The Floating Island (15 page)

“Ah. Well, trust me, out here, one day they appear like a gold blanket in the grass. And that’s because the Meadow Folk gather the sunlight when the light is ripest—they alone know the day of the Harvest. Light is their source of power. Dandelions are what they use to collect that light. They use what’s left of the last year’s crop of light-power to grow the dandelions, which are almost colorless. Then they open them, like umbrellas, and the clear blossoms absorb the sunlight. That’s why they appear so quickly, and so bright yellow. When the Folk are done collecting the power, the dandelion flowers lose their color, dry up and blow away. That’s why you can wish on one before you blow on it—it’s got a little magic left over from the Harvest.”

“Oh,” said Ven. “Well, then, I guess I shouldn’t pull the dandelions, then.”

“No,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. She walked up to the door of the rectangular building, which had neatly whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, and rapped sharply.

“Females are not allowed in Hare Warren, and males are not allowed in Mouse Lodge,” she said. “One of the posted rules. Of course, this does not apply to the innkeeper.”

A moment later a tall young man opened the door. He was human, and thin, with a shock of dark hair and the very beginnings of a mustache. Ven guessed he was about fifteen years old.

“Vincent, I have two new charges for you,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “Ven Polypheme and Char, this is Vincent Cadwalder, the steward of Hare Warren. He’s responsible for your obedience of the rules, so pay attention to him. He works at night as the watchman and stablekeeper, so he sleeps through breakfast. Try not to disturb him in the morning, if possible.”

The older boy extended his hand.

“Polypheme,” he said briskly. “Char. Welcome.” He opened the door wider and beckoned for them to come in.

Inside the building was a tidy center corridor with a table and two chairs, a woven rug, and a small fireplace. Off the center hallway were five doors. A wooden sign was posted above the table.

“You’ll take your meals in the inn itself—no food in Hare Warren, as you can see,” said Mrs. Snodgrass, pointing to the list of rules. “Business at the inn has been off for a while, so the meals are not as plentiful or as fancy as they once were, but the food is healthy and filling. Breakfast is served whenever it’s ready—usually shortly after sunrise. Noon-meal is served promptly at noon. Tea is available at quarter past four, and supper is served in the summer at seven o’clock. In winter, tea is the last meal of the day and is extended to a more generous portion, so that you can get back to Hare Warren immediately after the meal is over.”

“Why?” Char asked nervously.

Mrs. Snodgrass looked at him seriously. “So you can get to bed before it gets dark.”

Ven and Char exchanged a glance. The look on the innkeeper’s face was as solemn as the one on her husband’s had been when he warned Ven not to start for the crossroads at night. Ven’s itch returned.

“Well, at least we’ll be safe from the ghosts at the crossroads,” said Char jokingly. “After all, no spirits are allowed in Hare Warren.”

“Amusing,” said Mrs. Snodgrass dryly. “Well, then, I will leave you with Vincent to get settled. See you at noon-meal—which is in precisely fifteen minutes.”

She turned on her heel snappily and strode back to the inn.

“Glad to see she’s feeling better,” said Cadwalder. “All right, then, lads, this will be your room.” He pointed to the first door on the left. “Next door is Jonathan Conroy and Lewis Craig, then the door to the privy closet outside. Please make sure that door’s always closed, especially since my room is the one next door—I can get very cranky if I wake up smelling sewage. And finally, the last door is Albert Hio and Nicholas Cholby. The cleaning of the privy closet rotates from room to room by week, and aren’t you lucky—this week the duty falls to your room.”

“Great,” muttered Char. “I miss the heads on the ship, where you can do your business, it disappears into the sea, and you never have to think about it again.”

Cadwalder did not smile. “Well, things are very different here,” he said. “If any of us had anywhere else to go, we would.” He went to his room and returned a moment later with two keys. “Keep these safe at all times—I have a master key, but these are the only other copies. The room should be stocked with blankets and such. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you,” said Ven and Char simultaneously.

“You’re welcome,” said Cadwalder. “See you at noon-meal.”

The boys waited until Cadwalder had gone back into his room. Then Ven went over to the door and slid his key into the lock.

He turned the handle and opened the door.

