At dawn, the waves were larger than predicted. The ship was sailing with only a small storm jib and was still making a few knots. As the ship crested each wave he could see endless enormous seas rolling towards him, and the screaming of the wind and spray was painful to his ears.
The crew members had to slow the boat down, battling against the raging storm. With urgency and precision, they dropped the storm jib and lashed a heavy mooring rope in a tight loop across the stern. Every item on the deck was double-lashed, their movements synchronized as they went through the life-raft drill. Lifelines were attached, oilskins and life jackets donned â all in preparation for the tempest that awaited them. And then, they waited, bracing themselves for what lay ahead.
Meanwhile, Neil's gaze drifted towards Dove, who stood at the prow, his eyes fixed upon the island in the distance. Despite his outward appearance of normalcy, there was a subtle shift in Dove's demeanor. Having spent considerable time with him, Neil had grown to understand Dove on a deeper level. He knew that Dove was just as, if not more, nervous than himself. The light that usually danced in Dove's eyes had faded, replaced by a shadow of unease.
As their vessel approached the three-fourths mark of the treacherous journey, a solemn procession unfolded. A couple of dozen men stepped forward, joining Dove's side at the rail. Their collective gaze was locked onto the mysterious island ahead, their expressions devoid of words but laden with anticipation. A tense silence engulfed the air, broken only by the gentle susurration of the sea. Simultaneously, as if guided by an invisible force, they shifted their left hands to the railing and turned their eyes towards the island's northernmost point.
Neil's stomach churned with discomfort, the weight of the moment settling upon him. He turned his attention to the man nearest to him, a thin old figure who exuded an air of peculiarity. The man's coarse gray-black hair and beard contrasted with his unkempt appearance. Dull, fishy, watery eyes met Neil's, marked by deep-brown crow's feet etched at the corners. The man's weathered clothes, reminiscent of a farmer's attire, hung loosely on his angular frame, their age evident in the worn-out patches at the pockets, the ill-fitting collar, and the frayed elbows and knees.
In a sudden outpouring of emotion, a single tear escaped the old man's eye, followed by an unbroken stream that cascaded down his weathered face. Overwhelmed by his anguish, he bent forward, pressing his hands against his cheeks in a desperate attempt to conceal his pain. The intensity of his crying mirrored that of a person retching on all fours, stirring an unsettling unease deep within Neil's own stomach.
Driven by an urgent need to find Dove amidst the bewildered crowd, Neil's heart raced as he pushed through the men who stood in a state of confusion or feigned ignorance towards the old man's emotional breakdown. The scene unfolded before him in a disorienting tableau, with the boat's occupants either disconnected from or equally confounded by the old man's turmoil. Yet, amidst the chaos, Neil's search for Dove held an unexpected weight, unearthing a wellspring of concern and attachment he hadn't realized he possessed. It intensified the disquietude that swelled within him, a mixture of fear and determination that pushed him forward.
"Dove!" Neil's voice echoed through the tumult as he fought his way toward his friend. And then, he saw him. There stood Dove, tears streaming down his face, his anguish palpable. It was a sight that stirred both pity and a renewed resolve within Neil.
His gaze shifted downward, drawn to the River Gantrick. What was once a humble stream, gently glimmering behind thick reeds, now stretched before him as a regular river. It was a sight that triggered a flood of horrifying memories, unearthing a deep-rooted phobia that turned his blood to ice and left him paralyzed with fear.
But reality crashed back in with the force of a tidal wave when Dove leaped into the river. The roar of Neil's own blood rushing in his ears drowned out the chaos around him, and the branches of lightning that streaked across the stygian sky seemed to forge forks of liquid, golden ore above his head. The stern of the boat moved up the face of the river, propelled by an unseen force.
Fear gripped Neil's heart, a tightening grip that threatened to suffocate him. He knew he had to act, to reach Dove before the river claimed him. With every ounce of strength and determination, Neil propelled himself forward, fighting against the current of his own fear.
The water crashed around him, its icy embrace clawing at his limbs. But he pressed on, his mind focused on one singular goalâto save Dove, to pull him from the clutches of the river's relentless grip.
For a moment, Neil thought they might ride over it, but then a tremendous explosion shook the deck. A torrent of green and white water broke over the ship. His head smashed into the mast and he was aware of flying overboard and sinking below the waves.
He opened his eyes and remembered his previous experience with the waves. How his legs wouldn't move or how his hands wouldn't cooperate. But the sight of Dove's body, floating overhead, quelled his panic. Dove's eyes were closed; he looked quite peaceful, as though he had already accepted his approaching death.
