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Sixth Chapter

Lake Orlangen

*

*

It was around Eight PM when the ferry creaked past Valenhém's harbour, a wall of soldiers keeping away crowds that tried to jump into the water to swim towards them. The sky was still blue, though the area in the west was shining red and golden above the distant tree-tops. Cinnabar re-called how Mathyn Rusk, his distant ancestor, had stated that this land was truly blessed because during the summer's solstice, the Sun was never setting.

He stood at the fore of the large wooden, ship, looking out at the giant mass of water approaching before him, still and clear and shimmering in gold and red. The ship he stood on - The Grand Old Pike- was massive, over thirty feet long and eight feet wide, and triple-decked. Yet, it was dwarfed by the width and length of rlangen, which had been called 'the Blue Body Vein of Floorenwahlen'.

Resting his arms over the rails of the top-most deck, he knew that he really should go to sleep soon. His body was aching, it craved for rest. Yet, he wanted to suck in the vastness of the scene opening for him, the greatness of the lake with its remote shores. Cinnabar reminisced how he had envied the inhabitants of towns like Valenhém, Hasselbó and Sommerkrone, which were built literally at the shores of rlangen. That they would wake up, and see this great blue wonder open up and embrace them with every new dawn was unfathomable for him.

"Making plans to fight off the invaders?" an all-too-familiar voice cracked up behind him.

Lyra.

Cinnabar turned around, sighing. "Just admiring the view."

Lyra wrinkled her nose. She was carrying on a round canister of cellulose fibres, stretched diagonally over her shoulder. The lid was on. She moved next to him, leaning over the rail too.

"These waters are very deep, they say. Deep and dark."

"You're afraid of them?"

She turned towards him, her blue eyes tired. "Not really," she said. "I like the depths. Have heard that rlangen... that no rope is long enough to measure the depth at its centre... Some days, I've dreamt of becoming a captain of a ferry, or a freight, and travel every day between the towns... but I've dreamt so much."

She choked a sob and looked down into the waters, tears appearing in her blue eyes, her long eyelashes lowering down over her eyes. Cinnabar came to think of a thing, and changed subject.

"Is everyone safe?"

Lyra inhaled air. "My friend Eswena... I don't know. Glen is safe, sleeping down deck. My cousin Peter... he... he... well, at least he did not suffer for long! Don't think he even knew what happened..."

The strafers. Cinnabar tried to console her, moving forward to embrace her. She turned away from him, blowing on her napkin. "Don't..," she said. "It isn't necessary."

She wept silently, her ears hanging low. Cinnabar stood quiet next to her, looking out over the waters. He felt powerless, and that made him angry.

"You should know," he gritted with determination, "if I could rip loose the wings of these things, I would have! And I would... I would... rip out the eyes of these trolls! No wonder the Elves hate 'em so much!"

Lyra turned her gaze towards him, curious and with a hint of condescension.

"I just want to get away," she said.

"We are. We're going for Glennenmór. We'll arrive there within five hours I've heard."

"Glennenmór sucks," Lyra said. "It's just like Ruskebó, just ten times larger."

"Think you find it's a hundred times larger, Lyra."

"Whatever," she said. "Tell me about... what you called them, 'the trolls'?"

Cinnabar's eyes turned large by surprise. This was the first time a girl - the most popular girl - of his town spontaneously had asked him an issue pertaining ancient lore. He coughed, and leaned out over the wooden gunwale.

"The first race," he began, "was the dragons. They were not originally from Ayrien, but born in Dëore-én-Ilénnethar."

"Deejor-what? And what does this have to do with the trolls?" Lyra snarled.

"I'm coming to that. Dëore-én-Ilénnethar is what the Elves called the star known to us as 'The Winter Rose'. But it isn't a star."

"The big purplish-red one in the north? Got you, Cinnie. It 'looks' like a star for most days. What is it then?"

Cinnabar turned his gaze north, seeing the mountains in the far horizon. No stars were visible - the rosy tint midsummer Sun shielded them away. "Legend tells it used to be a white egg, glowing like a thousand Suns. As it hatched, it released the first dragons over the skies, all remaining was a red cloud, shaped like a rose. Thence the Winter Rose."

Lyra seemed unimpressed.

"Look, Lyra," he said, "I've heard there are devices with which you can gaze at the stars as if they were dangling before your eyes. At Glennenmór... I've heard there's an observatory outside of the University."

She turned her back towards him. "Why is it so important to know the name of every little star?" she complained, crossing her arms.

"The flying tribes use them for navigation. They can also, according to astrology, tell our fates."

Lyra gave out a bitter laughter. "Like _they've_could tell us about what happened this day? Anyway, I'm tired, bored and sad. Entertain me, tell me about the trolls."

Cinnabar thought it through. "The dragons found Ayrien, which at that time was a ring. They forged it into a sphere, and used their breath to ignite the fire of the volcanoes, and rained down hail of ice to fill up all the cavities, creating the lakes and rivers of the world. And the seas!"

"What is a sea?" Lyra wondered.

"Like a lake, but many times larger," Cinnabar responded.

"Like rlangen, but maybe ten times larger?"

"A thousand," Cinnabar replied.

"Liar! Anyway, that's interesting, but tell me of the trolls."

"The Dragon Aëlar was both the first High King and the first High Queen of all Ayrien. It seeded not only all the lesser dragons, but also the world itself, bringing forth the lesser forms of life. Out of its own blood, it created six other dragons, Caëleth, Orthëar and Japharëth were the male ones, Jaëde, Xënephere and Ëssa were the females. And forged three lesser spheres, Naeria, Fayria and Zir."

"Hey!" Lyra exclaimed, raising her ears. "I know, the moons! But there only two! Azure Haze and Heavenspeach!"

That was true. Naeria was visible on the skies in the east, and Fayria stood in the west, an orange halo glowing in a broken semi-circle around a dusky sphere. Naeria was a third larger, and shining blue, standing half-sunken in beyond the Rim Mountains. The Leporians had their own names for them, but Cinnabar preferred the Elvish - scientific - terms. They simple sounded better, partially because he did not understand them.

"You must see," Lyra said, crossed her arms and winked, "that the stories you read are humbug. Everyone knows we only have two moons, or is that third moon by any chance invisible."

Cinnabar placed his hands on Lyra's shoulder, gently turning her around south, towards the point where the ferry was heading. The Arc was more visible against the darker blue of the clear night skies this time of the year. The more they focused on it, finer and finer lines could be discerned between and around the twelve which were visible even during daylight, sometimes white and bright like clouds, other times just like darkish blue shadows over the sky unmarred.

"The Silvery Arc," Lyra said. "You must be kidding! That is not a moon!"

"According to the Elves, it once was. It also had an Elven Kingdom - Esphëaroth it was called - ruled by King Aëgyr Fourteen-Fingers the Wise. It was called Zir, meaning 'purple halo' or something like that."

