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  Well Plaid

  (Instruments of Piece, #3)

  Grear’s arrow whizzed past trees, clipping a branch and ricocheting off a stone wall, before spearing the belly of its target. The bag of a bagpipe. With a slow, steady hiss the air in the bag began to leak, right below Blair's heart.

  He gritted his teeth as he clenched his meaty fist around the arrow and pulled it out. Sputtering, he brought the arrow to his nose to take a closer look, then stormed off into the woods to find its owner.

  "That's the fourth time this week" he grumbled. He swung his head from side to side, growing angrier with each step. "Who did this? Come out!"

  Two eyes peeked out from behind a tree.

  Blair halted. "Well, then. Show your face and explain yourself."

  The head behind the tree disappeared. Taking a deep breath, Grear straightened her shoulders and stepped to the left. She held her bow in her hand and wore a scowl on her face.

  "What do you think you're—” The air left Blair's cheeks, leaving them deflated, just like the bag. His lips pressed together. He squinted, looking his attacker up and down. "Why, you're just a mite of a girl."

  Grear's lower lip jutted forward, her eyes focused on the arrow.

  "I imagine you'd like this back," said Blair. He twirled the arrow with his fingers. "But first, tell me, what is your war with my instrument? You ruined my afternoon practice. Again."

  "It sounded horrible," said Grear, eyeing the arrow. "You leave long breaks between your notes—they’re loud and shrill...and pitchy and..." Looking Blair squarely in the eyes, she said, "You could use a lot more practice."

  The arrow stopped twirling and stood dead still. "You don't like my music?"

  Grear clasped her hands over her ears and spewed forth a raspberry.

  Blair had half a mind to snap her arrow in half. Instead, he tucked it underneath his arm and pulled from his satchel a needle strung with heavy brown thread. While he mended the puncture wound inflicted by Grear, he counted the scars that the bag had accumulated. This operation sealed the fourth.

  Satisfied with the fix, Blair set the needle aside and held out Grear's arrow. "It would help with my practicing if you saved your arrows for the squirrels and mice." Frowning, he left the arrow in her hand and went on his way.

  ***

  That night Grear had a miserable time falling asleep. She tossed and turned, as if trying to rest comfortably on a straw tick stuffed with needles and pins. When she finally passed out, her dreams pressed in on her—dreams of Blair. She saw the hurt on his face when she'd insulted his playing, and the scars on the bag that she had caused. Both were squashed and deflated, insufferable and sad.

  Grear woke up the next morning, guilty and sore, fully knowing what she must do. For that, she needed the plaid from her bed, a needle and thread, and a knife. Once she gathered each of the necessary items, Grear laid out the plaid—her favorite tartan blanket—across a low tree stump. She smoothed out the fabric of woven wool, the weathered threads of which were dyed green, wine, and gold. With steady strokes of the knife, she cut off a deep corner of the plaid and shaped it to the right size. Then, with stitches as small and stiff as her own small, stiff self, she sewed the plaid so it formed a cover that matched the dimensions of Blair's bagpipe bag.

  She held a hand to her ear and listened. Off in the distance, she heard a whine, then a screech, followed by a torrent of buzzing that hiccupped wildly out of tune. It was time. Grear slipped the plaid over her shoulder along with her bag of arrows. With bow in hand, she ran to her hiding place and waited.

  When she couldn't take it any longer, she steadied her bow, pulled back the string and let an arrow fly. This time the arrow stuck in a tree, mere inches away from Blair's head.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Blair stumbled backward, red-faced. His eyes grew wide as he studied the arrow; from it, hung a tartan cover. Warily, he pulled the arrow from the tree and stretched the cover across his bagpipe bag. "What is the meaning of this?" he said again, this time in a whisper.

  Grinning, Grear stepped out of her hiding place and drew nearer. "It's a well plaid. Put it over your bagpipe bag and it will make it well."

  "Did you make this? For me?"

  She nodded.

  Blair covered the bag with the plaid, admiring its colors and perfect fit. "Thank you," he said, mystified. "But why?"

  Grear smiled, pleased by how the plaid covered the bag's scars, knowing she would sleep better that night. "Go on," she said. "Try it."

