The Apothecary Under the waves with the Demon Doctor

The road to the port grew harder underfoot the farther Maomao walked.

The packed dirt of the village gave way to stonier paths as the land sloped gently downward. The air cooled by degrees, each breath tasting more sharply of salt and seaweed. Gulls cried somewhere ahead, their harsh voices overlapping with the dull boom of waves against rock.

Maomao adjusted the knot of her borrowed sash and kept walking.

She had left the villagers with instructions: cool cloths, watch the breathing, small doses of the fever herb, no heavy food. Their fear had not vanished—“curse” is a hard word to dislodge—but the fact that the young man still breathed when they’d expected him to die before sunset had carved out a little space for hope.

Hope, and stubbornness. She preferred stubbornness.

If this “curse” was man-made, then it followed rules. And if it followed rules, it could be broken.

The road curved around a low hill, and suddenly the world opened.

The sea stretched out before her: a vast, glittering sheet of blue-gray, broken by dark, jagged rocks. A modest port clung to the shoreline, wooden piers jutting out like fingers. Boats bobbed at their moorings—some small fishing craft, others larger, with patched sails and weathered hulls.

It was the smell that hit her hardest.

Not just salt, but the layered scents of fish and old nets, tar and oil, damp ropes and sun-baked planks. It soaked into everything, even the breeze that brushed her face. The harbor she’d imagined in that first strange scent from the jar had become reality.

People moved along the docks: fishermen hauling in catches, dockhands shouting over crates, a few rough-looking sorts who watched everything and pretended to watch nothing. At the far end of one pier, a squat building with faded paint and a hanging sign looked like a tavern. It hummed with voices even at this hour.

Maomao paused at the edge of the port, taking it all in.

Foreign doctor, they had said.

Captain.

Demon.

She smoothed her expression into something between bland curiosity and harmless confusion and descended the last stretch of road toward the water.

Information, she knew, rarely sat in obvious places. It moved in mouths—loud mouths, especially.

The tavern smelled of old sake, grilled fish, and sweat. Low conversation filled the dim interior, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter. A few men at the nearest table glanced up as Maomao stepped inside, then dismissed her as unimportant and went back to their cups.

Perfect.

She slipped into a corner near the back, where she could see most of the room and where the smoke from the grill drifted past her rather than into her eyes. A harried woman came by with a tray, eyebrow lifting at the sight of a solitary young woman in plain clothes.

“One cup of whatever is cheapest,” Maomao said. “And if there’s anything light to eat.”

The woman snorted but nodded. A few coins from Maomao’s pouch left her hand, and soon enough a chipped cup and a small plate of pickled vegetables appeared on the low table in front of her.

Maomao wrapped her hands around the cup but did not drink yet. She let the sound of the room wash over her, tuning her ears for the word she wanted.

Doctor. Curse. Demon. Captain.

It did not take long.

“…told you, I saw it,” a man at the next table insisted, slurring slightly. “Opened the poor bastard up without spilling a drop o’ blood.”

“You were drunk,” his companion scoffed. “You’re always drunk.”

“Not that drunk. Man’s guts twisted wrong from the curse, right? He just—just waved his hand and there was this…this space.” The man’s own hand wobbled through the air. “Next thing, the fellow’s breathin’ again. No scars, no nothin’. That’s not natural, I’m sayin’.”

“The Captain’s not natural,” a third voice put in. “That’s the point.”

Maomao’s fingers tightened around the cup.

Captain.

She tilted her head, appearing to adjust her kimono collar while angling her ear closer.

“What d’you care?” the second man muttered. “Curse is still killin’ people. Demon doctor or not, he hasn’t stopped it.”

“Maybe he’s the one who started it,” someone else said, lower. “Foreigners always bring trouble.”

A ripple of uneasy agreement passed around the table.

Interesting.

Maomao finally took a sip of her drink. It was rough and a little sour, but it warmed her throat and steadied the edge of her thoughts. She plucked a piece of pickled radish from the plate, more to justify her lingering than from hunger.

