Chapter Three #2
Havard reached into a pocket of his leather vest and withdrew a long-handled pipe.
The smell of tobacco wafted past Pedr, distracting him from the question of who is Himmel?
Tapping his middle finger thrice on the pipe, Havard shouted, “Barnacled boots of a briny bodega!” Fire illuminated Havard’s pipe end, the tobacco leaves curling into smoke.
Pedr stared.
Who was this?
The pipe smoke wafted into the sails and whisked away in a breeze.
The ship began to churn in the water, turning northwest as it cut away from the frigate, which continued steadily south.
No bo’sun worked Havard’s ropes, nor navigator checked charts.
Havard didn’t even stand at the helm. The sails lowered, luffing.
The arcane.
It had to be.
“Settle in,” Havard called. “She’ll be moving fast soon.”
Havard lowered onto a wooden chair, its front legs elevating as he balanced on the back legs, puffing at his pipe. A strange, waxen paleness washed his features. He mumbled a few phrases Pedr couldn’t hope to understand, interrupted by punctuated wind gusts.
“You sure? Can’t be time . . . but if it is . . . fine . . . no, no.”
All together, Pedr took them for the ramblings of a sun-addled brain.
Many Captains became idiotic after too many weeks under the wind and sun, and Havard appeared to sail alone.
Pedr ignored Havard, the oddities of this ship, and lay on the deck near the wheel.
A blanket smothered him, and he warmed gradually.
Full night settled, so Pedr appreciated the star sprays appearing in slow washes.
Home.
No matter where he landed, the sea, the stars, the sky was always home.
The ship was an altogether surprising ride. Light on the waves. Quick, too. She clipped along at a steady pace and hardly a splash. A surprising speed, but not as surprising as Havard’s lack of crew. A ship this size required multiple crew members, yet Pedr observed none.
Every so often, Havard reached out, touched a rope.
Light twirled from his fingers to the sails, adjusting them with minute detail.
Definitely the arcane, but unlike any he’d seen on a vessel before.
Pedr added it to the not-quite-right list and kept his mouth shut.
Once they found a populated island near dedicated travel lanes where he could disembark, he’d ask questions.
For now, he’d work, head down, and do whatever Havard asked.
Better than Lubba’s fate.
Dirty bastid, he thought. I hope a shark tears your body to chum.
Comforted by his vengeful thoughts, and further consoled when he considered he avoided an awkward meeting with General Helsing and the mainland navy, Pedr stacked an arm behind his head and began to relax.
His stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten all day.
He didn’t have the guts to ask for food.
Not with Havard’s weirdness high on his mind.
A moment before sleep closed his eyes, a thud sounded near his ear.
“Here.”
Pedr curled his torso up, peered to the right. A tattered old book lay there. The binding, half gone, skewed in the middle. Paper clung to broken strings that frayed along the edges. Water stains warped the pages, and rings of salt gilded the yellowing stains. Smeared ink bloomed like clouds.
“What’s this?”
Havard puffed his pipe. “A diary.”
“Whose?”
“Belonged to many, but it’s yours now. It just about makes you raving mad when you first encounter it. Write it all out, though. It helps. For later,” he added. Havard returned to his puffing with an increasing speed and glower.
The cryptic game irritated Pedr. Raving mad? Write it all out? It made no sense, but Havard’s grumbling earlier hadn’t, either. Pedr sat up to study the diary, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.
Havard clapped his hands, stomped his feet, and released a piercing, three-note whistle. Four torches blazed to life at the same time, illuminating the bow in dancing light. Pedr glanced at them.
“The arcane?”
Another smoke circle.
“Yep.”
Pedr grunted, grateful for confirmation. This arcane seemed quite bold and powerful. Many arcane gadgets only lasted for a few months, and emitted weak power at best. Most were outright scams, but these torches gave a brilliant light.
He studied the pages as he carefully turned each, inspecting the writing.
