35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Inever heard what happened to Croydon, not with everything that followed. Part of me hopes that he managed to find a way to escape, but my more pragmatic side fears he might still be imprisoned on SuperVegas. Whenever I think of him, I’m touched anew by his courage, his selflessness.
If there’s anything this journey has taught me, it’s that people can surprise you. For good, and for bad. We’re often so busy figuring out our own stories that we don’t always expect the roles others will play in them, and the impact we might have upon theirs.
As you might have guessed, I’m in a philosophical mood tonight.
It’s about the time that I’d be telling the Brethren my story, but I’m afraid I’ve come down with an unexpected bout of laryngitis, so I’ve been given a reprieve.
It didn’t strike me until tonight that I haven’t been sick since before my expedition to Earth, which is rather remarkable, considering all the new germs I’ve been exposed to on my travels.
I wonder if it has anything to do with the lingering effects of the poolwater, if perhaps the bear algae might have had a longer lasting impact on my immune system than I would have guessed, or if I’ve just been running on adrenaline for so long that I
Apologies for the unexpected interruption. I’ll do my best to recount how I’ve spent the last hour, though I’m honestly so astonished, I’m sure I’ll leave out some important details.
As I was in the midst of writing, there came a knock at the door. It was Rumbeard, looking unexpectedly sober and sheepish as he smiled at me. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Mina, but we were wondering if we could request your company in the galley?”
My expression must have communicated my confusion, because he hastened to add, “Not to tell us any stories, but just to pass an hour or two in companionship.”
He looked so hopeful that I didn’t want to disappoint him. Also, bloodthirsty pirates. So I smiled and nodded, and I was so touched by the invitation that I don’t think I would have corrected him for calling me Miss Mina instead of Dr. Mina, even if I’d had my voice.
Rumbeard offered his arm and led me gallantly to the galley,2 where I found most of the Brethren seated and waiting.
My usual rocking chair was out, but it was now adorned with a thick and soft-looking knitted throw blanket, and there was a steaming mug of what appeared to be herbal tea on a side table next to it.
Touched beyond words—which was lucky, since I didn’t have a voice—I beamed at the Brethren and put a hand on my sternum to show my gratitude.
Jim cleared his throat, drawing my attention. He was twisting his cap in his hands, rosy-cheeked at having all eyes turned to him. “We thought since you don’t have a voice tonight, we could take a turn telling you some stories for a change.”
Out of habit, I tried to express my appreciation verbally, only to be swiftly reminded of my laryngitis. So I touched my sternum again and then clasped my hands together in what I hoped was clearly a show of thanks, before settling on the rocking chair.
As the men bickered about who would tell their story first, I searched the room until I found Orion.
He was sitting further back than usual, which was strange.
Perhaps he was afraid of catching my sickness.
As my eyes landed on him, I saw he was already watching me.
He gave me one of his usual wry smiles before shaking his head and mouthing, Not my idea.
I laughed silently. Perhaps that was why he was sitting so far back—he didn’t want to be strong-armed into having to tell a story.
To my surprise, it was Big Red who went first. I wish I could repeat his story, but honestly, it was so alarmingly graphic that I couldn’t bring myself to write it down even if I wanted to. Suffice it to say there was a hedge trimmer involved—but honestly, that’s probably saying too much already.
Oddly, though, this very macabre story was paired with an almost childish eagerness in the way it was told. Big Red kept looking to me for approval, and so I smiled and nodded encouragingly, all while desperately attempting to keep the horror from my face.
Luckily, it seemed to appease him. When I found Orion in the crowd again, though, I could see I hadn’t managed to fool him, since he was laughing openly at me.3
When Big Red finished, we all clapped politely, and he took a bow, looking flushed and pleased with himself.
He was followed by Rumbeard, whose story was thankfully much less violent than his friend’s, though filled with enough body humor that even Chaucer might have been discomfited.
Again, I won’t be recording it here, but I will say I was somewhat impressed with the metaphor he managed to work in about a hull cleaner.
Unless I was meant to take that literally . . . ?
There were some other gruesome stories and a few dirty limericks that followed, none of which seem pertinent or appropriate to repeat.
Finally, just when I thought (and hoped) the evening might be about to wind down, Rumbeard spoke up again.
“We can’t turn in until we’ve heard some of Orion’s poetry! ”
I wouldn’t have thought the Brethren had much appreciation for lyrical verse, but so many of them had begun calling out encouragement to Orion that he was obliged to rise to his feet.
I could tell it was genuine reluctance and not a show of it from the way his eyes cut over to mine and how he ran an uncharacteristically self-conscious hand over the back of his neck.
“They’re just scribbles,” he told me. “Nothing of note.”
My hopes weren’t terribly high, after the other “literature” I’d been subjected to for that evening, but I was touched by his embarrassment and gave him my most encouraging smile.
“Read us the new one,” Jim urged.
Orion stiffened, darting another quick glance at me, before just as quickly looking away again. “There’s no new one.”
“Yes there is. I’ve seen you working away at it in your book. That little one you always keep in your pocket.”
Another decisive shake of Orion’s head. “It’s not ready yet—”
But the Brethren would not be put off. “Read it! Read it! Read it!” They accompanied their chanting by pounding their fists on the table.
I’d known the Brethren enough by now to know that what was starting out as a cheerful demand could quickly take a detour into violence if the men felt they were somehow being cheated.
Orion must have known it, too, because he shook his head, looking as though he’d rather be just about anywhere else in the universe.
He produced a small notebook from the inner pocket of his coat, flipping through the pages slowly, as if he might be granted some reprieve if he just took long enough to find it.
When none came, he sighed. Then he began:
“I’ve charted the black on instinct, easy, thoughtless,
But now every thought drifts back to you.
Your eyes that haunt me when the stars blink out,
When the engines quiet, and I’m alone.
A pirate should never show fear, I’ve been told, but
Your glance, your laugh, unmans me.
Your smile’s too bright and light
For a traveler who’s spent so much time in the black.
Still—
In the silence between jumps,
When the engines just whisper and the dark holds its breath,
I let myself murmur your name
Like contraband
Not mine, in truth, but something I’d like to steal
And keep as my own.”
Silence followed, and then the men were stomping their feet and roaring their appreciation. I don’t know how much the men actually liked poetry, but it was clear they liked Orion, and were proud of him for his literary merit.
“Ain’t he a poet?” Rumbeard crowed again and again, as if astonished that anyone could string together words in such a way. “Ain’t he just a poet?”
I was glad no response was required of me, being voiceless and all.
The poem had been beautiful, but it had also unsettled me in a way I couldn’t let myself examine too closely.
Instead I smiled and adopted the mirth in the room as Big Red crossed over to Orion, wrapping a companionable arm around his shoulders.
“All right,” the bigger man said, “the answer’s yes. No more need to beg. You can have me, just this once.”
The men roared with laughter. I tensed, waiting for the moment Orion would look over at me and our eyes would meet again.
But he didn’t look at me. He wouldn’t look at me, not with that poem still hanging in the air.
And I don’t think it was simply my imagination that his avoidance was far, far more telling.
1. I still don’t, truth be told.
2. Try saying that five times fast—gallantly to the galley! That might be a useful warmup tongue twister, should I ever join another madrigal ensemble.
3. Unhelpful.