A cool breeze drifted over the ocean. Skimming the tops of the foam crested waves, it grew bored and turned, heading south. Here the water was warmer and brighter, the foam glittering like diamonds under a beating sun. The fish-friends were so colourful. Skimming over reefs and turquoise waters, it spied a set of sandy coves and rock strewn islands baking in the haze. The curious breeze blew itself towards the islands, briefly losing itself in the tangle of warship rigging, before zooming up and over a white beach, and across the stone fortifications in search of interesting sensations.

It lingered over the heavy iron of a cannon. Then with a sigh, it blew through the nearby treetops, setting the palms aflutter. It whispered over an oyster catcher’s calloused hands, and bounced playfully across the sweaty brow of a blacksmith working his bellows in the harbour workshop. The blacksmith was most appreciative. Growing suddenly bashful, the breeze nearly spluttered out, but turning in on itself, found the market stalls and city crowds beyond. Sunshine and noise beckoned. The little breeze picked up the heady scent of spices, which it thought suited it well.

After a long morning of play, the breeze grew bored of the clamour and hustle, and went seeking quieter amusements. A lush garden further inland looked like a more peaceful adventure. Colourful flowers, ornamental ponds and fountains were just the thing. Sleek marble walls rose to the side, a palace in white stone! The breeze caressed the smooth walls, and wound its way lovingly between ornately decorated pillars.

Suddenly, inexplicably, the breeze found itself pulled away against its will. What was happening? There were still flowers it wanted to touch! Blades of grass it hadn’t ruffled!

The breeze struggled, fighting against the compulsion, but it was no good. In a rush, it gave in, and zoomed through a small, arched window into a dark interior. There were people there. Lots of people, finely dressed. The breeze flew over their heads, tasting their scents, rich and perfumed, before gushing over the balding head of a man sitting on a dais. He was wearing very fancy clothes. As was the woman beside him, and they both smelt like oranges and grapes.

Next to them was a sorcerer. The breeze had seen one of those before, out at sea, capturing trickles of wind to fill the sails of a war barge. That was what had happened. The breeze didn’t mind though. The room was interesting. It settled into a circuit, fluttering back and forth across the couple on the dais, at the sorcerer’s behest.

“Thank you, Errol,” said the king. “It’s hotter than the Bright One’s armpits in here.”

The court sorcerer bowed.

“Ahem,” said the queen, from next to him.

“What?” said the king. He was thinking about lunch. He smacked his lips at the thought of the plump, sweet grapes that he knew would be waiting. Surely it must be lunch time soon? But his wife coughed again, and gave him a rather vicious dig in the ribs with her elbow. This action was hidden from the peasants and courtiers below, by the long folds of her robe. The king sighed and focused his eyes on the pallid features of the messenger before him.

“Can you repeat that, my dear?” he asked regally. The messenger opened his mouth, in a wonderful imitation of a blowfish. The king’s stomach rumbled. “My wife. Not you.”

“A message for us,” said the queen, with a sniff. “From our son.”

“Ah yes,” said the king. The breeze fluttered through his robes, making things bearable. Just. He sat up straighter. “But why does Garrick need to send us a message? He’s right here.”

He waved his annoyance at the youth standing to one side. The young man’s arms were folded across his armoured chest, and he huffed a sigh.

“Not Garrick,” hissed the queen. “Salazar.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Oh, Salazar,” said the king. “Salazar! Hang on, didn’t we send Salazar to—”

“Yes, yes,” said the queen, hurriedly, her eyes on the throng below. “That is right. News from Einheath.”

“Perhaps he sends word of his nuptials!” said the king excitedly. He and the queen exchanged a knowing look. The king turned back to the merchant. “You may deliver the message!”

“Err… out loud, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, my good man! Out loud!” The king looked at the queen and said loudly, “Why is it so hard to find good people these days?”

“Because you keep feeding them to our pets, my love.”

“Oh right. Aha ha ha. I said read the damn message!”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

The messenger unrolled his parchment and cleared his throat:

“Dear Mum and Dad,

“I’m having a lovely time here in Fairhaven! Queen Maud is a delight, and every bit as beautiful as her painting! More! Her skin is alabaster perfection! Her lips are rubies! Her eyes are light sapphire stars flung from the heavens! I am overcome with feelings of love and devotion! She thinks I am the best thing ever!!! And very handsome and clever too!

“Our wedding will be in the summer, and of course you are all invited. Even Garrick, the little swot.

“To celebrate our betrothal, I have sent you all a little gift from my new nation! Not only is my bride-to-be a creature of elegance and grace, my new home has the most fantastic array of shops! Do you know they have fairies here? Real fairies that sell all sorts of interesting magical things! Anyway, your gift is an item I came across in one of their emporiums, and I am sure you will find it as delightful as I! I know how you love a good chest. Love to Aunty Vic.

“Your loving son, Sal.”

Everyone looked expectantly at the large, brass-banded chest that stood before the messenger. It was a little battered, presumably from the long journey, but made of fine mahogany. The messenger had left his red flat-cap on top of it.

The king leaned across to his wife, and said in a loud whisper, “That’s not one of our—”

“No, dear,” said the queen, opening her fan with a vicious snap.

“Well then,” said the king, slapping his thighs and getting to his feet. “Let’s see what’s inside!”

“No, dear,” said the queen. “I don’t think that would be a good idea—”

“Eh? Why not?”

The queen did not speak, merely fanning herself with a vigour that spoke of great agitation. “You!” she said to the messenger. “You open it.”

The messenger bobbed his head nervously.

He knelt down in front of the chest, hands reaching for the lock. The king yawned, and wished the breeze was a little cooler. At this rate, he was going to fall asleep, not even the promise of grapes could keep him awake. But no. Something interesting was happening.

The chest shuddered. What possibly could the dear boy have sent?

“I-I think there might be something alive in there,” called the messenger.

“Open it,” demanded the queen.

“Y-yes, Your—”

There was a startled cry, a flash of fangs. The messenger’s feet kicked as he fell—no—was pulled, face first into the chest, which had sprung open. The king leapt to his feet in alarm. The sound of bones cracking and crunching filled the suddenly silent throne room.

Then the chest roared and exploded into a forest of monster limbs. Screams tore through the air as the chest crashed into the crowd, putrid limbs grabbing, wagging crimson tongue unrolled like a carpet, giggles bubbling and hissing from the monster’s maw. The monarchs fled. The court sorcerer dropped the little breeze in favour of more combative spells.

A short while later, there was quiet once more.

Released from the court sorcerer’s grip, the breeze blew softly across the bloody mess of bones and meat. It pushed aside a few carrion flies, and then pleased to be its own master once again, blew itself out of the window and into the world beyond.