bolt.  Before the birds breach the bluff’s elevation, he drops the crossbow and dives back into his duffel bag.  He emerges with a fishing net and a hunting knife, which he promptly unsheathes.  He then stands at the edge of the bluff.

Just as the raptors are two beats of the wings away from ripping at Scout’s throat, he releases the weighted fishing net and lets it drop over the winged beasts.  One of the three notices the net and weaves through the air to avoid its snare.  Two of them are caught.

While the weight doesn’t slow them down tremendously, it halts their flight long enough to cause the raptors to plummet onto the ground.

As he’s counting heads, he notes anxiously that one of the lethal scavengers is missing.  His eyes flick to the coastline, where he sees the wounded raptor scraping at the body spitefully.

Without further hesitation, he launches himself into the fray of beating wings and tearing talons ensnared within the net.  As the trapped birds’ talons lash out with flesh-rending gashes, Scout grits his teeth and grips a head with one hand and cuts a throat with another.  He repeats this for the other ensnared bird even as the third raptor sinks all its talons into the leather armor on Scout’s back and the shoulders within.  He feels its beak searching for some purchase with which to yank out flesh on his neck, but this does little besides open interlacing vertical gashes. 

After he has slain the second bird, Scout anticipates the next slice from the beak.  His instincts command has arm to thrust behind his head, where it catches onto the inside of the bird’s beak.  It cuts against the top of his hand as it clamps shut.

He then raises the knife and cuts and jabs with it wildly until the bird has received so many lacerations that it releases its grip.

Then Scout has dropped his knife and snatched up the crossbow once more.  He locates the wounded bird torturing the body-like shape and lines up the shot as quickly as he can. The bolt is released just as the talons reach for his back again.

He doesn’t have the luxury of seeing if the bolt hit its mark. He ducks beneath the talons and rolls around in the earth until he crawls toward his knife again.  With its hilt gripped beneath white knuckles, he braces himself for the raptor’s attack.

It swoops from above and Scout flicks his wrist as he tosses the hunting knife into the breast of the winged beast.  He rolls in the earth again to avoid the plummeting corpse. 

Feeling some of the stress of situation being assuaged, he reaches once more for the crossbow and grabs a bolt to reload it.  But when he looks out to the coast, he doesn’t the fourth bird moving.  The figures of three or four men stand around the dead raptor and the possibly dead body.

He picks up his monocular and gazes at the scene with greater depth.

The wounded raptor’s gray and blue feathers are coated in a slick layer of blood.

The men on the coast are inspecting the body.  They wear leather jerkins and blue cloaks which bear the Sapphire Wyrm’s emblem.  Scout sees the body move feebly.  The men drape the salt-crusted man’s arms around their shoulders and trudge him back to the north.

Scout hastily ducks and gathers his things.  He knows the Wyrms are wondering who shot down the raptor.  He knows that if he doesn’t move now, he’ll be outnumbered and overwhelmed.  He knows that the wretch on the beach will live to sail another day.

Truce

 

“Truce”

     The ground underfoot is soft and slick, threatening to make them slip as they descend from the forested path to the bed of the creek.  The fallen leaves are drenched in dew.  Roots protrude from the muddy cliffside.  After staying the course carefully, the two at last make it to the creek bed.

     The waters pass by meekly around their boots. Downstream a way is the sound of water flowing freely down small drop offs.  Back in the day, they would come to the creek to throw stones and chip away at the daylight.  The context is different now and the urgency of their mission conflicts with the serenity of the landscape.

     One looks to the other inquiringly.

     The other points upstream fifty paces on the opposite side of the creek.  The finger indicates a hole in the slope that leads back to the forest.  It’s the kind of hole that sparks a primal sense of paranoia and caution to those who may pass it by. Within the black reaches of its darkness lurk infinite dreadful possibilities.

     They slosh through the water as quietly as their boots will let them until they reach a couple of rocks that jut out of the stream, algae flanking the stone where the current flows past.  The hole of dreaded portends is nauseatingly close, so they hunker down behind the rocks.

