Tip plunged his hand into the mud pool and stirred. The softened earth belched and bubbled as he searched, slithering black and oily between his fingers.

When he couldn’t grasp anything of substance, he crouched lower over the stepping stone, pulled up his shirtsleeve and dipped his arm elbow-deep into the slimy mass.

Again, nothing. 

Rain pelted his waxed cape and cascaded down its folds but he paid it no heed. In the back of his mind he was vaguely concerned that his boots were sodden and rainwater had seeped through to his toes, but his focus was on what crawled beneath the sticky mud surface. 

Thunder rolled in the distance, startling Tip. He looked up and over his shoulder. In a flash, he saw that he’d come further afield than ever before, the last crooked wooden fences far behind him. Even the faint glow of the town beyond the rise was dimmed by the heavy curtain of rain. 

Another blink and darkness descended again over the Bogs. All he had to rely on were his ears, hands and nose.  

Something animate and squirmy brushed his fingers. Tip swallowed his revulsion, chased it and squeezed. Sure enough, after hours of searching, he’d finally found one. 

A glow-worm. 

He pulled and the mud released the creature with a sucking noise. 

Tip stood, balancing precariously on his little island of solid rock, and fished out the glass jar from his satchel. Quickly, he shoved the fat larvae-like worm into it and held out the open container so the rain could rinse it of the muck. 

Inside, the glow-worm wriggled and coiled, stunned by its new environment. Tip grinned. The green luminescence emanating from the creature cast a circle of soft light around him so he could see as far as the tips of his scuffed boots. 

Tip placed the lid on the jar and stomped in place to encourage blood back into his numb feet. It was ironic that a seamstress’s son should walk about with holes in his socks, soaking up the chilly mud water, but these days his feet — his everything — seemed to grow and extend by the hour. 

With the new lantern in hand, it took him half the time to cross the Bogs back to the fields, now that he didn’t have to rely on his memory or senses to pick out the treacherous path. 

It was hard to believe his luck. Every now and again, he raised the jar to his face and shook it lightly to disturb the worm and produce a small flash of intense green. 

Beautiful. 

Soon, as he descended the rise, the first houses came into view through the sheets of rain. To get to Saltstone Pier, he could either walk straight through town or skirt the farms on the southern end, then walk up the seafront. Deciding that he’d get into less trouble that way, he picked the latter. 

Although he wasn’t likely to meet many people out in this weather, he put the jar away in his satchel, just in case. Trudging down the muddy dirt road and past the dark farmhouses, he soon heard the roar of the surf. Another short stretch and he’d finally be out of the rain. 

Usually, Nort’s Treasure Chest wasn’t open for business so late in the evening, but tonight was special. A new shipwreck had been washed ashore two days ago —it was all the town had been talking about — and it was finally old Nort’s turn to comb through what had remained of it. 

Tip felt his pulse quicken as he neared the shop at the end of the pier. Judging by the pale blue light in the grimy window, old Nort was still inside. Tip was on time. Wet, shivering and miserable but at least he hadn’t come empty-handed. 

He stormed through the rickety front door and almost crashed into Nort’s protruding backside. Bent over, Nort was pulling a tall stack of empty wooden crates towards the door and didn’t bother to turn despite the loud clang of the doorbell. 

“I don’t have time for this,” he grunted and took another strained pull at the crates. 

“It’s me, Nort.” Tip took a side-step just in time to avoid Nort’s generous rear ramming into his chest. “Need a hand with those?”

“What I need is bloody peace. And anyway, shouldn’t you be tucked in at this hour, lass?” 

Normally, Tip would complain about the jibe. The long hair he could defend. Half the men in Raintown wore elaborate braids that required at least mid-back-long tresses. It was his skinny frame and those thick eyelashes he wished he could do something about. 

He let it pass this time. His agenda was more important to him than preserving his dignity. 

“I have something for you,” he said cheerfully. 

“What? A rat’s skull you’ll try to pass off as a baby dragon’s? Again? I told you, kid. I don’t sell junk.” 

