The Forest, by Ben Greenfield - Chapter 15: "The Devil"

The tall man with the gray beard wore wide knee length black trousers, a thick black jacket and waistcoat, black canvas gloves, a black kerchief wrapped around his neck, and black shoes with silver buckles. Behind him, a crowd of seafarer men had gathered, curiously inspecting their new passengers. Unlike the man in black, they were all barefoot and sparsely clothed. Most of them were shirtless, with wide tattered trousers that barely hung down to their knees. Many wore hats with their heads covered in a mix of checkered and striped knitted caps, straw hats with wide floppy brims, and a few with their hair simply shaven off the front of their heads and what remained of that hair tied in pigtails that hung down their backs.

Grood. Me title is Grood.

The seafarer flashed a toothy grin and cocked his black wool cap to the side, locking eyes with Tink's pointed ears.

And it's been some time since me seen an elf used as shark and bait. How are ye sea legs, ye wispy gutter snipe?

With this he guffawed loudly and slapped a wet, tired Tink on the back. At the same time, the ship slanted sharply to the left as a wave rolled under it, sending Tink stumbling and slipping to the railing, then collapsing to the deck in a heap, his legs too cold and tired from treading water to keep him stable. Grood sneered in amusement, then turned to study river and Terran. He bent down, widened his stance, put both hands on his knees, and squinted deep into Terran's eyes. Terran held back the urge to dry heave as the seafarers acrid breath filled his nostrils. If the Catawan had smelled of moldy wet carpet, Grood smelled of vinegar and old cheese. Any of the dry skin on his face that could be seen through his stringy gray whiskers was covered in a jagged pattern of scars, and as he shoved his head towards Terran, grinning with a wide open mouth and jaw thrust forward, Terran could see that most of his upper teeth were missing, save a single dull silver incisor below his left upper lip. Grood straightened back up, put his hands on his hips, and looked from Terran to River, then back to Terran and again to River. For a moment he frowned and looked confused, then he broke out in another fit of harsh laughter.

Waal, isn't he a fine pair of fresh food one just like t'.

Other.

A rare sight.

He turned back to Tink, who had stood up again and stumbled back to join river and Terran.

And just how did Ye Come to be floating in charbidion, eh? Out fishing for a sea monster?

Tink cleared his throat loudly.

We were not in fact fishing. We were flying.

Grude narrowed his eyes.

Flying with the seabird, were ye? And just of this morning I was riding a magical horned pony around the deck of the Devil.

Grood thrust both his hands forward and bounced his body up and down as though riding an imaginary horse. The ragtag group of seafarers behind him snickered and from somewhere in the back someone shouted, Grood.

A making his horsey joke.

Grood whipped around and slashed his hand across his neck indicating silence.

Quiet, me salties.

He turned back to Tink.

And to where were ye Flyin't?

Gathered himself, took a deep breath, stepped forward and thrust his open hand towards Grood. Tink.

Tink the inventor at your service.

He then took a slightly wobbly and awkward bow, flipped his wet hair back, and announced in a very official voice.

And we are off to the royal city of Capit on the mainland of Goaald to bring these two young humans to the Master Librarian. Should you give us safe passage, I guarantee you shall be granted full pardon by the Crown for your crimes of treason.

Grood smirked.

Me fishing crimes?

He leaned forward and spoke in a more quiet voice.

I knows nothing of a library, but I knows of a crown. And I knows he don't dish out pardon so much as hanging innocent seafarers from a hempen halter. So what's to make old Grood trusty has such a kin like relationship to those such as the Crown?

Tink lowered his voice and leaned forward.

The crown owes me a significant favor for the invention of a glass spectacle that allows one to inspect the tiniest of objects. Imagine a ladybug as enormous as a red and black planet, a blade of grass as a long green bristly road, and a speck of dirt as a mountain. Just imagine.

Grood's nose wrinkled in bewilderment as he stepped away from Tink. For a moment he simply stood and glared. Then he burst out with a devil like cackle that reverberated across the deck of the ship. He whirled around, his long black waistcoat twirling with him, and bellowed at the band of seafarers behind him.

Did ye hear that? A spectacle, he says. Ladybugs in grass, he says.

