The Rose's Garden and the Sea Read online

  When Benson Rose is put at the pivot-point of a great balancing he is given two seemingly ambiguous choices instead of one that is good and one that is bad. There is no proof, after all, for either Benson Rose or the hermit magician that the sailor will someday rescue his family. As far as either of them knows, his family will die long before he is able to recover them. On the other hand, though the box exerts an “evil” power upon the boy, it is admitted that the box merely wants to be chosen, which is a universal and forgivable desire. To have a protagonist be presented with two ambiguous options is a refreshing take on the fairytale trope that would have you believe that the choice required by magic is the choice between good and evil.

  The earnest study of magic requires the acceptance of a related series of truths: good men can do evil, evil men can go good, and the vast majority of all energy is spent between these two extremes, in ambiguity. Without ambiguity, it is said, there can be no magic.

  The twelfth century wizard Arbe Windelbaum had this to say:

  “It is only with the understanding of the ambiguous that there can be a connection to the hidden domain of coursing energies. It cannot be helped. A world in which the flow of power is fluxing turbulently between good and evil is an unlivable one. A true master of vagaries need not be held back by the rare occurrence of one or the other extreme. He may practice in any place or time wherein the mixture of black and white creates gray. If no such place or time pleases him, he may then ride these winds to faraway places, to other worlds, or even to places of his own creation. Many are the lands, dear students, that came to be in ambiguity.”

  * * * * *

  Daylight happened at the end of the world. There was no horizon in the distance, no sun in the sky, only a tree, a river, and two forlorn children—a girl and a boy. There was also, because the girl wished for it, a small broken boat lodged in the ground, filled with a random collection of trash and treasures.

  “Ahoy and avast,” shouted the boy, throwing a heavy foot upon the boat’s wooden rail. “We have reached land!”

  The boy, dressed in a sailor’s costume made of rags, scanned the distance with a makeshift telescope made of sticks and string.

  “It’s a mirage, Captain Benson, caused by hunger and thirst,” said the girl miserably. She threw her back against the ship’s mossy side in a fit. “I have never been so thirsty in my life!”

  “Nay, ye great doubt-pot,” the young Benson smacked his sister on the head with his telescope, “do ye think I know not me own eyeballs?”

  “I don’t need to look, I know what you see. It is like the other five ‘islands’ we wasted our energy rowing towards,” the young Rose returned, crossing her arms in a pout. “Nay, I don’t trust ye one lick.”

  Benson rolled his eyes spectacularly and whirled the girl around, shoving the telescope to her eye.

  “Could it be?” she marveled, ready to start a new part of their game. “After all this time?”

  Two oars made of bundled sticks and leaves were produced and both children rowed ferociously through the air.

  “Land, beautiful land!” cried Benson when he grew tired of rowing. He leapt from his boat and kissed the ground in celebration. “Is it not the most byoot’ful thing ye’ve ever seen?”

  “No sight be as bee-ay-ute-iful as the deep blue sea. Enjoy the sight of land while ye can, Captain, for it shall be the final thing ye see,” snarled the young Rose as she ripped the leaves from her oar, transforming it into a sword.

  “Oy,” Benson mocked surprise, “whatsa hap’ning here?”

  “Ahoy and avast! Ye’ve thought me these long months to be yer friend, but I tell ye now that I am the Dread Pirate Black Roses!” She thrust her sword menacingly in the air. “And now that ye have aided me through the great storm and the attack of the giant octopus, I have tricked ye into taking me to the island where I keeps me gold.”

  “I am feckled and appalled!” Benson shouted theatrically. “And now I shall fight ye for me very life!” He raised his oar, which they wordlessly agreed was also a sword, despite still holding leaves.

  They fought. The impacts of wooden weapons rang through the air as they dodged, struck, and occasionally stopped to suck on bruised fingers, cursing the other for not playing fairly.

  The young Rose smiled rakishly when she got in a good blow. She twirled her wooden sword with a flourish.

  A sudden flickering happened and the older Rose found herself trudging upon a stony road, sweating profusely under the unforgiving sun. She had enough time to glance behind at her mother and sisters before flickering back to the tree and stream.

