24.2.16

In For A Penny - Part 5

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   It was trickier to find a spot at a dock in Coraqua than in Port Victor, but only because there was only a dock in Port Victor. For a tiny tug, and her experienced captain, even the trickiest parking job was no more than a bump and a curse word away.
   Adam slotted the tug sideways between two much larger ships, slid down the ladder down to the deck, grabbed a coil of rope and leapt over the railing onto the dock before the tug could drift too far. He reeled it back in and started to loop the rope around a piling, securing the boat nice and snug to the dock. The impeccable ballet of the lonely man of the sea. He stood straight, and sighed.
   “Alright, let’s go see what…the…” He trailed off as he realized he was speaking to the evening air. Susan was not standing at the railing as she had been a moment before. In the short time he’d taken to tie up the boat, she’d already made it most of the way down the dock towards Weatherdecker’s ship. When he called her name, she didn’t turn around.
   The ship was all that existed now. She charged at it, a tiny trebuchet against a looming castle wall. Unfortunately, trebuchets could not cross water. She ground to a halt with her toes on the edge of the dock, just a few impassable feet from the ship’s wooden planks.
   “Hey!” She bellowed loud and strong. “Open up!”
   The only reply was the creak of the ship, bobbing on the waves. Susan saw a pile of rope to her right, littered with metal hangings. She picked up a rusted piece of scrap and hurled it at the ship with all her might. It hit with a wooden clonk and promptly fell into the waves, never to be seen again.
   After an unsure pause, a head appeared at the railing.
   “What, us?” called down the sailor.
   “Yes, you!” bellowed Susan. “Put down a plank! I want to see your captain!”
   “What for?”
   “None of your business! Let me at him!”
   The head turned, consulting someone behind him.
   “We’d do it, see, but he’s not here,” he called at Susan. “Off to the pub, I think.”
   “Which one?” she demanded.
   “Uh…should I say that?” The sailor asked his compatriot loud enough for her to hear.
   “Yes you should!” she shouted up. There was some murmuring above.
   “Uh, the One-Eyed Gull, I think,” said the sailor, once an agreement had been reached. “Usually his spot ‘round here.”
   Susan did not thank him. She turned on her heel, into Adam’s embrace.
   “Susan,” he panted, “what the hell are you doing?”
   “Where’s the One-Eyed Gull?” she snapped.

   It was a few minutes’ walk from the maze of docks, in an alley buried in the bigger maze of Coraqua’s downtown. Adam had been expecting them to swing by the guardhouse first, but Susan apparently had other plans.
   She was first through the doors of the pub; Adam burst in after her, only taking a brief moment to sort through the doors ricocheting back into his face.
   “Susan! Susan, wait!”
   She ignored his shouts, storming up to the bar instead. Adam stopped to apologize profusely to the sailors she shoved aside in her tirade.
   She slammed her hands down on the bar, instantly grabbing the tender’s attention.
   “Where’s Captain Weatherdecker?” she demanded. The mustachioed bartender gave her a curious look.
   “Why y’be wantin’ him, miss?”
   “NONE of your business. Where is he.”
   The bartender thought for a minute before jerking his head in the right direction.
   “Corner table, big guy next to the fob in the black. But don’ pretend I din’t warn...”
   She was gone before he could finish. A moment later, Adam bounced off the bar like a ping pong ball and sorted himself out in her direction.
   “Susan, for cronch’s sake, think about what you’re doing! Sorry!” he shouted at the man he’d bumped into. “SUSAN!”
   She found Weatherdecker in quiet conversation with the fob in black, nursing a beer. Most of his men were at the surrounding tables, doing quite the opposite. Beer sloshed, cards flickered, ladies giggled somewhere in the gloom.
   Susan tried to stay calm as two dark gazes fell on her. The captain looked as though he could snap her in half with two of his fingers. The sleek man in black looked as though he might try.
   “You’re Captain Weatherdecker?” she panted.
   “Aye, miss. How can I be helpin’ ye?”
   “I don’t want your help. I want my son back and I want him back now.”
   The two pirates exchanged a sideways glance. Vesco reached out slowly and cracked a peanut from the bowl in front of him, not looking down.
   Adam burst out of the throng of pubgoers and grabbed Susan around the waist.
   “Captain I’m sorry she didn’t mean it she’s hysterical I’ll get you your money just please don’t hurt her she’s got nothing to do with it I swear!”
   The captain sighed and tossed up his hands.
   “Oh, THAT son! Aye, I heed ye, miss. Howzit, Adam?”
   “Fine, thank you. Please forgive her, Captain, she’s just upset. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
   Susan shoved him so hard he cracked his head on the floor.
   “FUCK off, Adam! WHERE’S my baby!?” she shouted at the pirates.
   “Miss, please,” said the captain, “I promise ye, the lil’ lad’s alright. Won’t let nuthin’ happen a’him. You’ll have ‘im back soon as your man there gets ‘is debts in order, cross my heart.”
   Susan leant over the table, fists trembling on the wood.
   “He is NOT my MAN. And I don’t want my son back SOON. If you don’t go get him, right now, we’re coming back with the police!”
   Vesco grinned and ate another peanut.
   “I’m serious,” said Susan. “Give him back, NOW!”
   “You know what, miss? I’d like me money now, too. How’m I supposed to get it without a lil’ motivation fer yer hubby down there?”
   Adam, who’d just pulled himself off the floor, jumped as Susan slammed her hands on the table again.
   “What Adam gets up to in his spare time doesn’t concern me OR my son. That is between you and him and no one else. How can you sit there with a clean conscience knowing that you’re dragging innocent people into your petty little disputes? How can you put the same value on the life of a child as on a few dollars in a poker game?”
   “Miss, with all due respect, we’re not talkin’ ‘bout a few dollars. Yer boy there owes me quite a sum.”
   “NO sum is worth endangering my son!”
   “Miss, he ain’t in danger, I tole you!”
   “SAYS you, you cretin! Why didn’t you just take Adam’s boat if you wanted your damn motivation?!”
   “Pfft. Miss, that junker’s not worth a dime on ‘is market.”
   Susan took a deep breath.
   “You don’t have to do this,” she sighed. “Please. Just give me my son back, then do whatever you want to Adam. I’m begging you, don’t drag us through the mess he’s made.”
   Vesco snorted. “That tyke was the mess he made, wasn’t he?”
   She was quick, quicker than the pirates, quicker than even she knew she was. The bowl of peanuts was flipped into the air. Those still in their shells ricocheted off table, chair, and pirate alike. Empty shells fluttered down like the confetti of a strange parade. The bowl itself hit Vesco in the nose and clattered to the floor.
   The crewmen around them had gone silent, all eyes drawn to their quartermaster. Adam’s hands were hovering over Susan, ready to grab her and run. Vesco reached up, shuffling a few confetti peanuts off his shoulder, and touched his upper lip. He examined his fingers and saw no blood. He looked up at Susan.
   In a blink, he slid a knife from his sleeve, flipped it open, and flung. It lodged in the table only a few centimetres from her hand. She flinched back into Adam. Vesco rose, slowly.
   “If you’d made me bleed,” he said, “I wouldn’t’ve missed.” He reached across the table and yanked the knife from the wood. He flipped it closed and slid it home. “Mind your manners, would you?”
   He sat back down, never taking his eyes off the frightened woman. Several peanut shells remained static-clung to his hair and shoulders. He knew they were there.
   Susan could feel the eyes on her. They were waiting for the backdown. Oh, they’d like that, wouldn’t they? Adam tried to grab at her as she took a step forward.
   “You don’t scare me,” she said loudly. “Take your puny little knife and shove it!” She turned back to the captain. “Give me my son, you bastard!”
   Vesco started to rise again, but his captain stayed him with a hand on his chest. The captain himself stood, coming around the table to face Susan. He was much taller than he looked sitting down.
   “Look, miss, I unnerstand what yer sayin’. Really, I do. But I can’t take away a man’s boat. How’s he s’posed to work off his debt if ain’t got the means? This jus’ made more sense - from a business perspective, mind.”
   She swung at his face with a closed fist. The crewmen gasped quietly; but their captain caught her arm. She let out a yell and swung with the other, but his powerful fingers closed around that one too.
   “If you wanna pick a fight with someone, girl, pick it with Adam. He’s the one that let me take the tyke inna first place. Besides, I could use yer help with the naggin’. He’s a bit slow goin’, in my experience.”
   He released her hands at the same time he shoved her backwards, forcing her to take a few steps away.
   “Have a nice night, you two,” he said, with a nod. “We’ll see you ‘round, Adam, eh?” He turned his back before he got a response.
   “Sure thing, captain,” said Adam quickly. “Susan, we’re going. Susan, I…Susan!”
   She’d already picked up a chair and swung. It came down hard over her head, and shattered across Weatherdecker’s back. It exploded into splinters. She tossed aside the remains of the legs she held.
   “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” she bellowed. “Give him to me, right now!”
   The captain turned to her, looking as if she’d done nothing more than tap him gently on the shoulder. He smiled at her, calmly, his eyes dancing with amusement. He said nothing. Susan growled and lunged at him.
   A pair of arms hooked themselves under hers, catching her in midair. She was spun around and guided firmly away from the pair of pirates.
   “That’s it,” said a stern but quiet voice, “out with you! I don’t allow rowdies in here.”
   She pulled free of the grasp, and whirled around to face the mustachioed barman. He continued to shepherd her towards the door.
   “You don’t understand!” she snapped. “That man’s kidnapped my baby!”
   “It’s your baby, you can break your own damn chairs about it! Out!” He gave her a final shove out the open door, and strode back into the dim pub. She was about to give chase when Adam caught up, catching her and holding her for good this time.
   “Susan, for god’s sake, what were you trying to accomplish in there?!”
   “Why didn’t you help me, Adam?! You just stood there! I almost had him and you just—“
   Adam drew her closer with a sharp tug, cutting her off.
   “You did NOT almost have him. He’s twice your size! The only thing you almost did was get us in a stupid amount of trouble. Would you fucking think about this, please? We can’t. Do. Anything. We need the police. I was trying to tell you that before you ran off like an idiot!”
   She wrenched free of his hands, glaring. But through that glare, her eyes were bright and shining.
   “I held your son up,” she panted, “in front of your face. You looked right through him. THEN you let him get kidnapped. And I’M the idiot!?”
   She stormed off towards the docks, not giving him the chance to respond. He sighed, and gave her an appropriate moment of solitude before catching up in long, gangly strides.
   “Look,” he said quietly as he paced alongside her. “I don’t have an excuse for the kidnapping thing. I’m still sorry about that. But I thought we agreed that my lack of clairvoyance wouldn’t come between us.”
   She sighed, long and hard.
   “Why can’t something fucking work out, for once?” she snapped. “I just want one thing, one fucking thing to go my way. That’s all I ask.”
   He swooped in and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her to a stop. She looked up at him, eyes fierce and watering.
   “Instead of making things go your way, Susan, why don’t you try going with the way of things? You throwing a fit won’t help. You sulking on the boat won’t help at all. What will help is a visit to the guardhouse. Now, I’m going no matter what, but you could probably describe the kid better than me.” He let go of her wrist. “Are you coming, or are you just gonna pick fights until he magically reappears?”
   He let her think for a moment; then turned and walked away with his hands in his pockets, back towards town. He didn’t say a word as he heard her fall into step beside him.

