You don't realize how miserable it is to be filthy until the filth is gone. I had thought I did, but, really, I hadn't grasped it at all. Itchy and irritated and grimy, for sure, but, enough so that I had forgotten what it felt like to be clean. Let me tell you what it's like. It is beyond refreshing.

I must be sure to give Dr. Oswald my many thanks for all his generosity towards me. A hot bath was the first surprise blessing. Following that, I've been assured that I have a place to stay and work arranged to keep me busy.

I couldn't ask for more.

Supplied with a fresh set of clothes, I stand before a tall mirror and appreciate myself and my cleanliness. Yes, outstanding. Dashing.

The materials are soft and comfortable, though the clothes themselves aren't particularly extravagant. In fact, they are the very same as I had worn to my last general physical, which I do think odd. Odd that I ever wore them, for one thing, but, mostly odd that the doctor had them remade for me. Overnight, I'm told. I suppose he wanted me to feel like everything was as close to normal as possible.

I pull at the socks, stretching them over my knees. Green and white stripes spin up my shins. I fix my breeches over them, but only a small portion is hidden.

"An elf," say I, "that's what you look like."

The red bandana at my neck, tied like a boy scout's, doesn't help. I stare at it for a while longer, contemplating whether to remove it or not. The socks I must to keep to conceal my shins, as is proper, but the bandana I could do without.

Come to think of it, however, it matches the leather strip in my hair. And, it was a gift, which I must certainly accept to show my gratitude.

I like it, actually. I think it's charming, in its own sense. You don't find men wearing bandanas around their necks very often in Amity.

I fix the cuffs on my blouse and am decided. The socks and the bandana look great together, and I'll proudly wear them, just as I did two months previous.

Though my hair is still damp, I feel ready to present myself to the doctor. Comfortable, clean, and smelling of sandalwood, I step out of the guestroom. Mrs. Reed, the maid, greets me with a curtsy. She muffles a giggle, but I catch it.

A flirt! It's the bandana, I tell you.

As my response, I brush it off as though I hadn't caught it and give her a gentlemanly nod. "I'd like to see the doctor now, Madame, if you don't mind."

"Right this way, sir."

The library is up a flight of stairs, at the end of a corridor. My focus as we walk is not upon the magnificence of the house, but upon the satisfying click of my new shoes on the wood. These are the one part of my remastered outfit that I have never owned. Polished black, beautiful dress shoes, complete with bronze buckles and heels.

Very fine.

Mrs. Reed stops to open one of the unnecessarily large doors and I wait. She gestures me in, and I thank her politely for her escort. Dr. Oswald is smoking a pipe and my entrance seems to distract him from something more important.

"Walter! Ah!" Yes, he sounds pleased to see me. Second-rate pleased. As though the fish people sat before him had given him something more exciting than me. "Come, come, lad!"

I come. I sit in the chair that he pats.

"I hope you don't mind," says he, placing his pipe twixt his teeth, "but I had Merylee take your safe to the workshop while you were freshening up. Your friends were telling me the most wondrous things about what I might find inside, and I couldn't resist. We'll have the contents in no time at all."

What?

"Oh, and I'll get you a better safe if you need it. But, I was given the impression that you didn't know what was inside, either."

"I didn't," I confirm. "I don't. I'm interested to see."

"Excellent!"

He's in a good mood. A brighter mood than I'd ever seen him in, and I almost attribute it to the brandy on the coffee table. However, I shouldn't be so quick to judge a man for merely being jovial. A drink doesn't indicate a drunk.

My hands clasp in my lap. The fish people still stink of fish.

"Doctor," I begin, catching his sharp eye. Too sharp to be drunk. He smiles at me. "I want to thank you. I really appreciate..."

"I'll stop you there, Walt."

I falter at his interruption. He raises a hand and lowers his pipe.

"You don't need to thank me. To see you well is enough. What I want is to be able to save your smile. You've suffered a tremendous loss, and I want to ascertain that you won't get stuck in your grieving but take it in steps. We'll hold the funeral later this week, on my word."

"Thank you, sir."

After thought, I return his smile, and he nods his approval. He gestures to the coffee table.

"Brandy?"

A formality that I'd never tasted, and was, admittedly, hesitant to. Mother had always said no. The door thunders open before I make up my mind. Spurred by the sound of it, I quickly shake my head and mutter, "No, thank you."

Dr. Oswald doesn't seem to hear me at all, eyes aquiver at Mr. Merylee's arrival. The Aquians hug each other and click, click, click. The head of house staff places a covered silver dish on the coffee table and graciously bows. He exits as swiftly as he had arrived.

Dr. Oswald takes a pull on his pipe and hovers his hands over the silver cover.

"I'm excited for this," he squeals.

I'm leaning forward. I hadn't noticed.

The doctor sits back. "All yours, Walt. Let's see it."

