The Archivist

Percival Tiller was small for his age. At just over fifteen, he had some hope left that he might still grow to be at least of average height, but as of right now, he just felt small. He hiked his hood over his head to keep dry from the sea spray and noticed some of the fishermen smiling and commenting to each other. Undoubtedly, they were mocking him.

No matter, thought Percival as he sniffed, his nose running in the biting cold. He was, after all, heading to The Isle of the Lost on official Archive business. It had sounded so important when he was younger, “Official Archive Business”, but now, on the way to his first assignment, he felt more like they were just trying to get rid of him.

The request for an Archivist had come into The Grand Archive, known colloquially as The Hold, three weeks ago. At first, there was great excitement among the Studied. While Archivists were still respected throughout Elderfaeld and mostly left alone, fewer and fewer local archives were being kept up, and the desire for a posted Archivist anywhere but the main cities had become nearly unheard of. So this seemed, at first, like a magnificent opportunity.

Until they found out where it was. The Archive at the base of the rocky outcropping of mountains hadn’t been updated in decades, and there’d been no official post for decades more. Rumors were that it was unkempt, drafty and smelled of fish. It had become known as Fishhollow Dungeon, Percival recently learned, even though the official title of Windswept Athenaeum didn’t sound much better. Why anyone would desire an Archive, let alone an Archivist, in such a location was beyond Percival’s comprehension.

And yet here he was, clutching his leather satchel full of documents from The Grand Archive to be distributed to the Athenaeum, including a letter of introduction for the Mayor and a bill of exchange to cover all of Percival’s expenses on the way to his post. These were the two documents he was most concerned with, holding a grudging belief that no one on The Isle of The Lost would ever require accurate records of the succession of Kings and movement of borders on the mainland.

Percival pulled his long cloak down over his shoulders more, trying in vain to get his legs warmer. The only transport from the Port of Anboro to The Isle of the Lost was a midsized sailboat full of large and unpleasant fisherman who seemed to take every opportunity to jostle Percival as he tried to stay upright and out of the way near the mast. Though he would rather have been down below decks where it was undoubtedly a little dryer and warmer, he feared what little breakfast he’d gotten down would find its way back up.

He’d thought the nearly three weeks in a carriage along Hastemount Road had been rough enough, but the seas were worse. His legs felt like rubber and his stomach seemed to roll around in his gut like loose apples in the back of a cart. He tried to focus on the horizon, but the storm clouds seemed darker where they were headed and that thought was not comforting. They had warned him it would be a rough day at sea, but he had insisted they travel at once.

Damn my arrogance, he thought to himself. He had believed it so important that he arrive as soon as possible to answer the request for an Archivist. Now, he just wanted to sleep for a day on solid ground.

The First Mate tromped towards Percival and he found himself clutching his satchel more tightly. He was proud of himself for holding his ground, but not sure if the wetness of his boots was entirely the fault of the sea and storm.

“Cap’n wants you below,” the First Mate shouted.

“Mr. Morris, I would rather…” At the look on the other man’s face, Percival clapped his mouth shut.

“Call me Hawes, dammit! There’s no ‘Misters’ here!” The man stomped off before Percival could voice his complaint.

Rather than risk the ire of Hawes, or Captain Kellum, for that matter, Percival made his way to the stairs that led below decks. There, the second crew was sleeping their way through this part of the storm, their watch not for another few hours. Percival made his way to the cabin he had bought with his bill of exchange, though he was starting to wonder if one of the swinging hammocks among the crew would have been a better purchase. Even though this small cabin offered him some privacy, he felt like the walls were closing in. Despite the rank smell of the sailor’s quarters, it was wider open and might have been more amenable to his sensitive stomach.

But, since he had the quarters he decided to take advantage of them. He took off his wet clothes and laid down under the thin covers that had been provided, trying to imagine the rocking of the boat was a giant cradle and his mother was tilting it with her foot as she knitted, like he’d seen her do with his younger siblings. It was a comforting thought until the boat slammed down hard, throwing him onto the floor, where he scrambled to hold on to anything bolted down.

That’s how it was the rest of the night – there would be a great lift upwards, and then a fall down into the waters below. Percival was starting to wonder if he would make it to the Windswept Atheneum at all.

****

Percival woke to a loud pounding. He found himself still on the floor, his blanket wrapped around him and his arm asleep from holding to the leg of the bed. He shook his arm to try and get some blood flowing into it and winced when the pins and needles sensation started.

“Oi! Boy! There’s breakfast in the galley!”

