Ice Fall Narrows
The last bit of land shown on Lord Farseeker’s maps before the Voi-Nil was a considerable, but barely noted, rugged island called Ice Fall Narrows. Uninhabited, except for a clan of hardy Otters who had discovered the island long ago, and stayed to make a life raising vegetables and smoking fish, it lay two month’s sailing from Seeker’s Keep.
Two months is a long time without landfall. Fresh water gone. Provisions wormy. Tempers ragged. To sail beyond two months without seeing land, sea-beasts must be strongly determined and suffer much. With years of sailing unknown seas under his belt and particular experience sailing the edge of the Voi-Nil, Red Whale was able to calm the mounting fears of his crew. “Look here mates, we’re a ship of lucky beasts. I’ve been to Ice Fall Narrows and we won’t be long getting there now. Two more good days of favoring winds and we’ll be seeing the ice cap of Smoking Bill.” Smoking Bill, a long-silent volcano that rose up from the sea, forming the island, trailed a perpetual cloud of steam from its summit. Rising several thousand feet above the sea, a snow and ice field forever covered Smoking Bill’s upper heights.
“Now, the first beast as sees Smoking Bill and sings out, ‘Land!’—that beast will be the first one ashore when we drop anchor,” Red Whale continued. The crew hardly slept after that. Off duty sea-beasts crowded the rails, each wanting to be the first to sight Smoking Bill.
Sixty-three days into the voyage, Daring Dream was plowing forward under full sail when Katteo Jor’Dane sang out the long-awaited cry: “Land! Smoke three points off starboard!” “Aye, Cap’t—Smokin’ Bill just comin’ up over the horizon!” yelled Smits Howler from his lookout platform far up on the mast.
A tumult of cheers and shouts broke out. “Huzzay! Aye’Mate! Halloo!” The ship’s musicians struck up all instruments—trumpets, tin drums, cymbals, and bagpipes. Red Whale, meanwhile, seemed uninterested in the jubilant celebration. Pulling a small spyglass from his coat pocket, he put it to his eye and scanned the horizon. For some minutes he continued to gaze through his telescope, moving it back and forth as he inspected various points on the horizon.
At last, satisfied that the identification of the long-anticipated island was correct, Captain Gumberpott lowered the spyglass. Slipping it back in his pocket, he turned to Fishbum. Shouting to be heard above the blaring, honking, clanging and yelling, Red Whale yelled in Fishbum’s ear: “Get a flash gourd from the explosives case and bring it up here. Be quick about it.”
Doing as he was told, Fishbum ran off and soon returned carrying one of the small gourds packed with highly-explosive grain dust. He handed it to Red Whale who, with a hearty chuckle, lit the fuse and watched it burn, smoking in his hand for several seconds. Then he drew back his arm and tossed the flash gourd with all his strength far out over the water. Fishbum and Red Whale watched the smoking fuse trace a long curving arc across the sky.
KA-BOOM! The deafening explosion set up a huge geyser of water that sprayed back across the deck. The crew’s celebration stopped instantly, all eyes turned to Red Whale. “There,” the captain began, “thank you for accepting my pleasant little invitation to pay attention! Listen well! Stop acting like landlubber shopkeepers who’ve drunk too much coffee! We’ve got serious business ahead! That will be all the partying for now. We’re not safe to the harbor yet. We have some real sweating to do—all paws to your oar posts! The current will tear us to pieces if we’re not about our wits!”
The crew scattered quickly to their tasks. Pulling in the sails and securing them, opening the oar ports, and extending the long oars, they readied the ship to move under its own power. As the crew did their work, Red Whale explained the situation to Fishbum. “The first sight of Smokin’ Bill means we’re about to be in the grip of the Keel-Ripper. The Keel-Ripper is a tremendous, powerful current that runs on this side of Ice Fall Narrows. It runs like a mad beast right past the island. We can’t fight it. Once the Keel-Ripper takes us, we only choose which way it carries us. She’ll be hurling us through a string of rocks and reefs if we don’t have our wits with us! Here, mate, take the glass and have a look.”
