I’m sure the captain is busy assisting his crew rig the booms, preparing for the day’s catch. He doesn’t return before I finish tidying up, so I leave his quarters for fear he will think me a snoop. To stay busy until he ventures back, I return to swabbing the deck outside his quarters.
While being dutiful scrubbing the deck, without warning, I fall headfirst into a bucket of fishhooks. My face, my ears, my lips all endure immediate stings. I assume my daunting clumsiness is the cause until I am lifted and dunked into a second bucket. The stings I suffer from the first enhance tenfold in the second bucket, but the pain disappears almost immediately. Excruciating pain, nonetheless. And as quick as it lasts, it causes me to open wide and inhale in a panic. A thick, chowder-like liquid fills my mouth. I’m pulled from the dense liquid. I cough violently, spewing a thick pasty substance with an extremely salty, dry sensation consuming my mouth.
Momentarily, I think I’m clear from the torture, but then a third bucket envelops my head. An even thicker sticky substance covers me to the brow, leaving my nose free to inhale the vomit flowing from my mouth. I am quickly pulled from the third bucket and, again, dunked into yet another. This last one is not filled with anything liquid or sharp. It feels as though it’s an empty pail.
My legs are released, and I topple over with my face wedged in the bucket. I lie still, frail, hopeless, waiting for more suffering. And then more vomit explodes from within me. Salty liquid and stomach acids pool on the deck in front of me. The stench is horrific. Suddenly, the sweet flavor of honey touches the edge of my lips to ease the nastiness.
“I suppose…” I cough heavily and cannot find any more clairvoyant words. “I… sup… flog…” My mouth is too dry for my tongue to work properly. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and my lips smack together as I open and close them.
“Shiner… Cudgel… Chunk!” A familiar voice yells out. “Dammit, men! I figured you’d give him a simple flogging and be done with it! You fools should know better. This isn’t another crew member for you to welcome with your moronic initiation submersion. He’s a guest. A guest of Advocate Gunther’s and a guest of mine. He pays his toll by cleaning up after you halfwits. I’d be better off with apes manning my vessel.” He pauses and tilts his head. “Or would it be aping my vessel?” He shakes his head. “With that said…Elder, you have more scrubbing to do. Looks like an ass violently sprayed its leavings all over. Get back to it! All of you!”
The captain removes the bucket from my head and pulls me up by the collar of my tunic. He hands me the mop.
“But… What…” I can’t seem to find the words as I stare wide-eyed. At least my tongue is back to working.
The three fishermen leave me to my duties, hooting with laughter as they head below deck to get their final meal of the day. A meal I personally helped prepare by scrubbing the dishes they’ll be eating on. Warmth spreads across my face, not from the heat of the evening or the agony of the pain, but from absolute embarrassment, humiliation, and anger. I kick the bucket closest to me. White feathers explode from it, coating the deck. Curses spill from my mouth involuntarily.
I clench the mop with both fists as hard as I can and accept the task at hand. It’s not like I have anywhere to storm off to. I’m on a damned boat in the middle of the damned Scarlet Delta.
I drop the mop to the deck and merely slop the mess back and forth. The last bucket was obviously filled with feathers and the third with honey. I peer into the second pail, and its filled with a sludgy, pale solution. I dip two fingers in and lick it. Salt. Maybe a bit of cream and water too. But mostly salt. Enough salt to make it as thick as chowder. I spit on the deck, disgusted, as the overexposure to the taste makes me gag. I draw back the vomit working its way up, my mouth watering heavily, and I take a moment to let it settle.
The initial pail I was dunked in isn’t filled with iron hooks or sharp blades as I’d thought. It’s filled with the red-hued water of the delta. There are fish casually swimming in place. A couple of them meekly flop about the deck beside the pail. Their scales are crusted over, drying in the day’s heat, with eyes staring into oblivion. Tiny serrated teeth fill their mouths. Piranha. I pick up the pail and empty the contents over the edge, trying not to let my fingers get bitten.