Tip took a sweeping glance around the shop. Behind an overcrowded counter, towering shelves were stacked high with trinkets and baubles of all shapes and sizes. Ancient, lichen-covered runestones and amulets fought for space with moldy books and scrolls, maps and jagged remnants of swords and shields. Mysterious creatures were trapped in jars full of murky liquids. Glass-topped display cases held cracked talismans, gemstones and coins from distant worlds. 

To the untrained eye, the crammed shop could appear as the chaotic, unsavory junk pile of a hoarder. However, Tip knew that every item on those shelves had been carefully curated, if not for its practical or monetary value, at least for the story it carried inside. 

“It’s much better than that,” Tip said, returning his attention to the shopkeeper.

“What is it?” Nort asked absently as he rounded the stack of crates and gave them a shove from behind. His forehead and orange sideburns glistened with sweat. 

Tip produced the jar and held it up above the crates so Nort could see. There was no need. As soon as the glow-worm was out of the satchel, the entire room took on a greenish hue, overpowering the blue. The gentle light bathed book spines, bounced off crystals and multiplied within mirrors. 

A pair of knitted, bushy eyebrows appeared from behind the crates. Nort narrowed his eyes at Tip without so much as glancing at the worm.

“What are you thinking, kid?” he hissed. “Where did you get that from?”

“It’s for you! I went to a lot of trouble to dig it out. Where should I put it?”

“Shove it up…” Nort took a deep breath. “Put it back where it came from and never, I mean, ever—“

“But— “

“No ‘buts’. I don’t want to see it. Put it away and get the hell out of my shop. I’ve got business to attend to and I don’t want any trouble.”

Tip’s heart sank. It hadn’t worked out. Worse. Nort was now mad at him and it was getting more and more unlikely that the old man would hear him out. 

His plan had been simple enough. 

Sometimes Nort let Tip help around The Treasure Chest as long as the boy stood out of his way, didn’t shirk his responsibilities at the fishing docks and didn’t ask for any material renumeration. In exchange, the old man let Tip browse through the collection of curious and exotic items he’d gathered from shipwrecks over the years. 

If Nort was in a fair mood, which was rarer than sunshine in Raintown, he’d tell the boy the stories behind some of the more obscure objects - where they’d come from and what they were used for. Though Tip doubted even half of it was true, he’d developed an addiction for these tales of faraway lands, magic and adventure, of true evil and danger and intrigue. 

Worse, he’d developed wanderlust. Through the rusted arrowheads, the crumbling maps and the faded images of glorious beasts he’d glimpsed a world beyond Raintown with its endless Bogs on one end and the roiling sea on the other. 

Tonight, he’d hoped that Nort would take him along to explore the remains of the shipwreck together. Though there was probably little left after the freebooters from Rover Bay had been raiding it for the last couple of days, Tip was ecstatic for a chance to come so close to an actual ship from another city. It would be his first real adventure, not one that unfolded across the pages of a book or in his own head. 

Tip had thought that bringing the old man something valuable would make him more amenable to his request but apparently he’d been wrong. He couldn’t figure it out. 

A glow-worm was precious. He knew that much. Also, it was doubtful that Nort could afford one of his own. Then why hadn’t he been grateful?

“Out of my way now! Shoo!” Nort roared. 

Tip’s shoulders slumped. Reluctantly, he returned the glowing jar to his satchel, slung the strap across his chest and squeezed past the crates towards the door. The space was now too narrow for the door to swing open enough to let him out. 

Should he try one more time? Could the shopowner’s foul mood be turned around? Was it hopeless?

As soon as he turned to tell Nort he was stuck inside, a loud bang rattled the front door. 

“Town Guard!” a metallic voice pierced through the rotten wood. “Open up!”

Tip froze. Nort’s ruddy face appeared again, but this time he didn’t look angry or impatient. In his tightened jaw and pursed lips, Tip read an emotion he’d thought the old shopkeeper incapable of feeling. 

Fear. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

“This way,” Nort snapped and yanked Tip by the hand further inside the shop. “Give me that and jump in.”

Nort pried the glass jar from the satchel and shoved the boy into an open trapdoor. Then he kicked the stick that held the lid open and Tip found himself in darkness again. Everything happened so fast that he had no time to react or even utter a sound of protest.

At least he had the glow-worm to light up the cramped space. 

No, wait. He didn’t. Nort had taken that away. 

What was going on?