Oh, goodness! Rootwig bounces on the couch opposite me. Thenshie whispers about 'the way'. I suppose it's silly, but I feel a shiver in my nerves. It is exciting, but I already have my guess as to what it is. It's what the men tore down my house for.

The silver dome is light and I lift it away with ease. It clinks when I set it down. The rocks that had been in my pajama pockets are to one side of the dish. Partially buried beneath them is the real treasure.

"A map," I say. "I think it is a map."

The parchment on the plate is thick and old, folded to keep its secrets from the eye. To touch, I find it isn't like ordinary paper. It is rougher and waxier. I brush off some mineral dust and unfold it, applying some force.

"Careful!" pipes the doctor. He picks up a rock to finger and puts it down when his interest is lost.

The stiff paper gives in after some gentle prizing. Unfolded fully, it is a marvelous piece of work. Not large but captivating. Dr. Oswald gasps, because I was right.

"Simon!" cries he, to a man whom I had not noticed, "Bring me an atlas, will you?"

The man, sitting by a tall bookcase, nose buried in a thick volume, does not glance up at being addressed. He points to a row of shelves to his right. Dr. Oswald rises to fetch the atlas for himself.

I smooth the hard parchment over the silver plate and my gaze drifts to the bottom right corner. My jaw drops.

Riven Isles

25.2, -71.0001368

Cptn. Henry Avery, Ofcr. Increas Langley – 1743

"That's my pa!" I exclaim, pressing my finger to the first signature. "Doctor, this is the map that the men were looking for at my home. This must be the map."

There are three islands depicted, prettily painted within the circumference of a circle. The color thins at the edges of the circle, blending into the paper. Across the third island, the middle-sized one, is a solid red 'X'.

At the bottom left, I find more writing.

Reference key is painting #2 – 12:00am

Ten paces forward, twenty-one paces right. Down.

Guardians not fond of weapons

Natives are civil; Communicate well

Compasses dysfunctional – False North

Dr. Oswald sinks to his seat beside me and opens his atlas. "The men in your home? You saw them? Were you there?"

An unwelcome burning sensation attacks my nose. I blink and shake my head. "I didn't see them. Only heard them. I was in a basement. A secret basement. I was there when you came with the lawmen, too. But, Doctor, this is what they were after."

"Heavens, child! Why didn't you give a shout?" He reaches over and holds a lens above the right corner. He whispers the longitude and latitude to himself and refers back to the atlas, flipping through the pages.

"I don't know," I answer dumbly.

His lips pinch together, and his gaze lifts from the book. "Did you see..."

"Yes." My mother.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes," I repeat myself, softer. I must think of better ways to respond.

He clears his throat, and points to an empty glass on the coffee table. "You are welcome to a glass. Won't make you feel better, but it won't make you feel worse, either. Perhaps more relaxed."

I chew my lip and breathe in his smoke. His offer surprises me, really. He'd asked before, yes, but it had been more of a pleasantry. This time, his offer is for my nerves.

I'd known the doctor for many years, and whenever he had given my mother and I our check-ups, he'd always run on about his most interesting recent patients. Many of these interesting patients had been drunks from the nearby seaport, Lilton. He had a distaste for them. He'd always said liquor was a curse, and if it didn't exist, the world would be a better place with better people. There was a lot of alcohol poisoning among the sailors at the west port of Lilton, and plenty of deaths because of it. Strokes, liver failures, and even cases where the scumbags choked on their own stupid spit and vomit.

I don't want to die by drink. I shake my head quickly.

The doctor hums and traces his finger along a page. The heathens lean across the coffee table and start grabbing my rocks. Would it be any use to protest? I take the largest piece for myself before they can snatch it and tie it into the knot of my bandana.

"Aha!" announces Dr. Oswald. "Right here. Fascinatingly enough, there's no island at all."

Naturally, I look for myself. The given latitude and longitude marks the center of a large ring of dots. Looking to the key, the dots represent rocks between ten and twenty meters above sea level. The map does not provide enough detail to explain the area, as if it hasn't been discovered past the strange circle.

"How old is this atlas, Simon?"

"Cornelius," testily sighs the one in the corner, "I study diseases, not geography. Not cartography. Why would I know a thing about the reliability of your atlas? Check the publishing date."

"Alright, alright."

The doctor taps his pipe into an ashtray on the coffee table and leaves it there. He holds his finger to the page to keep his place and finds the publishing date at the front of the tome. We both frown, for the atlas is, indeed, up to date. Seventeen-sixty. That's this year.

A smile comes to Dr. Oswald's lips. More than a smile. An ecstatic sort of grin. "Do you know what this means?"

"The way," says Thenshie, nodding.

He grips my shoulders, and I, taken aback, fumble to respond. Nothing successful.

"This means that these islands haven't been discovered! Not registered as discovered, anyways. Just turning in this map could earn us enormous fame as explorers! We take credit for the discovery of this island, and we'll go down in history! We could name each of the islands after ourselves- Avery, Oswald, and... and Woods! Woods, what's your word?"