   Michael McCrea was reading the evening newspaper on a bench in the town square. Occasionally, he’d look up, watching the ever-changing gaggle of playing children, and smile, thinking of his own grandkids.
   He was a stocky, square man, appearing to be hewn from granite. He had a deep chest, and a deep voice, and a quiet manner. But, he had kind eyes, and a top hat, and he dressed smartly, in a black cloak and waistcoat. An oddly muscular but dapper gent reading the paper on this fine tropical evening. Who would remark on such a thing? Nobody in Coraqua over the past couple of days, that’s who.
   He didn’t look up when he heard bootsteps coming his way. He didn’t look up when someone joined him on the bench. He turned a page, and read for a moment, before saying:
   “Nice weather we’re havin’.”
   Mr. Airedale sighed, fidgeting slightly with the book in his lap. He had not worn his medalled jacket, or, worse, his bicorne. The breeze in his hair felt wrong.
   “Lovely,” he agreed. “Just lovely.” He too watched the children at play.
   Mr. McCrea closed the paper, folded it, and laid it across his knee. He slid a silver pocketwatch from his waistcoat and snapped it open. All in one movement, he closed it and slid it back.
   “Only ten minutes late,” he observed. “Give or take a couple days.”
   “I do not wish to talk about it,” said Mr. Airedale.
   “Oh, yeah? That bad?”
   “No, not bad. Just…insufferably stupid.”
   Mr. McCrea looked at him for the first time, smiling sideways.
   “Your Benefactor’s gonna have questions.”
   “I am aware,” said Airedale. “Richard can answer them.”
   Mr. McCrea turned back to the news with a laugh; his laugh was a small shot of breath through his nose, and a tiny twitch of a smile. In the ensuing silence, Mr. Airedale opened his book. He flipped to several different pages, turning a chunk at a time, to gather a handful of looseleaf papers from within. He closed the book, folded the papers together with careful creases, and handed them to Mr. McCrea, who promptly rolled them up in his newspaper. Mr. Airedale frowned at this, but said nothing.
   Mr. McCrea stood off the bench, and tipped his hat to Airedale.
   “Take care,” he said pleasantly, and made his way across the square to a stone alley. Airedale watched him until the last flick of his cloak had disappeared from sight. Book still in hand, he made his own way back to the docks, the opposite direction.

Next...

