The Voyage of Viona [A Modern Reimagining of the Voyage of Bran]

Note: This is the third story/chapter in my serialized Irish/Celtic mythology novel. The previous two stories—“Balor and the Boar” and “Finegas and the Fish”—feed directly into this story (but it’s not one-hundred-percent necessary that you read those first two to understand this one—though I do recommend it, of course).

---

A red sky would have been a welcome sight. Because what Viona and her little brother Cal were looking at right now was beyond red; it was infrared. Like some god had dipped its big mitt into a vat of irradiated blood and splashed it across the horizon.

Viona touched her blistered thumb to her bottom lip.

The results were vague but conclusive:

Some deity or another was up to something.

“How does that saying about red skies and sailors go again?” Cal asked. “Like, is it good to have them in the morning? Or bad?”

“Bad,” said Viona, who was looking down at the dark, dank dockwood beneath her feet. “Very bad.”

“Well, shit.” Cal sipped his coffee. “I’m really starting to regret my decision.”

“It wasn’t your decision,” said Viona.

“What are you talking about, it wasn’t my decision? You asked me to come with you and I said yes.”

“I knew you’d say yes.”

“Oh, right,” said Cal, mockingly. “Because of your magic fish thumb.”

“No,” said Viona. “Because you’re a giant loser and I knew you wouldn’t have any plans.”

Cal snorted.

His big sister had a point. 

“Just look around you though,” he persisted, waving a hand at the marina. “We’re the only ones here. Just us and a bunch of empty boats.”

“Good,” she replied. “There won’t be any traffic on the river on our way out.”

“Assuming this dude even shows up.”

“He’ll show up.”

“How can you be so—”

He stopped himself.

Changed course.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You nearly died and then you went right back to work and now you’re…what? Sailing to Fantasy Island?”

“I didn’t nearly die,” said Viona. “And they tripled my pay. What was I supposed to do?”

“A terrorist with a flamethrower cremated all of your coworkers in front of you, Viona. And you barely escaped with your hide. You could’ve at least taken a couple weeks off.”

“That’s not exactly how it happened,” said Viona. “And I am taking a couple weeks off.”

“You know what I mean,” said Cal. “This isn’t rest. This isn’t a vacation. This is—”

“Necessary,” said Viona.

“If you say so,” said Cal.

“I don’t just say so; I know so.”

Cal smirked.

“If you say so.”

The siblings would spend the next several minutes standing on the dock in silence, Cal drinking his coffee, Viona her tea, both reflecting on the strange set of circumstances that had led them to this spot, to this moment.

Above them, dawn’s ketchupy fingers.

Ahead of them, the stout-dark sea.

And all around them…

“That smell,” said Cal.

“Low tide,” said Viona.

Cal shook his head. 

“I’ve smelled every kind of tide there is. This isn’t any of ’em.”

Now, typically, such a statement would have been met with derision on Viona’s part. But in this particular instance, concerning this particular subject matter, she ignored his air of arrogance and deferred to her little brother’s expertise.

He was a clamdigger, after all. As evidenced by the persistent ring of mud around his ankles.

The tale of how Cal ended up a professional shell-snatcher was a long and boring one, nearly as long and as boring as the tale of how his older sister ended up a professional burger-flipper. These were stories steeped in socioeconomic strife, stories thick with the roux of familial pattern-following. Unbroken circles. And so on.

            And so on,

     and so on,        and so on,

and so on,                  and so on,

and so on,                  and so on,

and so on,                  and so on,

     and so on,        and so on,

            and so on…

But there is a more pressing story to which we must attend. A story, I can assure you, with themes and lessons that are just as important and serious.

*clears throat*

Viona pressed her magic fish thumb to her lip.

“It’s him,” she said.

“No shit it’s him,” said Cal. “I can see his boat.”

And there it was, in all its dilapidated glory, its crooked bow piercing the curtain of mist that hung between river and sea.

It was crafted in the old style, Cal could tell. Animal hides stretched over what looked like willow rods—only several of those rods had cracked and ripped through the hull. With so many tears, it seemed a miracle the craft could stay afloat, let alone cruise, upstream, at the speed at which it was cruising. 

The ship’s captain, clearly a believer in miracles, kept his course with a single pinky finger strategically placed on a single spoke of the ship’s wheel. Above his head, a single sail (if you could call that rag a sail) rippled in a perpetual, personal gust of wind. 

“Ahoy!” Cal shouted from the dock.

Viona punched him on the shoulder.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m just speaking his language,” Cal replied, before whispering, “Just look at this guy.”

And Viona did look at the guy. 

He was tall and muscular with ocean-blue eyes.

That would have been the description in his online dating profile, anyway. All technically true. Notably absent from said description, however, were the yellow oilskin jacket that was encrusted with barnacles and had seaweed dangling from the elbows, and the multicolored beard with its brittle, coral-like tubes and tunnels, in which several marine organisms had taken up residence, the largest of which was a green crab.

The odor likely originated from deep inside the beard, Viona concluded, but she had no interest in pursuing that theory any further.

She hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and watched as the captain overshot his mark.

Or so she thought. 

At the last moment, the ship moved laterally against the current while keeping its crooked bow as straight as a crooked bow could be kept. It was the equivalent of a car parallel-parking by turning all of its wheels ninety degrees and zipping sideways into the space.

The ship bounced gently, gingerly against the dock a single time, and then the ropes were out, striking like serpents (but presumably thrown by the captain), lashing stern and bow to the cleats. His vessel secured, the captain hopped out, landing on the dockwood with an audible squish.

 That’s when the water began erupting from his boots. And from the pockets of his jacket. And from the caverns of his beard. First in irregular bursts, like when you test the faucets after your water’s been turned back on, then in increasingly steady streams and torrents.

“You must be Manny,” said Viona, once the flow had subsided to a trickle.

Manny nodded.

“And you must be the one who ate the fish of Finegas.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” said Viona.

“It never is,” said Manny. “Not with the good ones, anyway.” He turned his attention to Cal. “Ahoy there, matey. What’s your story?”

“It’s a long and boring one,” Cal replied. “But the short version is I’m her little brother.”

Manny looked him up and down.

“A big little brother, I’d say.”

He stepped forward (squish) and squeezed Cal’s arm.

“You have the biceps of a midshipman. Have you been out to sea before?”

Cal took a step back.

“No,” he said. “I’m a bayman. A clamdigger.”

“A what now?”

“A clamdigger,” said Cal.

“Is that what they call it these days?” Manny winked. “Now, are we sure it wasn’t you who ate that fish and not your sister?”

“It was definitely my sister,” said Cal.

“Ah, well. In that case, it’s best you say your goodbyes so your little big sister and I can be on our merry way.”

“Actually—” Viona started.

“I’m coming with you,” Cal finished.

“Impossible,” said Manny.

“Possible.” Viona retorted, holding out her blistered thumb. “I looked into it.”

“Fine. Highly unrecommended, then.” 

“And why is that?” Viona pressed.

“Because,” said Manny, stretching every vowel of the word, “with all of the irregularities going on, Dad is getting uneasy. He says the whole fabric of reality could get liquefied, something he personally wouldn’t mind so much, but for humanity, the consequences would be dire.”

“You said ‘could’ get liquefied, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look, I understand there’s some risk involved, but I’ve got a feeling—”

“A feeling?” said Manny.

“Yes, a feeling,” said Viona. “Cal is going to be an important part of…this. Whatever this is.”

Manny shook his head.

The motion sent the green crab flying from his beard.

“There’s still so much you don’t understand.”

“Then teach me,” Viona demanded. 

“Not my job,” said Manny. “I drive the boat.”

“It looks like the boat drives itself,” offered Cal. “What is that thing, anyway? A currach? A coracle?”