Red Whale handed Fishbum his spyglass. The Lynx surveyed the sea that lay ahead. Frothing ripples clearly showed where the water surged at high speed across long stretches of rocky reefs. Fishbum did not need much imagination to picture the extreme danger they were facing.
“Now, we won’t be goin’ that way, mate. The reef’s sure destruction for us. Tryin’ to weave through the line of reefs—why, the Keel-Ripper’ll just skip us like a stone across the rocks...septin’ Daring Dream won’t skip none too good. We’d be torn to pieces in a wink.”
He paused for a moment, then clapped Fishbum on the shoulder and continued in a jovial tone. “But, we have a choice, mate. We can’t trust the winds, but rowin’ we have a chance of controlling the way the current carries us. With strong backs to the oars and a tiny bit of good luck, the Keel-Ripper’ll be throw’n us right through the Narrows to safe harbor. Just before the line of reefs begins, the current splits—one stream goin’ through the reefs, and the other pushing through the Narrows. Ride it through the Narrows and we hit the safe, deep bay on the other side. There’s a fine snug harbor there.” Having piloted through the Narrows before, Red Whale knew that working with the powerful tide was both highly dangerous and the only hope of safety. Using oars to keep the ship at the center of the surging current and steering with great care, the Keel-Ripper would push the ship safely through the Narrows to the other side of the island.
The captain had hardly finished speaking, when the ship lurched as if a mighty beast had grabbed it. “Pull on the oars—Now!” Red Whale yelled as the ship lurched, broadsided by the powerful current. “Row lively now, mates! We’ll be caught on the reefs if we don’t work it well! Row as if all and forever depended on it. Hard to the oars! Hard as ya can!”
Approaching the line of reefs, the frenzied crew below deck pulled at the oars. Captain Gumberpott, turning the wheel slightly, steered the ship down the narrow passage separating the line of reefs from the rugged coastline studded with rocks. Everywhere, sharp rocks and precipitous cliffs promised to dash a poorly piloted ship to pieces.
At the south end, the island was bisected by a narrow sea passage—the Ice Fall Narrows which gave the island its name. Some long ago earthquake had ripped the island in two. Only a narrow passage existed, barely twice the width of Daring Dream in a few places, but sufficient to pass safely with a wise pilot at the wheel. “Fight the Keel-Ripper and she will kill you,” Red Whale explained to Fishbum. “But ride with her and she will pull you through the Narrows—but even none of us can stop the Ice Fall if that be our fate!”
As Daring Dream slipped into the Narrows, sheer cliffs of rock, immensely high, could be seen rising ahead on both sides. Long runs of glacier ice could be seen, running up the side of Smoking Bill’s peak.
“Ayet, mates! Take a good look at the sky—that’ll be the last you see of it and Smokin’ Bill until we pop out the other side of the Narrows. We’ll be seein’ nothin’ but rocks, water, and fog for now.”
As the ship drew further and further into the Narrows, Red Whale commanded that all non-essential crew go below deck and close every possible hatch. “We’ll be crossing near the Ice Fall soon, and best for beasts to be below. Anyone on deck will be soaked with freezing water.” Halfway through the Narrows, a river flowing down off of Smoking Bill poured over the sheer, jagged, treeless cliff. The powerful fall of the river over time had eroded the far side of the Narrows, giving a wider passage for Daring Dream. Hugging the far wall of the Narrows, a ship could avoid the main force of the river falling into the sea-passage. But being fed by glaciers on the flanks of Smoking Bill, chunks of ice often were also carried over the falls. Sometimes the chunks were huge—the size of a rowboat or sometimes larger. When this “Ice Fall” occurred, it could easily destroy a ship. There was no telling what might be falling at any particular time.
Captain Gumberpott did not move or hesitate. “Fishbum,” he ordered, “get the moggets on. Here we go!” Fishbum and the few other crew-beasts left on deck quickly pulled on their moggets—waterproof lizard skin coats. Red Whale slightly turned the wheel to alter the course, pulling Daring Dream as wide as possible from the falling water. Below decks, two crew-beasts labored at every oar—twenty on each side of Daring Dream—to gently move the ship with the current. And with Captain Gumberpott’s experienced paw on the wheel, Daring Dream edged its way through a hideous graveyard of ships. The ghostly remains of smashed ships lay scattered around the waterfall, the ghastly ribs of keels poking up like great dead monsters.