If this Captain was the source of the “curse,” she needed to know. If he wasn’t, and he was truly cutting people open to try to save them, then he was the only other person in this place who might understand what she’d seen under the villagers’ skin.

“Hey.”

The word snapped close by her ear.

Maomao looked up calmly.

A man had stopped by her table, rough-spun clothes stained with salt and fish scales. He smelled like the harbor. His face was not entirely unfriendly, but his stance said he thought he might make some easy coin.

“You by yourself?” he asked.

“Yes,” Maomao said. She took another sip of her drink. “For the moment.”

“You look lost,” he said. “Not from around here.”

“Correct,” Maomao said. “I’m looking for work.”

That made him blink. “Work? Doing what?”

She set down her cup and folded her hands, making her harmless, small.

“I have some skill with medicines,” she said. “Herbs. Remedies. I heard there was…a doctor in the port. I wondered if he needed help.”

The man stared at her, then barked a short laugh.

“You want to work for him? The Captain? Hah. You got guts, girl.”

Maomao said nothing. She let her eyes go wide the way she knew made people underestimate her.

“He doesn’t hire just anyone,” the man went on. “Got his own crew. Strange lot. Submarine and all.”

Submarine?

“A ship that goes under the water,” he added, seeing her faint confusion. “Can’t miss it when it’s up. Looks like a metal whale.”

A ship that moved beneath the sea. Not entirely impossible given what she’d already experienced.

“Still,” the man said, scratching his cheek. “They have been askin’ around after this curse. Maybe he’d look at you. Or have you look at him.” His grin was not kind. “You want to take your chances, girl, I can point you the way.”

Maomao smiled, small and precise.

“I’d be very grateful,” she said.

He named a price for the information that made her lips twitch, but she counted out the coins without argument. Information that led to a cure—or to the source of the problem—was cheap at twice the cost.

He jerked his chin toward the door.

“Follow the road along the docks. Last pier, past the old warehouse. If his ship’s in, you’ll see it. If it isn’t…” He shrugged. “You’ll have to wait. Or die of the curse before then.”

Maomao inclined her head in thanks, finished her drink, and left.

Outside, the light had shifted; the sun hung lower, staining the water with deeper color. She walked along the length of the harbor, the boards creaking under her steps. Fishermen glanced up and then back down. Children ran past with sticks, pretending to be samurai.

The first piers were ordinary enough. Wooden boats, chipped paint, nets drying on racks. The smell of fish guts and brine.

The last pier was different.

The boards were newer, darker, reinforced as if they regularly bore more weight. At its end loomed something that did, indeed, resemble a metal whale: a smooth, rounded hull painted dark, with a yellow stripe and a symbol she didn’t know marked in black. Unfamiliar machinery studded its surface. A gangplank extended from an open hatch in the side to the pier.

So. The demon doctor’s lair.

Men moved about the deck, some in odd hats with little bills, others bareheaded, all wearing similar jackets with that same symbol. A large, white-furred figure near the gangplank gestured animatedly as he spoke to one of them.

A…bear?

Maomao’s eyes narrowed, then sharpened again.

Not just a bear. A polar bear, if her picture book memories were correct. And not an ordinary animal, either; it was standing upright, wearing a jumpsuit, and arguing in perfectly understandable language.

“I’m telling you, we should at least bring more blankets!” the bear was saying. “What if Captain needs to stay longer? What if there are more patients?”

“We already loaded what he asked for,” the man replied. “You heard him: travel light.”

“But it’s cold up there!”

“Bepo, it’s fine.”

Bepo.

Maomao tucked the name away along with the rest.

She approached the bottom of the gangplank, waiting patiently until the bear—Bepo—noticed her. It took a moment; he was very invested in the state of the blankets.

When he finally glanced down and saw her just standing there, he yelped and flailed, nearly dropping the bundle he was carrying.

“Ah! I—I didn’t see you!” he said. “Sorry!”

“It’s all right,” Maomao said. “I am very small.”

He blinked at her.

She was, in fact, not particularly small, but compared to a talking bear, anyone might make that claim.