As the seafarers smirked and chuckled, Grood whipped back around, took two giant steps forward, and brought his face just inches from Tink's.

Listen ere son of a biscuit, I doesn't give a rat's tail for spectacles, but I do give a voyage straight back into the sea for a liar. If old Grood gets ye to goild, and there ain't a free and clear pardon ever seafarer that ever lived, we will be out for to tie ye to a mast and slowly bleed your horn Swaggylar garden guts out. Understand?

Tink quietly nodded. Grood continued, and your cloak. He motioned to the waterlogged green cloak slung around Tink's neck.

Your cloak, made of fine wool with gold buttons, is mine. You hear that? And a crown's pardon buys you safe passage to goild, you an your fine friends. See?

Tink nodded again. Grood grinned another toothless smile, extended his black gloved hand, and crooned loudly, dull delio.

Tink reached out, grasped Grood's hand, and vigorously shook it. The seafarer pulled on Tink's hand, twisted violently on Tink's outstretched arm, and effortlessly clutched Tink's armpit and jerked the elf off his feet, still smiling.

A deal and a dinner.

Still hoisting Tink uncomfortably aloft, he turned to his band of seafarers.

We make haste to go wild, hearties, but let's first make haste to the mess and dine on fresh snapper with our three new sea dogs. Shallow way.

Terran perched on his hard wooden stool and slid his hand back and forth on the grease that covered the long, thick oak table in the mess room. His stomach was cramping and bubbling with hunger, but by now he was used to this constant feeling of emptiness in his gut. The overpowering salty smell of some kind of fish was wafting from the kitchen next to the mess hall, mingled with a sulfurous odor of rotten leftover scraps and crumbs of fish food strewn under the table, giving him the odd sense of being both starved and nauseous at the same time. He brushed aside the old fishbones and stale biscuit crumbs strewn in front of him on the table and scrutinized the band of seafarers gathered around. Grood sat at the head of the table with a bald, pigtailed seafarer to his left and a short, stocky fellow with a white and red knitted cap to his right. Terran counted a total of ten other men scattered around the table, all of them staring at and sizing up their guests while hungrily brandishing forks and knives and casting furtive glances at the kitchen. He looked at river, who sat on his right. The color was still drained from his brother's sallow, lean face, and Terran reminded himself again that he probably looked the same way. Days of malnourishment and lack of sleep were adding up quickly. On his left, Tink sat on the edge of his stool, uncommonly quiet, rubbing his chin and surveying their surroundings with his deep green eyes.

Ye makin our honoured guests think ye're goin to skin them alive, me hearties.

Grood pounded his fist on the table and looked towards the kitchen.

Suppose a long night and day, a gathering fish and navigatin seas has ye as hungry as old Grood. So hurry up with the fish already.

Cutter, a white bearded wild haired man, popped his head out from the swinging wooden doors leading into the kitchen and sneered.

Shove a stale biscuit and give me five minutes. Grode fried snapper, take some lovin'.

Grood grunted.

Grease and grits'd fill me now bring us the cold porridge from yesterday's breakfast while we waitin', Cutter.

The doors to the kitchen instantly swung open and Cutter appeared casually holding a wooden pail in one hand and a pile of small bowls in the other. He dropped the pail in the middle of the table, thrust a ladle into it with a loud plop, and marched back into the kitchen. Like a rabied herd of greedy rats. The seafarers all plunged into the middle of the table. Terran smelled the stench of body odor, sharp elbows poking his neck and shoulders, and the heavy hot breath of 12 men piled around him. But when they'd all settled back into place, there before him had appeared a small metal bowl of porridge. There was no spoon. He glanced across the table and watched a square jawed seafarer thrust two thick meaty fingers into his porridge and scoop a chunk of it into his mouth. Terran opened his hand and dipped all five fingers into the bowl. The porridge was cold. He brought a pile of grayish brown slop to his mouth and scraped it off with his front teeth. It was also tasteless, but when he held back the urge to ask for salt and instead swallowed, he almost immediately felt it slide into his stomach and fill a big empty hole. He dipped his hand into the bowl again. Beside him he watched river grunt hungrily and do the same. He watched Tink quietly stir his porridge with one finger, then bring it up to his mouth, inspect it carefully, test it with his tongue, then daintily lick it off his finger. Nobody spoke for several minutes. There was simply loud slurping, grunting and the occasional clank and splash coming from the kitchen Then Grood broke the silence.