"And that has to do with the trolls. How you mean?"

"It doesn't. Though the trolls were released by its fall."

"Glad you tell me, so the trolls were already there?"

"Now you're going too fast Lyra..,"

"You_should_ become a private tutor, Cinnie. You really should."

"Should I tell you about the trolls or not?"

A dragonfly - a real one - hovered besides them, before disappearing out over the waters. It was joined by thousands, who danced over the glimmering, still surface of rlangen. It was a spectacle worth beholding.

"Yes," Lyra said, after a moment's break. "You're making me angry. That's good, then I don't have to think about... the things that happened today."

"Well, Aëlar..."

"...the fourteen-fingered dragon?"

"That was Aëgyr. And he was an Elf. Aëlar however was a dragon, the ancestor of all the Ayrienin dragons. It was said he dwelled the waves of the seas of Ayrien. He was weary, having created Ayrien. Caëleth and Jaëde, his son and daughter, who had been granted Naeria as their fief..."

"What is a fief?"

Cinnabar started to feel irritated. "A land given to a lesser ruler by a mightier ruler... delegation if you know what I mean."

"I know what it is," Lyra said. "My father is delegating tasks to his employees. He have agents all over the towns near rlangen."

"Good... well, Jaëde thirsted for power, so she convinced Caëleth, still hesitant, to come to Aëlar with a proposal. The proposal was, that Aëlar would rest and his children would manage Ayrien together, ruling from the three Moons. Jaëde proceeded to sing a song for Aëlar, and he fell into a slumber deeper than death, and sank to the deepest bottom of Ayrien's oceans, his full length stretching three times around the oceans of Ayrien."

"I call bollocks!"

"Anyway, Caëleth was the first one who created an intelligent race. The fairy-folk. Some say he had created them already in Naeria, and then brought them to Ayrien. Thus, they created flowers, legend tells that there were no trees during their era, and that the entire world was filled with flowers, some which were far higher than trees. And Caëleth the Just ruled the Earth as its second High King, but Jaëde plotted, and betrayed her husband, instead entering liaison with their brother Orthëar..."

"Wait, they were all siblings?"

"Yes."

"Gross! Go on."

"Anyway, during the beginning of the third aeon of Caëleth's reign, Jaëde arranged a birthday feast and gave Orthëar an enchanted bed which the latter was going to bring the High King. Orthëar had asked the High Queen why, and she had answered; 'do as thee are told, and thou shalt become High King of all Ayrien and the Jewels three'!"

Lyra laughed. "Why did you talk so funny now?"

"I quoted from the book. And they all talked a little bit funny back then."

"They sure did," Lyra replied, barely able to conceal her sarcasm. "Could you go on, please? Oeffar and Caeejleff and Jaieed and the enchanted bed and everything. Why're all the names so... I don't know?"

"Anyway, the bed that Caëleth received was in the form of a winged chest of gold with wheels. Thus, Orthëar gave his brother the bed, promising that it would become a chariot through which he could oversee his domains. Caëleth was suspicious of the gift, but to not trust his brother would be... sacrilegious... not good. So he moved down into the chest, and Jaëde sealed it with seven chains forged out of the bedrock of the deepest mountain of Ayrien."

"What a skank!" Lyra let out. "And I who thought Mrs Lena Mársk was a deceiver!"

"Lena? Who and what did she do?"

Lyra laughed out. "An ancestor to me. Lived three hundred years ago or so, she used to have relations with several bucks, pretending to them all that her children were theirs. She became wealthy that way, but the truth came out and she was banished from Knappre. So she used her wealth to start the first colony in Mársk, which got her name. Thought you knew."

"I did not."

"Well, but it is you who are telling the story right? About the trolls."

A light fell down in the south, whimpering out into nothingness. Falling stars were usual down there. Cinnabar continued to tell his story while fireflies danced over the waters.

"Orthëar wanted not his brother Caëleth to die, but Jaëde had the chest stuck to three dragons made of gold, and then they flew him off right into the Sun, which ignited and burnt to a crisp most of the flowers on Earth, killing all but one of every hundredth fairy. Thus, Orthëar was made new High King, and he renounced his spouse and married the High Queen Jaëde. But the three remaining great dragons revolted against his tyranny, and thus the Dawn War commenced. Most of Ayrien's lands were scorched and burning, most of the seas dried, the entire world encompassed in clouds."

"And no trolls yet, if I haven't failed to notice anything?" Lyra teased him.

"I'm coming to them! Or rather, they are coming to the story." He cleared his throat. "It was Ëssa, blue-scaled spouse of Japharëth, who went out of the War, calling the five dragons and their children to a council. And she said; 'Look at Ayrien's fair lands, scorched and desolate and charred, the curls of the spine of our great begetter staring up at us from the ocean floor emptied, if we shall continue to fight alike this, there will be no High Kingdom left."

"So they agreed to create toy peoples to fight it out for them?"

Cinnabar was about to correct Lyra, but before the words could leave his tongue, he realised that she essentially was right.

"Ehm... yes, that's true. The first peoples that were forged were the golems, mindless beasts that fought one another. Both sides in the war created beasts, increasingly more brutal, until one - it wasn't sure who - started to create beasts that were sentient, out of the very dunes of the mud deserts.

Thus were the gnomes, the trolls, the ogres and the giants created. They were dull and stupid, but hundreds of times smarter than the golems. And they could procreate, and were built to last the scorching heat of the bright side of Ayrien, and the biting frost of the night side, as well as the constant rain of ash and sulphur."

"What does that even mean?"

"No idea," Cinnabar said, "but anyway, Japharëth won the War and bound Orthëar down below the paws of the sleeping Aëlar. And Jaëde was banished, alongside her sons and daughter, apart from Azaël - known as the Last Dragon."

"The Trolls then? What happened with them?" Lyra wondered.

"Japharëth assembled the eight kings of the giants at a place named Acharoth, telling them that now when the war was won, they would receive their rightful reward. He said to them to travel all the scorchlands of Ayrien, assembling the lesser giants, the ogres, the trolls and the gnomes, and in seven years, seven months and seven days prepare them before the gates of Acharoth. They did as he commanded, and assembled everyone - everyone."

"And?"

"And he sealed the gates of Acharoth, and crushed the mountains above them, burying them all in rubble and then sinking them into the seas. Only a few gnomes were left roaming around in Ayrien, as well as remnants of long-broken races shuddering in caves of ice and rock. Amongst them the ancestors of the Elves."

Lyra was puffing with anger. "If there... if there weren't any trolls left, how come the Elves tell of them? How come they attacked_Ruskebó? Do you know that, bookworm? You know you're _going to wear glasses if you're continuing like this? Then you'll be both spectacled and fat, not very catchy for the Solstice Dance, right?"

"Enough!" Cinnabar let out and stomped on the deck. An angry voice was heard from below; 'Can you please fight it out quieter, some people are actually trying to SLEEP! Thank you!'