Where the warm sea current mingled with the icy water coming off the mountain, thick fogs settled over the Narrows. Gloomy, swirling fog seemed to merge seamlessly with the gray water of the Narrows. Occasionally, a shaft of sunlight, pierced through a breech in the steep canyon walls and briefly lightened the lead-gray mist. But for the most part, Red Whale could barely see from one end of the ship to the other. Fishbum and several other sea-beasts, stationed at points along the ship’s railing on all sides, peered into the fog, calling out warnings to guide Red Whale at the wheel: “Rocks to port—ten degrees starboard!”
As Daring Dream gradually worked her way deeper and deeper into the Narrows, the approach to the Ice Fall brought the booming echoes of huge chunks of ice falling into the water. Countless chunks of ice, some as large as a whale, others small as watermelon, now bobbed everywhere around the ship. The eerie sound of falling ice tested every nerve and often sent everyone by Red Whale scurrying for cover. SPLING! A box-sized piece of ice bounced off the side of Daring Dream, smashing two sets of oars. CRASH-SPLOOSH! A larger chunk broke off the bowsprit. CLINK-SPLINK-SPLING! A shower of chunks splattered the deck, one missing Red Whale only by inches. But the shower of ice chunks was even worse closer to the waterfall—WHA-SPLOOSH! A massive chunk sent up a geyser. Spray doused the Daring Dream’s deck.
“Crinoo! Hard on the oars, mates!” Red Whale yelled. “Pull for all you’re worth! Another twenty strokes and we’ll be clear of the fallin’ ice! Pull! Pull! Pull!”
WHA-SPLOOSH! Below decks the whole crew threw its muscles to the oars. Puffing and wheezing as they pulled, half suffocated in the stale air of beasts sweating and blowing, even the most seasoned felt sick as the ship tossed helter-skelter. Squalid air, seasickness, and fear all blended together as every beast frantically pulled to keep the ship out of the main path of the falling ice.
Frothing seawater splashed in through the long tear in the hull where the oar ports had been destroyed. Injured oar-beasts sloshed and stumbled toward the stairway to the upper deck calling for Banjo Saw, the ship’s doctor. Heeding the call of necessity, several beasts abandoned their oars and began working the manual pumps. Tense minutes passed. The creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers had never seemed so fearsome.
The sound of puffing and gasping oar-beasts and of oars rattling feverishly in their ports gradually overpowered the fading thunder of the waterfall and falling ice. After another several minutes of frantic rowing and pumping, a pleasant melody began to drown out the fading boom of falling ice—the rolling, soft crash of waves on a sandy beach. Narrows End Bay!
Narrows End Bay, opening wide on the far side of the island, offered Daring Dream a welcoming calm. Snug and deep, the harbor was big enough for a hundred ships, but was hardly ever visited. Few sea-beasts knew it as more than a speck on their charts, and fewer still wished to voyage to the very edge of the Voi-Nil.
For a crew that has been imprisoned on ship for 63 days, an empty harbor is still a harbor. As soon as Daring Dream dropped anchor, Nail-n-Peg Saloo, the ship’s carpenter took three beasts over the side to repair the gash in the hull. It would be two day’s tidy work to close the hole, and three more days to replace the bowsprit. Add on the needs of hauling fresh water and provisions, and the crew would be at least a week at the Narrows End Bay.
Katteo Jor’Dane, having been the first to sight land, rode happily in the prow of the first longboat sent ashore. Other longboats followed, crowded with red-faced Otters from the plains of Atalyety; and tall, proud-eyed Hares from the jungles of Heepkatadoo; and Lisstecars—richly bearded Coyotes loaded down with daggers of every description. And, as with any crew, there were the bewildered, young crew-beasts staring at everything around them, as if they had suddenly discovered astonishment. Soon all the crew, except the feverishly working repair team, was ashore.
Striking the beach in the first longboat, Captain Gumberpott greeted his old friend, Winja Selamí, the craggy old chief of the small Knot of Otters settled on Narrows End Bay. “Winja, you old weather!” Red Whale greeted his friend. “How blows the Fair Temps for you?”
