The Floating Island (14 page)

Mrs. Snodgrass scratched the cat behind the ears. “This is Murphy,” she said fondly. “He’s an old ratter from one of the captain’s ships—the best he ever had, in fact. Retired from the sea now, he lives in the inn. Murphy knows everything that goes on around here, though he rarely tells.” She patted the cat again, and looked up as two rough-looking men tromped down the stairs, nodded to her, and left the inn.

The argument in the bar was growing louder. Ven looked over to see that the men were now glaring, occasionally jabbing each other in the chest with their pointed fingers.

Ven coughed politely.

“It must be very hard to be alone here, with all the strangers that come through,” he said.

“Ah, yes, ’tis a very scary thing, a poor woman like me, all alone, without a husband to protect her,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. She looked over her shoulder. The noise from the argument at the table had gotten very loud. “Excuse me a moment.”

She walked over to the two bickering men, both a head taller than she, seized them each by an ear and slammed their heads together with a resounding thump. Then she returned to Ven.

“So sorry,” Mrs. Snodgrass continued. “Yes, it’s a very frightening thing, to be a poor, weak woman all alone out here.”

Ven grinned. He glanced over at Char, who looked even more terrified than before. Then he remembered the crystal vial in his pocket. His skin started to itch; from the moment he had seen the crystal vial, his curiosity had been nagging at him. He stepped forward and spoke softly to the innkeeper.

“Er—may I speak to you alone a moment, Mrs. Snodgrass?” he asked, his curiosity itching so fiercely that his palms were sweating.

The red-haired lady nodded, then gestured for both boys to follow her. Char clutched his hat as they made their way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Snodgrass gave them both apples and cheese.

“Why don’t you sit down, Char?” she said, pointing to a stool at a long table. “You look like you’re about to faint.” Then she led Ven back into the hall.

“What did you want to say?” she asked.

Ven unbuttoned his shirt pocket and carefully removed the vial. He handed it to her as gently as he could.

“From the captain,” he said.

Mrs. Snodgrass exhaled, and Ven noticed she looked even more tired and drawn than he had first thought. She took the bottle.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “If you and your friend are still hungry, there are biscuits in the crock near the fire.” Then she turned and walked away down the hall, deeper into the inn.

Ven watched until he could no longer see her, then looked around the inn once more. It was clear that at one time the place had been very grand, and could hold enough guests to be a small town all by itself. Whatever it was that Oliver had warned them about, whatever was wrong with the Crossroads Inn, had left it standing all but empty.

Music caught his ear again, and he looked over at the fireplace, where the man was still playing his strange instrument, singing softly to himself. Ven listened as the song came to an end. Then he thought he could hear soft applause coming from the corner near the hearth. The singer smiled and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Who is he singing to?” Ven wondered aloud, looking closely but seeing nothing.

“The Spice Folk,” a scratchy voice said behind him.

Ven turned quickly around, but there was no one there. No one new had come into the inn, and the two men whose heads Mrs. Snodgrass had bashed together were still in the bar, looking a little dazed, too far away to have spoken.

“Who is speaking to me?” he asked, feeling a little foolish but more curious.

There was no answer.

Ven turned around again and looked back at the singer. “Spice Folk?” he asked. “What are Spice Folk?”

He heard a rumbling sound, like a throat clearing.

“A kind of Meadow Folk—little spirits who tend to the spices and flowers of the fields. You know—fairies.”

“Fairies?” Ven asked excitedly. “I thought they just existed in stories.”

“They think the same thing about Nain,” the voice said, sounding amused. “They will certainly be intrigued by you. I advise you to keep your room door securely locked.”

“And may I ask who is speaking to me?” Ven said. “I don’t want to be rude, so I’d like to look you in the eye and not have my back to you.”

“Certainly,” the scratchy voice answered. “Turn around again. You must have missed seeing me the last time you did.”

Ven spun around quickly, but still saw no one there. “I would like to make your acquaintance. My name is Ven,” he said, his eyes scanning the empty inn. “May I ask what yours is, sir?”