  The cover gave Blair a better grip on the bag, the leather of which had become slippery and worn from years of being passed down from hand to hand.

  "I will," he said. "And I promise to practice with it every single day."

  Queen of the Small Seas

  (A Short Story)

  Glimmers of light emphasized the creases of a crone’s forehead as she passed a wand back and forth along the figure of a baby. The child thrashed and cooed and then closed her eyes.

  “Sleep now, young one. You will be needed once the king falls.”

  The crone scooped the baby with withered hands, her nails black with gore. Caught in the middle of her task of bleeding fowl, she hadn’t washed. The nursemaid’s call demanded priority.

  “I can’t believe a woman of Queen Isra’s strength died during childbirth,” said the nurse. She slumped on a chair carved from a tree stump.

  The crone mashed her lips together over toothless gums. “It’s as common as a father rejecting the birth of a daughter, eh?” With the baby wedged in one arm, she tore open a sack of flour. A spray of powder mushroomed from the bag. “How many years does King Ezrek have left?”

  The nurse sneezed and swatted at the cloud with her handkerchief. “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Then I shall modify the enchantment.”

  With the gentleness of a mother tucking her child in at night, the crone began to slide the baby inside the sack. Tongues of flame flickered from candles crowding the room, casting a yellow-orange glow on the newborn’s skin as she disappeared into the sack.

  “Queen Isra chose a name for a male child,” said the nurse. She yawned, lulled by the dance of candlelight. “What do we call her?”

  The crone dipped a finger in a basin of fowl’s blood. With the tip of her nail, she scribbled a word across the baby’s forehead.

  “Maya,” the nurse read, crumpling her nose.

  Without wiping her hands, the crone picked up her wand and swirled it above the flour sack. “Maya, child, it will be easier if you stay this size. As you age, you’ll develop into a lovely young woman. But you must hide.”

  With a flip of the wand, the edges of the sack the crone had torn began to reseal.

  “And you must stay small.” The bag closed further.

  The crone flicked the wand one last time, sealing the baby inside. “Until we’re ready for your return.”

  “Are you sure,” said the nurse, “that this is the wisest choice?”

  “There is no other choice.”

  Inside the bag, the baby twitched.

  A tiny hand rubbed an eye and then smeared blood from the left edge of her forehead, blotting out a single letter. Unknown to the crone or the nurse, the baby settled into a deep slumber with the marking on her forehead forever changed.

  ***

  Sixteen Years Later

  The point of May’s needle glistened in the sun before sideswiping to the left and missing the nose of her opponent. Her pupils shrank to pinpoints, enhancing iris-colored irises. Nostrils flared.

  “Dare ye dodge again, Scallywag?”

  May grabbed a fistful of curls and crushed them back inside her headscarf. She sucked in a breath, backed up three steps, and charged again.

  Scallywag, unarmed, twitched his whiskers.

  “Rogue! Devil! Rascal!” She advanced with each insult. Yet the darting of her feet across the ship’s planks made no discernable sound.

  The whip of her needle went unnoticed by the m
en who passed alongside and above the dueling pair. No one looked on, except a parrot—orange and gold, hook-billed, and slightly larger than May. The parrot lowered his head and then shook it back and forth.

  May ignored him as she continued her assault. “This will be th’ last time ye board this ship, ye moochin’ Bilge Rat!”

  “I’m not certain he appreciated the pun,” said the parrot.

  “I found ’im eatin’ our provisions, Swig. That’s all the food we have until the next pillagin’.” May gritted her teeth as she backed her opponent into a corner. “Feed the fish, ye will!”

  The rat’s ears twitched. It wrapped his tail around its face to cover its eyes.

  “See, now you’ve scared him. You weren’t this vicious when I first found you.”

  “Swig! Not that ol’ fairytale again. Who d’ye think believes such flotsam?”

  “Anybody who’s set eyes on you, dear.”

  May squared her shoulders and lunged at the rat. “Arr!”

  Swig cringed at the squeal that ensued. He averted his eyes from the slaughter, remembering the night he’d found a baby inside a sack of flour plundered from Sprite Island. That day, sixteen years earlier, Swig began believing in fairytales.