     “Get the mirror ready, Jess,” one says.

     With her back against the rock, she reaches a hand into the pocket of her backpack and takes out a plastic case.  She flips it open.  The foundation in the plastic has long since been used up and crusted over.  The round mirror is dotted with smudges and scratches.  Regardless, Jess gets a visual on the aperture of that dreaded hole as she angles it across the smooth glass of the water.

     Minutes turn to hours.  Discomfort turns to agony.  Jess rises from her squat and stretches, praying that no one and no thing from within that hole spots her.  The other one does the same, then they resume their stakeout.

     “Are you sure this is the place?” her skeptical friend whispers.

     “I wouldn’t have dragged you out here for fun, Art.  Just keep your voice down and keep your cattle prod ready in case one of the rogue nagas gets the jump on us.”

     Art nods fiddles with the button on his retractable cattle prod.  The prongs of the cattle prod have been replaced with blades to skewer and electrocute in one fell swoop. 

     As they continue to wait, Jess runs a mental fire drill of what happens if they’re found out.  The machete sheathed on her hip could fend off a bite from one of the serpentfolk but would do little to wound it.  She has the automatic pea-shooter, but to use it openly is to announce your presence to all who are nearby, who will undoubtedly congregate to kill, eat, imprison, or torture you.

     She’s keeping track of these contingency plans when she sees a gray-green shape emerge from the hole.

     Rays of orange from the sunset strike through the trees and shed an autumnal grace on the slithering beast as it emerges from its den.  Its scales are coated in mud and algae.  It’s almost as tall as a human even as it crawls about on its belly.  It turns its wriggling mass upstream and sets out on whatever errands it has in mind.

     As it turns, Jess gets a horrifying look at its face.  The naga’s aquiline facial features are remarkably human, even if they’re nestled between two fans that frame the head like the hood of a cobra.  Its eyes are black and seem weary.

     Jess studies the naga as it slithers upstream and crawls out of the creek bed.  It disappears into the forest on the other side.  She squints into the mirror with all the focus she can muster and sees no insignia etched onto the scales, no family crest adorning the back of the hood, no sign that the naga is affiliated with any of the clans in the city.

     “We may have really found it,” she says.

     “Then we should get moving,” Art says. 

     They’d heard the rumors about clans of the serpentfolk who live outside of the jaded coalition of overlords who live in the city.  The thought of a rogue naga was met with derision and fear back in the village, with tales of abduction and mutilation being passed around the campfire like a cigarette in a trailer park.  These rumors had little evidence to back them up.  And it's not like the rogues could be less humane than the ones in the city.

     They skip across the current as quietly as they can and reach the dark hole.  The cool dampness within fails to make the place seem more approachable.  It looks like the place where rats go to die.

     Without humoring the idea of hesitating, Art grabs an overhanging tree root to steady himself before stepping down into the darkness.  He grunts with exertion as he plants himself within.  Jess sees a hand stretch out of the hole, which she takes and holds firmly as she steps in.

     Their eyes look for one another in vain. 

     Jess grabs a flashlight from her bag and clicks it on.  A white beam illuminates murky cave walls that are carved with the pictographic language of low-born nagas.  Even the untrained eye could gaze upon those depictions of betray, ostracization, and exile and would have an idea of what the writer was trying to get across.

     Their eyes look for one another in the dim light shed outside of the flashlight’s beam.  Their trepidation is shared and palpable, as is their sense of duty.  Jess plants one foot forward and the two continue their descent into the pit.  The beam of the flashlight reveals broken beer bottles, rusted double AA batteries, discarded condoms, empty foil packages of cigarillos, and other relics.  Concave streaks in the mud below reveal where the naga or nagas have made their way through their hovel.

     The tunnel splits into three directions.  Art waits for Jess’s direction.  She turns left and rotates through the dank hole, always keeping a wall on her left side.  They explore the tunnels without finding another naga, which is great, but they also can’t find the eggs.  Not that they really know what they’re looking for, but the anxiety of the naga returning to its lair is creeping up their spines menacingly.