"Apologise!" Cinnabar ordered her.

"And if not?" Lyra stretched her neck arrogantly. "Will you hit me? I dare you."

For a moment, he was raising his fist. Then he lowered it. "No," he said. "I'm a tenderbuck. But I refuse to tell you anything more until you apologise."

"Fine!" Lyra let out, stomping her foot on the ground. Are you angry I won't tell you, Cinnabar thought, or because I didn't hit you? Was Lyra that kind of girl?

"Goodbye!" he gritted. "Don't let the beam hit you on the way down, little miss Insult!"

Lyra started to walk away from the gunwale, five steps. Then she stopped, and allowed the leather tube to slide down from her shoulder. "This is for you, Cinnabar Rusk," she said, her voice sunken and revealing no emotions, apart from the deep undercurrents of grief.

Cinnabar waited for her to leave, pretending to ignore her. Then he turned towards the leather canister. His leather canister he realised as his heart-rate increased. Had she destroyed the Chronicle of Master Quothinos? Had she read or stolen his poem?

He opened it. Both items were safely preserved. He smacked himself over the forehead with his palm, coming to a sudden realisation. I'm the greatest moron in all of Floorenwahlen, he thought. She meant no offense by calling me fat!

*

The last few overs had been a vague mist for Arthur, interrupted by bouts of panic and seasickness. It was not that there was any cause for panic, but... he was on a ferry.

He was on a Glennenmór Ferry!

Cynthia had tried to take him to Glennenmór twice before. The first time, he had went on a hunger-strike that he had proceeded with no matter how much Cynthia had slapped him around until he went down with Ileus and was forced to Dr Celeste's clinic. As a punishment, his mother had travelled to the Capitol alone. One of the rare occasions when he had gotten what he wanted, with other words.

The second time, he had handily broken a toe right before the journey. That time, his mother had not struggled to bring him with her, but rather decided to let him spend quality time with Cinnabar and Cornelia. Instead, she and Claudia had travelled away alone.

This time, when he had waked up, he had been _on_the ferry already, already out on the rlangen. He had politely asked his mother if he could depart at the next minor harbour, and she had laughed bitterly, saying that they would do so - but the next harbour would be Glennenmór.

'But t-t-T-then we have t-to... t-to... t-t-to... travel over t-t-the entire lake!' Art had whined, already seasick.

At that point Cynthia had lost it. She had slapped him over the head so he had flown out over the lower deck, into the bed of Harrigan the lettuce salesbuck, receiving an angry push from the big-grown farmer. Cynthia had wrestled him down, pressing her weight against Arthur's belly and proceeded to slap him over the face and chest, staring into him.

'We have lost it all, Arthur Rusk, all!' she had growled. 'And you... you little tart are now complaining about having to travel by water! I should have left you at Ruskebó to become troll food! I swear I should have! No... you follow with me to the Capitol and stay with your mother, or you want to swim? YOU HEAR ME, DO YOU WANT TO SWIM? SWIM WITH THE PIKES YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE WORM!?'

Arthur had crawled away on all fours. The lower deck was filled with makeshift beds consisting of blankets spread around, where people were sleeping. Or had been, until Cynthia had awoken them by her screaming and her violence. Nobody said anything, but the gazes of those who had woke traced Arthur as he moved past the crammed bodies. There was literally no space between the beds, and Arthur could barely keep the balance on this wooden deck, despite that it barely moved. He tumbled into beds, trampled on the legs of sleeping refugees and received kicks, smacks and insults. One of the refugees that his mother had waked up - a builder named Mack Rusk, from the Rusks of Hasselbó - even followed his steps, and then gave him a kick over he flew into the wooden staircase to the upper deck, his chin first. Slowly, he stood up, coughing, dizzy in his head from Celeste's opiates, the seasickness and panic anxiety. He turned around, saw his mother standing there, her arms crossed, her eyes as harsh and sharp as flint.

Mack slunk past Cynthia, excusing himself as he did so. Cynthia turned her face towards the builder, giving him a polite smile and an encouraging nod.

Cynthia turned her face back towards Arthur, as he held on to the rails of the staircase, trying to keep his balance and preventing his bladder from going all over his tunic and the floor. The eyes of his mother glimmered coldly, and a little smile played over her mouth. Her eyes were hollow and dark.

Like... that night. Arthur shuddered, almost falling over and wetting himself. He closed his eyes... remembering their old apartment back at Ruskebó. It had been a summer's night, blowing and cloudy, but no rains. The smell of sulphur had nevertheless lied humid and heavy over the Valley, brought from the north... he had wet his bed again, another nightmare. He had been two years old, had went down with his moistly pillow, trying to hide it...

He had found his mother... found her standing inside the darkened bathroom, immovable, surprised. One of her hands resting on the clay bath-tub, a trail of blood smeared over the smooth surface of the bath. At the floor, next to his mother's feet, was the flint knife she used to peel fruits and vegetables. Dropped, its surface wet and dark...

Arthur had stood there, holding on to his piss-wet pillow like a shield... like a plush animal. His mother was as frozen, her eyes large and glowing in a way he had not liked.

Something had struck Art then. The absence of crying.

"Mom," he had asked, "where... where little Allie?"

No reply. Instead, a fickle nervous smile had played over Cynthia's mouth. She had tapped with her bloody fingers over the edge of the bath-tub. Rhythmically. Tapping.

And now when she stood staring at him, the same glimmer played over her yellow eyes, the same smile. She gently moved her fingers to the wooden wall. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap tap-tap...

Arthur ran past the staircase, crying and shaking, searching for the bathroom desperately as he moved past and over beds. As he finally came there, in the most stinking corner at the sides of the ship, he found that the bathroom door was already closed, filled with mothers and their babies. A line had formed around it, and another line had formed next to another toilet - a bucket. Am ammonia-stinking bucket.

An old hag smiled towards little Arthur, showing a mouth browned with cecotropes. He almost choked and smacked his head into the wall. It was a miracle he did not release his bladder right there and then, in front of the line of needy.

Inside his heart, a fire burnt. Hatred, and not against those who had destroyed Ruskebó, who had murdered innocents.

Mother, he thought. You are an evil... an evil bitch! He gripped his hands into one another, clenching the fingers like talons. He imagined himself taking up the flint knife she once had dropped on the bathroom floor, and then plunging it into her abdomen. Then he would peel off her skin... while the bitch still was alive. And then, he would dig with his fingers in her guts, dragging them out! He would rip off her fingers and smack out her incisor teeth - all the time she had bitten him in the scruff. He would hear her beg for mercy, and then... and then piss her in the face and leave her to die!

He embraced himself as he lowered his body over the bucket, tears flowing out. He hated these fantasies. Every time they flashed before his mind, he felt a rush of power through his veins. When these thoughts had passed, he usually - like now - fell into the emotional equivalent of a cold, dark pit. What for a monster am I, he thought. Would I really... be able... to murder my own mother...