  May had changed over the years, as any woman would, except that she wasn’t of a regular size. Her proportions were ordinary; her sixteen-year-old body was thin, rounded, and fair. But she was no taller than she’d been as a baby. At only nine inches high, May had been the smallest newborn Swig had ever seen, tinier than most preemies. The girl was as delicate as a doll but more vicious than a rabid raccoon.

  Swig blamed the pirates.

  “Ahoy, May!” A leather boot crashed down alongside the girl, swiftly enough to crush her. “Ye caught another one, have ye? That’s me girl. Th’ ship’s finest huntress.”

  The compliment tingled May from headscarf to boot heels. His girl. Her cheeks flamed as she tried not to stare too long at the familiar smirk, accented by a scar to the left of his lower lip.

  Swig rolled his eyes. “This is not a proper place for a lady, Daniel. You’ve taught her to cuss, to fight—” His feathers ruffled as he glanced at the rat’s carcass. “You’ve turned her into a killer.”

  Daniel’s grin widened. He tightened his tail of dark locks. Like May, he wore a headscarf, knee breeches, and a shirt belted with leather. “Captain raised us together. En’t that so, May?” He bent down and opened his hand.

  May stepped up onto his palm. “Aye, he did.”

  “If ye have a problem with that, Swig, best ye speak to th’ captain.”

  “Will your leader officiate the wedding as well? Or is May free to choose as she pleases?”

  Daniel’s eyes bugged out. The laugh that followed bounced May up and down. She held out her arms for balance. She wanted to laugh with him, but she was too busy trying not to fall.

  “Flotsam, Swig! I can’t marry her.”

  Every drop of the pint of blood in May’s body turned to ice.

  “And why not?”

  “She’s barely half the size of me forearm. A man needs a relationship—of th’ physical kind.” With a wink and a snigger, he added “Imposs—”

  Daniel jumped, shouting curses of flotsam, jetsam, scabs, and dung. His hand flew up, bloodied and throbbing with pain.

  May fell from the pirate’s hand to the floor, her landing softened by a wing of orange feathers. She scowled at Daniel as he stomped off, leaving her insulted and unarmed.

  “Forget him,” said Swig. “And the needle.”

  ***

  Rays of sunlight danced across a swaying horizon where the sun met the sea. May’s elbows sank into her knees, her cheeks cupped in her palms. She sat with her legs swinging over the edge of a boat, keeping watch as it rocked from side to side.

  Moments ago, the boat had been the captain’s dory, a fishing boat measuring sixteen feet long. To the captain’s misfortune, he’d roped the dory on the outside of the ship, not far above the water. To May’s great fortune, Swig had a beak that cut through rope as easily as it cracked nuts and seeds.

  “Where d’we go? Life aboard th’ Water Lily is all I’ve ever known.”

  Swig perched next to May. “We’ll go where the water takes us.”

  “But th’ captain—we’re deserters, en’t we? We won’t be welcomed back.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a desertion per se. It’s more of an escape. You weren’t born a pirate, May. The pirates stole you when they robbed food from your homeland. I refuse to believe you weren’t meant for greater things.”

  May’s lips formed the tiniest of smiles. “I bet ye say that to everyone ye find in a flour sack.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder where someone of your unique stature came from—what it all means?”

  “No more amazin’ than a bird that speaks.”

  Swig huffed. “It’s not an unusual trait for a parrot.”

  May smirked as she stretched a section of fishnet found inside the boat. She slung one end through a hook and hitched it. She’d learned how to tie knots from Daniel. A knot of equal strength formed in her stomach.

  Stiffly, she looped another knot at the other end of the net for a bed swing. Swig was right. She must forget Daniel and the Water Lily. At least she had Swig, even if he was a bossy know-it-all bird. Trust was hard enough to come by when all her human friends were pirates.

  Comfortably tucked in for the night, May stared at the sea until the last fingers of sunlight faded into dusk. “Unique,” she said, tasting the word as she drifted off to sleep.

  She stirred the next morning to sounds of dolphins laughing. Swirls of spinning noses and tails flipped alongside the boat. Swig glided up above to dodge the splashes and sprays of water.