     They come to a round a chamber.  The ground is littered with the bones of small animals.  They wordlessly wonder if there are human bones in the mix but find little evidence in favor or against this suspicion.  Jess makes a proud stride forward before being tugged backward by her jacket.

     “Wait,” Art urges in a hoarse shout.  “Watch where you’re stepping.”

     She points the beam of the flashlight to where her foot was about to land and sees what Art means.  Lying in a pit in the mud are eight translucent eggs.  Jess bends to a crouch and shines the beam closer to the eggs.  The light permeates the eggs to reveal tiny serpentine shapes within the green murk that is enclosed by translucent shells.

     “Good call,” she whispers to Art.  But when she looks back it him, it looks like her companion is lost in thought.  She knows he’s thinking about his wife, his family, and all the others who are trapped the city to be the pets of the nagas.  She reckons he’s considering taking his boots to the eggs anyway.  Less nagas to worry about next spring.

     She hears the clicking of his cattle prod extending and locking into place.  Blue jolts of electricity pulsate around the blades at the tip of the spear. 

     “Get back, Jess,” he urges.

     “No.  We came here for a reason.  Let’s just leave the slate and get out of here.”

     “You don’t understand.  If we don’t take matters into our own hands, the pointless cycle of failed, bloody revolutions will continue.  Next, it’ll be one of us choosing between freedom in the wasteland and luxury in the city.”

     “You don’t know that.  We didn’t come here to start one of those futile revolutions, but to lay the foundations for something greater.  Now your trap and keep the spear pointed to the tunnel we came from in case… Just in case.”

     Art snorts and turns his back to Jess, who reaches into her bag and produces the colt slab of hardened clay.  The elder of the village made an attempt to mimic the syntax of the low-born nagas’ pictographic language.  The image on the slate shows the forms of the nagas and humans toiling in a field side by side.  A naive dream, probably spelled out with innumerable grammatical errors, but hopefully it gets the point across.

     She leaves it in the mud near the naga’s eggs and turns to Art.

     “Let’s go.”

     They return the way the came, Jess keeping the mud wall of the tunnels on the right hand side as they navigate back to the surface.  After many tense minutes of worrying what they’ll find around the next corner, they return to the first intersection that they branched off of.

     As the flashlight’s beam shoots into the intersection, they catch a glimpse of a naga’s tail slithering down one of the branching paths.

     Jess takes two stupidly decisive steps forward and flicks the beam of the flashlight down the other tunnel just long enough to see the brand on the naga’s hood.  The insignia depicts a crescent moon and a serpent aligned to form a perfect circle.  She can’t remember her naga lore at a moment like this, but she knows this one will show little mercy if they reveal themselves.

     "It’s going to eat the eggs,” she says in a whisper so faint it barely gets past her lips.

     “That’s what they do.  This isn’t our fight.  We did our part, now let’s get out here while we can.”

     But even as he articulates the words, he hears her rummaging through her backpack.  He hears a lid being unscrewed.  He hears a hissing in the tunnel and hears liquid splashing onto the mud below. 

     “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, gripping his electrified bident with sweaty palms. 

     “My best,” she says.  She strikes the flint of her zippo lighter. “Get ready.”

     The slithering, hulking mass in the tunnel is approaching fast.  Jess waits until it’s almost close enough to lunge and strike with those horrendous fangs before dropping the zippo into a pool of lighter fluid.

     Flames leap from the mud and enclose around the black-scaled naga.  It strikes out in fury and indignation, revealing the pink interior of its mouth.  Just before the fangs can reach Jess, the twin blades of Art’s bident strike into the mouth and pin the serpent to the mud.  The flames scorch Art’s wrists and forearms, but he doesn’t care, they’ll be extinguished in just a couple seconds.

     Bracing the polearm with all his might as the naga wriggles and tries to yank itself free, Art reaches into the wide holster that sits on his hip.  He unsheathes a sawed-off double barrel shotgun and lowers its muzzle.  Jess clasps her hands over her ears as thunder strikes in the tunnel.  The top of the naga’s head is ripped from its body.  The form continues to wriggle and writhe, but the movements become slower and slower as black blood is released into the mud.

