The Ship In The Bottle

By Lindsi McIntyre

She’d heard of a ship in a bottle.

But a ship caught in a storm and trapped in a bottle—that one was new.

Sitting at the counter, Deidra studied the strange bottle—more of a jar, really—and the little storm thundering and pouring down rain above it. Frantic men the size of ants struggled against the tempest upon the ship’s deck.

“Your sign says you can fix anything,” the customer said, her look of confusion apparently not escaping him. “That you can break any curse.”

Deidra frowned at him from where she sat at her workbench. It had been a while since a request stumped her like this. “I know what it says.”

He flinched. “You don’t understand.” He wrung his sweaty hands together. The squelch they made caused her to shudder. “This matter is time sensitive. The jar—”

“Is filling up. I know. I can see it.”

The rise in the water level was slow but definite. In theory, the water would rise until the ship hit the top, which might not have been so bad if not for the streaks of lightning filling up that entire area. One bolt could set the ship aflame, along with her crew.

“That’s not such a big problem, though,” Deidra said. “Worst case scenario—we put a crack in the bottom of the jar and let the water drain out from there.”

“Oh, right. That could work.” His face regained some of its color, and his hands stilled.

“The biggest problem they face is exhaustion,” she said. “You can die from that, you know.”

His face paled again.

“Have you tried putting the lid back on it?” she asked.

“Do you want all those men to suffocate?”

“You don’t need to be short,” she replied, staring calmly back into his overbearing scowl. “It would take them a good long while to suffocate. Thanks to the size of the jar compared to that of their own.”

She stood and carried the vessel, which was beginning to leave a small trail of rainwater on her counter, over to her workbench. She took the lid from one of her own containers, the one holding her medicinal nightshade, and slipped it over the lip of the ship’s jar.

The storm inside immediately ceased. The crew cheered in tiny voices.

The storm hadn’t actually stopped though; its effects had just been interrupted. Rainwater poured down over the sides and spilled across her workbench.

Definitely not a permanent solution.

Carefully, slowly, she pushed the jar to the right. There was a delay, but eventually the storm moved to reposition over it. Perhaps moving it quicker might have produced a longer lasting effect, but she didn’t want to risk breaking the ship apart.

Diedra ran a hand over her hair.

“How are we ever going to get the ship out?” her customer asked.

It was as if he’d struck a match inside her mind. “Of course. We don’t need to get the ship out. We just need to free the men.”

Quickly she scribbled instructions across the glass then shined a candle behind them so the men would take notice.

“What are you doing?” her customer asked as she darted away to find some tape.

“We have to get the men out of the jar, but we can’t get them through the top. So…”

She pulled the tape out of a drawer and walked back to the bench. She stripped off a piece and pressed it against the side of the jar, near the base. Deidra sat back and picked up the candle once more. She waved it back and forth. A return signal, a lantern lit then extinguished, let her know the crew was ready.

Then, as carefully as she could manage, she cut a clean hole through the tape. Water forced the cut piece away and started to drain from the hole. A whirlpool formed next to the ship. One by one the crew jumped overboard.

Deidra watched as the first one reached the hole. As soon as he cleared the glass, he started growing. He landed on her floor, coughing out seawater.

“You’re gonna want to move,” she said as the next man reached the edge of the glass.

Ten minutes later, thirty gasping and shaking sailors crowded her store—all dripping on her floor. The first man looked round at the mess and quickly ushered the others outside.

He then glared at her customer. “How could you do such a thing?” he asked.

“I—I didn’t mean to. That old crone who cursed you looked like a loon. I didn’t think it would actually work.”

“Never take curses lightly,” Deidra cut in as she jammed a cork into the hole, stopping up the spill. “Wishing ill on another always has some affect.”

The man, the ship’s captain perhaps, turned to face her. “A wise lesson.” He cast a sideways glare at her customer. “One I hope my fool of a brother takes to heart.” He bowed. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Deidra shrugged. “It’s what I do.” She took the lid off the jar. The tempest began again. The water level rose. The ship began to toss on the waves, rainwater spreading out along its now empty deck.

“What do I owe you?” the captain asked.

With slow, deliberate movements, she pressed the lid against the top of the storm and forced it down until it reformed inside the jar. It was a gamble, but as she predicted, the storm continued on but shrank down to more of a squall, filling up only the very top of the jar. Now that there was no risk of anyone dying, it was actually a fascinating piece.

She stood and walked over to her private shelves, the ones that housed her collection of similar strange items.

“A ship in a bottle seems like adequate payment,” she replied, placing the jar on the shelf.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lindsi McIntyre is a linguaphile from Texas who hopes to use her words, both written and spoken, to bring glory to the Lord Most High. When not writing, she can be found lost within the pages of a good book, or watching the latest episode of her favorite tv shows, and drinking way too much tea while doing both.

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