Then his thoughts usually moved towards the idea of murdering another person - a person who's face he used to see reflected on the surface of the Lingenwassern every summer morning.

Nobody would even miss him.

*

He was not unwilling to go back to the bed he shared with his mother.

He was unable. For about an hour, he just walked around the deck, or sat in a corner trying to be invisible. The deck was crammed with refugees and stinking of desperation. One thing struck him, and that was that even both the decks could not contain all the citizens of Ruskebó. There were mostly females and young children on this ship. But... what had happened with those unlucky to _not_get on this ship?

At the end Arthur - sleep-deprived and with a sore back - walked upstairs to see the open sky. He could also have walked downstairs, to the bottom deck. But the smell from there was atrocious, and he had seen one of his tormentors from Ruskebó sneak around up from that deck before quickly disappearing again. Elliot had not seemed to be his usual confident self - he had lost his mother and one sibling after all - but one never knew. Maybe he would take out his despair on Arthur?

So he walked upstairs instead.

And immediately regretted it. The Sun was shining straight in the north right now, half of it suspended behind the mountains, still with the new gap visible. He would never learn to live with that gap. The sky was still blue, though with a slightly darker shade. The moons were visible, as if they were suspended in the air, and the lines of the Silvery Arc glimmered like threads of cobweb placed over the skies.

Then there was rlangen. The lake was so large, so tranquil, so... open that Arthur had to suppress an urge to throw himself on the deck, shivering like an autumn leaf in the wind. He felt as if a giant bird at any point would descend on him and take him away. That fate had befallen a neighbour boy named Oliver Knapp two years before Arthur's own birth. The Rim Guard had found the eagle's nest and killed the predator, but only found the remnants of little Oliver, which they had brought back in a sack. His mother and brother had arranged for a funeral later on and then moved into the town.

People flee the places where hurtful memories are, but memories are like shadows - they'll always haunt you, Arthur thought.

To mind other things, he walked towards the fantail of the ship, looking out over the lake. He saw dragonflies and fireflies playing over the dark waters. And around them, surrounding them like floating boxes, were at least seven other ferries, keeping themselves hundreds of feet away, but within viewing distance.

There were Leporians sleeping under blankets up here too, though it mostly were crew members and a few youths. Most of the Leporians here were awake and alert. Arthur observed a group of jack-tars taking turns throwing dice on a blanket made of a pelt from either a wolf, a Canaean or a Lucaean. They drank from jugs of sap wine and one of them played on a yellow flute made from bone, with burnt-in-inscriptions.

Arthur listened - he loved music and songs. This song was slow and he recognised the tunes, though the lyrics themselves had been changed.

"Thee art the Blue Mistress, thee

Hee-hee, hee-hee

For thee art every river's mother

Yet sweet 'n blooming

Like one maiden, desired by every sailor other

Their hearts for thee they're grooming

For here, on thine great dress, they're free

Hee-hee, hee-hee

And their loved ones cried tears three

Once when they gone

Twice when they home

Thrice when they're sinking

In the great rlangen Sea

Hee-hee!"

Arthur felt a pat on his shoulder. Oh no, not mother, no... He turned around and there was Cinnabar, wearing a patch for his left eye. He had also wrapped a cloth around the top of his head. He held on to a large chewing-stick and waved it around like a sword.

"Eh Cinnie, you've hurt yourself?" Art wondered with his most feeble voice.

Cinnabar walked around Arthur, making a clumsy impression of the bow-legged walk of a sea captain.

"What on all them nine lakes is Mr seabuck Arthur Rusk doodling here around here with his fingers up his own butt!"

"I was j-j-just listening to some music... ehm... c-captain!"

"Not what I want to hear matey, not what I want to hear! Well, follow me on me ship, we're out for an adventure! Tobacco and tightropes! Oars and fores! Come on, come on!"

They went towards the stern, moved up a low staircase. Cinnabar pointed towards a wooden watch-tower which stood placed on the stern, several ropes leading down. "That's," he said, "young lubber, is the captain's cabin. From there she and first mate are running this ship. You see the ropes, they are moving down into the stern, indicating to the treaders how much they're going to tread, so this hey-hoo ship here can manoeuvre through the treacherous waters of rlangen, where pikes - and some say, a wyrm - are luring around everywhere, and sirens are singing their songs misty nights..."

"Cinnie," Arthur pleaded, "can you please stop now. All this talk about... about p-p-pikes is making me nervous!"

Cinnabar let out a jovial laughter and clapped his friend on the shoulder, so hard that Arthur jumped forward one step. "Poor little Art!" he said. "You need some sense of humour!"

Arthur_tried_ to laugh. "W-Well, as long as it d-d-doesn't involve p-p-pikes!"

Cinnabar also laughed out. "Oh Arthur, there isn't anything compared to friendship! Who need girls when you have your mates?"

He pinched Arthur's cheek and giggled. Arthur could not help but see a hint of sadness in his friend's eyes, briefly appearing and disappearing underneath an exterior bursting with joviality.

"You sure t-that everything is alright, Cinnie?" Art changed the subject.

Arthur, he thought, of course things aren't alright. We've been invaded by the trolls... and attacked from above by those strange creatures even Cinnie doesn't know of.

Cinnabar smiled. "Oh yes!"

Arthur raised one of his ears, and one of his eyebrows too. "Oh, so it doesn't have anything to do with Lyra?"

"What? Did I not say that everything is alright! Well!" He placed his hands imposingly on his hips and stomped the deck. "Do you want to see the wheels or not!?"

Arthur shrank. "Ehm... Yes of course!"

He could never fathom what it was with big things that Cinnabar took so much of a liking for. Arthur had for example liked the Moons when he had seen them as small colourful balls in the skies. It was when Cinnabar had told him that the moons were in fact gargantuan, containing lakes and mountains and hills, that he had started to avoid them with his gaze. He had politely asked his friend to not bring up the subject again, and Cinnie had caved in on that. Soon, Arthur had thought, soon he's going to tell me that the Sun is giant too... but he can't say that about the stars, cause they're small like fireflies!

The ferries that travelled the rlangen lanes were driven by two wooden water-wheels, one on either side poking out from the centre of the ship, though they were driven by tackles conjoined to smaller wheels located underneath the stern, where crew members took shifts treading backward, driving the ship forward. They stood at the gunwale of the stern, looking down at one of the wheels as it foamed the lake's water around. The wheel was ten feet in diameter, and five feet wide. They served not only to propel the wooden ship forward, but also to stabilise it.

Art decided to play along.

"T-t-those wheels are... massive, Cinnie! How can the treaders move them with much smaller wheels?"