23.2.16

In For A Penny - Part 4

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous 

   One hour, six minutes, and forty-eight seconds. That’s how long, after he’d been stolen away, that the child started to cry.
   Richard Weatherdecker had never married. He had kids - somewhere. Most likely. He’d never met one to his knowledge. If he’d ever so much as held a child before, he didn’t remember it. This left him unprepared for the snot and screams from the damp little demon in his arms.
   He knew two things about babies already; they ate, and after that they had to be changed. He didn’t know what they ate, or how to change them. He wasn’t even entirely sure what about them was supposed to change. After a short interlude in the mess hall, he learned another thing about babies: they didn’t like food. He tried sardines, he tried salt beef; he tried pickled onions and cucumbers; he tried ship’s biscuits and hard, pungent cheeses.
   “Fuck’s sake,” he swore. “You ain’t even tried it. How d’you know you don’t like it?”
   The baby whined at him in response. It slapped away another offer of brined fish. Weatherdecker felt a wave of hot anger surge up inside him.
   “Would y’throw that thing in the fuckin’ ocean, already?” snapped a snaggle-toothed bilge rat. He sat across from the captain, hunched over a plate of pickled onions. “Can’t take much more o’ that goddamn noise.”
   “Throw you in the fuckin’ ocean if you talk to yer cap’n that way again,” growled Weatherdecker. Normally, that was a perfectly fine way to address a pirate captain, but he wasn’t in the mood for it today.
   “Why don’ we cook it up?” asked the bearded man of seemingly astronomical age beside him. “Fresh meat an’ a quiet ship!”
   “I tole you, it’s money onna bet. Gotta take care of it to get what’s mine. No good to me dead.”
   The child provided ambient wailing to their conversation. Eventually, the bilge rat stuck his onions in his pockets and headed below to the bunks. Most of the mess hall had already done something similar. Weatherdecker was left almost alone with the long-bearded man, gnawing at what he hoped was salt beef, and Mr. Tiller, who sat beside his captain, silently contemplating a mug of ale. He looked up, worried, as Weatherdecker tried to get a rock-hard chunk of ship’s biscuit into the child’s mouth. The kid turned his head away with a squeal of displeasure.
   “C’mon, you idiot! Wouldja try one bite?”
   Mr. Tiller cleared his throat, ever so quietly.
   “Uh, cap’n…babies don’t really have teeth…”
   Weatherdecker looked up, straight ahead. Then he shot a glare at Mr. Tiller, who shied back.
   “What?” demanded the captain.
   “Sorry, I mean, they have teeth, a bit, haha, at that age, but they aren’t, y’know, proper teeth. They can’t really eat hard stuff. Y’may have to soften up that biscuit a lil’.”
   “Huh,” grunted the captain. He took the chunk of biscuit and dunked it in his own mug of ale.
   “Oh, but, uh…” said Mr. Tiller. “See, maybe not booze. Th-that’s not great for kids.”
   “What, then?” demanded Weatherdecker. He stared the boatswain down. Mr. Tiller started to regret getting involved, but the baby’s cries had gotten to him, as well.
   “A-anything but booze, I guess. Maybe you could borrow some milk from Mr. Airedale’s tea boys? Babies mostly drink milk anyway. That should work.”
   “How the fuck d’you know so much about babies, Tiller?”
   “Oh, I don’t know much, no sir, not much at all. I just picked up a few things from my mum. She was a midwife.”
   “You don’t say,” said Weatherdecker. His eyes narrowed. “Seems like you’re more’n fit to look after a kid.”
   “Really, though, I’m not,” insisted the boatswain. “I don’t know much beyond diapers!”
   “That’s more’n I do. Listen, Tiller - howsabout I cut you in to this poker pot, eh? You look after the kid, and you can have Vesco’s cut, seein’ as he’s blackballed all my offers. He don’t wanna help, he don’t get paid. But, if you wanna help…”
   “It’s nice of you to offer, cap’n, but, really, I couldn’t take care of a kid better’n anyone else here. You’d have a better chance with—“
   The boatswain fumbled awkwardly with the squirming child thrust into his arms.
   “Weren’t an offer, Tiller. It was an order. You take ‘em better than Airedale an’ Vesco, I know you do.” The captain stood from the bench, leaving his ale and biscuit behind. “Just keep the kid alive, an’ you’ll get my money AND my thanks. Not a bad deal, eh?”
   Tiller leapt up after his captain, daintily cradling the child.
   “But, wait, cap’n, I can’t!” he cried. “I really don’t know much about kids!”
   “You don’t know much about bein’ a cap’n either, so ya better leave that to those that do!”
   Weatherdecker didn’t turn to look at him once. He disappeared up the steps into the sunshine, free at last to see to his captaining. Mr. Tiller still pursued him.
   “But, cap’n, I - AH!”
   Tiller stopped in his tracks, wincing and holding a hand to his ear. The child’s siren scream was broken by a giggle at Tiller’s teary-eyed grimace. When the boy reached for the pirate’s gold earring again, Mr. Tiller gently guided his hand away.
   “No,” he said firmly. “None o’that!”
   He hurried up to the deck, looking around for his captain; but he was already gone. The toddler started a high-pitched whine again, ready for a second round of tears and flailing fists. Tiller leapt into a dead run at the sound. He ducked and weaved between the men on deck towards his cabin. It was a small room; not big enough for two men, but one man and a baby fit alright.
   The second the door was shut and locked, Tiller gingerly set the wailing boy on the floor and backed away into a corner. He sat down cautiously on the lid of a trunk and watched the toddler scream. A primal instinct buried deep in his brain told Tiller he should be holding the boy, trying to calm him down; most of the rest of him didn’t have any idea how to do that. The babies he had seen his mother tend to were quiet, and they didn’t do much. They hardly moved. They barely opened their eyes.
   He quickly surveyed the room for inspiration; as he turned his head, a bolt of sunlight from the dingy window flashed off his gold hoop. The crying stopped for a moment. The toddler looked entranced by something across the room…and then started wailing again before Tiller could see what it was. But, it gave him an idea. He stood abruptly and tore open the lid of the trunk, digging through a potpourri of junk inside. Some clothes, some coins, a bottle of good rum…aha! A painted wooden horse. A woven doll. And Mr. Tiggles, a stuffed tiger that he did not remember getting but had always had. He sat cross-legged before the baby, to present his findings.
   “Hey! Look!” He trotted the horse over on four stiff legs. “A little horsey! Hm?”
   The child looked at the horse, but did not stop sniffling. Instead of reaching out for it, he whined and reached up towards Tiller.
   “No? A dolly, then, eh?” He waggled the limp lady in front of the child’s face. The child smacked it out of his hand with a squeal, and started to cry in earnest again.
   “Hey, it’s alright!” insisted Tiller. “It’s alright. What about Mr. Tiggles, huh? D’you like Mr. Tiggles?”
   The little boy kept screaming, his tiny fists opening and closing on the air. Tiller sighed, letting the stuffed tiger fall from his hands. He leant in closer, bending forward on his knees.
   “What do you want?” he groaned. “What can I do to make you stop cryin’?”
   Damian looked up at the kindly face peering into his, and reached out for it. A tiny hand closed on Tiller’s long nose.
   “My nothe? Izzat whatAH!” he cried, as the boy used it as a hold to pull himself up off the floor. The other tiny hand grabbed his gold earring. The boatswain ignored the pain; he preferred it to nonstop screaming. The baby giggled with delight as he pulled at the ring.
   “You want my hoop?” asked Tiller. He could only assume that tugs meant yes.
   “But, I got it from—OW! Fer cronch’s sake, take it, then!”
   The baby fell backwards as Tiller’s hands crowded him away from the shiny treasure. He was about to burst into tears again when the earring was shoved into his waiting hands.
   He squealed and started to suck on the gold-coated brass. Tiller sighed with relief at the blissful silence in the cabin. Carefully, slowly, he picked the baby up off the floor. It didn’t seem to mind, not with something properly disgusting in its mouth.
   “Say, now, that’s a good gir…boy…er, baby,” said Tiller. “You ready to try some sardines?”