“Um,” Bepo said. “This area is restricted. You shouldn’t—”

“I’m looking for your doctor,” Maomao said, cutting to the point. “The Captain. Trafalgar Law.”

Several nearby crew members turned their heads at the name, attention sharpening. Bepo’s ears twitched uneasily.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’ve seen the curse,” Maomao said. “I have observations he may find useful.”

One of the other men—a red-haired fellow with goggles pushed up on his head—snorted.

“Another villager with a story about gods?” he said. “We’ve heard them all.”

“I don’t care about gods,” Maomao said blandly. “I care about poisons.”

That made them blink.

Bepo shuffled his feet on the gangplank.

“Poisons?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Maomao said. “And patterns. And meridians. The man in the village who collapsed earlier is still alive. I would prefer him to stay that way. Your doctor seems to be the only other person interested in that outcome.”

The red-haired man and his companion exchanged a look.

“You were at the market,” the companion said slowly. “The girl who shoved herbs into that guy’s mouth while yelling at everyone. I heard about that.”

“I did not yell,” Maomao said. “I spoke firmly.”

Bepo shifted the blanket bundle to one arm, fidgeting.

“Captain did say,” he murmured, half to himself, “if we heard anything about someone unusual treating the curse, we should tell him…”

The man with goggles sighed.

“If she’s trouble, he’ll just kick her out,” he said. “Or toss her in the sea. Either way, it’s not our problem.”

Bepo winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said.

Maomao watched them calmly. They were not subtle, these pirates. But then, they did not need to be. Their ship alone announced their difference loudly enough.

“Very well,” Bepo said at last, squaring his furry shoulders. “I’ll take you to him. But if Captain tells you to leave, you have to leave, okay?”

“Of course,” Maomao said.

She followed him up the gangplank.

The interior of the ship smelled like metal, oil, and a faint overlay of antiseptic. The corridors were narrow, walls lined with pipes and panels. Light filtered down from lamps affixed at regular intervals, their design unlike any she’d seen before.

Bepo walked carefully, as if afraid she might bump into something sharp and die instantly. Maomao kept one hand lightly on the wall for balance, cataloguing the muted vibrations under her palm. The ship felt…alive. Not breathing, exactly, but humming with restrained power.

“Captain’s in the infirmary,” Bepo said over his shoulder. “He told us not to disturb him unless it was important.”

“This is important,” Maomao said.

“I hope so,” Bepo muttered.

He stopped at a door with a small glass window in it and knocked softly.

“Captain?” he called. “We’ve, um…got someone. From the village. She says she has information about the curse. And poisons.”

There was a brief pause. Then a voice, muffled by the door but clear, answered.

“Bring her in.”

Bepo swallowed, opened the door, and stepped aside so Maomao could enter.

The infirmary was cleaner than the rest of the ship, scented with alcohol and something sharply medicinal that made her think of cauterized wounds. A sturdy bed sat against one wall, currently occupied by a covered form. Cabinets lined another wall, their glass fronts revealing neat rows of bottles, instruments, and bandages. A metal table held a scattering of notes and diagrams.

The man standing at the foot of the bed looked up as she entered.

He was tall, taller than most men she knew, wearing a dark coat over a spotted shirt and jeans—very foreign. A hat with a spotted brim sat low on his brow, shadowing sharp gray eyes. Tattoos crawled along the backs of his hands and fingers.

Those eyes took her in from head to toe in a single, efficient sweep. Not leering, not even particularly surprised. Just…assessing.

“So,” he said. His voice was quiet, with an edge like a scalpel. “You’re the apothecary.”

Maomao blinked once.

“You’re the demon,” she said.

Bepo made a strangled noise behind her. The doctor—Captain—raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said dryly. “Name?”

“Maomao,” she said.

He repeated it under his breath, as if testing the shape of it.

“Trafalgar Law,” he said. “Captain of the Heart Pirates. Doctor.”

He didn’t offer a hand. She preferred that.

“You said you have information about the curse,” he went on. “Explain.”

Maomao stepped closer to the bed, ignoring the way Bepo hovered anxiously near the door. She did not pull back the sheet; that would be presumptuous. Instead, she focused on the edge of a chart lying on the table, where a rough diagram of a human torso was half-visible, marked with lines and notes in a script she couldn’t read.

