SHIP IN A BOTTLE

The seeker ghosted through the woods, weaving between spruce and pine, wafting toward the canopy on updrafts only to spiral downward and continue its journey through the shadows, a tail of crimson and gold light streaming behind it. Thursgad, riding his weary horse, followed it; had followed it for days upon days through impossible and wild terrain as the glowing red ball illuminated the most direct path to its destination.

“Direct” did not mean “easy,” and the hungry, exhausted man on his stumbling steed bemoaned the fact that the seeker rarely led him along roads. Down ravines, up ledges and hillsides, through tangle of wood, yes, but not along any civilized path. Not that there were many roads or maintained pathways in the thick of the Green Cloak.

Hunger and exhaustion were meaningless to the seeker. It existed for the sole purpose of leading Thursgad to the book of magic Grandmother desired. Her other spell, tucked in its purse, hung from his belt. Maybe his imagination got wild now and then, but sometimes he swore he felt the thing hungering, hungering for his blood, pulsating against his hip. It made him shudder. He followed Grandmother’s explicit orders not to handle it or look at it. Not until he had to.

The seeker flared. It had brought Thursgad to the edge of a clearing. He half dismounted, half fell from his horse, and tied the reins to a branch, then dropped to the ground and crawled to the very edge of the woods, staying in the shadows.

A cry of surprise almost passed his lips and he put his hand to his forehead thinking he must be fevered and seeing things. A grand manor house of stone and timbers rose up before him, occupying well-ordered grounds of lawn and garden. He blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but the place did not vanish. What was it doing here in the middle of the wilderness? He scratched his head. There’d been no roads, no paths, and this was no simple woodsman’s cabin.

The seeker circled his head like a biter looking for blood, impatient for him to move on. He swatted it away and continued to survey the scene before he stepped from his concealment. He did not want to be caught by the estate’s inhabitants.

He saw no signs of life except for threads of smoke twining into the sky from a few of the chimneys. The manor had quite a few chimneys, as a matter of fact. The seeker buzzed around his ears.

“Aye, I’ll go,” he muttered to it, and crept across the clearing.

The seeker led the way to a side entrance framed by a trellis of rambling rose vines. The roses were done for the season, their fruits fallen and shriveled. Sweat streamed down Thursgad’s face as he imagined the vines closing down on him, wrapping around him, the thorns biting into his flesh.

Should’ve run away to Rhovanny, he thought. Could’ve joined a merc company there.

The seeker flitted beneath a green door and Thursgad paused, looking around before reaching for the door handle. It was crafted to look like the looping rose vines and he shuddered, but all he felt when he grasped it was cold wrought iron. He cracked the door open and peered inside. No one was to be seen, just the seeker bobbing in the air, waiting for him. He stepped inside and found himself in a large kitchen. The seeker sped off.

Thursgad had to run to catch up, passing ovens and tables and pantries, then into a formal dining room with a lengthy table. He had no time to pause to take in the details of the rich furnishings for the seeker floated out of the dining room into a wide corridor. There it hovered for a moment.

Entry hall for main entrance, Thursgad thought. Sunshine flowed in through the windows that framed the grand doors. Opposite the doors, stairs climbed to upper levels. Across the hall from the dining room was a parlor.

Which way? he wondered.

As if in answer, the seeker pulsated and whisked up the stairs. Thursgad placed one foot on the first step and his hand on the railing when someone behind him cleared her throat.

“Look, sister, we’ve a guest just in time for tea.”

“I’m not blind yet. I can see him very well for myself.”

Slowly, very slowly, Thursgad removed hand from the railing and foot from the step, and turned around. Two elderly ladies stood there in the light of the entry hall gazing at him. The taller thin one in green scowled at him and the shorter, plump one, wearing a sort of orange dress, smiled kindly.

“He is pungent,” the thin one said.

“Yes, and dirty.”

The thin one cast the plump one a withering look. “Pungency suggests dirt, sister. Letitia will not be pleased, but he’s no time to bathe. Tea is ready now.”

Thursgad glanced around for this Letitia to appear, but she did not.

