Bun-Bun: Shipwrecked

(A Bun-Bun Adventure)

(edited) photo credit via unsplash: Rowan Heuvel, https://unsplash.com/@insolitus

-with special thank you to Ira, https://substack.com/@originalworlds for the introduction to Mister Bun-Bun and graciously allowing me to create adventures for him.

(This was written specifically for The Two Crones “Wrecked” Anthology, which was unfortunately, recently cancelled).

The storm began shortly after sunset.

One moment the sea was merely unpleasant, the next it had opinions. Opinions that I disagreed with, as did my stomach.

The ship lurched hard enough to throw half the crew off their feet. Somewhere overhead a sail tore with a sound like a giant ripping linen. Men shouted. Wood groaned. The captain began issuing commands with increasing urgency and decreasing usefulness.

I hung onto a barrel. Not because I was frightened. Because previous experience had demonstrated that bravery and remaining upright were often mutually exclusive. It’s tough to be brave when you only stand four foot two, counting the ears.

A wave crashed over the deck. The barrel and I parted ways sadly enough. My paws dug into the worm-worn deck, leaving scrape marks deep enough to plant corn. Manic hash marks of futility as I was flung from one side to the other.

The next hour became a blur of rain, darkness, and splintering timber. At one point I distinctly remember flying. The sea seemed very pleased with itself.

Then the ship broke.

Somewhat dramatically. There wasn’t a single thunderous crack announcing our doom. Just a series of increasingly expensive noises, each worse than the last, until everyone aboard suddenly realized they had other places they had to be.

The deck tilted. Men screamed. Something large impacted my left ear.

Then the ocean accepted us all.

***

When I awoke, I was lying face-down on a beach.

Sand filled my nose, my mouth, and several locations I felt should remain private. I rolled over and stared up at a cloudless blue sky.

Warm sun. No immediate monsters. A surprisingly good start.

“Alive,” I announced.

After a moment’s consideration, I added, “Still.”

The island offered no response. Rude, but islands weren’t know for their great vocabulary.

I sat up slowly and took stock. Wreckage littered the shoreline. Broken spars, shattered planks, barrels, and assorted pieces of what had once been a perfectly respectable ship. Several men were scattered across the beach. Some moving. Some not.

I counted nine sailors and one rabbit, myself. The traditional ratio, sentient rabbits being a bit of an outlier in these parts.

By sunset we’d gathered driftwood and established a small camp near the tree line. A fire crackled while the survivors sat around it staring into the flames. Nobody talked much.

“Bun-Bun,” Henrik finally muttered, “grab another armful of wood, would you?”

“Certainly,” I said. “I’ll simply ask the ocean to chop up another ship for us.”

Nobody laughed. Shipwrecks tend to reduce conversational enthusiasm. I wandered farther down the beach, collecting whatever the tide had decided not to keep, then returned and dropped a smallish pile near the fire.

The first day passed quietly. The second passed hungrily.

***

The island had some water, which was fortunate. Food appeared to be operating under different management. There were a few seabirds, a handful of eggs, and some edible plants. Grass, fortunately for me, remained available.

I ate some. It wasn’t terrible. For the first mouthful. Living on grass sounds so much more romantic to people who have never attempted it for three consecutive meals.

The sailors watched. One of them swallowed.

I pretended not to notice.

But by the evening of the second day, I had noticed other things.

Their looks had changed. Subtle at first, then less subtle, then concerningly specific. A man does not stare at another man the way these sailors were staring at me, unless one of them owes money.

Since I possessed no currency, the situation seemed fairly clear.

One sailor licked his lips. Thoughtfully.

I moved to the far side of the fire. Three sets of eyes followed me immediately. I considered my options. None were especially good.

I made a little bed farther away from the fire, but I slept only lightly. By then I was increasingly convinced they were discussing recipes. Sleep, under those circumstances, becomes an intermittent activity, rather than a necessity.

The third morning began quietly enough. No one spoke much. The sailors sat around the ashes of the fire, each pretending not to look at the others.

Or at me.

Broad-shouldered Henrik, caught my eye and immediately looked away. Guiltily. Never a comforting expression on someone who hasn’t eaten in three days.

I tried to busy myself cropping grass near the edge of camp. It wasn’t particularly filling anymore, but it gave me something to do besides imagine myself slowly rotating over hot coals.

The imagination, I’ve found, can be an unhelpful traveling companion.

Mine had already produced a detailed image of myself skewered on a spit, skin crisping to a lovely golden brown while juices dripped into the fire. Around me, nine sailors nodded appreciatively and debated whether rabbit paired better with rosemary or garlic.

