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THE SEA OF INK

“Revenge, of course. Why else?”

— Marjorie Campbell

Rosemary fell or floated, she could not tell which. Her arms flailed, her hair waved into her eyes, but she felt no wind. When she could see enough to look, she could glimpse only white. She had no sense of up or down.

Then she landed on her back on a surface like a soft mattress. It drove the wind from her lungs and sent up a spray of dust-like fog around her. She lay in a daze and felt the little specks fall back on her.

Slowly, the memories came back: folding girls, Theo, Puck, flying through the paper portal with Peter, then free fall. Now she was here. But where was Peter?

She brushed sand from her cheeks and sat up.

She sat in the middle of a small crater shaped like her outline. The sky was as white as a void, the sand was the colour of snow, and the horizon between them was a thin grey line. The air was still and the temperature felt like it didn’t exist. There were no birds. No sound, except for her breath.

She stood up unsteadily, adjusted her glasses, and looked around. She found Peter behind her, spreadeagled and face down in the sand. Rosemary knelt by him and shook his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

Peter pushed himself onto his hands and knees and spat sand from his mouth. “I think so.”

She helped him to his feet. He rubbed his forehead. “Thanks.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She slugged him.

He fell over in a spray of dust, then scrambled to his feet. “Hey! Why did you hit me?”

“Because you hit me!” She rubbed her shoulder.

He blinked at her, then snorted, breaking out into a grin. “Sorry.”

Her mouth quirked, but she eyed him sourly. “I told you not to follow me.”

He raised his hands. “What did you want me to do? Stand around while you went in alone?”

“I wasn’t alone,” she snapped. “Puck said —”

“Where is Puck?”

They looked around. They were in the bottom of a bowl of sand so white that, without the sight of each other, they’d have half believed that they’d gone blind.

Their footprints inked the ground like typewriter keys on paper.

“Puck!” Rosemary shouted. Her voice didn’t echo.

“Hi ho!” Puck called, his head popping up above the top of a white dune. “Awake, are we?”

“Where are we?” shouted Peter.

“Come up and see.” And his head disappeared. They heard a rustling.

Rosemary and Peter glanced at each other and shrugged. They scrambled up the sand dune, stuttering to a stop at the top, blinded by their first sight of black.

Before them stretched a white, sandy beach, ending abruptly at a black sea that slapped at the shore in slow, oily waves. Puck was standing at a grove of gnarled black trees, shaking a branch laden with round white fruit the size of basketballs.

Rosemary and Peter glanced at each other and shrugged again. They trudged to the grove, arriving just as Puck pulled one of the fruits free. “Something to play with while we wait,” he said.

“Wait for what?” demanded Rosemary. “Where’s my brother?”

“Across the sea.” Puck turned Rosemary and Peter by the shoulders and placed his head between theirs. He pointed across the black sea to a speck of colour on the horizon. “There, my friends, look there. That is the Land of Fiction.”

“There?” said Rosemary. “How are we going to get over there? You were supposed to bring us there! We’re going to need a boat.”

“We have a boat, wise one,” said Puck. “We must wait for the Ferryman.”

“The Ferryman?” Peter repeated.

Carrying the white fruit, Puck led the two along the beach. A jetty came into view. No boats were in sight.

Puck sighed. “The Ferryman is never here when one needs him.” He flung the white fruit on the ground.

Peter and Rosemary scrambled back, expecting it to splatter. The fruit bounced, changing colour as it hit, swirling like an oil slick on water. The swirls shook as Puck bounced the ball again.

“What is that?” asked Peter.

“An idea — the fruit of an idea tree.” Puck grinned.

“Ideas grow on trees?” said Rosemary.

“Where else would they be?” said Puck. “Tis a shame they are not more common.” He bounced the ball once and twirled it to Peter and Rosemary.

Written in black text on a white stripe were the words, “What if rugs could fly?”

Puck bounced the ball again.

The words now said, “What if we could make time run backwards?”

“Ideas fall from the trees and are blown across this beach,” said Puck, “and into the great black sea that surrounds the Land of Fiction. In time, they build the Land itself.”

Peter reached for the ball. “Let me try!” Puck handed it to him. Peter bounced it.

