Discovering the BottleCaptain Gregory Bifinny's slate-grey eyes scanned the horizon. The sun was just setting in the west, but the clouds and the wind and the ache in his bones told him that a storm was coming. "Big one too," he mumbled to himself. He dug in his pouch for a lump of tobacco and pressed it into his clay pipe. The wind was picking up, out to sea. His eyes were still as keen as they ever were, and he could see the white tips of early breakers beginning to churn and foam.
A gust of wind caught his first match unawares, the second he guarded carefully, taking deep drags to pull the fire in. While being on shore was nothing to being at sea during a squall like this, he still enjoyed watching it roll in. Had he been at sea, he'd have been heading for safe harbor hours ago. Leaning on his cane, smoking quietly, he reminisced the times he'd not been able to get free from the storm, the boat being tossed about like a giant's play thing, having three men hold the pilot's wheel so to hold the boat true while he guided her out.
Lightening flashed out to sea, the clouds rolling in faster and faster until the whole sky had turned an awful sea green and the water became gray as death. The captain held his ground, knowing the rain was not far off. He stood at the edge of the bluff of the shanty he owned. It was safe enough up here, to stand and to stare at the sea. Then, a silvery mist in the distance made him smile. Here it came, in all it's glory. The mist swirled at him moving just as fast at the wind, and faster. Still yet, he held his ground, holding his head up the sky, which cracked like a great egg, water pouring over him, and soaking him quite through.
Holding onto the railing of the bluff he stretched as best he could, reveling in the feeling of it, lost in a time when nothing hurt him save for the disobedience of crewman, when all he knew was the rocking embrace of the sea.
The sea, too was now wild with the wind and rain, whipping up against the bluff in great splashes, some that even reached the old sea captain. He took another drag on his tobacco, and breathed water. Gregory spluttered, nearly dropping his pipe in the process. Coughing a little, he grinned at the sky, "Oh Aevah - fyne then, I'll git out of th'rain." He coughed a few more times, and hobbled quickly back to his own home, thunder rumbling around him.
Gregory got into some warm and dry things, and sat at the fire in his comfortable leather chair, listening to the storm outside, and continued to let his mind drift back in time. It was a comfort and a solace to still have his memories. Others his age or just a few years older were already beginning to forget things, but not the Captain. It wasn't his mind that failed him, just his joints. Staring at the fire, lost in thought, he didn't notice that his blinks were getting longer and longer, and eventually curled up in a thick wool blanket, he fell asleep.
He dreamed that night of working on a ship where the sun was high in the sky, pain free, and a fine breeze guiding the sails as he stood excitedly on the Forecastle deck with a spyglass in hand looking for fish sign. The sunlight glanced off the water, suddenly hitting him full in the face, waking him.
Tied up in the blanket, and stiff as no one's business, Gregory groaned heavily. He then glanced at the fire and groaned again. It was nearly out, and he was too stiff to want to try and rebuild it. Let it burn itself to ashes, he'd rebuild it tonight if need be. Probably best to do that anyway, the fireplace needed a good cleaning. Taking a deep breath, he managed to get to his feet, and saw the offending sunbeam and how it was so carefully placed right were his head was. That was life. Always throwing you a rogue wave.
The market would be closed today, he knew - no ships would have moored at the east-facing harbor with such waves threatening to tear the docks apart. If he had been at the helm of a ship when that storm rolled in, he'd have made for the natural harbors on the south end of the Island. With likely more than half the fishermen hiding 10 knots or more away from Aimes, there wouldn't be any fish to sell. This did happen occasionally, and considering the damage that a good storm could wreak on the market grounds, few customers would make any assumptions that they would be able to buy fish today.
Massaging his sore fingers, the Captain forestalled any thought of breaking his fast and went outside, cane in hand, to see what the storm had wrought on his stretch of the beach. When he got in sight of the shore below the bluff, he knew something large had been thrown onto the sand. At first he thought it was a great whale, but the way it glittered gave him pause.
"Shells..." He gasped to himself, never having seen such a large pile. But were they 'live or dead? Were they living, he'd have to rush to market to get some of the young haulers to bring down carts. Tottering as fast as he could manage he approached the mammoth pile of shells, he saw
the beach was covered in fresh shells, too. Some shells were broken open, but many promising and whole. Gulls were gathering, too, unwilling to let such a promising feast go to waste. As the old man approached, his shock increased as he realized just how TALL the pile was - the top of it was likely ten feet, leaning up against a wall that was still soaked and covered in sea weed from last nights storm. All these shells gathered just so, not but 50 feet from his house - the natural contours of the land, and the land under the water had driven up millions of shells as the storm had raged. He raised an eyebrow, that meant that the storm had been far more powerful than he had ever realized - and his home...he glanced back up the shore to note how the water had indeed been lapping around the poles of his home...had been under the effects while he had rested safe and warm in his favorite chair.
He clapped his hands together turning back to the pile, fishing out this shell and that, finding many that were mere shells, but just as many that were cold, hard and impregnable. Still alive. He shouted at the gulls to make them scatter and knew that he only had a short amount of time to get the market and have the boys get what they could into water to preserve what they could. Shellfish always sold well!
As he was about to turn and go, a flash of something golden caught his eye. It made his old heart leap just a little. He nearly convinced himself that it was just a broken shell catching the light, but he couldn't resist looking back. There, in the wall of shells, WAS something gold. He slipped on piles of broken shells to get himself closer, the gold something looked like a small ball...but no, it was surrounded by something...glass? Reaching into the pile Gregory Bifinny drew out the strange bottle. Despite having been thrown around in a pile of shells driven against the beachfront wall for hours in a storm, not only was it miraculously WHOLE, but completely unscratched.
"Fishwifes and sirens..." He tilted the fragile looking thing up to the sun - inside glittered the purest dust, blue and black, pink and orange, pearlescent and dull. And etched into the air inside...a wheel covered in runes. Gregory Bifinny was not a stupid man, he had seen the occasional mermaid, and heard a siren singing more than once near his ship. He knew about the magical sea creatures, and intimately, that this bottle was of their world more than his. And while this was no kelpie's cloak nor a mermaid's comb, he could not suppress the urge to be rid of it. And yet as he turned to throw it at the sea, the beauty of it, glittering in the sun enthralled him.
"T'would be a shame," he murmured to himself, "To throw away so pretty a bauble..." He knew then, that the bottle was his, and he wouldn't be giving it up. Besides he had more important things to worry about - getting to the market in time to take in the catch his top priority.
Clutching the bottle tightly in one hand, his cane in the other, he picked his way back up the beach and headed to town.
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