Sewn Together: A Tale From Tiltwater, #1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There is no amount of appreciation I can show my parents, Paul and Sabrina, that will equal the things they have done to build and sustain our family. Special thanks to my sisters, Kathleen and Rachel, and my brother Wesley. I cannot name them all, but there have been many excellent teachers in my life, who showed me a love for story and prose, both of which I hope to get better at with each book I write.

I owe a never-ending amount of gratitude to the woman who has endured much to be called my wife, Rachel. She has listened tirelessly to my many ridiculous ideas and has always been eager to support them all. Her patience is nothing short of miraculous, and it is because of her that this book was made possible.

Thanks to Curtis Edwards, wherever you are, for saving my life in more ways than one. An enormous thanks to the Sewn Together beta readers who provided such incredible feedback—Miranda Whitlow, Jennifer Bomyea, Evangeline Parry, Twich Collins, and the Bryan family: Jesse, Kathleen, Nathan, Jared, and Makayla. Most of all, I thank God for the infinite blessings that enabled the creation of this book.

There are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of people I should list. If you don't see your name here, I will thank you in person, time and time again. I appreciate everyone who has been involved in any capacity—including you, the reader—and I hope you enjoy your time in Tiltwater.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 - Secret At The Lighthouse

Chapter 2 - The Tended Cut

Chapter 3 - It's Trespassing

Chapter 4 - Trouble At The Docks

Chapter 5 - What Tilvia Knew

Chapter 6 - Mother May I?

Chapter 7 - Ingredients For An Omelet

Chapter 8 - Busted

Chapter 9 - The Angelfish

Chapter 10 - Unnamed Island

Chapter 11 - Fog Splitter

Chapter 12 - Parts of a Whole

Chapter 13 - Blackberry Doughknots

Chapter 14 - No One Gets Out Alive

Chapter 15 - What Have We Gotten Ourselves Into?

Chapter 16 - It's Back

Chapter 17 - About Your Eyes . . .

Chapter 18 - A Tricky Circle

Chapter 19 - Negotiating Skills

Chapter 20 - Blackness

Chapter 21 - Silver and Gold

Chapter 22 - Truth Hurts

Chapter 23 - Hungry Pool

Chapter 24 - Not So Fast

Chapter 25 - Watched

Chapter 26 - The Canyon

Chapter 27 - Augustown

Chapter 28 - Velina Ridwolf

Chapter 29 - Last Breath

Chapter 1

Secret At The Lighthouse

PULSING AND STINGING PENETRATED Keskin Ridwolf's thoughts the very moment that the cut happened, followed by embarrassment, and a little aggravation. He allowed himself a moment to chastise the blunder. That was stupid , he thought. Y ou're not a professional burglar, but a little more skill when you're breaking-in would be useful. He hated feeling like an amateur. After all, being in control was—by his own assessment—one of Keskin Ridwolf's greatest abilities. With so many things in life that couldn't be controlled, the headstrong young man focused hard on the things that he did have some sense of mastery for. Guess I haven't yet mastered the art of trespassing, he confessed.

The busted lock was invaded by years of rust, and a loose piece of metal protruding from the face of it had snagged his skin, ripping a piece of flesh from the inside of his rugged, tan finger. The lock created an ugly wound, but the lock itself was beautiful. Almost everything on the island of Tiltwater was beautiful, crafted with heart to nourish the soul. If something needed to be created, why not create it wonderfully? Keskin loved that motto. Beauty and integrity were two things he held in high regard, the later being the reason he always tried to convince himself that breaking-in wasn't dishonest, in this particular case. Yes, it was a crime, technically speaking, but it was being done for the noblest of reasons.

Keskin was distracted from thoughts of the lock's design, and the justification of criminal activity, by the thumping throb in his cut. Maybe I should get it checked out later. Cold morning air was most likely slowing the bleeding, but it looked pretty nasty. Nonetheless, a minor injury wasn't going to ruin the special day.