For the record, neither.

I shook the thought away. There are some ideas you simply shouldn’t season.

When I looked back toward the camp, the conversation had stopped. All nine men were watching me. Nobody smiled.

Henrik stood first. He didn’t charge. Not immediately, but he took one slow step. Then another.

“I am very flattered,” I called, backing away. “Truly. But I’d rather we got to know one another first.”

He muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Then they ran.

At me.

Now, I’ve met many people who believe rabbits are easy to catch. None of those people had ever actually tried.

I zigged. They zagged. Unfortunately, they zagged into each other.

The beach erupted into shouting as boots slipped in loose sand and two particularly enthusiastic sailors discovered that grabbing the same rabbit from opposite directions generally results in grabbing neither rabbit nor each other with much dignity.

I was already halfway to the trees. Roots, undergrowth and low branches welcomed me like old friends. The forest swallowed light almost immediately. Behind me came crashing footsteps and increasingly creative profanity.

Humans are wonderfully loud when they’re hungry.

I, on the other paw, am considerably smaller and quieter. Useful traits.

The island rose steadily toward its center, the ground changing from soft sand to black volcanic stone. Strange trees twisted from cracks in old lava flows, their roots gripping rock that looked as though it had once flowed like soup.

I slowed only long enough to listen.

Voices. Way too close. They were spreading out. Sensibly, for once. That complicated matters further.

I climbed higher, moving from shadow to shadow until the shouting drifted downhill behind me. The air grew cooler. Somewhere ahead I heard water.

Not a stream. More a… dripping.

I followed the sound through a narrow break in the rock and found a shallow grotto overlooking a tiny inlet where the sea pushed gently against black stone. Rainwater had collected in natural lava basins near the entrance, clear enough to see the bottom.

Shade. Plentiful fresh water.

“I’m saved!”

Or at least I won’t die of thirst. At least for the moment. A beer would still improve matters considerably.

The grotto was dark and obviously led deeper into the dormant cone. How perfect. Only one obvious way in.

I looked around carefully. “No monsters?”

The grotto remained diplomatically silent.

“Excellent,” I said. “One crisis at a time.”

As I approached the entrance of the grotto, I noticed two roughhewn stone heads flanking the opening. One toppled on its side, mostly buried in moss and debris. The other leaned drunkenly backward, forcing me to look up its bulbous nose. They looked less like fierce guardians than elderly watchmen who had dozed off decades ago.

Hmm. More temple than cozy dwelling it appears.

Maybe no one’s home? Moved on? Vacated the premises?

I went in. Carefully. My wonderfully acute ears pointed forward. Every inch the picture of a timid rabbit looking for shelter. No threat to anyone. Harmless with a capital H.

The entrance was low, for humans, so I could easily stand erect and pad forward. Whiskers trembling and nose twitching.

It opened up. It wasn’t a large space, and the small carved altar in the center was unimpressive. The remains of long dead and decayed flowers or food darkened the bottoms of the two hammered copper bowls that rested on the altar.

Otherwise – empty.

I was breathing a sigh of relief when it appeared.

“...WHO DARES ENTER THE SACRED—”

The voice cracked. There was a brief coughing fit somewhere in the darkness.

Then:

“...Sacred... Temple...”

A pause.

“...of Pōnaku.”

A faint blue glow drifted into the chamber. It wasn’t especially impressive. To be fair, I have seen fireflies with greater commitment.

The light gathered slowly until it became the vague outline of a small fellow wrapped in what might once have been an elaborate feathered cloak. Time had not been kind to either the feathers or the fellow wearing them. Several feathers were bent. Others had apparently resigned.

He floated perhaps six inches above the stone floor. For a moment. Then slowly descended the remaining six.

“...Ahem.”

He straightened with considerable dignity.

“I,” he announced, “am Pōnaku. Guardian of this island. Keeper of the Sacred Waters. Lord of the—”

He glanced around the empty grotto. “...Remaining Territory.”

I gave him a small wave. “Hello.”

He blinked. “...Hello?”

“I’ve found greetings generally helpful.”

He stared at me for several long seconds. “You... are not afraid.”

“I’ve had a fairly busy week.”

“Oh.” He seemed to think about that. Silence settled over the grotto.

Finally Pōnaku clasped his hands behind his back and attempted a more regal posture. “You have entered my temple.”

“I had noticed.”

“You seek my favor.”

“Actually, I was mostly seeking somewhere the sailors couldn’t find me.”

“The sailors?”

“My erstwhile stranded shipmates. They’ve become... culinarily interested.”

