Valgur turned sideways to make his way inside. Picaro was able to squeeze in behind Grit and several other men, but Atrocius was too big and had to wait outside. A thin, well greyed man with long hair and beard sat peeling root vegetables beside a pot of water that sat above an open fire crackling in the middle of the room. Picaro heard the water begin to boil and he could smell the contents of the pot, full of fragrant garlic and herbs. The medicine man did not look up as he continued to prepare his meal. "Why have you come, inlanders," said the old man inquisitively.
Valgur stepped forward. "I'm keen on the history of the seas, y'see."
The old man eyed him dubiously “To be sure. You can't fool me as much as you couldn’t fool anyone else in the village. What makes you think I'll tell you anything new?”
“I’m looking for a man named Patmos,” said Valgur, ignoring the barb.
"So you’re lookin' to take the wealth of dead men," said the wiseman.
"What’s lost may yet be found," Valgur. “And I’m more than willing to share.”
"You won’t wile me with silver tongued promises of riches. You’re disturbing my supper,” said the healer, raising his eyes to meet Valgur’s. They were as stony as the floor he sat upon.
“I’m sure we could convince you,” said Grit, grinning. Picaro looked around at the men beside him, merciless cutthroats all of them.
The wiseman scanned their faces, too, assessing the ilk that had traipsed through his door. Then his eyes rested upon Picaro, and there was a curiosity in his gaze that then hardened into defiance.
"You inlanders are all the same. You're greedy. You don't care who you steal from or what it cost them. Men like you came to the isles with nothing. We took you in. We shared our bread, taught you how to make ships, to fish in the waters. You repaid us with blood. Spilled for the sake of what? A rich man's life ends the same as any other, though maybe sooner. The story is always the same. Here now the wolves circle again. The man you seek is dead. You tell me you will find a different end? I can tell you nothing more. Either kill me or get out of my house," said the wiseman, dropping his gaze to his food. He threw the newly diced potato into the pot, gave it a stir and dropped in a stem of rosemary.
“Dead, eh?” Valgur straightened himself and strode toward the pot. He took a slow, calculated step around the fire to stand beside the wiseman gazing into the flames. The man did not flinch, though he looked sidelong, wary of the captain, aware his life could meet its end here in his own home.
"Do what you must, sea dog. Just know it will be repaid upon you one day in similar fashion," said the wiseman.
"Is that a threat, then? Don't fret. I don’t want your life. Just information.”
"Torture me. I can tell you nothing more. Whatever it is, be done with it before the food spoils."
Valgur reached inside his coat. The wiseman did flinch, but the captain only produced the the skeleton key, holding it so it glinted in the light of the fire. "Recognize this?"
The wiseman could not hold his wonder. His eyes widened and his hand began to tremble as the words left his lips without his knowledge. "How did you come by this?” he whispered, forgetting himself.
"That's none o' yer concern," said Valgur, scowling. "But now that I have yer attention, tell me what I want to know or you really will die here tonight, old man. You and everyone you've ever known. What’s the key for, what does it open? Whose treasure does it hold?”
The wiseman blanched and looked away bitterly, but the words fell from him unhindered. “You are not the first interested in such history. Many a ship has passed through these isles, and many a man have died on their shores. Patmos was just another. He ran off some time ago looking for the cache. Said he found it, too. But he didn’t have the key.” His eyes rose to behold the gilded teeth of the key, admiring its workmanship.
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“Well, we do. The cache, eh? Where is it,” growled Valgur.
The wiseman shook his head. “Not a soul knows. Certainly not Patmos. You came on a fool’s errand, inlander.”
“Now I know that’s not true,” said Valgur, bending low to meet the wiseman’s gaze. “I know ye heard a whisper of something. Tell me what ye heard. Where’s the cache? Tell me and I’ll leave yer village in peace. Don’t, and let’s just say ye read me and me crew rightly.” Valgur grinned, but his eyes were coals. The wiseman grit his teeth and swallowed hard. His eyes flicked to Picaro. The boy wanted to shrink away.
“Even if I could tell you where it is, how do you know if that key is for the right cache,” said the man fumbling with the words.
Valgur narrowed his gaze. "I'll take my chances. Now, tell me what you know."
The look he gave the wiseman burned its way through his skull, and slowly the old man held out his hand. "Give it here. I will tell you what you wish to know," he said at last.