I’m not given much time to brood before one of the men returns. I don’t quite know who’s who on this boat yet, so I don’t know his name. Though, he is distinguishable. He appears to have been dunked into a tank of piranha himself. He’s a large fella with a thick build, bronze skin, and a buzzed head plaited with scars. He may be a giant simpleton the way he presents himself.
“Loif, am I right?”
“Excuse me?” The dialect isn’t one I’m accustomed to. A few of the anglers have similar vernacular, but not all of them. This is the first of them to approach me with more than a glare and a taunt.
“You’re a Loif, eh? A Heala?” He points to my head. “See?”
Obviously not being able to see what he’s pointing at, I feel around my head. It’s sticky and feathery, but the pain is gone. Whatever lacerations I had have healed. “Oh, a Lahyf! A Healer!”
“That’s what I said.”
“No…” I pause, deciding not to argue with him. “I mean, yes. I’m a Lahyf, born and raised.”
“Ah, I knew it. We don’ see many of you’re kind about. Not in the delta, o’ course. We don’ see nobody. In Greenport, I mean. Do you really practice it? Heal’n, I mean?”
“Uh…yes. Well…kind of. Not regularly, but I know the basics. Why?”
“You know…what we just put you through is a form of heal’n too.”
I clench my jaw and speak through my teeth. “What you just put me through is a form of torture and punishment reserved for the cruelest of criminals.” I pick at the feathers one at a time.
“Torture? No. Just an initiation process. A fee for being aboard the one an’ only Phish Skoola’. Me an’ the crew were just sayin’ welcome aboard. Woulda done it on day one, but the cap’n said to let you get your feet wet first.”
“It was unnecessary. I’m only going to be aboard this boat for a few days, and then you’ll never see me again.”
“Yeah roight. We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” I reply, unsure what he means.
“Come on down and get yourself somethin’ to eat.”
“No can do.” I glare at him. “I have a mess to clean. You heard the captain.”
“Cap’n schmap’n. You can finish it lata. Come get some grub. M’name’s Shiner Lockford, by the way. Nice to meet ya.”
“Sto…uh…Elder Alderock. Likewise.” I stumble my words and shake his hand. I find it ironic the first man to attack me on this ship and the first man to befriend me on this ship are one and the same.
Shiner introduces me properly to the rest of the crew. Something I would’ve thought the captain had done when I first boarded.
There are two large oaken tables in the mess hall below deck. The three men that assaulted me, or as they’d say, admitted me, are sitting at the same table as me, along with two other men. Shiner sits directly to my left and on the other side of him is Cudgel Cromarte, a man as large as a great bear, who is one of the fishermen like Shiner and one of my admitters. Directly across from me is Gentry Godswood, a clean-shaven, sharp-looking fellow who introduces himself as the boatswain of the Phish Skooler. And to his right are the two portly fellows, Chunk and Lump, of which one was my attacker and the other his identical twin brother. I don’t know which attacked me. Both are deckhands like myself, but with far more satisfying duties than my own.
Sitting at the second table are six other men. Two more fishermen, another deckhand, and the helmsman, whose names I’ve already misplaced. The remaining two are men of more notable rankings. Stripe McCord, Second Mate, and Stave Killstone, First Mate of the Phish Skooler.
The only two not sharing this meal with us are Captain Crowbill and the cook who I acquainted with while scrubbing the dishe
s from the previous meals.
Supper isn’t anything more than a bread bowl filled to the brim with chowder and a few jugs of mead, but I find myself in bliss. It’s not often I have a warm meal I didn’t have to kill, field dress, and cook. The previous two days, I’ve been left with the cold leavings once the crew had their share. It’s a pleasant change of pace.
“Elder, what’s with all the feathers?” Gentry asks after staring at me for a few clicks like I’m an imbecile.
“I brought a down pillow to a bear fight, sir. I think it’s evident, but the bear won.”
“Wait. There’s a bear on deck?” Shiner muses.
Not amused, Gentry reaches over and aggressively wipes the side of my head—more of a swat really—then licks his fingers.
