Free The Golden Specific by S. E. Grove

aid?”
    We described the voyage aboard the Kestrel and the terrible encounter with the Fellweeds. Captain Wren’s eyes lit up with something near excitement when we described the creatures that had destroyed our ship. “I have never seen a Fellweed,” he said, in a low, awed voice, “though I have heard them described.”
    â€œFrankly,” Bronson admitted, “we both thought it a mere fancy. I would never have believed the things existed if I had not seen them with my own eyes.”
    â€œI would have said the same before this morning,” Captain Wren agreed. “Although some part of me always wanted them to be real.”
    â€œWhy should you wish such a thing?” I asked him, astonished. “The Fellweeds were merciless.”
    â€œWell, yes,” Wren replied, somewhat embarrassed. Hewore an amber-tinted monocle on a golden chain, and whenever he was at ease he would twirl the monocle idly. Now the monocle came to an abrupt halt. “An idle curiosity, I suppose. In any case,” he went on, changing the subject, “it will be no difficulty to take you to Seville, if that was your destination.”
    â€œIt was. Are you certain this does not make you deviate from your intended route?” Bronson asked.
    â€œNot in the least,” Captain Wren replied, without actually telling us what his intended route was. “We have ten days of sailing ahead of us, and I will look forward to your company during that time.” Wren’s tanned face and white, even teeth seemed to shine at the prospect. And he did, indeed, appear to savor our conversation. Over the next few days, we told him about our past journeys, and our dear Sophia, and how we had planned to take her with us on this voyage, but the dangers Bruno had written of prevented it. He had a thousand questions for us about Boston, which he justified by saying that he was from a remote and isolated part of Seminole, and that he had never visited our capital. I would have believed this explanation but for his unwillingness to talk about the area he claimed to call home and—more strikingly—what emerged as his surprising ignorance regarding New Occident in general.
    This ignorance was hard to place, as he certainly seemed to know a great deal about some aspects of life in New Occident. Yet at other moments he would ask a question or use a phrase that baffled us. Finally, on the third night aboardthe Roost , my discomfort prompted me to confront him more directly. We had been telling him about our journey, some years prior, into the Indian Territories. Bronson, with his skillful pen, drew quick sketches of the people and places we had seen along the way. Captain Wren leaned in over the wooden table, quite literally on the edge of his seat. His bronzed hands clasped each other; his blue eyes were wide with interest at our description of riding through upper New York toward Six Nations City. “I have never been to Six Nations City. What is it like?” he asked eagerly.
    â€œA great trading city,” Bronson said, “much like Charleston or New York. People from all over the territories and New Occident live and trade there—more or less peaceably.”
    â€œAn Eerie woman once told me that Six Nations City should more rightly be called ‘Sixty Nations City,’ given the variety of languages and peoples one finds there,” Wren remarked.
    Bronson and I glanced at one another. “That’s true,” Bronson finally said.
    â€œYou’ve met the Eerie, then?” I asked. “Few people in New Occident ever have.”
    Captain Wren sat back. He looked flustered. “Yes, I had trade with some of the Eerie not long ago.”
    Now it was our turn to ask wondering questions. “There are many stories about them in New Occident,” Bronson said, “but little is known for certain. We hear that they aregreat healers who traveled all the way from the Pacific