The room was small and tidy, with a window near the ceiling and two beds on short wooden legs topped with mattresses stuffed with hay and a blue and white quilt. A washstand with a basin stood between them, and each bed had a small sea chest at the foot of it for personal belongings. Under each bed was a chamber pot for emergency use, should the weather be too cold or the night too dark for a run to the privy closet outside.

“Not bad,” Ven said, looking around the little room.

Char was wide-eyed. “It’s a bloody
palace,
” he said.

“Which bed do you want?” Ven asked. “Left or right?”

Char considered for a moment. “The right,” he said, walking into the room and tossing his duffel onto the bed. “Closer to the privy closet, at least technically.”

Ven unbuttoned his pocket and untied the lanyard that had anchored the jack-rule to his shirt.

“It’s nice to have a place where we can finally put our things and not have them slide or go over the side when the ship pitches,” he said.

Char chuckled and nodded in agreement. “I lost a sock once into the drink,” he said. “I’m not sure which is worse—having a single sock, or no socks at all. Well, now at least whatever we have will stay put—since touchin’ other people’s belongings is against the rules.”

The boys unpacked their few belongings quickly. They were too busy laughing and joking and putting things away to notice the shadow that fell over the room from the window, then disappeared as quickly as it came.

N
OON-MEAL SMELLED WONDERFUL.

Ven opened the back door to the kitchen, and immediately his mouth began watering at the aroma that filled the air. It was working on Char, too. Both of their stomachs growled in unison.

They walked through the kitchen to the table, where a number of children, including Ida, had already gathered, awaiting their food.

Ven nodded politely to Saeli, the small girl he had seen in the garden. She turned red and looked away. So he sat down next to Cadwalder and another boy, a human with brown hair and light eyes who was stringy like Char but more muscular.

“Polypheme, meet Nicholas,” Cadwalder said. “Nicholas is the inn’s messenger. He’s quite a runner, if you ever need to deliver something quickly.”

Ven shook hands with Nicholas. “Pleased to meet you,” Nicholas said.

“Likewise,” said Ven, trying to close his ears to the sound of Ida belching.

He looked across the table, where Char had plopped himself down next to Saeli, and was talking to her. The small girl was listening silently and smiling as Char gabbed away.

The door opened again, and a short human girl, solidly built with skin the color of chocolate, came in. She wore robes like those Ven had seen in the churches of Vaarn, and an odd collar. Suddenly the inn was alive with the sound of soft whispering.

“What the heck?” Char asked, turning his head all around.

“Good afternoon, yes, yes, choir practice is on, will be right before supper,” the girl was saying to the floor as she walked to the table. She pulled out the bench with a slight squeak and sat down next to Saeli, then blinked when she noticed Char and Ven. The girl extended a hand.

“Good afternoon,” she said brightly. “My name is Clemency, but you can call me Clem if you want to. I’m the steward of Mouse Lodge. You must be Ven and Char.”

Char banged his hand on the table as Ven shook Clemency’s hand. “Everyone in this bloody place knows our names before we even tell them,” he said crossly.

“Well, my congregation tells me
everything,
” Clemency said knowingly.

“Who are your congregation?” asked Ven.

“And why do you have one?” asked Char.

“I have one because I am a curate-in-training,” said Clemency proudly, sitting up a little straighter. “I am studying to be a helper to my pastor back home. Part of my missionary work is to go out and tend to a small congregation who needs services, blessings, healing, weddings, and the like. My congregation is the Spice Folk.”

“Oh, great.” Char groaned. “So the inn’s fairies are your spies?”

Clemency looked displeased. “That’s an unpleasant way to put it,” she said. She picked up her spoon as the three girls who were working at the stove carried over a large pot of soup and baskets of rolls and began spooning the soup into the dishes and passing out the bread. “The Spice Folk lived in these fields long before the inn was even built, and that was hundreds of years ago. This is their place, and they are very interested in what happens here. They don’t gossip—well, most of the time, anyway. They just like to keep me informed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” muttered Char.

Clemency introduced them to the three girls serving lunch duty, Lucinda, Ciara, and Emma, and a fourth girl, Bridgette, who had long red hair in pigtails and freckles.

