9. Knot What I Signed Up For
Knot What I Signed Up For
It’s a cooler day, and as promised, my body finds the rhythm once more.
I don’t look at the water, turning my back to it, averting my gaze as if I can ignore the fact that I’m on a ship.
Soon, walking on the deck is a breeze, and I’m moving about with a settled stomach, no threat of vomit to be seen or felt.
Pip has me drink down some bone broth to settle the nerves, and thank god, because soon enough I’m running back and forth across the deck, helping with lunch and dinner preparations, mopping up messes, and recording any thoughts or concerns from Jack and Captain Night as necessary.
My feet and muscles ache, but the fatigue has disappeared, and I’ve regained most of my strength.
I feel like I can do almost anything. When I have a moment to myself, I find a small corner in the mess and jot down a few notes into my little blue journal.
They’re not much more than scribbles, but I can see the skeleton of my story beginning to form, a crew and its captain, a ship and her legend taking shape.
It’s different from my book proposal. Better, I think.
“What are you doing, writing to a pretty lass waiting for you back on land?” Mick asks, leaning against the railing.
I slam the journal closed and slip it into my front pocket before standing. “Just some personal stuff.”
“Mhm. Come on,” he says, nodding to me. “Jack wants you at my side tonight.”
Feeling the weight of my journal in my front pocket, I follow him across the deck. We stop by the foremast, where Mick produces two small strips of rope. He begins by showing me what he claims to be the most important knot, a bowline.
“Bowlines can be used to secure lines or connect ’em, but at all times, a bowline must bear a load. These knots slip easily if they’re not used correctly.”
I chew on my lip as I slide the end of the rope through and yank, but it falls loose immediately.
Mick laughs as he takes the piece of practice rope from me, showing me step by step as he bends the rope, drags the end through the small circlet, and wraps it around the other end before pulling it taut.
“Like that,” he says. Before I can take it to study, he quickly undoes the knot and hands the rope back with a raised brow.
Although I work clumsily at first, after well over an hour, and fifteen successful bowline knots, I start to get the hang of it. Finally, I knot the last one with raw, tired fingers, handing it over to Mick for inspection and squinting at Astra across the ship.
“Congratulations,” Mick says, slapping me on the shoulder. “You know one knot.”
“Thanks for being patient,” I say, taking the practice rope, gaze still glued to Astra.
“Captain!” they call from the quarterdeck.
I flex my cramping hands as Captain Night hurries toward them, his usually silent footsteps heavy across the deck. He stops beside Astra, gesturing to the map in hushed whispers.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, craning my neck and straining to see as Astra, Jack, and Captain Night rush down the stairs and disappear into the cabin.
“No need to worry, Lasz,” Mick says. “They’ve got it handled.”
I jerk in surprise, spinning to Mick. There’s something oddly comforting about him, about the use of my nickname, and I smile as he hands back my knotwork with a nod.
“’S everything all right?” Mick asks.
“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat as I tug on the practice rope, double-checking my work.
“Haven’t heard that nickname in…” I trail off, frowning.
How long has it been? Not yet two days since Louise brought me to that dock.
Still, it feels like weeks or months since I saw her last. The days aboard this ship seem long and tiring, and I spent a better part of last night and today passed out in Captain Night’s bed, which now that I think about it, must be out of the ordinary.
Has he ever offered his bed to another crew member?
“You’re a part of this crew,” Mick says, nudging me with an elbow.
“Whether you like it or not.” He laughs as he ties a bowline on a nearby line, and the last seeds of the sun filter through the clouds, the day quickly disappearing into the night.
“Come on,” he says, tugging off the line. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”
I lick my dry, cracked lips and take a long drink of lukewarm ale in the mess before following Mick down to the hammocks below.
I fight to stay awake, craning my neck to watch as the last of the day crew file down below, no Astra or Jack to be seen.
But soon, my eyes are closing, and I fall asleep before either appears.
I’ve been asleep for what feels like mere moments when ringing bells jerk me awake. Feet are scrambling and the crew is yelling when I tumble face-first out of my hammock, hitting the wood with a smack. I struggle to stand, blinking at my surroundings.