Cinnabar smiled. "There are more than two treaders. In fact the entire lower deck consists of treadmills and treaders. Six in fact. They drag other wheels. A massive pole moves through the ship - between the first and second decks. It is made from the log of a pine, and on opposite ends, the wheels are forged. There are smaller wheels on the inside, and they are connected by tackles to the treadmills. Whenever the ship needs to turn, the treaders on one side pause and stop the wheels. It used to be quite common for treaders to lose their feet, but a law was made ten years ago that all ferries must have more secure treadmills, so..."

Art had turned his head around, and fixed on something. At the end of the fantail, there was a flagpole which stuck out diagonally under the gunwale. The Republic's flag - or rather the flag of the government-owned rlangen Trade Commission - was curled up. But that was not what Art was looking at.

He saw a female figure balancing at the round spire of the flagpole with her legs stretched up, just touching the yellow surface of the knob with the area behind her toes. The heels were up the air. She was juggling with five small strawberries, using her hands, shoulders, nose and sometimes toes to move them around. Her hair was curly and glowed in the northern sunlight during this day when the Great Radiating Maiden never sat.

Art knew immediately who it was.

He ran towards the end of the stern, followed by Cinnabar who made tapping sounds every-time one of his feet made contact with the floor. Plunk-dunk, plunk-dunk it sounded.

A crowd of sailors and youths of both sexes had assembled themselves there, watching the show unfold. They clapped and cheered her on, whistling and singing amongst themselves. Some were more than a little intoxicated.

"B-B-Becka!" Art let out, placing his fingers on the gunwale and leaning out. He screamed her name again. This time she saw him, her greenish-blue eyes glowing with joy and pride. She smiled, at the same time as the Sun disappeared behind her head, crowning her with a light that turned her into a black silhouette with white teeth for a moment.

"C-C-Come back!" Arthur yelled. "You'll fall! Fall!"

Becka smiled. She moved the strawberries down the pockets of her tunic, and then looked significatively at Art, pointing down on the pole where she was standing. Art shook his head, Becka nodded with hers. She formed her lips. 'Arthur - come!'

Arthur moved up with his hands on the gunwale, placing one of his knees on it while holding his hands at either side. Then he placed one foot on the flagpole. And then Cinnabar grabbed him by the back of his jacket, dragging him back so he fell down.

Becka laughed and made a sanctimonious look, before she elegantly and slowly started to walk down the flagpole, jumped up and grabbed the rope that connected the pole to the captain's tower, moving her knees crossed above the rope and starting to move up backward. She fooled around for a moment, before she jumped, three tumbles around the rope, for a moment balancing on it with her feet before falling down.

Art's heart jumped up to his throat.

He rushed forward underneath her, to catch her. Becka landed on her feet, with her hand on the gunwale, brushing away the curly bangs which had fallen over her forehead. Art sat on the deck, wondering what had happened.

"Ah!" Becka said and stretched her gracile arms and strong legs. "Cinnie! And Artie! Did not know you were on this ship?"

"Neither did we know you were here, Becka," Cinnabar grunted and lowered his head forward disapprovingly. "In fact, I lived under the impression that only families were evacuated on this ferry. How come you..?"

Becka smiled and hopped towards Art, helping him up. Her eyes glittered with happiness and joy.

"Artie-Artie-Artie!" she assaulted him with a sudden bear-hug. Instinctively he shuddered back. She rubbed her snout against his hair and sat him down. She knelt before him, placing one of her hands on his shoulders.

"You're sweet when you try to catch me, little Artie, but we're trusting one another - I won't hurt!"

Cinnabar stood with his arms crossed and tapped his feet. "Becka? Becka? Becka!?"

One of the sailors, a muscular buck who had black hair and kept it in a mane over his back came towards them. He wore an earring made from some kind of bone.

"Eh, mate! What's this about?"

"Oh, Poker," Becka said and ran towards the sailor, leaning over him so she almost fell, "these are my best friends from Ruskebó! Cinnie here, and Artie here!"

Arthur felt a cold shower wash over his chest when he saw Becka touch Poker.

"Friends?" Cinnabar scoffed. "Acquaintances rather. Very brief acquaintances! And you did not answer my question, Becka!"

"What was your question now again?" Becka wondered.

Cinnabar menacingly placed his hands on his hips, lowered his head even more and made his shoulders broader, puffing out his chest. His eyes burnt with anger, and Arthur moved in between him and Becka. Cinnabar grunted and walked forward determiningly, pushing Arthur aside. He stood just one inch away from Poker (who had laid one of his arms around Becka's shoulders) and Becka. Poker too looked upset, while Becka was entirely neutral in her facial expression.

"Becka," Cinnabar began, "this ferry was sent to take the families from Ruskebó to safety. Mothers and small children. It only contains four hundred and twenty four beds, which means that only one tenth of the population of Ruskebó town are on this ship currently as we speak. What more, the entirety of Ruskebó district is containing around thirty or so thousand Leporians - people like you and me - divided up in one hundred and eighty three colonies and around three hundred individual burrow units."

"Ah... aaaaand?" Becka asked, rolling her tongue.

Cinnabar stomped his foot on the deck angrily. Poker stomped quickly as well. He had been joined by three other sailors, one holding on to a hammer. It was then that Arthur moved his ears before his eyes and turned away. Oh how he hated fights! He could hear Cinnabar's voice.

"Don't you get it inside that thick mop of hair, little miss Wheelop! If you're slouching with your fat ass on a bed down there..."

"B-but, I'm not..," Becka interjected.

"Shut up! I am saying that you're taking..."

"But no..," Becka's voice lowered, for the first time in a slightly sad way.

Cinnabar stomped again, followed by three other angry stomps from the crew members. "Look here, girl! Because of you, a mother and her children may be dead right now, because you took their places! Freeloader! If that wouldn't have been waste of a perfectly good bed, I would personally have cast you..."

Art could hear how someone, Poker maybe, took a step forward.

"Look here, chum!" he heard Poker's voice. "I know your type, and it disgusts me! You're going around as if you're the boss or something, judging by your clothes and manners, you're probably from an 'important' family! But let me tell you, Becka here..."

"Is a freeloader!"

"...was invited on order by captain herself, because our crew of a dozen had one down with illness before we sat the wheels towards your sorry town. We needed to recruit someone, and by the Goddess' luck, we found Becka there! You see, sometimes when we're passing low waters, the wheels are being stuck with branches and mud, and if that happens right out on the lake we're in for trouble! Becka Sommer here is one of our mates! A valuable member who has climbed down to check that the wheels are clean three times. She's invaluable for this journey, so now you know that she sleeps at the crew's quarters. You can go down again and sleep Mr Puffy-cheeks, knowing that no mother with children have been deprived of her bed on The Grand Old Pike!"

It was quiet.

"But..," Cinnabar protested, and then went quiet. "Oh darn!" he let out.