“Yes,” said Manny. “Now please be quiet, lad; the grownups are talking.”

Manny turned to Viona.

“He can’t come.”

“Aw, come on,” Cal whined. 

“Zip it,” Viona said to her big little brother. “He’s coming,” she said to Manny. “And that’s final.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you don’t get the cauldron,” Viona said. “It’s that simple.”

Cal cocked his head like a golden retriever. 

“Cauldron?”

“You didn’t tell him?” said Manny.

“It didn’t concern him,” said Viona.

“You don’t trust him,” said Manny.

“Oh for fu—”

“Quiet,” Viona and Manny said to Cal in unison.

A moment of silence passed between the three of them as they watched the green crab, which had evidently survived its maiden flight, scurry sideways up Manny’s body and reclaim its hairy hidey-hole.

The conversation continued.

“Where is it?” Manny asked.

Viona steeled herself. 

“Somewhere you would never think to—”

“In the boot of your car,” said Manny.

“Is that what that was?” asked Cal. “You told me it was just a whole lot of pot.”

Viona threw her hands up in defeat.

The jig, which had hardly been down for a second, was up.

“What is a cauldron if not a whole lot of pot?” she offered.

“Now that’s funny,” said Manny.

A few minutes later, Cal was putting his biceps to good use hauling the cauldron onto the ship, a ship whose captain was of two minds, both wanting the lad aboard and not wanting him anywhere near his operation.

This was serious business.

(See?)

Souls hung in the balance. 

Viona needed her training and she needed it quickly. Giving in to her request meant the voyage could begin immediately. But at the same time, any sailor worth their salt knew that an unanticipated change to a ship’s manifest was a bad omen. 

At best, it meant a delay—a maze of crystal columns blocking your path; a surfacing blue whale lifting your boat on its back; a flock of fire-breathing bird-monsters setting your rope and canvas aflame. Manny had seen it all.

At worst, well, it was never a good idea to think in worsts. 

His passengers seated and snug in their life vests (wearing them was non-negotiable), Manny untied his bow and stern lines with a snap of his fingers and pushed off the dock with a tap of his boot.

“Honestly, I’ve never seen the sky so freaking red before,” Cal said as they cleared the final slip of the marina and entered the river proper. 

“Get over it,” said Viona.

“No, he’s right,” said Manny. “I don’t like this.”

“Got a bad feeling, do ya?” said Viona.

Manny took his pinky finger off the ship’s wheel and held it in the air.

“Storm’s coming.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Viona, giving him a thumbs up with her blistered thumb.

“That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy.”

“That’s why I hired the best.”

“The best? I am the only,” said Manny.

“I took that into consideration as well,” said Viona. “Now, does this thing go any faster, or what?”

Manny smiled. 

Sea lice chittered in the gaps between his teeth.

There was no traffic on the river on their way out to sea, which, for Viona, would serve as the high point of the nine-month journey that was to follow.

---

The first month was spent trapped in a tempest barely a mile from the mouth of the river.

“I told you,” said Manny. “I told you this would happen.”

It was day thirty of sailing in near-perfect circles, the storm pushing them ’round and ’round.

            And ’round                    

     and ’round     and ’round

and ’round              and ’round

and ’round              and ’round

and ’round              and ’round

     and ’round     and ’round

            and ’round…

“There is only one solution,” said Viona.

“Don’t say it,” said Cal. 

“Nope, there are two,” said Manny.

“Patience,” said Viona.

“Throw Cal overboard,” said Manny. 

“Maybe try your thumb thing again?” said Cal. 

“I’ve already tried it today,” said Viona. “The solution is the same as it was yesterday.”

“Don’t say it,” said Manny.

“Patience,” said Viona.

“Maybe I should take a turn driving the boat,” said Cal.

“Not gonna happen,” said Manny. 

Cal persisted.

“I think you’re zigging when you should be zagging.”

Manny made a show of turning the ship’s wheel over, hard to starboard, then he turned it over the other way, hard to port. He raised the sail. He lowered the sail. He even plopped a pair of oars in the chop and rowed. None of it had any effect. The wind and waves conspired to keep the ship in its estuarine orbit.

No, not the wind and waves.

They too were patsies in the scheme. 

“Dad,” Manny pleaded, peering into the water. “Will you cut it out already?”

Just then, a wave broke over the side of the ship, sending a blast of salty spray into Manny’s face.

 Manny responded by slashing at the sea with the blade of an oar.

“Give it up already,” said Viona. “We just need to be—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” said Cal.

Viona, frustrated, touched her thumb to her lip. 

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh,” Cal echoed.

“It means grandson,” said Manny. 

“What?” said Cal. 

“To be clear, I’m Manny Mac—”

“No one cares about this stuff,” said Cal.

“Shut up, both of you,” said Viona. “I know what I have to do.”

“And what’s that?” asked Manny.

Viona dove into the swell and swam.

She returned an hour later in a dinghy accompanied by three inebriated gentlemen in wool suits.

“Who the Dagda are they?” Manny shouted over the storm as she rowed up alongside.

“New crew members,” said Viona.

Cal pulled them aboard, which was no easy feat given both their overabundance of years and underabundance of sobriety.

“Where’d you find them?” Manny asked.

“Where do you think?” replied Viona.

“In the boot of your car?” suggested Cal.

The three inebriated gentlemen sat in a row on a plank in the center of the ship. It was a tight squeeze, but none of the three appeared the least bit discomfited by these confined conditions.

“Guess again,” said Viona. 

A black cloud slid in front of the sun, blocking out what little sunlight the storm had been allowing through. 

And just like that, day turned to night.

Sunlight to darkness. 

But the three inebriated men did not seem the least bit bothered by the blackout.

“Wait a minute,” said Cal. “I thought these guys were supposed to help us get out of the storm?”

“Patience,” said Viona.

The three inebriated men, synchronized in their movements, turned their heads and stared at Cal. Then, still moving together, each reached into his suit jacket pocket, removed a shiny glass object, and held it out.

“Pint glasses?” said Cal. “So they’re—”

“Regulars,” finished Manny. “Clever.”

Viona gave a curt nod in recognition of the compliment.

Her thumb wisdom had only informed her that three additional passengers would be needed to continue; it gave no advice as to how to procure said passengers.

“I’ve come to accept this voyage will likely require long periods of sitting in close quarters with other humans in dark, dank conditions, so the choice was obvious,” she said. “There’s only one catch.”

Manny raised a barnacled eyebrow. 

“To lure them out of the pub, I promised them endless pints.”

“Ah,” said Manny, who observed the three regulars were still holding out their pint glasses. “You need to use the cauldron.” 

“We need to use the cauldron,” corrected Viona.

The sea lice chittered.

“Be my guest,” he said. “Do you know how it works?”

“I’ll figure it out,” said Viona. 

“Good,” said Manny. “Then you can explain it to me because I have no idea.”

It turned out to be not so complicated: 

Whatever you put in the empty cauldron, it replicated. And so long as the cauldron was never flipped over, its contents would never run out.

While Viona hadn’t known it at the time, this technology had powered the old beverage fountain at Tara’s Burgers, back when endless drink refills had been a thing. The day the fountain was retired, a cauldron appeared in the storage closet and was swiftly repurposed into a mop repository. Tara’s staff were never at a loss for mops.

That is until the place burned down. 

“So you went in there and dragged it out of the rubble all by yourself?” Cal was asking his little big sister, who had been recounting the story. 

“I’m not an idiot,” she said. “I brought a wheelbarrow. Now, hand me those glasses.”

Cal grabbed two of the pint glasses from the outstretched hands of the regulars but struggled with the third, juggling it atop the other two.