Next...

22.2.16

In For A Penny - Part 3

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous 

   That morning, Susan did something she hadn’t done since she’d become a mother; she left for the orphanage without Damian in her arms. It was a strange feeling, one she didn’t care for, but she cared more than anything about Adam spending time with their son. She kissed them both before she left - the soft, sticky baby munching his morning grapes, and the worn, stubbly sailor that seemed to subsist on coffee alone.
   Adam hadn’t met many children in his line of work. He didn’t hate them, but he had no reason to like them, either. They just, existed. They were a fact of the world, a fact about which he felt completely neutral. But this kid - his kid. Right. That would take getting used to - was pretty nice, as far as babies went. He didn’t cry too much. He didn’t seem upset that a random man had wandered in to his life. They played blocks together. Then the kid took a nap. They ate some carrots. Then they played some more blocks. Adam figured he could get used to this. Mrs. Carruthers had shown him how to change a diaper, and had been a little surprised when Adam’s expression had remained passive throughout. He regularly had to evict new forms of life trying to take hold in the damp corners of a seagoing boiler room. A diaper was literal child’s play by comparison.
   Mrs. Carruthers had gone out back to tend the garden, while the boys played with a little wooden trainset on the floor of the living room. Adam watched as his son drove the train mostly on the carpet, and not the tracks. He wondered briefly if he’d been that stupid when he was that age. Probably. They were related, after all.
   Meeting the child that he hadn’t known he’d had was oddly less confusing than hearing a knock at the door. Carrots, fine. Nap, fine. But what was one supposed to do with a knock at the door of a house that wasn’t one’s? Mrs. Carruthers couldn’t hear it out back. The kid wasn’t about to leap up for it. He didn’t seem to have noticed it anyway. When the knock came again, Adam stood, crossed the floor, and opened the front door with a slight hesitancy.
   When he saw who it was, he flinched, narrowing the gap in the door. Captain Weatherdecker braced his arm against it; he was half again as tall and broad as Adam, and had no problem holding it at bay.
   “Hoy, Adam,” said the pirate. “Howzit?”
   “Oh, uh, fine, Captain! Uh, Vesco,” he said, with a nod. He leant harder into the door as Vesco set his hands on his hips, revealing two pistols under his coat. “What, uh, what can I do for you?”
   “You can start by lettin’ us in,” said Weatherdecker. “After that, we’ll see.”
   Adam quickly glanced back at Damian, still occupied with his train. The captain surveyed the slice of the living room behind him.
   “Well, uh, thing is, Captain, this is my, uh…friend’s place, maybe I could meet you somewhere—“
   Weatherdecker shoved his way in, forcing Adam to stagger backwards.
   “Vesco,” he growled, “keep a look out.” Then he closed, and locked, the door behind him. “Won’t be a moment,” he said cheerfully, to Adam. “I’m sure your friend won’t mind.”
   The fireplace was a few feet to Adam’s right. Slow as he dared, he started to creep towards it, and the poker that stood by the hearth. Weatherdecker crept closer to him, in turn.
   “Now, now,” said the pirate, “nothing to fear from me. I don’t wanna hurt you. What good would that do me? I want you to stay in good health, my lad. A man can’t work proper if he’s been beaten bloody. An’ if he can’t work, he can’t pay the people what need payin’.”
   Too close, Adam realized, too late. He jolted, but Weatherdecker already had him by the front of his shirt with one hand, a knife in the other, pointed lower down. Nobody moved.
   “Where is it,” growled the Captain.
   “I don’t have it, man, seriously,” said Adam, his hands up. “Not here, not now, but I’ll get it to you, okay? Okay? Just don’t do anything crazy.”
   “You’ve had years. Years’at you spent sailin’ the globe when you coulda been workin’.” He jerked his head, indicating the bewildered baby on the floor, watching them both in awe. “Fuckin’ some girl, looks like, ‘stead of earnin’ what’s owed.”
   He pulled Adam in closer, almost in a hug, and brought the knifepoint to rest against a hugely sensitive part of Adam’s body. Adam tensed all over, staring straight ahead over the captain’s shoulder.
   “I could make it easier for ya,” said Weatherdecker. “Wouldn’t have to worry about kids ever again.”
   “Look, man I’ll get you your money, alright? You said yourself, no one needs to get hurt.”
   “How do I know y’ain’t gonna fuck off again, huh?”
   “I’m not! I’m staying a while, with the kid. I’m not going anywhere, I swear!”
   “You swear, do you? You also swore you were just running to the john. Took us a good half hour to realize you’d jimmied the window. Here an’ now, your word’s about as good to me as a blind helmsman, son. I want a forfeit that’s better than your measly little promise.”
   “Look, the only thing I own is the tug! I don’t have anything else to offer.”
   “If I take your tin can, how’re you gonna work? Makes no sense, my lad. ’Specially since that piece o’garbage isn’t worth half the pot. No, I’ll need summat a bit more valuable…”
   As he thought, his eyes wandered to the child on the floor, staring silently at him with a toy train in hand. Adam followed his gaze, and immediately tried to shove Weatherdecker back.
   “No!” he hollered. “You fucking monster, if you touch him I’ll—“
   His head was bashed twice, in quick succession; once against Weatherdecker’s fist, once against the hard edge of the brick mantel. Bells screamed in his ears. Silent, heavy flowers blossomed in front of his eyes.
   He hit the floor with his face. He saw the captain’s boots through the field of petals, walking towards the toy trainyard. Moaning, he reached out an arm across the hearthrug, just before the world faded to black.

   Mrs. Carruthers came back from the garden with a basket full of carrots and onions. She scrubbed off her boots on the back door mat, humming to herself. The weather was lovely. The sea air was fresh. Most importantly, the boys were getting along so well. She hadn’t heard a peep from either all afternoon.
   She set the vegetables down on the kitchen counter, and paused. She listened for a moment. Quiet was always nice, but…this was silence. No blocks clacking together. No chirping from the baby. No squeaking wooden train wheels. She crossed through the kitchen into the front room.
   Damian’s toys were there, with no Damian in sight. No Adam, either. She was about to call out, when she spied the pair of feet splayed out beside the fireplace.