  May rubbed her eyes and inhaled the freshness of the open sea. “Where are we? D’ye see land ahead?”

  “Not yet. Although, the dolphins seem to be creating a reverse wake that’s driving us somewhere.”

  “En’t that strange?” said May, peeking over the side of the boat. The water surrounding the dolphins rippled forward, the way a wake—a type of wave created by a boat passing through water—would have, only it ran in the opposite direction.

  The nose of the nearest dolphin turned toward her. With a laugh, it flipped backward, creating a silver blur of tailfin and water droplets.

  “I don’t believe the dolphins would do that for just anyone.”

  “Huh, yeah,” said May. She wiped seawater from her cheeks and forehead. The water’s saltiness reminded her how thirsty she was. Her stomach grumbled. “D’ye think they can help us find breakfast?”

  “That would be something, but I think not. For now, it’s all the sea air and sunshine we can absorb.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t gorge ye’self. Told ye we should’ve stolen some of th’ captain’s stores.”

  “That sounds like something a pirate would do.”

  “I en’t a pirate.” May sighed, squeezing her arms across her rumbling stomach. “Not no more.”

  Swig dipped his head. “Perhaps we should work on your speech, then.” He flew downward, landing in front of May. “Let’s try again. Repeat after me: I am no longer a pirate.”

  May’s lips twitched. “I yem no lun-ger a pirate,” she said, testing out the words.

  “Again. This time, less swarthy.”

  The frown that followed would have made Swig’s cheeks pink, if that were possible. He raised his wings in a placating gesture. “I realize you grew up among men and boys, but you don’t need to sound like one. You, my dear, are a lady.”

  “A lady,” repeated May, her eyes wide. She remembered watching what the pirates called ladies from afar. After a good plunder, one that covered more than provisions, ammunition, and fuel, the captain pocketed some of the gold before divvying it among the crew. The pirates of the Water Lily weren’t fond of saving their pay; they spent it right away. Mostly at parties with food, women, and drink.

  May wrinkled her nose. The wom
en at the merrymakings smelled like stale ale and rotting flowers. But a lady...She’d seen one once.

  Years ago, per their usual routine, Daniel had carried May to a party in his satchel. She’d listened to the music and carousing as she’d peered through an opening in the bag.

  “See that, May?” he said, his voice low. “Th’ captain’s got his eye on th’ rich man sittin’ at th’ table. Even his buttons be made of gold. Bet ye they play at cards t’night. Th’ captain will win, ye know. Then we’ll have a real party.”

  May smiled from inside the satchel, nestled against the lower left side of Daniel’s abdomen, where she felt the rise and fall of each breath he took. She kept still, careful not to draw attention to herself by jingling his ration of gold coins. She feared her discovery would lead to a new life, one as a dancing monkey. Only the captain knew why her oddity hadn’t already been used for that purpose.

  She observed the rich man. Unlike Daniel’s, the rich man’s belly was round. The gold buttons on his vest strained against the fabric, looking like they’d pop off at any moment.

  May patted her own stomach, flat in the middle, the bones of her lower ribs sticking out against her skin. “What’re ye goin’ to buy with yer gold?”

  She felt his ribs rise as he shrugged. “Ale, maybe rum. Did ye bring yer tankard?”

  A brass thimble poked out of the satchel. “Aye!” she said, in her best stage whisper.

  Daniel gave the satchel a gentle squeeze and chuckled.

  While waiting in line for drinks, May and Daniel learned that the rich man had a daughter with him. She, too, had a taste for rum. Her gaze rested on Daniel longer than May would have dared. Shining eyes reflected a taste...for Daniel.

  May felt his heartbeat quicken and instantly felt jealous and then thirsty. Daniel talked up the lady instead of filling May’s thimble. Seething, May took an inventory of the lady’s features, finding all of them superior to her own. Unlike the brown curls trapped beneath her headscarf, the lady had locks that were flaxen and smooth. Her clothes were finer and her features more delicate, despite her larger, regular-sized frame. May gritted her teeth. Even the lady’s fine words had a softness to them.