     “Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here,” Jess says.  She grabs Art by the wrist and they stomp uphill, hoping to breach the tunnel’s exit before—

     A dark silhouette blocks the way out.  The two stand still and silent as they watch the form of the naga for what will come. 

     The naga of the gray-green scales slithers into the pit, eyeing them with curiosity.  Its gleaming eyes find the shotgun in Art’s hand but doesn’t seem to fear it.  The slitted nostrils sniff and flare, first at Art then at Jess.

     The naga then slithers further into the tunnel.

     Art is soon climbing out of the abyss.  He holds a hand down to help Jess out.

     As she’s being pulled up, she hears gnashing and slurping emanating from the tunnels.

Werewolf Gimmick

 

“Werewolf Gimmick”

His snarling countenance is bestial even without the headdress.  Bronco isn’t seen near the Pits without his ceremonial garb.  He wears a wolf’s skull like a crown, the lower half of its jaw long since severed. 

This week the wolf’s fur is gray.  Next week’s it might be brown or black.  The torchlight that encircles the sunken fighting pit casts a multitude of dark shadows on the brute’s face. 

The crowd murmurs as his challenger climbs over the clay half-wall that separates the beasts from the spectators.  They can’t remember the last time Bronco lost a match—had to have been when he was but a young pup, hounding his way into the Pits to earn a pittance of coppers to take home to whatever family he had in Redland Gulch.

The challenger is far from imposing.  Compared to the broad and sinewy brawn of Bronco, he looks like an antelope stranded in the feeding grounds.  

Lithe of movement and slim of frame, the challenger—purportedly an acrobat or dancer or monk from Penestelle—doesn’t seem like he has much of a chance. 

The crowd doesn’t place wagers about who will win, but how fast Bronco will be in cutting the kid down to size.

The crowd settles on odds about whether the kid will be killed, knocked unconscious, or will submit and forfeit after receiving the first two relentless blows.  They wonder how many bones will be broken and which ones they’ll be.  The highest rollers make ridiculous claims about how visible the fractures will be and whether the bone will pop out the skin or not.

Rest assured that the proceeds will go to a good cause.

The challenger—given the moniker of Antelope by the excited low-lives who have congregated in the Pits—kicks up red dust in the fighting ring as he bounces on the balls of his feet.  Bronco sits on the opposite of the arena with his feet planted shoulder-length apart, his arms resting calmly at his sides.

Antelope springs forward, turning on one heel as the other orbits through the air to strike Bronco’s temple. The stalwart defender raises an arm to catch the blow.  He doesn’t budge.  Antelope uses his remaining momentum to take to the skies, his foot thrusting downward at Bronco’s coveted headdress.  Bronco catches the foot by the heel, grips the Antelope’s shin with his free hand, then pivots as he sends the challenger flying back to his starting position.

The crowd hoots and hollers in titillation.  Glasses are drained and shattered.  Cheers and shouts resound against the cramped adobe walls.

Just as quickly as Antelope strikes the red dirt does he somersault back to his feet.  In two quick strides is he back in the fray, sending jabs and hooks in with a repeated velocity that surprises the audience as well as Bronco.

The wolf watches and weaves past the blows that he doesn’t block.  Quick though he may be, a jab catches him in the chin.

The onlookers gasp and shout at this turn of events.

His head is forced to the side and the fighter’s bulk is rocked.  Antelope’s hail of fists continues, the lithe fighter using all his energy to turn the tides of fate in his favor further.  The fists continue to pummel Bronco until he regains his composure.

Bronco leans to the side and catches Antelope by the forearm as the blow misses.  His prey caught in his maw, Bronco unleashes his own set of pummels against Antelope.  The blows are slow, methodical, and brutal.

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

Each impact sends blood from the nose, air from the lungs, bruise to the skin.  

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

Gamblers begin to smugly egg their patrons to fork over the dosh as others despair and curse.

