"Come on. It'll just be some fun." Grant said. "A beautiful Saturday, lots of sunshine in the air--"

"Who else is going?" Marshall asked, putting away his books.

"James, you and me. We'll take some food or something. Come on, why not?" Grant said, trying to make this seem blasé. An everyday outing in an everyday little sailboat. As long as they got Marshall to come. After that, it didn't matter, they could drop this pretense like a rock. But Marshall had to be with them--James had insisted on that.

"Well..." Marshall said, looking outside at the clear, sunny day. "I've got a project to do, though." He said guiltily.

"You said yourself it's not due for a few weeks. Why not come with us? For old times sake?" Grant and Marshall used to be the best of friends when they were kids. But they had split up after Marshall decided to go to college and Grant had joined the Army. It had changed him. Growing up had changed all of them.

That got him. "Okay. For old times sake. What a guilt trip." Marshall said, and passing by Grant, punched him in the shoulder. Grant shoved him in the back and followed him to the kitchen.

"Okay, so what kind of food did you guys want to take? Or do you already have stuff?" Marshall asked. Grant shrugged.

"Dunno. Sandwiches. A few cokes. Apples or something. Who cares? I just want to get out and do something." He said.

"Okay." Marshall said, raiding the refrigerator for the things Grant has specified and tossing them in a canvas bag. Sandwich fixings, since Grant seemed to be anxious enough not to want to stay around and make anything. "All right. I'll get a sweater and we'll go. Where's James?" Marshall called, as he headed upstairs.

"Outside." Grant said. "Come on, what are you doing, knitting one up there?"

"I wanted the one Liz made me..." Grant rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I'm coming." Marshall said. He rushed downstairs, now wearing a white Irish-wool sweater. "Okay. We're off." With a mock salute, Marshall pointed toward the door. "Lead the way, captain."

"Damn straight." Grant said, yanking him out the door so quickly that Marshall took his arm back, scowling and rubbing his wrist. James stood in the middle of the street, sizing Marshall up with one chilly glance. Marshall stared right back for about two seconds, and then quickly found something in a nearby tree to look at: James had always freaked him out. It wasn't so much a fear of James as the fact that James had always seemed to have something subtlety off about him: even for the kids of Crowhaven Road, he was weird. Skinny and shorter than the rest of the boys, with dark curly hair that somehow seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it. And his eyes—they either darted back and forth as if paranoid, or stared at you steadily with a fascination that seemed to swallow you whole. He sometimes reminded Marshall of a small, rabid, dog.

To add to Marshall's discomfort, no-one said a word until they were in the boat. For the half-mile down Crowhaven Road, Marshall tried to start conversation with Grant several times, but Grant always shushed or ignored him, until Marshall reluctantly got the point. They circled the headland and made their way to a weathered old dock at which a sailboat was tied. Nick, Charles, Grant and Marshall had all chipped in on it for numerous fishing trips, mainly defined by the imbibing of alcohol and 'guy talk'. James headed aboard first, and started rifling through what looked like an old-fashioned document box, while Grant did the rigging. Marshall stashed the bag of food in one of the cabinets and kept his peace, until James caught his eye with his bizarrely steady glance. James licked his lips quickly, and motioned Marshall over to where he was sitting. Marshall got up slowly, not at all eager to see what James was looking at.

Before he got there, James shut the box and smiled, slowly. Then he looked over Marshall's shoulder and spoke to Grant. "Are we ready to cast off?" He asked.

"Wind's right." Grant said.

"Of course." James said, as if this was only to be expected. Grant loosed the line, and James waited until the sailboat was about a hundred feet away from the dock before he spoke again.

"Very well, Marshall. Now you can see." He slid the document box over the sailboat's floor.

"You're a nut." Marshall said to James, as he flipped open the catches. "I can swim. No reason to wait this long. What is this, anyway? Porn?"

James looked as if he was about to choke. He said, in a strangled voice, "No. No, it's not. It was in my attic. It's been…passed down, over many generations."

"You think." Marshall said amusedly, as he rifled through the papers. "Could be some grandparent's cute idea of a joke. Paper rots in wet climate, especially given 300 years."