Arthur opened his eyes again. The three crew members had surrounded Cinnabar. Becka stood behind them, looking a bit mellow. Then she saw Art, smiled and leant with her head over her shoulder, shaking it humorously. She formed her lips again. 'Oh Cinnie', they said while she made a naughty-sanctimonious look.

The three crew members gave each-others not-so-discreet nods, and the Poker's comrade grabbed hold of Cinnabar's arms right below the armpits and lifted him up. He kicked around and tried to hit them, but only flailing his chubby arms around in the air.

"Set me down, you dreg! It is an order!"

"We only take orders from the captain!" Poker said and laughed as he took up a quarter of an apple and started chew on it.

"Lucky for you I'm suspended! If I wasn't, I would've done... apple purée of all of you three slobs!"

"Oh!" one of the sailors holding on to Cinnabar's arms said. "He said apple 'puréeeee'! A real little gourméeeeet!"

Becka started to look slightly worried. She bounced forward a step and patted Poker on the shoulder. He took her hand and grinned towards her. She cast a brief glance towards Arthur, her mouth slightly open.

"Not so little either," the other sailor holding Cinnabar suspended in the air said. "I'm sure this one's lard ass, heh, would take up two sheets alone!"

"Speaking of which, how can he speak of who isn't a worthy refugee! I did not sign up on this to serve fat besserwissers!"

"Hey! Did you call me 'fat'!? That is slander! What's your names... boys? My dad's a world-famous lawyer! He can put you up for... for calling me... that horrible word!" Cinnabar gritted with anger and struggled so his chest puffed in and out.

"I say we'll throw him aboard!" the second Cinnabar-lifter puffed. Evidently, Arthur noted, his best friend was quite heavy.

"Exc-c-cuse me? C-c-can you p-p-p..," Arthur tried.

They ignored him. Of course. He lowered his ears in despair - everything was so hopeless!

"Why we'll throw him aboard?" the first lifter wondered, his ears sensing around attentively.

"My theory is he'll float. Then we can hire him, as a buoy!"

The first lifter laughed. "I'll say he sink! But won't do anything - then he can be our anchor!" he chattered as the two of them were moving Cinnabar towards the gunwale, chucking him over their shoulders.

"Wait! Wait! WAIT GUYS! What on Earth are you doing! Set me down! I order you! Don't defy my order!"

Poker let out a laugh, tears in his eyes. "This is too good!" he exclaimed. Becka rushed forward.

"P-p-please do as he says!" Arthur mumbled and looked down at Poker's feet.

"10... 9.... 8... 7...," the two sailors counted in unison.

Becka placed her hand on the first sailor's shoulder.

"STOP THIS! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!" she screamed with the most high-pitched voice that Art ever had heard.

"But..," the second sailor protested.

Becka crossed her arms and pouted with her mouth, like an upset little girl. "This type of playing isn't funny anymore! You don't toss my friend overboard!"

They still held Cinnabar suspended between them, but moved him away from the gunwale.

"I'm sorry, Becka," the first sailor said and looked down at his feet.

"Yeah, me too," the second one said and moved his toe over the deck.

Cinnabar hung quiet between them. He had blown his cheeks full with air like he usually did when he was really upset. Arthur was a bit worried for that. Once, he had swallowed the air by mistake, and then he had complained over an aching tummy at dinner-time. One hour after that, Cinnabar had gone down with stasis of the guts, and had banged over his pot-belly like it had been a drum. Celeste had been called over to give him a massage, until he had farted foul air around Claudia's apartment so Cornelia had opened all the shutters.

"Well!" he said, after a long break. "Put me down already!"

"Should we put him down?" the first lifter wondered to the second.

"He is heavy indeed..."

"I am not fat!"

"...but I think that's going to fill him with so much hot air he's starting to float, what you think, eh mate?"

"Poker?" the first one wondered.

Poker took a step forward. Arthur noted that the leader of the trio was walking with the kind of rolling steps he had seen sailors frequenting Ruskebó make before. The young sailor who had put his arm around Becka grinned towards Cinnie.

"Apologise!" he ordered Arthur's friend.

Becka sucked on her lower lip thoughtfully. She looked as surprised as Cinnabar.

"I did not do anything wrong!" Cinnabar grunted.

"You falsely accused my mate!" Poker said, crossing his arms and standing up straight.

"I... I was," Cinnabar closed his eyes so they became like narrow slits, "I was... mistaken. I did not however intend the accusation to be insulting... I..."

"Apologise."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!"

Poker's nostrils widened as he sighed. "How can you assume the worst out of her? Is that what a friend's supposed to be doing?"

Becka moved in next to Poker, and he placed his arm around her shoulders once more. Arthur hugged himself. How can I have any chance to... to be with her? He thought bitterly for himself.

Cinnabar gave out the deepest sigh Arthur had ever heard. "I... I apologise!" he spat out.

"I guess that's good enough," Poker nodded.

Cinnie was placed down on the deck again, on his feet. He looked up at Poker, defiantly. "I apologise, because you _misinterpreted_the situation!"

Then he turned around and started to swagger away from the stern.

"Have a nice time! Goodnight!" Cinnabar waved, without turning his back.

"Goodnight!" Becka chirped happily and waved. He did not look back.

"Art," Cinnabar said, "best you're coming as well. You'll need some rest before we're arriving in Glennenmór."

"Oh no!" Becka let out and stomped her foot on the ground, looking at Arthur. "Don't tell me you have to sleep as well!"

Arthur took a step closer to Becka, looked up at her and then at Cinnabar's back again. He tried to follow his friend, but it was physically impossible. He craved Becka, he needed to be near her. He wanted to be closer to this girl he hadn't even known existed this very morning. The world had turned upside down and burned, but... Arthur had _never_felt such happiness in his entire life.

"Arthur?" Cinnabar asked.

Becka placed one hand on his shoulder. It was cool and light. He moved even closer under her protection.

"I... I will stay."

"Yes! Yes!" Cinnabar grunted. "Have a happy time having your heart broken! Good night!"

*

The two sailors who had constrained Arthur's best friend previously were named Benjamin and Wally. They had been on The Grand Old Pike for one year and were each seven years old. Poker was eight years, and had been on the ferry for three years - since he had been at Arthur's current age. He had explained that his entire family had been slain by a wild fox, and therefore he had grown up an orphan, shunned because nobody knew his clan affiliation or name.

Captain Marja Wassén had taken him on as a cabin boy, and today he had been promoted to second mate.

There were three other crew members there as well, two females named Carita and Rosinde, and an older male referred to as 'Gruffin', though Arthur suspected that wasn't his real name. The old sailor had taken out a pan flute made from bones and was playing on it gently, minding his own business. It was a bit unnerving though, that the old perch lacked three toes on the foot that he displayed for them all to see.

All the others sat gathered in a circle on a number of blankets that they had drawn out from the personnel quarters, while 'Gruffin' sat with his leg stretched out over the gunwale, playing 'Maidenvoyage', a wordless hymn to generations of sailors on the rlangen Lake.