“You’ve already made my acquaintance,” said the voice. “And my name is Murphy.”

“I
DO BEG YOUR PARDON,” VEN SAID, BOWING POLITELY TO THE CAT.
“I didn’t mean to overlook you.”

Murphy seemed to shrug. “Not a problem. I’m used to it.”

“So you used to sail with the captain?” Ven asked, feeling a little foolish.

“For ten years,” the cat said. “Caught rats for him on three different ships. But those days are over. Now I stare at the guests until it bothers them, and sleep by the fire a lot. It’s my job to catch any mice that come into the inn, but none ever do. Saeli has warned them about me, so they stay away.”

“Who is Saeli?” Ven asked, sitting down in a chair in front of the cat.

“She lives in Mouse Lodge,” said Murphy. “I suspect you will meet her sooner or later.”

“What’s Mouse Lodge?”

The cat rose slowly, then stretched. “That’s more than enough questions,” he said a little crossly. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know. I take that rather personally. Trudy told you I don’t like to tell what I know that much. If you want answers, ask her. If you are looking for insights, ask McLean. He’s the one who taught me to talk in the first place.”

“Er—who is McLean?” Ven asked quickly as the cat ambled away.

Murphy stopped, looked back over his orange shoulder, and rolled his eyes. Then he strolled over to the hearth, curled up at the feet of the singer, and went to sleep.

Ven watched the cat for a moment, then slowly made his way to the hearth. The man Ven believed to be McLean was in between songs, twisting the wooden knobs on the neck of his strange instrument to tune it. Ven stopped at a polite distance.

“Good afternoon, Ven,” the singer said, not looking at him but continuing to adjust the instrument.

Ven’s eyes opened in shock. The man had addressed him in the language of the Nain, which he had rarely heard spoken outside of his own home before.

And he had called Ven by his name without being introduced yet.

“Erk,” he said. It was the only sound he could make.

McLean looked up at him. His eyes, which were dark as night beneath dark brows and dark curly hair, sparkled with amusement. “I apologize if my pronunciation is bad,” he said, still speaking Ven’s language. “You are Nain, are you not?”

“Yes,” Ven said, his surprise changing to delight. “But, if you will forgive me, you are clearly not. So how did you learn the language? And how do you know my name?”

“I’m a Singer by trade,” McLean answered, strumming the strings softly and switching back to the common language. “That’s with a capital ‘S.’ The actual title is Storysinger. I make it my business to know as many languages as possible, so I can sing most songs. And you told Mrs. Snodgrass your name. Once you speak your name, it’s on the wind. Singers know how to listen to what the wind hears.”

Then he went back to his work, plucking the strings of the odd instrument and singing a strange song very softly. Ven listened, spellbound. After a moment he realized the tune McLean was singing was one he had heard in childhood from his own grandmother, a song that told of a place in the mountain kingdom of the Nain on the continent of the Great Overward, where Vaarn was.

Where Ven’s family was from.

It was the story of the Great Dial, an ancient clock of sorts that worked like a sundial, only lit by the shadows of the fires that burned in mines within the earth. The tale was about the history of the world, as measured by the Great Dial, and what sorts of things had happened at each of the hours.

The story was fascinating, but Ven was more entranced by the sound of McLean’s voice.

“So you know a lot about the Nain, then,” Ven said when the song was finished.

McLean was tuning his instrument again. He smiled.

“Not particularly,” he said. “Just the songs I’ve learned, and some of the stories. Being of another race myself, I have a fondness for the non-humans of the world.”

“You’re of another race?” Ven asked in amazement. “You look human to me.”

“My mother was human,” McLean said, plucking one of the strings and listening for its pitch. “But my father was Lirin, and a Singer, so I learned the secrets of the trade from him.”

Ven sat down in one of the comfortable chairs before the hearth. “What are the secrets?” he asked, scratching his head absently.

McLean chuckled, still not looking at him. “Perhaps you don’t know the meaning of the word
secret,
Ven?”

