Joshua
The trouble with academic books, is that they never get the bloody point, Josh thought, trying to skim-read Myth and Legend of the Whirl Islands, 1859-1960. It reminded him of trying to prep for exams in the middle of May afternoons. The library had that same soporific warmth, the same charmless aesthetic. Some libraries were all gleaming mahogany and brass fittings. This one was full of crap MDF, facing south so the tall windows turned the room into a vivarium. At Uni he would have had a perpetual cup of coffee at hand, and possibly a peanut butter-and-honey sandwich, too. But she flatly refused to allow food to drink in the library.
When he landed on Silver Rock Isle the previous day, he'd naturally expected to find a public library or museum dedicated to lugia. It turned out the only real repository of information on either lugia or the Silver Wing on the island was privately owned – by Polyhymnia Joy.
When she saw him on her doorstep all she said was: "Oh, it's you. Rain said you were in the islands."
"Is she the one on Yellow Rock Isle?"
The second thing Polyhymnia said to him was: "Polyhymnia Joy, MSc, MLibArts, never call me Polly."
"What do you know about Silver Wings?" he'd asked.
"… what is your highest diploma?"
"A BA," he'd replied, "with honours."
Polyhymnia had given him a vaguely surprised look. "Well, I have a double Masters in the science and legend of lugia."
Not that this meant she'd tell him anything. Instead she just gave him a key to her library.
The whole thing was fairly typical Joy weirdness. Polyhymnia spent her life sequestered in a library researching esoterica and yet she was entirely up to date on gossip. She clearly didn't like him and didn't care to hide it, but she didn't argue or deny him the use of her library.
Josh sighed and shut Myth and Legend of the Whirl Islands. The book was half-padding, half-academic bloviation. He looked back at his notes, haphazardly assembled from about twelve sources with a lot of asterisks and arrows. There were a lot of contradictions. The one common thread was that no-one really knew anything for certain about lugia. They were associated with the Whirl Islands, but not thought to be permanent residents. Their usual habitat was disputed, some experts vehemently insisting lugia aren't Johto natives. Even their place in the National Pokédex was controversial given the paucity of evidence. Both the Frazer-Edricson and Montfaucon classifications categorised lugia as a Psychic-type. That merely confirmed what Josh already knew. That lugia-girl was obviously highly psychic. His dreams since then had been full of someone – something – else's memories. Memories of wondrous things. Fish shoaling in silver millions. The light of the twilight zone, soft like feathers. Land under wave. Some mornings he woke with his mouth tasting of fresh-killed squid.
Josh sighed, again. There was still more of legend than of science about lugia. And legend seemed to be obsessed with the Silver Wing. A ship with a Silver Wing aboard would never sink. Silver Wings legendarily adorned the ancestral crown of Johto. Silver Wings hung over cradles to ward off evil. The legends weren't confined to the Whirl Islands, either. Monanna kept appearing in the stories – and Josh couldn't help but be familiar with that particular goddess, the Archer of Heaven, the virgin big sister to the younger goddesses, shooting her silver arrows that blasted their marks into ash. She was the first constellation he'd learned to recognise. The three stars of her belt were bright enough to be visible even against Mulberry Town's light pollution. Across western Johto there were little mosaics in little shrines showing Monanna cloaked in Silver Wings.
Shrines, goddesses, and apotropaics, with silver threads running through it all. The sort of thing Eve would have loved. He remembered how happy she'd been on May Day, kissing the handmaidens, stuffing her face. He found the ritual annoying, but she'd been happy – later it had been his turn, on Karego Rose …
He dropped his pen onto his notepad and listened for footsteps or voices. After a moment he carefully unwrapped the Silver Wing from a handkerchief. He hadn't told Polyhymnia, or anyone else, that he had it. The feather was about two inches long, palm-sized. The quill was oddly stiff, like spring steel, vane curling elegantly away in a 'Y' shape. In the afternoon light it looked almost literally silver.
Josh wondered quite what the lugia had expected him to do with it. Clearly it had value to her, but what value?
He stared at the thing for a while. It gave him an idea.
Silver Rock Isle was higher and craggier than the other Whirl Islands. And also more remote. Porth Carrek was the only real harbour on the island. There were some pleasure boats moored up on the quay, but no fishing craft for once. The influx of day-visitors from the other islands hadn't arrived yet. A little dirigible droned off in the direction of the mainland. Josh stared at an iron signpost on the quayside. Porth Carrek reminded him of Yellow Rock Isle, but with silversmiths rather than coral jewellers. The Silver Wing motif was everywhere. He found what he was looking for above the post office on a weather-beaten sign – WHIRL ISLANDS HERITAGE MUSEUM.