“We shall overcome his scruffy appearance,” the plump one said, “and we shall be brave in the face of Letitia’s wrath.” She walked toward him. He flinched as though she carried some weapon, though of course she possessed nothing of the sort. She took his arm and started to lead him into the parlor, her sister following behind them, cane tapping on the floor. “Now, young man, you must tell us all about yourself.”

Thursgad sweated as he’d never sweated before. The porcelain teacup and saucer, decorated with dainty flowers, were slippery in his hands. He sat perched on the edge of a plush chair and sun rippled through the leaded windows, catching in his eye. The two ladies, one of whom was called Miss Bunch, and the other Bay or Miss Bay or Miss Bayberry—it all rather confused him—kept up a chatter that filled his ears with noise. He wondered where the seeker was, how he’d allowed himself to be drawn into the parlor for tea, and how he would get away from the ladies and find the seeker. Would he have to kill them?

“Pardon?” he said when one addressed him and he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Your name, young sir,” the Bunch one said. “And where you are from. You never told us.”

“Thursgad. My name’s Thursgad.”

“Such a strong name, isn’t it Bay?”

The thin one shrugged, her expression sour. Thursgad sweated.

“And where are you from?”

“Mirwell Province.”

The two women exchanged glances. A droplet of sweat rolled down Thursgad’s nose and plopped into his tea.

“I thought his accent was of the western parts,” Miss Bay said.

“It is so long since we’ve had a visitor from that region. I’m surprised you recognized it.”

Miss Bay’s expression turned to one of superiority and she sipped her tea. Thursgad still hadn’t touched his.

“And what brings you this way?” Miss Bunch asked.

Thursgad cleared his throat, trying to think fast. “Hunter. That is, I’m hunting.” Pleased with his own answer, if not the delivery, he relaxed a tad.

“With a sword?” Miss Bay demanded. “It’s not even a hunting sword.”

Thursgad looked down as though seeing his sword for the first time. It was his serviceable sidearm issued to him when he first joined the Mirwellian provincial militia.

“Uh, for–for brigands,” he said. “Aye, brigands.”

“Sensible,” Miss Bunch said to her sister. Then, “Young man, you’ve eaten nothing. Poor Letitia will be most affronted if you don’t try some of her delicious treats.”

Thursgad’s stomach grumbled in response. It seemed like he had not eaten in days, so he took a tea cake into his calloused hand, the lines on his fingers and palm etched with dirt and pine pitch, and ate all the buttery, sugary goodness. Next he tried a finger sandwich and then a slice of pound cake. He tried this and that until there was little more than crumbs left on the platter, the sisters watching him in amazement. He brushed powdered sugar from the bristles on his chin, and swigged down the last of his tea.

“Must not be a very good hunter if he’s that hungry,” Miss Bay said acidly.

“My, but one forgets how much nourishment a young man requires,” her sister replied. “He must stay for supper.”

“S–supper?” said Thursgad. Sweat trickled down his temple anew. Supper sounded good—he could eat a couple moose about now. The tea dainties only served to whet his appetite. But this was complicating his mission. What of the seeker? He fingered the pommel of his sword, wondering if he should just kill them now and get it over with.

But he couldn’t. They were old and harmless. Well, Grandmother was old, but not harmless. Looks could be deceiving. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to draw his sword.

“He needs a proper cleaning,” Miss Bay said. “I will not sit at table with him until he has bathed.”

“Agreed, sister. Hunting is dirty business, is it not?”

Before Thursgad knew it, the ladies led him to a bathing room with a hip tub already brimming with steaming water.

“We shall rummage through father’s old trunks to find you something suitable to wear,” Miss Bunch said.

Thursgad reflexively glanced at his clothes, stained and caked with mud, damp with sweat.

“Enjoy,” Miss Bay said, and she swung the door shut.

He listened at the door as their voices receded.

“Where is Letitia?” Miss Bunch asked.

“I believe she is sweeping upstairs,” her sister replied. “The library needs particular attention.”

When Thursgad could no longer hear the ladies speaking, he found himself tempted by the bath. He dipped his hand in the hot, fragrant water. It would feel so good to be submerged in it, to let him warm his bones and relax his muscles. He sighed, the mere thought bringing on a sensation of pleasure.