  The boy had taken this opportunity to strike.

  “Ow! Benson, that hurt!” young Rose cried, shaken and afraid. She had forgotten everything—fire, nightmare, and all—in the safety of the giant tree, but her sense of security was starting to erode.

  The scene flickered in and out again, this time the young Benson was overlaid with his older self, chiding her for being such a girl. She stared at him, frowning deeply and raising her wooden sword again.

  In one world her foot slipped on the stone road’s loose pebbles. In another a masked man’s laugher still resounded throughout a large stone room. In yet another three men huddled in conversation on the decks of a sailing ship.

  Rose felt a sharp smack on her arm, flickering back in time to see her brother celebrating his landed blow. She willed her heartbeat to slow, knowing he might disappear at any moment.

  “If I had known the Dread Pirate could be beaten so easily,” Benson smiled victoriously, “I would have sought ye out years ago! Soon yer gold will be mine, ye yellow-bellied basket-weaver!”

  Shaking her muddled head, young Rose met his attack with renewed force. They danced and collided, each striking with more power and determination that before.

  Rose completed what she considered an intricate little spin and thrust, yelling in triumph at the fatal blow she had dealt. Benson held her wooden sword between his chest and arm, gulping in mock surprise.

  The scene flickered and Rose found herself holding a real metal sword that was protruding from his heart. Before she could register this gruesome sight, they flickered back to the way they had been.

  Suppressing his sniggers, Benson fell to the ground, wooden sword still clutched under his arm.

  “What is this?” He gestured pathetically at the wooden sword. “Am I slain?”

  Rose was panicked. The scene continued to flicker—a rock-lined path with the scorching sun above and a city in the distance, strangers conspiring on a ship, a Benson covered in blood, and two children playing games with a sword that wouldn’t decide whether to be a stick or steel.

  “Benson, no!” The girl shook at the boy. One moment he could barely subdue his giggling, the next he was inert and cold.

  “It wasn’t real!” Rose slapped his cold face. “It was a stupid game. Stop pretending!”

  He flickered in and out of focus a few times and then disappeared completely. Rose shook angrily at the pirate costume that remained, feeling a cold breeze once more.

  * * * * *

  Rose shuddered abruptly out of her stupor. Shooting her a scandalized look, Sara greeted Rose’s awakening with disdain. The sisters and silent mother were no longer on the harsh road, but seated in a small, neat room with delicate flowers painted on the walls. Across from them sat a young woman Rose didn’t recognize.

  Though she could not remember having arrived there, Rose knew the neat little sitting room was their final destination. The strangeness of the solid walls and flowery decor were incomprehensible within the bluster and blow of Rose’s mind.

  Voices drifted in and out of the magical tempest. Rose clung to them without really seeing, creating her perception of the speakers through their words.

  “…how weary ye must be, traveling all this way. And in only a few weeks! I do so hope Papa will be prevailed upon to help…”

  “…we’re reluctant to impose, of course, but what else can be don
e...”

  “…don’t even consider it, dear cousins! Tragedy has befallen yer family—our family—it’s the least we can do…”

  The first voice was syrupy sweet and nervously insincere, falling thickly from cherry lips. The speaker’s dull brown hair was tied back severely, her sharp apron and tight lace collar at odds with her sunny demeanor. Rose could trust that she was the cousin she claimed to be.

  The second voice was obnoxious—that must be Sara.

  “We intend to repay your kindness, Clare,” said Sara firmly, sitting up haughtily. “We need only to find work and to settle into our new lives.”

  “Find work?” Cousin Clare chortled in surprise. “Heavens! Oughtn’t ye to be lookin’ for husbands?”

  There was a sickly silence. Sara stammered, “Hu-husbands?”

  “I don’t mean to sound insensitive, oh my! I mean…I know that ye have only just lost—” Clare, unable to speak further, reached shakily for her tea. The cup clattered against its saucer as she raised it. Having difficulty swallowing, Clare gulped audibly.

