Sailing Ether Tides

Sailing Ether Tides

Ch: 22 A Honey Bee’s Sting

Westfall island turned out en masse to watch the little ship sail away, carrying off her cargo of crafty weirdos and lunatic merchants. The trading post was gone, leaving the mangrove ringed island of suddenly very stable and fertile soil behind.

Goody Laupin and her husband sat on Westfall pier, their long ears draped over each other’s shoulders, an embrace few could experience… Wearing a lover’s ears as a shawl and sharing that intimacy was even sweeter on a cool morning, when spring and summer were brushing shoulders.

Master Laupin held an elaborately sealed scroll tube in his calloused carpenter’s hand, as he watched Moonrise sail off with the strange warship in tow.

“They named it Laupin Island, the baroness gave me the deed right after they cast off…” He whispered into his beloved’s warm pink ear.

“Why?” She asked very softly, too busy savoring the moment to get excited.

“It was your community oven project…” He whispered, with a kiss and a nibble. “We’ll put a house on the shore, there, and a big garden… lots of mouths to feed, with all these new bunnies on the way.”

“Really? Who’s pregnant?” She asked with a knowing wink at her incorrigible man.

“I’m going to get a son out of you yet, woman!” He grumbled, while nestling in closer. “See if I don’t!”

#

Leafchaser and Jeskin watched the kids sail off, waving from the dockside with the rest, before setting off, hand in hand to the Adventure compound in the city, to register. “When we see them again…” Jeskin rumbled happily, in the throaty growl he used when super excited and agitated. He was feeling unfriendly eyes on them as they walked.

“We’ll be ready.” She purred warmly, her tail wrapped around his, as they strolled along, heedless of the frequent unwelcoming stares they received from the townies. “Screw those losers. We’re gonna be Adventurers, Ruffstuff. We’re living in a freakin’ world of magic and wonders!”

#

The whole crew skittered and clambered all over the small blue trade vessel, desperately searching for a missing member. Moonrise sat on a sea anchor, her helm lashed, and unmanned, as even the captain and mate scurried about.

“Wilf?” Amy called into the ballast hold, a seldom visited space on even so tidy a ship as the Ward family yacht. No one was there… It had been a slim hope anyway.

“He can’t have gone overboard… Did we leave him on the island?” Becky wondered in slowly growing, chilling dread when she resumed her station at the helm.

“Who’d we leave behind?” Wilf asked, from the rail of the warship, a dozen yards behind, faithfully following after on her tow line.

“Damnit, boy!” Tallum grumbled and fussed from the aft rope locker, as he struggled his way up, through the hatch. The giant barely fit in, and getting out was proving more troublesome. “What are you doing over there?”

“Uhh…?” Wilf mumbled in slight embarrassment. “Not squeezing in, two to a bunk and living in a floating fart bottle?” He smiled again. “There’s a lot of people, packed into not much boat, over there.”

Wilf had found the ship’s carpenter’s quarters on the unnamed warship and moved himself in, without saying anything to anyone.

The burly, soft spoken lad shrugged and smiled weakly. “There’s a workbench and a few tools here too, I have some projects in mind…”

“My darn brother…” Amy grumbled and huffed, even as she was walking the narrow, tow line bridge, Rio following right behind her. “I can’t believe you picked a room, all sneaky like that…” She grumbled.

Frankie, Maya and Benny looked at eachother and scratched their heads. “Why didn’t we bunk on her? I never really thought about that…” Frank wondered aloud.

“Floating fart bottle...” Benny chuckled to himself, while Maya elbowed him in the ribs with a grin on her face.

“Cause we still remember what it looked… and smelled like, when we took her.” She offered with a shrug.

“Good point.” Frank sighed happily at the thought of having a room of his own for the rest of the voyage. He was going to enjoy this trip; mysterious farty smell lingering on Moonrise, or no.

“What’s for lunch?” Tallum asked his petite blonde wife, once things were settled down. “I’m hungry.”

“Bean soup with salted wallowbear, biscuits and pickled vegetables!” Ivy sang up from the galley.

“Ok, I’m going to the other boat too…” Frank announced, with Maya and Benny falling in behind him. “We’ll get our gear at dinner.”

#

Each crewmember wore at least one bronze cuff in their ear; with the Wards and Frankie wearing two. The ornaments were shaped in sweeping curls to gently but securely cling to the wearer’s earlobe, in order to slowly, but constantly siphon away their Mana and Stamina, so long as they remained within a quarter mile of the ship.

Sculpted in a form that evoked rushing waters and sweeping winds across the sea, the jewelry fed those energies into a hungry bronze and silver construct of arcane and eldritch craft, deep in the bowels of Moonrise.