Then he recoiled. Was he some kind of fool? Had the ladies bewitched him somehow with their chatter and tea cakes? What kind of place was this that appeared like a magic castle in the middle of nowhere? Not to mention he normally detested bathing.

Thursgad slipped his hand through his lank, greasy hair. Bewitched. I’m bewitched.

As much as the bath and thought of supper beguiled him, he must not fall any further under their power. He must complete his mission at all costs.

He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a deep breath. Then resolutely, he turned his back on the bath and headed to the door. He cracked it open to make sure no one was about. The corridor was empty. He tiptoed out, retracing his way through corridors hung with portraits of knights and noble persons and past rooms with fires lit in cobblestone hearths.

When he found himself back in the main entry hall, he glanced from side to side, and then trotted up the stairs to the second floor. The place was unnaturally quiet. Maybe the sisters had gone to take naps. That’s what old ladies did, wasn’t it? But what of the servants? There was at least one—Letitia. And how did these ladies maintain the estate without the help of men? Yet he’d seen no sign of a single servant. Were they invisible or something?

Thursgad snorted at the idea and decided not to worry about the servants. If he saw any of them, he’d kill them.

The upper floor was lined with doors. Would he have to open each one to find the seeker? He despaired of the time that would take, and the increased chance of discovery. If the sisters found him, he’d have no choice but to kill them, too, and he really didn’t want to.

The first door he opened revealed a comfortable looking bedroom with a canopied bed. The second door opened into another bedroom. When he opened the third, a cacophony of geese blasted him. He slammed the door shut, a few feathers drifting into the corridor.

“By all the hells,” he muttered, shaken. Then he saw the inscription on a brass plaque mounted on the door. He could read very little, but he knew these words: Goose Room. He scratched his head, and moved on.

He had his hand on another doorknob when the seeker swept down the corridor and circled and bobbed around him like a dog happy to see its master. It then flew back the way it had come and Thursgad charged after it.

The seeker paused before a door then darted through the keyhole. Thursgad hoped the door was not locked because there was no way he was going to fit through that keyhole. He twisted the doorknob. Not locked. Carefully he pushed the door open, hoping it wasn’t another goose room, or something worse. There was an inscription on the door, but he didn’t know the word.

All was quiet within, much to his relief, and he stepped into the room, which contained the most amazing array of books he’d ever seen. He’d never been in a library before, and never knew so many books existed. Walls of books. Books that would take a lifetime to read. If he could read, or at least read well. As Thursgad stood there, surrounded by leather bindings dyed in reds and greens, yellows and blues, with their silver and gold embossed lettering brought to gleaming life by the sunshine that filtered through a window, he felt very stupid, ashamed he was uneducated. Sarge was always calling him a “rustic bastard,” and here Thursgad knew it was true.

There were other objects in the room: a telescope pointed out the window, a fancy harp embedded with shiny jewels, a scrimshaw carving, and a ship in a bottle, all set out like artifacts in a museum, or so Thursgad could only guess, for he’d never been in a museum either.

The seeker, however, was not interested in any of those things. It bobbed up and down and pulsated to a deep red to catch Thursgad’s attention, then floated to a book and turned it aglow in red.

What I came all this way for, Thursgad thought.

He pushed a ladder on runners to the location, climbed up, and pulled the book out. The leather was a natural, warm golden brown with no fancy lettering on it. He opened the book but found it contained only blank pages, except for some handwriting on one page. That was it. Even as he told the seeker this better be the right book, it extinguished itself, leaving him on his own.

He descended the ladder only to see something more frightening than a room of geese—a broom wielded by invisible hands flying at him. He barely had time to fling up his arm in defense when the broom descended on him.

“Ow!”

He scampered to and fro to avoid the broom as it swatted him. He bumped into the telescope and knocked it over. Its precious lenses smashed to bits when it hit the floor. The broom smacked his head and he yelped. He jumped out of the way to avoid another strike and the broom swished by him, sweeping all the objects off one of the tables. The harp thudded to the floor, emitting the most unearthly notes, like voices humming.