"That's what you think. He wouldn't have used ordinary paper. He wouldn't have left that to chance." James said quickly.

"Ri-ight…" Marshall said, with a long look at James. "Anyway, it's all pretty boring. No world secrets in here. Economic stuff. Apparently in the fall season of 1700, corn was a good crop…"

"You're looking at the wrong papers." James said. "There's a deed in there, to an island quite a ways north of here. It's actually off Cape Cod by a bit—it'll take awhile to get there, even if the wind picks up."

"Okay." Marshall said. "I got it. But there's nothing in these economic papers that show any development to it."

"That's the idea." James said. "Look at the bottom of the page."

"...It's written on." Marshall said, sounding a little confused. "Place of Rest, [some year]."

"Precisely. It was never supposed to be developed. It was never supposed to be found. It's the final resting place of Black John, one of the leaders of the original New Salem coven."

Marshall knew a little bit about the original New Salem coven, passed down through seedy old family stories. Supposedly they were all descended from the witches, the real witches, that had escaped the famous Salem Witch Trials. "So we're gonna go dig up a spook?" Marshall said, sounding slightly more interested. "But after 300 years, it might be human soup. Might be only bones." But the thrill of doing something forbidden was cool enough, though he wasn't going to tell James that.

"No bones are there. He actually died in a shipwreck, as you can find in another one of those papers. They had land interests in Europe that collapsed with the start of the American Revolution--Black John traveled a lot. One of those trips apparently didn't turn out so well...my ancestor wrote about it." James said, looking distanced and entranced.

"Then enlighten me as to why we're going there?"

"Because he intended to use the island as a tomb. And because of that, these letters all point to the idea that he left several items there, several very powerful items..."

"The Master Tools?" Marshall asked skeptically. Now, that one he had heard about before. Back in the day, the witch covens had been matriarchies, except for the occasional male leader brought about by luck or power. But leadership of a coven often went to a descendant of a common mother, and down through the lines of nieces, sisters and cousins. Women, with their intuition, were viewed more fit than men for total leadership of a magic circle. And Marshall's grandmother, before she died, never failed to tell glory stories of the women witches of old, when they defeated some demon or tax collector with the help of having found items that rang with power and spoke to their soul. It was the female version of Marvel Comics; to rise up and defeat your enemies by superior strength of mind, body and will.

"Possibly." James murmured.

"They're just a kid's story." Marshall protested. Though he had overheard those stories again and again, and unwillingly the old memories rose up. "My grandmother used to talk about them...a bracelet that made any throw of the dagger true; a circlet that clarified and empowered the mind, a garter that brought strength of speed in flight and great connection with the earth--but it's all kid stuff."

"The fact that your grandmother knew of them shows they are not a kid story at all. It's oral tradition, that she probably got from Her grandmother, back and back and back. Where did we get our current traditions if they weren't passed down?"

"What traditions? I've never gone out naked and picked weeds--"

"Because in the 1920's, New Salem once again suffered from an attack by the town folk who suspected witchcraft. To teach their children the old ways would have aroused far too much suspicion. The old traditions have lay silent for three generations--but they're there. And the fact that it was your grandmother--not your mother, who told the stories, is right in keeping with these facts. And if you look in your family attic, I have no doubt you'll find diaries and documents to back this up."

Marshall was silent a moment. "So we're going into our parent's fairy-stories to find some ancient leader's mythical tools." At least it'll be amusing, Marshall thought. "Why now?"

At that, James smiled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you--wait for it." And that was apparently all, at this point in time, that he wished to say. Marshall shook his head and sat back to absorb the wilderness of wind and water, until they got to their destination.

Their destination wasn't that far away. Only a forty-minute journey, far out enough in the ocean that the water was blue and it was probably fifty feet to the sandy bottom. And the interesting thing was, Marshall was fairly sure they could have gotten there a lot faster. The water almost seemed to be against them, pushing their boat in the opposite direction. Finally, Marshall could see they were approaching a small island. Even from out here he could tell there wasn't a spot on it. It was your typical desert island, without even the graceful boon of a palm tree. There was a dinky cove, though. Marshall wondered if they could anchor and swim to the island, even in the cold, because he sure wouldn't like to try for that tiny thing if he were at the wheel.

