The Rose's Garden and the Sea Read online

  The magic of the box continued to eat away at his resolve, and before long he was sick with heartache and doubt. As each day passed he grew more and more certain that he had been put upon the raft by a wicked spirit.

  On the forty-first day, being more tired and thirsty than he had ever been, Benson Rose could bear it no longer. He grabbed at the magic box and lifted his hand to the clasp, stopping just short of opening it.

  A jealous object that wanted to be chosen, the box whispered of all Benson Rose’s deepest fears and desires. It hinted at the starvation and drowning that seemed nigh. Why not instead choose gold and rescue and warmth? And once you are safe and healed and fed—the box told the cold, penniless Benson Rose—we will make you a powerful, honored man—

  Benson Rose’s grip tightened on the box. He had never felt such temptation before. Conflicted, he screwed his eyes shut.

  In the darkness behind his eyelids, Benson Rose saw the faces of his lovely mother, his fearless father, and his dear brothers and sisters. Could he truly make a choice, he wondered, that meant they would be lost to him forever? Could he abandon them when he was their only hope?

  Taking a deep breath, Benson Rose shook his head. With all he strength he possesses (which was very little) he tossed the box into the sea. In an instant, forty-one days of dark magic fell away and the bond between boy and box was broken. When it had gone, Benson Rose felt lighthearted and free once more.

  Benson Rose opened his eyes again to see a great eagle flying towards him. The eagle did not glide through the sky with feathers and cunning, but rather soared towards Benson Rose upon the waves with wings of canvas. It was a symbol of hope and adventure sculpted into the wooden prow of a large sailing ship.

  As the ship neared, Benson Rose could see that it was captained by the Man of the Sea, twin brother to the Man of the Mountain. The Man of the Sea let down his strong arm and lifted Benson Rose aboard.

  “Because you did not abandon your destiny despite ambition and death,” said The Man of the Sea, “I give to you this ship and all its crew. Go forth and find adventure. Go forth and find your family.”

  The Man of the Sea turned into sea mist and Benson Rose sailed his ship into the rising sun.

  *

  Chapter 1:

  The Sailor, the Dreamer, and the Captain

  * * * * *

  Magic in Legends and Myths

  A History of Magics

  Chapter the Fifth

  By Samjam Juggerram

  *

  In the gaping chasm between the birth of a legend and the time it is finally recorded, many liberties can be (and usually are) taken. Such alterations usually happen absent of intention, evolving slowly over the course of untold years. The reason, if there is intent, is the singularly respectable goal of bringing an outdated tale to a new generation of listeners.

  At times the need for simplicity will combine the contributions of two or more souls into one character. Sometimes the desire for both fantasy and familiarity will turn a human into an animal, magical being, or perhaps a member of the opposite sex. Sometimes, for whatever reason, entire magical worlds are created which mirror, but do not affect, our own.

  As it pertains to study of magical lore, the Saga of Benson Rose is a primary example of the ways in which magic is used in this art form. Was the wandering young man truly saved from death by a mystical hermit—the Man of the Mountain? Or is it more likely that he had a guardian or mentor who discovered and aided him? Was there a magical box that could have provided endless wealth and protection? If not, what real-world item caused the creation of this magic object?

  As for the legend’s inherently magical setting, little has changed from his day to ours, so we know it to be mostly fiction. All developing countries, as they struggle for their dominance over the land, unknowingly surrender their connection to the underlying world of magic. The ingredients remain, however, for those who can access them. There is no reason, then, to say the use of enchantments in the legend was a complete fabrication, for there existed lands, though often quite distant, who still knew magic.

  * * * * *

  My story begins on a still summer night, very long ago, with a slave girl and a sinking sailing ship.

  As the damaged vessel dropped from beneath her, the slave girl spoke in an ancient tongue. Her dark hair hung limp over her pale face, which was clammy from exertion. As she chanted, the darks of her eyes became lit with a swirling purple glow.