“Saeli, do you think you could ask the moles to stay out of our privy?” Bridgette asked the small girl next to Clemency. “They’ve dug a hole right behind the dunny so the wind blows right up your—well, you know what I mean.” Saeli nodded and continued eating her soup.

“Saeli is a Gwadd, in case you didn’t know that already,” Clemency said. “Gwadd are an ancient race, like Lirin and Nain, and they are a little shy around bigger folk. Saeli can speak in words, though she doesn’t generally like to. Instead she tends to use flowers to communicate. She can make them grow. And she can talk to mice and moles and other kinds of small animals.”

“Very nice,” said Ven. He wanted to hear more, but Clemency had returned to her lunch. He gestured to Saeli to encourage her to tell more, but she turned red and continued eating her soup hurriedly.

“We are going to have services later this evening, and I am going to go out to bless the cemetery in a little while,” Clemency continued, carefully brushing the bread crumbs from the table in front of her into her hand. “You are welcome to attend if you want to.”

“Thank you,” said Ven, curious as to what a fairy church service might be like, and more—his ears had perked up at the word
cemetery.
“I believe I will.”

“Yeah, maybe you can add Hen Polywog here to your congregation,” said Ida snidely. Everyone at the table jumped; up until then she had been silent.

“Pipe down, Ida,” Clemency said pleasantly, “or I will keep you up all night listening to me sing battle hymns again.” The girl shuddered and went back to eating her bread and slurping her soup.

After lunch was over Char went to investigate the kitchen, and Ven accompanied Clemency out behind the inn to the fields.

The curate-in-training was a friendly girl and an easy talker. Ven asked her everything he could think of, and she chattered away during their walk, about the inn, the fairies, Mouse Lodge and Hare Warren, and all the strange happenings that had occurred since she began her missionary work a few months back.

“The wind blows wild here at night sometimes,” she said, stepping carefully around patches of herbs and wild strawberries growing in the field grass. “It can howl pretty fiercely. But when the happenings occur, the howling sounds different.”

“Different how?” Ven asked curiously.

Clemency thought for a moment. “Demonic,” she said finally. “There’s a harsh and evil sound to it. And sometimes you can see things—spirits that flit about in the darkness, ghosts of wolves or some other beast I’ve never seen before that hunt, seeking whatever they can find to tear to pieces. It’s very frightening. I don’t even look out the window anymore when it happens—I’m responsible for the girls in the Lodge, and so I spend my time comforting them and reassuring them that as long as they stay inside, they will be safe.”

“Are you certain there is really anything there?” Ven asked. “At sea, the wind howls something fierce, and rattles the mast and makes the ship shudder. You sometimes think you’re being eaten by a sea monster, it sounds so horrible. But it’s just the wind.”

He looked around, at the wide fields with forests in the distance, and the place where the two roads intersected. It seemed a perfectly harmless place, peaceful and pretty. And yet there was something underneath the peace, something darker and frightening, that he could not see or smell or even understand. All he knew was that it made his skin itch and his hands tremble at the same time.

Clemency stopped as they came to the crossroads.

“Listen to me, Ven,” she said, her voice quiet and serious. “It is definitely
not
just the wind. Over the years, a lot of people have died here, or disappeared. The steward of your very own house, Hare Warren, lost his parents here.”

“Cadwalder?” Ven asked. “Cadwalder’s parents died at the crossroads?”

“Yes,” said Clemency. “He was really little then, way too little to remember, but he was left orphaned when his parents were killed just traveling through here. No one knew who they were, or if he had any other family—he was just a baby, so he didn’t even know his own name. Mrs. Snodgrass felt so badly for him that she took him in, gave him a place to live and a job, and has promised to let him stay until he is old enough to go out on his own in a few years. No one has ever found out what happened to his parents, or any of the others, even though there have been many investigations into their deaths.”

“How horrible,” Ven said. He had found Cadwalder pleasant but not particularly friendly. Maybe this explained why.

Clemency folded her hands in prayer, chanted a few words, and was silent for a moment, then started out into the roadway toward the cemetery.

“Come on,” she urged. “The blessing only lasts for a little while.”

“What does the blessing do?” Ven asked as they ran across the northern roadway into the green fields on the other side. He could see the cemetery, the same little one he had seen on the way in, in a small grove of trees not far from the edge of the road, ringed by a fence.

