Fairy Swamp

IAM Prompt for March 20 2024

 “Mr. Crow, what see your eyes?” 

“Murko’s breath is all I see, Captain,” replied Crow, he was maintaining ship discipline, but the strain was evident. 

“Stow the petulance, Mr. Crow, and be thankful.” said Capt. Meers. 

“Oh, and what thanks is there to be found in this fog Captain?” 

“If we’re to be smashed against some Gods’ forsaken rock you’ll be the first to know.” 

A mix of curses and sighing resignation was the only response. It was to be expected given the circumstances. Meers knew he was skirting the edge of sanity. For three days he and his crew of six had been stuck in the fog. The belly of the Southern God wasn’t kind to foreign sailors, but it was Southern Swamps or Imperial irons, and Meers preferred his head where it was, attached to his neck. 

As did the rest of the crew, that’s why they didn’t question his decision at the time. But three days in the white abyss will change a sailor’s mind. Meers had maintained loyalty but any longer would push his luck with a crew of degenerates like his. 

Crow had abandoned the nest and taken position on the bowsprit, his eyes better serving at the fore for shadows in the fog. The two boggers Meechum and Tally were tending the fathom lines and Meers routinely asked reports from them. From aft to fore ‘four fathom seven’ was the call. As it had been for three days. 

“It was a mistake coming to the Southern Thirty, bossman,” said Orin. 

Orin had been a slave, and never dropped the lingo since she was freed from service. Even now as first mate she never changed Meers’ title, nor that of the crewmates. Many questioned her capabilities as First Mate, and she usually answered it with a crack of the nine that would strip a clam of its shell and the victim being none the wiser. 

“Miss Orin, unless you can conjure up a means to outrun or out maneuver seven Imperial ships, I suggest you focus on keeping the crew busy,” said Meers. 

“What will I have them do bossman?” Orin asked defeatedly. 

“If they aren’t posting lookout or fathoming, have them start making some smoke torches.” 

“Bossman?” 

“After that, have them pray we don’t run into a Fairy Swamp.” 

The Southern Thirty Swamps were considered the darkest because of the rampant fog banks called The Breath of the Southern God, Murko. Death traps for any inexperienced sailor lawful and criminal alike. But they also had an abundance of life that compensated for it, bioluminescence was the mainstay of the marshes and open waters, it served as beacons for the locals who knew which lights belonged to which animal. Very useful when you’re headed towards a light and don’t know if it’s a school of fish or a frog on a rock. 

But the lights had been few for the crew of the Blue Whisper. The light was fading on the third day, as best Meers could tell by the encroaching darkness. Meers was steering the ship when Crow gave the shout, and it gathered the immediate attention of everyone. 

“Spotters, ten to starboard,” shouted Crow. 

Meers looked up in time to see the lights from a cloud of Spotter flies rise from their roost and dissipate into the fog. 

“Spotters, twenty to port,” Crow called again. 

Disturbed by Crow’s shouting the cluster of flies rose and dissipated into the fog like the one before. Was it the same swarm? Meers couldn’t be sure. 

“Miss Orin, gather the others and get the torches,” Meers orderd. 

“Bossman?” 

“Lively now and make it silent.” 

Orin nodded and hopped to the lower decks gathering the other crewman. 

“Meechum, Tally, haul those fathoms aboard and don’t trouble the water. Quickly or I’ll feed you to the murk.” 

The boggers quickly hauled the rope aboard into coils as befit their profession and took care when the plenum broached the surface that it neither made a wake nor banged the hull. 

“Bossman?” 

Meers looked down at the main deck to see Orin had gathered all twelve crewmen, each with a smoke torch in their hand. 

“Assume your stations and ready the flints. Don’t light them ‘til I give the order.” 

“You heard the bossman, man your stations. Quietly or I’ll flay you where you stand,” Orin hissed. 

The last man was in position when the Blue Whisper breached the fog bank, and all became clear. The crew and its ship were no longer in open water. Beyond the bank was glorious fantasia of little lights like candles dispelling the gloom, thousands of them, millions even. They gathered on muddy hillocks breaching the surface of the water sporadically. Countless Spotter flies, and their eggs and larvae, a Fairy Swamp. 