Valgur growled and slowly held out the key. The the wiseman took it in his hands, flipping it over, feeling the workmanship, bending low to examine the carvings. He sat there muttering to himself until a bubbling came from the pot in front of him, shaking him from his reverie. He sat up and stirred the pot, handing the key back to Valgur in one fluid motion. The man sat staring at the pot in disbelief.
“Well,” said Valgur, though he already knew the answer.
“Aye, it’s a real one, but,” said the wiseman, “It’s not Vagabon’s key.”
Valgur snarled and kicked the boiling pot over, spilling its contents across the stones. The wiseman stood up in alarm, and Valgur grabbed him roughly. “Yer lying again, old man. And we were so close. Vagabon? You don't mean Vagabon Doughty, do ye? Now tell me the rest of it or I’ll cut off your head and put it on a stake outside yer own door as a warning to men who pretend to be fools.” Valgur pulled a knife from his side and laid it across the man’s throat to accentuate his point. He leaned over him, so close he could hear the old man swallow. The captain’s presence loomed like a shadow of death. Tell the spectre wrong, and it would be your time.
“You’re a lucky dog, inlander,” said the wiseman. Valgur pressed the blade’s edge into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. “You came to the right place."
“How do you know?”
“The inscription of the whale. The same emblem marked the captain’s ship and the island where his cache is said to sit.”
“Who’s ship?”
“Vagabon Doughty,” said the wiseman.
Valgur dropped the knife, and straightened himself. “So it's true,” he said, and barked a laugh. “Vagabon, that scurvy dog. He left his treasure all the way out here after all. Can't say I'm surprised. Where is it? How far?”
“The Mournful Isle, as tales tell. Nearly two days west of here. It sits at the end of the line, a small island one might maroon a man on,” said the old man, stammering.
“Not far then,” said Valgur, his toothy smile glinting gold. “So where exactly sits the cache of Vagabon Doughty, old one. Ye make it sound like you know.”
The wiseman shook his head. “I do not know where it is. Not a soul does, heh. Legend goes that Vagabon left his treasure hidden there and guarded it well, with otherwordly machinations. I know only the island, for the same inscription upon the key was found among the stones there. But beware, for men have gone and not come back the same. Beware that island, inlander. Beware the siren’s call.”
“Bah, I don’t believe in mermaids and fishmen,” said Valgur, and he laughed in the man’s face. "Was a pleasure talking to ye. I hope you enjoy yer meal,” he said and with that he and his crew sauntered out of the house. Grit gave the wiseman a wink on his way out.
Picaro glanced back to see the wiseman watching them with a shadow cross his face. “Yer a fool to think you can take the treasure, even with that key. You'll find more than you bargained for, inlander. Best you and your crew have left this place, and never return. Some secrets are better left kept." The look on his face was one of grave certainty, his eyes looking far off and distant. He began to mutter as if he were casting some spell before the curtain fell back to conceal him and his voice.
Outside, another small crowd had gathered holding each other with worried expressions as they heard the finality to the conversation float out to them. They watched tensely as Valgur and his men passed. But, one young man watched them more closely than the rest, following behind as they went back to their ship.
“Think the tales are true? If this legendary treasure does exist, maybe sirens do, too,” said Picaro thoughtfully to Grit as they made their way back to Ye ‘Ol Marigold.
Grit scoffed. “Listen, lad. Sea monsters I can handle, but start talking about fishwomen and ye lost me. Never seen it, never will. Just ain’t natural, savvy? How would it even work? Nah, I’m not buying it for a copper piece. There ain’t no pretty ditties swimming in the sea waiting to make love to me, nor drag me down to its depths. Only women I know walk on land.”
The crew met with Silvertime on the dock who standing by grumbling. He had been able to coerce a local shipwright to give him materials for minor repairs, but no more. “We’re putting out anyway,” said Valgur. “We got what we came here for.” There would be no debate.
Ye ‘Ol Marigold disengaged and floated back out into the surf. The crowd followed far behind, gathering with great relief to watch them leave. When they did, the crowd went back to their business now that the shadow of fear had passed. But, there was yet a young man who continued to watch the ship intently before running with swift urgency to send another message out to sea.
How it started:
- Samuel O. Ludescher