   Mr. Airedale kept a careful eye on the shore that afternoon. There would be no time to waste. As soon as the captain and Mr. Vesco returned, they were to set sail. He had delayed high tea to keep his watch; not only that, but the men were restless and out of sorts that they had not been allowed ashore. To a man, they were eager to be on their way.
   The first mate raised his spyglass at the sight of a tiny dot drifting from the beach; he lowered it quickly.
   “Mr. Tiller,” he shouted, “prepare for departure.”
   “Aye, Tim!” called back a chipper voice somewhere in the rigging. Men started to move on the deck below, some climbing the masts to assist Mr. Tiller, some readying the hoist for the dinghy. Mr. Airedale made his way through the bustle, looking very much like a ship himself, drifting calmly through restless seas.
   He waited patiently by the hoist as the men hauled the dinghy out of the bay and secured it to the railing. Mr. Vesco hopped out before they’d finished, apparently in the middle of a conversation with Captain Weatherdecker.
   “…rations to hand out, stores to count - a kid don’t enter into it. It’s not happenin’, cap’n.”
   “Vesco, it’s a fuckin’ order.”
   “Fine,” sighed the quartermaster. “I’ll look after it, an’ you can keep the inventory ledger. You CAN read, can’t you?”
   “You gettin’ smart with your captain, boy?” growled Weatherdecker.
   “Smart with you? That wouldn’t be fair.” Vesco remarked to Airedale. He turned and touched two fingers to his forehead in a half-salute. “Toodle fuckin’ pip, fuckhead.”
   Mr. Vesco disappeared in the direction of the officer’s cabins. Mr. Airedale turned to the captain, silently, awaiting further information. Weatherdecker picked the further information up off the floor of the dinghy and clambered over the railing with it in his arms. Mr. Airedale raised an eyebrow as he approached.
   “A baby?” he queried. Weatherdecker held the child out towards him without a word. The first mate studied it up and down as if it were a very poor specimen of show dog. It stared back at him in rapt clueless wonder. Then he looked at the captain, asking a thousand silent questions.
   “Here,” growled Weatherdecker, when the hint was not taken. “Keep it fed. I need it alive.”
   “Is it yours?” asked Airedale.
   “No, gods no.”
   “Well whose is it, and why do you have it?”
   “It’s collateral.”
   The first mate’s expression did not change. He blinked once.
   “You took a baby as collateral?”
   “Din’t have anythin’ else worth holdin’ on to.”
   “You took a baby as collateral.”
   “Look, ‘e owes me a lot.”
   “You took a baby. As collateral.”
   “Yeah I did, Tim, an’ you better take good care of it so’s I can get my money. Here.”
   “I’m not a nanny,” said the first mate, as the child was thrust at him. “And you took a baby as collateral.”
   “I gave you an order,” said the captain.
   “I ignored it. You took a baby as collateral?”
   “I don’ have time to look after it. Here.”
   “Neither do I. You took a BABY as collateral.”
   “Fuck’s sake,” growled Weatherdecker, gathering up the child in his arms. “Some crew you are! Lousy bunch o’ mutinous bastards…”
   He stormed off in the same direction as Mr. Vesco. Mr. Airedale watched him go with a mild twinge of concern. Then, he felt a stronger twinge for tea.
   “Mr. Tiller,” he shouted, “sails at the ready.”

   Adam awoke to the sound of women’s voices. He could hear the tone, but not the words. Something wasn’t right. He opened his eyes, slowly; the light stung at first. He blinked the pain away and tried to sit up. He’d been wrangled onto a sofa in his blackout state.
   Hands grabbed his shoulders. A face appeared in his vision, blurred and swimming. He knew it…he knew this woman, what was her name again…
   “Adam?” she shouted. “Adam, are you alright? Where’s Damian?”
   Damian? he thought. Never heard that name before. Who the heck is…
   He sat up suddenly, looking frantically around the room, but his brain could not keep up. Feeling returned all at once. The dizziness, the pain in his temple and the base of his skull, the fuzzy vision. He started to slump back down, but Susan held him up.
   “Adam, can you hear me? Say something. Say anything!”
   He squinted unsteadily at her. “Susan,” he breathed. That one word exhausted him speechless.
   “What happened, Adam? Where’s Damian? We can’t find him anywhere!”
   With shaky arms and unsteady feet, Adam hauled himself off the sofa. Susan tried to support his weight; Mrs. Carruthers hurried over to help. They guided him where he seemed to want to go: one of the front windows overlooking the bay. He leaned against the sill, eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
   “Dear, we need to know what happened,” said Mrs. Carruthers firmly. “Do you remember?
   He heard, but he kept his eye on the ship. Still a ship, and not a dot, thank goodness, but it was moving fast. He raised a hand to the glass, and stuck a few trembling fingers to it. He wanted to say it gently, but there really was no gentle way to say:
   “He’s been…taken. Kidnapped. By pirates.”
   “What?” breathed Susan. “How? Why?!”
   “It’s this guy, I…I owe him money. He came looking for me, and, I offered the boat, but he wanted more.”
   Susan covered her mouth with her shaking hand.
   “Oh my god,” she choked. “Where are they going!?”
   “I don’t know,” said Adam, “but I’ll find out.” He tapped the window, drawing her attention to the bay. “That’s his ship out there. I’m going to tail them as best I can.” He set his hand on Susan’s shoulder; she grabbed him urgently by the arms. “Get the police. Tell them they want Richard Weatherdecker. Wouldn’t be surprised if they know him already.” His awkward unsteady kiss turned into an awkward unsteady hug. “I’m sorry, Susan. Please don’t worry. We’ll get him back.”
   He let her go, staggering past Mrs. Carruthers, out the front door. Susan watched him, stunned. Her chest felt as if it had shrunk by inches. She could hardly breathe. Hands alighted on her shoulders; she looked up into her mother’s eyes. Her own shone with tears.
   “Oh my god, mom…” she whispered.
   “Susan, this is what’s going to happen. I am going to the guardhouse as fast as I can to tell them everything Adam just said. I’m going to spread the word far and wide to be on the lookout for a little boy. Then, I’m going to tend the garden, keep the house, and help the misses at the home until you come back.”
   “Come back from where?”
   “You are going with Adam, dear. If you stay you’ll be worrying yourself sick and I’m not having that. Sitting at home wringing your hands is not the way I raised you. Get out there and show them what happens when they cross the Carruthers!”
   Susan inhaled deeply; she stood straight, and wiped the tears from her eyes.
   “You’re right,” she sniffed. “You’re right, mom.” Her brow furrowed. Her lips tightened. “They took my baby, they have to answer to me!”
   Mrs. Carruthers kissed her daughter on the cheek. Susan took a moment to hug her tightly. Then, she ran, her frozen shock melted by an all-encompassing rage. She would not worry; she would burn.
   Adam had already started the engine by the time she reached the boat. She hopped over the railing just as he ran back up the stairs from the boiler room, nearly colliding with her. He caught her by the arms in a flurry, spinning her slightly on his way past.
   “Susan, what the-? What are you doing here?”
   “I’m going with you,” she said, brooking no argument. Adam tried anyway.
   “Susan, no, you’re not. These are pirates we’re talking about. It’s too dangerous!”
   “Dangerous? Oh, it’ll be dangerous for the men that took my baby. It’ll be extremely dangerous for you if you try to stop me.”
   “I’m already risking my neck, Susan, I’m not risking yours!”
   “You don’t get to decide how I use my neck! Start this boat! We’re going! Together!”
   He broke away from her glare to glance nervously at The Ship. It had already shrunk since he’d looked last.
   He leapt up the ladder to the pilothouse.

Next...

21.2.16

In For A Penny - Part 2

If you have not already, please start here!