“Honey? Where’d you get honey?” Gentry silently interrogates everyone else at the table. “I know Shiner’s guilty, but who’re the other miscreants who did this to you?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I was caught off guard by an unsolicited hug from behind. I didn’t see who did it, sir.”
“Are you telling me they tickled their fancy without your consent, lad? That’s a serious offense that won’t be tolerated. If it’s true, neither the predator nor the prey belong onboard this boat. You’ll be dumped. Tell the truth.”
The three offenders at the table cannot contain their laughter. Lump, on the other hand, looks worried about the idea of a man’s rear being used for anything other than an exit, and Gentry knows immediately who the culprits are.
“You three have scrubbing duty tomorrow.” His tone is stern. “It’s a one-man job, so it shouldn’t be difficult. The hard part will be figuring out how to share one stick, but you three seem to be familiar with that. And if I see any cock-tickling or ass-grabbing, I’ll throw you overboard myself.”
“What? Wait a second. You can’t…” starts Cudgel.
“Yes. I can. And I did. Elder, you’ve been promoted for a day. Our voyage north is primarily transporting, rather than fishing, so I’ve been told, but I think we can afford to teach the greenhorn a thing or two about what it really takes to be an angler.”
Gentry pulls the conversation back to the initiation they gave me. “So, what in Susy’s name did you do to him anyhow? Beat him with a bag of feathers? There’s no evidence of any flogging aside from the sticky chicken.”
“Well, the piranhas—” Shiner gets cut off.
“What? You used piranhas?” Gentry laughs. “Did you rip out their pointies first?”
“It’s bloody grand. The piranhas peel. The salts heal, and the honey pastes the feathery shame all over your face. Except this one healed before the salts could. That’s a bloody shame. It’s the best part, but this one went and relieved himself of the sting before it ever stung.”
“You’re an idiot!” Gentry cries. “Healing is timebound. No chance he could’ve healed that fast.”
“Whatever. It was a hoot.”
“It was not a hoot. Not at all,” I add scornfully and immediately feel embarrassed with all eyes on me. None of them mock me as I would’ve expected, so I continue. “It did sting. I may be able to heal, but I can’t free myself of the pain inflicted. Not immediately.”
A moment of silence. Some of the crew give me a downcast expression. Others just stare and fidget with their hands. But all stare at me with uncertainty, maybe wonder. I can’t tell. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve never spoken to anyone about it. It could be taboo for all I know.
“You can heal instantaneously?” Stripe doubts.
“No. Er…” Am I being judged? Did I do something wrong? “The pain is nearly instantaneous. It hurt, and it wasn’t a hoot. The healing doesn’t happen until after the pain.” The men at the table continue to stare. Maybe I’m a freak. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“So, Elder, what’s your backstory? How’d you come to be with us?” the second mate, Stripe, asks bluntly. “Cap’n didn’t mention nothing to us.”
Caught off guard by the sudden probe into my past, I freeze while I struggle to think up a response.
“No worries, Elder. You’re here now. We don’t need to know your story.” Stripe fills the silence that I could not. The rest of the men look upon me as a villain, or a saint. Again, I can’t tell, but they’re staring.
“Thank you,” I reply with my head sunk between my shoulders. “It’s not a pleasant one. Not what I choose to relive if I mustn’t.” There are a few undertones around the table and more stares. I leave my answer to that so as not to offer any more opportunity for questions about my past, or my talents.
The remainder of the evening continues with laughter, merrymaking, and rations of mead for the younger crew while the veterans drink more than their fair share. Stave is the only one controlling his intake as the other authority figures join in. I don’t believe there is anything in particular we’re celebrating, but several sporadic toasts and songs erupt throughout the evening that make for a joyous occasion. One that is much overdue.
As the evening winds down, the captain shows face and points out that I have more duties to fulfill before the night’s end. And he requests for me to join him in his quarters after I clean the sticky filth from my scalp.
The sun is low, and the warm evening winds are moving in, preventing the temperatures from declining. The breeze is welcomed, however. Warm or cool, it feels good on the skin. I rap on the captain’s door, breaking the silence of calm evening.
“Come in,” his gruff voice calls out. He doesn’t bother rising from his chair behind his desk.
