4. Chapter Four #2
Too late, I realized I’d somehow stepped into a minefield.
And because I was speaking to the Brethren, I couldn’t be quite certain what the nature of that minefield was; their responses to things could never be entirely predicted.
Was Blacktongue upset about how Tobago’s life experiences had hardened him?
Or was he shattered at the idea of Dr. Shangrit being involved in a conspiracy?
Or was it the speculation about my mother? 3
Treading very carefully, I watched Blacktongue for any sign of erratic or violent behavior as I responded, “What’s nonsense, Mr. Blacktongue?”4
“Earth sickness isn’t a hoax.” Although this was posed as a statement, not a question, Blacktongue watched me anxiously for confirmation.
“Goldy died from Earth sickness,” one of the other men piped up. “It’s real, all right.”
“Goldy got shot,” said another. “I expect the bullet was what got ’im.”
“But remember how he was feeling all poorly beforehand?” the first insisted.
“Luckier way to go—I’d take a bullet over exploding guts any day . . .”
Ignoring this chatter, Blacktongue continued to watch me anxiously, as did a few others. I attempted to smile. “Well, I’m still not sure, to be honest. I’m only repeating what Tobago told me.”
Jim, one of the men who always sat near the front, lowered his voice. “I suspect he was telling a falsehood. Trying to trick Mina and Ursa into getting sick.”
Oh, Havens. They were forming their own theories about the way in which the story would go—as though I were simply a character and not a flesh-and-blood woman, recounting my own experiences.
Frankly, I didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered.
I mean, guessing where the story might lead was a form of engagement that showed a deep level of emotional investment, didn’t it?
“Why?” another man challenged. “To what end?”
Jim looked rather stumped by the simple question, as if it deflated his entire theory. He leaned back, folding his arms and scowling. “It’s a trap,” he repeated obstinately. “I know it is.”
“Unless it’s the truth.” This from Blacktongue again. He sounded even more agitated now.
“’Course it’s the truth,” Big Red snapped. “They lie to us about everything else. Why not that?”
Too late, I realized what a pickle I was in.
I truly didn’t know if Earth sickness was real, but if I refused to provide a definitive answer, I might be grouped in with the nebulous “they” the Brethren were always talking about.
Depending on the context, “they” could refer to the intergalactic government, the members of more civilized society, or the religious and/or spiritual Powers That Be.
5 If I became grouped with those who withheld truth or otherwise tried to trick the Brethren, I could very quickly become an object of disdain, if not outright rancor.
“Is Earth sickness only a myth?” Blacktongue persisted. “Are they having a laugh at us?”
To my relief, I saw that this time, the questions weren’t directed to me but rather to Orion.
Once that initial relief had passed, though, I was a little put out.
I mean, I was the storyteller here. I’d traveled intergalactically, both on a sanctioned research expedition and on an illegal smuggler’s vessel.
I ought to know a thing or two more about Earth sickness than Orion.
It was interesting, though, how the men deferred to him as the voice of authority and reason.
From what I’d observed, he seemed to be even more trusted than the captain.
Captain Nero was a man to be feared and obeyed.
As the quartermaster, though, Orion had somehow positioned himself as the person most respected.
Yet again, I could not help but wonder how he had done so. He wasn’t the biggest or strongest man on the crew. He wasn’t anywhere close to being the oldest, and he couldn’t have served the most time on the ship.
Before my thoughts could get too far away from me, Orion shifted. Though his face was a calm blank, I suspected his stalling meant that, like myself, he’d realized what a potential pit of quicksand this question was. “I’ve heard the rumor that Earth sickness is a myth,” he began.
Immediate uproar followed. The more stoic men grumbled and murmured; the more dramatic shouted and gestured emphatically with their hands. Big Red stood up and kicked his chair across the room. It narrowly missed hitting another man in the head.
“Hold on now.” Orion’s voice was quiet but firm, and to my amazement, the men actually subdued themselves so they could hear him. “Rumor doesn’t mean truth. Not necessarily. It’s a possibility, though, and we have to keep our minds open to that.”
His gaze slid over to mine, a brief but charged meeting.
“Not everything has a clear answer. Right or wrong. Yes or no. That’s part of what makes life interesting.
You wouldn’t want anyone to just spoon-feed you the answers.
That’s like peeking at the last chapter before you read the whole story. 6 Right, Robert?”
I had no idea who Robert was, until Blacktongue shifted. “Suppose that’s right.”
“Blacktongue’s never read a chapter in his life,” one of the other men cackled from the back. “He means, don’t look ahead at the pictures—”
Face mottled with rage, Blacktongue surged to his feet. I drew my legs up to my chest, knowing from some experience that once the men became violent, it was best to make myself as small and forgettable as possible.
Luckily, though, a new voice spoke up, cutting through the mounting din of the room. “Fear! Fear! Fear is the oppressor of the people.”
Rumbeard. I’d thought he had passed out in his usual corner, and everyone else must have, too, since the astonishment on their faces mirrored mine as he rose to his feet and began unsteadily making his way across the room.
Even Blacktongue stopped in his tracks to watch what was happening. Rumbeard gestured with his half-empty bottle of (you guessed it) rum, his eyes shining with the bright fervor of passion. Or perhaps drunkenness. It was rather hard to say definitively.
“What keeps the people from speaking out? Fear. What keeps the people from rising up? Fear.” Sorrow wound its way through his shaky voice, imbuing it with pathos. “What keeps the man from returning home, from stepping out under the same sun that kissed the face of his mother’s mother?”
We were all watching him now as he came to a stop in front of me. I looked up at him, waiting for him to give us the final answer we were all expecting.
Instead, when Rumbeard opened his mouth, he spewed vomit all over the floor.
The men shouted and hurried to scramble out of the way. Luckily my legs were already drawn up, saving me from being in the “splash zone.”7
Even more luckily, Rumbeard’s release put an immediate end to the night’s storytelling. I am safely back in my room, showered, changed, and pacing the length of what was very recently my cell.
Tonight got away from me. That’s the problem with pirates. (Well, a problem with pirates.) One can’t always anticipate where the storytelling will go. But I’ll have to do better. I can’t afford any missteps. I can’t let my audience turn on me.
There is too much at stake, my love. Far, far too much at stake.
1. I’d like to blame my tipsiness on how long I’d gone without drinking liquor, but in truth, I’ve always been something of a lightweight.
2. Just imagine the commitment, though!
3. I don’t like to stereotype, but I would say, generally speaking, that a rather high number of the Brethren seemed touchy on the subject of mothers.
4. The Brethren have never formally requested that I refer to them by any particular title, but sometimes I like to throw in a “Mr.” to remind them that we are respectable people who can control our emotions.
5. God, Buddha, Allah, Zeus, the Universe, etc.
6. Sacrilege!
7. I will not be elaborating on this point for anyone who doesn’t catch my meaning.