As museums went, it was a bit sad. Josh had seen bigger coffee shops. The room was simply crammed with bric-a-brac. Pinned-up photos, model ships, pieces of jewellery, faded newspaper pages. A disembodied lintel took pride of place, carven with the livery of Honourable Company of Silversmiths. The curator was squeezed behind a desk in the corner, an old fellow with a walrein moustache.
Josh dropped a few dollars into the donation box perched hopefully on the desk. "Who's the best silversmith on the island?"
The curator gave him a doleful look. "That would be young Janero up at Trekellys."
"Trekellys," Josh repeated, turning to go. Just before he got to the door, the curator called out.
"Janero doesn't do commissions, though!"
Josh had quietly ignored that.
He headed into the hills shortly afterwards. Outside of Porth Carrek bay, the island became craggy, thickly forested with pine trees. The temperature grew warm to the point where Josh was rolling up his jacket sleeves. Sunbeams wheeled through the treetops, broken by the pines into a striated komorebi. The air smelled of warm rock and resin. He followed the north road as it wound along those crags and granite-sided hills, occasionally leaping a ravine via a bridge built of the island's blue-grey bones.
Open your eyes … Josh thought. The phrase kept surfacing in his mind whenever he had nothing else to think about. He paused halfway across the span of a bridge, in the middle of a pool of sunshine. Soft drifts of old needles had found their way onto the footpath. In the dingle beneath, he could hear the bubbling chatter of a swift stream.
Open your eyes … perhaps it meant 'pay attention'. He could see spearow picking their way along the branches. A scrawny-looking aipom raiding nests for eggs. A sudowoodo who thought he couldn't see it following him. He gave it a wave because he was fed-up of being stalked - it panicked and tried to hide. The road seemed to be deserted. He hadn't heard an engine since Porth Carrek.
He'd been alone in the forest before, but he'd never been lonely in the first till now.
Open your eyes. He shook his head. The riddle was no less cryptic for all that.
The walk up to Trekellys took a little over two hours. The village wasn't that much more than a name on the map, perhaps twenty houses strung along the road, and a pub. He noticed a woman walking up a path towards a gate set in the garden wall.
"Excuse me!" he called. "Can ye tell me where I'd find Janero?"
"And why do you want to find him?"
"Because I'm told he's the best silversmith in the islands."
That got him an odd, almost critical look. "Come with me."
She led him down the garden path towards a slate-roofed outbuilding, calling "Janero!" as she went.
"In here!" a voice yelled from inside. The outbuilding was a workshop. It had an air of a place visited by a short-tempered voltorb. Tools and materials were scattered any old how on every surface; storage bins stacked apparently at random; nothing was labelled. A row of modular metal shelves were pushed against one wall, stocked with finished jewellery in ziplock bags. Janero sat hunched over something, peering at his work through magnification goggles. He had on a leather apron over a rumpled flannel shirt. Sweat glistened on either side of his nose. He immediately scowled in annoyance, as if Josh were selling religion on the doorstep.
"Who's this?" he demanded.
"I have a commission in mind," Josh said. "And I need the best for it."
"Damnit Ariene, you know I don't do commissions!" Janero said hotly.
"Your dumb concept pieces aren't making any money!" Ariene retorted. "Do what you do best for once!"
Janero scowled at her as she stalked out, without much conviction. "You know she's really my biggest fan."
"You know, I believe she is," Josh replied. "I had one like that at school."
"What did you make?"
"Jewellery, actually. Craft fair stuff. I miss it sometimes. It would have been nice to make beautiful things for their own sake."
"I don't know who told you I'm the best, but I'm really not," Janero said, after a moment's thought. He got up and snatched a bag from a shelf. "See!"
It was beautiful. A silver filigree ring worked in intricate leaf designs. They were recognisably hazel and ash leaves. The attention to detail was impressive.
"I finished that last week, and every time I see it I spot a new flaw."
"What I have in mind isn't so intricate." Josh took the handkerchief from his pocket and let it fall half-open on his palm. The Silver Wing glinted from beneath the cotton. "But perhaps it'll need as much care."
"… is that?"
"I want this set into a necklace. Very discreetly. As far as payment -"
"My materials, nothing more."
"You're sure?" Josh said, taken aback.
"The payment for working on a Silver Wing, will be getting to work on a Silver Wing."
Josh frowned at him. He hadn't expected that. But … beautiful things for their own sake.
Janero held out his hand. "Seal it with a handshake?"
If Josh had any doubts, that dispelled them. "Deal."
It was gone five o'clock when they called it a day. After hours of talking through sketches, they'd settled on a final design. Josh didn't suspect he'd renege on the agreement. They'd shook hands on it.
"I'll be back in a few hours!" Janero called over his shoulder. There were three men hanging around in the lane outside. All three wore hard-worn work clothes and five o'clock shadows, sleeves rolled up against the afternoon heat. The youngest of them was Janero's age, the oldest, sixty if he was a day.