The mysterious ‘engine’ made no sound, produced no vibrations or visible effect when in use, beyond a subtle glow in the water in her wake, only visible on the darkest of nights.

While she was under way, anyone other than Gary, Tallum or Wilf, when entering the ‘engine room’ would feel an almost irresistible urge to be elsewhere, anywhere else… Please and thank you very much. The uncomfortable sensation of alien watching eyes and a wrenching, twisting sensation all over the visitors’ skin tended to stifle most peoples’ curiosity.

Gary and Tallum were always highly evasive, when questioned as to exactly how the ship moved, without a Water or Wind user aboard.

Wilf took a different tactic when interrogated about the strange little ship. He would lecture exhaustively and breathlessly, delving deep into the underlying arcane and occult theories behind ‘hydrogen excitement’ and ‘magi-netic energy induction warp fields’.

“...so in effect, the propulsion is a side effect, a waste product of the etheric torsion and traction, or ‘warp’ field we use to suspend this small crystal of dilithium, in an unfixed metaphysical state and a stable relative position to Moonrise’s keel.” He would gasp excitedly.

“We call it a warp drive to make things easier… But really, it uses the surface tension of the etheric veil…”

By the time he got to that point, even the most ardent boating enthusiasts were long gone or bored to the point of insensibility.

The unnamed warship cut Moonrise’s lambent green wake like a keen blade, her own former glow no longer evident. They had long since scrubbed and scoured away the magical algae and seaweeds responsible for the effect, leaving a clean ship with fresh sails and rigging purchased and installed while they were anchored.

Those sails were stowed away, as both vessels surged against the waves under occult power, provided by the little family of weirdos, whose Mana and Stamina recovery rates were abnormal, almost… monstrous.

With a full crew and a fair wind, the miniature flotilla arrived off ‘Shitshow island’ after a day and a half; sailing through the watches of the night, under the light of the moons. They cruised in and anchored in the snug harbor, while the Ward kids, Frankie and Becky ran ashore in MissAdventure, Amy’s tiny skiff.

In two quick trips, they assemble on the shore near their former encampment and the small hillock of picked clean, sand and sun scoured carapace; the mortal remains of Stormcrab.

Their mobile village of ephemeral cottages reappeared, to the theme of ‘Giligan’s island’. This time, with the addition of Frankie’s little stone farmhouse and Becky’s two story tall, cozy ‘Victorian’, painted in shades of lilac and lavender.

“We haven’t had this many of us together for a while…” Frankie gasped, as he sank to a garden bench under a towering maple tree that was wildly out of place on the sandy shore.

“Frankie… have you been slacking on your Mana cultivation?” Maple asked, as she clambered down from the tree, in her stick insect form. “I’ll tell Willow on you, boy!”

The gasping, exhausted lad hung his head and moaned piteously. “It’s hard to keep up when I’m at home…” He complained and whined. “Morning and evening milkings, working in the creamery and the cheese house…”

“Excuses are a poor substitute for diligence and practice.” The dryad scolded her young friend. “You will never be able to manifest your little house without the others’ help, if you don’t work at it.”

Her scolding was only audible and understandable to the Wards and Frankie, the others carried on with the work of setting up ‘camp’ while the giant bug took the young Adventurer to task.

They were long accustomed to far stranger sights than a young warrior making feeble excuses to a stick insect two feet long, who silently danced and fluttered her limbs at him, in a manner that suggested almost maternal disappointment.

“Solange and Willow will both no doubt be joining the family for midsummer feast… It would be splendid if you were farther along.” She cooed softly at the embarrassed young man.

The Wards watched the interplay from a discreet distance, too far to listen in on the pair, as the ancient dryad gently scolded poor Frankie at length.

“At least the citrus sisters aren’t here…” Rio murmured quietly, as he went through his little adobe ranch house; dusting, tuning and cleaning what remained of his instrument collection, after Stormcrab’s brief and unwelcome visit. With pleasure he caressed the new skins Wilf had stretched onto the drums they’d bought in Centre Port, sighing at the loss of his banjo and guitar.

The common, mundane instruments had been utterly destroyed on their last visit to the island; crushed in the monster’s ravenous quest for anything edible, a broad and varied category, when one is several tons of lightning wreathed, shelled horror.

“Lemon and orange are both very nice…” Wilf murmured in his low, quiet voice, from behind a silly smile. “Lime is just a little tart, at times.”

“Shut up Wilf.” Rio sighed fondly at his big, goofy brother.

“Come on…” Wilf sighed happily, with a huge bone saw and an ax in his hands, dressed in worn and stained work clothes that looked ready for the rag bin. “Let’s see what we can harvest from that shell, get changed.”

The boys spent a few quiet hours before sundown hacking, sawing, stacking and scraping the creature’s remains, collecting a huge pile of chitin slabs and plates.

Finally, deep inside the still meaty and disgusting hillock of sea creature, Wilf let out a wild yell of excitement, mingled with disgust.

“Are you ok in there?” Rio called, from his position near the shattered, ragged rift in the awful shell where its ‘face’ had been.

“Yeah, err… no… there’s a lot of… critters still in here.” He called from deep within, accompanied by a cacophony of wet, sloshing sounds. “It’s pretty gross, stand clear!”

Rio heeded his brother’s warning and ducked aside, just in time to avoid a nasty horde of vermin.

Dozens of dire maggots and giant sand fleas poured from the fissure in a disgusting swarm, scattering across the sand like a reeking flood; Wilf following after, kicking and stomping at the vile things. A few dire flies buzzed and bumbled loudly, struggling to take flight, so stuffed full of mostly rotten crab goop that they were barely able to crawl across the sand.

Maya stifled a scream of revulsion, releasing only a guttural: “Oh… Gross!” As she began flinging slender needles and darts into the mass of crawling, hopping, wiggling vermin.

She reaped a terrible harvest of the nasty beasts with her flying weapons. These were primitive needles of carved bamboo, tipped with a tiny flake of obsidian, secured with monster gut cord and ending in a tuft of monster hair to help them fly true. Disposable weapons were the best choice at times like these. She’d learnt that lesson after the ghost pirate action. Fishing her favorite senbon of tempered steel from the oozing remains, one after another was a memory she was still hoping to forget, someday.

Frankie joined in the battle, strains of music lifting her innate dread and horror at the slimy, crawling swarm. Her beloved’s music cleansed away her distress, replacing it with the calm elation of battle… Even one as sad and gross as this. His instrument sang so much sweeter and higher than her long, iron staff flute, ‘The Monkey Princess Staff’. Not that she would wield it against these filthy, splattery things…

Carved of golden wood and set with silver and bronze, Frankie’s instrument always seemed to whisper, shine and sigh with happiness when in his hands, even before bringing it to his lips.

Dryad Song, unique flute. Only a druid may play or Contract this instrument. This instrument has chosen its master. All details occult.

Within a few notes, the battle was joined by a scuttling army of coconut crabs, swarming in from the jungle above the high tide line. The clattering, armored reinforcements attacked in ranks, marching with military precision as they scuttled to war. Their front line snipped, bashed and surged into the wriggling swarm, driving the maggots and flies toward the low wavelets of the cove, where a horde of stone, rock and green crabs waited at the waterline, looking hungry and pinchy.

Lobsters lurked on the periphery of the aquatic forces, ready to chase down any strays, while gulls and sandpipers patrolled the beach, ruthlessly taking the toad-sized sand fleas that hopped and skittered across the shore.

Maya halted her stream of thrown darts as the locals got to work. Her long iron instrument’s breathy, low tones joined Frank’s sweet music, bringing depth to the magic and giving him more control over his animal allies.

In less than ten minutes, the army, navy and air forces of the island withdrew, well fed and feeling sleepy as night closed in.

The two filthy Ward boys bathed in the sea… twice, then in the freshwater pool near the lagoon before Amy would let them into the hotspring baths. Their clothes she had burnt, and the ashes scattered in the jungle, while whispering prayers of cleansing to her many divine friends.

Maya oversaw the baths and rituals with a jaundiced and unhappy gaze, still deeply upset by the last few days of icky, wriggling, insectile and undead nastiness. “If this is the kind of Adventurers we’re going to be…” She grumbled sourly at the team, as they gathered in the common room with their elders after dinner.

“Now darling…” Frankie soothed her softly, over the lovely peach and mango cobbler Ivy brought out for a late dessert.

“This trip has been a little gross and nasty, but I’m sure it’s not always bug guts and vile beasties…”

“Nope… this is the life; we’re always either fighting for our lives against unknowable nightmares from beyond, or stomping nasty, stinky vermin flat.” Becky sighed happily, while passing out plates of steaming, gooey, biscuit topped deliciousness.

“That’s where guys like Wilf and Rio shine.” Ivy agreed, while the boys were distracted, chowing down like they were starving dogs. “They grew up elbows deep in monster guts, learning from their papa; the master of turning disgusting trash into wonders.”

“Hey…” Rio complained light-heartedly, from across the table. “S’honest work, pays good too!” He brandished his spoon, wielding it to fend off an army of imaginary foes. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“And what in the world could be worth wading through that…” Maya paled a little and paused for a heartbeat, before she could go on. “That stuff?”

“I’ll show everybody soon...” Wilf answered soberly; but he had a crooked, slightly crazed smile on his face, reminding them eerily of his papa.

#

Everyone in the duchy had heard of Shai’s Forge and Foundry, though few believed the stories of those who had shopped there or commissioned a work of craft from the shop. After nearly two busy weeks, the locals had given up and just accepted the giant red haired smith woman’s claims and works at face value… Mostly.

“Aye, we will hae yer wagon fixed by mid day, two days hence. T’will cost thee four trees, lumber and all. They will be picked out by me husband and harvested frae yer lands; once the job be done and yer cart delivered back tae thee.” She stood firm, holding to her wild claim and outrageous price.

“No, it’s too much! The woodcutter’s guild fees alone will…” Master Oliver, the vintner stumbled to a halt, when she raised her hand imperiously. “...pauper… me…?”

“Nae, Ollie. That man o mine will choose, cut, haul and mill the trees frae yer eastern hillside… Ours will be all the products, an ye shall have yer wagon back in fine fettle, in two days.”

She held out her calloused hand for him to shake, leaving the portly, usually good natured man little choice. Once the bargain was sealed she smiled, despite clearly having gotten the worse end of the deal.

“An ye wish him tae harvest more of that hillside, ye kin bargain wi him fer that when he comes.”

“Uh, right…” Ollie murmured awkwardly, feeling slightly ridiculous. “I spoke to the woodcutter’s guild about clearing that plot… They wouldn’t even consider it unless I build an access road and pay half the expenses.”

“We shall see, my friend.” She replied with a smile.

#

Sure enough, two days later as the bell tower rang out the morning’s third chime and fell quiet, a rumbling sound and the clopping of hooves approached his winery. His big, heavy wain rolled up, pulled by a little dust brown pony, the big smith woman walking along beside wearing a radiant smile.

“T’was a fine morning’s walk… Those axles will nae trouble thee anymore, methinks.” She called happily, when he stepped out his front door to see what she had wrought with his creaking, groaning cart.

He glanced at the undercarriage of his familiar old wagon and sat down on his own front step in surprise. The wooden axles, crude tallow greased spindles, leather bearings and bushings were gone, replaced by a construct of iron beams and strange metal works.

Leaf springs, coil springs, odd cylinders and bizarre armatures sprawled all over the underside of the cargo bed… Which had also been altered in a number of surprising ways. He understood little of what the woman was saying, over the ringing in his ears.

They’d had that miserable, back breaking cart in the family for nearly a century… He grew up with that thing, hauling produce in his family vineyards since he was old enough to hitch a team to that monstrosity and drive…

His folks had gifted it to him, when he set off to build a life here, on the far end of human lands. He’d driven it here, his own two donkey familiars supplemented by a hired team of four draft horses, to drag his household goods to his new home, on the hillsides above Foresthome.

No single animal had ever been able to pull that groaning behemoth down even the smoothest road, even empty…

He sat there for a while, as the woman nattered on about ‘captured springs’ ‘bronze bearing races and hubs’ and ‘torsion bars’ for a good few minutes.

When he finally gathered himself together, she had already unhitched her dust brown pony and rewarded her with a couple carrots. The animal was placidly munching, while the smith pushed the wagon into the barn single handedly. The damn thing rolled as easily as the count’s carriage…

“Me lad an I, we get a little overwrought, when working taegether…” She murmured happily. “We may hae done more than truly needful.”

With a wave and a smile, she pulled a bizarre, two wheeled object from nowhere at all, mounted it and rode away, to the sound of whirring gears and the clopping of her pony’s hooves, cheerfully following her mistress home.

“Gods blight me for a madman…” He whispered, after giving his old workhorse of a cart a gentle, experimental shove… It rolled away just a little under his shoulder, in exactly the way the old bastard never had before. Last week he might as well have tried to push the tile roofed, snug stone barn it sat under.

His familiars, Henry and Irma, snuffled happily and let out soft, murmuring brays of contentment, as he scratched and scratched them, lost in thought.

“I heard you wanted that hillside clearcut…” A soft voice said from the barn door. “I’m hoping to convince you otherwise.”

A tall, muscular man with brown hair, brown eyes and forgettable features leaned against the barn door, with a slightly disturbing, crooked smile on his lips. He wore workman's clothing, if well cut, clean and of fine stuff; yet he wore no guild badges nor aprons, nothing to signify any rank in the cult of Crafts.

“You must be mistress Shai’s… partner?” He asked, when his heart rate slowed a little. He glared at his familiars, silently scolding them for not warning him of the man’s approach. They snuffled their amusement and scolded him right back… as if this fellow were their dear friend and boon companion, rather than himself.

“Blessed of Eponna?” He asked, when his familiars were done abusing him.

“Yeah… afraid so.” He answered sourly, while struggling to extract his sandals from a huge, warm horse pile. “For good or ill.”

Oliver gaped at his familiars in horror, while the odd man used a big handful of bedding straw to scrape warm equine output from his feet and his utterly destroyed sandals. “I’m so sorry…” He gasped, before turning back to the two giggling familiars.

“Don’t blame them… I’m cursed and blessed by the goddess of all equines.” The man grumbled, while extracting a fresh set of sandals from somewhere Oliver couldn’t perceive. “They can’t help it, any more than I can avoid stepping in it.” He sighed sadly. “Even my wife’s pony…”

“You are a very weird person…” Ollie murmured softly, then turned bright red and clapped both hands over his mouth in shock at his own rudeness.

“Gary Ward, nice to meet ya, Oliver… and yeah, I’m a professional weirdo and infidel.” He said with a smile that failed to reassure the flustered vintner. Something dark and cold lurked in this man, even if his familiars were happily nuzzling and nibbling away at his face like excited yearlings.

“Let’s talk about that hillside, and what a few friends of mine would like to suggest… Have you ever met a sugar wasp princess before?”

Something golden and fast moving buzzed and fluted out of the man’s hair, darting around the barn in a glittering blur. “Kree, my little Sugar Bee… come back.” He called out to the blur of golden light. “Come say hello to Oliver, he’s new.”

An instant later, a hummingbird sized wasp darted up and halted; hovering a foot from his face on invisibly fast moving, buzzing wings.

“Ooo! Hello human! I hardly ever get to meet normies… He scares them off!”

She gestured with her right side limbs, pointing to the smiling madman by the barn door, still being smooched by the damn donkeys. “But first, let’s talk about sustainable forestry and the importance of biodiversity in modern agriculture…”

“I feel a little dizzy…” Oliver murmured softly, as he sat down in his wheelbarrow for a rest.

#

“I think that went well…” Kree buzzed in Gary’s ear, as he pedaled them home. He still couldn’t use the motor, so he’d removed it to save weight and improved his gearing system… with a lot of help from Tallum and Wilf.

He cranked his mundane bike home across Liam’s wide, smooth avenues, grateful that his friend had managed to repair most of his domain’s roads.

He marveled at the wide, straight, even paths, whether stone paved, or simply hard packed and baked clay; they ran smooth and mostly flat, following the rivers and branching all over the valley.

A score of hard working beaver lumbermen from Mudwallow Bridge town had made the trek and spent an entire summer clearing the roadbeds and stacking the green lumber to dry and season in numerous carefully constructed log piles, scattered over the domain.

Those experts had continued to visit from time to time, guiding the developing realm and getting the count’s lumber trade roaring to life. His two water mills beside the river and the mobile milling rig he’d brought from Wheatford had supplied his fast growing city and hamlets with cheap, local construction materials.

They’d quarried the ruins for stone, rebuilding where possible and saving what historic remains they could, but the outskirts of town remained largely empty of people.

Now Gary and his familiar pedaled down a wooded lane, past half cleared ruins and a few snug, cozy homes. They had become familiar sights lately… and here on the edge of things, people tended to mind their own business. He appreciated that.

Wheatford was a town fueled by gossip and entertained by rumors, nothing occurred, but that it was palavered up one side of the close knit valley and down the other. Here, in Foresthome, he was just another weirdo friend of the weirdo count… not the ‘mad witch’ or ‘heretic’ of the town.

Kree clung to his hair in her insect form, giggling and chattering away, excited about her new project. “...giant honeybees I met on the north end of the valley are looking for a new location, they will love it!” She sang merrily into his ear. “Once the wildflowers take hold on the terrace sides, we should have that orchard planted properly.”

“You and Liam have been scheming, haven’t you…?” Gary asked with a sly grin. “Garden nerd!” He scolded her in false outrage. “Granola munching, hippie scum!”

“Shut up, you big goof.” She sighed sadly before she stung him in the base of his skull, sinking her stinger into his flesh and pumping a bit of her venom into his bloodstream. Just a little; only enough to ease the lines of pain she saw gathering in the corner of his eyes, without sending him too loopy.

“You never tell me when it starts to hurt…” She scolded him gently.

“I’m used to it, sweetie.” He answered softly, as they rode in through the garden gate. “We’re home now anyway.”

#