5. Can I Kelp You? #2
“Come on,” Jack says, nodding to Mick as he steers me away. “You ’ave a lot more introductions to make ’fore the day’s through.”
Under the blaring heat of the sun, I let Jack lead me around the ship, the logbook still secured under my arm.
I don’t really know what to do with it now that I have it.
Am I supposed to protect it with my life?
Am I supposed to be writing all of this down?
And if I do have to write something down, how do I use a quill pen? I’m too terrified to ask anyone.
My keys jingle in my pocket, my notebook digs into my right butt cheek, and my phone presses against my thigh as I follow Jack, and I have the sinking suspicion I’ll have to get rid of these things sooner rather than later.
I might be able to get away with the notebook, jot down some ideas for my book in private, but my phone and keys?
My time is already clashing with this place.
Am I going to break the space-time continuum or some shit if Jack sees my phone?
The ship is small, the crew even smaller, and it doesn’t take long for Jack to introduce me to most of them.
After having lost roughly half their people, they are depleted, running around and scrambling to do two, sometimes even three jobs at once.
I feel faint just watching them jogging between ends of the ship, multitasking, struggling to keep She Deceitful sailing smoothly.
They look exhausted, wounds and cuts roughly bandaged across their bodies, healing too slowly because of the overworking.
Their stores are running low, and from the expressions they wear as we pass, I know in my gut that peace aboard this ship will not last long if Captain Night cannot rally them.
With fewer than thirty pirates aboard She Deceitful, the crew and its captain were hanging on by a thread well before I arrived.
And yet, despite my expectations, what surprises me the most is the crew.
Even with battle wounds and fresh scars and constant scowls, they are kind, welcoming even in the face of my sudden appearance, and it only makes everything that much more confusing.
They bend down as Sir weaves between their legs, nearly tripping every single person he rubs against, and they only laugh and give him his scritches before returning to their work.
I am confounded. This is the crew that watched on in delight as their captain pressed a blade to my throat and threatened to toss me into the sea.
This is a crew rife with stories of their adventures and crimes, ones told by others in what I can only imagine is fear and hushed tones.
This is a crew targeted by the British navy itself.
And their captain.
How I was both terrified of and attracted to him as he threatened to kill me is mystifying.
Or is it?
But despite looks that could kill, the crew is kind, kinder than they should be, considering … well, everything. Some even go so far as making jokes.
“Ah, I recognize your voice,” I say as Jack introduces me to one of the crew members.
“I’m Eddie,” he says, holding out a hand to me.
“I keep the tone on the ship light. We all need a good laugh.” He claps his hands excitedly.
He’s an average-size white middle-aged man, and you can tell he’s been at this life for a long while.
He’s missing a few teeth, and several scars are visible across his face, neck, and arms. He’s lost his left thumb, and there’s a long burn scar along his right forearm that almost has me asking what happened.
“His jokes are terrible!” Mick calls across the deck.
“You’re just jealous, is all!” Eddie yells in return. He faces me with a wide smile. “Why couldn’t the pirate play cards?”
He snickers as I study the faces of the few people nearby.
One of them mutters something under his breath before turning to go.
Another throws his hands up in defeat and stomps off.
Jack covers his face with his hands, muttering “Save me from this ’ell” under his breath. And Eddie, ever merry, ignores them.
“No one wants to hear it, Eddie!” Mick calls from across the ship.
“Shut up!” Eddie yells angrily. He focuses on me once more, smiling. “So?”
“I-I don’t know,” I admit, looking between them.
Eddie leans forward conspiratorially. “Because he was sitting on the deck.” Eddie presses a hand to his chest, throws back his head, and howls.
He elbows me as Jack jabs his thumb down the deck, urging me on before I can respond.
“Plenty more where that comes from!” Eddie calls after us. “Find me when you need a good laugh!”
“No good at jokes, that one,” Jack says when we’re out of earshot. “We’ll be in the middle of a raid, and ’e’ll pop up outta nowhere with a line.”
“I don’t know. I almost feel bad for him. It wasn’t that terrible,” I say. Based on some of their reactions to Eddie’s jokes, it’s probably best not to admit that I love a good play on words.