“Captain Crowbill, sir.” I nod my head in greeting.
“Sit. Or don’t. I suppose I don’t care if we are to be honest with one another.”
“Sir?” I remain standing, but move into the quarters closer to where he’s sitting. An uncommon, sizable sway of the vessel jolts me forward, and I stumble into the captain’s desk. I knock over the portraits and scatter all the parchment I picked up earlier. I scramble to tidy it all up before he reprimands me.
The captain shakes his head and gestures for me to stop. “It’s better this way.” His gaze narrows. “You don’t belong on a vessel, do you? You’ve got a long way before you can claim your sea legs.” His gaze shifts back to his desk. He pauses for a long moment as he stares longingly at one of the portraits. “Elder, you appreciate honesty, do you not?”
“Of course, sir. I’m sorry. May I ask what this is about?”
He doesn’t answer. “I trust you’ve seen my family.” He grabs one of the frames on his desk and displays it to me. “I enjoy being on this vessel. Spending time at port with the crew, reeling in a large catch, living the life of an angler—it has meaning. It is a good life. But…” he pauses and looks up at me. “Family is important too. Although my beloved wife is gone from this world, I have loved ones I like to go back to each and every day. And, eventually, if I can ever make the tough decision to leave this purposeful life before it is taken from me, I will settle down with them.” He sets the frame down and focuses on me.
“Family is important, sir. That is the sole reason I’m here.”
“Yes, it is,” he agrees in a solemn voice. “I have a proposition for you, Stone.” He pauses again. I don’t recognize it immediately, but with his long pause, it clicks—he used my given name.
I stop breathing. I want to crawl out of my own flesh and hide in a corner. One leg shifts toward the exit. I want to run, but to where? My heart thuds within my chest. I want to be free of this fear that Stone McLarin will be executed upon sight. I’m exhausted from running away from myself.
“Yes, I know the truth, Stone McLarin. Advocate Gunther informed me of everything. I wouldn’t have agreed to transport you otherwise. There was little heartache with the decision because it’s been four seasons. I doubt if the Taoiseach has many resources set on finding you, so the risk is low, I think. But he is looking. The wanted posters remain hanging and have been renewed from time to time. Each time, the reward increasing. So…”
he pauses, contemplating his next words. “…so, my proposition to you, is to join us and I will ensure your identity remain hidden. You will be fed. You will have a purposeful life. We will dock at the Crimson Port from time to time so you can visit your sister. It’ll be a challenge, but I’ll invest resources to aid in her rescue. No guarantees, however. If you wish, she can come aboard. And in return you will be our Healer. Our protector of sorts. The men and I discussed it while you were fulfilling your duties, and we are all in agreement. We would like you to remain on this vessel so we all have a chance at returning home to our loved ones each and every day. It is important to avoid casualties such as this.”
He removes the glove from his right hand and reveals the mutilated remains of his arm. Mostly bone with some sinew barely attached and only three skeletal digits. He raises it and flexes his fingers. They don’t move much. The remaining sinew pulls tight, and some of it cracks in doing so with some flecks falling away.
“What say you?”
I answer immediately without hesitation. “No.” There is nothing else to be said. My sister is, at best, being held captive, at worst, in line to be executed. I can’t stay on this vessel and leave it up to an acquaintance to rescue her. The captain may know who I am, but he doesn’t know me or the whole story. He’s not a McLarin. I am.
“Your answer is confident and without hesitation, which leads me to believe there is nothing that will change your mind. But I will ask, are you sure?”
I nod my head.
“Then I have a different proposition for you. One in which you have no choice. You will remain on this vessel with us and do as I bid. You will heal any ailments or injuries as they come about, and in return, I will feed you and give you quarters when we return to Greenport. My men are my family, Stone. Healers with your talent are rare. Never have I heard of a man healing instantaneously. Not as rapidly as you do. Astor does us well, but she leaves us scarred. Damaged. You. You will be able to prevent this.” He raises his skeletal arm again. “My men need you. All of Greenport needs you.”
Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Page 25