Suddenly, they no longer hear the rhythmic thud of flesh pounding flesh.  Antelope is still in Bronco’s clutch, but he skirts the incoming blows with a calculated fluidity and unpredictability. 

Though Bronco is known for keeping his cool, the audience can practically see steam snorting forth from the nostrils of the wolf’s snout that protrudes atop his forehead.  His plan of pounding Antelope into submission not yielding the desired results, Bronco changes his strategy.

His clenched fist releases as he goes to grab Antelope by the bicep.  With both hands clenching Antelope’s arm in two places, those who took risky odds to see bone jutting out of flesh rise out of their seat and holler.  They know their moment of reckoning has come.

Bronco goes for the break, but before he can smash Antelope’s elbow against his knee, the acrobat has both legs pressed against Bronco’s chest.  His unrestrained arm smashes like a meteor below the wolf’s snout, sending a torrent of blood onto the red earth below.

The fighter flinches and Antelope kicks against his chest with both legs, soaring gracefully from Bronco’s grasp and landing soundly.  The roar from the crowd is thunderous and deafening. 

Even as Bronco recoils from the audacious blow, Antelope has closed the gap once more.  He reiterates his starting gambit, sending his heel in a circular orbit until it connects with the back of Bronco’s neck.

The hulking physique hunches forward under the impact of the attack.  Bronco pivots and launches a fist at Antelope, but by then the battle is over.

Bronco has lunged forward a bit too far.  Antelope ducks beneath the intimidating fist.  He places one foot on the outside of Bronco’s forward leg then drives the heel of his open hand into the oaken trunk that is Bronco’s chest.  The giant is toppled, the wolf has been tripped.  He splays out on the red earth, chest rising and falling, head spinning.

A confused silence falls over the crowd. They gaze at the spectacle slack jawed.

His vision dims. 

A foot is clamped over his throat. It presses mercilessly and drives his flesh against the dust.

He knows he should be snatching the foot’s leg in both hands and snapping it in two, but his arms don’t heed his command.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of glass breaking overhead.  His lungs draw a deep gasp.  He shakes uncontrollably as he places his knuckles into the dirt and rises to his feet.

Antelope is stretched out on the ground before him, blood rushing from his forehead.  Glass shards litter the earth around him.  Bronco grits his teeth and turns his gaze to the crowd, looking for the one who interfered with the fight. 

None meet his gaze.  They turn their eyes away. They murmur quietly about their disappointment.  They curse their luck and hypothesize about why Bronco would throw the fight.

Fearing what the angry crowd might do if left alone with the limp body of Antelope, he picks his adversary up from the earth and throws the dead weight across his shoulders.  He climbs out of the arena and the crowd parts out of his path.

He hears faint breathing in his ear.

He’ll take Antelope back to his cave, but not to feast.  He’ll have to come up with a more fitting moniker for this cunning beast.

His Little Buddy

 

“His Little Buddy”

I

     At long last, after too many days being tossed about tempestuously in the Suncrest Ocean, The Waylaid Maiden approaches the Bazban Bay.  The bounty from this fishing excursion was plentiful, but an unexpected storm battered the vessel’s sails and cast the ship painfully far from the coast.

     The ship coasts westward, the outline of Bazba’s sandstone buildings silhouetted against the setting sun.  The salty aroma of the air feels like home to the denizens of The Waylaid Maiden.  Many days of rationing their food and drink have left the crew ravished.  Morale brims as they approach their homeland.

     One of the deck hands stands idly with his broad pinky wedged into his ear, dislodging crust and debris.  His mouth is dry and his veins themselves feel parched. He sighs as he looks at the distance between himself and water below.  If only he could have just a sip to satiate his enduring thirst.

     “Oi, Dorvid!” calls Patsy the deck hand.  “Pay attention.  We need yer help if yer wantin’ yer share of the loot.”

     Returning to the task at hand, the broad-shouldered deck hand reaches out and rotate a pulley which wrenches the final haul of their subterranean loot up to the deck.  Out of the green-blue waters emerges a net in which wriggle an amalgamation of trout, bass, and even some scallops. 