Jack snorts. “’E’s chewed through ’is own finger to escape the gallows. It’s why ’e’s missing teeth and ’is thumb. Don’t underestimate ’im, Laszlo.”
Well, appearances can be deceiving.
The rest of the crew simply nods to me when I hold out a hand in greeting to each of them.
None are out for blood—that I can see. I suppose the whole “bloodthirsty pirate” image was always just a myth, a bit of propaganda, perhaps to scare people.
Even if some of them are willing to chew through their own limbs when the time comes.
We stop at the quarterdeck, and I think of those moments earlier when I was certain I was going to die.
I lean against the railing and look out over the water, my stomach doing little flips as I imagine what’s lurking beneath the surface, ready to swallow me whole.
I want to push away, but I stay here, forcing myself to stare at the choppy water.
I shouldn’t be standing here, shouldn’t be holding the logbook.
I should be down there in the water, long dead.
Not that I want to be, of course. I very much enjoy being alive, thank you.
Captain Night spots us, and he turns from the helm. Now that I’m standing before him, all the humor is gone from his features. I’m starting to think he hates smiling. His face is expressionless, his dark eyes watchful as he takes me in, and I can’t stop myself—I’m openly staring.
Listen, I have seen plenty of men dressed up as pirates at Halloween, costume parties, Renaissance fairs, and comic cons.
I picture the waiter at that pirate-themed bar, the shine of his polyester costume.
Even way back when I was at university, I used to watch Plunderathon every year, where hundreds, if not thousands, of Portlanders race through the streets of downtown dressed and yelling like pirates.
But Captain Night is everything they tried to be and more.
Jack is saying something, but I’m not listening, instead watching Captain Night intently as he rolls up his sleeves and exposes his forearms, which are covered in ink, a stippled sea beast emerging from water along his right forearm, and a shadowy moon on his inner left wrist. And damn him, there’s nothing I love more than a man with forearm tattoos.
Jack waves a hand in front of my face. “Are you listening, Laszlo?” I make a soft sound at the back of my throat, my attention still lingering on our captain.
Jack sighs and motions to the person holding a map beside the wheel, and it takes true strength to look away and concentrate on the other crew member.
“You know our Cap’ain, but this is our artist, Astra.
Astra navigates, and they ’ave a good sense of the waters. ”
I peer at the smaller person standing beside Captain Night. I didn’t even notice them before. Captain Night has a way of commanding a room … or deck, I suppose.
Astra nods to me and I straighten, intrigued.
Astra is of average height with a lean frame and a long linen waistcoat that hides most of their body.
Their hair is hidden beneath a black scarf and covered with a short-brimmed hat, one side bent up almost fashionably, which conceals most of their features in shadows.
Streaks of dirt and grime attempt to hide the slender slope of their lips and the point of their chin, but there’s something in their expression that makes me shudder, my fingers tightening around the logbook until my knuckles are white.
With the baggy clothes and a loose shirt buttoned to their collar, they look every bit the quiet, deadly rogue. But there’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Unperturbed, Jack nudges me toward an older man at the wheel.
He’s missing a few fingers and wears a red strip of cloth like Mick’s tied over his brow.
He has several scars running across his left cheek, but if he notices my stare, he makes no comment, hands on the wheel with steady calmness.
He’s older, too, older than most of the other crew aboard, with sun-bleached white hair and age spots on his tanned cheeks and neck.
“This is our ’elmsman, Clancy,” Jack says, gently squeezing the older man’s arm. Clancy nods absently, his focus unshaken.
Captain Night finally looks at me, and there’s a heat in his glower that makes my breath quicken.
He steps away, and realizing he means for me to follow, I scurry to catch up.
When he stops, I pull up short beside him, unsure of what to do or say.
I wish I could explain the strange mix of emotions I feel, but I can’t.
It’s confusion and fear and, seeping in around the edges, a weird sense of curiosity.
I want to know more about this man, who he is, how he came to be captain of this ship and crew.
And I can’t tell if it’s my research brain at work or whether it’s because I just want to know him.