Ven blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“That’s all right,” McLean said, starting to play another tune. “I understand that secrets, by their nature, really want to be told. Everyone has a secret or two. Some secrets I tell, but most I keep.”

“What makes you willing to tell one?”

“Whether or not by doing so I can help someone.”

Ven grinned. “Well, that seems a good way to decide,” he said. “Do you have a secret, McLean?”

The singer smiled. “Of course.”

Ven leaned closer. “What is it?”

McLean chuckled again. “You’ll just have to figure that out yourself, Ven.”

“Murphy said I could ask you for insights,” Ven said. “And that you taught him to talk.”

“That’s true,” McLean acknowledged. “On both accounts. What insights do you want me to provide?”

Ven thought for a moment. There were so many things he wanted to ask, tumbling over each other in his mind, fighting to be the first. Finally a big one made it to the front of the line.

“Why do people think the inn is haunted?”

McLean strummed his instrument. “Because they don’t know the truth.”

“Ah. So the inn’s not haunted? Good,” said Ven, relieved.

“That’s right, the inn’s not haunted, Ven,” said McLean. “It’s the crossroads.”

“Erk,” was all Ven could manage to say. He waited until he could speak again. “The crossroads is haunted?”

McLean shrugged. “Perhaps not the right word. There is something wrong there. Since I am a Singer, I am able to only tell the truth, because the power of a story is in the truth of it. Lying, or being inaccurate, can take the power right out of a tale, and so Singers are sworn to always tell the truth. I don’t know if what disturbs the crossroads is a haunting, so I will not call it such. But there is something wrong there.

“Now, the inn on the other hand, the inn is a wonderful place, a magical place. A safe place—as long as you are inside it. There are many more rooms than there appear to be, each of them with a unique magic or story behind it. It would be a fascinating place to explore, I would imagine. You might want to follow Clemency around sometime when she’s cleaning and have a look at some of them.”

“I haven’t met Clemency yet,” Ven said. “Or Saeli.”

McLean smiled. “I’m sure you will meet both of them shortly,” he said. “All the children from Hare Warren and Mouse Lodge generally eat together. And it’s almost time for noon-meal.”

At his words the sound of soft footfalls came down the hall, and Mrs. Snodgrass appeared.

There was something different about her that Ven noticed immediately, but could not put his finger on. She seemed healthier and younger, perhaps, her face fuller than it had been a few moments before, as if she had been a drying apple that was suddenly full of juice again. She had more vigor in her step, and all traces of gray in her red hair had vanished. She strode into the kitchen, calling for someone named Felitza.

McLean stopped fingering the instrument. He looked off toward the kitchen and broke into a grin. “Did you bring it?” he asked.

“What?” Ven said.

“The Living Water,” McLean replied. “I didn’t hear it come in—it must have been in a diamond bottle.”

“I—er—”

The Singer waved a hand at him. “That’s all right, Ven. You don’t have to confirm it. I’m just glad to know the captain managed to find some more of it. She was getting pretty tired.”

“Is Mrs. Snodgrass ill?” Ven asked worriedly.

“I don’t discuss a person’s health with another person without his or her permission,” replied McLean. “But I’m sure you can see she is better after drinking the water.”

“I was with the captain when he obtained it,” said Ven.

The Storysinger looked up at him again for only the second time. “Where did you get it?” he asked. “The Floating Island?”

“Yes,” Ven said, and he told McLean about all that had happened there. The Singer listened very carefully, as if he was memorizing what Ven said.

“Thank you for telling me the tale,” he said quietly after Ven was done. He smiled. “That sly fox, Oliver Snodgrass! He certainly made good use of you, then, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he put me to work on the ship. And I learned a lot there.” He saw McLean’s smile grow broader, but the Singer said nothing more. “Is that why Oliver spends his life on the sea?” Ven asked. “Why he couldn’t take even a day to come visit Mrs. Snodgrass, after being away for so long? He needs to keep finding that water for her, to make her better?”