   Susan owned a small house not far from the docks, though, in Port Victor, nothing was far from the docks. Outside the main crush of buildings, heading into the forested lands and grass plains, were a string of old farm steads, separated by stretches of weedy fields and crumbling fences. The nicest one of these was Susan’s. She kept it well. The porch was always swept and the vegetables plentiful.
   When Adam arrived chez Susan, someone was in the garden, plucking peas off the trellis at the side of the house. Adam smiled as he saw her. She was a handsome woman in late middle age, with a long silver ponytail over her shoulder. When she heard the sound of the wobbly front gate on its hinges, she looked up from her work, and smiled as well.
   “Where have you been, then, young man?”
   Adam came forward for a hug, shifting his rucksack on his back. “Nowhere as nice as here, Mrs. Carruthers.”
   She held on to him for a moment, looking deep into his eyes.
   “Oh, don’t you look tired,” she chided. “Come inside, dear, come inside. Can I make you something? Tea? Coffee? Are you hungry?”
   “All the above,” he said. She smiled at him again as she led the way in, carrying her half-full basket of peas.
   “I’m afraid Susan’s still with the children, dear. She won’t be home for a while.”
   “Yeah, I went to see her. She knows I’m here.”
   Mrs. Carruthers studied him carefully as they mounted the front steps together.
   “Oh?” she queried.
   “She seemed busy,” said Adam. “Didn’t wanna bother her. Just a quick hello.”
   “Oh. Of course. You’ll have plenty of time to catch up, I’m sure.”
   She let the door hang open behind them, to let in the cool ocean breeze.

   There was tea, and there was rhubarb pie, and there were plenty of stories. Mrs. Carruthers laughed, and gasped, and listened intently with her head in her hands.
   “I couldn’t believe it,” Adam was saying. “These guys line up in front of the gate, and they’re all stretching and jumping around like they’re warming up for something. The crowd’s just going nuts around me. All of a sudden, the mayor fires his gun in the air, and they open the gate…” Adam sat back, spreading his hands in the air to convey the magnitude of his next words. “Six bulls jump out, horns and all, they just charge like nothin’. The runners take off with these goddamn animals chasin’ them down, right there in the street. I saw this one guy get a hoof right in his—“
   The sound of footsteps on a wooden porch made him look up. Mrs. Carruthers turned to look as well.
   “Hello?” called a soft voice from the open door.
   “Hello!” called Mrs. Carruthers, more loudly. “In the kitchen, dear.”
   A moment later, Susan came through the doorway. She was not alone; she carried a small child in her arms, a boy, by the looks of it, the same baby she’d held with the soft brown curls. Adam smiled at her.
   “Who’s your little friend?” he asked pleasantly.
   He couldn’t read the look she gave him. The most he could glean from it was that she was feeling something, something strong if he was any judge. She turned away from his now-fading grin and dropped her satchel in the corner of the kitchen.
   “He’s my son, Adam. His name’s Damian.” The strong emotion was gone, replaced with cold, stunted syllables.
   “Oh, my god,” laughed the sailor. “What? A kid? When did that happen?”
   Susan didn’t look at him, then. She charged forward, past him, past her mother, to the hallway with its bedrooms beyond.
   “Dear, please,” whispered Mrs. Carruthers. “Would you just—“
   Susan ignored her, disappearing around the corner with the baby gurgling in her arms. Adam turned to watch her go.
   “Susan?” he called. “Is everything-?”
   A distant door slam cut him off. He turned to Mrs. Carruthers, begging silently for an explanation.
   “Did I say something wrong?”
   Mrs. Carruthers sighed, and looked down at her tea. Then, she looked up at Adam, and touched his hand.
   “No, dear, you didn’t. I’m sorry, Adam. I shouldn’t have played along with this. I told her to tell you up front, but she insisted. She wanted you to figure it out, so badly. She’s just upset that you didn’t.”
   “What was I supposed to figure? That she had a kid? She’s got dozens at the home. How was I supposed to know one was hers?”
   “Dear, that isn’t it. Adam…the boy’s yours. Damian’s your son.”
   The sailor’s mouth hung open for a silent moment, as he processed those words.
   “And you’re sure about that,” he asked cautiously. “Susan is one hundred percent sure that’s my kid.”
   “That’s what she tells me, dear. I can say for sure he was born about nine months after you left, for what that’s worth.”
   Adam leaned back in his chair, speechless. His brain thrummed with new, terrible thoughts.
   “Well, for…” he breathed. “Why DIDN’T she tell me up front?”
   “I don’t know, dear. I told her it was silly.”
   “God…” muttered Adam. He leant forward, burying his face in his hands. Mrs. Carruthers moved to touch to his arm.
   “I know it’s a lot to hear all at once, Adam. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I wish she would have just said it; all of this mimsying about did no one any good.”
   They sat together in silence for a brief moment. Then, Adam said:
   “Do you think she’d wanna talk to me right now?”
   “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Carruthers. “But you two speaking to eachother is the single most important thing that could happen right now.”

   Susan quietly closed the nursery door behind her. She left her hand lingering on the latch, staring down at it, unsure of where to go from here. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and stare at the wall. She glanced up the hall, towards her own bedroom. Then she glanced the other way, down towards the kitchen.
   Adam stood there, watching her. He was leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. Susan stared at him silently.
   “Why didn’t you say anything?” asked the sailor.
   “About what?” asked Susan quietly.
   “Your mom says your kid’s mine. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
   It was a glare, a real, angry glare that she gave him then. She turned her back to him and stormed towards the bedroom. He chased after her.
   “Susan, what the hell?” he hissed, not wanting to disturb the baby or Mrs. Carruthers. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
   He jammed the heel of his hand against the door as she tried to close it in his face. She gave up the fight almost instantly. He shoved his way into the bedroom and closed the door. Susan kept her back to him as he spoke.
   “If that’s my kid,” said Adam, “I want to know. I need to know, Susan, because I need to know where we go from here.”
   “Why DON’T you know, Adam?” She turned on him, radiating fury. “Why didn’t you look at him and fall in love like I did? I held him in front of your face and you passed over him like he wasn’t even there! For gods’ sake, I shouldn’t have to tell you that you just met your own child!”
   “Susan, would you listen to yourself? I’ve never seen him before! I’m not psychic! And I know for a fact you have a life outside of me. What was supposed to give it away?”
   “He’s. Yours,” said Susan stiffly. “You were supposed to know. You were supposed to look at him, and smile, and know.”
   “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Susan, but that’s not how that works. He looks like any other kid I’ve ever seen.”
   He could see tears building in her eyes. She stayed silent.
   “I don’t have anything to tell me he’s mine except your word,” continued Adam. “But that’s all I need. If you say I’m his dad, then, I’m his dad. It’s as simple as that, Susan.”
   Susan sighed and closed her eyes, spilling tears.
   “He’s yours,” she said breathily.
   “Well, okay,” said Adam. “There. Now I know. Now we can talk about what’s gonna happen. Oh my god, Susan, don’t cry,” he whispered. He gathered her into his arms. She sobbed into his chest. “It’s okay. I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted. But at least we’ve been honest with eachother. Now we know where we stand.”
   “Where do we stand?” croaked Susan. Adam wove a hand through her hair, pulling her close.
   “Well, here. Together. I think that’s the important part.”
   “Adam, did you want kids?”
   His own words echoed in his head. At least we’ve been honest with eachother.
   “No, Susan, I really didn’t. I never planned on them.”
   She gripped him harder.
   “Please don’t go,” she sobbed. Adam hugged her as tight as he could.
   “Susan, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know if I can be a good dad, but I promise I’ll try.” He leaned back to give her a kiss on the forehead. She held him, then, in silence, to make up for the years when she hadn’t been able to.