“Makes me feel safe, I guess,” Clemency said. “Don’t know what else it
can
do. I’m only a curate-
in-training.
”

“That’s good enough for me,” Ven said, hurrying to keep up with her.

When they reached the burying ground, Clemency sighed sadly.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing to a bunch of dry weeds at the base of one of the gravestones. “These were the most beautiful forget-me-nots. Saeli just made them come up this morning.”

“What happened?” Ven wondered, crouching down and running his finger over the dry stems and withered leaves.

“I don’t know, but it happens all the time now,” Clemency said. “Saeli’s ability to speak in flowers is affected by how much magic is present. At least that’s my theory. Everything she causes to grow from the ground here looks lovely for a short time, then withers and dies before a whole day has gone by. Something seems to be taking all the goodwill out of the land around the inn. I told you, the Spice Folk have lived here a very long time, but even they are afraid of what’s happening. We’re especially worried about the Harvest this year. Even Mrs. Snodgrass seems to be getting sicker and sicker all the time. I don’t know what is doing it, and why, but it must be something highly powerful. And highly evil.”

Ven looked around the graveyard. It was a small family burying ground, only a handful of stones, neatly tended and tucked away in the little grove of trees for shade and privacy. The stone in front of which Saeli had planted the now-dry flowers read:

Price

He respectfully brushed some of the dirt from the carvings. It seemed to be a family stone for a husband and wife. He could make out the first names of the people listed:

Stanislaus and Winifred

“I wonder who these people were,” he murmured. “Maybe if we knew their life story, we might find out if they are why the crossroads are haunted.”

“Doubtful,” said Clemency. “Those are Mrs. Snodgrass’s parents. They were very nice old people; he was a toymaker. Her whole family is buried here. I don’t think this is why it’s haunted. It may be close to the crossroads, but it’s not that close.”

“Still, doesn’t it make you feel, well, uncomfortable being here?” Ven asked. The small hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and his body was bathed in a cold prickly sweat.

“Not at all,” said Clemency. “This is a restful place, a peaceful place. There is great love here. All the people who are buried in this cemetery had good lives, did good deeds, and were cherished all the while they were alive. They were born, they lived, they died—that’s the cycle, as the Creator wills it. I find nothing but happy memories here.” Her brow wrinkled for a moment. “Well, perhaps in all cases but one.”

“Where’s that?” Ven asked, his curiosity burning.

Clemency led him over to a slightly older stone, a white rectangle that had an urn of dead flowers in front of it.

“This one,” she said. “Gregory Snodgrass.”

“Is this Oliver’s father?” Ven asked.

“No, it’s Captain and Mrs. Snodgrass’s son.”

“They had a son?” Ven kneeled down and brushed the dirt from the face of this stone as well. He read the inscription.

The date of his death was eleven years before. He had been fourteen at the time of his death.

“Oh,” said Ven. The sound came out of him without him meaning for it to, like a breath after being hit in the stomach. “Oh,” he said again.

He thought back to what Oliver had said to him on the
Serelinda
about his own father.

Whatever loss he might suffer can’t begin to compare to how much I’m sure he misses you. Trust me on this.

Now he understood why the captain was so sure.

He stood looking at the headstone for a long time while Clemency performed her blessing and pulled weeds. Finally when she was finished and ready to go back, he turned to her.

“Clem,” he said, “how did he die?”

“I’m not certain exactly,” said Clemency, “because Mrs. Snodgrass becomes quite sad if you mention it. From what McLean has told me, I think he was killed by brigands, bandits of some type.”

Like pirates,
Ven thought. “He was one of those people you mentioned who died at the crossroads?”

“I think so. But whatever is sucking the life out of the earth here was doing it long before Gregory died. Cadwalder’s fifteen, so it’s been going on at least that long. Mrs. Snodgrass comes here every day to take care of his grave, and leave him flowers in summer and spring. She sits and talks to him, I think; it makes her feel better.” She pointed to a bare spot in the grass beside the grave.

“Well, thank you for bringing me here,” Ven said as they headed back to the inn. “It’s sad, but it helps me understand better why Mrs. Snodgrass doesn’t go to sea with her husband. McLean said she had her reasons for staying. Now I know what one of them is, at least.”