     As the deck hands unload the loot, Dorvid hears a strange sound.  Even as the mess of silvery scales and the gray-blue shells clatter around on the deck of the ship, he hears a dull thud thud thud.

     “Hey, uh, Is someone knocking on the door?” he asks to anyone patient enough to listen to his slow, meandering speech.

     “We’re outside, what are you talkin’ about?”

     “I mean, is someone knocking on the door to the cabin or sum?”

     Thud thud thud.

     “Don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout buddy,” replies Dorvid’s fellow deck hand.  “Now let’s get these goods stowed away.”

     A row of barrels and crates line the wooden wall where the captain’s cabin juts out from the deck.  Patsy brings things to Dorvid, who begins tossing the flailing fish into their respective containers.  He dutifully checks that he’s not mixing the fish when he puts them away.  Trout with the other trout.  Bass with the bass.  Scallops with the scallops.  Well, that one’s easy enough.  If he messes up again Captain Teller will let him have it.  For a little man, the captain sure is scary when he’s fuming.

     As he unloads and sorts, Dorvid hears it again.

     Thud thud thud.

     This time it’s closer.  It’s like a little heartbeat pounding against the shell of the clam he holds.  Dorvid’s dimly aware that clams are living creatures—at least, that’s what he’s been told—but they’re not supposed to beat on shells or knock on doors or anything like that.

     His curiosity gets the best of him.  He sticks both thumbs at the crack between the scallop’s shell and pries it open a bit.  As he looks within, he sees two beady little eyes staring back at him.

     “Oi, Dorvid!” Patsy scolds.  “Hurry up now.  We’ll be finished in seconds flat if you just focus.”

     The clam snaps shut. 

     “Oh, sorry about that Pat.”

     Dorvid tucks the strange scallop into the pocket of his striped shirt as surreptitiously as his clumsy hands will allow.  Patsy was right.  After a few minutes of focusing, their task of sorting has finished.  Patsy and Dor Dor slide the crates and barrels back to the wall of the captain’s cabin, their work concluded until they reach the docks.

     Thud thud thud.

     It’s like he can hear his heartbeat in the pocket of his shirt.  He looks over his shoulder and makes sure Pat isn’t looking his way.  Then he slips below deck and goes back to his cot for some solitude, avoiding eye contact with the sailors and deck hands as he does.

Once he’s sure that he’s alone, he grabs the clam from his shirt pocket and cracks it open fully.

     Instead of the soft pink-white meat he’d normally find in a scallop, when he opens the clam he sees something that resembles purple little creature.  It looks almost like a tiny person whose waist is embedded in the pink-white meat that is common in these clams.

     The little person has tiny purple arms sprouting off their torso. They have a little head with beady black little eyes that look both relieved and scared as Dorvid looks at them in wonder and awe.  There’s even a minuscule mouth at the head’s center.  The top of the head look almost like a crown that is attached to the purple flesh.

     Those little arms wag and wave desperately, pointing indiscriminately. The little creature runs its high pitched mouth. 

     “Yada yaka yad yaka aya yakan!”

     Or something like Dorvid.  Doesn’t speak the language, whatever it is, but he wishes he did.

     “What is it?” he asks.  “Are you hungry?  Yeah, me too.  Can’t tell you how long we’ve been away from home.”

     “Yoodle yaka yon daka!”

     “Are you thirsty?  Boy, me too.  We ran out of water a long time ago.  The other guys have been drinking wine.  But I don’t like the wine.  It tastes good but it makes me angry and sad.”

     “Yood yan yaka don yak,” the little creature proclaims.  They cross their arms indignantly.

     “Oh.  Did I somethin’?  You mad at me?” Then Dorvid addresses himself, muttering, “Uh boy, what to do what to do.”

     His shrewd calculations are interrupted when Patsy approaches his stomping footsteps spooking Dorvid.  The deck hand whispers “I’ll be right back,” before shutting the clam and tucking it back in his pocket.