“Thank you, Mr. – ” Percival caught himself in horror, “Hawes. Thank you, Hawes.”

He could hear a distinct grunt on the other side of the door and felt relieved that he hadn’t been discovered in his current position. At least he could pretend he had slept in his bed, and not cowered under it.

Chilled from his night on the floor, he was pleased to find his clothes dry and eagerly pulled them on. Once he situated his satchel and fastened the cloak over his shoulders, he proceeded to the galley to find what meal had been prepared. He was surprised to find loaves of bread, cheese, salted pork, and wine. He ate his fill and wrapped the rest in linen, not knowing when he would find quality food like this again. He had imagined a breakfast of fish and hardtack, but since the ship was fresh out to sea, it seemed they had some fresher provisions as well.

Captain Kellum approached him in midmorning. “Holding up, lad?”

“Yes, Captain.” Percival smiled and nodded.

The Captain sniffed a little, but kept his face unreadable. “And your quarters?”

“A lovely room.” He immediately regretted using the word “lovely” but tried to push past it. “That was quite a storm last night.”

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The Captain eyed him for a moment and then nodded. “Pretty big for so late in the season.”

“The season?” Percival asked. “Are there usually no storms in the Fall?”

The Captain guffawed. “I thought you were supposed to be learned! Not Fall, boy, Typhoon Season.”

Percival swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize. So, that was a Typhoon?”

The Captain, still chortling, shook his head. “No. That was just a storm.” He clapped Percival on the shoulder. “At any rate, you’re to leave us soon. The Isle of the Lost is dead ahead. We’ll have you on land in an hour or so.”

The ship was too large to make it all the way in to Whitegrave Harbor, so a longboat was lowered off the side of the ship, loaded with goods to trade, empty barrels for fresh water, and Percival, huddled near the bow.

“The bay doesn’t seem that well protected for such calm water,” Percival called over his shoulder.

“Good eye,” Hawes replied between rows. “There’s a deep reef break further out…” Row. “And a sandbank closer.” Row. “It makes for a calm harbor…” Row. “Even without a sheltered bay.”

Percival nodded. At least he didn’t look like an idiot.

Hawes and five other men rowed the longboat to the harbor and tied off at the end of a dock that jutted out fifty feet into the calm water. Several men came down the dock to help unload the goods and discuss the needs of the crew. More than one of them looked Percival up and down with disdain.

Hawed put his monstrous hand on the back of Percival’s neck and pushed him forward. One of the Islanders looked from Hawes to Percival and back. “Who the hell’s this?”

“This,” Hawes said with what sounded like pride, “is your new Archivist.”

“You must be joking.” The other man crossed his arms. “Oi, boy, how old are ya?”

“I’m fifteen, sir, though my age is of no consequence. I am a fully studied and skilled Archivist, sent here by The Grand Archive at the behest of the Master Archivist.”

Hawes laughed out loud and clapped Percival on the back brusquely. “I told ya.”

The other man scowled, but shrugged. “All right, then, come on.”

Percival looked at his back as the man walked away and then turned nervously to Hawes. “If you want them to take ya serious,” Hawes advised, “you have to stand tall and answer all questions like ya just done. Now, get on.”

Percival nodded and scampered off towards the man, stopping abruptly and returning to the First Mate, extending his hand. “Thank you mis…,” he cleared his throat, “Hawes. Thank you, Hawes, for everything.”

Hawes took Percival’s hand and shook it. He had a rough, strong grasp and didn’t hold back. Percival chalked it up to being a kind of respect, even though his hand and arm were stinging a bit. He gave a quick nod to Hawes and chased after the other man, who was now waiting on the shore, clearly impatient.

After a quick discussion with some of the other Island fisherman, Percival was led to a large house near to the center of town. His guide had been tasked to bring him here, but once delivered, he tipped his hat and silently walked away.

Percival tidied his appearance and drew out the letter for the Mayor before knocking on the solid wooden door loudly three times.

He could hear thumping inside and tried not to flinch when the huge door swung inward to reveal a burly giant of a man. It took him a second to look down to where Percival stood. He finished fastening his belt and then crossed his arms expectantly.

Percival took this to mean he was supposed to speak first. “Hello, sir, am I correct in assuming that you are the Mayor of this town?”

The Mayor nodded.

“Right. I have this for you, from The Grand Archive.” He held out the letter and the Mayor took it and looked it over briefly.

“What the hell does The Hold want from us.”