“No, like this,” said Viona, taking the three glasses and pressing them together like billiard balls in a rack.

Then she flipped them upside down, held them over the mouth of the cauldron, and shook.

And shook.

And…

Three tiny droplets went splat, and not a second later, the cauldron was brimming with stout, and puffs of foamy, frothy head floated away like clouds in the gale-force winds.

Viona scooped the pints and passed them one by one to Cal, who passed them one by one to the regulars. When they’d all been served, they sipped their pints in unison.

And kept sipping and kept sipping until they’d drained them. 

Then the three inebriated gentlemen in the wool suits held out their glasses and waited for more.

So Viona scooped out more pints. Cal passed them out. And Manny? Manny steered the ship, of course. Or at least he did a decent job pretending. (He certainly looked the part, anyway.)

Above them, the clouds parted. Ahead of them, a bright blue sea beckoned. And all around them…well, it still didn’t smell too great. But at least everyone was feeling optimistic.

---

The second month was spent lost in a maze of crystal columns.

“Really, Dad?” Manny said the day they rose from the sea—thousands of pearlescent skyscrapers, some rounded like tree trunks, others hexagonal, and still others twisted like unicorn horns or those lollipops they sell at old-timey shops. 

Navigating between the columns was a delicate thing.

“Definitely harder than it looks,” explained Manny, after bouncing his bow off yet another crystal column. The resulting sound was like a hammer on a chime.

Diiiiiiiing.

“I need a drink,” said Cal.

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” said Viona. “Get me one too, will ya?”

Manny clicked his tongue.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

“Why not?” asked Cal.

“Because abusing the cauldron’s power is a surefire way to attract unwanted attention.”

“Seems like we’re already getting a lot of unwanted attention,” said Viona.

Manny shook his head, once again sending the green crab flying from his beard. Only this time, at the last second, the crab snapped onto a protruding clump of beard with its claw, saving itself. It was still dangling there, regaining its composure, when Manny said: 

“This is just Dad having some fun; what I’m talking about would be a whole lot worse.”

“Then shouldn’t we be kicking these guys overboard?” said Cal.

The three inebriated gentlemen looked up in unison from their pints.

“Aren’t we abusing the cauldron’s power by feeding them each fifty pints a day?” Cal continued.

“That’s different,” said Manny. He pointed to Viona. “Your sister hatched a plan that requires the cauldron, but she’s not using its power to directly enrich herself. That’s good. But if she starts pulling pints from it for the sake of her own personal satiation and enjoyment? Well, that might not be so good. Besides…”

Manny faced Viona. 

“You probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

Diiiiiiiing.

The ship bounced off another column. 

“Sorry,” shouted Manny over the eerie sustain of the resonating crystal. “Won’t happen agai—”

Doooong.

“I feel like we’re inside a pinball machine,” said Cal.

“Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” asked Viona.

Manny looked down to consult his comp—

Daaaang.

“Right, I forgot,” said Manny.

“Forgot what?” said Viona.

“I don’t have a compass.”

“You don’t have a…” She stopped herself. “Why don’t you…” She stopped herself again. “How the hell are we supposed to get through this?”

“You’ll figure it out,” said Manny.

“Patience?” suggested Cal.

Doooong.

“Never mind, that’s gonna give me a migraine. Can it be my turn to drive now? You…are not very good at this.”

“It’s called steering,” said Manny. 

“What?”

“Steering, not driving,” said Manny. “Or piloting, if you—” 

“No one cares about that stuff,” said Cal.

“Yes, they—”

“That sounded like an E,” said Viona.

Manny and Cal ceased their bickering, 

“An eel?” said Manny. “That’d be new.”

“No, an E,” said Viona.

“E-flat,” said the three inebriated gentlemen speaking together in a single voice.

Viona cracked a smile.

“Manny, ram the boat into that column over there.”

Manny did as instructed, choosing to ignore the indignity of hearing his ship called a boat.

Diiiiiiiing.

“That was a D,” said Viona.

The regulars nodded their approval.

“Keeping going,’ she said.

And on and on they went for weeks, following the notes.

                   And on and on,

        and on and on,       and on and on,

and on and on,                        and on and on,

and on and on,                        and on and on,

and on and on,                        and on and on,

        and on and on,       and on and on

                      they went…

“We’ve gone ’round in a circle,” Cal said.

“No we haven’t,” said Viona. 

In a rare moment of sheepishness, she looked to Manny.

“Have we?”

Manny scratched the top of the green crab’s shell, which wriggled its mandibles in delight. 

“We didn’t miss a G back there, did we?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Viona. 

“Well, in that case, your brother’s right. We have gone ’round in a circle.”

“Told you!” Cal gloated.

“No,” Viona said, more to herself than to anyone else. “We did what we were supposed to do.”

“We should have followed the notes the other way,” said Cal. “Ascending, not descending.”

“But that still would have taken us ’round in a circle,” said Viona. “Assuming we have gone ’round in a circle.”

She looked to Manny once more.

“We have,” he said definitively, before continuing, “But just because we’ve traveled in a circle doesn’t mean we’ve traveled in the wrong direction.”

“It doesn’t?” asked Cal. 

Diiiiiiiing.

And with that final collision, the columns shook and the sea boiled, and soon all that was left of the crystal maze was a garden of froth and an uneasy hum hanging in the air.

---

The third month was spent on the back of a blue whale.

Truth be told, Viona and the rest could have alighted from its back sooner, but after a month of enduring the skull-rattling dings, dongs, and dangs of the crystal columns, the whale’s deep, mournful…well, “wails” really is the best word to describe them…were a welcome reprieve, a welcome salve for their eardrums.

Many a night were spent under the stars listening to the whale’s melodies. Viona was shushed for attempting to transcribe them; such an act was sacrilegious, the three inebriated gentlemen had implied. So she learned to let the songs wash over her, to sit and listen without succumbing to analysis, to eat and digest without tasting. And that month went by very quickly indeed.

---

The fourth month was spent fighting a flock of fire-breathing bird-monsters.

“Predictable,” Manny said the morning they appeared on the horizon, rising with the sun, riding the pink tendrils of the dawn. 

There were at least two dozen of them—and they weren’t small. Certainly larger than the largest known natural seabirds. Because even from a distance the crew could see something was off with these “birds.” Their flight mechanics were too choppy, too…mechanical. And their massive scooped bills hung far too low below their bodies; it’s as if they were dragging them along as they flew.

Viona removed her thumb from her lip.

“The upper parts of their beaks are made of flint, the lower parts of steel,” she explained. “The oil is stored in pouches in their throats. It’s an ingenious design, really.”

“Someone made these things?” Cal asked.

“Gowan and Dian,” answered Manny.

“Who?”

“Dad’s friends,” said Manny with a sigh. “One’s a smith, the other a surgeon. He gets them to build all kinds of wacky things for him that he can use to torture wayward humans.”

“Lovely,” said Cal, who then turned to his sister. “So, what’s the play?”

“Actually,” interrupted Manny, “I’ve got this one. It’s really quite simple.”

He pointed to the approaching flock, like an athlete calling his shot.

“We throw spears at them.”

“Great,” said Cal. “Where do you keep the spears on this thing?”

“I don’t have any weapons aboard,” said Manny.

“Oh,” said Cal.

“Did you bring any weapons?” asked Manny.

“No,” said Cal.

“Oh,” said Manny. “I figured you might’ve brought some, given how important you are to the mission.” 

“Right,” said Cal, who proceeded to turn out all of the pockets on his person. He found one key, two coins, and a small refrigerator magnet that featured a smiling cartoon clam.

Manny frowned.

Cal turned to his sister once more.

“So, what’s the play?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” said Viona. 

And then the flock of fire-breathing bird-monsters was on them.