Milky fog was just beginning to lift from Augustown as Keskin continued making his way up the spiraling climb inside the old Millwalker Lighthouse—the majestic tower that he had just clumsily broken into. Three-eyed lister birds outside whistled a kind of good morning or what's for breakfast? message. Nonsense though, since throughout the world of Gedena, birds never learned to speak the common language of souls, like so many other creatures did.

Keskin's ink-black hair stuck to his forehead, wet from the early fog. His golden eyes shined just like the sunrise he was headed up to see. He stepped upwards carefully as he scratched his square chin and thought of the men, women, and creatures who built the lighthouse so long ago. Who were they? What was sailing like before the great light was installed?

The great light. It must have burned by some sort of magic and no one really questioned how it worked, or at least, didn't question it aloud. Not that it would have been wrong to do so. It's just that so very many things on the island of Tiltwater were miraculously unexplainable, that most souls accepted things for what they appeared to be on the surface, not questioning the motives, abilities, or purposes which drove the Great Artist of the universe to create such a complex system of existence. The light's glow raged on, day and night, without fuel or fire, feeding the probability that it burned by magic. Myths and legends muddied the true origin of the structure and its source of power, but it served its purpose regardless of its muddled history, so there was little need to ask questions.

Keskin made that climb up the twisting tower, those same thoughts swimming in his head, every first Monday of every month, regardless of the weather or how risky the break-in was. The grumpy keeper of the lighthouse, Bluckmushter Millwalker, had chased him off twice already that year and the threats to add new locks to the tower door would put a damper on future trespasses. Just a damper, though. Keskin would find another way in, if another way in was possible.

A creaking sound at the bottom of the tower echoed up the cylindrical structure and invaded Keskin's ears. He stopped and held his breath, briefly considering if he could escape through one of the lighthouse windows without breaking both legs. I can't fail. Not at this. The one thing I finally have that makes me feel alive . . . I won't let it be taken from me. A stomach gurgle broke his concentration. The creaking sound's echo drifted off into the last of the morning fog, with no other foreign sounds following it, so Keskin continued up the stairs. He was hungry, even though he had eaten just an hour earlier. He always seemed to be hungry. Some said it was a teenage thing, but it wasn't really new. When he was younger, maybe five or six, his mother told him that he was born with a gushraker monster inside of his stomach that ate everything before Keskin could get full. His mother was good at seeing the world in unconventional ways, and taught him to do the same. There was the time he had outgrown his favorite hat and his mother told him that the picklewart stew he had eaten the night before had caused his head to expand from the fermentation of the cucumbers. He smiled thinking back to it, because he remembered how truly terrified he was when she said it.

Keskin had plenty of time to think about those things on the special day, because he was never in a hurry to reach the top of the tower. He believed that his destiny was up there, yet there was always some fear that the secret would some day be gone—the secret he loved so much to see, and could only be seen from Millwalker Lighthouse.

Keskin chewed his lip.

Step by step, against cold stone steps, his bare feet were starting to turn pink. The bitter chill began to sting a little, but leaving his boots behind the farty, scabby, Bluckmushter's house was one way he found to be extra quiet while sneaking around the tower. He pondered his direction, finding it amusing that he entered facing east to go north, and then west, then south, and then east again. A spiral staircase seemed the only way one could walk in a circle and still get somewhere. Over and over, round and round, the repetition made him weary, but just when he started to lose focus on the task at hand, he thought again of the secret.

Keskin paused for a moment next to one of the small tower windows and looked out, listening for signs that his intrusion had been discovered. If he did get caught again and the fat, belchy keeper fixed the lock, it wouldn't stop him from coming back. It was more the threat of his mother finding out, and being disappointed in him, which lurked in his heart. Or, and perhaps worse, being publicly humiliated for his trespasses, standing on the stage in Augustown Square as his crimes were read before all in attendance, their boos and hisses smacking his soul. The Ridwolf name didn't need another round of shaking heads to grind it down even further.

