19. Vinicola
19
Vinicola
W hen I first set sail for the Coral Archipelago two years ago, I was convinced that sailing was the dullest activity known to man. I mean, truly—a never-ending stretch of water and the waves lulling you into a mindless stupor? Where’s the inspiration in that?
Then, of course, I was tossed onto a pirate ship. And let me tell you—my feelings didn’t change one bit.
What can a poor soul do on a creaky old vessel, trapped with the same bunch of surly, one-dimensional crew members, watching as the rum goes from delightful to... well, whatever that sludge was we drank last week? The ship becomes more familiar than my own reflection, and the people? Predictable. After a while, they lose the charm that makes anyone worth talking to.
So, what do you do? You sit, sip, and stare at the sky—waiting for something, anything, to break the monotony.
Or so I thought.
Turns out, I had never sailed with real pirates before.
“Oi! Got a page to spare in that songbook of yours?” Miss Captain’s voice snaps me from my thoughts. I’m still trying to catch my breath after wrestling the sails the way she commanded. Sweat drips down my spine, and my legs feel like they might melt into the deck any second.
There’s not a moment to rest. Yesterday’s adventure was the most exhausting since… well, since my rather unfortunate incident in Eldoria last year. Let’s just say the women of that town had some very strong opinions about what I ‘deserved.’ I had to do a lot of running back then.
But despite my aching muscles, I manage to drag myself up, lock eyes with Miss Captain, and give her my best smile. She seems to like it when I smile. Maybe it’s because I’m such a foolish bard, and my whole existence is endlessly amusing to her. Or maybe I’m just unlike anyone she’s ever met. Either way, her eyes light up, and that’s enough for me.
“What for?” I ask, keeping my smile in place.
“I was thinking you could figure out some flag for us,” she says, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that, honestly, complements her nicely. “There’s still only three of us, but we might die any day now, so we should probably get that sorted. Wouldn’t want to leave behind a soulless ship.”
I ignore the casual mention of death. No thanks. That’s not a topic I plan to dwell on—now or ever.
A flag, though? That gets my attention.
“A flag?” I repeat, feeling my heart start to hum like a well-tuned instrument. “Me?”
She gives me one of those looks, the kind where her eyebrow arches just so, as if she knows exactly what effect her words have. “I figured you’d like the idea.”
“Say no more,” I reply, dramatically waving a hand.
Now, between us, I’m running dangerously low on blank pages in my songbook. Two years of island life have pretty much filled it to the brim. But for this? For Miss Captain’s crew—my crew—I’d sacrifice a page or two for something as important as a flag.
She said ‘us,’ didn’t she, Vini? You’re one of them now. You sail with pirates.
“I sail with pirates,” I murmur to myself, savoring the words like the finest wine.
Miss Captain’s eyes are already fixed on the horizon, but she hears me. Her eyebrow lifts just a fraction, and she glances back.
“Damn right you do,” she says, her lips curling in that way that makes my heart skip a beat.
And she looked at me, like a comrade true,
I think I heard, for the first time anew,
That the sea might call out to me too,
That there might be a place on this ship’s crew.
I pull out my songbook, scribbling the thought down before it slips away. My fingers flip through the pages until I find one still blessedly blank.
With care, I dip my quill into the ink, tools of my trade that feel as dear to me as the air I breathe. The first stroke is hesitant, but soon, the lines flow easily—capturing the essence of our ragtag little crew.
Miss Captain’s old lot called themselves The Serpents, their banner flying the image of a snake. She never liked the symbol much, but I’ve seen how it still tugs at her heart, no matter how much she pretends otherwise.
So I start sketching. Not just any snake, though—no, this one is shedding its skin. The scales fall away, transforming it into a sea dragon, bold and fierce, just like Gypsy herself. The creature coils around a shattered compass, its tail tugging it south while the needle stubbornly points north.
“A fight against destiny,” I murmur, lips twitching into a grin as the thought takes shape.
Miss Captain leans closer, her earlier composure faltering as a spark of delight lights up her eyes.