Flurp, flurp, flurp went their hideous wings.

Clack, clack, clack went their flint-and-steel beaks.

The crew took cover and were for once grateful for the persistent damp that accompanied sailors on such journeys; nary a hair was singed on any of their heads. True, the sail and some rigging caught fire, but Viona and the regulars quickly doused those flames with seawater and endless pints of stout.

Cal stood fast with an oar, hoping to bat one of the bird-monsters out of the air with it, but none ever came close enough. 

Manny, meanwhile, hurled his anchor like a harpoon at the nearest bird-monster, but the anchor chain wasn’t long enough; it went taught before reaching its mark.

And so, the bird-monsters regrouped and attacked again, setting sail and rigging flame. Viona and the regulars put out the fires. Cal waved an oar and Manny threw an anchor, neither of which did anything whatsoever to deter the bird-monsters.

And so, the bird-monsters regrouped and attacked again…

This process would repeat itself over and over.

        Over and over

     and over        and over

and over                  and over

and over                  and over

and over                  and over

    and over         and over

           and over…

Until, weeks later, Cal of all people had an idea:

“Let’s sharpen one of the oars into a spear and put it in the cauldron.”

The three regulars looked up in unison from their pints. Despite their protestations, Viona and Manny agreed it was time to try something new.

So they flipped the cauldron upside down.

As the regulars wept, Cal did his best to sharpen the end of the oar he had been waving with a key. It was painstaking, blister-inducing work, but he felt compelled to be useful. Or rather, he felt compelled to show Manny he was more than just a pair of biceps. Granted, this job in particular was essentially an arm workout.

When it was finished, the “spear” was jammed unceremoniously into the cauldron, like someone putting a mop into a…well, cauldron. And from the bottom of the cauldron there arose, like pieces of toast popping up from the depths of a toaster, six exact duplicates of the spear. 

Viona took a spear. Cal took a spear. Manny took a spear. And each of the three inebriated gentlemen took a spear. The original, of course, was left in the cauldron so more copies could be made.

This time, when the bird-monsters attacked, they were met with an aerial assault. Six projectiles tore into their fiery, feathery ranks…only to clank harmlessly against their oversized beaks.

The bird-monsters once again set fire to the sail and some rigging.

And as the others pitched in to put out the flames, Cal relegated himself to the stern, his head hung low, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“It was a good idea,” Viona said, walking over to him. “Really, I would never have thought of it.”

“Yes, you would have,” said Cal. “You think of everything.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

For a few moments, Cal’s cheeks burned hotter than the windpipe of a fire-breathing bird.

Then he held out his hand and showed her the magnet.

“It’s from…”

He trailed off. 

“It was a gift from…”

He trailed off again. 

“I don’t know if you remember, it—”

“I remember who gave it to you,” said Viona. “You mind if I borrow it? I promise I’ll be careful.”

The hesitation on Cal’s part was palpable. But he trusted his sister. So he handed over the smiling clam magnet.

A few seconds later, the crew had an arsenal consisting of thousands of smiling clam magnets, which they dutifully shaped into balls and launched at the approaching bird-monsters.

While only a handful of the magnets stuck to their marks (the lower, steel halves of the bird-monsters’ bills), it was a successful proof of concept. And with each successive volley, the magnets piled up, and the bird-monsters were weighed down. Soon, they were unable to keep their heads above water.

The last Viona and the rest saw of the bird-monsters were the tips of their wings, wings that were still flapping mechanically beneath the waves, over and over and over.Flurp, flurp, flurp.

---

The fifth month was spent on the Island of Joy.

Don’t let the name fool you: it wasn’t that joyful of an experience.

And it wasn’t really an island. Or rather, it wouldn’t be for long.

We’ll get to it.

But first, Manny’s ship had to get to it. Which, given the charred state of the sail and rigging, wasn’t a certainty. (Or rather, Viona didn’t know it wasn’t a certainty yet.)

It had been a unanimous decision to make a quick stop at the nearest harbor to make repairs and pick up supplies.

Only Manny didn’t set a course for the nearest harbor. Instead, the course he set took them surprisingly close to…

“The mainland?” Cal said, a hand cupped over his brow. “We’ve been gone four months and we haven’t gone anywhere!”

“Remember what I told you about circular travel,” said Manny. “It’s not about the destination, it’s about—

But Cal didn’t want to hear it.

And Viona didn’t want to hear it either, although for a different reason entirely:

She just wanted Manny to—

“Shut up and drive.”

“What did you say?” replied Manny, taking his pinky off the wheel.

“Sorry,” said Viona. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Ah,” said Manny. “That.”

“What do you mean, that?” asked Viona.

“You mean her seasickness?” Cal interjected. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, sis.”

Anticipating a head shake, the green crab burrowed deeper into Manny’s beard.

“You know, they say even St. Brendan got seasick,” Cal continued. 

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Manny. “And no he didn’t. But he did have a terrible ulcer.”

“I’m so confused,” said Viona.

“Do your thumb thing and check it out,” said Manny. “Brendan the Navigator, terrible ulcer. True story. Guy drank a lot of goat’s milk. Now, if you want to talk seasickness, Máel Dúin is the—”

“Oh my god,” said Viona. 

“Which one?” asked Manny.

“No,” said Viona. “Look.”

The Island of Joy certainly gave off “island” vibes, albeit in the most stereotypical and superficial of ways. Its shores were lined with white sandy beaches, punctuated by the occasional cove, perfect for snorkeling.

But no one was snorkeling.

The longest beach, the one that bore the fullest brunt of the ocean’s strength, boasted waves some one hundred feet high, perfect for big wave surfing.

But no one was surfing. 

And don’t get me started on the tidepools no one was wading in, and the chaises longues no one was lounging on, and the blue sea glass no one was scooping up. Blue! That might have been the worst atrocity of all, if not for the music.

The bass thumped so deeply, it rattled the ship’s bones, adding several more cracks to the already cracked willow rods.

The melody stung like a wasp, each harsh note pricking the ship’s weathered hide.

And there, on the lawn of an obscene palace engorged with columns and other architectural flourishes, was an orgy of half-naked dancers, their faces fixed in one of two expressions: jester smile or ecstatic scream.

Manny’s ship limped into port.

“Hallo,” Manny called, hands cupped to his mouth.

The half-naked dancers gave no indication of having heard him.

“Hallo,” he called again, louder this time. “It’s your old pal Manny, requesting permission to come ashore.”

Not a single head turned.

Or rather, not a single head turned in response to Manny’s call; plenty of heads were turning, and bobbing, and gyrating, in rhythm with the beat, the beat, the beat.

“I repeat,” called Manny. “It’s your old pal Manny MacLir, requesting permission to come ashore.”

“Really?” said Viona.

“What?” said Manny. “It’s my name.”

And while that name certainly carried a lot of weight (re: the weight of the oceans) in certain spheres (re: planet Earth), the dancers did not seem the least bit intimidated by it—assuming they’d even heard it.

Because once again, they responded to Manny’s attempted hails with silence.

Or rather, none of the primal screams or manic cackles or other vocalizations the half-naked dancers produced seemed to be directed at Manny.

“This might sound strange,” said Cal, observing a particularly curvaceous dancer, “but I get the distinct sense that they want us to come ashore.”

“Oh, they most certainly do, my lad,” said Manny, “they most certainly do. But it’s always a good idea to make yourself known and to take it slow. You don’t want to risk—Hey!”

Cal was out of the ship and running down the dock.

“Stop!” Manny called. “This is important.”

“What?” Cal yelled back, slowing to a jog, arms still pumping.

“Don’t drink the punch,” said Manny. 

“The punch?”

“Right, the punch. Stay away from it.” 

“Okay,” said Cal, and then he was off.