Keskin caressed his old wool coat to bring himself back into the moment. More than just a simple piece of clothing,  to Keskin it was like a good friend. Sturdy and stable on the outside, warm and comforting inside. There were threads coming undone in various places, but when he first laid eyes on the beautiful hunter green material, large wooden buttons, and intricate artistry along its edges, he was in love. It was certainly the most amazing jacket he had ever seen, and he believed it was well worth the amount of depta he had paid for it. His mother always said that his skin was going to attach itself to the sleeves one day.

Keskin slid the very top button through its corresponding slit and jostled his shoulders to shake off the cold. None of it did much for his burning, pink feet.

It's a little wet inside the lighthouse today, don'tcha think? The voice came from his large bottom pocket.

Keep it down, Chance. We don't want to get caught, Keskin said, patting the pocket. There's just been so much rain lately. Probably been blowing in through the windows. These steps don't see much sunlight. Takes them forever to dry out. Keskin spoke just above a whisper.

The first time Keskin and Chance had broken-in to the lighthouse, it was just to enjoy the sunrise. They didn't expect to witness a miracle. While the discovery of the secret happened by fate, the specific day they chose to break-in was absolutely intentional. The first Monday of the month was viewed as a very sacred day, which worked to their advantage.

More than a century earlier, First Elder Primboil of Augustown had a vision while being sworn in as the head of the village. Every soul attending the ceremony witnessed him have some sort of . . . experience. It was when he reached out to receive the ornate Scepter of Service that his reptilian eyes glazed over and he looked to the sky. With his scaly, wide mouth quivering, he mumbled something unintelligible, rocked back onto his curly tail, then fell forward to his knees. When his eye color returned to its normal lavender hue and he was able to speak coherently, the chameleon-humanoid told of an incredible vision—though he didn't go into very clear details about it—and set a decree that Augustown would hold that specific day to a higher significance than any other day of the month. No boats would come or go from port, no carts in or out of town, no shop or service open for business, and the entirety of Augustown would take the day to respect and appreciate the wonders of the world, and ponder the Great Artist of the universe.

The decree made the ocean so very serene on that once-a-month occasion. It allowed for an uninhabited sunrise; the reason the secret could be seen on that holy day.

The last few steps of the spiraling staircase brought joy and hesitation simultaneously, because just being there put the secret at risk. Their presence could bring unwanted attention to its existence. Come what may, they had reached the top, and were paused at a thick, wooden door, with ornate filigree carved into it. Its rusted hinges were textured with age and wear, and it took Keskin a few tries with his injured finger to get the latch to release. He struggled to be as quiet as he could, yet the door creaked a little when it first began to open, so he stopped. It had opened enough for the next phase of their mini-adventure to commence, so Keskin smiled at Chance and gave him a wink. Chance winked back with a beady, onyx eye, then flung himself around so that he was hanging from the edge of Keskin's pocket by tiny, furry paws, then swung himself over to grab the rusty handle of the door. From there he dug his claws into the outside edge of the door and shimmied all the way up.

At the top, Chance sat straddling the door and thought for a second or two that he was currently higher up than any other ferret in all of Gedena, and certainly all of Tiltwater, since he was most likely the only ferret on the island. He grinned proudly, thinking of his humble history, and relished in the opportunity to feel large, for once. His tail spiraled and swung slowly, like it was drawing imaginary pictures in the sky. Finally he was brought back to his reason for climbing the door. From his little belt, wrapped around a one-of-a-kind midnight-blue jacket—custom made for him by his favorite tailor—he slowly extracted a sheathed blade, sharp and shaped like the thinnest crescent moon, and began carving a line into the top of the door.

Five marks, so this is six. That makes it somewhat of an extra special occasion, I say. A six-month anniversary! Chance quietly celebrated with a seated dance.

I hope we can reach a full year, Keskin added.

Yes, I don't mean ta' bring down the moment, but like you, I also have my doubts. Chance looked around, fearing they could be spied on and asked, Do ya' ever think we should stop? You know, ta' keep from bein' followed? There was a soft look in his glossy eyes. I mean, we've been caught twice already. Two outta six ain't great.