“I treated a man in the village earlier today,” she said. “He collapsed in the market. Fever, shortness of breath, patterned bruising along the neck and chest.”

Law’s gaze sharpened.

“Patterned how?” he asked.

“Not random,” Maomao said. “The marks followed lines consistent with certain meridians. Energy channels. Or nerves, in your terms. They started near the neck and moved downward.”

Law’s fingers tapped once against his folded arms.

“You’ve seen more than one case?” he asked.

“No,” Maomao said. “But the villagers described similar marks on others who died. The timing is consistent. A few days of mild discomfort, then sudden collapse and rapid decline. Most do not last a full day after collapse.”

“And your patient?” Law asked.

“Still alive when I left,” Maomao said. “I used a local fever herb that did not seem to worsen the symptoms, and measures to keep him from choking. The bruises did not recede, but the rate of spread appeared to slow.”

Law’s eyes flicked to Bepo.

“Cross-check that with the report from earlier,” he said. “The timing fits. So does the description.”

Bepo nodded rapidly. “The ones we’ve seen on the tables, yeah—bruises along the neck, chest, sometimes down the arms. Like someone drew lines under their skin. Captain says the organs are failing in…order.”

Maomao’s attention snapped back to Law.

“In order?” she repeated.

He moved around the bed to the metal table and picked up a sheet of paper, turning it so she could see. The drawing was simple but precise: a sketch of a human body, internal organs outlined. Several were circled and numbered.

“Lungs show signs of strain first,” he said. “Then the liver. Then the heart. Then kidneys. Not simultaneously, not randomly. As if something is being activated in stages.”

Her mind leapt.

“Like a poison with layers,” she said. “One compound to prepare the body, another to trigger it. Perhaps a third to push it over the edge.”

Law regarded her for a moment.

“You’ve seen something like that before?” he asked.

“No,” Maomao said. “But I’ve thought about it.”

He huffed, almost a laugh but not quite.

“Of course you have,” he said.

He set the paper down and stepped closer, close enough now that she could see the fine lines of old exhaustion at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not from this country,” he said. Not a question.

“No,” Maomao said.

“Where are you from?”

“A place that does not exist on your maps,” she said. “Probably.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Cute,” he said. “But irrelevant. What matters is whether you can help me stop this before it interferes any more with my plans.”

“And before any more villagers die,” Maomao said.

“That, too,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

She studied him.

He was too calm to be untouched by death. He spoke of organs and failures the way she spoke of herbs and dosages: tools and information, nothing more and nothing less. But there was a tightness in the set of his mouth that did not match his casual tone.

“You’ve done autopsies,” she said.

“Many,” he said. “On victims of this curse and others.”

“May I see your notes?” she asked.

He lifted a brow. Most doctors she’d met resented sharing their records with anyone who might expose their ignorance.

“I don’t have time for amateurs,” he said. “If you’re just another village healer with superstition and stomach powder—”

“I’m not,” Maomao said, and did not raise her voice. “I know poisons. I know how they move, how they hide, how they combine. You know what they do when they find the organs. Together, we might see what the other is missing.”

For a heartbeat, the room was very quiet.

Then Law’s mouth curved into something that might, on a more generous day, be called a smile.

“Fine,” he said. “You want into my operating theater, Maomao? You can start by proving you’re not an idiot.”

He picked up a second chart from the table and handed it to her.

“Here,” he said. “A case from two days ago. Tell me what you see that the village doctors didn’t.”

She took the parchment, eyes dropping to the neat, clinical script and the sketched outline of a body marked with numbers.

Her pulse quickened—not with fear, but with the sharp, bright edge of curiosity.

The demon doctor wanted proof.

She would give him proof.

And, if she was very lucky, she would also take from him something far more precious than coin: a clearer view into this new world’s sickness, and perhaps a way to carve a place for herself inside it.

Outside, the sea thudded softly against the hull.

Inside, Maomao and Trafalgar Law leaned over the same piece of paper for the first time.