Page 1 of Of Magic and Rum
Atlantis is dying. And when I dove to the depths to defend it, the last thing I expected was a portal catapulting me to another place or time. I still can’t fathom that the Charybdis followed me. My legs still feel the vacuum of its strong pull, my ears ring with the echoes of its jaws snapping with rows of vicious teeth. It’s a creature I can’t handle alone, so I did the only thing I could—swam as if my life depended on it. And this island is my savior. Only now, I can’t feel Atlantis’ heartbeat, nor sense its ethereal thrum.
I’ve landed on my knees, fingers digging into the wet sand. Now my eyes can’t seem to open from fear of what orwhoI’ll see. Salty scents laced with hints of coconut greet my nose. A flock of seagulls caw and squawk as they fly overhead. The rolling water hitting against the bank echoes from my left. Agust of wind rustles my soaked dress, carrying murmurs of overlapping voices from somewhere nearby. It’s enough to make every muscle in my body tense. But when a man’s voice shouts—the distance entirely too close for comfort—my eyes fly open, and I scurry across the sand to seek shade under a palm tree.
My heart pounds against my rib cage, my mind racing and reeling as I take in my surroundings. I’m in some place—tropical? A massive harbor butts against a scattered group of buildings some distance away, and an exceptionally tall ship sails into port.
A tall ship? The modern mortal world has made progress in its maritime vessels, andthatis no fishing vessel.
My gaze falls to the luminescent blue scales on my arms glimmering with the sunlight, and I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking. As a sea nymph, water is both my blessing and curse—ifI wished to be amongst humans undetected. Every ocean, sea, and lake is my home, and I thrive in them, breathe better in them, and swim with the aquatic life. But on land, when water touches my skin, my scales reveal themselves, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
I remain under the guise and protection of the palm tree with my arms curled around my knees. All I can do is wait for my skin to dry, for the scales to disappear, and pray no one walks past. The docked ship raises an anchor, and blurs of a dozen people on board hurry across the deck, pulling ropes to mount the sails. Another body swings from the crow’s nest, effortlessly hopping from riggings and mast like a monkey.
WhereamI?
I’ve lived for nearly a thousand years, my father even more so, and nothing has happened like this with Atlantis since its creation. My father wouldn’t let it. He couldn’t.
I press a fingertip to my forehead. Relief washes over me when met with smooth skin instead of scaly ridges. And beforeI rise to my feet to explore, I touch my ears—round and human, not webbed. I’m dry enough to pose as one of them, but I can’t risk anyone seeing me in my Atlantean robes. I’ll need to find clothes andfast.
A sandy path jutting between a thicket of bushes and palm trees leads into the town at the top of a hill. Ducking, I weave through the trees, gaze shifting from behind me and back to the front rapidly. I’m steps away from the town’s threshold when a man carrying several wired cages filled with chickens shuffles past me, his attention elsewhere. I leap to the confines of a palm tree, willing the width of my body to mirror that of the tree, but I don’t own such magic. Instead, I go still and slowly sink to rest my butt on my heels, my back pressing against the trunk so harshly, its grooves dig into my skin through the dress fabric. To my delight, the Chicken Man scoffs at someone and turns back in the direction he came.
No sooner is the coast clear, I scurry to the next best hiding spot behind a wheelbarrow stacked high with hay. A pair of trousers hang to dry on a rope drawn from a protruding beam of a quaint hut. Without remorse, I yank the garment, thankful it’s no longer wet, and duck behind the pile of hay. I tear the bottom portion of my dress away, leaving only my silk linen undergarments on my lower half, and shimmy into the dingy brown trousers. They’re too wide and long for me, but they’ll make do after several folds at the hips and ankles.
As I keep my head held low and avoid eye contact with people passing by, it becomes more difficult to pinpoint where I am. Humans in a myriad of skin tones, ages, sizes, and features surround me, their numerous overlapping languages and accents bombarding my ears. There are also numerous languages bombarding my ears. Concentrating on the grooves in the skewed wooden planks that make up the walking paths, I letthe accents settle against my mind. If I’m to get home,ifI can get home, I’ll need to blend in for now.
Homesickness is already striking nausea in my gut. I may never see my family again—my father and brother.
Rhode. Concentrate.
Pressing a thumb between my eyes, I mumble to myself, picking out the English-speaking accents the most before, finally, a hybrid of British and Irish flutters from my lips. It’ll do. It has to. Every man that passes seems to leer at me too long for comfort. Given the few women I’ve seen wear corsets and skirts with days’ worth of dirt staining their cheeks, I must stand out like a sheep in a wolf pack.
I dart to a soil patch with potatoes growing from its bed in front of a nearby house and drop to my knees, digging my fingers into the dirt to cake some underneath my nails and rub it on my cheeks. A man with gray, stringy hair and only one eye, the other covered in a brown eye patch, stops and stares at me.
I run with it because I already look like I’m sailing without a compass. “Pardon me, good sir, but would you mind telling me the year?”
“What?” The man croaks, raising a hand to one ear.
I clear my throat and stand, bits of dirt flying from my knees. “The year,” I say louder.
“Aye, itisa good year.” The man smiles with a singular tooth.
For the love of?—
Squinting from the unrelenting sun above us, I dust my hands and move closer. “I seem to have forgotten what year it is.” I pull on my sleeves. “I—I can’t read either.”
The man’s face softens, and deep grooves form in his cheeks as he frowns. “You poor child.” He presses a pitying hand over his heart. “The year be seventeen nineteen. And it’s a good, good year.” The man grins before waving and shuffling off, saying hello to every person he passes.
1719. The eighteenth century. The tall ships. The crystal-clear blue waters. The palm trees.
I continue to walk, my mind reeling at the possibilities, so distracted that I gasp when my hip bumps against a rickety wooden sign reading Nassau.
Bahamas. In the eighteenth century. These people. Most of them are—pirates. And this is theRepublicof Pirates.
Immediately spurring thoughts of the violence construed by pirates both by firearm and blade, I splay my hand at my side but pause. The only weapon I can conjure at will is my Atlantean sword—forged with metals that don’t exist in the mortal realm and most certainly don’t resemble any used in this century. I drop my hand at my side with a gruff sigh. It isn’t often I feel so vulnerable despite my powers.
But I can’t use my powers in the open and must arm myself. Stealing clothes drying on a line is one thing, but stealing a knife is another matter. Granted, as a child, I’d always steal—mostly from ships on the surface, their crews none the wiser. I hid a chest under some abandoned cargo debris on the shore, filling it with everything I managed to “borrow”—forks, rope, dresses, lanterns, smoking pipes, and the like. My brother caught me once adding a pewter plate, and I swore him to secrecy because father would’ve harpooned me if he’d found out. Dear old Dad never did find my hoard.
On a ship, everyone is usually distracted by their assigned duties. Land takes a bit more finesse—especially in a port with this much activity and dozens of wandering eyes. My fingers play at the cowrie shell hanging from a piece of twine wrapped around my wrist, and I force myself to stop my nervous twitch. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my clammy palms on my trousers and reach the town’s center. As an old friend said, walking confidently makes you far more inconspicuous. In some cases, you could become nearly invisible.
My eyes dart to empty belt after belt with no knives or swords. I’ll even settle for a blunderbuss. I can figure out how to use it if a situation arises for it. Finally, resting on a pirate’s hip, an unobtrusive accessory to his frock coat, sash, and tri-corner hat, is a dirk knife—small and primarily used for throwing, but with my petite hands, it’ll suit fine.