   The Ship stood anchored in the bay, a faceless ghost shimmering under the sun. The creak of wood and rope was just a whisper from the shore.
   A tiny dinghy was paddling away from The Ship, with two passengers aboard. One man was the captain, and one man was rowing. Normally this would not be the same person, but Richard Weatherdecker had lost yet another battle in this war of pigheadedness. The first battle had come when he had insisted on taking a pack of men with him, in case things got ugly. Mr. Airedale had reminded him that if things got ugly, things would also attract attention, and if things attracted attention, the things that would then come down from the Benefactor should not be given name for fear of awakening some form of elder god. That battle had ended when they agreed upon one man.
   The second battle was lost when Captain Weatherdecker commanded his partner in crime to row to shore.
   “Your idea, you fuckin’ row,” said the man, and curled up in the bow like a sleek black cat.
   “Captain doesn’t row, Vesco, you know that. Get to it.”
   Mr. Vesco had closed his eyes and curled up further.
   “Quartermaster doesn’t get woken early to nanny his fuckin’ captain,” he murmured. “We’re all doin’ stuff we shouldn’t.”
   “It’s midday, you twat. That ain’t early.”
   Mr. Vesco had had nothing to say to this. He remained silent and still. Realizing the dinghy was only going ashore if he took it there, Weatherdecker had taken up the oars.
   “It’s your money too, y’know,” he said sharply. “S’why Tim an’ I agreed on you to back me up. You got a stake in this.”
   “Wouldn’t’ve remembered if y’hadn’t said anything.” Vesco spoke with his eyes closed.
   “Wouldn’t’a remembered? You wouldn’t’a remembered thousands o’ dollars?”
   The quartermaster lifted his head slightly, and opened his bright black eyes to bore into his captain’s.
   “In a pot, in a poker game, miles away and years ago? No, cap’n, can’t I say I would’ve,” he murmured, and curled up again. “Y’think that was the first time some tug monkey bailed on me in the middle of a bet? I’d be rich if I went trackin’ ‘em all down. I’d also be wastin’ my fuckin’ time.”
   Captain Weatherdecker rowed in silence, his brain churning with comebacks.
   “Fine,” he said suddenly. “You won’t get your cut, then. I’ll take the pot.”
   Mr. Vesco cracked open on eye.
   “Fine,” he agreed. “But I want a cut as payment for services rendered.”
   He waited until the scowl had fully formed on Weatherdecker’s face to close his eye again. They did not speak until the hull of the dinghy dragged up against the sandy shore of Port Victor.

Next...

20.2.16

In For A Penny - Part 1

      Captain Adam Cartleblat was neither a captain nor a Cartleblat. His birth certificate said Jones and he had never joined the navy; but he owned a tugboat, and that was good enough.
   On the ship, Adam was also the first mate, helmsman, cook, second mate, swabbie and the only person on board. The boiler made plenty of noise and did seem to have a life of its own, but was not counted among the crew. Adam had made a career of odd jobs and elbow grease; he salvaged flotsam, delivered packages and letters (if it was on the way, wherever the way happened to be that day), and every once in a while let out his boat as a ferry if the price was right and the passenger didn’t have too many cops in pursuit. It never amounted to a fortune, but he’d never wanted one.
   Today was the day he came home for the first time in two years. He couldn’t have asked for better weather. A bright blue sky and a lovely warm breeze, not that the SS Cartleblat needed it. The only clouds came from the steampipe of his tiny tugboat, bright and white and roiling over the hot tropical sea.
   He had grown up in these islands, and despite a lengthy holiday, he felt as though he’d only been away a moment when he caught sight of the jumbled mess of houses that was Port Victor. His boring, stupid hometown. The sight of it warmed his heart. Maybe it was time for a little boredom. A little stupidity. He’d seen the world, he’d been inspired and awestruck and adventuresome. A long nap and a visit with Susan would do him wonders.
   Ah, Susan. One of his few remaining childhood friends. One of the few that had stayed in boring, stupid Port Victor, anyway. The only woman he both knew intimately, and knew intimately. Whenever Adam came back from a long haul, they always found time to catch up, then fuck vigorously. Not that he hadn’t met a few lovely girls out there, but they couldn’t compare. Seeing Susan was always a treat.
   Two years. They’d need a while to catch up.

   Captain Weatherdecker was a captain in much the same way. He had earned no stars, no stripes; in fact, he had never even earned the coat. He had plundered plenty of them, but they were good wool and sold for similarly good prices.
   He had no discernible skills, eloquence, or education, but he took risks. He had an odd respect for the strategically minded captains of the Royal Navy - they had given him plenty of runs for his money - but that was not the way he operated. That was why, when he saw the tiny plume of steam rising in the distance, he called for full stop in spite of the good winds behind them.
   As his crewmen got to work furling sails, Weatherdecker stepped up to the railing and extended a telescope out to sea. He caught the edge of a cloud of steam, and followed it down, down…there. A tugboat, and a beat-up one at that. It was a small, pitiful thing. Worth nothing in itself. But the name on the side, that was worth quite a bit to Captain Weatherdecker.
   He heard the tip-tap of footsteps jogging up beside him. He collapsed the telescope and turned to his boatswain.
   “Everything alright, cap’n?”
   “Fine, Mr. Tiller. Gonna change course, that’s all.” He set a hand on Tiller’s bony shoulder and pointed his attention out to sea. “We gotta keep that steampipe in our sights. Follow her lead but keep distance.”
   “Uh…sure thing, cap’n.” Mr. Tiller gave a shrug and a gold-studded smile and went off shouting at his underlings up the masts. After a short symphony of grinding ropes and snapping canvas, the ship set off on its altered course.

   The Port Victor Home For Children did not often receive visitors. Fewer visitors than they’d like, in terms of adoptive parents. When the Misses supervising the playground saw Adam Cartleblat coming up to the gate, they suddenly didn’t feel so bad about the lack. He looked fresh off the boat, which was a hugely misleading usage of the word ‘fresh’. Two of the Misses left the third to keep an eye on the children, and approached to speak to him through the gate.
   “Good morning,” said Miss One, before he had the chance to open his mouth. “How may we help you?”
   “Morning,” said Adam, ignoring the sour tang in her voice. “Is Susan around today? Susan Carruthers? She still works here, right?”
   The two women looked at eachother, silently discussing.
   “She does…” said Miss One hesitantly. “May I have the name of her caller?”
   Adam opened his mouth to tell her, but the third Miss beat him to it.
   “Adam!” she cried. They all looked over at her; Adam smiled. Even in her bland schoolmarm uniform, her hair tied back, she glowed as brightly as he had remembered. She picked up the child that was hovering at her ankle and hurried over to the gate. The other two Misses returned to the children, as Susan fiddled with the lock of the gate.
   As soon as the gap was wide enough for her to slip through, she was in his arms, hugging him awkwardly around the baby she held. They stayed there a while, enjoying eachother. It was bliss after so long.
   “I can’t believe you’re back,” she whispered into his cheek. He pulled away, still smiling.
   “Me neither. I definitely should’ve died a few times out there,” he laughed.
   He watched her smile stiffen, and fall. Her glow faded.
   “Hey, just joking! I was fine,” he assured. “Everything was totally fine. No need to worry.” He took her by the arm, the arm not holding the baby. “I made it home, right?”
   “Yeah,” she said, more quietly. “Yeah, you did. I’m glad you’re okay, Adam.”
   Adam felt the gears of the conversation grind to a halt. As he did when the boiler went kaput, he searched the immediate area for clues as to what had gone wrong. She was smiling, but reserved. She was looking at him, though her eyes had gone glazed and unreadable. The child in her arms squawked and reached out for her face; she took its hand and gently guided it away. Adam, on the other arm, let go.
   “Hey, listen,” said the sailor, “I know you’re busy. I’m sorry to bother you at work. Just wanted to say hey, y’know? I didn’t wanna wait to see you.” He kissed her quickly on the forehead, before she even noticed him doing it. “I, uh…I’m cool to stay over, right? If not, it’s okay, I—“
   “It’s fine, Adam. Of course it’s fine.” She took a step back, towards the gate, and set a hand on it. “You’re right. I am busy. I should go. I’ll…see you at home. We can catch up then.”
   “Alright! Cool. Hey. Take care,” he said, waving as she closed the gate behind her. She locked it, smiled one last stiff smile at him, and returned to the flock of screaming children. Adam watched her a few moments more. She sat on a bench, overlooking the playground. The child nestled in her lap, pointing out dreadfully unexciting things to her. She held it for a long time. Adam turned away down the lane, wondering what he’d done to make her smile fade.