“Since the third day last,” Winja replied, “the Fair Temps3 are steady and mild. That means likely a fair blow to the west, but a Scowling Mally4 brewing to the south. Which way are you bound?”
“Why, we be bound for a merry mug and pot of stew, of course!” Red Whale laughed. “A few sips of Sea Brew would be a mighty fine thing just now.”
“Ay’t—a welcoming mug o’ cheer and good vittles are, indeed, the sea-beasts best harbor!” Winja chuckled. “Come on and join us for a pint o’ Sea Brew and some vittles to shake up your gut a bit. I’m just off to join the rest of the Knot over at Flummo O’Marrell’s place. There’s a feast tonight for a young beast washed up on the shore a few weeks ago—cast overboard, far off-shore, by a Rummer Boar passing by. You know the Rummers—a fiercesome cruel batch of freebooters. As a wee Wolf, Bem was stolen from her bed one night—taken by Wrackshees, then sold to Rummers to replace deserters in their crew. She fell into life on the ship and became the Pilot. Gradually, however, the horror of the Rumming raids turned her heart against that life. She tried to mount a mutiny and take over the ship, but failed. The Rummer Boar—a particularly bad fellow, Sabre Tusk d’Newolf—threw her into the freezing water. He thought that was the end of Bem. And nearly was. When she washed up in the Bay, we didn’t know if she’d pull through at first—nearly drowned, cold to the point of being blue, badly cut and bruised, half-raving mad with fever. But with kindly attention she gradually came to herself and healed. So come on along—today we celebrate her recovery. All of us are meeting at Flummo’s to prepare for the celebration. You must join us.”
Captain Gumberpott and his crew followed their host as he plunged off along a trail leading back through the rocks, sand dunes, and trees that ringed the wide sandy beach. Lazy curls of smoke drifted up to the sky a short distance off among the rocks. Sounds of music, laughter, and uproarious singing drifted faintly over the dunes.
The trail gradually rose away from the beach as it meandered through the dunes. A short distance back from the beach, a wide flat area lay like a shallow bowl, surrounded by the rocky hills that rose away from the beach. The expanse of smooth, hard-packed sand was unbroken except for a few sturdy, well-made log buildings and several large trees, one of which had a large wooden barrel suspended from one of its limbs.
Perhaps two-dozen Otters were working and rushing here and there. Shouts and laughter mingled with the banging of pots and sizzling of cook fires. Fresh shrimp crackled and popped as they were tossed into boiling oil and the savory odor of baking tarts filled the air. A few Otters gave lively spirit to the workers and added to the festive atmosphere as they went about playing bells, drums, and pipes.
Tired and famished after weeks at sea, the crew of Daring Dream found new life in the sights and smells. Great pans of warm water, perfumed with sandrose petals, thyme, lavender, or orange peels, were provided for the sea-beasts to wash and refresh themselves. All around them Otters were bustling and scurrying with baskets, kettles, and pots. Long tables were being placed and covered with large tablecloths made from sail-canvas. Cook fires burned merrily here and there. Every beast cheerfully worked at preparing the coming feast.
Wiggen’n Bob, Master of the Cookery, seemed to be everywhere, giving endless orders to the cooks with a gruff good humor:
“Whip the Honeysong Cream faster or I’ll knock you with the ladle! It’ll never stand up like a sail on the Ship Cake if you leave it limp and loose like that!
“RARRRAH! There must be more pickled snails than that, unless that rascal Alameg has been into the brine pot again! How am I to feed you all, if I’m surrounded by sneaks picking at my stores?
“One hundred and eighty-four for feast, Miss Pottentam, we’ll be needing another dozen sacks of turnips, carrots, and yams for the stew. Send the Pickins Twins on up to the storage cave with the wagon.” And so on and so on it went all day for Wiggen’n Bob.