     “There you are, Dor,” Pat says.  “The captain’s lookin’ fer ya.  Says you were s’posed to clean the deck before we dock.”

     “Oh jimmers, you’re right!” Dorvid says, nearly breaking out in a nervous sweat.  He beats a hasty retreat back to the deck.

     The captain’s really gonna let him have it now.

 

II

     Dorvid navigates the deck on his hands and knees as he dislodges filth, grime, and seaweed that has been caked onto the wood from days of pulling in fish.  The clam in his pocket seems to weigh a ton as it sags in his shirt.  He can’t stop thinking about the little creature he saw inside.  He can’t stop wondering why the captain wants to catch the little thing and sell it.

     He looks out of the side of his eyes to the barrels full of scallops pressed up against the wall of the captain’s quarters.

     Does he know? Dorvid wonders.  Has he seen the little people too?  Why does he catch ‘em them?  It’s not right to catch things just ‘cause you’re bigger and stronger.

     As he scrubs, he finds himself huffing and puffing angrily, the broad strokes of his hand leaving scuff marks where he was supposed to be cleaning.

     Oh no!  I messed up.

     How did he get so angry all of a sudden?  It’s like he drank a lot of wine again, but he knows he didn’t.  That’s why he’s so thirsty.  So stinkin’ thirsty.  He wishes he could just reach his hand down into the water and bring up a refreshing scoop of that water from the Bazban Bay.  But no, they yell at him if he does that.  He’ll keep scrubbing algae and seaweed and salt that has crusted on the deck.

     As he scrubs, he slips and the clam that houses his little buddy drops from his pocket, clattering as it hits the deck and slides around with the pulsing of the waves.

     “Wait, come back!” he cries as abandons his brush and lunges to the clam.  Dorvid is oblivious to the strange looks he’s getting from the other members of the crew.

     “Is he trying to keep some of the captain’s loot?” one of them asks Patsy.  “We’re not allowed to keep what we bring in. He knows that.”

     “I’ll go talk to him,” Patsy says before stomping over to Dor Dor and giving him a lecture that he has heard before.

     “I’m sorry Pat,” Dorvid says, averting his gaze from the stern consternation in Patsy’s eyes.  “I didn’ mean to.”

     “Well then put the clam with the rest of them,” he says.  He watches as Dorvid goes to the barrel full of scallops and places this one atop the pile.  “Good.  We’ll be home soon, then you can buy a scallop with your earnings.  That’ll be nice, won’t it?  Just wait a bit and you’ll be able to buy all the scallops you want.”

     “You’re right.  Thanks Pat.  I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” his friend says patiently.  “We all make mistakes.”

     When Dorvid is alone with his scrub brush again, he thinks about his little buddy.  All trapped and scared in the barrel. Waiting to get sold to the vendors in Bazba.  The little buddy probably misses their family.  All of the scallops in that barrel probably miss their family, just like the sailors on the ship.

     It’s not right, he thinks, that hot anger rising to a boil.  It’s not right.

     As he scrubs, he can hear the deck hands whispering.  He knows they’re talking about him. Always making fun of Dorvid.  That’s all they do.  He thought Patsy was his friend, but this just tears it.

 

III

     Night falls before they reach the docks.

     The city glimmers like a jewel as torches alight all around the streets and avenues.  The lighthouse beams its light down at them like a second sun, its fire burning bravely into the night.

     Dorvid knows what to do.  He won’t let his buddies get sold.  He won’t let his little friends get eaten.

     He goes below the deck.  A lantern burns outside the empty kitchen.  The cooks have gone up to the deck to enjoy some wine with the other crew members before they arrive at their long-awaited destination.  This means that no one is in the kitchen.  This means there’s no one to stop Dorvid from picking up the jar of grease.

     Dorvid knows about grease. 

     He unscrews the slippery lid of the jar and spills it onto the floor of the lower deck, his heart mourning.

     Dorvid, why are you doing this?  The captain is a good man.  You make good wages.  You shouldn’t start fires.