“I see.” Another pause.

“I don’t suppose you’ve brought tribute?”

I looked at him. Then around the cave. Then back at him.

“I seemed to have overlooked the gift shop.”

His shoulders drooped ever so slightly.

“It has been...” he said carefully, “... quite some time.”

“Since?”

“My last worshipper.”

“How long?”

Pōnaku considered the question. “Long enough that I no longer remember his name.”

“Oh.”

“It was over fifty years ago.”

“That is quite a while.”

“Yes.”

Another feather drifted quietly to the floor. Neither of us mentioned it.

Pōnaku cleared his throat again, trying to recover whatever majesty had escaped during the coughing.

“So...” he said with studied dignity. “The tribute.”

“Right.”

I patted my coat. Then my vest. Then the little leather satchel slung across my shoulder. What little I generally carried was now at the bottom of the sea, along with my ride home.

“I really wish you’d mentioned that before the ship sank.”

Pōnaku sighed. “It has been my experience that worshippers generally know.”

“I’ve never actually worshipped anyone before.”

“No?”

“No. I generally go about my business, and usually things work out.”

“Really? Without divine intervention?”

“Well, I have two lucky rabbit’s feet.” I wiggled my paws.

Pōnaku shook his head, but with a trace of a smile.

I crouched and began rummaging through the satchel anyway.

It contained the usual assortment of indispensable items that appear entirely useless until the precise moment they aren’t. A bit of string. Three fishhooks. Flint. Half a biscuit that had somehow survived both the storm and several weeks beyond what I considered socially acceptable.

Definitely not tribute material.

Then my paw closed around something smooth.

“Oh.”

I pulled out a small glass marble. Deep blue, with white swirls trapped inside it like tiny clouds.

“I forgot I still had this.”

Pōnaku leaned forward. “What is it?”

“A little girl gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Oh... two summers ago, I think. Her family had a fruit stall in a market. I helped chase off a monkey that had become overly enthusiastic about oranges.”

“You accepted... a child’s gift?”

“Well, she insisted.”

I turned the marble over in my paw. Sunlight from the cave entrance caught inside it.

“She said it was her lucky marble.”

Pōnaku watched quietly.

Very carefully, I stepped to the little stone altar. The copper bowls had long since surrendered whatever offerings they once held. Dust rested where flowers had probably been. I placed the marble in the center.

It looked terribly small.

“I realize this probably isn’t the sort of tribute gods usually receive,” I said, taking a respectful step backward. “But it was freely given, and I’ve carried it a long way, and without any serious mishaps. So possibly it does contain a bit of magic? It seems like that ought to count for something.”

Silence.

The marble caught another shaft of light. For just an instant, the blue seemed brighter.

Pōnaku stared at it. His mouth opened slightly.

“You...” he said very softly, “...gave me something that mattered to you.”

I blinked. “Well, yes.”

“Not because you feared me.”

“No.”

“Not because you wished to buy my favor.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to stay here a day or two.”

I glanced toward the cave entrance. “The alternatives currently include becoming the island’s most disappointing kabab.”

Pōnaku’s expression didn’t change. Then, very slowly, he smiled. It wasn’t a grand smile. Just one that looked as though it hadn’t been used in a very long time.

For a long while neither of us spoke. Pōnaku sat cross-legged before the little altar, staring at the blue marble as though afraid it might disappear if he blinked too often.

Finally, he stood. “I owe you a boon.”

“A boon?”

“You have become my worshipper.”

“I wouldn’t get carried away.”

“You brought tribute freely.”

“I did.”

“You treated me with respect.”

“I generally try.”

“You are, by every measure that matters, my worshipper. And this… is my Shrine.”

“Oh.”

He smiled. “One worshipper is not many.”

“I had noticed.”

“But one is also not none.”

The blue glow around him brightened, if only a little. The feathers of his cloak stirred though the cave was perfectly still.

“I cannot part seas,” he admitted. “Nor raise volcanoes. Those days are long gone.”

“Pity.”

“I can, however, grant one small blessing.” He folded his hands. “Ask.”

I didn’t have to think very long. “Get us off the island.”

Pōnaku’s smile faded. “Us? You mean all of you?”

I looked toward the cave entrance where, somewhere beyond the trees, nine increasingly hungry sailors were probably still searching for me.

“They weren’t themselves.”

“You said they tried to eat you.”

“They also apologized.”

“Before trying.” I added, remembering Henrik’s face.

Pōnaku considered that. “I’m sorry. I cannot. I don’t have the power.”

“Oh.”