McLean looked away again and returned to plucking a melody out on his instrument. The sound was harsh, and Ven realized a moment later that while they were talking, the music was keeping their words muffled so that no one else could hear what they were saying.

“Captain Snodgrass makes his living as a ship owner and sailor, it’s true, but he is really searching for the places in the world like the Floating Island where he can find the Living Water for his wife, who needs it,” he said. “You’ll never find two people more in love than those two, even though they are almost always apart. And that’s the truth—since that’s all I am allowed to tell.”

“Why doesn’t she just go with him?” Ven asked, perplexed. “That way they could always be together.”

“She has her reasons for staying here,” McLean replied.

The kitchen door banged open, and Mrs. Snodgrass emerged, followed by Char at a cautious distance.

“So, do you boys want to go see Hare Warren now?” she asked briskly.

“What is Hare Warren?” Ven asked, stepping casually between Mrs. Snodgrass and Char to give him more distance.

“That’s the building where the boys stay,” Mrs. Snodgrass replied, untying her apron and hanging it on a peg near the kitchen door. “The girls live in Mouse Lodge. They are both out back of the inn.”

“We saw them on the way in, I believe,” Ven said. “The round and square buildings?”

“Yes. The round one is Mouse Lodge—rectangular’s Hare Warren, where you both will be housed. I have only one room left—you’ll have to share.” The boys nodded.

“What’s the rent for the room?” Ven asked, taking out his wallet. “And do you take scrip?”

Mrs. Snodgrass drew herself up. “I’m the wife of a sea captain. Of course I take scrip,” she said severely. “But whatever Oliver paid you won’t last long if you have to pay for your room and board. On top of that, you won’t be able to get passage home.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ven admitted. “When the harbormaster releases my papers, and I work up the courage to go back, I can always work as a deckhand again on the way back, I suppose.”

“Well, a better idea is that you hang on to your money and work for your keep here,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “That’s what all my young tenants do. You help around the inn, and in return, you get your meals and stay in Mouse Lodge or Hare Warren for free. Does that seem reasonable to you?”

“That seems more than generous, thank you,” said Ven. Char nodded.

“All right, then, follow me and I will show you the accommodations,” said Mrs. Snodgrass.

She led them through the kitchen and out the back door to a stone pathway that led through the gardens and across the field behind the inn to the place where the two smaller buildings stood.

“What sort of work needs to be done, Mrs. Snodgrass?” Ven asked as they walked past flowering bushes and trees with lacy green leaves.

“All kinds,” said Trudy. “What sort of work are you good at?”

“Char can cook,” Ven said quickly.

“Oh, can he now?” Mrs. Snodgrass said, eyeing the cook’s mate. “Wait till you taste what my Felitza can do. Perhaps he can help her; we’ll see.”

“Is—Felitza your—daughter?” Char stammered.

“No,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “I—I don’t have any children of my own. Felitza is the kitchen girl.”

Ven cast an eye around, noticing that the lawn was full of dandelions. “I can weed,” he offered. “I could set to clearing out all these dandelions, if you’d like.”

From over near the round building he heard a strangled gasp.

The little girl they had seen tending the flower beds when they first arrived turned around with a look of horror on her face. Ven could see she was of a different race as well. She was tiny, only coming up to just beneath his ribs, with a heart-shaped face, large green-gray eyes, and caramel-colored hair that hung in a long braid down her back. She looked like she was about to cry.

“It’s all right, Saeli,” Mrs. Snodgrass said quickly. “He just doesn’t know. It will be all right.” She turned to Ven with a look of displeasure. “You don’t want to be messing with the Spice Folk’s sun harvest, now, do you?”

All the blood left Ven’s face. “Uh, no, ma’am, I most certainly do not.”

“Have you ever noticed,” said Trudy, “that one day a field will be green, and then the next day, it’s completely covered with dandelions?”

“I live in a city,” Ven said. “I only see dandelions rarely, and then one or two at a time, in between the cobblestones of the street.”