Manny chuckled. 

The sea lice chittered.

“I remember my first time here. I was just as excited as your big litter brother.”

“Is that why you brought us here?” Viona said. “Nostalgia?”

“Partially, yes,” Manny confessed. “But I also thought we could all use a little fun.” He turned to the regulars. “Would the three of you like to take some shore leave?”

The regulars looked to the writhing mass of moist humanity on the palace lawn, then they looked to their shiny pint glasses and the cauldron beyond, a cauldron that was once again filled to the brim with stout.

“They’re going to stay with the ship,” said Viona. 

“I figured that,” said Manny.

So Viona and Manny walked together to the orgy. No one seemed to notice the water pouring from the latter’s pockets as they did. They arrived just in time to see the aforementioned particularly curvaceous dancer pouring a carafe of punch into Cal’s mouth, inadvertently (or perhaps advertently) splashing large quantities of the red liquid onto his bare chest in the process. It’s unclear what had happened to his shirt.

“There you are,” said Cal, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He threw one arm around Viona’s neck and the other around Manny’s. “I love you both so, so much. I just wanted to say that.”

“For Dagda’s sake,” said Manny. “I told you not to drink the—”

“What was that?” 

In the intervening seconds, Cal had taken a swig of punch.

“Give me that,” said Manny. And he yanked the carafe from Cal’s hands.

“Whoa, man,” said the particularly curvaceous dancer. “Don’t go harshing our buzz.”

“Yeah, man,” said Cal. “Don’t do that…to our buzz. That’s…not nice.”

Cal’s pupils were dilating in real-time, from pinpricks to the backs of thumbtacks to buttons, big, black buttons.

“We need to get him out of here,” said Manny. “Fast.”

“Is it really that bad?” asked Viona, who was sniffing at the contents of the carafe in Manny’s hand.

It smelled sweet. And fruity. And delicious. And forbidden.

Manny pulled it away. 

“If he has too much of this stuff, he’ll never go back to normal. Ever. He’ll be like them.”

Manny pointed to the half-naked dancers.

“And like them, he’ll never want to leave. And he never will leave. He will dance until he drops, until his death.”

“And this was your idea of fun?” said Viona.

“It’s fun if you don’t drink the punch,” said Manny. “Have you seen how empty the beaches are? Ditto the casino, which is brand new, by the way. And there’s an Olympic—”

“I was being rhetorical,” said Viona. “This place is a nightmare.”

“Oh.”

“So what do we do about my idiot brother?”

“That’s easy,” said Manny.

“As easy as chucking spears at fire-breathing bird-monsters?”

“Easier,” said Manny. “We leave him behind.”

“Out of the question,” said Viona.

“As it is, with what he’s already consumed, it’ll take him at least two weeks before—Cal!”

Cal had procured and was drinking from another carafe of punch.

Manny yanked this carafe out of his hand too.

“As I was saying, it’ll be at least a month before your brother goes back to normal. So I vote we leave him here and you can swing by to get him after you’ve finished your training.”

“But he’ll just drink more punch.”

“I thought of that,” said Manny. “We’ll chain him up in one of the empty cabanas.”

“Tempting,” said Viona. “But I vote we just drag him kicking and screaming back to the boat.”

“Ship,” said Manny. “And good luck with that.”

“You think this is my first time corralling Cal when he’s high?”

“Rolling,” said Manny. “And no, but this will definitely be your first time trying to pull him away from them.”

A new song had come on, and the dancers had synchronized their movements, like the three inebriated gentlemen in macrocosm. Hundreds of feet stomped together. Hundreds of arms waved together. Hundreds of heads turned, bobbed, and gyrated together.

“Let’s go,” said Viona, taking her brother by the crook of the elbow.

“No!” cried Cal. “Get off me!”

“Hey, stop harshing his buzz, man,” said the particularly curvaceous dancer.

“Hey, man,” added another dancer, “you best not be harshing my man’s buzz over there.”

“Come on, Cal,” Viona scream-whispered, “we really gotta go.”

“But I want to stay,” said Cal. “I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life.”

“Let him stay, man,” a dancer shouted.

“Yeah, man, let him stay,” shouted another. “Quit harshing his buzz.”

“Are they still harshing his buzz over there, man?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Not cool, man.”

Viona gripped his brother’s arm more tightly.

“Come on, seriously, we don’t have time for this.”

“There’s always time for this,” said the particularly curvaceous dancer, before sticking her tongue in Cal’s ear.

“Okay, now we really have to go.”

Viona pulled her brother toward the edge of the crowd.

The crowd pulled back.

It was a game of tug-of-war that would last all of five seconds.

But even as Cal was pulled into the throng, Viona kept her arm linked around his, and Manny kept his arm linked around hers. The chain held fast as the three of them were lifted into the air and carried, crowd-surfing style, to the palace, where they were all promptly arrested for harshing the buzz.

“You’ve got the wrong man, man,” pleaded Cal. “I’m innocent.”

“Save it for the judge, man,” said the arresting dancer.

So the three of them sat in the spotless palace jail and waited for the judge. 

It took him a month to get there.

Much to Cal’s dismay, their only source of entertainment during this time, apart from themselves, was a single porthole window, which, adding dismay to dismay, faced away from the orgy.

The view was unchanging, at least for the first few days: an empty beach, an empty ocean, a dark band on the horizon—the mainland.

Then, one morning, something changed:

A chunk of the mainland went missing.

And the next morning, another 

And the next morning, another.

A new island arose from the sea—or at least that’s how it appeared to the prisoners. An island that, with each passing day, kept getting closer and closer and closer until, one morning, the builder of this massive earthwork came into focus.

It was a giant stag.

No, not a giant stag.

A giant human with the head of a stag.

It was scooping up chunks of the mainland with its tree-sized antlers and carrying them out to sea, adding them to its…

“Landbridge,” said Viona. “It’s not an island; it’s a bridge that will stretch from the mainland to this island.”

“Causeway sounds more poetic,” said Manny.

“Duly noted,” said Viona. “Now, do we think that monster out there building the causeway is the judge?”

“That’s not a monster,” said Manny. “That’s Kern.”

“You know him?”

Manny ignored the question.

“It doesn’t make sense though. He shouldn’t have any jurisdiction out here.”

Viona looked into it.

“So, Kern doesn’t have any jurisdiction out here…yet,” she said. “But he will, once he—”

“Once he finishes the landbridge,” Manny said. “I actually think I like ‘landbridge’ better now.”

“Wonderful,” said Viona.

“Learn anything else useful?”

“No,” said Viona, which wasn’t entirely true. But she also knew the nugget of information she was holding back would come out soon enough anyway, so why get Manny all riled up now?

The prisoners watched, day after day, helpless in the face of progress, as Kern the horned god completed his causeway/landbridge. 

And when, all those weeks later, the thirty-foot-tall god with the head of a stag lumbered up to the palace and placed its rectangularly pupilled eye against the porthole window, Cal was finally sober enough to be scared shitless. And rightfully so. 

“I’ll make this quick,” boomed Kern. “Give me the cauldron, and I’ll let you go.”

“What are you doing here, Kern?” asked Manny.

“Little Manny MacLir, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, you big bastard. Now let us out of here. We all know you’re out of your jurisdiction.”

“Was out of my jurisdiction,” Kern corrected. “The Island of Joy is an island no longer.”

The god looked upon his handiwork. And was pleased.

“Don’t make me bring Dad into this,” said Manny. 

“Ah, so he didn’t tell you then.”

“Didn’t tell me what?”

Kern laughed.

The palace shook. 

