"Outwitted (Part 12)" an original work of fiction for #365daysofwri...

This is today's offering (day 163) for @mydivathings' #365daysofwriting challenge (click here to see her current post)

Today's picture prompt (below) is a Photo by Alex Holyoake on Unsplash

Pewds said later, that as he nursed me back to health, the thing that most scared him was what he would say to my father when he met him in the Life After, if he had let me die. I remember laughing and telling him that my father hadn’t believed in the gods, or the Life After. Of course, he hadn’t really believed in magic either, and I now knew that to be real. Perhaps my father had been wrong about many other things, too. I think he thought everything could be explained if one thought rationally about it.

The trip to the Desert Lands had begun - at least for me - with such wonder and excitement. I had never been on a ship before. It was the first time I had been on the ocean, although not the first time I had been on water: I had taken our leaky old row boat out onto the lake hundreds of times, of course.

When I arrived at the port the sheer size of everything just left me speechless. The ship was so big, it made my father’s library - by far the biggest building constructed at that time in the city - look like a potting shed. And the ocean. Wow! I stood on the deck of the ship and looked out and saw nothing but water as far as I could see. I felt so small. And yet filled with such a hunger to learn, to explore.

A few days into the journey I remember feeling proud (a pride that was to come and bite me viciously on the arse, later on the trip when I was simultaneously projecting fluids out of both ends) that I had not succumbed to the sickness caused by the rolling motion of the water beneath us. Poor Pewds spent much of the trip on the deck, clutching the side, either throwing up or looking like he was going to. I took the opportunity to explore the ship, irritating the sailors by asking questions about what this rope did, why did they have to do that, and how they knew where they were going.

In the end I found the captain - or perhaps he found me, no doubt he had been looking for the annoying little squirt who was interrupting the work of his sailors with irritating questions - and I followed him into his large room. In the centre of the room sat a large table, upon which were maps and other documents, and instruments, that the captain later explained helped him calculate where the ship was, and where it was going.

On one wall were shelves that contained row upon row of bottles. They had labels upon them that I had never seen before. I stood staring at them, trying to decipher the strange words and symbols. Most of them I could see where simple alcohols, although nothing like the spirits we had at home. Some of them, I could tell, were not. There were infusions of herbs, and mixtures of potions. And in one large jar that sat at the back, I was fairly sure I could see floating within it a small cloud of sparkling dust.

As I stood gaping in wonder, the ship must have hit a particularly large wave, for the room lurched suddenly and I lost my balance, falling to the floor. As I picked myself up, I noticed something very curious. The bottles on the shelves had not moved. At least, not significantly. There was a delightful ting-ting-ting sound of glass touching glass, but they had not slipped off the shelf, smashing to the floor with a crash, as they surely should have done.

The captain laughed as he helped me up and slapped me roughly on the back.

“You’ll get used to the movement of the ship, boy,” he said. He noticed my fascination with the bottles. “Ahh,” he chuckled. “You’ve noticed that have you? Go on,” he pushed me towards the shelf. “Grab one of those bottles.” I looked at him. His eyes twinkled with the same smile that played upon his lips. Mindful of my balance, I walked up to the shelves and reached up for a bottle containing what I thought was a rare herb I had seen in my studies. The herb was only found in one mountain region on the other side of the Desert Lands. It was reportedly used by the local priests to reach across to the Life After and communicate with those who had passed over. As my hand neared the bottle I felt something. There was a resistance to the air, it felt like pushing your hand into a ball of soft bread dough.

From behind me, the captain laughed. “I’m the only captain on these seas to have a fully stocked bar and medicine cupboard,” he said.

I moved closer and, using what little art I had at that time, I reached out with the power. And got an answer.

“You use the power to hold these bottles in place?” I said, my voice betraying my wonder and admiration.

The captain laughed again. “Not I,” he said, joining me and pushing his hand through the thick air and grabbing a bottle. Looking closely I could see a slight sparkle and the bottle made a sucking noise as he pulled it through. “No, this was done in return for passage, some weeks ago.” He pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a slug of a dark alcoholic liquid. He offered me the bottle, but I refused with a shake of my head. “There are some who fear this kind of thing,” he said. “Some of the lads, won’t come in here,” he nudged me, and winked. “Which is a good thing: anything that keeps them away from my stash. They says they don’t understand it, and they don’t like it. But I says to them, ‘do you understand all the mechanisms that keeps this ship from sinking to the bottom of the ocean?’ and of course, they shakes their head. ‘I don’t understand this, neither,’ I says. “But it keeps my bottles from falling, so I’m good with it!’” The captain laughed again.

I tried to understand how it was done. Not so much the thickening of the air: that is a simple trick, any novice can master. But how was it maintained? I marveled at the art, and wished I could meet the man who had done it. He could teach me much, I realised. More than Pewds ever could.

I asked the captain if he could tell me the name of the man who had worked such magic. Or if not his name, at least describe him.

The captain took another glug from his bottle and then pushed it back though the syrupy air and back onto the shelf. He turned to me and slapped me on the back.

“Oh it wasn’t a man,” he said, chuckling. “It was a young lady. Dark hair - like yours - a few years older perhaps.”

Mathilde, I thought. Of course, it was Mathilde.

...

Part 13: @felt.buzz/outwitted-part-thirteen-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-365daysofwriting-challenge

"Outwitted (Part 12)" an original work of fiction for #365daysofwriting challenge