Much of it appeared vague and strange. The tenor of each entry altered dramatically or sometimes only in cadence.
Phrases such as Wyvern Kings and thousand years filled the pages.
They didn’t make sense with minimal context or without.
Once he finished perusing the pages, he set it aside.
“Interesting.”
Havard hooted, blowing several more smoke rings. “Not interesting as much as necessary.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
Havard tipped back, precariously tilted enough to topple straight onto his back and not recover. On instinct, Pedr nearly reached out to stop him but quelled the urge. Havard didn’t fall.
“I’ll wake with the sunrise,” Pedr promised, laying down again. “I’m willing to work all day.”
Havard chewed on the end of his pipe with a thoughtful gaze locked on the stars. “Good. Because work, you will.”
A gust of wind trickled by, and the old man turned his ear to it. He paused, as if listening intently. Havard stumbled to his feet, as if he suddenly wasn’t quite sure of something.
Pedr rolled on his side. “Are you all right, Havard?”
“No.”
Havard pivoted on one foot and strode across the bow toward several steps that lowered to the next deck, with shiny glass windows that peeked into a cabin.
“Don’t touch the wheel,” Havard called over his shoulder. “You can sleep on the deck. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t come into my cabin, whatever you hear.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know!”
The door slammed shut as Pedr cried, “But how are you going to steer the ship?”
The curtains closed, and Pedr stood alone, wet, shivering, on a new ship, with a strange man, in the middle of the sea. Strange, but definitely better. A tiny voice, so simple and sweet, rippled through Pedr’s mind in a bold and painful memory.
You’re coming back soon, aren’t you?” Britt, his little sister.
She’d begged and pleaded for him to stay. Before he departed, she tugged on his fingers, refused to release him. His heart wrenched, remembering how difficult it had been to hug her little body and know he’d leave her.
Of course, Britt. I’ll return as soon as I can.
The tears dotting her cheeks made him feel like a cur, and so did Malcolm’s pained glower. His younger brother had to look out for Britt, protect her from General Helsing, and deal with grief himself.
Too young.
They were too young to lose both parents.
That departure was months ago. A necessity while he sought any information about their parents’ death—news, gossip, anything—but also a way of making monies.
Father didn’t have any debt, but Mother did, and Father hadn’t known it.
No one knew until she died and the debtors called on Pedr, the bastids.
Their receipts, her signature, and knowledge of her secretive schemes were proof enough.
Aunt Gertrude didn’t know, thank the sea.
She’d rant and rave and rail against her sister-in-law, whom she never liked, and send Britt into tears again.
The creditors had threatened Britt’s life with their leering smiles, abnormally similar to Lubba’s.
Pedr had waylaid them for now after punching out several of their teeth and selling everything he owned, but it wouldn’t keep Britt safe forever.
The debt still haunted him.
The sinking of the Kapurnickkian ship on which his parents sailed should have caused tongues to wag out on the sea, but he’d discovered no new information about the storm that killed them.
Storms waylaid him near Krackalack island, which is where Lubba preyed on him.
What little fishing he managed yielded some monies, but Lubba took all of Pedr’s savings and sank the yawl.
Malcolm and Britt would think him dead by now.
The thought turned his stomach. They’d had enough abandonment for a lifetime.
And here he was.
With Havard.
Aunt Gertrude would have something to say about this. Several somethings, in fact. Pedr winced, his heart twinging. Gertrude wouldn’t have as much to say about Pedr’s fate if Mother and Father hadn’t died at the beginning of the year.
He could hardly believe it was nine months ago. Which only made his leaving a greater insult to his siblings. Pedr needed gold. Monies. More than slavery and desperation.
Stars glimmered overhead as he listened to the sea songs and forced himself to relax. A whale breached not far away. Waves slapped lazily against the hull, the calm and the quiet. All of it, home.
All of it, his.
Memories of Britt and Malcolm hurt, but not as much when rocked by the vast waters.