"My word...," sneers Simon Woods, "is that I have thirty-four pages left to read for my study, and I'd like to finish without interruption by involvement in your fantasies. You've found a map, drawn by a notorious pirate, and known navy deserter. I wouldn't believe it to be plausible."

The doctor's frown returns. He releases me and prods the maps towards our smelly company. Rootwig takes it into her grasp, and her eyes dart across it. She inhales with excitement, and thrusts the map at her friend, running her peculiar tongue. She returns the white rocks that she had stolen to the silver dish.

She points at them, then at us. She keeps on clicking and clucking and chewing and grinding. Thenshie holds a hand up to her, and motions for her silence.

"You pay for sail to this land," she says, blatant, big eyes upon Dr. Oswald. Oswald stammers. Thenshie continues over him. "You earn your place on wall, like you want. Earn title, earn glory. Bring end of war. This is the way."

The doctor stills, then clasps his hands. He watches his thumbs.

"Earn your place on a wall?" I ask. It's a peculiar thing, and my curiosity is gnawing my insides. Why did these words calm the man?

He pats my head, as if I were a child. "The Seer isn't a charlatan. There's a plan for us, and it'll bring good fortune, my boy." This explains nothing. I open my mouth, but am beaten to speaking.

"Oh, please," drawls Simon Woods. Come to think of it, I believe I've seen him once before in Amity, leaving the community college. Perhaps he is a professor there, or a student. He is young; I'd reckon in his mid-twenties.

Dr. Oswald waves a hand. He leans eagerly forward, forearms to his knees. "What do you mean by 'bring end of war'?"

Thenshie lays the map out before us. Her finger presses to the center of the red 'X'. "Here. Find the way here. End war. You tell world."

Dr. Oswald stares, intrigued. "The solution to a fifty-odd-year-long war... is on this island?"

"So...looshun," Thenshie repeats, nodding. I feel like she doesn't understand the word, but as she says it, however strangely, she continues to emphasize the importance of the X on the map. Next, she picks up a handful of the white mineral and says it again.

I'll be perfectly frank; I'm hesitant to believe these heathens. In fact, I'm beyond skeptical. I don't know why the doctor believes them so easily, but here he is, picking up a piece of rock and squinting at it like it's the key to his future.

"HA!" Simon exclaims, in a very abrupt, very cynical and very condescending bark of a laugh. He slams his book shut and pushes his chair back, demanding our attention with every movement. Our eyes are all upon him as he approaches us with purpose. "The only way," his finger raises as he rants on, pointed to the ceiling, "that the cursed war will end is if, 'A', the werewolves are all dead, 'B', if the werewolves agree to segregation and submit to being locked up at every full moon, or 'C', the cure for the disease is discovered. Since we still have no knowledge on the source of the radiation that caused the disease, we have no current source for any cure, so that option is not—"

"It's here," interrupts Dr. Oswald. "The cure must be here. Perhaps the source, too. You can study it and be the most respected epidemiologist in this century."

Simon's lips tighten. He's considering it, I'm sure of it, and he's scolding himself for it. He snatches the rocks out of Dr. Oswald's grasp, "Let me see that." Some dust drifts to the ground.

I clear my throat. "Maybe my Pa'll be there."

"Oh," crows Simon, narrowed gaze upon my minerals, "Walter Avery, boy, if we find your pa, we'll bring him to the gallows, where he's had a long overdue appointment."

I redden. I'd never met this man before, but he presumes to know me well enough. My impression of him isn't flattering. Snooty, self-important. Rude. Henry Avery may have been a deserter and a known pirate, but I'd still like to meet him at least once in my life.

"Fine, sir! All I'd want is to give him a beating, myself!" Deserter of more than just the navy. If there was anyone to blame for the murder of my mother, it had to be him.

"Boys, boys!" Dr. Oswald chides, scornful glare fixed rightly on Simon, and not on me. "There will be no hangings or beatings at this time. Save your testosterone for a later date."

Simon mutters something rude under his breath and slides the mineral pieces into the watch-pocket of his burgundy vest.

Dr. Oswald stands. He tugs gently on my arm, and I rise, too.

"Walter, this is Professor Simon Woods, of the university. Graduated bachelor student of mine, and one of my most trusted medical assistants. He teaches epidemiology, the study of diseases."

I'm not impressed. I don't allow myself to smile politely or raise my brows. Instead, I match the professor's cool, indifferent expression, and I extend my hand.

"Simon, this is Walter Avery. He'll be living here for some time, in light of recent events. Please be kind."

Simon hesitates. He takes my hand with obvious reluctance and gives a limp shake.

"Pleasure," says he.

"Likewise," says I.

He withdraws from my grasp and gives a respectful nod to the doctor. Then, he crosses the library to retrieve his tweed jacket and thick book. I start to lower myself back to my seat, but Dr. Oswald takes my shoulder.

"Let's all go on an adventure. What say you?"

Simon takes the most convincing. I wish he didn't agree to come.