Sometimes I do. But, I just have to know. I have to know if they're still out there, Keskin said as he leaned against the door's frame.

Well . . . With a fuzzy eyebrow raised, Chance said with a smile, let's go find out.

With that, the two made their way out onto the walkway, the door just barely creaking. Cool air filled their lungs with such sweet comfort that their eyes closed and their heads rocked back. On exhale, their eyes opened again, and they gazed out onto the most gorgeous pink and yellow sky a soul could ever see. Both of them wanted to speak, but neither wanted to go first. It seemed almost criminal to disturb the moment—not that they weren't already committing a crime. The chill was perfect, the mist had fully cleared, at least a dozen different birds were calling back and forth, and two best friends were about to see a miracle.

They looked out towards the usual spot in the water, right in the far center of the cove below. Locals called it the Demon's Mouth, being that it was a barely navigable area that even the Frog Captain, a living legend in Tiltwater, liked to stay away from. Rocks jetted up from crushing waves, like fists full of knives, pointing in all directions. Even the most nimble of boats could be taken apart, plank by plank, from unknown extremities below the surface. On three sides of the cove, jagged cliff walls seemed to soar and drop, up and down, forever. The only reason anyone ever tried sailing or paddling through the Demon's Mouth was to net the sugarmilk moths or harvest velkwine mushrooms. The moths loved the baby blue fungi which grew prolifically on the knife-rocks. Plus, the shape and depth of the cove, with its high border walls and extremely dense forest at the top, kept sunlight away almost all day long, so the mushrooms grew like a crowd on New Year's Eve. Sugarmilk moths were also what brought the miracle to that dangerous, yet incredible, location.

From all the way at the top, it was hard to see details in the water below. When you add up the height of the cliffs and the height of the lighthouse tower, you end up with a fearsome distance between the walkway Keskin and Chance stood upon, and the blade-sharp stones protruding from the salty sea. They strained their eyes in silence and peered down below. Keskin's forehead wrinkled under the effort and Chance let out a humph as his tiny eyes had trouble seeing much more than the blinding light of the rising sun. They waited a few moments, occasionally exhaling quickly through their nostrils. As the time seemed to drag on, their excitement evolved into nervousness. Usually by then they were grinning from ear to ear, but the secret was not revealing itself on time. If the secret was lost, they had nothing else. For Keskin, it had become the only thing that he lived for—the only thing that gave him a sliver of purpose. He stared with extreme intent at the glistening, swirling sea beneath them.

Can you see anything? Chance asked softly, but quickly.

I . . . I don't think so, Keskin replied.

What about the moths? Can you see them?

Keskin leaned further over the railing, paused, and shook his head. I can't really tell from up here. What if—

No! Chance interrupted. Nope, no, no. None of that. They're fine. There's been so much rain lately. Yesterday it stormed badly. Prob'ly knocked the mushrooms all off the rocks. No mushrooms, no moths. No moths, no Merc—

Chance stopped and looked over both shoulders. He even checked for birds, knowing that they wouldn't be able to repeat whatever secrets they heard. A pelican sat perched on the very top of the lighthouse, basking her long, sandy-brown feathers in the rising sunlight. There was a brass ball about the size of a coconut at the tip of the lighthouse spire, which was the only place up there that the pelican's large feet could grip. One of her toes was missing and she seemed to have a bit of trouble staying on the ball. She was also missing her right eye. Poor thing must be bad at flying or landing, or both, Chance thought. Regardless of the bird's inability to repeat his words, or her generally shameful condition, he whispered quietly to Keskin as he continued.

"No moths . . . no Mercats."

Keskin wouldn't rip his eyes from the cove. He wanted to see the Mercats so badly. Knowing they were not extinct—keeping the secret like a sacred treasure—gave him the sense that he was their protector. Living in the shadow of his father's failures and walking with his head down to avoid eye contact with the other souls of Augustown, was a sickly burden to carry, but believing that an entire species of benevolent creatures were cradled in his hands, gave Keskin that gift of importance which every soul longs to receive.

