The Flower Garden

Travel Log, Day #1

It is my first day aboard this heck boat, and I already want to throw myself overboard. 

Atrocious. That is the only word to describe it. What kind of monster-hunter brings their daughter into a beast-ridden jungle? I had hardly been here an hour before I was assaulted by a stuffed dog, hauled into a closet to play hide-and-seek, and nearly lost my sketchbook to the grabby, jam-covered fingers of a five-year-old. 

I took the dog hostage, escaped through a second door in the back of the closet, sent the child packing with the loudest shouts I could muster, and have been hiding in my room ever since, staring out at the ocean through the porthole. 

Honestly, how can I be expected to get any serious work done with all of these children gadding about? Darnell promised me a quiet, inspiring research journey, not a schooner playing luxury yacht to a bunch of middle class families. I would bet my best notebooks most of them have never even heard of the Haeresis, much less devoted the last fifteen years of their lives to tracking down its location. Most of them haven’t even lived that long. 

The board wants something exceptional this time. Those were their exact words, unless I”m mistaken: “Something exceptional, Arnold. Something truly great. There will be no more second chances.” 

Cheery thought, eh? But returning to this place…visiting the island…it must hold some evidence, mustn’t it? From before? Surely I’ll be able to find something. I cannot have simply imagined it all. That would be absurd. No, I am sure I’ll find something. That is, as long as I don’t lose my notebook to another child with a penchant for jam dodgers. 

Someone just knocked on my door. Loudly. Perhaps it is Darnell, come to apologize for his err in judgement. 

–—— 

It was not Darnell, but I am infinitely certain he would have been preferable, even if he does rather view this whole escapade as a joke. Honestly, the nerve–but I’m getting ahead of myself. 

I opened the door to find not Darnell, in all his vest-coat glory, but a scowling brownie of a girl in a patched, clay-colored reefer and scuffed newsboy cap. Without so much as a “how do you do” or “pardon me”, she shoved me to the side and marched into my room. Shoved. Completely uncouth. I scanned my coat for dirty handprints as she planted herself in the middle of my bedroom, turned in a full circle–spraying dirt all over my carpet–then turned and looked me dead in the eye. 

“Where’s the dog?”

I admit I stuttered. Really, what else is there to do when a grimy, dwarf-sized creature materializes in one’s room? “I–I–what–pardon me, dog?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Stuffed dog? Black with white spots? The one you snatched from an innocent child thirty minutes ago?”

I snorted. “Innocent? She accosted me! Practically hurled the ragged thing at my face!”

“Yeah.” She looked me up and down, then rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes. “Yeah, of course. I’m sure being attacked by a stuffed dog was horrifying to a man in shoulder pads and combat boots. You know, if you’re going to play dress-up, you might as well act the part.” 

It took a solid five seconds for her words to sink in, during which time she spun in another circle–more dirt! I still haven’t gotten it all out of the rug–located the dog where I’d tossed it in the garbage pail, and rushed to its rescue. By the time I’d found my voice, she had brushed the pastry crumbs from between the dog’s ears and was halfway to the door. 

“I–excuse me young lady–”

She turned around and cocked her head, dog tucked firmly under one arm. “Darnell told me about you, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“What–”

“Look,” She took a step forward, and I–thinking she might lunge at me–stepped backward. “You can be as grumpy as you want to be, but throw your tantrums in your room, won’t you? Don’t take it out on children with overly-hyper personalities.” 

She turned on her heel then, and I–because obviously it best to let the comment slide–watched her walk out the door. Once in the hallway she turned, cocked her head again, and gave me a sickly-sweet grin. “Nice mustache.”

She reached forward and yanked the door shut in my face. 

Well. I never. 

I won’t get any research done at this rate. 

I’m going to bed before my head splits in two. Things will be better in the morning. 

Travel Log, Day #2

We arrive at the island this afternoon–or so says the captain–and I could not be happier to get out of this stuffy room and into the jungle. I slept the whole night through and awoke early, refreshed and ready for the day’s adventures. I was all genial cordiality–until I nearly collided with the brownie girl in the hallway as I went in search of breakfast. 

Apparently, she rooms in the compartment next door to mine. Most unfortunate. 

She did not acknowledge me, but stalked by, staring directly over my shoulder as if I weren’t there. I really do wonder if she’s quite right in the head. 

Well, needless to say, seeing her brought about a hoard of unpleasant memories, and all of my natural good will towards humanity dissipated through my boots. I skulked down the hallway and into the mess, where a few early risers were already taking breakfast. Darnell sat in one corner, his youngest son–a pale wisp of a thing with bags under his eyes and rather too-large cheekbones–at his side. Darnell lifted a hand to me, but I shook my head and directed my attention elsewhere. It was too early in the morning for children, especially those with a bad constitution. I received my tray and was just settling into a table in the corner when the door opened…and in walked the brownie girl, accompanied by at least five other children! 