"While we're young!" the old boy said.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming," Janero said. "I've got a new commission."
"Mine," Josh said redundantly. They all nodded at him. "Anyway, er, where can I get a bite to eat?" he added.
"Well, we're all getting a bite and a pint at the pub," the youngest one said. "Come and join us!"
"Oh, no, ye dun have te …"
There was a chorus of denials and encouragement.
"- no, no, can't have you sitting by yourself -"
"- more the merrier -"
"- want to hear the story behind that bloodstain -"
Josh found himself mumbling polite acceptances amid the shower of hospitable warmth.
"Exhibit A is Cedar," Janero said, waving a hand at his contemporary, "and this is Kittow."
Kittow was bald as an egg, middle-aged, and wore canvas shorts like a schoolboy.
"And Alfred -"
"- Alf -"
"Cook. Joshua Cook, of Mulberry Town," Josh interjected. "West of Mt Silver."
"Ever done any slinging, Cook?" Kittow asked, as they ambled along the lane.
"Slinging?"
"A Whirl Island tradition," Janero said. "Throwing things with a sling. We have a practice after work most days."
"Alf, lend him your spare sling," Kittow said.
The local pub was the kind of quaint country boozer that yuppies in Goldenrod tended to ape with cutesy names. They all bought a pint and a pasty at the bar before heading back outside. There was a large field with three targets in front of a strong net. One was a wicker scarecrow with a watmel for a head. On the near side, a large barrel of tennis balls.
The whole thing was deceptively simple. The slung was a length of cord with a leather pouch in the middle. One end of the cord had a small loop, the other, a small knot. The object was to slip the loop over the ring finger, whole holding the knot between thumb and forefinger. You swung the wrist, built up some momentum, and released the knot to fling the projectile. In practice, it was much harder than it looked. Knowing when to let go of the knot was tricky and aiming was harder – the ball had a nasty habit of coming out backwards.
There wasn't a hint of standoffishness from the group. Kittow and Cedar were full of advice for his slinging attempts even if it didn't seem to help. Everyone yelled an appreciative "OHHH!" after a hit, regardless of how accurate it was, Josh's included.
It was his turn. Loop over the ring finger. Knot beneath the thumb. Load tennis ball, swing the sling, build momentum, release the knot. The ball glanced off the edge of the target and bounced up into the net.
"Bloody hell, Alf!"
The Alf struck the scarecrow so hard he almost decapitated it.
"This is why we don't let him use pebbles," Janero said.
They were all craftsmen of one kind or another. Kittow was a silversmith, like Janero; Alfred, a carpenter; Cedar made knives. They treated him like a fellow craftsman, too, as if school clubs and eBay were the same thing. In the midst of the fellowship he ended up telling the story of how they'd built the Iron King – ten Townie scallywags, gleefully turning the Regatta into a farce. The others had rowed her, and trimmed her sails, but he'd designed her and it was tremendous fun winding up the Goldenrod Uni snobs when Iron King sunk their boat.
Load tennis ball, swing the sling, build momentum, release the knot. Miss. Damnit.
Halfway through his story it seemed to Josh that all this companionship was bittersweet. He'd had this once, at school, with the Workshop club. Building the Iron King, in hindsight, was the swansong of all that.
It would be worse without his pokémon, of course, but they weren't the same.
"So what are you working on, Janero?"
"Oh, just a necklace," he said breezily. "Straightforward commission."
It was a distraction, and a fairly ineffective one. He hadn't heard from Eve in a week. Nothing, not so much as a text. He had to assume the photo found its way to her at Cianwood Gym. He had to assume, no, hope, he wouldn't be going back to being alone.
Spin the sling, build momentum, release the knot. Miss. He remembered vividly. A flawlessly symmetrical, too-perfect face. He'd stabbed her, aron steel flashing in the moonlight. Spin the sling, build momentum, release the knot. Hit the scarecrow's arm. A yell of OHHH!, distant, as if from another field. Mirthless grinning of a sham girl. Licked the air with a soft pink tongue – how dare she look at her like prey! Spin the sling, build momentum, hurl it with a grunt. Hammered into the net. Smothered in black fog, stars like diamonds wheeling overhead. Falling. Cold down to the bone.
He thought about what he'd found in Polyhymnia's library. Monanna cloaked in Silver Wings. The Archer of Heaven. Apotropaic silver.
He hit the target dead centre.
The mossy remains of a stone circle sat on the breezy greensward, a rough meadow of coastal grasses on a stubby headland. There was a granite throne in the middle, looking out to sea. It was supposed to be Ostaro's, but since he obviously wasn't using it Josh considered it fair game.