The presence of Mercats was known to ignite feelings of pure joy. Total elation. Seeing them was like entering a lucid dream. Ironically, the Mercats' blessings of ethereal power over the soul was what had caused their extinction. At least, all of Tiltwater, and Augustown in particular, believed they were extinct.

Many of the Artistologists, believers in the Great Artist of the universe, saw the Mercats as superior to humans. They embraced the legend that the Mercats were the first form of life to be painted with souls. Their cat-like upper bodies were adorned with wispy fur, which always looked fluffed and dry, even under water. Their fish-like lower bodies exhibited a plethora of colors in sparkling, radiant scales. They were so fascinating and possessed such rare magical properties, that their scales were torn from their bodies and traded between pirates and other thieves as a form of currency. Just a single Mercat scale could be gazed upon and bring happiness to the soul who held it. A handful of scales were believed to induce miraculous healing. Being in the presence of a chest full of them caused a soul to feel powerful, full of youth, and could change one's essence and charisma, among other sought after blessings. What could an entire room of them do? That question is what sparked the hunts.

Their scales started circulating in black market trades and it wasn't long before they popped up in legitimate, respected shops as well. One by one, Elders throughout the villages of Tiltwater had to make the trading of Mercat scales illegal. The thing about laws though, is that only honest people obey them. Criminals, by definition, break the law, so the hunts continued. Mercat scale value steadily rose as the laws became more strict. The more the Elders tried to stop the killing of Mercats, the more profitable killing them could be. They were chased down all around Tiltwater and even out to sea as far as anyone was willing to sail. Little by little, they became nearly impossible to find.

Finally, about ten years ago, all of the Elders of Tiltwater held their annual meeting and asked about the Mercat sightings for that year. There were none. The First Elders of each village agreed that it was time to place the Mercats on a list of possibly extinct creatures. Towns and villages across the island held memorial services in honor of the wonderful creatures. They had died because of the good that they possessed, and the greed of those with misplaced desires.

That was why, six months ago, Keskin and Chance were shocked when they broke-in to the lighthouse to see the sunrise, and witnessed a different kind of miracle. They came back on various days, but eventually came to the conclusion that the Mercats only entered the cove on the first Monday because the village was under the sacred decree. No boats would come or go. Plus, the Demon's Mouth was naturally protected, and it was almost impossible to see the water there from anywhere other than the top of the lighthouse. It was a safe place for Mercats to feed on sugarmilk moths before heading back out to sea, or wherever they were hiding. On that day, it seemed they were still in hiding.

We can't wait here too long. Bluckmushter will be awake soon and might catch us trying to leave, Keskin stated somberly.

Whatta we do? Whatta ya' think happened ta' them? Chance asked.

I don't know. Maybe we should check out your theory on the mushrooms. If the moths didn't see the mushrooms, then the Mercats didn't see the moths. We have to find a way to get down to those rocks and see for ourselves.

Ha! Chance almost choked when Keskin suggested it. "You hafta' be jokin'. Even if we could talk someone into takin' us into the cove, we couldn't afford it. Anyone willin' ta' take that risk will be chargin' plenty for it."

We'll work it out. I don't know. Maybe Carol Wellbringer needs the mushrooms for some kind of medicines or something. She could pay us for those and that will offset our cost for the trip.

Chance combed his hair back and gave Keskin a serious gaze. Listen. Let's just analyze this for a moment. Let's say we find out in either direction that the Mercats are still out there, or they're gone for good. What changes? Really? In the grand scheme of things?

I'll answer your question . . . in both directions. If we find out that they're still out there, we'll go ahead and take it to the Elders. We'll set up a militia if we have to, to raid the docks and markets and destroy every Mercat scale, one by one. We make their value less than their risk and push the Elders to institute the death penalty for killing Mercats.

Chance listened skeptically, but held his peace for the moment. With his head cocked to one side, he stroked his whiskers and said, Go on.

If we find that they're gone, well, we just hope that they have moved on elsewhere, but I don't have much of an answer for that scenario. Right now it's more important to know that they're alive than to know that they're not, because if they're alive, then they need our help.

