Island of Shipwrecks

Nothing happened. The turtle lay still and lifeless as before. Then, with a small wheezing sound, its mouth opened, and then its eyes. Soon its flippers began to wave in the air.

Ishibashi rolled the turtle over, flippers down this time. It stood, then walked around slowly, unbothered by Fox and Kitten who raced around it, talking and mewing at top speed.

Henry couldn’t believe it. The sea turtle was healed. “Wow,” he breathed. He looked at Ishibashi, thinking of all the people and creatures he could heal with one little clump of that seaweed.

“Hai,” whispered Ishibashi. “We have a little magic of our own. The problem is that we do not know the long-term effects of even a small amount. Will the sea turtle now be invincible from death? Will he live forever? Or could he die tomorrow of some other ailment or injury? We don’t know.”

Henry looked at the man, wide-eyed. “Is that why you are so old, Ishibashi-san?”

The man smiled, amused. “Yes, Henry-san. That is the reason.” He watched the turtle walk out of the room, Fox and Kitten on its heels, and continued. “Once we discovered the seaweed’s power, we three scientists began experimenting. Ito-san, the oldest, eats a small bit every day. Sato-san only takes a bite when injured or ill. And I ate one bite thirty-three years ago, and nothing since.” He gave Henry a solemn look. “Clearly we are all doing well for our ages as a result. But now we worry—what if we will never die?”

Henry thought about that. “Would that be a bad thing?”

Ishibashi nodded. “For me, yes. I would not want to go on and on forever. Would you? Think about it.”

With that, the old man went back to his work, leaving Henry to ponder.

» » « «

After a while, Henry found Ishibashi again. “So, um, where did you say I could find some of that seaweed? The cove on the other side of the island? Is it all right if I . . . I mean, since I’m the main healer person in Artimé and all . . . ?”

Ishibashi smiled. “Have you thought about whether you would want to live forever?”

“I have,” Henry said.

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

Henry looked at the man and spoke truthfully. “I don’t know. I would have to think about it a lot more.”

Ishibashi nodded. “As would everyone, yes?”

Henry nodded solemnly.

Ishibashi clasped his hands in front of him, seemingly satisfied with Henry’s answer. “I would never forbid you to have it, Henry-san. I will give you some myself. But you have to understand—this seaweed is both wonderful and very, very dangerous. Its power is great, and it must not fall into the wrong hands. In fact, you must tell no one about it.”

Henry’s eyes widened. He nodded.

“Most of all,” Ishibashi continued in a voice so low Henry could scarcely hear him, “despite what I have told you about our experiments, you must never, ever use it on humans without their full understanding and consent.”

Aaron Strikes Oil

Sir,” Liam began from the doorway of Aaron’s office, “there’s a bit of a problem. The barbed-wire ceiling over Quill has been coming down with the wall, and it’s resting on the tops of the houses. No one knows what to do with it.”

Aaron frowned at the contraption in front of him. “Where’s Gondoleery? Make her take care of it.”

“I don’t know, High Priest. I haven’t seen her in weeks. I’m a little concerned that she’s—”

A spring exploded from the middle of the contraption, hit the ceiling, and dropped to the floor halfway across the room. Aaron sighed. “Go away, Liam,” he grumbled, not looking up.

Liam opened his mouth to say more, but it was no use. “I’ll be in my room,” he muttered as he left.

» » « «

As it turned out, building an oil press was much more complicated than Aaron ever expected it to be. After weeks of focusing all his energy on finding the proper pieces he needed, and then pounding them into shape or cutting them to size or curling them into delicate metal links by hand and attaching them together to make a chain, he barely even noticed the enormous wall crumbling outside his window. And he gave little thought to the new, unprotected view of the sea. For today, finally, Aaron was ready to attach the last piece of the contraption to see if the thing actually worked.

He picked up the crank and held it to the light so that the sun shone through the square hole he’d fashioned on one end. It was almost perfect . . . but not quite. He strapped it to his desk and gave it one final pound with a mallet to straighten it. Then he picked it up once more, gave it a hard look, and slipped the end with the square hole over the rod that poked out of one side of the machine. He wiggled the crank onto the squared portion of the rod until it grabbed hold.

Carefully Aaron turned the crank, scrutinizing the machine’s many intricate parts, checking each piece of it to make sure it all moved together just as he’d pictured it. And it did. The synchronicity of it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—in Quill, anyway. His mind briefly wandered to Artimé, where beauty was everywhere. Something like this might be commonplace there, but here in Quill, it was quite spectacular, and most importantly, Aaron had created it himself.

He frowned. He didn’t like the word “created.” It seemed too much like an Unwanted word. He’d built it himself. That was more like it. It sounded a bit more Quillitary-ish. He pushed aside the nagging thought that the two words were very similar, and returned his attention to the workings of the machine.