Alas, no such luck. "Aim for the cove!" James called as they pulled in close. Grant nodded and turned his attention to curving the boat just right to sail nicely into the narrow inlet, and then came a surprise. The boat bucked and turned about ninety degrees from where Grant had aimed it. Now Grant spoke: "What in the heck...?" He looked back at James, who just shrugged.

Grant sighed and turned the wheel again, circling the boat around for another pass. Again the boat bucked, but this time violently enough for James to clutch his document box in fear and surprise. This time in turning back, the front end of the boat dipped warningly, and a little water got washed over the side of the boat in a sudden movement. It wasn't enough of a jilt to be dangerous; more like a big brother pushing his younger sibling just a little too hard in the chest, to convince the child to back off. This had been a warning.

Grant growled under his breath and circled the boat again, but before they could reach the point where the boat had bucked twice before, Marshall called out. "Don't do it, Grant. I don't think we're allowed." Marshall's senses all of a sudden seemed to be functioning on overdrive, supernatural elements that sent chills down his spine were falling neatly into place. "Could we maybe anchor the boat and swim for it?"

"Are you nuts?" Grant asked. "That water must be freezing at this time of year. It must be half a mile to shore. We couldn't bring any of our stuff, your precious sweater would get soaked--" An ironic glance as he said this, "And the small problem of, if these waters did that to the boat...what could they do to use, unprotected? No. We sail in or we don't go."

"We're going." James said, in a voice that was probably meant to state this as an unshakeable fact, but instead came out more like an insistant whine. "We have to. Try it again."

"I'm not bashing my boat to splinters." Grant said icily. "Any rougher and we'll roll. And if you fall out James, I am not rescuing you."

"Such perfect friendship." James said darkly. "Can you circle the island? Maybe there's another cove." Grant nodded, and as soon as he turned away from the little bay, the water instantly became more forgiving. But the rest of the island's coast was circular and smooth. To make things worse, the island wasn't even flat. The area of sea-level beach was minimal...two feet from the water, the sand shot straight up into a hill. They couldn't ground the boat without taking a serious chance on damaging it.

Marshall knew it was up to him to think of another workable solution before Grant got pissed again, since James didn't know the slightest thing about sailing. "Can we go in at a diagonal, maybe? Would you me able to get at the right angle that way? Maybe it's a...warm current or something." Marshall said, knowing the instant he said it was totally untrue.

"I could try." Grant said, sounding resigned. They headed toward the little cove at an angle, trailing the shore as close into the cove as they could. But it was the same situation: a half-mile from the bay on all sides, the water itself blocked them off. The boat bucked again, still more violently, but at least they didn't roll.

"Let me try something." James said quietly, and Marshall was so surprised by James volenteering anything at all that he didn't interfere. James went up to the front of the boat and climbed up onto the bow section, ignoring Marshall's suggestions that it might not be the smartest place to stand. James now stood two feet taller than them: impressive in itself, since he had started out the day a head shorter. As he threw his arms in the air and crooned his fingers like calling the sky to his attention, it almost seemed like a mantle of power settled upon him.

"Sea!" James cried. "In the name of my father and my father's father, this land was theirs and is thereby ours! You will obey our command, as we seek the remains of one of your most powerful masters! Let us pass!"

Marshall, in the scale of weird things today, was not all surprised to see the wind pick up and boat tilt at exactly the right position to dump James in the ocean. Grant's cold yellow eyes peered over the side.

"Finished, Merlin? I don't think you were well accepted." Grant said pertly as he threw a line overboard for James to grab. Grant and Marshall hauled the dripping boy in easily. As James sluiced his wet hair back from his face and shivered, his eyes were burning.

"Feel like going home yet?" Marshall inquired wickedly. James shook his head quickly.

"We can't. We have business. But I'm out of ideas." James said shortly, and looked down in a way that showed he didn't want to talk, at all. Marshall didn't blame him.