Percival was a little stunned. Could it be that this Mayor could not read? He cleared his throat and replied, “As you can see, sir, it is not that The Grand Archive, or The Hold, as you say, wants anything from you or this lovely village. In fact, they have sent me, a trained Archivist, to man the Windswept Athenaeum.”

The Mayor rubbed his eyes. “A gift, you say? A bloody trick, I say. Hold on.” He closed the door in Percival’s face and left him standing on the stairs. Percival adjusted the satchel on his shoulder and nervously fidgeted with his cloak. He hadn’t been expecting a parade, but Archivists were always afforded some measure of warm welcome.

The Mayor returned a few minutes later with a young woman with a pinched expression. She looked at Percival and turned to face the Mayor. “Him?”

Percival stood straighter. “Miss, if you could please…”

“Hold on.” She put her hand up to stop him and focused on the letter she was now holding.

The Mayor was standing behind her looking broody.

“Where’s the request?” the young woman demanded. “I’m allowed, by law, to review the citizen’s request for an Archivist before I grant you leave to stay.”

Of all the nerve, Percival thought as he shot her an angry glance. “I have a copy right here,” he replied tersely, searching through his satchel for the copy of the request. He pulled out a paper and verified it was the one, then handed it to the haughty young woman.

She took it and read through it. “Antha?” She looked back at him as if she didn’t believe what she was reading.

“The Fishwife?” The Mayor interjected. “Why in the hell would she request an Archivist?”

The girl shook her head, still reading. “She sent this more than a month ago. When was she last in town?”

The Mayor shrugged, looking up and to the side while he thought it over. “She came down six weeks ago, after the last big storm.”

The girl nodded. “Right. And she bought that set of bedding and arranged to have Declan fix her shutters. Where would she have gotten the money for that?” She eyed Percival warily.

“I’m afraid none of that matters to me. By law, every citizen in Elderfaeld is allowed conference…”

“Don’t tell me the law, boy.”

“Archivist,” Percival corrected him sharply, remembering Hawes’ advice.

The Mayor scowled down at him. “And how am I to know you are a true Archivist?”

Percival retrieved the medallion from beneath his cloak that indicated he was, indeed, the real deal. “If you are not content with the writ I have already given you, or the request, from someone you clearly know to be a resident of these parts, perhaps you will recognize the seal of The Grand Archive and accept that as my authority?”

The Mayor was still scowling, but the girl looked at the seal with awe.

She carefully folded and handed both papers back to Percival. “Well, there’s nothing for it.” She turned towards the Mayor and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “We should send word to Declan, see if he’s gone up yet and can take a message. And we’re going to need someone to take him to Fishhollow…” she shot a look over her shoulder at Percival, “The Athenaeum.”

The Mayor nodded and grunted, returning inside.

The girl turned back to face Percival. “I’m Oona, the Mayor’s daughter. This is the fine village of Whitegrave, the biggest on the North or East of the Isle. Your ‘citizen’ is an old woman named Antha, but she lives about sixty miles North in the village of Macarey Point. We’ll send word that you’ve arrived. But she’ll have to meet you down at the Tower.”

“You mean the Athenaeum? It’s in a tower?” Percival asked.

The Mayor came out, now fully dressed in a coat and hat, and pushed past them both.

Oona sidled out of the way, but Percival was nearly knocked over from the brusqueness of the man. Percival straightened up quickly, looking at the Mayor’s back with disdain.

“Yes,” Oona continued as if there were nothing the matter. “It’s a tower in the village of Islingcester. I can’t make any promises about how it will have been kept up, if at all. You’ll need that letter of introduction to the Mayor there, as well.

“And will he be able to read it?” Percival hissed in the direction of the Mayor, now halfway back to the docks where he had landed.

Oona looked sad, even ashamed. “We’re fishmen. It’s an island of fishermen and fishwives and trade. We’re the farthest thing from The Grand Archive that you can imagine, but we’re not illiterate. He could read fine when his eyesight was better, but it’s different now. But he can still fish and he can still provide what level of governance the people here need.”

“I apologize,” Percival said earnestly. “It’s been a long journey so far.”

“I imagine.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “It’s another seventy miles to Islingcester, so you may want to stay here for the night and set out tomorrow.”

“Is there a carriage?”

Oona smiled and held back a laugh. “We’ll figure something out. There’s an Inn about a mile that way.” She pointed further up the road. “Tell them I sent you. Even the Innkeeper doesn’t really like strangers.” With that, she closed the door and Percival was left to wander in the direction she’d motioned, realizing that simply being a trained Archivist had not at all prepared him for the life he was about to lead.