Drowned Wednesday

Eight

ARTHUR HARDLY FELT the Moth's initial impact with the beach. The deck shuddered a little under him, but he was sitting down with his bad leg straight out and he had a very firm grip on an iron cleat next to the rail.

More serious shudders followed, as the ship ground its way up and through the deep sand. Arthur watched the masts carefully, and though they shivered and the rigging rattled and a few ropes and blocks fell down, nothing worse occurred.

After a few more yards" progress, the Moth gave a final creaking groan and slid forward no more. It sat upright for a few moments, then slowly heeled over till the deck was at an angle of twenty degrees. Arthur wondered if it was going to go over completely on its side, but the deep sand around the hull held it in place.

Amazingly, not one of the crew appeared to have dropped his or her teacup. While Arthur gingerly crawled to the side and looked over at the blue sand, Ichabod went and got a cup of tea to offer to Arthur.

Arthur drank it gratefully, though it was very strong, very sweet, and very milky. When the cup was empty, he handed it back to Ichabod, who asked, "More?"

"Yes, please," said Arthur. He was quite surprised when Ichabod simply handed the cup straight back, but the cup was full again. Strangely, this time the tea was black and, while still sweet, had been made so by something like treacle. Arthur drank it anyway.

"Just say 'more" if you want more," Ichabod explained. He handed Arthur a biscuit and added, "Similarly, as long as you have a crumb left of biscuit, just say 'more" and you'll get another one. Till afternoon tea is over, which is in about five minutes by my reckoning."

Arthur nodded and concentrated on the business of drinking and eating, with occasional, mouth-full mumblings of 'more".

Precisely five minutes later by Arthur's backwards watch, his cup and half-eaten biscuit disappeared. This disappearance was followed by a stream of bellowed orders from Sunscorch, who had clearly bottled them up till afternoon tea was over. As far as Arthur could gather, the orders related to propping the ship up so it didn't fall over, getting out some anchors, and carrying lots of different things ashore.

Without imminent danger threatening, and with a full, warm stomach, Arthur found himself yawning. His watch said it was ten past ten, but he knew he must have spent more than seven hours (counting backwards) just sitting in that buoy, let alone the time on the bed in the storm.

Remembering the buoy made Arthur look at his hands. The red colour still hadn't come off. It hadn't got any lighter either. It looked deeply ingrained, almost as if it was in the skin, rather than just on it.

"The Red Hand," said Ichabod. "Doctor Scamandros might be able to clear it. Feverfew marks all his treasure caches such. The stain is supposed to last forever. Well, until Feverfew tracks the thief down and exacts his terrible punishment. What were you doing on the buoy anyway?"

"I... I was shipwrecked," said Arthur.

"From the Steelibed," interrupted Sunscorch as he slid down the deck. "Or so you say. The Captain, Mister Concort, and I will want to hear Arth's tale, Ichabod, so hold your questions till dinner. Which will be served ashore, so you can begin by getting the Captain's table on the beach. Arth, you go ashore too, and stay out of the way."

"Aye, aye," said Ichabod, without great enthusiasm.

"And look lively, you loblolly boy."

Being called a loblolly boy made Ichabod both cross and active. Bent over almost double to keep his balance on the tilted deck, he crawled over to the companionway and hustled below. Arthur was left alone.

He wanted to ask Sunscorch some questions, about almost everything, but particularly about the green-sailed ship that had taken up Leaf. But the Second Mate was too busy, shouting orders and stamping about the quarterdeck.

After a few minutes watching the crew, the boy climbed down from the quarterdeck and made his way through the working crowd of Denizens, equipment, and cargo that was being rigged or moved above or through the hatches in the waist of the ship. Eventually he found his way to the forecastle at the front of the vessel. There were several broad rope ladders over each side. Arthur waited for a space in the line of Denizens climbing down with their loads, then carefully lowered himself over the side and climbed down.

It was quite difficult with his leg immobilised by the cast, but he made it. There was still water around the ship, so he splashed into it, and was relieved to find it was very shallow. The blue sand seemed much the same as sand back home. Difficult to walk in, even without a leg in a cast. Arthur found himself imitating one of the Denizens with a wooden leg, not so much walking as stumping his way up the beach.

One of the things the Denizens had brought ashore already was the chest from Feverfew's trove. Arthur walked over to it. It looked ordinary enough, just a big wooden box with bronze reinforcement at each corner and bands of bronze across the lid. He wondered what was inside. What would Feverfew the Pirate value so much?

Arthur sat down and leaned back against the chest. He felt very tired, but he didn't want to go to sleep. He had to work out what to do next. Not that there seemed to be many choices. He felt that he should do something to make sure Leaf was okay, but he couldn't think of anything. And he should try to contact Dame Primus or Suzy. And he should try and get home as soon as possible, but Leaf was right, he ought to sort out Lady Wednesday first and that meant finding the Third Part of the Will, claiming the Third Key...

Arthur's thoughts trailed off into a confused mishmash of different problems and unlikely solutions. His body was too tired, and it had finally got its message through to his brain.

The boy slid farther into the sand and his head slumped down. As the Denizens toiled to lighten the ship by removing cargo and prop her up with spare yards and topmasts, Arthur slept.