   The ship had no name, not that any of the men had agreed upon. They left The Ship, they boarded The Ship, they scrubbed the decks of The Ship, and made sure her rigging was in order. Everyone agreed it was a ‘she’, of course. There were certain things one did not question.
   She changed her appearance frequently. Any time it was convenient, and most times it was possible, she got a new stain, or a new paint job on the figurehead. She flew whichever colours would get her the least attention wherever she happened to be. Sometimes she wore a name, or a number, but never for long.
   It had been difficult, at first, to get the crewmen to make a pot of tea correctly. There wasn’t the money for a proper cabin boy, who would have been hired on knowing the art of the kettle. He had to rely on the kitchen rats, who, while decent young men, couldn’t tell their steep from their brew. Though, he never yelled, or chastised. That did not do. He had explained, carefully. He had given lessons on the proper temperatures, the correct colours and consistency. He’d been a cabin boy himself, once, and he remembered the trials and tribulations of learning, as one said, ‘the ropes’; that had been hard enough as a well-bred, literate man. Though, after weeks and months, they finally had the hang of it. He could not ask for better cuppas from the below-decks of a nameless faceless ship.
   He always took tea, barring an infrequent downpour in these sunny islands, on the aft deck. Morning, midday, afternoon, evening. An exquisitely carved side table, and his favourite brocade dining chair, were always set out before he arrived, and taken away after he left. Yes, he had trained them well.
   He was the tallest man on the ship. Six feet, three inches. He seemed much taller, the way he carried himself, straight and proud. His customary black bicorne helped a bit, as well.
   As he waited for the teapot to arrive, he studied the waves of the ocean, the lay of the islands they’d passed through beyond. He checked the angle of the sun. He felt the breeze, watched it toss up spray from the water. He came to a conclusion.
   When the crewman came bearing teapot, sugarbowl, and precious, precious fresh milk, he smiled at the lad as he set it down on the side table.
   “Gregory, may I ask you to direct Captain Weatherdecker to me, on this deck, as soon as he finds it convenient?”
   “Uh, yes, Mr. Airedale,” said the crewman. “I’ll see if he’s about.”
   “I thank you kindly, Gregory. You’re dismissed.”
   Mr. Airedale did not watch the crewman descend the ladder. He continued to gaze at the ocean, instead, giving his tea time to steep.

   The last Richard Weatherdecker remembered, it was officers that were meant to report to the captain, not the other way around. He trudged towards the aft deck regardless.
   He’d tried, in the past, to ignore Airedale’s summons. He’d tried to rebuff the order, sending back a message to meet in the captain’s quarters. These messages had not gotten replies. When he went to investigate, Mr. Airedale would start the discussion as if his summons had been answered without hesitation. When Weatherdecker stopped falling for that, and started ignoring Airedale’s summons entirely, the first mate had begun making decisions on the issues he’d wished to discuss - without his captain’s input. This would have been a problem, had they not always been the best possible decisions. Weatherdecker had finally come to realize that if good choices were being made, he could at least put his name to them in some way. He swallowed his pride and went to see Airedale, though he was sure to cough some of it back up once he got to the aft deck.
   He climbed the ladder, and went to lean against the railing, his arms folded, facing Airedale. The first mate smiled at him politely.
   “Good morning, Richard. How do you find yourself today?”
   “Fine,” grunted the Captain. “What’d’you want?”
   “Glad to hear it,” said the first mate. He looked out at the ocean. “Richard, I could not help noticing we have gone off our course. Did you remark upon that?”
   “What’re you natterin’ about now, Tim?”
   “Our course, Captain. We were keeping west-southwest, the last I recall. Unless Barrowbridge Island has moved several miles in the past hour, which I have some reason to doubt, we appear to be gusting away due south.”
   “We are,” said Weatherdecker. “Had to take a quick detour.”
   “Why?”
   “Have to settle a debt,” said the captain. Airedale looked him right in the eye.
   “Which debt is this, Richard?”
   “None o’your fuckin’ business. It’s a personal matter.”
   The first mate paused to take a sip of tea. He let the silence linger a moment before asking:
   “As a passenger on the ship that is a part of this personal matter, am I entitled to ask how long this detour may take?”
   “Don’t know,” said Weatherdecker.
   The first mate took a long inhale, through his nose; then a long exhale, through the same.
   “Richard,” he sighed, “we have an appointment to keep in Coraqua.”
   “And?” demanded Weatherdecker.
   “And, if we are inordinately delayed, the Benefactor will be unhappy. I do not wish for the Benefactor to be unhappy. Do you understand this?”
   “Yeah, yeah, I fuckin’ get it,” growled Weatherdecker. “I don’t care what the fuckin’ Benefactor has to say. I’m owed, and that’s that.”
   “If that really is that, Richard, then you are the one that is going to explain why we were late. I assure you, the next time we visit our esteemed Benefactor, I am throwing you under the hooves as the party responsible for our painfully avoidable delay. Is what I have just said clear to you?”
   “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Weatherdecker, moving to leave.
   “Excellent,” said Airedale. “Thank you, Richard. You may go.”
   Weatherdecker ground to a halt just before the ladder, his back to Airedale. The first mate continued to study the ocean. The captain had already ceased to exist, in his private little tea-soaked world. Weatherdecker turned, and growled:
   “Oh, may I? Thank you, Tim. Weren’t aware I could go where I please on my own damn ship!”
   Airedale did not move.
   “Do not let me detain you, Captain.”
   It is a difficult thing to storm down a ladder, but Weatherdecker did an excellent job.

Next...

17.2.16

Introduction

   Hello, and welcome. Thank you for having a look at my writing; I hope you enjoy it. This page is a test, and probably won't ever be more than that. Currently, I'm working a day job. I haven't quite reached 'Starving Artist' level, yet. What I have reached is a point where I feel the need to share. I have several projects on the go, and they're all begging to be finished. What I need to do right now is edit, polish, get feedback, and repeat. Thank you for being a part of this process; I hope you find at least some enjoyment in it.

   If you have the time and energy to tell me what you think, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You can direct any and all advice, questions, insults and critiques to: clannkelly@gmail.com
   Thank you again; and please enjoy.