Neil's body propelled through the water, and Neil's fingertips grazed the tips of Dove's outstretched hand, their connection was tenuous but filled with an unspoken plea for salvation. With a surge of strength, Neil tightened his grip, refusing to let go. Together, they emerged from the treacherous river, their bodies battered but their spirits unbroken.
Gasping for air, Neil found solace in his success as he pulled Dove out of the treacherous currents. Instead of swimming towards the shore, they were near their ship. Neil's instincts kicked in, and he reached for the guard rails, launching them both into the air and landing on the ship's main boom. Wrapping his arm protectively around Dove's shoulder, Neil clung to the wheel, bracing himself for the impending waves, determined to keep them both safe.
Neil's heart pounded in his chest as he pulled Dove close, his breath ragged and labored. At that moment, as he clung to Dove, a bond forged in the crucible of fear and survival with every ounce of strength he could muster, he surged upward, breaking free from the river's suffocating embrace.
As the waves churned around them, Neil carefully laid Dove's body on the floor, checking his pulse. Dove stirred and mumbled incoherently, his eyes flickering open. But his mind was still in turmoil.
In a frantic attempt to escape, Dove thrashed and tried to throw himself overboard once more. Neil swiftly grabbed him from behind, his arms encircling Dove's torso, effectively immobilizing him. Dove's desperation manifested in violent kicks and punches, but Neil's grip held steadfast. Struggling to maintain control, Neil heaved Dove's body over his shoulder, enduring the blows and screams as he carried him into their cabin, locking the door behind them. Dove's anger echoed through the cracks, a constant reminder of their ordeal, but Neil remained grateful that the door held against the onslaught.
Exhausted and nursing the wounds inflicted by Dove's protests, Neil couldn't help but wonder about the fate of the other men. Had they all succumbed to the same fate, throwing themselves overboard? The haunting blank stares and mindless behavior of the crew remained unresolved, a chilling reminder of the terrible power that had possessed them. Neil lingered outside the door, haunted by the echoes of Dove's cries, his mind grappling with the unfathomable supernatural phenomenon that had consumed their ship.
It was at dawn the following day when they finally arrived at Marren Eve, a part of the kingdom that had seen better days. The once-thriving town now dwindled in population, with only a scattering of houses every few miles amid vast fields of corn and wheat. Neil tracked down the farm where the elusive baneberries were grown, ultimately leading them to an old lady who owned the farm.
Her house was a blend of old and new, with sections constructed from logs and frames, situated at peculiar angles. The wind whispered through the weathered slats, but the presence of overshadowing elms and a butternut tree lent a picturesque charm to the surroundings. Pebbles danced in the gentle currents, glistening like scattered fragments of glitter, while dragonflies created a vibrant spectacle, their wings aflutter in the magical space between river and air.
Dove persisted in pestering Neil about buying a fruit basket for the old lady before approaching her to negotiate the purchase of the baneberries. Weary and fatigued from the events of the previous day, Neil lacked the energy to argue and acquiesced to Dove's request.
When they knocked on the old lady's door, a thin woman adorned in shabby black and a worn bonnet greeted them. Her face lit up upon seeing the two young boys, and she warmly invited them inside.
The furniture inside, like the house outside, was old and mildewed. The old-fashioned four-poster bed, with its ball-like protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a sadly alienated descendant of an early ancestor. The bureau of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built but faded-looking, and with a musty odor. The creaky wooden loom on which it had been done now stood like a dusty bony skeleton, along with a broken rocking chair, and a worm-eaten clothes press.
The old woman showed them the low outhouses. She told them how it had once housed chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs.
The outhouses were covered now with patches of moss to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint for so long that they were blackish-gray and a little spongy. The picket fence in front with its gate squeaky and askew offered little protection from the outside world.
Their inquiry about the baneberries was met with immediate agreement, as the old woman shared tales of her life. She spoke of losing her husband and child to a devastating hurricane, and the joy she found in having someone to converse with in her solitude.
Without hesitation, she placed a pot of porridge on the fire, insisting on offering them a comforting meal. As they sat around the humble kitchen table, the warmth of the fire enveloped them, casting a soft glow on their faces. The old lady's stories wove a tapestry of resilience and heartache, painting a vivid picture of a life shaped by loss and the strength to carry on.
Neil listened intently, his mind delving into the depths of her experiences. He couldn't help but reflect on his own journey, the perils they had faced, and the enigma that had gripped their ship. The old woman's words resonated with him, stirring emotions and contemplation that had remained dormant amidst the chaos.
Dove, too, appeared captivated by the old lady's tales. His usual restlessness subsided as he absorbed every word, his eyes shimmering with newfound understanding. It was a rare moment of connection and introspection, a glimpse into the souls of these young travelers and the wise soul before them.