He awoke at sundown. At first, he was totally disoriented. Not only was he lying on a blue beach, but there was an enormous vermilion sun sinking into the sea on the horizon. Its weird light mixed with the violet hues of the sea and the blue of the sand sent alarming messages to his brain.

The reason he'd woken was instantly obvious. Doctor Scamandros was sitting next to him, peering at his leg through what looked like a very short telescope. He also had a small bellows with him, a leather-lunged apparatus that looked to Arthur like the original ancestor of an airbed pump.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked suspiciously. He sat up and glared at Scamandros. The doctor looked quite different, though it took Arthur a second to work out why. His animated tattoos were gone, and he was wearing a woolly cap with a long tassel that hung down next to his neck.

"Your leg has been recently broken," said Doctor Scamandros. "And set."

"I know," Arthur replied. His leg was hurting again. He wondered if Scamandros had been prodding it. "That's why it's in a cast. Or was..."

He added the last bit because the ultra-high-tech cast had almost completely fallen apart. There were only thin strips of it remaining, and Arthur could see his pale and puffy skin in the gaps between.

"Usually, I could fix that leg for you," said Doctor Scamandros. "But my examination reveals a very high and unusual level of magical contamination that would resist any direct action to repair the bone. I could, however, equip you with a better brace and exert some small magic that would lessen the pain."

"That would be good," said Arthur hesitantly. "But what do you want in return?"

"Merely your goodwill," said Scamandros with a halfhearted chuckle. He tapped the bellows at his side and added, "Though I understand from Ichabod that you might have a cold? If so, I should like to harvest any sneeze, nose-tickle, or phlegmatic effusion that you feel coming on."

Arthur wrinkled his nose experimentally.

"No, I haven't got a cold. I just thought I might."

Scamandros was looking through his short telescope again, this time at Arthur's chest.

"There is also a disturbance in the interior arrangement of your lungs," he said. "Most interesting. Again, there is magical contamination of a high order, but I think I could probably lessen the underlying condition. Would you like me to proceed?"

"Uh, I'm not sure," said Arthur. He took a breath. He couldn't completely fill his lungs, but it wasn't too bad. "I think I'll wait. It'll be all right when I get back in the House."

"Just the leg brace, then," said Doctor Scamandros. "And amelioration of the pain."

He slid his stubby telescope into one pocket of his greatcoat and, reaching inside, took out a flat tin labelled with the picture of a bright red crab. It had a key stuck to it, which Scamandros now broke off, connected to a tab, and used to wind back the metal lid. There was a whole small crab inside, but the Denizen only broke off one of its legs. He put the leg on the sand and passed his open palm across the tin, which disappeared.

Arthur watched with both curiosity and anxiety as Scamandros picked up the tiny crab leg and held it high in his left hand. A thick carpenter's pencil appeared in his right hand, and he used this to lightly sketch several lines and asterisks on Arthur's leg. Then he clapped his hands, still holding both pencil and crab leg.

The two objects disappeared and at the same time, the remnants of Arthur's modern cast were instantly replaced by an armoured section of red-and-white-speckled crab exoskeleton, jointed at the knee and ankle.

"As for the pain," Scamandros said, scribbling on a piece of paper with a pen that trailed glowing crimson ink, 'take this prescription."

Arthur took the page of heavy, deckle-edged paper. It was very hard to read, but he made it out eventually:

Apply pain-lessening paper to painful area once

Dr. J. R. L. Scamandros, D.H.S.

(Upper House, Failed)

"What does D.H.S. stand for? And... excuse me... why do you put "failed" on it?" Arthur asked as he touched the paper to his leg, directly above the break, where it hurt most. The paper crumbled as he spoke, paper-dust forming a miniature tornado that appeared to go straight through his new cast and into his leg. A moment later, the dull pain there started to ebb.

"It stands for Doctor of House Sorcery," said Scamandros. "A very high degree, which I so very nearly possess. Honesty necessitates me to reveal my failure, but it was only in my final year. Seven hundred and ninety-eight years of successful examinations, only to fall at the end. Politics, you understand! But I do not wish to speak of that.

"Let us talk of you instead, Arth. You hold a magical book of great potency in your pocket, too potent for me to even touch without your leave. Your very flesh and bones reek of past magics. You are found on a buoy of the infamous pirate Feverfew, in the Border Sea of the House. Yet you are a mortal, or mostly so. Tell me, on what world in the Secondary Realms do you make your home?"

Arthur almost answered "Earth," but restrained himself just in time. Scamandros had certainly helped him, but there was something about the look in his piercing brown eyes that made Arthur think the fewer secrets he knew the better.

"Passenger Arth! The Captain's compliments, and you are to join him for a beachside supper!"

Ichabod's call was very welcome. Arthur struggled to his feet, pleasantly surprised to find that his leg was well supported by the crab armour. Scamandros helped him find his balance.

"We shall speak more, and soon, Arth," the Doctor said. Arthur noticed that his tattoos were starting to crawl across his face again, emerging from the skin like a blush. The Denizen leaned in close as Arthur started to step away, and added, "Or should I say Arthur, Master of the Lower House and Lord of the Far Reaches?"