The Knot of Otters was nothing if not hospitable and the newcomers had barely appeared before all work stopped briefly and the Otters gathered around the visitors, talking and asking questions excitedly. The Knot at Narrows End Bay was populated entirely by Otters, with the exception of a single, lone Coyote who was abandoned by a Rummer ship some years before because of his advancing age. Half-hidden under a large, floppy hat—ringed all around with strings of shark teeth and shells—and a heavy blanket worn as a cloak, the Coyote jabbered loudly enough to be heard everywhere. Poking and waving with an old, well-used harpoon, its wooden handle carved all over with curious names, the elderly Coyote looked like many a seasoned sea-beast. Brown and burly, hair wizened and weathered from salt air and sun, the Coyote had obviously sailed on many a voyage. Moving about rapidly, still agile and active, stopping a moment with each visiting sea-beast, he continually asked the same sorts of questions:
“Where are you bound? What you got for tradin’? Got any fine goods you’d trade for a beauty of a shark’s tooth or a piece of dragon’s tail? Got need of a story-teller aboard your ship?”
Some of the common sea-beasts traded brass buttons or a harmonica or the words to an unknown song to the old Coyote for beautiful, dangerous-looking shark teeth. Others asked him about the dragon tail, showing by their bemused looks that they did not really believe such creatures existed.
“Naw, now, you sun-burned old Coyote, don’t you be swilling your lies at me,” Fishbum growled at the old sea-beast. “Dragons live only in the tongues of cheeky old fibbers, like yourself. You’ve been living in the salt and sun so long, your brain-riggings are rotted. Now get on with bothering the others and leave me to my Brew!”
Taking Fishbum’s response as a bit of an insult, the old Coyote—BorMane by name—demanded harshly, “Do you now! Do you now! Rotten are your own brain-riggings, and you’re nothing but spit-in-the-wind for courtesy either!” Flinging off his floppy hat, BorMane revealed a long, jagged scar that ran all the way from one ear to the other across the back of his head. The scar was so deadly-looking and striking that it took Fishbum’s breath away, and diverted his attention from the curious notches in the Coyote’s ears.
“Now, do you know how I came by that scar—do you?” BorMane scowled. “Well, I’ll tell you...” Sticking his harpoon under Fishbum’s nose, the old sea-beast pointed to one of the carvings on it. “That be the name of the ship I was serving on—the Crust of Luck—when we was broken to bits by a dragon! That scar is the carving the creature made on my skull with his teeth—so don’t you be telling me about the fraying of my brain-riggings. I know perfectly well what I’m about!”
Fishbum offered no more reply, simply gaping back at the terrible scar as he moved away from BorMane. Red Whale, however, hearing the exchange, was instantly at the side of the elderly Coyote.
“Dragons, you say, old mate?” Red Whale began. “So far as I’ve heard, the only ships as mention them have been sailing the Voi-Nil. You’ve sailed those perilous seas, you say?”
“Do you know anyone but me as claims to have sailed those seas?” the Coyote replied with a twinkle in his eye. “You think perhaps I carved my own skull or that I bought these bits of dragon tail from a shop?” BorMane fell silent for a moment, fingering the shark’s teeth hanging from his hat. “All I would be wondering if I was you, Cap’t, is how all these shark’s teeth—all of them bigger than you’ve ever seen in your life—got to be hanging on my hat. It might have something to do with this here harpoon of mine. That’s all I’d be wondering if I was you, Cap’t.”
“Crinoo!” Red Whale muttered sharply. “I’ll be the one saying what I ought to be wondering, old salt! What I’ll be wondering is if you would explain yourself to me—tell me what you know of the Voi-Nil—if we have time to talk around my table? You would answer my questions then, I think?”
“You mean, sir, that you would be thinking of having me ship out with you, if I tell you?” BorMane asked. “You’ll have to want me, as well as want my story, if I’m to tell you.”
A gleam of happiness leaped in Captain Gumberpott’s eyes. “Shake on it!” he cried. “Aye, you old sea-bag. Daring Dream has a berth for a story-teller! She’s bound into the Voi-Nil in search of the Outer Rings and we’ve no maps but stories—we’ll be needing the best stories we can get. You’re aboard, Mr. BorMane!”
Captain Gumberpott, taking a long, loud slurp of his Sea Brew, continued, leaning nearer to his new crew member. “Old salt, Daring Dream is not a ship for liars. We’ll treasure your stories, even if there’s mistakes or things you forget—but, mark my words, a conscious lie that puts my crew in peril, and you’ll fight the sharks alone.”