  Rose, dressed for the first time in her mother’s binding wool dress, felt great sympathy, attributing her cousin’s discomfort to her tight bodice and collar. In truth, her mother’s ghostly eyes—previously turned towards the room’s dreary windows—came to rest upon poor Clare, who was greatly regretting her offer to play the hostess while her parents discussed what was to be done with this sad collection of survivors.

  “Obviously Tobi’s very young,” Clare continued, meeting the eyes of none, “but it’s not unheard of. And really, the only way to thrive here is to marry.”

  “Marry? I don’t think…I mean, how could we…that is...” Sara continued to stammer, well out of her depth. She screwed up her eyes in panic and breathed, trying to begin again. “Dear Clare, of course we are open to all of these…necessities, but this can’t possibly happen overnight. What do you suggest we do until then?”

  “Well…” Clare deflated somewhat. “Everything depends on yer male relative, which is Papa. He’s not a cruel man, even if he’s a little hard.” She set down her tea, then had an exciting thought. “Perhaps he’s got a friend looking for a second wife! Although…maybe not. Three unwed daughters without dowries is a lot for one household. All we can do is trust in the gods, I suppose. Oh, I do hope ye’re not too worried.”

  “Worried?” a hollow voice scoffed from off to Rose’s left. She was startled to hear her mother’s voice. Sara, equally surprised, left her chair to kneel by Mama’s side. Their mother’s eyes had turned very suddenly from frigidly vacant to ferociously aflame. “Where is the cause for worry? Is it the streets full of homeless wretches exactly like ourselves or that my sister’s rotten husband is likely to sell us like chattel?”

  “Papa wouldn’t sell ye!” Clare gasped, clasping at her lace collar. “And if there’s people left in the streets it’s ‘cause they got no relatives to claim ‘em. Yers is not the first village displaced here by raiders,” Clare swallowed nervously. “They’ve no fathers or brothers, not even a cousin! What can we possibly do for them?”

  “You can feed them!” Mama spat back bitterly. “You can take them in from the cold and the heat. You can allow them to rebuild their shattered lives!”

  “Mama, please—” Sara begged from her knees. “You’re not well.”

  “Don’t you take that tone with me,” Mama shushed. Her demonic eyes turned momentarily onto Sara, who quailed at their fury. She spun back to Clare. “I had seven babes and a husband all needing food, but there was always enough to share with a stranger in need.”

  Clare’s chest heaved as she struggled to breathe under Mama’s fiery gaze. A line of sweat appeared on her forehead.

  “Mama, please stop, you’re too weak to talk.” Sara pleaded. She gestured kindly towards Clare, who was patting her sweaty forehead dry. “Our kind and generous cousin cannot change the way this city works for us. This is our life now.”

  “This is our life now,” Mama repeated, turning her fearsome gaze out the window. “This place will destroy us.”

  While they all watched, her stare transformed from frightening to vacant. Sara shook her head violently at this, unwilling to lose her parent to the quiet once more. “Mama?” she beseeched, wringing her mother’s wrist. “Mama, please come back. Please don’t leave us.”

  The room watched dumbly as Sara, kneeling at her mother’s feet, pleaded and caressed, but to no avail. Clare, feeling extremely uncomfortable, thought she could be of help by sharing words of encouragement.

  “It must be difficult to understand a city like this after living in such a small village,” Clare chattered nervously. Sara, still kneeling, looked back at her cousin with somewhat resentful, tear-ringed eyes. “Ye’ll soon see that this is a far superior kind of place. There’s a noble family who condescends to entertain the better merchant families. My friends and I dined with them once in the uppertown! The ladies had jewels all up in their hair! I had never seen anything so fine. Oh, and our theatre is visited twice yearly by a troupe from Quillain City, and by a puppet group in the spring. There are very fine seamstresses who know all of the latest styles. Ye can’t wear the dresses out in the streets, but I have a gown for the next tradesman’s ball that I sometimes put on in the mornings, just to see it. I’ll show it to ye. Ye’ll think it very fine! Indeed, there’s much to enjoy if yer fathers or husbands will allow it.”

  While Clare jabbered endlessly on, Rose heard her name clearly shouted from outside. She turned suddenly, knocking her chair to the ground.