“This was your father’s idea,” he said. “The god’s a genius, I swear it. He knew my mainland forests were no longer the hotbeds of carnal energy that they once were, or as he put it: ‘Nobody’s fucking in the bushes anymore.’ So he suggested a trade: I take over the Island of Joy—islands, naturally, being the new go-to destinations for giving into our wildest urges—and, in exchange, he’s free to flood some of my least productive domains. It was a no-brainer.”

“Is it true?” Manny asked Viona. 

Vionna bit her lip and nodded.

“He’s such an asshole,” said Manny.

“I’m not here to judge,” said Kern. “Wait, actually, I am here to judge. My people tell me you stand accused of harshing the buzz.”

“I’m innocent, your honor,” said Cal.

“Zip it,” said Viona. 

“Just go ahead and let us all out of here,” Manny said to the god, with an air of authority that didn’t quite square with the amount of authority he actually possessed.

“With pleasure, little Manny MacLir, with pleasure,” said Kern. “And in exchange for the freedom of you and your friends, I request but a small token.”

“Name it,” said Manny, “and it’s yours.”

“The cauldron,” said Kern.

“Name something else,” said Manny. “That’s mine.”

“The cauldron,” said Kern. “Or you’re stuck here forever.”

“Fine with me,” said Manny. “I don’t have any plans.”

“Yes you do,” Viona reminded him.

“I don’t understand,” said Cal, speaking to the eye in the window. “You’re a giant deer-person and you have an army of drugged-up dancers at your disposal. Why don’t you just take the cauldron by force?”

“Really?” said Viona, staring daggers at her brother.

“We tried that already,” said Kern. “It seems the cauldron is being guarded, and guarded quite fiercely, by three inebriated gentlemen in wool suits. I’d loathe to lose the lives of any more of my pleasure-seekers to the effort, so I’m asking you to call them off. And in exchange…”

Freedom.

Viona, Cal, and Manny accepted the deal with no small amount of reluctance. The three regulars, for their part, opted to stay with the cauldron, and it was worked out with Kern that when his staff wasn’t using the cauldron to replicate punch, the three of them could use it to replicate stout, ensuring their pint glasses would remain forever full. Kern also agreed to turn down music by two whole decibels.

Meanwhile, a dance squad repaired Manny’s ship—with great gusto, I might add—and the ship’s hold was furnished with stores that could (in theory) nourish the remaining crew until the voyage’s end, assuming no unplanned stops were made.

Thus, the parting of ways with the three inebriated gentlemen had some sweetness to balance out the bitter.

---

The sixth month was spent orchestrating a plan to retake the cauldron.

They schemed on the back of the blue whale they’d met a few months before—you could only imagine the creature’s surprise when, upon coming up for air, a ship deliberately beached itself on its back.

And while happy to see them, the whale was decidedly not happy to hear them: Cal pushing for a full-scale invasion of the Island of Joy, Manny pushing for a tidal wave, and Viona pushing for something much more targeted and subtle. (I’d tell you more about it, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy.)

As each plan was unveiled, the whale wailed its disappointment. There was simply too much violence. Too much death. Even Viona’s plan wasn’t bloodless—it ended in deicide for Dagda’s sake, as all the plans inevitably did, and as all sagas inevitably will.

The final tally was two-to-one in favor of calling off the cauldron recovery mission entirely (three-to-one if you count the whale), with Cal being the lone holdout. 

 Viona suspected her big little brother had ulterior motives for wanting to storm the orgy beach. Curvaceous motives. So she was happy they were heading off in the opposite direction. The last thing she wanted was to be put in a position where she’d have to do something drastic, like tie Cal to the mast.

---

The seventh month was spent coming up with new and improved methods for tying Cal to the mast.

It all started the night after they alighted from the whale (for the second time) when Cal jumped overboard and swam vigorously for the Island of Joy.

Apparently, the effects of the punch had not entirely worn off.

“They’ve been working on this stuff,” Manny said. “It wasn’t this strong when I was young.”

“He just needs more time,” said Viona. 

“Or,” said Manny, stretching the two-letter word into a three-syllable whale call (ooouuuaaarrr), “we could always—”

“If you say ‘leave Cal behind’ again, I swear I’ll run you through with this oar-spear.”

Manny put his hands up.

“Careful with that thing,” he said.

“Don’t be funny,” said Viona. “Now let’s see what you can do with that rope.”

Manny snapped his fingers, and the docklines lying on the deck began a snake-like dance, coiling themselves around Cal, lashing him to the mast. Around and around and around they went, pinning his arms to his sides.

               Around                

     and around     and around

and around              and around

and around              and around

and around              and around

     and around     and around

             they went…

“Let’s hope that’s strong enough to hold him,” said Viona. “He’s gonna be pissed when he wakes up.”

“It’ll hold,” said Manny. 

It didn’t hold.

When they fished a frigid and exhausted Cal out of the sea for the second time, Viona was prepared.

With seaweed. Lots of seaweed.

She had learned that ropes braided from seaweed could restrain even the most feral of monsters. There could be no escape—barring one highly unlikely scenario, in which the tied-up party is freed by a…

“Selkie!” yelled Manny. 

It was on the ship, nibbling through Viona’s seaweed ropes.

Manny chucked his anchor at it.

A miss.

Still, the crash was enough to scare the critter away. 

The kelpie that showed up the next night presented a bigger target, and Manny succeeded in “dinging that thing right in its noggin,” as he would phrase it when telling the tale.

After weeks of near-escapes and tinkering and near-escapes and tinkering, Viona and Manny hit upon a strategy wherein they first tied Cal up with the seaweed rope then tied him up with a conventional rope then covered him in chum to mask his scent.

This approach worked so well, they nearly finished out the month without another incident.

Nearly.

While passing (at what Manny thought was a safe distance) the Island on a Pedestal, a strand of silver yarn floated down, seemingly from the sky, and attached itself to Cal’s forehead.

“Um, can somebody help me out here?” said Cal.

“Don’t move,” said Manny.

“Great, thanks for the tip,” said Cal. “I was just about to do some jumping jacks.”

Viona’s instinct was to swipe the strand away. It reminded her of spider silk. Or one of those thread-like tentacles on a lion’s mane jellyfish.

“Don’t,” said Manny.

“Why not?”

“You tell me why not.”

Viona did her thumb thing.

“Right,” she said. “This one’s gonna be tricky.”

The thread went taut.

Cal screamed.

And, ever so slowly, the ship began moving toward the Island on a Pedestal.

“Will someone please just cut the damn thing?” Cal pleaded.

“Afraid not,” said Viona. “If we do that, your head could explode.”

“If you don’t do it, my head is gonna get ripped off anyway.”

“That’s a risk we’re willing to take,” said Manny.

A flock of seagulls flew by—normal, non-fire-breathing seagulls, to be clear. But one had the misfortune of catching its wing on the thread…

The entire gull disappeared in a puff of silver smoke.

“Still want us to cut the thread?” Manny asked.

“Seems like it would be a bigger problem for you than for me.”

“It’d be a problem for everyone,” said Viona. “That’s why we’re waiting.”

“Waiting for my head to get ripped off?”

“Waiting to talk,” Viona said, “to her.”

She sat on the edge of the Island on a Pedestal, her feet dangling a hundred feet above the water below. Eight spokes sprang from her silver crown, and from the end of each spoke hung a strand of silver yarn. Seven of those strands hung loose, floating gossamer-like in the wind. The eighth strand she was feeding through her hands, gently, gingerly pulling Cal—and the ship along with him—to their fate.

When they were within shouting distance, the Queen on a Pedestal shouted.

“I’ve claimed this man for my breeding stock,” she said. “Untie him at once or suffer my wrath.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” replied Viona. “This is my little brother. I can assure you you don’t want him as part of your breeding program. We have terrible genes.”

“Humor won’t save your kin,” said the queen.