“What if we could travel at the speed of thought?”

Rosemary stared at the swirling fruit. The words from a book echoed in her mind. She shivered.

“Neat,” said Peter. “But why is this ‘fruit’ made of rubber?”

“So I can do this,” said Puck. He snatched up the ball and bounced it off of Peter’s head.

He ducked away. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“I am bouncing an idea off you!” Puck held it up. It read: “What am I doing here?”

Peter gaped. “What?”

“Some ideas can be specific to the individual,” said Puck. He moved to bounce the ball again.

“Give me that!” Peter grabbed the ball and bounced it off Rosemary’s head.

The ball swirled, and a line of text took shape. “What if I can’t get Theo back? What if we get stuck here? What if we get hurt? What if we can’t —” The line wound around and around until it was like a ball of string.

Puck pulled the ball away. “You are indeed wise, Sage Rosemary. Your mind is full of many thoughts.”

Rosemary gaped. “Wait —”

But Puck tossed the ball high into the air. It arced over the beach and landed in the sea. It bobbed on the surface for a few seconds before sinking beneath the waves. “We’ve had our fun,” he said, waving them forward, “but now our ride has come. Move along, my children, along!”

Peter and Rosemary saw movement on the black sea. A boat was gliding across the surface, and a shrouded figure was standing on the prow.

The boat pulled up to the jetty and stopped. The figure floated off. Covered from head to toe in a black cloak, he advanced on the party as though he were gliding on air, though they heard the boards creak beneath him over the slap of oily waves. Peter and Rosemary backed into Puck.

The Ferryman stopped. “Who asks for passage across the Sea?” The voice boomed from the dark space under his hood.

Puck nudged Rosemary forward. She swallowed hard and tried her best to curtsy. Her jeans made it feel silly. “I do.”

“And who are you?”

“Rosemary Ella Watson.”

“And who are your companions?”

“Robin Goodfellow, her guide,” said Puck.

There was a moment’s silence, then Puck nudged Peter. He started. “Peter Calvin McAllister.”

“The lady’s champion,” Puck finished.

“What?” squawked Peter.

“And why do you seek to cross?”

Rosemary looked to Puck. He nodded. She turned back to the Ferryman. “To rescue my brother from the Land of Fiction.”

“That is worthy,” said the Ferryman. “You may now pay the fare.”

“The fare?” said Rosemary. “I didn’t bring much money —”

“The fare is not money. You must each submit a verse of your own. If I find the three verses good, then all three may cross. If not, another fare is required.”

“Oh!” said Puck. “I’ll start.”

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

if you pardon, we will mend:

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call;

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

“Hey!” said Peter. “You didn’t make that up — William Shakespeare did!”

Puck smiled. “Yes, but those few words first did come from my lips.”

The Ferryman bowed. “I accept your verse. Who goes next?”

“I guess I will,” said Peter. He took a deep breath.

There once was a bright boy from Clarksbury

w-who was confronted with much sound and fury ...

He did his best ...

To keep up with the ... rest?

Cause he wanted to go home in a hurry.

The Ferryman considered for a moment, then said, “I accept your verse. And now you, girl.”

Rosemary stood, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“Rosemary?” said Peter.

She shot him a look of desperation.

Peter stepped towards the Ferryman. “I can do another one.”

“No!” The Ferryman pushed Peter back. “It has to come from her.”

Rosemary swallowed hard. “One proton, two proton, three proton, four ... hydrogen, helium, lithium ... more?”

The Ferryman looked at her with thundering silence.

Rosemary drooped. Then she looked up. “You said there was another fare?”

“Failing the first fare, instead of three tasks between you, you now have six.”

Rosemary went white. “Six poems?”

“No. You must show me that you believe in six impossible things before you may cross.”

“Like Alice in Wonderland,” Peter muttered.

“The White Queen, actually,” said Puck. “I’ll start. I live within a house the size of a thimble, and I believe that all that I say is a lie.”

“Hey!” said Peter. “If everything you say is a lie, then how —”

“Shh,” said Puck. “Your turn.”

Before Peter could say anything, Rosemary jumped in. “Well, I’m standing right here, and that’s impossible.”