“I come aboard as I have always served a ship,” BorMane replied evenly. “Never mind about lies. I tell you what I know and have seen...that is all. Take it or leave it. If you have harpooned more than a thousand sharks and lived to sell their teeth to fools as buy such rubbish—then, one wonders if a beast such as myself might know a thing or two without needing the kind advice of yourself. If you might like to hear where I run my harpoon through those monster-big sharks or cut the tail off a dragon, then I’d be pleased to sail with you. Take my word for it, however—I can judge my truth-telling without help from you.”
Red Whale chuckled and slapped the old Coyote on the back affectionately. “Beginning with sunset tomorrow, you’ll be expected at my table aboard Daring Dream each night for the ship’s council as makes the plans for the voyage. It’s my trust to you—and my hope for good success for both of us.”
Such a development left BorMane uncharacteristically quiet as he savored his joy in finding a ship that would once more take him to sea. His happy reflections, however, were quickly disrupted as two young Otters, Foggtutt and Rowl, bowled past him, dropping the buckets they were carrying; scattering potatoes around Bormane’s feet. Howling with delight, the rowdy little Otters tackled Fishbum—who was still standing nearby—around the knees, knocking him to the ground.
“Sail me! Sail me! Come on, sail me!” the young beasts yelled as they climbed on Fishbum’s back urging him to give them a ride. Fishbum gamely tossed the two stubby Otters on his back and began to run wildly, swaying and weaving as if he were a ship being tossed by a storm.
“And the hurricane roared for twenty days!” Fishbum screeched. “The good ship Otter Death was battered by FIFTY FOOT WAVES—and every sea-beast aboard was sure it was the end!” Up and down Fishbum bobbed, going around and around in wild circles. “And every beast was sick and feeling green around the gills,” he screeched, sounding like some horrific monster of the deep. “The sails were in shreds, the masts cracked and falling to pieces—and soon only the two brave Otter Mates were left—and THEY WENT DOWN WITH THE SHIP!” Fishbum finished, as he collapsed on the ground panting for breath.
Foggtutt and Rowl squealed with glee and tumbled off as Fishbum fell. But hardly an instant had passed and they were up again, pulling on Fishbum to play some more. But he was not in a mood to play the “good ship Fishbum” again, although he did have in mind further amusement for the young Otters.
“Hey-ho, Captain! Seeking your permission to take these wee bits of rascal and throw them to the sharks!” he yelled.
“Permission granted,” Red Whale answered, laughing heartily.
Grabbing the young Otters, Fishbum called on Katteo Jor’Dane to go off to bring one of the large sail-canvas tablecloths. As she ran off to get the canvas cloth, Fishbum, holding Foggtutt and Rowl securely, presented them to Captain Gumberpott with mock solemnity.
“Let it be known to all the Powers of the Sea and all Good Sea-Beasts that sail the Far Points of the Compass, that these here Bits o’ Rascal have been tried and found guilty of worrying and annoying Master Fishbum, Sea-King of This Sand Where I Stand! Be it so ordered, therefore, that these wee Otters be thrown to the sharks!”
Returning with the large canvas tablecloth, Fishbum, Katteo, and several other members of the Daring Dream crew, placed first, Foggtutt, then Rowl, on the blanket and tossed them high in the air. With peals of laughter from the rough-mannered, but playful sea-beasts, and squeals of delighted terror from the Otters, Foggtutt and Rowl took turns going up and down in the air until they had worn out a goodly number of the Daring Dream crew. At last, all were weary of the game and even Foggtutt and Rowl were content to go on with the jobs they had been doing to help prepare for the feast.
Smiling at the sea-beasts who had shown such playful kindness to the little Otters, Winja said, “Come on, you salty slobber-cheekers, you’ve earned the first bops of the fresh batch of Flummo O’Marrell’s Sea Brew. It was made especially for today’s celebration and such good-hearted visitors deserve the honor of swilling the first bop.”