“I don’t expect it to,” said Viona. “But common sense? I mean, I look at someone like you, with the power you wield, the power to pluck any sailor from any ship on the high seas? Honey, don’t waste your time on him.”

“Flattery won’t save you either,” said the queen. 

She kept pulling on the silver strand.

And now Cal let out a new kind of scream.

The ship had stopped going forward and was going up. Up to the pedestal island’s “cake,” as Viona thought of it.

“I’m not trying to flatter you,” said Viona. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“You think I need protecting?” said the queen.

“From my brother?” said Viona. “Yes, everyone does. He’s a monster.”

“Then why did you allow him on this journey with you?”

“Because he’s the only family I’ve got left,” said Viona. Then she pointed up at the queen—straight up. “I didn’t get to pick my family; you do. You still have a choice. You don’t have to choose a chauvinist with a drug problem.”

“A what problem?” 

“We just got back from the Island of Joy, you know,” Viona continued. “Your boy here drank enough punch to drown a kelpie.”

“He drank the punch?” said the queen, not even attempting to temper the disgust in her voice. “One should never drink the punch. Everyone knows this.”

“I’ve never seen anyone drink so much of it and leave the island alive,” said Manny.

“Is that you, young Manny MacLir?”

“It is indeed, my queen,” said Manny.

“And yet this man tied to your mast…you tell me, Son of Lir, that he was able to leave the island after drinking the punch? Because that itself is a feat worthy of—”

“Only because we saved him,” said Viona, cutting off the queen, and giving Manny a look that said, quite distinctly, Butt out.

“The whole reason we tied him to the mast in the first place is because he’s a liability. He’s not our prisoner, he’s our dependent.”

The queen laughed. “Ah,” she said, “I’ve known men like this, which leads me to believe you may have been correct in your initial assessment. And yet, I must let my prey have a say in the matter. So speak, man, in your defense: Are you a self-sufficient adult, or are you a man-child?”

“I’m a self-sufficient adult,” lied Cal, between screams.

“Then it’s just as I feared,” said the queen. “He won’t even admit to his weakness.”

A pair of diamond-edged shears was produced. 

And the strand was cut. 

The ship landed with a thud after the near-hundred-foot drop, and its hull exploded into a thousand pieces.

---

The eighth month was spent putting the ship back together.

They first had to collect the thousand pieces, which proved troublesome amongst the waves.

“I wish we had a giant sea-broom,” said Cal, “so we could sweep all of this stuff up.”

“Dad has one of those,” said Manny. “Calls it his Wave-Sweeper.”

“Can we borrow it?” asked Cal. 

The green crab held fast; Manny shook his head. 

It was out of the question.

“I’m sorry about your ship,” said Viona. “And the cauldron. I should have said that before.”

“Comes with the uncharted territory,” said Manny. “And I doubt I would’ve held onto that cauldron for much longer anyhow—its owner is gonna come looking for it soon. Kern is taking a big risk.”

“Kern was the deer-person?” asked Cal.

“Kern is the god of nature and fertility,” said Manny. 

“And what are you again?” asked Cal.

“None of your business,” said Manny.

“He’s a demi-god,” said Viona. 

“I don’t love that term,” said Manny. 

“And I don’t understand,” said Cal. “Can’t you just use your demi-god or quasi-divine or half-holy powers or whatever to put the boat back together?”

“Ship,” said Manny. “And no, I’m afraid in this case that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?” Cal pressed.

Viona spoke up: “You don’t have to an—”

“Because Dad won’t let me,” said Manny.

And with that, he raised his arms to the heavens, and, for a fleeting second, all of the flotsam surrounding Viona, Cal, and Manny hovered in the air, several inches above the water’s surface. 

A rogue wave knocked it back into the sea.

Manny tried again.

The debris hovered.

Lightning crashed. 

A squall spread everything, and everyone, farther apart.

“Alright, I get it,” Cal shouted over the din.

“Good,” Manny replied. “Now let’s get to work.”

---

The ninth month was spent in line, waiting to cross the Ninth Wave.

Uniformed guards on stand-up paddleboards patrolled the storied border crossing, which was delineated not by a wall or fence, but by a standing wave several leagues wide.

It wasn’t a particularly tall wave, nor did it curl in a noteworthy fashion. No, the impressive thing about the Ninth Wave, apart from its width, was that it never broke. The wave existed in a state of perpetual liminality, between formation and destruction, growth and death. Which was fitting, given that it separated the Land of the Living from the Land of Shadows.

“Do we need to show our passports?” Cal asked Manny. “Because I didn’t bring mine.”

“Do you even have a passport?” asked Viona. 

“No,” said Cal. “But I don’t see how that’s rel—

“You don’t need to show anything,” interrupted Manny, “except your soul.”

“Sounds painful,” said Cal. 

“It’s not a joke,” said Viona.

“Of course it’s a joke,” said Cal. “This isn’t mythology; there isn’t gonna be some cosmic weigh station where they balance our souls on golden scales before allowing us to cross over.”

“Well, yes and no,” said Viona.

“What?”

“The scales are silver,” said Manny.

“Exactly,” said Viona.

“Are you messing with me?” asked Cal.

“We would never,” said Manny.

“Why?” asked Viona. “Are you worried?”

“No,” said Cal, unconvincingly. “What would I have to be worried about?”

“The state of your soul,” said Manny.

“Look,” said Cal, “I know I haven’t always made the best choices on this trip, or in life, but if I’m being honest, I don’t actually believe that people have—”

Honk!

“What the—”

Honk!

Honk!

An air horn was sounding behind them.

“Who is that?” asked Cal.

“Just ignore it,” said Manny.

The air horn honked again. And again.

            And again

     and again        and again

and again                  and again

and again                  and again

and again                  and again

    and again         and again

            and again…

“I think they want us to move up,” said Cal.

“Thanks for the translation,” Manny replied. “But what good could they possibly think that’s gonna do?”

He gestured to the vessels queued up in front of them—there were at least a hundred. Currachs and coracles, dinghies and dories, skiffs and longships, sloops and schooners, even the odd galleon. They were all stuck, bumper-to-bumper (or bow-to-stern, as it were) in the same single-file line. 

There was—

Honk!

nowhere—

Honk!

to go.

Honk!

“Just pull up a few inches, you have the space,” said Cal.

“Again, what would be the point? Why should those few inches matter to whoever’s behind us?”

“Maybe,” said Viona, “if either of you bothered to turn around and look, it would all make sense.”

Cal and Manny turned around to look. 

“Just as I suspected,” said Manny. “A bunch of drunken morons on a party boat. Friends of yours, Cal?”

“Very funny,” said Cal.

“That’s not the boat,” said Viona. 

“Huh?”

“Look down.”

They looked down.

In front of the party boat was a shoebox. Or what had once been a shoebox, anyhow. Now it was an ocean-going vessel, crewed by a crew of diminutive sailors, each standing only a few inches tall.

It took three of them to work the air horn’s trigger. 

But what they lacked in height—

Honk!

they made up for—

Honk!

in vigor. 

Honk!

“The gap you’re leaving makes a difference to them,” explained Viona. “To them, it’s like you’re leaving a dozen boat-lengths.”

“Sure, I get it,” said Manny. “But they don’t have to be so rude about it. Why don’t they just ask me to move up?”

“They have been asking,” said Viona. “We can’t hear them.”

“Well whose fault is that?” asked Manny. 

“Nobody’s,” said Viona. “But the polite thing to do in this situation would be to move up.”

“The polite thing to do would be for them to stop honking that stupid air horn and leave me to navigate my ship as I see fit.”

“I don’t disagree with that assessment,” said Viona. “But given the—”

“So why don’t they just mind their own business?”