“What’s happening?” I ask, running a hand over the bump on my head and scanning the room.
“Sails ’ave been spotted,” Jack says, hauling me to my feet. As I straighten, I hear the treacherous sound of denim tearing, and, grumbling as Jack presses a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing, I assess the rip along the crotch of my jeans.
“Yeah, haha, get your laughter out now.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. What am I supposed to do? It’s not like I brought extra clothes.
“Can’t ’ave you going ’bout with a rip like that.” Jack beckons me, and I reluctantly trail after him, trying to hold the gaping tear shut with my hands. “Follow me—not much time, now.”
He leads me through the bustling crew and down to the stores, where he pulls out a large sack and motions to it. “From the crew that … you know,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Find you something more suitable, hmm?” Patting me on the shoulder, Jack leaves me alone in the dim lighting.
I can hear the cries of the crew, their feet shuffling over the deck as they ready for whatever is to come.
I want to cry. I’m not ready for a raid.
I’m not ready to kill or torture or whatever it is pirates do during these, let alone hold a sword or dagger or gun.
This is not the life I was prepared for.
All I know is I need to stay alive long enough to find a way back, whatever that might be.
Not like I’ve done a very good job at figuring out how one travels back to one’s time. Or that I’ve had time to even try.
Riffling through the clothes, I cough at the cloud of dust and the mixed scent of body odor and death that lingers on them.
Right, these are left over from the crew that died.
Gagging, I pull out a simple blue shirt that has minor stains—sweat or blood, I can’t be sure—a pair of boots that are only slightly snug on me, and black pants that are too short for my long legs and widen just below the knee.
As I undress, hunkering awkwardly because of the short ceiling, I pause and reach into my jeans, fingers sliding along the smooth surface of the plastic bag encasing my phone.
I’d forgotten all about it. To think, I was asleep for most of the day, and Captain Night didn’t check my pockets, didn’t even question the strange outline.
I move to pull it out of the bag and turn it on but decide not to waste what’s left of the battery.
There’s no way to charge it, no use in carrying it with me for now, but still, I can’t let go of it.
Not like my keys. Instead, I stash the bag in the sack of clothes and stuff it all into the corner of the hold, pushing a few crates and barrels in front of the sack for good measure.
I fish out my journal next and stuff it into my back pocket.
Finally dressed, I hurry up to the deck.
Oh, I know I look ridiculous. The crew snickers and laughs as I pass, and I press my lips into a thin line even as I wave and nod to them, trying not to let it get to me.
As soon as I’m on deck, Mick thrusts a line at me, ordering me to pull.
The new blisters on my hands scream as I grip the rope, but still I pull as hard as I can, hand over hand.
I don’t know the calls; they’re still garbled words that everyone but me seems to understand, so I follow Mick’s lead, clinging to his side like a sea urchin.
“Faster!” Captain Night yells from the helm.
I glimpse him across the ship, my body seemingly drawn to him by some magnetic force.
My cheeks are flushed from working the lines, and sweat trickles down my forehead and cheeks and over my lips, but I don’t stop, pulling and maneuvering until my muscles are screaming.
Wiping my sleeve across my face, I blink against the day’s sun, scanning the ship until I find Captain Night again, but his attention is caught by something on the water.
What is he after on that ship in the distance?
What are we going to do once we’re in range?
It’s only a speck on the horizon, but it grows larger and larger with each du-dump of my heart.
I have seen countless pirate battles made in Hollywood’s vision.
They were always fast-paced and brutal, over in mere minutes.
But this is real, and I have a feeling it’s going to be nothing like I’ve imagined.
Worse. Quite possibly worse.
“Lasz,” Mick calls. Water pounds against the side of the hull as the wind picks up and carries us ever closer, the white sails stretched taut with the breeze. I swallow down the lump forming in my throat and squint up at Mick. “It’s going to be fine!” he tells me.
“How do you know?”
“Because the only time we’ve ever lost, we were betrayed.”
That’s comforting.
I tie off the line like Mick showed me. Stepping back, I grimace and rub my thumb over the new blister forming on my palm. Being a part of a small crew means running around and filling in as needed, and my once-smooth hands are beginning to reflect the busy work.