Seeing the uncertain looks cast in his direction in response to his invitation, Winja winked at Red Whale. Walking over to where the barrel was hanging from a tree branch and a similar barrel sat on the ground beside the tree, he continued, “Swill a bit of Flummo’s Sea Brew and you’ll think only one of two things. He’s either a demon or a magician—depending on how your stomach takes it. In more than thirty summers here at Narrows End Bay, I’ve seen beasts take it both ways—some say it’s like licking muddy water off the bottom of a boot and others swear it’s the Kick o’ Life. Speaking for myself, I lean toward the latter opinion.”
The old Otter reached into the barrel on the ground and pulled out a deeply-rounded clam shell. He held the cup to the tap, gave it a turn, and waited. After several moments, a thick ribbon of slippery black liquid dripped out of the tap and flowed into the bop Winja held, stretching out in a long slithery strand as it slowly filled the clamshell cup. Dark as molasses, glistening strands of Sea Brew ran in a slow stream from a large cask hanging from a timber in front of a small thatched hut.
When the dark liquid had filled the bop, Winja lifted it to his nose and sniffed it as if in ecstasy. Then he tilted the clamshell cup, sucking the Sea Brew out of the bop with prolonged, loud slurps. “Ah...Sea Brew...sweet ’n peppery, hot ’n minty, with just a hint of slap-you-in-the-face...it’s the Kick o’ Life...”
Almost as if on cue, another Otter, stout as the barrel of Sea Brew itself, waddled out of the nearby building. His plump, friendly face, rounded to a circle by bulging cheeks, was framed by bushy sideburns. A large, puffy nose pushed out prominently over a well-greased handlebar moustache.
Clapping Winja on the back, the Otter boomed, “Hally, Winja! Do they want the Brew?”
“Every good and brave beast wants some!” Winja yelled back in reply. “Looks to be a goodly troop of sail-ridin’ salts. I speak in particular of this big red-eyed Wolf with the swagger and guff of a captain—a likely fellow we’ve seen before in these parts. The rest look tolerable honest and more bold than bluster. Sure enough they will want the Brew.”
“Flummo O’Marrell at your service,” the Otter said, sweeping his rough apron to the side as he bent his knee before Captain Gumberpott. “Drink up and welcome, my salty breeze-robbers! My eye-watering, sinus-cleansing, gut-wolloping elixir is freshly brewed—clears the head, steadies the heart, and soothes the nerves; it’s the Kick o’ Life!”
Small, twinkling eyes and a laughing smile added to the warm friendliness of the Otter’s greeting. Despite the friendly welcome, however, some of the sea-beasts still looked dubious about the clamshell cups of dark, slimy-looking Sea Brew that Winja was cheerfully filling and passing around.
“Look how they stare, Winja! Like these brave beasts never took a bit of drink. Well then, let’s have another go in the proper do o’ things.” With great fanfare, Flummo let out a curious wheezing cough, as if clearing a great boulder from his throat, and said, “You’re kindly invited to comfort your belly with some Pop-Fritter Shrimp, Twice-baked Bay Pear Soup, and Cove Biscuits, while you sip a delicate cup of Sea Brew. Come and welcome to the Feast n’ Fiddle to celebrate young Bem Madsoor’s return to health.”
“You see, Captain,” Winja added, “I’ve seen it go both ways. Why, there’s some dainty wallflower beasts, that’s never raised a sail, as would rather drink water. That’s the ones that call Sea Brew the ‘elixir of gut-rot and staggers,’” he laughed. “But for fine sea-beasts such as yourselves—that’s braved the Ice Fall Narrows and think nothing of cussing a hurricane to its face—why, for you, Flummo’s Brew is made to order.”
As Winja said this, three more Otters came out of Flummo’s house, carrying baskets of food and singing with happy gusto:
So ye made the sea and demons flee
You dock-fleeing, sea-woozy shalleets?5
Halloo-halloo! Hallee!
You furled up the wind and gave it flight
With twenty-nine strokes of a dagger’s bite?
Halloo-halloo! Hallee!
And you heaved the storms in and anchored them down,
With a chain of oaths they strangled and drown’d?
With a Fe-Hallee-Halloo!
Then a favoring Temp and a blessed fair sail
Brings ye here—one port closer to hell!
Halloo-halloo! Hallee!
Well sang, we say! Welcome, be ye!
With a Fe-Halloo-Hallee!