The various crewmembers made signs of their respective gods and closed their eyes in silent prayers. Your average spotter fly is about the size of a man’s fist, not that big, but that’s just one fly. One wrong noise and the resultant swarm would see them all dead. The biting, the stinging, the swarming and suffocation. 

The ship flowed with a current that navigated a narrow channel through the middle of it all. Various feeder channels flowing into it made for a swift current, and by Meers estimation, they would clear it before the hour.

Meers noticed movement on his ship and looked down to see see Crow waving his torch and pointing with his other hand furiously. Meers followed his crewman’s pointing and squinted into the gloom beyond the glow. An imperial warship creeped out of the darkness along a feeder channel. The iron in Meers’ spine fell into his colon. 

Even if they weren’t spotted, they soon would be. The warship was in the same boat, figuratively, as they were. It didn’t matter. The feeder channel led right into the main ahead of them. Even if Meers could get ahead, they would ride Meers’ tailfin until they left the fairy swamp. Afterwards they’d quickly board and arrest him and his crew and that would be the end. Bitter salt for the story of Captain Meers. 

Meers reached into the pocket of his captain’s greatcoat. He felt the iron orb that rested there. A gift from their benefactor for taking the smuggling job. Smuggling pyro-jelly wasn’t glamorous, but it sure paid well, if you lived to collect. Meers snapped his finger. He motioned for Orin and Crow to join him. 

“Bossman,” Orin whispered. 

“Captain,” Crow whispered. 

Without a word Meers continued to steer the ship with his right hand but held out his left to his crewmen, in it he held a pyro-globe, a miniature explosive that was more bang than burn. There was nothing lost between the three of them what the captain meant to do, nor in his meaning to hold it in his left hand. Orin and Crow momentarily looked at each other. Orin nodded. Crow was silent, he held out his hand and gave a thumbs down, a universal sign to send one’s enemies to the murk, then he nodded. 

Crow took the wheel as Orin and the captain walked down the steps to the main deck and one by one presented the orb to each crew member. There were quiet curses, there were soft whimpers, there was silence, and in the end, they all nodded. Meers stepped before the prow and glanced at his crew one last time before grabbing ahold of the rigging and propping himself up to stand upon the bowsprit. 

The feeder and main channel were running parallel to each other and Meers could make out the crewman from the larger vessel. If he could see them, they could see him. Meers didn’t have to wait long. A black hand hoisted a salt crusted crag of a man onto the railing of the opposing ship. For an endless moment the two captains stared at each other across the muddy banks and swarms of insects that divided them. The pale gloom defining the haggard lines of sea time on their faces, ‘seascars’, as each man assessed the mettle of the other. 

It was then that Meers held aloft the pyro-globe. If the threat of the small object was apparent to the other captain, it didn’t show, Meers didn’t expect it would. A second moment passed between them. Without a sound the Imperial captain held up his hand splayed open, Meers could make out his opponent was clearly missing his ring finger. The imperial ship began to slow and drag in the water, the wake spilled close to the nearby swarms, but none were perturbed enough to move. 

Meers swung down to the main deck, assuring a soft landing amongst the coils of rope. He had bought them some time, not a lot but Gods’ watching it might be enough. He signaled Crow to cast away all draft and push the ship as fast as possible. The way ahead looked as straight as could be by his experience and hopefully they’d have enough leeway and speed to outdistance the Imperials. 

Meers stared ahead of his ship with hope, that was summarily crushed by a second warship slithering out of the gloom from another feeder channel and in a few moments was positioned ahead of the Blue Whisper in the main channel. 

There was no escape now. Bluffing one captain into backing down with suicidal intentions was a longshot, bluffing two that have power and strategic advantage was impossible. No way backwards or forwards, and only chains and the executioner’s block awaited them, Meers began muttering a prayer. 

“Avera guide us to your moss hewn shores where all swamps end. And damn you Murko for being no sailor’s friend.” 

Meers turned to his crew who bowed their heads, “May you all find brighter sailing in whatever the hereafter has for us.” 

Meers struck the lighting flint on the pyro-globe and tossed it nonchalantly over the starboard side and before it touched the water it went off with a loud boom and a bright flash. 

Immediately the flies reacted, and the darkened gloom became as bright as day as they coalesced into swarms surrounding the ships swirling around and spinning them in their wakes. The greenish light flickered amongst the multitude of thrumming wings and for a brief moment Meers was awestruck and understood why they were called Fairy Swamps.