It had once been a willow.
Capricho doused sail and, coasting alongside, leaped from the skiff. He grabbed hold of a dangling root, climbed it like a rope. Fire lanced his grip—the root burned his palms like acid. He swung a leg over the ledge, released the cursed thing, and stood. The root snaked away, wormed down into the cracks again.
He approached the jagged stump. Its roots constricted in response; rubble tumbled into the water. The thing was tree no more. It clutched and cracked and choked the rock in violation of what once had been a glorious tree with arching green branches that swayed gently to the tempo of the wind. Now, it was as brown and blackened as a bloodthirsty leech refusing to release its hold. Capricho's chest constricted tight. How could the thing of his fondest memories have become so hideous over time? How could he have let it twist and defile itself into such a monstrosity?
Capricho pulled his sword from its scabbard, the sound of steel ringing out. In response, the stump snapped a root at Capricho like a whip. It struck his cheek, drawing blood, and the pain shocked him. The living tree was gone, and yet it had no desire to yield or to die—it just sought to crush and destroy, rooted in its place.
The root lashed again. Capricho dodged, gripped his rapier with with both hands, brought it down with a chop. The air filled with the shriek of red hot steel being quenched; the severed root writhed upon the stone, scoring it with acidic, black-blood sap. Capricho kicked it over the ledge, turned in time to see another root scrabble from a crack and wrap itself around his boot. He jerked his leg, stretched the root tight, and sliced again. The severed root slapped wildly across the rock.
Acrid smoke rose, burning his nostrils. Bitter air entered his lungs. His head ached. Capricho had fought the Caribs, he knew poison. The stump was poisoning the life out of him. Had been for a very long time. And if he didn't fight back now, right now with all his might, it would smother him in brume once again . . . and this time, he would never break free.
The stump snarled, raising blackened oily appendages like a kraken rising from angry depths. Capricho entered the swordsman's detached state of battle, his mind dividing the area into planes of attack. He danced swift among the roots, met each as it lashed out with a deft stroke of his blade. Smoke billowed from the stump; splattered ichor burned his hands. Capricho lunged, slammed a shoulder against the gnarled snag. He lunged again, and again, heard a crack. The taproot snapped. Heartened, he shoved with all his might and the stump broke loose. He pushed the hulk to the ledge, shoved it over. It plummeted to the sea.
It bobbed upon the surface, sprouting a vision of a glorious willow, green branches swaying over two lovers, resting against its smooth trunk. Then it sunk slowly under, ending in a flash of green.
Capricho sighed and whispered a line of verse:
A gurgling surge. Capricho whirled. From the stump’s hole in the rock, a glittering fountain sprang up. Myriads of pear-shaped diamonds hovered midair in the moonlight, then descended, washing down the scored sides of the monolith.
Capricho stepped close to the fountain’s pillar. A woman’s face shimmered in the column, blossomed from the surface. He leaned in.
“Diedre?”
She smiled with lips so inviting. He pressed his to hers. A cool liquid tongue pushed over the white shoals of his teeth. Capricho gulped again and again as her refreshing waters flowed into him.
The Spaniard’s eyes flashed open; the vision evaporated. He gripped a wool blanket, found it dripping with moisture. He jumped to his feet, got a fix on his bearings. Thin beams of moonlight entered through the shutter slats.
His ship. His cabin. His berth.
Capricho raked his hair back. “Qué? Was I dreaming?”
He stared at his map table, hissed. In the center rested a crystalline statue of a mermaid. She sat atop a stone, waves of hair looped over her shoulders, but it was spilling down her form in streams of silver waters.
“Que diablos?”
As he spoke, the statue’s head turned. Its eyes stared brilliantly into his, radiant as morning stars.
The shutters blasted open. Brisk air rushed in. The breeze moaned, swirling round and round the whorls of Capricho’s ears. Faint liquid chuckles chimed.
“La sirena! You were real.”
The shutters slapped again and again. Capricho rushed through the doorway, stood upon the gallery. An aura of green swept away from the ship.
How sure would you be if the wound no longer burned?
Capricho recalled his days with Diedre. Her memory flowed within him. But now, the gnawing pain had fled, no longer choking his heart. A wound healed so well, he could not find the scar.
The green wisp swirled to the mouth of the cove.
Capricho thumped his chest with his fist as he tracked the sphere of light. “I had forgotten how good it feels to be alive!”
It hovered at the entrance, pulsing softly on the surface of the water.
“Silganna.” He recalled the power of her kiss. How long had he been with Silganna? Just long enough to taste her sweet spirit. As it had been with Diedre.
The light began to sink.
He thought of his men, he thought of his ship, he thought of his country, he thought of his king. Could he abandon them at such an hour? Silganna had said at least one Howler would track them all the way to Spain, creating certain disaster. But who said that had to be the only outcome? That history had not yet been written. With Silganna, could he discover some way to turn the tides?
And then he thought of Diedre.
I lost love before. Do I lose it again?
The light waned.
Your sails are luffing, man! Choose now!
The emerald flash, sinking into darkness.
“No!” he cried.
Capricho jumped over the banister and plunged into the unknown depths, casting his waves across the glistening sea.
Gilded in morning sunlight, Salvador swung from the ratlines and landed firmly on the fighting deck—a circular platform halfway up the mainmast. The high platform rocked as the anchored ship was buffeted by stiff winds. Salvador widened his stance and looked out over the cove, heart heavy. The ceremony with the men was over, but he had another to perform in private.
Facing the wind, Salvador’s voice was low. “Farewell, cousin. You were like a brother to me.”
The wind blew erratically this day; Salvador waited for it to shift. They were tied to it somehow, of that he was now certain. It galled him to admit it, but old Sanchez had been right about the Wind Howlers and their marker. When the stern swiveled like a compass needle from the emerald green of the shallows toward the cobalt blue of the depths, Salvador shuddered. He could sense the spirits out there somewhere, searching for the tethers to their ship.
But if he was powerless to set the ship free, he could at least free something else. He spit and cursed the Howlers. Then he unfurled a red silk scarf, one he had found in Capricho's trunk. It undulated in the stiff breeze. He let its softness slide through his rough grasp, then watched it sail like a fluttering parrot out over the ocean.
Salvador fought tears. “May you find peace in the arms of your beloved, Capricho. Vaya con Dios.”