"So what do we do?" Grant said. "We can't anchor here, and we can't stay here. I need an idea and I need it now. I'm all for going back." But at that moment, something flashed in Marshall's head. James had had...almost the right idea. Like giving a password to the gate. The idea of getting in was for some reason now so intoxicating that all question of should had dropped out of his mind.

Despite the fact that now fog seemed to have moved in from nowhere on the clear day and was now shrouding the island in a mist so deep, Marshall wasn't sure Grant would even be able to find the island, much less steer the sailboat into the inlet? Well, brains had nothing to do with recklessness, after all. Recklessness had everything to do with a suicidal impulse meant to keep a handle on the world's population.

"No." Marshall said. "Circle for a bit, give me a minute to think." Grant sighed--he was obviously getting tired of circles, not that Marshall blamed him. As the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up, and not from the cold wind, words appeared in Marshall's mind. The same, yet different. A command, and yet an entreaty. James had had the wrong idea. Too male of an idea, Marshall knew, which was weird since had never considered himself to be understanding of women. But the idea appeared in his mind, and would not be banished, that the Sea was a woman, and had to be wooed. A Call:

Air and Water, Wind and Sea,

As we will it, may it be.

Power calls from times of old,

In your bosom do enfold

Our quest for fate and knowledge.

Let us pass! oh, Demons deep,

For far beneath the Owner weeps,

And we are commanded to

Enact these Ancient Secrets.

Air and Water, Wind and Sea,

As we wish it, so mote it be!

Marshall murmured the words, and found in the minute it took to think about them (but not thinking, really, uncovering was more like it, like something buried in his mind from long ago) he had already memorized the small monologue, stranger passing stranger. He wasn't cocky enough to stand on the bow like James had…he had, after all, sailed this ship before and was not stupid enough to underestimate the power of the mighty element of the ocean in all her primal glory. But he could ask it. It was an idea. They were here in his cause, after all…John or whoever he was. There must be some way to break this stupid spell or James would never have gotten the idea in his damn head. James might be a little creep, but he was hardly an idiot.

He laughed, then, as an idea occurred to him. If he was going to think of the Sea as a female entity, as probably every sailor had for time immemorial, then why was he asked Her favors in such a lackluster manner? Seduction, that was the key. Parcel them rubies and diamonds, tell them they're beautiful, and they'll faint into your arms. Making demands to a woman would only get you slapped. He chuckled, because a significant portion of his outer self thought the idea genuinely bizarre, yet the inner part to himself, that strange intuition that had made up or uncovered that little poem, knew the truth of this idea and thrilled to it. All right, then. At least he couldn't look like any more of an idiot than James, unless the Sea took total offense to his proposition and rolled the boat on them. But he didn't want to think about the boat rolling. That would leave them stranded on a desert island, if they could even make it to the desert island. Okay. Begin.

He went all the way to the other end of the 30 foot schooner, knelt down so that his fingers were almost touching the water (but not actually touching. There was no quicker way to piss off a woman than to touch her when she didn't want to be touched,) and whispered the poem softly. He said the poem-command a second time, a little louder and with rhythmic intonation, crooning his fingers and his voice. He said it a third time, finally, almost singing it the tempo was so deep and slow. As he ended the final sentence, he wasn't quite sure when it had happened, but his fingers were in the water and he had slowly been stroking the surface of it. Curious, he ran his fingers a little distance over it, and the water rose to his fingers. His eyes widened, as the water made to his fingertips a tiny, lapping wave. He could almost hear the ocean purr. It was thoroughly disconcerting. But he had no illusions about what would happen if he left this spot on the boat now. So he called to Grant, softly.

"You better try and sail the boat through now. Quickly. And don't let James say a word."

"I wasn't planning on it." Grant said curiously, and instantly a snapping wind rose up to propel them through into the inlet. When they were safely in the little harbor and the anchor was dropped, Marshall was the last out of the boat and into the shallow water, his mind buzzing. "Thank you," he whispered, as he climbed up onto the beach with the rest of them.