Well. Their screaming and racket drove me from my seat faster than any Haeresis sighting ever could. I was out the door in three seconds flat, taking my tray out into the fresh, salt-tainted air of the upper deck. I scanned my surroundings as the boat bobbed and wove through the water. The deck is rather large, but nothing of note. My schooner in Africa was preferable. There was but one spot to sit, in a rowboat nestled into a corner. I walked over and was about to make myself comfortable when:

“This spot’s taken.” 

I glanced up to find a boy sitting there, staring at me with a cool, even expression. If the girl was a brownie, this boy was an elf. He held himself as upright as a king, clearly claiming ownership of not only the rowboat, but the entire ocean. I stared at him, and he kept staring right back. Finally, he raised an eyebrow at me and repeated, “This spot’s taken.”

Not wanting to start another fight–and, quite honestly, rather disturbed–I turned and walked back to my quarters. I am now at my desk, penning the whole affair out and trying to figure out where these confounded children keep coming from. A portal to the faerie realm has opened in the hull below, I am certain of it. 

Off to find Darnell and state my grievances. 

Travel Log, Day #3

We are sailing into the storm. I’m sitting above deck, the boat rocking back and forth, staring over the waves at the dark clouds flickering with thunder. Beyond the storm is the island, and on the island, answers. Now I just have to ensure our fool of a captain won’t try to turn the boat around again. 

I noticed the change in direction yesterday evening, as I was attempting to find Darnell for the fifth sixth seventh thousandth time this trip. It’s like the man is hiding from me–and always with those infernal children of his. Perhaps they were trying to abduct him. Either way, after about an hour of poking through rooms below deck, I found myself topside, the wind blowing in my face, the sun glaring me in the eyes as it lit the ocean orange and red. 

This, of course, was how I realized the mistake. Korbarren Island is due east of Old Blighty, good land of blood and crown. We were sailing the opposite direction. I, of course, immediately quit my search for Darnell and barged my way into the captain’s chambers. Ignoring the other two men in the room–most likely the first mate and the navigator–I marched right up to the captain’s desk. 

“My good sir,” said I, “Are you aware that we’re sailing the wrong direction? Korbarren Island is directly east of Her Majesty’s country. We appear to be moving west.”

The captain exchanged a look I didn’t bother to read with the other men, then turned to me. “We’ve had a slight change of plan, sir. There’s a storm brewing toward Korbarren–a mighty big one at that. We can’t sail through it, and we haven’t the provisions to wait it out. We’ll be bypassing Korbarren in favor of Lockside–a very nice island, as you’ll soon–”

But I was having none of it. My evidence waited on Korbarren Island, not on Lockside. I told the captain so, and he simply shrugged. “Be that as it may, sir, I cannot endanger the lives of my other passengers, however…ahem…important your research might be.”

I suppose I ought to blame that ‘ahem’ for what happened next. His tone exactly matched that of Conroy whenever he was looking down his nose at my work, about to make some snide comment. Needless to say, I roused myself to the offensive. Why wait for the blow to land when you have a clear shot at your attacker’s head? 

I leaned forward, resting my arms against the captain’s desk, and lowered my voice. “Are you saying this ship isn’t sea-worthy, sir?”

The captain drew himself upright–a valiant effort, but I saw him twitch. “She is most certainly sea-worthy, sir.”

“Then we should have no issue in sailing through a miniscule brawl.” I raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect. “Unless, of course, you think she might not make it. Perhaps I should alert the other passengers of the instability of our vessel. What will they say? I’m sure most of them will leave at the next port.”

The captain clasped his hands together. “Sir, the vessel is perfectly sea-worthy. Let’s not spread unfounded rumors.”

“Are they unfounded?” I rounded on him. “Prove it, then. Sail through the storm and take us to Korbarren. Or else I may be forced to question it.”

He watched me for a long moment. The other men in the room were silent, watching me warily. They all knew what I was thinking. This was a transport vessel–they made their pay by carrying passengers from port to port, from island to continent. From what Darnell had told me  when he first proposed this trip, it was a privately run, relatively popular business. But all that could change if a passenger started to blab. 

And so, we sail for Korbarren. The clouds have gotten darker, and the thunder is sounding in the distance, but I’ve seen worse storms. The hurricane in Africa, for instance, or that typhoon that hit on the voyage to the Americas. The clouds ahead are mere child’s play, and as this is a child’s vessel, I see no reason to worry. 

Elf Boy has just come onto the deck and seems to be commanding my spot on his boat. I think I’ll stay here just to taunt him. 

—–

He attempted to read through my sketchbooks, and as I don’t have the arms of an Octopus, I was forced to take my leave in order to maintain a semblance of privacy.