"So," Becka said as she sat with her legs crossed, turning her attention to Arthur. "Now I want to know... what is your favourite colour?"

Arthur looked down. "I d-don't know," he mumbled. "B-b-b..."

Becka leaned down over the blanket, laying her head on Rosinde's fat knee while cuddling Arthur over his hair with her fingers. One of her ears was up. "Mine is... green," she said, radiating a mysterious little smile.

"Oh yes... mine too!" He reminisced of an old song. "My daughter-dew serene, know the colour of the Vale, its green, from the tiniest pup-straw to the fir so lean..."

"So come and dance my dear, on the fields so green, my young spring queen, so green, so green!" Becka took up the tune and started to sing with him, making Arthur stop but then take it up again and follow her lead. She had moved up, and made an improvised little dance with her torso while she still sat leaned with her body. Benjamin, Wally, Rosinde and Carita soon started to sing with them as well, and even Gruffin changed the tune of his flute-playing while a winking glimmer appeared in one of his eyes.

"So we're all here fine and clean, oh on the fields so green, dancing, prancing, glancing and romancing, in the day so feen!"

"Yay!" Becka jumped up and applauded them all, her eyes glittering with joy. As she sat down, Arthur tried to muster all the courage in his heart. He leaned forward to hear, while the others began chatting and passing sap wine between one another.

"B-Becka?"

Oh no Arthur, do not stutter!

"Ah?" Becka said, attentively leaning forward.

"..."

Stage-fright!Damn!

Becka took his hand and gave it a massage. "What you're thinking of, little Artie?" she laughed and wrinkled her nose.

"I... I'm so sorry... for t-today. If... t-this had b-been a normal day... oh I'm sorry... I mean... a normal summer sols-t-t-tice festival... I would've m-made you a w-wreath!"

"Ooooh!" Becka let out a shrill scream. For a moment, Arthur sat terrified. Had he insulted her? Would she become mad at him? He shuddered away.

Then the mysterious girl from Hasselbó pinched Arthur on the nose and ruffled his hair gently.

"Oh Little! You're the sweetest thing in the world!"

Arthur felt a toe against his leg. It was Benjamin, grinning with his slanted incisors and holding up a horn filled with sap wine, to a clumsy toast.

"Look up, Arthur Rusk of the Nine Lakes!" he hiccoughed. "She may stuff you up to have ye for a plush toy!"

He gave Arthur the hollowed-out horn, which Arthur recognised as chamois. Arthur received it. He stared down at the transparent liquid. Drink? Alcohol? My mother will kill me, he thought. Arthur was near-convinced that Cynthia could read his mind. Whenever he had 'misbehaved', his mother had seen through it directly, first beaten it out from him, and then beaten him thrice more for having the audacity to have fun, to sing, to make binkies in public (or alone in their bedroom), or to eat sweets...

"Is something wrong, mate?" Benjamin wondered and gave Arthur a pat on the shoulder.

Arthur raised his ears a little. "W-Well," he said, "my mother, she d-d-doesn't allow me to drink!"

Benjamin let out a laughter and smacked Arthur over the shoulders so he spilled out a little of the sap wine over the blankets. He froze, almost dropping the entire horn. "I'm... I'm so incredibly sorry!"

Poker leant forward. "No danger, little buck! These rugs often get soaked before a night's over! What's a day's work worth without a night's orgy? But... you'll soon turn five, right?"

I am five, Arthur thought.

"Well," Poker continued. "I guess you're happier than me, to have a loving mother, little buck. But you soon have to make your own decisions. Be your own! I'm sure your mother wouldn't want to make decisions for your entire life!"

Arthur couldn't help himself. He broke out a laugh. "You... h-have no idea!" he grinned.

Becka placed her soft palm on Arthur's arm.

"Little," she said, looking him straight into the eyes. The end of her bangs were cut straight above where her eyelids were. It struck Arthur that there was something special with those eyes. They were so... happy, so honest, so very... no, so very open and clear. Most eyes seemed like the waters of rlangen, deep and filled with dark secrets. Or like the Bruckebrook, stressed and always looking for a place to be.

Becka's eyes were like a clear forest pond, still and completely transparent. There was a sense of fundamental, open calm emanating from them.

She leant forward, smiled and whispered. "Little. She won't notice if you just taste."

"Oh... b-b-but she will!"

Becka wrinkled her nose in the way that Arthur found absolutely gorgeous. "Oh silly nincompoop! Of course not!"

"You should taste," Poker established as he laid down on the blanket, stretching his legs. "Then you can see if you like it or not, little Rusk. There's nothing wrong with you not liking it either! As long as you make the choice."

Becka placed her hands around the bottom of the horn, touching Arthur's hands.

"It's not at all strong - we must all work tomorrow all the day. Here, I will show you."

She moved her head above the wine, fluttering her tongue-tip over it. "Mm," she said. "Tastes great. Now you try. Do it like me."

Arthur did as she said, tapping with his tongue over the surface of the sap wine. He did not even reflect over the fact that he moved his tongue where another tongue had touched, with its film of saliva. It was Becka. The moment her tongue had played with the surface of the liquid, it was as if it had transformed into a magical sacred spring.

It was sticky, and tasted extremely sweet, but yet clear. Arthur felt as if cobwebs were blown away inside his head, and sensed a warm feeling down in his tummy.

"Soooo?" Becka wondered and flickered with her eyelashes.

"It is... good," Arthur said. "Sweetest thing I've tasted."

"And now," Becka smiled, "let's drink it together."

Slowly, their faces moved together, as if they were coordinated. The others sang a song, a hymn to a legendary ferry captain, but for Arthur they were as remote as if they were on one of the moons. He could feel her nostrils breathe, a very soft soundless breeze tickling his lips. Tryingly, nervous, he stretched out the tip of his tongue. He looked at her for approval, she nodded and moved out her tongue as well, closing her eyes...

A sudden lightning burn of pain in his scruff, as fingernails perforated his skin. He was jerked away so the horn was dropped all over the place where he had just sat, a tense sinewy arm slamming him against one of the legs of the captain's tower.

His mother pressed her face against his as he held him pressed against the beam.

"AND WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE, ARTHUR RUSK YOU LITTLE IMBECILE!"

"M-M-Mother, I..."

"IN THE NAME OF THE GODDESS, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE TURD! SHAME ON YOU!"

Becka had stood up, and moved towards them. She tried to place her hand on Cynthia's shoulder.

"Set him down! I swear, he hasn't... Ouch!"

Cynthia had given Becka an elbow right in the chest so the acrobatic girl glided back over the floor, spoking with her right knee and looking up with a mixture of confusion and defiance.

"Fucking low-class water-whore!" Cynthia spat at the girl who Arthur loved. "Trying to corrupt my son away from..."