The aroma of the simmering porridge filled the air, mingling with the essence of companionship and shared humanity. As the old lady served the steaming bowls, the simple act carried a profound significanceâa gesture of kindness and nourishment that transcended the physical sustenance it provided.
In the quietude of that kitchen, Neil and Dove savored each spoonful, the flavors of the porridge intermingling with the flavors of their shared stories. The conversation drifted from the past to the present, weaving a tapestry of hopes and dreams, fears and aspirations. They found solace in each other's presence, in the knowledge that they were not alone on this peculiar journey.
"We would love to purchase some baneberries from your farm. You must have worked hard to have maintained the farm throughout all these years," Dove said, his voice carrying a tinge of admiration.
As the old lady arranged the dining table, Neil couldn't help but be reminded of his own childhood spent on a farm, the scent of freshly turned soil, and the warmth of his parents' love. It was a bittersweet memory, tinged with longing and a touch of sorrow for what had been lost. He glanced out the window, a wistful smile playing on his lips.
A sudden sneeze broke the reverie, jolting Neil back to the present. He quickly moved the chairs back onto the porch, a practical task to ground himself at the moment.
A faint blush bloomed on the old woman's cheeks, touched by Dove's genuine appreciation. His words had a way of disarming people, uncovering the hidden depths of their stories.
Dove observed Neil with a mixture of fondness and curiosity, realizing there was more to his friend than met the eye.
Neil's eyes sparkled as the old woman served them each a small portion of porridge. He savored each spoonful, the flavors mingling with the nostalgia that danced in his mind. It was a taste of simpler times, a respite from the complexities of their current journey.
Dove, too, found himself immersed in the flavors and the conversation that swirled around the table. As they shared stories, their hopes and dreams intertwined with the warmth of the porridge, creating a tapestry of understanding and connection.
As the sun began its ascent, casting a gentle glow through the kitchen window, the old woman's eyes reflected a blend of gratitude and melancholy. Their presence had lifted the weight of solitude that had settled upon her, if only for a fleeting moment. In their shared moments, she had caught glimpses of her own past, the joys she had thought forever lost. And for that, she was grateful.
"Thank you for your hospitality. We'll help you clean the dishes and then take our leave," Neil offered politely, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled among them.
The old woman chuckled softly, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Oh no, you lads don't have to help me with the chores. This old grandma was just happy to have a few laughs with you."
Dove, however, jumped up from his chair abruptly, his face a mix of determination and concern. "Please, let us help. It's the least we can do."
Neil nodded in agreement, his eyes meeting Dove's briefly, understanding the unspoken bond that drove his friend's actions. Together, they cleared the table and washed the dishes, a shared task that bridged the gap between strangers and friends.
Once the chores were done, Neil turned his attention back to their original purpose. "By the way, we were wondering if you knew any local shops around Marren Eve that sell Agrimonium salt."
The old woman's face brightened with recognition. "Oh yes, there are a few vendors near the farm itself. I can show you the way before you leave," she offered kindly.
Neil's gratitude was evident in his eyes as he nodded. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."
Their conversation drew to a close, and Neil's gaze shifted towards Dove, concern etching lines on his forehead. He noticed Dove's pallor and the unsteady wobble in his legs. Before he could offer assistance, he saw Dove's eyelids drooping, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"When you leave in the morningâ" Thud! Dove collapsed on the floor before the old lady could complete her sentence
"What happened to him?" The old lady shrieked at the sudden obstruction in her conversation.
Neil knelt and placed his palm over Dove's flushed face.
"His body is heating up." He said.
'It must've happened because of yesterday's incident. He's likely to have a fever.'
He sighed.
'Great! Another hindrance. What more will stop me from getting what I need.'
"Why don't you two stay here for today? Take him to my guest room," the old lady said.
Neil picked Dove up and carefully laid him on the bed in the old lady's guest room.
She brought a bucket filled with water and a clean, white handkerchief. Neil dipped it in water and placed it over Dove's head.
To kill some time, he absentmindedly rummaged through their sacks, his fingers brushing against various items until they landed on the ancient Cascadian Book of Legends that he had borrowed from Dove's godfather.
As his eyes fell upon the book, a chill coursed through his veins, and a sense of foreboding enveloped him. The spit in his mouth dried up instantly, leaving his throat parched. His trembling hands clutched the book tightly, but the weight of it felt heavier than ever before.
The room seemed to tilt sideways, and his heart pounded in his chest. Panic gripped him, threatening to overpower his senses.
More than half of the glass shards in the glass painting had already fallen out.
A/N
Hi thanks so much for the read! If you enjoyed please leave a vote or a comment that's the best way to support me! Thanks so much xx, Anne.