It's hard ta' disagree with that, although I'm not as passionate about all of this as you are. Not ta' the point of riskin' my life. You've been here on Tiltwater much longer than I have—your whole life, in fact. As a first generation immigrant who hasn't even earned a surname, I'm more focused on my own affairs, to be honest. If I die in your half-baked escapades, I don't get ta' establish a family on Tiltwater. He paced the cold railing down on all fours as he continued.

"You know I had ta' make many, many sacrifices ta' get here. Ta' be alive, even. I lost my family—my love. In the few years that I've been on this island, I've yet ta' meet another ferret. Call me selfish, but I would like ta' find love again, you know? Start a family of my own. Mercats or no, my quest still goes on, but not if I die a wet death in the Demon's Mouth!"

Keskin stared down at his own bare feet. He knew he was asking a lot of his best friend. Chance was one of the few souls who didn't judge him for being a Ridwolf, particularly for being the son of Markus Ridwolf.

If you do this for me, for the Mercats, and we know for certain one way or the other if they're alive, I will dedicate my full attention to helping you search for other ferrets, and in establishing a surname with the Elders. Sound like a deal?

Even if they tell me I hafta' kill a dozen ice trolls ta' get a name? Chance waited with a devilish smirk.

Even if they say you have to build an entire village with your bare paws, watch it get destroyed by gushrakers, and then build it again with your eyes closed, Keskin said back.

I suppose we have a deal, then. He extended a tiny paw and the two shook hands.

They descended the lighthouse stairs with some quiet, sobering conversation about the risks of the Demon's Mouth on the way down. At best, they would be rejected when they asked for a guide through the cove. At worst, they would crash into the razor-blade rocks and drown in waves of their own blood.

Keskin remembered a captured Mercat he came face-to-face with years ago. She was hauled around in a large medicine cart to carnivals along the coast of Tiltwater, and had her lips sewn shut so she couldn't scream for help. Her wretched kidnappers would charge admission to see her, and for a higher fee, you could touch her and receive healing. Some souls even made wishes or presented prayers to her, as if she were some sort of deity, but then ripped a scale from her for good luck as they left. Eventually, all captive Mercats either died from disease or would be kidnapped from their kidnappers and killed for a quick cash-in on the scales. Keskin imagined what those poor, beautiful souls went through when they were stolen from their families—what their children felt when Mother or Father was taken.

Thankfully, the thoughts were interrupted when they reached the tower's exit, but the interruption wasn't better news.

My boots! Keskin tried to whisper, but his voice squeaked a little from panic.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was just as they had left it, but his boots were missing. He had left them right there against the lighthouse wall. Normally he would have worn his leather shoes for quietly walking up the stairs, but they were caked in mud from all of the recent rain. It was his light brown boots with the wide, black upper strap and wooden soles that he was forced to wear on that day, which would have caused him to click and clack all the way up the tower. Unfortunately, he could only think of one reason that the boots would be gone.

Looking for theeeeese? A voice to their right belched out.

Keskin's shoulders tightened up and Chance scurried up his leg and back into his pocket. Both of them stared into the grotesque, lumpy fish-face of Bluckmushter, the lighthouse keeper. He was grinning, showing off his broken, pitted, and stained teeth. The boots dangled from one of his long, scabby tentacles and he stroked them with another. With his head slowly tilting back and forth in teasing pleasure, he licked his oozing, chapped lips and belched lightly.

Mister Millwalker, sir, Keskin tried.

No! the overweight fish-man snapped. There will be none of that. A flatulent sound made Bluckmushter's stomach jiggle and one of his bulging eyes roll back. You've trespassed in the tower again, and this time on a Holy Day!

Chance's face contorted in confusion. You're not even an Artistologist! he quipped.

Not the point! A hiccup and a growl followed his words. "The point is that if I report you to the Elders for violating the decree, you could be banished from Tiltwater!" His mouth stretched, showing again what was left of his putrid teeth. The more he