  “Benson?” she called to the street.

  Partly because of her magical motion sickness and partly because of the nauseating conversation in the sitting room, Rose became sick upon the floor.

  “Goodness!” gasped Clare.

  “Rose, that’s disgusting!” cried Sara from Mama’s side.

  “Honey,” Clare rushed to her, an offered cloth in hand, “are ye alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Rose replied, spurning the offer and wiping her mouth on her stained wool sleeve. “Where is Benson? I was just with him, but…the air was coming to pieces and we got separated.”

  “Ye should rest too,” Clare said knowingly, attempting to guide Rose by the arm. “Ye’re not well at all.”

  “I said I’m fine,” Rose said bluntly, shaking off Clare’s grasp. “Just tell me where he went.”

  “He’s not here,” Sara snapped, placing a protective hand on their mother.

  “Wow, you mean he’s not hiding under the tea tray? Thank you, Sara, for stating the obvious,” Rose snapped back. “I know he’s not here, that’s why I’m asking.”

  “Rose,” Sara began, “Benson is d—”

  “Ugh, never mind! I should know better than to ask you.” Rose threw up her arms, “You’re all useless. I’m going to go find him myself.”

  “You can’t find him,” Sara said, beginning to feel frightened. “He’s—”

  “Stop!” Rose yelled with the force to silence them all. “Benson would never go where I couldn’t follow. You’re just not looking hard enough.”

  With this, she ran from the room, weaving unsteadily. Sara shivered in the afternoon heat and Mama remained unmoving, not even having flinched.

  “Is she mad?” asked a scandalized cousin Clare.

  * * * * *

  True madness is like an unsustainable whirlwind that builds and builds until, too confusing and wild to bear, it crashes dramatically to an end. Rose, having misplaced the barrier between herself and everyone else, was nearing the point at which a dramatic end was inevitable.

  Tossed about on the ever more turbulent winds of magical energy, Rose found great difficulty in remaining where she was—walking through the narrow stone streets of Portridge, eyeing the beggars who stared at her hungrily from where they lay.

  The winds she had been fighting these weeks, the ones that wanted to pull her onto the ship at sea or back into the flower-painted sitting room, became too much to end
ure. Rose gave in. She let herself slide in and out of these places freely, searching for the tree, the river, and the boy she missed so desperately. His laughter echoed everywhere, but he could not be found.

  * * * * *

  As Rose looked on, two men approached the brooding figure of her Captain. He watched with growing anger as his ship passed dangerously close to one of the countless towering spires of unforgiving stone that had turned the ocean inlet into a labyrinth. He reached out and touched the rocky tower, craning his neck to see the top.

  As they passed this spire and shifted towards a slim U-shaped stone formation, the sailor who had threatened a mutiny approached them. Unaware she was doing so, Rose poured her unease of him into the Captain.

  “Kaille,” Jas Hawkesbury called as he approached, “we are preparing to make berth in a city called Portridge.”

  “Yes,” said the Captain tersely, back turned towards the invader. “I had noticed the change of scenery. Tell me, Hawkesbury, at what hour did my ship cease following my orders?”

  “Begging your pardon, Captain,” Jas interjected dryly, “but what orders?”

  “You unbelievable scoundrel,” Kaille snarled. He turned from the maze of stone spires to face Hawkesbury. “You have always wanted a ship, and I suppose you have finally decided to take mine.”

  “A man has room in his heart for only true love, Eli,” Jas shook his head with a sigh. “As dear as the Turnagain is to me, she is not the one.”

  “So, what, you risk my ship—my livelihood—in these rock infested waters on a lark?” Kaille’s ire rose. “Did you see how close the hull came to contact with that last pinnacle? It is a miracle we have sustained no damage, and look how many are still ahead! What of that thin passage? We shall not fit!”

  “We shall,” Jas said, smiling conspiratorially. He raised a finger to his lips and pulled from his pocket a roughly drawn map. “I am navigating under the most secret instructions.”

  Jas handed the map to his Captain. It looked as though a child had drawn it in no discernible scale, and yet the mad maze of tall rocky towers matched, map to marker.