  The incantation ended and the girl’s head slumped. She appeared to be sleeping. In the spirit world, however, a smoky form rose out of the slave girl’s body, half woman and half wolf. She was dream walking.

  The slave girl levitated higher and higher, rising from the sinking ship and ascending into the starlit sky. When she had climbed far enough to see for many miles, she came to a stop and opened her mind very wide.

  In her home nation—the distant shores of Tikaania—the slave girl had very little difficulty accessing the minds of others. In these foreign waters of Illiamna, however, simple connections became nearly impossible. The souls of Illians were, to varying degrees, closed off to the ebb and flow of the magical energies around them. Every so often, however, the slave girl encountered a mind that she could leave a small impression on. It was for this that she searched. In her mission to be rescued from the sinking ship, it was better to try everything than be consigned to the deep.

  With her glowing eyes, the slave girl saw a very few ships scattered in the vast ocean. Gliding in wide circles, her wolf form visited each, finding scores of sailors as closed to the flow of magic as moving marble statues.

  With increasing panic, she descended upon a ship with an eagle masthead. At the helm stood a burly man who, when she passed him, turned his head slightly at the sensation. Hardly daring to believe, the slave girl settled upon him, plying at the rigid barriers of his mind. She conveyed to him that she was in trouble and showed him where she could be found, but could do little else. With a confused expression on his face, the sailor gave the wheel of his ship a slight turn.

  Though her soul floated safely through the air alongside the burly man, the slave girl’s body shifted slightly as the sinking ship slowly dropped from underneath it. Dread threatened to undo her concentration. She paused to re-focus.

  It seemed that the sailor was heading in the right direction, but her connection with him was weak. Though she was exhausted, she knew it was unwise to think she had done all she could. Circling further and further into the hazy moonlit night, the slave girl moved past the sea to a wide river, flew over rocks and villages, and searched within the quiet homes of slumbering families.

  The slave girl did not know what she was looking for, but as she entered a dark hut many miles upriver she knew it had been found. There, hanging above a sleeping Illian like a luminous mist, resonated the joyous song of a dream in progress. The dream clung to the dreamer with tenuous threads of light, almost too faint to be seen.

  The slave girl paused for a moment to smile at the brashness of the dreamer’s melody. It sang of dragons and kings—the stuff of fairy-tales. As the slave girl’s soul smiled, her body shifted once more in the sinking. Her heart pounded and she fought to maintain control.

  A dream is a journey our soul takes. For those of profound practice or natural talent, a soul need not be confined by a body, but may come detached and fly free. This is, of course, a tremendous and concentrated effort, and the danger of not returning to one’s body is great, which made the slave girl’s goal of taking this dreamer with her an immensely reckless one. She was operating under one of the basic rules of magic: those who we call countrymen are more closely linked to us within the flow of energy than those from other lands. If, as the slave girl hoped, there was a ship heading her way, she could at least bring a soul aboard who would be able to guide them.

  With excruciating gentleness, therefore, the slave girl wrapped herself around the dream and tugged firmly. Sensing a presence, the dream changed it
s tune, singing now of river games and sunlight laughter. The slave girl encouraged this attention, using herself as a distraction while she tore at the threads connecting soul to body. With the same boldness of the original song, the dream’s essence swelled in excitement and followed the wolf spirit, who led it out of the dark hut, over the rocks and the river, and back out to sea.

  As it flew further down the wide river than it had ever been, the dream forgot itself and the dream’s owner began to pay attention. To the dreamer, this was yet another fantasy—a collection of visions tied together by a far-fetched narrative. This is to say that the dream’s owner felt no fear.

  To the slave girl, on the other hand, lives were in the balance. Pushed to exhaustion, she used the last of her strength to guide the dreamer into the sky high above the sinking ship. Lacking the energy to do any more, she let go—instantly plummeting back into her body. Below, within the sinking ship, the slave girl collapsed.

  The dream’s owner, now alone and without instruction, floated uncertainly in the night sky. Beneath her, in the sparkling expanse of dark waves, she saw a line of three large sailing ships.

