The light rushed at Tip, bright golden and brilliant. It struck him dumb. His pupils shrank to the tips of needles and he squinted despite himself. He didn’t want to risk a blink for fear of missing even a moment of this dazzling radiance.
He couldn’t. The light was too intense. Overwhelming. He averted his gaze, wheezing.
Slowly, it started to dawn on him where the glow was coming from. He could hardly believe it. A card? An actual card that he could reach out and touch? Down here, in Nort’s secret basement?
Just like everyone else from the Hollow, or even from Stormwatch and Dampwood, Tip had only heard of cards being whispered about once daylight had faded and the bolts were securely in the locks of front doors. His mom didn’t like to talk about magic, avoided the topic altogether, and all Tip had gathered was little scraps of information he’d overheard at the docks and the fish market. He’d woven these into the web of rumors spread by his peers to form a legend-like tale of power that he only half-believed.
He knew that magical cards were within the realm of the Alchemists’ Guild. Wizards’, warriors’ and mythical creatures’ too, though he doubted these existed. At least not in Raintown. He knew that cards granted abilities and power to their bearers and that they could be strengthened by gathering into a deck but little beyond that.
A sudden cracking sound shattered his reverie. He’d tuned out the escalating noise from upstairs and now it flooded his head.
“The axe, you dumb wit!” someone shouted. It was clear now that one of the intruders was a man with a harsh, raspy voice.
Not a moment after, a sharp blade hacked through the floorboards inches from Tip’s nose. He ducked his head to the floor, nearly crying out in horror. His mind worked frantically. What could he do? How could he earn an extra minute of living and breathing and hoping for an escape?
The axe slashed through the wood again, this time deeper, and the metal glinted in the yellow light like a thunderbolt. Tip felt his limbs grow numb, his mind buzzing with panic.
Think! Think! Think!
His eyes darted this way and that, then behind him. His brow furrowed. Only now, in the light issuing from the card, could he see that this was not a hole he was stuck in at all but rather a narrow crawlspace that ran the length of the shop. As far as he could see, it looked like a tunnel that extended west and ended in a circular door with a thick round door handle.
There was no time to debate. On instinct, he snatched the card from the chest and tucked it inside the front of his shirt. Just before the axe sliced through the wood again, Tip hurled himself towards the door, narrowly escaping a hit. The cramped space didn’t even allow for crawling on his hands and knees, so Tip dropped onto his stomach and dragged himself forward by the elbows. Vaguely, he wondered how a large man such as Nort could have a good use for such a tight passage.
Behind him, the axe got stuck in the boards, the wood squeaking around it as the handler tried to ease it out. The rotten floor gave way and blue light shimmered inside the tunnel when a large piece of board ripped away from the rest. Tip peeked over his shoulder and saw a gaping hole. Through it, a groping hand was feeling its way around.
Just as he finally reached the door, a large figure struggled through the hole and into the tunnel, immediately setting after him. Tip waited a beat, his heart lodged into his throat. If a twelve-year-old like himself could barely move through the cramped crawlspace, even when lying down, what chance did a grown man have?
He was right. The figure didn’t advance towards him, only a long arm swiped at the space behind Tip, trying to reach his foot. Tip watched petrified as the thick fingers came a few inches short of locking around his ankle.
“He’s down here!” the man panted. He contorted his neck, trying to extend his arm further.
Tip came back to his senses and launched himself at the door. He pushed it with all the force he could muster through his awkward position but nothing happened. It didn’t budge. Despair washed over him. His eyes watered and dizziness overcame him.
That was it then. There was no more to be done, nowhere to go.
A vision of his mother’s smiling eyes, crow’s feet extending from their corners and flames twinkling within their dark irises, danced before him. A ghostly whisper caressed his ear. Come away, dear child, through the mists and beyond the heavy rains, into the sunshine meadows…
With Nort gone, there would be no one to tell Larkspur where he was, how he’d passed.
“The axe, you useless wretch!” the man roared to his partner. “His head is a couple of paces to the left, towards the west wall.”
The command cut through the fog that had enveloped Tip. He snapped back. These people were truly prepared to kill in order to obtain the card. So many questions swarmed across his mind but there was no time to entertain them.