The evening sky was changing from blue to indigo. A few early stars were peeping out. The Northern Cross was glimmering over the sea. He'd spent the morning pretty much just walking around the island. He'd spent the afternoon on the beach, slinging pebble after pebble at the rusted hulk of a fishing trawler in a vain attempt to occupy his mind. He shouldn't have done – it was a waste of a day – but he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything productive.
The sea breeze rippled through his hair, scented with salt and pine needles. He couldn't help but wonder if the photo had arrived. Whether Eve cared that it had.
He has no thought for harps
nor the giving of rings
nor pleasure in women
nor anything at all
unless the tossing of waves
but he always has a longing
he who strives on the waves
He'd always thought that was about sea-longing. Maybe he was wrong – but he always had a longing …
The sky grew dark. Josh ignored it. The path from the henge led away from the cliff edge. Deneb shone blue in the Cross with its brothers Sadr, Albeiro, and the rest. A zubat flitted across the sky, hiding Vega for an eye's blink.
His phone buzzed, to Josh's dull surprise. He hadn't expected to get a signal up here.
I miss you Thur 21:26
Josh closed his eyes and leaned back into the throne. She misses me. In that moment, he realised that was what he'd hoped for the most. Just that she missed him.
I'll be on Silver Rock Isle Thur 21:28
"Up yours, Polly!" Josh retorted to Polyhymnia's back. It wasn't clever, but she deserved it. Polyhymnia's rudeness was reflexive, like a meowth swatting at bugs. Not that he wanted anything much to do with her, he reflected, watching her walk away, but Porth Carrek was a small town on a small island. It wasn't difficult to run into someone you knew, even if you only knew one person.
It was a warm evening at the harbour, gently baking in the sunshine bouncing off the tarmac. The island was quietening down – the last boat from Red Rock Isle had been and gone. And Josh had nothing to do but wait. He had decided to get dinner, such as it was, at a bakery near the quayside. A disappointing pasty filled with greyish meat and anaemic vegetables. It was the kind of evening for cold beer anyway.
He had his Pokédex open, trying to do some research on Steel-types. It wasn't encouraging reading. The last thing he wanted to face at the Olivine Gym was a steelix. The bloody things might know Fire Fang. You couldn't realistically out-range them. There simply wasn't any such thing as a small steelix – their sheer bulk meant they could just brush aside lesser attacks.
Josh sighed, and gave up. He wasn't learning anything anyway. He wandered off along the harbour, tossing the remainder of the pasty into a bin, hoping the walk might calm his mind. Tan lines were beginning to show up on his arms. It took a lot to get him to tan – two weeks in the Orange Archipelago summer had helped it most of the way along. When he did tan he went from ambiguously ethnic to ambiguously ethnic.
… nobody ever got that joke. On a whim he left the harbour, and stopped at the sight of a pub sign. The Silver Dragon. The painting on the sign didn't look very much like a lugia. Or anyway, it did nothing to convey what a lugia was as opposed to merely what it looked like. Josh rubbed at his temple. Something told him a human shouldn't know the difference.
"I knew I'd find you somewhere near a pub, you dork," she said. Josh turned round without really thinking.
Eve was smirking at him.
"Eve!" Josh burst out, throwing his arms around her for the sheer joy of seeing her smile. And kissed her cheek, because he meant it. To his relief and elation she'd thrown her arms around him, too. He didn't want to let go, stood there in the middle of the street, squeezing Eve just as fiercely as she squeezed him. Tears on her cheek blotted on his.
"I've missed you," she said in a tight little voice.
"I missed you, too."
Reluctantly, he let go. Josh glanced over Eve's shoulder and spotted someone watching them like it was daytime TV.
Eve followed his gaze. "Finished?" she demanded.
A thought struck him, and right then Josh didn't want to wait any longer. "Come on!"
He grabbed Eve's hand and towed her down an alleyway between a couple of narrow houses. There was a secluded grassy space beyond that, with an abandoned shrine to one side, and no-one else around.
"I didn't expect you to be that pleased to see me!" Eve commented, winking at him.
"Just shut up for a moment."
It was wrapped, not in a handkerchief, but in a square of black satin. The Silver Wing, preserved in flawlessly clear resin without bubble or blemish, hanging from a strong silver chain like a moment frozen in time. A thin strip of silver bound the edge, etched with a runic inscription:
ᛗᚩᚾᚪᚾᚪ ᚾᚩᚹᛋ ᛁ ᚪᛗ ᚠᚱᛁᛚᛄ ᚷᛁᚠᛖᚾ
"This is for you."
"What on earth have you -" Eve started, already blushing. Then she realised what she was looking at.
"Is that really?" Eve breathed. "Josh, where did you get this?"
"It's a long story."
Eve gave him a look of blended wonder and disbelief. She reached out reverently to take it. And stopped short. "Why are you giving it to me?"
Ignoring her stuttering, her clasped the necklace around her neck, letting the Silver Wing drop lightly onto her chest.
"Because."