Down came the broom again and again. He headed for the door, but staggered into a side table that held the ship in the bottle. The table keeled, the water in the bottle cresting and washing over the ship rails. The miniature sailors on deck scrambled for handholds. Sailors?

Thursgad watched in horror as the table teetered on edge, the bottle sliding, sliding…He couldn’t move, was unable to stop the inevitable. Even the broom paused, hovered in place. It felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room.

The table pitched over and the bottle smashed to the floor, expelling its contents in a wave across the carpet. The house itself seemed to heave a great sigh as a breeze tousled Thursgad’s hair. He imagined he heard the cries of all those sailors and the crashing of surf.

Then the broom came after him again and he found himself splashing through water, water that kept rising, was even now rising to his ankles. How could it be? The bottle wasn’t that big. He smelled brine in the air, gulls cried…

He sloshed through the water, the broom assaulting his head and shoulders. He finally escaped through the door, water rushing out with him. He pelted down the corridor and leaped down the stairs. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder to see if the broom followed. He didn’t care—he just had to escape the house.

He ran through the kitchen with its oven emitting wonderful aromas and flew out the door for the woods, his prize tucked safely beneath his arm. Even in all the mayhem, he had somehow managed not to drop it.

“It was a yellow warbler, I told you,” said Miss Bay.

The sisters ambled across the stone bridge and along the drive that led to Seven Chimneys.

“What would a yellow warbler be doing here at this time of year?” Miss Bunch asked. “You know full well they’ve all migrated south.”

Miss Bay lifted her chin and sniffed. “Not all. I know what I saw.”

“You can’t have seen it, sister, it is just not possible. All the warblers have gone.”

“Hmph.”

“Really, if you saw a warbler, then I’m a trout.”

Miss Bay gave her an appraising look. “You are a trout.”

Miss Bunch pouted.

They paused before the grand old house their father, Professor Erasmus Norwood Berry, had built for their mother long years past. It was as fine a country manor as one could find in more populous regions, surrounded by gardens and plantings the sisters had cultivated over their lifetimes. The gardens had been put to rest for the season by Farnham, the beds buried in mulch.

“I for one miss the warblers,” said Miss Bunch. “It shall be another long, dreary winter, though I suppose the blue jays and chickadees will entertain us.”

“And the seagulls!”

“Really, Bay, you must stop lying about birds.”

But Miss Bay raised her bony arm and pointed to the sky, her gaze unwavering. “I do not lie about birds.”

Miss Bunch followed her gaze and gasped. Seagulls, instead of smoke, were issuing from the chimneys and wheeling about the roof.

“I spoke too soon, I fear,” Miss Bunch said. “But what are seagulls doing flying from our chimneys?”

Miss Bay made a squeaking noise, rather like a broken scream, a sound Miss Bunch had never heard her sister make before.

She turned her attention back to the house and discovered what upset her so—water smashed through windows and poured out of them in spouts. Her hand went to her heart. “Oh no! Mother’s fine things!”

“Father’s library!” Miss Bay echoed.

They glanced at one another in horror.

“The bottle,” Miss Bunch whispered.

“Is broken,” Miss Bay said.

They turned to hobble away from the house as quickly as possible. Behind them the house quaked, more sea water pouring through windows and doors, and flooding the gardens. Tall masts smashed through the roof sending slate tiles flying and scattering seagulls. The front and back of the house exploded outward, the walls crumbling into piles of broken timbers and stone rubble, making way for stern and bow of a sailing ship. A mermaid figurehead seemed to watch the sisters as they hurried away.

Miss Bay and Miss Bunch retreated down the drive and across the stone bridge. The sweet brook that flowed beneath it was rising rapidly.

“Whatever shall we do?” Miss Bunch wailed.

“Hide!” Miss Bay snapped. “What do you think those pirates will do if they find us?”

Miss Bunch whimpered. “We should never have taken in that young man. Nothing good ever comes from Mirwell.”

“I fear you are correct, sister,” said Miss Bay. “For once. Who knows what other mischief he got up to in father’s library.”

Now Miss Bunch moaned, but her sister grabbed her arm and dragged her into the forest to hide from pirates.