Arthur had not even noticed his fist clenching. He had tensed it until it burned from pain, and then smacked a jab against his mother's chin. Cynthia lost her balance, dropping him and looking at him with astonishment. Art, sitting down, his back against the wooden beam, looked at his hand as his mother towered over him.

"P-p-priestess Cynthia," he squealed. "I'm... I'm sorry!"

Cynthia moved her hand away from her mouth. The force of Arthur's strike had made her jaws slam together faster than she could have reacted. A large jack was now pumping blood from her lower lip, and the white palm of her furry hand was now drenched in blood.

"You... you hit me!? Your own mother!?"

Becka stood silent, alongside the rest of the sailors.

The next moment, Cynthia had flown over her son, pressing her knee against his crotch while flailing with her arms over his head, screaming unintelligible obscenities at him. She grabbed his tunic, smacking his head against the beam. Arthur could see that Becka laid her arm around Cynthia's neck and tried to pull her back, with surprisingly calm determination. Her mouth was forming into a yell which he couldn't hear - his head was ringing too much. But he could read her lips. "Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!"

Cynthia ceased with her battering of Arthur and instead turned around with surprising strength, giving Becka a slap over her snout. A little blood appeared over her lips...

Arthur gave out a loud yell and then flew over his mother, scratching her. "DON'T HURT HER! SHE'S MY FRIEND!"

Cynthia took a step back, her eyes dark but brooding. She was surrounded by the sailors.

"Madam!" Poker said and placed himself between Becka and Cynthia. "No fighting on the ship!" he said with an authoritative voice, widening his shoulders.

Cynthia gave Arthur a quick look. It was not accusing. It was seething with rage, but a little smile briefly flickered over her lips. Then she started to cry, helplessly. Uncontrollably.

"My son! My dear son! You are taking my dear beloved son away from me! My poor retarded son!"

Arthur tried to stand up, but his balls ached too much. He gripped a hand around them while holding on to the beam, panting. His heart also ached.

Poker laid his hands on Cynthia's shoulders. "Look madame, we had no intention to..."

"My best friend and next-cousin Claudia is on this... on this lousy ferry! Her sister... is a Thingsdoe in the Thing of the Republic!"

"Ye calm down lass!" Gruffin tried. "We were just having a jolly good time!"

"I am... I am Cynthia Rusk, Priestess of the Shrine of Ruskebó, messenger of the Summer Goddess on Ayrien's Earth! I am a person of social standing, so get your filthy worn-out palms away from me!" Cynthia cried - no tears coming out of her eyes - and moved away Poker's hands with one jutting push.

Arthur's gaze moved towards Becka. Her eyes were deeply saddened and filled with tears. She took a step forward.

"Mrs Rusk," she said. "It was my fault. I did... I did not know that little Artie is 'funny in the head'. If I had known, I would've asked for your permission..."

NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Arthur's jaw dropped. "I... I... I... I...," was all he could say. Cynthia slowly turned away her face from the sailors, towards Arthur. She gave him a mischievous little wink, before returning back to her broken, sad face and turned towards the girl whom Arthur loved more than anything on this Earth.

Cynthia took a step forward, looking up, confronting Becka by waving with her index finger right against the young doe's face.

"You are sorry now, you wench! Don't believe I don't know about you, Becka Sommer! You defiler of the Goddess! You shall be grateful we aren't crushing the legs of blasphemers anymore! Two hundred years ago and you've been left for the wild beasts, you soulless whore!"

"Definitely sounding like our Priestess," Becka said for herself, probably referring to Hasselbó.

"Well, one thing you can be sure of, all of you -" Cynthia stomped her foot and turned around all the assembled sailors " - I will talk with Thingsdoe Caroline about this, how you tried to drug my idiot son! You all will be fired, and no sailor's guild in the world can save you! None! Come Arthur!"

She grabbed Arthur's wrist, jerking it around so painfully that he thought it was going to break, and dragged him away. He stretched his hand towards Becka, who looked very guilt-ridden. The Sommer girl tried to follow, raised her arm as if she wanted to protest, or say goodbye or...

She thinks I am retarded.

Poker laid his arms around Becka's shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. She made a stomping movement with her knees and crossed her arms, pouting her lips. Poker was explaining something to her, waving with his fingers. Arthur was dragged alongside the deck, his heels assembling splinters.

Five painful bounces later, and his mother was leading him on down from the stern, towards the trap-door which led down. It was located in the middle between the wheels. She pushed him forward, holding his arm behind his back, pressed against it.

"Wait, my little scab-dog," Cynthia whispered hoarsely in his ears as she dragged him on, "I'm going to batter you all that I want... and you're never going to meet that whore again... that I can..."

It blackened for Arthur's eyes. He could see people moving up from their blankets, rushing towards the trap-door. The captain was coming out on the tower-bridge, shouting something - but he could not hear what it was. Another scream drowned all other sounds.

The scream belonged to him, Arthur Rusk.

He moved around, jerked himself loose from his mother so the sleeve of his tunic was ripped loose. Then he gave his mother a kick right on the belly so she tumbled back, towards the gunwale, right above the wheels. For a moment, it looked like she would fall over. Instead she regained her composure, preparing to run towards him, her fingers clenched.

"Now I've had enough of you!" she yelled over the sea of screams around them, the screams which seeped through the ringing between Arthur's ears.

Suddenly, the entire ship jerked and twisted, wood creaking everywhere. Arthur felt how the deck sank away from his feet, how he flew up the air and landed on his back, rolling down the wooden planks and finally being stopped from falling over by the gunwale. He turned towards the other side with his gaze, seeing before him a pillar of water that rose several feet up the air before raining down over the deck.

Quiet.

He dragged himself up on the deck, too battered, too bruised, too shocked to be afraid. Looking around. Those who hadn't fled down into the two interior decks were cowering on their bellies, their eyes shut and their ears sealed by their hands. Arthur looked up towards the purplish summer night skies. There were dozens of silver birds there, reflecting the golden sunlight of the midnight Sun. One of the birds was far larger than the others, its underside almost black as it glided above the others.

"Help!"

Arthur turned around. He looked at the gunwale, over it and then turned his gaze down, at the wheel. Holding on to one of the wooden poles of the rail with one hand, his mother hung, her priestly robe fluttering for the mild breeze. She looked up, bleeding from a wound on her temple.

"Arthur! Help me!"

He bowed down on one of his knees, stretching forward his arms between the poles. He gripped the hands of his mother, and soon she could the pole to the right of that she already held. Then he gripped her other arm, helping it over the wooden rail. She placed an elbow above the rail.

"Thank you so much Arthur... I..."

...

Arthur looked up. The large flying creature flew alongside the ferry. It released a small, glimmering egg-shaped object in the water. The entire ship shook again, and Arthur fell forward. As the gunwale simultaneously hit him and saved his life, he stared out over the lake, which had turned into an inferno of burning ferries.