“Go ahead, take the easy one!” Peter looked as if smoke was going to rise from his head. He turned away and gnawed a knuckle before snapping his fingers.

“Bumblebees!”

“What?” said Rosemary.

“They say it’s impossible for bumblebees to fly, but they do!”

“That’s because they flap their wings,” huffed Rosemary. “If they didn’t, they’d drop like stones.”

The Ferryman’s voice cut between them. “Two more.”

They stood in silence, looking around for inspiration. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets, digging a toe in the paper-coloured sand. The waves slapped the shore. Suddenly he blurted out, “I ... I believe my parents are alive. I wake up and I think that they’re downstairs making breakfast and then I ... is that okay?”

“And you?” The Ferryman turned towards Rosemary.

Rosemary had been staring at Peter; she jerked up at the Ferryman’s voice. Everyone stood still and silent. Finally a small smile dawned on her face. She took a deep breath. “I believe I can save Theo.”

The Ferryman put forth a long hand to the boat. “Board.”

They clambered aboard. Peter and Rosemary jammed themselves into a narrow bench while Puck lounged on the remaining seat. The Ferryman stood at the prow. Without oars or sails, the boat glided forward into the sea. As Rosemary glanced at the grey-on-black horizon, Peter nudged her. “Um, the fare ... isn’t saving Theo the reason we’re here?”

She looked at him. “So?”

“So? Well, if you believe it and it’s impossible ... aren’t we in trouble? Or isn’t it impossible?”

“Do you want off this boat?” asked Rosemary.

“Just asking!”

Rosemary turned away. She dipped her hand in the water and wrinkled her nose at the faint chemical smell, like permanent markers. “Why is this water so dark?”

“Water it is not, Rosemary,” said Puck. “This is the Sea of Ink.”

She pulled her arm out. It was black to her elbow. “This is ink?”

“Indelible ink, I fear.”

She tried to wipe her arm clean on her jeans, but only smeared them. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”

“The Sea of Ink surrounds the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “It would be wise to keep your hands within the boat. You too, Peter.”

He pointed to a wave on the sea. Then Rosemary saw that it wasn’t a wave, but the silhouette of a girl, a few years younger than she was, rising out of the water. Her black mouth was open, taking in a great gulp of air before she sank back beneath the waves.

“A character is born,” said Puck.

Rosemary shuddered.

Something bumped the boat. Peter and Rosemary looked over the side and saw the dorsal fin of a great black shark sink below the surface. Peter pulled his arm away from the edge. “Can they capsize the boat?”

“No, I think not,” said Puck. “The Ferryman has crossed this sea since I was put to paper. Few of his fares have been lost.”

“Few?” squeaked Peter.

“The sea is getting thick with characters,” said Rosemary.

Other shapes bobbed on the waves. The silhouette of a man in a bowler hat and a suit, carrying a long, black umbrella, walked upright on a swell. He tipped his hat to a teenage girl who cartwheeled past, half submerged. Nearby, a warrior held his black sword high as he sank beneath the surface.

“All the characters in fiction come from here?” asked Rosemary.

“Most,” said Puck. “Legendary characters are uncertain of birth, but King Arthur rises every fortnight.”

Peter pointed ahead. “I see the other jetty.”

The boat coasted up to the jetty and stopped with a crunch against the shore. The beach of white sand stretched ahead for several feet before becoming darker and stonier. Trees rose up further inland, and a forest stretched into the distance.

Puck leapt lightly out and helped Rosemary and Peter step onto the jetty. Then he crossed his arms and bowed low to the Ferryman. He gave Peter and Rosemary a glance, and they mimicked the gesture. The Ferryman bowed in return.

Rosemary started up the beach, with Peter close behind, but Puck stopped them and turned them back to the sea.

“Look,” he said. “New characters begin their stories.”

Black shapes surfaced from the ink and crawled onto the shore. There, the ink dried on them, changing colour, and they got to their feet as princes and princesses, dwarfs and elves, orphans and detectives, monsters and villains. From the shore, they walked in straight lines to their destinies.

Peter and Rosemary stared after them, awed.

“Come,” said Puck, nudging them forward. “Let us begin our own story.” And they crossed the beach and slipped in among the trees.