“That’s... perfect,” she whispers, trying to keep her stern facade, though I can see the joy slipping through. Her fingers brush the edge of the page. “How did you do it so fast? It’s like you… read my mind. But fuck, I didn’t even know I wanted this.”
Oh, my heart. It stretches wide and full, swelling with pride.
“Some people just have that special something,” I say, smiling wide. “They live their lives in a way that turns them into living art. You’re one of them, Miss Captain. Art can’t help but find its way to you.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
“I’ll tell Zayan to paint it on the sails at our next stop,” she says, her voice softer than before. “It’s going to look magnificent up there.”
“Glad to be of service.” I flash her the kind of smile I usually reserve for tavern keepers when I’m angling for a free round of rum. But this time, I don’t want anything in return.
For the past day, we’ve been relentlessly sailing the Whisperwind Sea. The first hour, we kept scanning the horizon, bracing ourselves for another storm to swallow us whole. Even Zayan, barely able to stand, couldn’t stop looking. But nothing came.
As the sun crept across the sky, the tension loosened its grip. Gypsy kept muttering about how the storm caught us off guard, but it never returned. Now, it’s the morning of our second day, and she’s visibly more relaxed at the helm—though the exhaustion is etched into every line of her face. She’s the only one who hasn’t slept yet.
I’d sing her to sleep if I wasn’t afraid of Zayan’s wrath. For some reason, my singing rubs him the wrong way. Strange, considering I’m the best bard these islands have ever known—if I do say so myself.
Speaking of which...
“Did the direction change?” Zayan’s gruff voice breaks the silence. He emerges from below deck like a bat from its cave—hair wild, eyes squinting against the sunlight.
Miss Captain checks her golden compass and shakes her head. “Nope, still the same.”
Zayan mutters a curse.
He’s worried. According to him, if the needle hasn’t shifted, it means we’ve got a long way to go. And a longer journey means more stops—more opportunities for trouble. We’ve already set sail with barely enough supplies to make it through a few days, let alone a trek across the gods-forsaken Whisperwind Sea.
A few sad, empty barrels and chests are strapped to the deck, hopeful for rain that refuses to show. We’re all parched. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed dried kelp, and from the way Zayan keeps licking his lips, I’m guessing he’s feeling the same. Gypsy, on the other hand, hasn’t said a word, but I catch the way her hands grip the wheel tighter every time she glances at those barrels.
Zayan’s busy setting up a fishing rod, probably praying we’ll hit one of those magical spots where fish decide to bless us with their presence. Meanwhile, I’ve gathered what little gunpowder we have onto the deck—because if a goddess shows up looking for a fight, I’d rather throw something explosive at her than rely on my usual charm.
Not that charm’s gotten me very far lately, anyway.
Still, Miss Captain has that look in her eyes—the one that sparkles like stars when the night winds catch her hair. It’s the look of someone who’ll claw her way to freedom, come hell or high water.
Yet here we are, dry as old bones, with no rain in sight.
“Take it easy, love,” Zayan says, stepping close to her. “Wouldn’t want to burn out so early.”
She waves him off like she’s done at least twice since our last stop. “I’ve survived worse,” she says, her voice firm but her movements a little less so.
Let’s be honest—anyone with half a brain can see she’s exhausted.
My mother always told me I had the heart to achieve great things, but she never met Miss Captain. There’s something about her—an aura that pulls you in. A sort of energy that just makes you want to follow her, whatever she wants to do. I never thought my life was boring—oh no—but one look at Gypsy Flint and you just know her life is on a whole other scale. Grander. Wilder. More intense.
She’s the pulse of this ship, the very rhythm of it. Even now, with that energy running low, she’s still the shotcaller. Me and Zayan both know it.
“There should be a small island on our course soon,” Zayan suggests, glancing at the map. “It’s uninhabited but has fresh water and plenty of shade. Like the one we stayed on yesterday.” He points to the map, tracing a route with his finger.
Miss Captain watches him, her lips pressing together. She’s about to say no—oh, I can feel it—but then her eyes flick to the compass. The moment softens. Her resolve shifts.
And just as she’s about to speak, the compass needle twitches.
Her expression sharpens. That soft moment is gone, replaced with a grin that spreads across her face, and a blush that creeps back into her cheeks.
“I don’t think so,” she says, the words carrying a new energy. “The direction just changed.”
Her words float through the air, reaching me like a soft breeze. Zayan and I both freeze, our gazes locking onto the compass. And sure enough, the needle is shifting east.
“It changed,” Zayan whispers, disbelief mingling with...what is that? Relief? Fear? Some odd cocktail of emotions that I wouldn’t want to drink.
Gypsy cracks her neck, the exhaustion seeming to melt away as she grabs the wheel and steers us toward this new course. To her, the tiredness doesn’t exist anymore. To her .
The compass points us to the east,
We must heed if we fear the lady’s wrath,
But Miss Captain’s strength has ceased,
Too weary to guide our path.
Zayan and I exchange a glance.
“Well then, I guess we’re sticking to the course, Miss Captain,” I say, making sure she sees me eyeing that magical compass in her hand. “Though, to be fair, I wouldn’t mind an opportunity to paint your flag.”
Come on, Mr. Zayan, pick up on that. I’m sending all the signals your way…
His eyebrows twitch. Not quite there yet, but close.
“A flag?” he asks, his voice a little too confused.
“I designed something. Miss Captain’s a fan.” I grin, throwing a glance Gypsy’s way.
“Really?” Zayan shoots back, and his voice tightens—got him.
Gypsy’s eyes squint, but she’s too focused on the compass to pay us much attention. Her lips twitch just enough for me to call it a smile. I’ll take that as a victory. “It’s really good,” she mumbles.
I lean in, raising my eyebrows at Zayan. “Miss Captain wants it up fast. You never know what we might encounter on this new course.” I pause dramatically. “Who knows when we’ll have another chance to raise that flag?”
Zayan’s mouth forms a small ‘o.’ Finally, it clicks.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to risk that, would we?” he purrs, placing his hands on her shoulders. If he’d tried that earlier, she would’ve shoved him overboard, but she’s too tired to care now, her fight worn down.
“How about a quick stop?” Zayan suggests, all smooth charm. “The bard and I will get the sails ready. Wouldn’t want to see our ship sink before we get that flag flying, right?”
Gypsy glances at the compass, her lips pressing together in thought. I watch her, nodding eagerly when she finally looks at me. Come on, Captain, don’t let us down.
She sighs, her voice softening. “Alright. We’ll stop, but only to put the flag up and rest for a bit. We can’t waste too much time.”
“Okay,” Zayan replies like he’s sealing some grand pirate deal.
“And I take the compass with me,” Gypsy adds firmly.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Zayan chirps, way too chipper for someone who was brooding just an hour ago.
“Aye,” I echo, because why not? I sail with pirates.
One thing I’ve come to realize about Miss Captain—she’s greedy, but not in the gold-hoarding way. No, it’s the experiences that get her heart racing. She craves the thrill of discovery, the mystery of whatever that compass might lead her to.
It’s one of the many qualities of hers I find inspiring.
“Alright, then,” she murmurs. “Let’s find this island.”
A couple of hours later, Miss Captain is fast asleep below deck, curled up on a pile of ropes like they’re the finest feather pillows, clutching the compass to her chest as if she’s afraid it might sneak off in her dreams. She looks... peaceful, which is a big contrast to how she is awake.
Meanwhile, I stay above, keeping an eye out for Zayan’s return with the supplies.
When he finally reappears, Zayan looks like he’s wrestled the entire jungle and barely lived to tell the tale. Barrels filled with water balance precariously in his arms, wood jammed under his elbows, and a few stray pieces of fruit bob around in the water beside the ship, waiting to be fished out.
“Help me with the damn fruit,” he huffs, collapsing against one of the barrels, and the exotic fruit rolls across the deck. I spot many that I know already through me being here for two years——but there are a few I don’t recognize, strange, spiny things that look more like they belong on the ocean floor than in a jungle.
I kneel to gather them before they roll overboard, all while Zayan stands there, wiping sweat from his brow. “You look… good,” I say, tossing him a small orange fruit that smells faintly of citrus.
Zayan catches it, giving me a smirk that says he’s not buying any of it. He peels the thing in seconds. “Cut the bullshit. I look like hell. Actually, hell would’ve probably been nicer.” He bites into the orange, chewing thoughtfully. “She still out cold?”
I nod. “Hasn’t moved a finger.”
“Good.”
Good, indeed. After everything we’ve been through, I know sleep’s going to be a rare commodity. Best to take these little moments of peace when we can.
“So,” I start, more to fill the silence than anything, “how’d the jungle fare? Think it’ll grow back after the beating you gave it?”
Zayan grunts, half-smirking despite himself. “Want me to toss you into it so you can check for yourself?”
“I’m more of a ‘watch from a safe distance’ kind of man,” I say. “But thank you for your kind offer.”
He rolls his eyes, though I can tell he’s at least a little amused. “Figures,” he mutters, pulling at the ropes with practiced ease. I don’t expect more, but then he surprises me. “There’s a clearing a few cannon shots inland. Couple of fruit trees, a stream… We got lucky.”
“Lucky got you looking like that?” I quip, tossing another piece of fruit into the barrel.
Zayan snorts, giving me a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, luck didn’t pull the leeches off my legs or keep the mosquitoes from feasting. And don’t even get me started on the wildlife.”
I wince, my skin crawling just at the mention. “ Leeches ? Really?”
“Like they were in a race to see which one could drain me faster,” he says dryly, inspecting a fresh cut along his forearm. “But I guess I won that one. Fucking parasites.”
I shudder. Yep, still firmly more of a ‘watch from a safe distance’ kind of man.
“Sounds... lucky,” I say, trying not to grimace. Lucky to him, maybe. Me? I’d take a crowded tavern over a deserted island any day.
He gives me a long look before grunting, “The island was empty. No poachers, no rogues, no mysterious tribes. Wildlife is predictable. I’d take it over humans any day.”
How poetic, I think. I toss the last fruit into the barrel and lean against the ship’s railing, watching as the sun sinks into the horizon. The sky bleeds oranges and purples, the air thick with salt and the scent of the jungle. It’s a beautiful moment, regardless of everything else.
“Guess people have a way of surprising you,” I say lightly, giving the fruit barrel a final nudge.
Soon, the two of us get to work on the sails. Thanks to Gypsy’s crash course in knots, I must admit, I’m getting the hang of it. There’s something oddly satisfying about working aboard a pirate ship. Who knew? All those years paying my way onto vessels, and I never thought I’d be doing anything more strenuous than sipping rum.
“What are we going to paint with?” I ask, as my fingers deftly weave through the knots, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment.
“There was some tar onboard originally,” Zayan replies.
“Tar?” I muse aloud, already imagining the mess. “Well, that requires taking my shirt off, obviously.”
“Just try not to blind me with your paleness.”
“That is unnecessary and offensive, Mr. Zayan,” I grumble, but he just laughs it off.
I finish untying the sails, watching them drop down with a heavy thud. Then, with a bit of flair, I pull off my shirt and drape it over the wheel. A touch dramatic? Perhaps. But one must maintain dignity, even in the most trying circumstances.
The two of us work together, me with the rope dipped in tar and Zayan stretching the canvas. The sun’s still hanging low, casting a golden glow over the deck.
A few minutes in, Zayan asks the most unexpected question.
“So, bard… do you know a lot about women?”
I pause, the question catching me off guard. The way he says it, so casual yet with a hint of embarrassment, piques my interest. Oh, now this is something. I know what’s happening here. Mr. Zayan, trying to understand the enigma that is Miss Captain.
I lean back, letting the tar brush drip lazily, and flash him my most roguish grin.
“Do I know a lot about women?” I repeat, as if the very idea is absurd. “Oh, my friend, I’d like to think so. Women are my muse, my melody, and the delightful bane of my existence. I’ve penned more songs about them than I can count. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing stirs the heart more.”
Zayan looks at me, his face twisted into a mix of confusion and something close to disbelief. It’s almost insulting, but I brush it off. The man is delicate in these matters.
“I wouldn’t call it delightful ,“ he mutters.
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He shrugs, still wearing that wonderfully lost expression. “I don’t think feeling lost in the dark, with some invisible force tugging at your heartstrings, is exactly delightful. It’s just… fucking confusing.”
“Ah, but confusion is half the magic!” I reply with a wink, feeling the words spill out like honey. “It’s the prelude to discovery. And that, my dear Zayan, is where the excitement begins. You never know what you’ll uncover—especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”
He tugs the sails tighter, eyes turning back to the horizon. “You know what? I don’t even know why I asked.” His gaze flicks back to me. “You’re absolutely batshit crazy.”
I grin, letting the rope slip from my hands, watching it hit the deck with a satisfying thud. “Glad we’ve established that. Now, what is it you really want to know?“ I plant my hands on my hips, ready for whatever question he’s about to toss my way.
He hesitates, and for a brief, rare moment, the playful banter slips away. Something heavier—more real—settles between us. His eyes flick to the hatch below deck, and he licks his lips, like he’s wrestling with words he doesn’t want to say.
“Me and Gypsy...” he begins, then stops, his expression tightening, like he can’t believe he’s actually admitting this. “No matter what I say, I seem to piss her off. And you…” He points accusingly at my songbook. “You make her laugh. A lot.”
I blink, pleasantly surprised. “Make her laugh, you say?”
He nods, his face dead serious. “How do you do it? That little notebook of yours, it’s like you write about one woman after another, and it all seems so... easy.”
My heart swells. He read my poems? Felt the love I poured into each line? Oh, perhaps Mr. Zayan isn’t as emotionally fragile as I first thought.
“Most of them were the loves of my life,“ I admit with a wistful smile, a touch of theatricality in my tone.
“Wait, you mean more than one?”
“Yes, every one of them made me feel like I was living a whole new life.”
He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course you’d say something ridiculous like that. I don’t know why I bother.”
I chuckle, picking up the rope again, casually weaving the pattern in the tar. “You bother because you’re in love, Mr. Zayan,” I say smoothly. “And love, my friend, is something I know very well.”
He falls silent, watching as I trace the design on the sail. The sea dragon comes to life under my hands, its form swirling and fluid.
Finally, Zayan speaks again. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the secret?”
“To women?”
He nods. I pause, letting the moment hang in the salty air. The tar-laden rope hovers just above the sail as I contemplate.
“Every woman,” I say slowly, “is like a song. A unique melody, a rhythm you must learn to dance to. I try to see that hidden beauty within them and capture it in my words. And if I’m lucky, I get to share that with them.”
Zayan raises a skeptical brow. “And that works? You just… write songs and they fall for you?”
I shake my head, chuckling softly. “It’s not about making them fall for me. It’s about seeing them. Truly seeing them. Women, like men, want to feel understood, appreciated. If you can make someone feel special, you’re already halfway there.”
He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling deeply. “And Gypsy? How do I make her feel seen?”
Now that’s a tougher one. Miss Captain isn’t your typical muse. She’s not one of those lovely flowers I’ve penned songs about, full of sweetness and charm. No, she’s more like the storm that inspires a masterpiece—fierce, untamed, and not easily impressed. But even storms want to be understood, right? You just have to see the woman behind the captain.
Mr. Zayan is doing fine for the most part. He listens, respects her strength, he cares for her. All internally. Outside he’s a condescending bastard.
How do I say it so I don’t make him stab me in the heart though?
“Just be honest with her,” I say with a casual shrug. “Tell her what you feel. Listen when she speaks. Be genuine. The rest will follow.”
He nods, slowly soaking in my words. “Alright,” he mutters. Then, a smile creeps onto his face. But it halts halfway. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”
Is that a threat? Oh, it’s definitely a threat. I feel a twinge of anxiety, but, as usual, the words flow before I can stop them.
I told the green-eyed man what he wanted to know,
Shared with him secrets of love’s soft flow,
He nodded, as if my wisdom was gold,
But why do I fear my advice might grow cold?