“Look, Manny, I don’t see why—”

“Um, guys…” Cal chimed in.

“Quiet, the grownups are talking,” Manny responded automatically. 

“No, seriously, you’re going to want to see this.”

And they did want to see it:

The shoebox ship was attempting to pass them on the port side.

Manny smiled; the sea lice chittered.

“Oh, those little fu—”

“Stop it,” said Viona.

Cal gripped the ship’s wheel.

“Permission to ram them?”

“Hand off my wheel, now,” replied Manny.

Cal let go.

“But generally speaking,” said Manny, raising a pinky finger. “I like the plan.”

“No,” said Viona. “Let them pass.”

“Let them pass?” repeated Manny. “Viona, we can’t give up our place in line. You must know that.”

“I do know that,” replied Viona. “And we won’t.”

And they didn’t. 

It took the better part of three hours, but the shoebox ship did eventually overtake them…

…Only to be immediately flagged down—and unceremoniously flicked to the back of the line—by a border patrol agent on a standup paddleboard.

“You knew that would happen?” Manny asked.

“I knew something would happen,” said Viona. “I could see that those agents take their jobs seriously.”

“That’s good for you then,” said Manny. “I couldn’t see past their short shorts.”

Inch by inch, foot by foot, Viona and company crept forward. Days passed, then weeks. Rations were stretched. Meals were skipped. And by the time their ship reached the front of the line, all on board were ready for the voyage to be over. Even Manny had taken to speaking wistfully of setting foot on land and perhaps allowing himself an extended stay there.

The woman in the booth had other ideas.

“Reason for visit,” she said in a perfect monotone. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Manny answered for all of them.

“Do you have any hazardous or enchanted materials or devices on board, such as, but not limited to, swords of light, stones of destiny, necromancy sand, druid powder, tathlums, lightning spears, or hazelnuts?”

“No,” said Manny. “Not anymore.”

The woman in the booth cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t actually look up—she was too busy scribbling on the official-looking piece of vellum in front of her. 

“And how long will you be staying in the Land of Shadows?”

Manny pointed to Viona.

“Until her training is complete.”

“Mmhmm,” the woman in the booth said absently, still scribbling. “Golf?”

“Something like that,” said Manny.

“And where will you be staying?”

“Um…the fortress.”

“The fortress?”

Now she looked up. 

“No one stays at the fortress,” said the woman in the booth. “It’s not a hotel.”

“We’re invited,” said Manny.

“Really?”

“Yes.”’

“Now I know you’re lying,” said the woman in the booth. “No one ever gets invited to the fortress. It’s been thousands of years since the last—”

“Now, now,” said Manny. “Let’s not fall victim to inductive reasoning.”

The woman wrinkled her nose.

“I’m going to have to call my supervisor.”

“Please,” said Manny, “I don’t think you need to do that.”

“And I don’t think you’re in any position to say what I need or needn’t do,” said the woman.

“Fair enough,” said Manny. “It’s just…we’re in a bit of a rush.”

“Everyone here is in a rush,” replied the woman, gesturing to the line of vessels behind them. “Golf can wait.”

“Please,” said Manny. “We’re already several months behind schedule, and I promised this promising young woman that I would—”

“Look,” said Viona, stepping in front of Manny. “The truth is, we’re making a diplomatic visit to the Fortress of Shadows on behalf of his father. Do you know who his father is?”

“No,” said the woman in the booth. “And frankly, I don’t—”

“This is Manny MacLir you’re talking to,” said Viona.

“MacLir?”

“Yes, MacLir. Can you hear me through the glass?”

“I can hear you just fine.”

“Good. Because I’m only going to say this once: If we don’t get to the Fortress of Shadows within the hour, Lir himself is going to come stomping—”

“Swimming,” corrected Manny.

“Lir himself is going to come swimming through here,” continued Viona, “and we all know he could wipe this place out with a stroke of his trident.”

“He doesn’t have a trident,” said Manny.

“Lame,” whispered Cal.

“Are you threatening a Ninth Wave border agent?” asked the woman in the booth.

“Of course not,” replied Viona. “I would never. I’m on your side. I want to stop this from happening. We want to stop this from happening. And if you ask me—and please take no offense, Manny—that Lir fella is a big jerk, isn’t he? Just a real piece of—”

“He’s my boss,” said the woman in the booth.

“Right,” said Viona.

A few tense seconds of silence passed between them. Then…

“I hate my boss,” said the woman in the booth. “No offense, Mr. MacLir.”

“None taken,” Manny said. 

“He is a big jerk,” the woman continued. “And a real piece of work.”

“Not the word I was going to use,” said Viona. “But agreed.”

“I’ll let you through,” she said. “I just need to collect the fee.”

“What fee?” asked Manny.

“Your father introduced it a few months ago. It’s one per person.”

“One what?” asked Manny.

“One coin,” said the woman in the booth. 

Cal pulled the two coins from his pocket.

“Anyone else got any change?”

But they all already knew the answer to that question.

“Can’t we just give you the two coins and sneak through?” Viona asked in vain. 

“Afraid not,” said the woman. “Lir will know. He monitors everything. And he’s very meticulous.”

“I’ll stay behind,” said Manny. “Take the ship.”

“What?” Viona and Cal said in unison. 

“I’d tell you to just bring it back in one piece when you’ve finished your training,” said Manny. “But given your track record, I won’t hold you to that.”

“Manny,” said Viona, “we can solve this; we can see if anyone in line has—”

“No,” said Manny. “You’ve wasted enough time already.”

And before anyone could protest further, he swiped the coins from Cal’s hand, dropped them into the basket outside the booth, then dove beneath waves, never to be seen again—in this story.

The boom gate rose.

Manny’s ship surged forward under its own power. 

Only, it was Manny’s ship no longer.

---

Per tradition, Cal kept his pinky finger on the ship’s wheel as they pulled up to the dock. Above them, the sun was shining surprisingly bright for a place called the Land of Shadows. Ahead of them, somewhere beyond the primeval forest that covered this foreign shore, was a fortress. And all around them…

 …were people dressed in black cloaks.

“Welcome,” one of the cloaked figures said to Viona, extending a cold, bony-fingered hand. “Your weapon awaits you. Tell your ferryman he may depart.”

“That’s not a ferryman,” said Viona. “That’s my little brother.”

“More like a big little brother,” said the cloaked figure, eyeing Cal’s biceps.

“Exactly,” said Viona. “I’ve brought him here to train with me.”

“Very well,” said the cloaked figure, “if this is what the one who ate the fish of Finegas wishes.”

“It is,” said Viona. 

“Then let it be so. But,” said the cloaked figure, “the lad will need a spear.”

“Right,” said Viona. “Hadn’t thought of that. Can’t he just borrow one of yours?”

“We only have the one,” said the cloaked figure. “The Lightning Spear. The spear that—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Viona, “I know all about it.”

“Wait,” said Cal. “I have a spear.”

And from the bottom of the ship, he pulled the crude weapon he’d carved from one of Manny’s oars. He held it aloft.

“Will this work?

“An Oar-Spear,” said the cloaked figure.

The other cloaked figures gathered ’round to inspect it. 

 “I haven’t seen such a weapon in some time,” the original cloaked figure continued. “Not since the coming of the last—”

He stopped talking.

Because Viona was retching. 

She retched and retched and retched, and liquid splashed on the dockwood. And then…

Something was sliding its way up her throat. 

She gagged.

The something rose further and faster, further and faster, until it popped out of Viona’s mouth and landed in her cupped hands:

A bird’s egg.

---

Thanks for reading

Fan of Celtic and Irish mythology-inspired fiction? Check out this short story collection I put together:

Neon Druid: An Anthology of Urban Celtic Fantasy

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You can find more book recommendations here: