The Maelstrom

~ 20 ~ Under a Mackerel Sky

A month later, the Ormenheid lay rolling on the shallows of Rowan Harbor. Compared to Prusias’s war galleons, the Viking ship looked no bigger than a dinghy. While she might have been less imposing, she had her own special gifts. Even as the sun broke the horizon, her dragon prow faced east, her sail magically unfurled, and her oars dipped down into the waters.

Max thought she cut a very noble figure under the mackerel sky, her timbers creaking as the sea lapped his boots with shell and foam. Sloshing past him through the swells, Cooper climbed aboard and beckoned for the others to start passing along the many barrels, sacks, and crates stacked neatly on the beach.

“This is quite the honeymoon,” mused Miss Boon, glancing at her wedding band before heaving a sack of flour into Scathach’s waiting arms. With an indifferent shrug, Scathach swung the flour along the line to Sarah, who passed it to Lucia, who handed it to Max, who tossed it up to Cooper.

Despite the grunts and occasional griping, the loading of the ship was going smoothly until Lucia dropped one of the crates.

“Eek!” she cried. “There’s something moving in there. Lots of things!”

“Sorry!” said Max, stooping quickly to retrieve the crate.

“What is that?” Lucia demanded. “It better not be anything dangerous!” She gestured protectively toward Kettlemouth as the oblivious bullfrog dozed in a converted birdcage.

“No, nothing dangerous,” said Max, trotting off with the crate on his shoulder.

Several more boxes went down the line without incident before Lucia dropped another.

“What could be in that one?” she wondered. “It’s so heavy!”

“My fault,” said Max, promptly scooping it up. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to carry it. Sorry—should have marked it.”

Lucia seemed content to merely glare and grumble until the smee offered some suggestions.

“You’ve got to use your legs, young lady!” cried Toby. “My God, you’re just flailing about like a broken scarecrow. Bend those knees! How can such a dashing filly be so—”

“Not another word, you!” roared Lucia, wheeling on him. “If you’re not going to help, then you just be quiet. I don’t have to take orders from some lazy, strutting peacock!”

But indeed, Toby was a peacock.

The smee had indulged in many forms since the Director lifted his ban. There had been magnificent tigers, square-jawed knights, and golden stallions, but of late the smee had favored the shape of an iridescent blue peacock that was prone to highly dramatic displays of his tail whenever he believed its sudden appearance might be to his advantage. It rarely had the desired effect, and this occasion proved no exception.

“I was only trying to help,” he sulked, having weathered a storm of Italian obscenities.

“Then grab a crate,” huffed Lucia.

“But I didn’t come down here to work,” he replied. “I just came to see you off! You know, bon voyage and so forth.”

“Are you going to miss us, Toby?” teased Max, lugging a crate to Cooper.

“Let’s see,” mused the smee. “If ‘missing you’ means carefree evenings at Cloubert’s while Lady Luck whisks me off to fame and fortune, then I suppose I’ll miss you a great deal. Ha!”

While the smee reveled in his wit, Max caught sight of a large figure making its way carefully down the many stairs from Rowan’s cliffs. Washing his hands in the sea, Max left the others and trotted to where the steps met the rocky beach.

Bob was breathing heavily when he reached the bottom. Setting down his bundle, the ogre reached for a handkerchief and wiped his glistening brow. Catching his breath, he craned his head up at the high cliffs and shook his head. “Too many steps.”

“You didn’t have to see us off,” said Max. “It’s so early.”

With a shrug, the ogre refolded the handkerchief and gazed out at the Ormenheid floating beneath the pale peach sky.

“Pretty ship,” he grunted. “Bob wonders if you have room for one more.”

“You mean that isn’t a care package to see us off?”

Looking down, Bob blinked at the enormous pack that was overflowing with cooking pans and ogre-sized clothing. Laughter rumbled in his chest.

“No, malyenki,” he said. “These things are not for you. It is time for Bob to go get his little Mum. Soon he will be too old for such journeys and she has been away long enough. It is time she comes home where she belongs.”

“Well, I think we can help you,” said Max, grinning. “We’re taking Sarah and Lucia to search out Connor Lynch in Blys. Once they’re off, we’ll be heading north. We’ll pass right near Shrope Hovel.”

“Where are you going in the north?” asked the ogre.

“The Isle of Man.”

“A Fomorian lives there,” rumbled Bob. “They are dangerous.”

“That’s why we’re going.”

The ogre digested this and gazed back at the Ormenheid. “Do you think the others will mind?” he asked tentatively.

“Doesn’t matter if they do.” Max shrugged, hefting up Bob’s pack and trudging toward the water. “She’s my ship and I’m captain. If anyone complains, I’ll make them cut the jibs and swab the sheets.”

“Bob does not think malyenki knows how to sail.”

Of course, everyone was delighted to welcome Bob aboard. Swinging his leg easily over the gunwale, the ogre settled in to wring out his socks while the others stowed the rest of their gear and prepared to set sail. When Max gave the command, the Ormenheid’s oars began to scull gently through the water as the breeze stretched her sail taut. She moved smoothly through the harbor, skimming past Gràvenmuir’s dark remains.

Once they were headed for open waters, Max walked back to the stern and gazed up at the cliffs, where he thought David and Mina might be watching from high atop Túr an Ghrian. The tower dwarfed everything around it, a slender white spire whose summit stood a thousand feet over the sea. Max was enjoying its majesty when a large splash brought him whipping about.

A porpoise had leaped over the gunwale.

“What’s an adventure without a smee!” it cried.

Landing heavily, the porpoise slid across the slippery deck until it came to rest against Bob’s foot. When no one spoke, Toby changed back into his native form and gazed about dejectedly.

“You just left,” he sniffed. “You never even asked me if I wanted to go. And then this big galoot comes along and it’s all ‘welcome aboard’ and ‘let me help you with that’!”

Plucking up the smee by one twisty end, Bob began dabbing him gently with a towel.

“What happened to Cloubert’s?” asked Max, sitting down by Scathach. “I thought you were on a big lucky streak.”

“I lied.”

Max opened a nearby crate. “You’re more than welcome to stay, Toby, but you might have to catch your own food. We didn’t pack for a smee.”

“Well, what’s in that box?” demanded the smee, pointing with his head. “I’ll bet there’s plenty of grub in there!”

“There is. But I’m not certain you’d like it.”

Reaching inside the crate, Max selected an iron ingot and laid it on the deck. Something in his pocket stirred, and Max brought it forth. He held it on his palm: a glossy black lump that soon stretched and mewled and cracked a coppery eye.

“Is … is that what I think it is?” asked the smee.

Max smiled. “Her name is Nox, and she’s my charge.”

“You never asked me to be your charge,” the smee observed coldly.

“But you’re not a charge, you’re a spy,” said Max, stroking the lymrill’s quills. “An infiltration specialist, a master of ruse de guerre …”

“Quite right,” snorted Toby, promptly ordering Bob to set him upon the sunny deck.

Once placed, the smee stretched, flipped onto his tummy, and launched into an unabridged recitation of his many adventures, intrigues, and scandals. After all, the voyage was long, his audience captive, and the smee most forthcoming.