     No, Dorvid.  The captain is a bad man.  He captures little people.  He sells them to people can eat them. 

     Even as this debate rages in Dorvid’s skull, he tosses the lantern onto the pool of grease and watches the glowing embers spread into a roaring fire.  The blazing heat scares him, so he turns and runs back to the deck.

     He wants to shout Fire!  Please, someone help!  We’ll sink before we reach the dock!

     But he remembers his little buddies.  He can’t let them down.

     He waits until hears the panic spread. They smell the smoke.  They don’t want to be stranded in the bay and have to swim back.  They lose all their precious fish if that happens.  The panicked deck hands man their various stations, some dousing blankets to toss on the flames, others fetching sandbags to accomplish a similar effect.

     No one bosses around Dorvid.

     No one sees him go to the ship’s stern. 

     No one stops him from dumping out all the scallops from their barrel into a lifeboat.

     No one knows he’s lowering himself into the bay with all his buddies.

     “Don’t worry, guys,” he assures them, “your family won’t miss you for much longer.”

     He lowers the little rowboat until it hits the dark waters.  He sloshes about unsteadily, the entire floor of the little vessel covered in clams. 

     Dorvid grabs the oars and starts to paddle. He paddles fast.  He puts as much distance between him and The Waylaid Maiden as possible. 

     After flailing the oars around until his arms burn, he hears Patsy’s voice.

     “Dooooor! Doooor!  Where you goin’, bud?”   

     Dorvid cranes his neck and looks back to the ship, where Patsy waves his arms his overhead as he calls out to him.

     “Turn around, Dor! It’s dangerous to go out there alone!”

     He paddles faster.

     “It’s okay, little buddies, you’ll be back home in just a sec.”

     Then he hears it.  The rhythmic splashing of paddling.  Not his oars, but someone else’s.  He turns and sees another lifeboat.  Patsy and another deckhand paddle as fast as they can.

     Captain Teller has one leg propped on the edge of the lifeboat.  His arms are crossed.  His eyes are dark.

     In a panic, Dorvid begins to paddle as fast as he can.  Even with his head start, he can’t compete with two oarsmen.  Then he remembers the little buddy.  He stops rowing and opens one of the clams.  Beady little black eyes look at him with woeful resignation.

     “Yimmer yab yana yak,” the thing says pitifully.

     “I know, I wish we had more time too.  But this is where it ends.”

     He closes the scallop and tosses it into the bay.  He then grabs armfuls of the clams and scoops them up, throwing them overboard.

     “What is he doing?” he hears behind him.  It’s Captain Teller.  He sounds angry.

     Looking over his shoulder, Dorvid sees that the captain and the other lifeboat are right behind him.  Scared for his life and thirstier than he could imagine, he dives into the bay, taking big gulps of the dark water as he submerges.  He dives further and further, pressure mounting to a painful crescendo in his ears.  He doesn’t care. He can live with his buddies in the glittering castle at the bottom of the bay.

     Before his lungs draw in salt water, he is yanked forcefully from the bay.  Someone holds him off the side of the rickety lifeboat.

     He gasps and heaves and wants to cry.

     “What in the hells do you think yer doin’, boy?” 

     It’s that flinty, livid voice of Captain Teller.

     “I just wanted to help my friends,” Dorvid explains, hardly able to get the words out past the lump in his throat.

     “Help yer friends?  Is that what you were doin’ when you set fire to my ship?  Were you helpin’ us when you stole my haul and tossed it into the bay?  Damn you, Dorvid!”

     Dor Dor winces and prepares to be struck by Captain Teller’s ring hand. 

     “Please, Captain,” Patsy says, “have mercy.  The lad’s just had too much salt water.  He ain’t in his right mind.”

     Before the flow lands, the Captain’s fist slows to a halt.  The tired old man sighs and pats Dorvid’s head.

     “Damn it. Pull him in.”

     They do so.  Dorvid hangs his head as they row back to The Waylaid Maiden.  The captain is mad at him again.

     He wants to go him.   

     He wants to drink water.  

     He wants to go to sleep.