This be Jolly.

He motioned to the bald man on his left.

First Mate eyes the cargo keeps the ship ordered.

Jolly nodded, took an enormous bite of porridge, rolled his eyes back in his head, then belched loudly.

Endless be Jack.

Grood nodded to his right at the short man with the knitted cap.

He be the steersman keepin us after the fish and away from the tempests.

Jack didn't look up. He was scraping his last bit of porridge out of his bowl with his thumb. Tink straightened on his stool and formally nodded at Jolly and Jack.

Pardon my directness, but it's been some while since I've set foot on Goaald to. Do you know the status of the battle?

Grood shrugged.

Oh, Grood. He gets bits here, bits there.

He gave a distracted glance toward the kitchen.

Tales I been told are that them screamin lizards and painted up berserkers pushin as close as a hundred mile to Castilla heard shudderin story of them killin the babies and boys first, then ravagin the rest.

Tink ran his hands through his hair and grimaced in concern.

100 miles from the royal city already. And what of the crops? Same as always. They poison the ground from the roots before they come a riding and a roaring. Weak folks with no food put up nary a fight. Even the troops are starving.

Grood glanced at the kitchen again and pounded his fist on the table.

And I'm gettin weaker by the minute with no fish cutter.

He locked eyes with Tink and Sleep smiled mischievously.

But they son of a biscuit eatin wizards can't poison the whole sea, so. Oh, Grood, he don't fear lizards. Doesn't swim.

Dozens of thoughts weave through Terran's head about screaming lizards, dead babies, poisoned roots, and painted wizards. He looked at river, who seemed more concerned with the cold, empty porridge bowl before him. Terran leaned toward his brother and whispered, I don't think I want to go to this place they're talking about. River nodded passively inside, still looking weak and pale.

Eh, boy?

Grood leaned forward.

Ye whisperin secrets.

Terran sat up. Before he knew it, he blurted aloud to the entire room, I don't want to go to this place. It sounds horrible. Why are we going there? I want to go home. I want to go to camp.

I want to see my mother.

Every seafarer stopped chewing and fumbling with their porridge bowls and stared at him. Grood scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. Tink sighed loudly. Terran wiped a tear running down his red cheek and sniffed. He kept talking loudly, unable to stop his rambling. Why are we even here?

We didn't ask to come here to this dumb boat. Can't we just go home? Can't we leave this horrible place?

Tink spoke out of the corner of his mouth towards Terran.

That'll likely do, boy, unless you want to be shark bait tonight. No, I don't care.

I want to go home. We can't go home. For the first time in a very long time, river spoke. We can't go home. So just sit down and shut up. Haven't you figured it out? Figured what out?

Figured what? River?

Tink's taking us there because it's horrible. Tink wants us to fight, stupid. He wants our weapons. Terran looked at Tink. His eyes welled up with more tears. Fight. I can't fight.

I'm just 10.

Before he could say anything more, there was a bustling from the kitchen. The wooden doors flew open again and Cutter appeared with not one, not two, not three, but four long metal trays somehow balanced on both his arms, one nestled in the crook of each elbow and one balanced on each hand. He waltzed his way around the table, plunking a tray down on either end of the table and two more in the middle. On each tray was a fish, but not the slimy, cold dead fish Terran had expected. Instead, nestled among a lavish plateful of sea steamed lemons and capers was an enormous fried fish coated in a deep, golden brown, crunchy skin. The fish had been fried whole, so its tail was curled up and flaked with a coating of crusty salt, and its gaping wide mouth was open, showing bits of salted, succulent meat behind the gills and the rows of tiny sharp teeth. It smelled all at once of sweet citrus and savory seafood and soft oily fats. It was the most glorious thing Taran had seen or smelled since Tink had broken open a loaf of Balinga around the fire at Arctan and and for a moment he forgot all his troubles and simply stared at the scrumptious feast that Cutter had prepared on the platter. Laid neatly next to each fish was a long, three pronged fork. Without hesitating, Terran grabbed this miniature trident and thrust it straight into the belly of the fish, splitting it open to reveal thick layers of pulpy meat. He scooped it in a long piece of crunchy flaking skin into his empty porridge bowl, squeezed half a lemon onto it, and shoveled it all into his mouth. At Once it was warm, salty, and filled his whole mouth and nose with a savory, pungent zest. The whole room seemed to fade into the distance. As he chewed, he became mildly aware of river doing the same, reaching, chopping, sawing, crunching, groaning with indulgence. He saw Tink's hands dripping with grease and lemon juice, Grood grinning wildly as he too spin fish, flesh and skin and lemon and capers into his porridge bowl, the seafarers grunting, belching, sniffing and snorting, Cutter singing loudly from the kitchen, the gradual up and down motion of the ship, the tears drawing on his face. For a few moments or dozens of minutes, or perhaps even an hour, there was more chewing, shouting, chatter, cackling from Grood, and a growing sense of sleepiness between each bite of fish as Terran felt one eye close then open and the other eye close then open. He'd never eaten and slept at the same time, but this must be what it felt like.