An idea struck him then. The door should open inward, like any door leading into an entryway. He needed to pull instead of push. If only he could move back a little to allow space for it to swing open.
The axe cracked through the floor again, this time a little off to the side from his shoulder. Another hit, another miss, but the blade came closer, zeroing in on its invisible target.
Tip had only become distracted a moment but it had been enough for his pursuer to wriggle further into the tunnel and finally get hold of his foot. Tip screamed, the iron grip coming as a shock. He kicked and squirmed, but the other man was infinitely stronger than him. The dirt floor under Tip was slimy with fungi and algae and as much as he tried to dig his fingers into it to gain purchase, he kept sliding backwards as the man dragged him by the ankle.
The axe rained blows above him relentlessly. Whack! Whack! Whack! The blade finally found its aim. Dull pain spread down Tip’s backside. He moaned and went slack, abandoning his struggle. The man in the tunnel yanked at his foot again but this time Tip remained in place.
When the pain didn’t get any worse, the boy realized that the axe must have chopped into the satchel he’d slung across his back. In a stroke of luck, it hadn’t fully penetrated the hardened leather, but through the force of the hit, the satchel had slid off to the side. Tip was pinned into place, like the exotic dead butterflies in Nort’s display cases.
This was it. His last chance. The last moment of reprieve he’d get before he fell victim either to the axe or to the giant figure at the other end of the tunnel. Quickly, he drew the card from his shirt and flourished it in the man’s face. Caught off guard and blinded, the attacker dropped Tip’s foot and shielded his eyes from the intense light. Tip took the opportunity and jammed his heel into the man’s mouth. A chilling growl escaped the giant’s lips as they were sputtered crimson.
Quickly, Tip twisted out of the satchel strap and grabbed the door handle. The man swung his hand blindly after him, but Tip pulled the door open, this time easily, and fell through.
***
Tip was falling. Dropping swiftly towards the turbulent sea. His body realized it before his mind did. His heart leapt into his throat, and his stomach flipped. He shut his eyes and waited for the inevitable splash.
Instead, he crashed into something solid. A sharp edge cut into his ribs, another across his jaw, knocking the breath out of him. For a moment, Tip felt disoriented. Pain seared through his body. The man was yelling something after him, but his voice was muffled, as if seeping through wool.
Everything around Tip glowed. Like fire.
Of course, it couldn’t be. There was no fire in Raintown. Every attempt at a fickle flame sputtered and hissed into swirling smoke even before the spark had died between the flint and the curved firesteel. The constant beating of the rain, the insidious dampness that had weaved its way into the very soul of the town, had turned fire into a fairytale detail, a faded memory of a season that hadn’t visited these parts in decades.
No, it wasn’t fire, Tip realized. It was the card. Still in his hand, it cast a glow so strong it illuminated everything around. The small fishing boat he’d crashed into, the vile grimace on the face of a man staring at him through The Treasure Chest’s grimy window, the twinkling blues and purples of townhouses across the bay. To Tip’s surprise, even a rope ladder hanging from the base of the tunnel door and reaching into the boat. On the few trips when he and Nort had approached Saltstone Pier by sea, he’d never seen a ladder outside the shop. Or a circular door, for that matter.
Tip had to conceal the light or he’d never be able to escape. First, he shoved the card back into his shirt, but the glow diminished in strength only slightly. Reluctantly, he shrugged off his waxed cape and bundled it around the card. Finally darkness. Tip couldn’t remember ever welcoming it with such relief.
Rain pummeled his bare head and shoulders. He wiped the water out of his eyes and listened. The surf groaned against the pier. A shallow foamy pool at the bottom of the boat lapped at his boots. Above him, the man kept shouting from inside the tunnel. Was he stuck in there?
The door to the shop burst open. Heavy feet pounded over the pier. There was no time to think. Tip fumbled with the knot that bound the boat to one of the pier’s pilings. Mastering knots was one more skill he owed to Nort and now he was glad he’d paid attention to the old man’s demonstrations.
Just as a great splash worried the dark waters behind him, Tip released the boat, grabbed the oars and started rowing towards the shore.