“I could hide you here for years.” Pōnaku suggested helpfully.

“Not ideal.”

“I could bless your feet so no hunter would ever catch you.”

“Useful. But they haven’t had much luck to date.”

We stood there thinking. Eventually I asked, “Can you contact someone?”

He frowned. “Contact?”

“A bigger god. Someone who has more... umphf?”

“Bigger gods, require more tribute.”

“No doubt.” We pondered together.

“Or perhaps...” I said slowly, “...a ship?”

Pōnaku looked toward the mouth of the cave and the wide sea beyond.

“I cannot summon one.”

“Might you persuade the wind to become... more… directional?”

“It would consume nearly everything I have left.” Pōnaku offered, his palms up.

“What happens then?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he spoke so softly I almost missed it.

“If you leave...” Pōnaku sighed. “I will fade.”

“I see.”

The words hung between us.

I looked at the little marble resting on the altar. Then at him.

“Does it have to stay here?”

“What? The marble?”

“You said it was a Shrine now.”

“It is.”

“Do Shrines have to be stationary?”

He blinked. “I... had never considered the possibility.”

“I suppose...” He frowned thoughtfully. “If the Shrine were carried willingly by the worshipper...”

“You could come along?”

“...Perhaps.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“No one has ever tried.”

“That appears to be a theme with me.”

He looked at the marble. Then at me. Then back again. A smile slowly spread across his face.

“A traveling temple.”

“I’ve seen worse business plans.”

Pōnaku laughed. It was a surprisingly pleasant sound. He picked up the marble with both hands, held it against his chest, and closed his eyes. The blue glow surrounding him folded inward until it became a single thread of light. It flowed into the marble like smoke drawn into glass. Then it plopped into the bowl with a light ping, rolled and settled.

The cave suddenly felt quieter. The marble gave a faint, contented pulse.

I picked it up carefully. It was warm.

A tiny voice drifted into my mind. “...This is considerably smaller than I expected.”

“It’ll do,” I said. “For now.”

Outside, the wind changed. Not much. Just enough. Far out beyond the black rocks, where sea met sky, a square of white canvas slowly altered course.

I smiled. “Feels like a good wind.”

The marble vibrated faintly. “I had forgotten how exhausting weather is. I need a nap.”

***

Later that afternoon I made my way back toward the beach, stopping atop a broad shelf of black lava that overlooked the little camp by a good thirty feet. High enough to discourage enthusiasm and low enough for conversation.

Henrik spotted me first. “There!”

Several sailors lurched to their feet.

I raised both paws. “Before anyone gets ambitious, I’d like to point out that climbing sharp volcanic rock while malnourished is an excellent way to fall down it.”

They hesitated. Encouraging.

“I come bearing good news,” I continued. “Also, myself, but the emphasis is on the good news.”

Nobody moved.

“I’ve... made arrangements.”

Henrik frowned. “What sort of arrangements?”

“The sort where none of us dies on this island.”

Silence.

“A ship is coming.”

Henrik studied me for a long moment. “How? We’ve watched the horizon for three days. There is no ship”

“I have negotiated.”

“With whom?”

I glanced toward the jungle. “...A local authority.”

Several sailors exchanged uncertain looks. “You’re serious.”

“I generally am when discussing not being eaten.”

Another silence. No one argued.

Far out across the water, a tiny white sail appeared against the afternoon sky.

One sailor rubbed his eyes. Another whispered a prayer.

Henrik simply stared. “I’ll be...” he murmured.

Then Henrik lowered his head. “We wronged you.”

I nodded. “You only considered it.”

“We would have done it.”

“Probably.”

He nodded once. “We were starving.”

“I know.”

His shoulders sagged. “I’m ashamed.”

“I’d hope so.”

I let the words hang for a moment before pointing toward the western horizon.

“Fortunately, I tend to hold grudges for only slightly longer than I hold conversations. I’d rather all ten of us leave than only one.”

He glanced at the little blue marble hanging from a string around my neck. “What is that?”

“My traveling companion.”

The marble buzzed indignantly. “I heard that,” said Pōnaku.

“I know.”

The rescue ship reached the island before sunset. As we climbed aboard, I looked back only once. The cave was already disappearing into shadow.

A tiny voice floated up from the marble. “I’ve never seen a fruit stall.”

I smiled. “Oh, they’re nice, but just wait ‘til you’ve seen a proper bakery.”

The marble hummed, “For bread?”

“For croissants,” I said, “Then for cakes. Cookies. Cannoli.”

I cupped the marble gently in my paw. “You’re in for quite a treat.”

***

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