Then there was a loud, abrupt clattering of a stool falling backward to the ground as Tink stood, held his bow aloft and proclaimed loudly, from a silver.

Backed cateawan to a silver toothed seafarer. We've got nothing but fortune from misfortune thus far. May our luck continue through to Gwald to the devil.

Grood threw his black hat off his head and slammed it to the table, then hoisted his own empty porridge bowl up.

Old Grood will tip his apple pastry cap to that and a smooth journey on his devil to the port by sunrise. Easy.

At the sound of Tink's proclamation, Terran became fully aware of his surroundings again. The fish was entirely gone and the platters had been neatly leaked clean. Jolly and Jack had their elbows locked and were twirling in the corner of the room, singing loudly and very out of tune. He looked at river, who had fallen asleep on his stool and whose head was resting lazily on the table, a trickle of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth. He looked at Tink, who was now once again engaged deep in conversation, trying to explain the magic of machine flight to a bewildered seafarer beside him. He thought of Tink's mention of Goaald, of the port they'd be at by sunrise, venturing even farther from home and of Father and Mother, and his thoughts returned to quiet sadness. Terran pushed his stool away from the table and strolled towards the steep set of stairs that led up to a dimly lit hatch where the exit of the mess room opened up to the deck of the ship and engrossed in conversation, dancing, shouting and sleeping. The party in the room didn't seem to notice his wandering one bit. He looked behind him once, then took the stairs one step at a time, reached above his head, pushed the hatch open, and pulled himself up onto the ship's deck. The air was cold and wet. Night had fully arrived, but under the clear sky, the two moons and the bright array of stars above the Charabinian Sea, Terran could clearly see the outline of the main mast, and beyond the main mast, the foremast and the bow of the ship. Beside the muffled drone of waves of water rolling up against the sides of the devil. All was deathly quiet and seemed as though the entire seafarer crew was below deck. Terran wandered towards the foremast, climbing up to the forecastle. Surrounding the mast was a splintered wooden ladder with two rungs missing. He put both hands on the ladder, hoisted himself up past these broken rungs, and climbed up onto the forecastle deck. From here he could see all the way past the rear mast and to the stern of the ship, where it didn't appear anyone seemed to be standing at the helm. He thought of Jack the stairsman, who he had last seen dancing with Jolly down below the deck, and wondered if perhaps the ship was anchored, or if the ship only needed to be steered when there were big winds or towering waves. He walked to the very edge of the forecastle at the bow of the ship. He leaned forward over the railing and looked down into the water, which he figured must be at least 40ft below him. Two lanterns hung nearly halfway down to the water, and he could clearly see the peak of each wave as it gently brushed the sides of the hole. The glow of the white foamy caps illuminated by the lanterns and the moon and the stars, and below these caps, tiny shadows of currents and smaller waves dancing in one long pyramid, deeper and deeper into the sea. He took a long, lingering breath in. Through his nose he could smell the salt, feel the spray, hear the murmur of the ocean, see the world gently bobbing up and down. His senses suddenly seemed alive. He looked down again and shivered a little. There was another shadow in the water. This shadow was easily as long as two school buses and was moving with an eerie, slow, calculated speed directly under the front of the hole.