  The dreamer was directly above the largest, an ornate hulk with four masts; tattered, cracked, and sinking silently into the night sea. Next to it bobbed a slightly smaller ship with three masts and a prow shaped like an eagle in flight. Without any clue as to why she had the impression, the dreamer sensed that this second vessel had come to help. The third ship was not so benign, though a mere shadow in the distance. It called to her soul with a bloodlust that made her sleeping body, far distant, break into a cold sweat.

  Spurred forward with the curiosity of the fast asleep, the dreamer let herself descend feet-first into the mysterious scene. She alit without sound or form upon the slanting decks of the sinking ship.

  In keeping with a mid-summer nightmare, the decks were strewn with the bodies of battle-fallen men in crimson uniforms. Floating slightly above the wreckage—with every certainty that she was within an invention of her dozing mind—the dreamer began to explore. The ornate door of the quarterdeck beckoned, and she wafted inside.

  As she hovered, her spirit-eyes adjusting to the candlelight and the dreamer began to see a display of impressive wealth. Rich tapestries hung between golden fluted columns. Marble and fine rare woods reflected the limited light in their flawless sheen. Sculptures, sconces, silver and gold were on display in every inch of the dreamer’s vision.

  Before her was a gilded mirror in which she saw no reflection. As she stared with curiosity at her invisibility, a burly man broke through a door at the other end of the long hallway. Out of breath, legs soaking wet, the man stepped directly into the dreamer’s shimmering presence.

  The dream’s owner did not fall over or give way, but rather felt herself being absorbed into the burly man, who (she understood as her brain fused with his) was a sailor on the eagle-shaped ship. He stopped in his tracks.

  Turning back to the mirror, the dreamer now saw the face of this dark-haired man. She raised her arm and watched curiously as the hairy arm rose too.

  Within her, but through a haze, the sailor recognized himself.

  “Who are you?” he whispered to his reflection.

  The sinking ship groaned loudly around the pair, and the immediacy of danger was returned to the sailor’s overpopulated mind. A cannonball ripped through the decks below and they were knocked backwards in the explosive crash.

  A battle began within the sailor’s body between the dreamer’s interest to remain on the sinking ship and the sailor’s instincts to survive. It was a contest of musings and necessities played within a fusion of the real and spirit realms.

  Before either had the chance to gain the upper hand, a door from behind them burst open, expelling a cluster of frantic men. These sailors carried a large variety of salvaged cargo, including the limp body of a bleeding man.

  One of these new arrivals pushed through the tangle and the sailor’s heart leapt, unbidden. Distracted by the sailor’s excitement at this new arrival, the dreamer failed to use the moment to take charge. She wondered what kind of man could instill such calm in the sailor who, moments ago, had felt under attack.

  He is the captain—the sailor told the dreamer silently—everything will be fine now—

  The dreamer had trouble believing this, but then she looked into the captain’s bottomless blue eyes. They were as rich as the sky reflected in calm water and wilder than a roiling river in a storm. The dreamer felt something within her soul shift out of place, as though a piece had come unattached and had fallen into his deep blue gaze.

  “It appears,” yelled the captain as another explosive shock turned the passageway into splinters, “that we have walked into an ambush.” He turned his blue eyes to look at the apparent richness of the corridor, touching a golden column with longing and question. Shaking his head, he shouted, “There’s nothing to be done. We must leave.”

  The sailor nodded his agreement, casting one last backward glance at his reflection. The glass, splintered by the last blast, mirrored him twice.

  The captain motioned for a retreat as the cannons boomed again and the sailor lifted a foot to follow—or he tried to.

  He couldn’t move.

  Much like the moment between a man losing his footing and actually falling to the ground, when the dreamer took over the sailor’s body, it seemed to take an eternity for his heart to drop. The dreamer, however, felt a sudden surge of purpose. This, she could sense, was the reason she had been brought here. There was something that needed to be done—something that was about to be forgotten.