Finishing their song, one of the Otters laid out wooden plates on the tables while another offered bops of Sea Brew to Red Whale’s crew. As the crew took their first swigs of Sea Brew, friendly arguments broke out about whether the sweet, knife-sharp taste of the Brew outweighed its intensely strong odor of fish. In the end, however, after two months at sea, the choice between Sea Brew and water was easy for a sea-beast, and soon all were enjoying Flummo’s creation.
“Friends, your coming adds happiness to our celebration,” Winja called out to the visiting sea-beasts as they scattered to join in making the preparations. “We did not expect to have such fine guests at our Feast n’ Fiddle. By the good winds of the Powers of the Sea, however, the bounty of our gardens and the goodly supply of fresh shrimp we have on ice will come to good use. We’ll cook as much as we need and you’ll help us plant and fish for more while you visit us.”
With a loud ‘Hallee’ the happy beasts tore into the work of readying the delicious spread. Several of the crew took tentative sips of the Sea Brew as they worked. Galley beasts from Daring Dream joined the Otters tending the cooking fires and the preparations proceeded with joking good humor.
As the Daring Dream crew fell to work, Red Whale and Winja discussed the repairs needed by the ship and other arrangements for the visit. Slurping Sea Brew with gusto, Red Whale and the Otter chief made plans to salvage materials from the numerous wrecks scattered along the coast.
Talk of the wrecks and Daring Dream’s own narrow escape, led Red Whale to ask, “Where’s the guest of honor, Winja—this Bem Madsoor?”
“Ah, and who knows about that sprite of hell?” Winja chuckled. “She’s set off to the Long-Off Pinnacle to watch for ships and chanting her Hoping Songs to the Powers of the Sea. She wants to leave Narrows End Bay as soon as she can. She’s been off to the Pinnacle every day and hardly stops chanting even to take a breath or put some timber in her belly. Bem’s one to put skip in the heart of even the bravest beast—nay, she makes every brave beast you ever knew look like weak-kneed cowards by comparison. The places she’s sailed and the dangers she’s battled would leave me sleepless the rest of my life! Those of us in our little settlement fish and plant our vegetables in happy peace and quiet. We greet a few ships stopping by—such as yourself—but mostly we live a quiet life. Bem Madsoor is very different. Don’t assume that all of us at Narrows End Bay are alike.” Winja paused for a moment. He pointed off toward the jagged hills rising sharply away toward the interior of the island.
“The point of rock you see poking up like a crooked finger is called Long-Off Pinnacle—you can see thirty miles to sea from there. Bem’s up there watching for the ship that will take her home. She’s set on getting back to Port Newolf—that’s in the Outer Rings, some days sailing from here—raising a crew, and hunting down Sabre Tusk d’Newolf. She’s sworn to destroy the Rummers.”
Raising his eyebrows for emphasis, Winja leaned toward Red Whale and spoke with a tone of mixed admiration and fear. “Oh, she’ll be here soon I’ll wager. From Long-Off Pinnacle Bem’s seen your ship in the harbor for sure and she’ll be wasting no time to get back here.”
Winja rubbed his chin and closed his eyes briefly, as if considering what to say next. Then he continued, “I warn you, friend, don’t fret if Bem seems a bit uncertain of mind, loose with her weapons, or rude in amusements. She may step on your feet and knock you down, as if you aren’t even there. You might feel a throwing lance wisk your hat right off your head and stick it to a tree. She might empty her bop of Sea Brew right over your head and laugh as it runs down your face. Be warned. These are Bem’s manners and customs. Sailing with Rummers in the trallé trade has taught her that she can brook no one stronger or more fierce then herself. She will not tolerate a challenge or a bad word against her—or, thankfully, her friends. She knows that her survival in what she plans depends on her complete fearlessness. Be warned. She is more good than bad, and a more generous and big-hearted beast you will never find. In her, ‘bad’ does not mean evil. I call her ‘bad’ as all beasts who dare to challenge her will call her ‘bad’—a more strong and forceful, determined and dangerous beast does not exist. Be warned. She may be young, friendly enough, and mean you no harm if you accept her ways. But be warned.” Ending his strange introduction to what was to come, Winja took a long slurp of Sea Brew and looked toward the Long-Off Pinnacle.