  A silent plea for help was resonating through the polished wood grain of the sinking giant. It throbbed up from the floor, through the sailor’s leather boots, and pulled their attention away from the exit and over to a pile of rubble at the end of the corridor.

  Behind the debris of former finery the two could see the remnants of a door. As the dreamer stepped closer and the sailor fought to run away, neither heard the captain’s frantic yelling. It was only when he came alongside them that they both noticed the seawater beginning to lap at their boots.

  The sailor pressed his face against the blocked entryway and called out to the room beyond. To the horror of all three, a distant voice answered back.

  Another cannon ball ripped through the sinking ship and the two men burst into frantic action. An honorable mariner, the dreamer could sense, would not simply allow the owner of the voice to drown. As they tore their way closer to the crushed door, the single voice revealed itself to be several, and their efforts redoubled. Sea level had risen steadily to their knees by the time that, with a final frantic kick, the sailors broke through.

  A magnificently luxurious chamber was revealed. Strewn in a rough circle around the costly furnishings there laid a dozen uniformed men, still bleeding heavily from their faces. Their wide, frightened eyes stared unseeingly at the rich wood with gold inlay above them. As the water inched higher, their limbs began to float dumbly.

  In the center of the chamber, upon an ornate desk and lit by a single flickering candle, there crouched three survivors.

  One was a grey-haired man, his face sweaty with fever and his right leg crushed beneath a fallen beam. He was flanked by two pale, dark-haired slaves—a boy and girl—who stooped behind him with diminished airs of subservience and fear. The dreamer assumed it was her imagination that the slave girl’s eyes glowed momentarily purple.

  Pushing visions of the bloody, lolling bodies from their minds, the sailor, the dreamer, and the captain worked together to wrench the fallen beam from the old man’s gnarled leg. Yelling anxious encouragements, they toiled together through the rising water, leading the survivors from of their watery grave.

  The dreamer expected to emerge into the still summer night she had left behind, but instead she led them out into a battleground. A chorus of swords and cannons surrounded the soaking group. The sailor and the captain, maintaining their grip on the limping grey-ha
ired man, drew their swords.

  The shadowy ship—the third and blood-hungry boat that the dreamer had seen from above—had returned to ensure that the gilded vessel would sink as planned. From its black hull protruded the dark iron barrels of deadly cannons. The firing would cease only long enough for its crew of raiders to swing aboard, their own curved swords twinkling. The battle was lit by the ship’s tattered sails, which had been set on fire.

  Keeping their heads low, the dreamer’s group dodged the fighting as much as they could. Stepping down to a lower deck and heading towards the rail, an eagle in flight appeared out of the haze. Limping with single-minded intensity, they reached the ship’s rope ladder and began to climb. When the captain and slaves had climbed safely aboard, the sailor began heaving the old man up to their waiting hands.

  The captain had barely gotten a grip of the old man when the sailor felt a sharp pain in his chest. He tried to continue helping the injured man despite his agony, but his hands had stopped working. Time slowed strangely all around him, and he looked down.

  Wickedly red and ruthlessly gleaming in the uncontrolled flames, a sword tip protruded from the sailor’s broad chest.

  Through a tunnel of darkness, the sailor saw the captain’s shocked and shouting face from the decks above, but he heard nothing. The captain tried to shove the old man’s collapsed body out of his way—tried frantically to get to his slain shipmate—but failed.

  “Ben!” the captain cried, “No, Ben!”

  The sailor’s deep affection for the screaming captain was on the surface for the dreamer to experience. It was the thing his failing body forgot last. She explored the sensation of dying as she dropped with him through an eternity of night and into the ebony water. As they sank together into the sea, the firelight from a now-forgotten battle was slowly swallowed by the darkness.

  From the depths, the dreamer felt a gentle, guiding pluck from the slave girl, who sought to detach her from the dying man. With a burst of knowing, the dreamer realized it would be unwise to follow him any further.