Unfinished Tales, Vol. 5

Night At Sea

“All in a hot and copper sky
The bloody sun at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, ne breath ne motion,
As idle as a painted Ship
Upon a painted Ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Ne any drop to drink.
The very deeps did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy Sea.”

-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

The ship moved up and down in a slow undulation as though the sea were breathing beneath it. Rather than relax, Thomas fought to stay awake. His knees pulled to his chest, he held his wooden mug with both hands, and willed himself not to shiver.

Below him, on the deck, the rest of the crew cavorted, some fighting, some drinking, most singing.

Thomas sipped his rum, found himself singing along…

Fifteen men on a dead man's chest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and the devil had done for the rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
The mate was fixed by the bosun's pike
The bosun brained with a marlinspike
And cookey's throat was marked belike
It had been gripped by fingers ten;
And there they lay, all good dead men
Like break o'day in a boozing ken
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

Thomas faded out of the song, then sighed. “Bunch o’ cullions, they are,” he muttered to know one in particular.

“Is ‘at right?”

Thomas started, nearly spilling his rum. Fingers appeared at the edge of the crow’s nest, followed by the rest of Van John.

“Ye scared the bleedin’ ‘ell outta me,” Thomas said.

Van John laughed, and settled on the other side of the mainmast.

“I figured you’d be up ‘ere, feelin’ sorry for yerself. Thought I’d come visit.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, took a bigger gulp of rum than he intended. He looked out across the water, into the cloudless night, up at the full, orange-red moon. He checked the starts, then took another gulp of rum.

“How long we been ‘ere?” Van John asked, slipping his cutlass and whetstone from his belt.

“Too damn long, ask me,” Thomas said while at the same time checking his hack marks in the side of the nest. “Two and twenty days.”

Van John whisked the stone down the length of the blade, the friction making a raspy hiss. The sound gave Thomas goose bumps.

The song carried up from below, and again, Thomas found himself singing:

Fifteen men of the whole ship's list
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!
Dead and be damned and the rest gone whist!
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!
The skipper lay with his nob in gore
Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore
And the scullion he was stabbed times four
And there they lay, and the soggy skies
Dripped all day down in up-staring eyes
In murk sunset and foul sunrise
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

“Speakin’ a rum,” Van John said, then reached over and snatched Thomas’ mug away, downing the contents in a gulp.

“Damn you, John, ‘s the only thing keepin’ me awake up ‘ere.”

“It’s yer own fault, boy.”

Thomas let his head clunk back onto the wood. Van John handed the mug back. Thomas sighed again, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.

“I know.”

“They don’ want to hear stories like those.”

“But it’s true. I saw what I saw.”

“Don’t mean nothin’. Captain ain’t going to let anyone spook the crew. He’s got enough trouble with the lot as it is.”

“I just…”

“Ya just think too much, that’s wot ya do.”

Thomas balled his hands into fists. “It’s not about me thinkin’ I saw somethin’. I did see it.”

“Sure ya did, boyo. Next you’ll be tellin’ ‘em ya saw dragons in the sky,” Van John said, sweeping his sword at the night.

Thomas stood, stretched, and looked down at the crew. Some were starting to pass out, lying on piles of rope or folded sails. Still others crowded around the rum barrel, swaying and singing.

He heard Van John stand.

“Talk to ya in the mornin’,” Van John said. He turned to climb out of the nest, then stopped, reached into the front of his stained white shirt and pulled out a wineskin. He tossed it to Thomas. “Thought ya might be needin’ somethin’ to keep ya warm.”

Thomas managed a grin and a nod. Van John nodded back, then vanished over the edge. Thomas raised his arms over his head, clasped his hands together and stretched. He thought about diving into the dark water and seeing how far he could swim. He doubted they’d even know he was gone until mid-afternoon.

And then he saw it again, leagues away, a silver slash of slight moving perpendicularly to the ship, then stopping. Or it looked like it stopped to Thomas. He reached inside his shirt, withdrew his looking glass, then spent several moments looking for the light.

He dropped the glass.

“Bloody bleedin’ ‘ell,” he muttered, dropping to his knees and groping for the glass. He was sure of what he’d seen. He leaned out over the edge of the nest.

“Van John!” he shouted.

Van John, just reaching the deck, looked up. “Wot?”

Thomas pointed out toward the light. Van John frowned, then turned his head toward, then turned back toward Thomas. Thomas sucked in a breath.

Van John turned back toward the light, then walked across the quarterdeck, slowly making his way to the ship’s rail.

Thomas picked up the glass, sighted through it until he found the moving light. He nearly dropped it again. He was able to make out details, a head, arms, legs, and gleaming red eyes that turned toward him. Thomas dropped to his stomach, below lip of the nest, heart pounding and gasping for breath.

Below: “To arms! To arms!” Van John shouted. “Get yer drunk arses up and find yer swords!”

Thomas heard the clatter and bump of men dragging to their feet, shouts of anger and confusion. Then, shouts of terror, screams and cursing. He pulled his dagger, clutched it to his chest, his body beginning to tremble.

The mast above Thomas began to brighten with white light, while the shadow he lay in deepened. He closed his eyes and prayed, of sorts. He prayed for memory, to remember the spells he learned at the Temple before he had run away, but none came.

Screams, the clash of swords, the tearing of flesh, sounds battered his head, and Thomas stayed on his back, eyes closed. And then the sounds were gone.

Thomas opened his eyes and listened. He could hear no crew, no singing, no movement. Thomas sat up, turned over, onto his knees, and leaned to the edge of the nest.

He followed the direction of the light, toward the poop deck.

A small, silver figure crouched on the balls of its feet, body bent over something, the muscles of its back rippling beneath the skin. Then Thomas realized it was bent over a body. He gasped.

The figure’s head whipped around. Blood dripped off its chin and nose.

Thomas soiled himself.

The figure smiled and turned its body to face Thomas. Its arms reached up over its head, stretching, showing off a feminine figure, the slight curve of hips, the slight swell of breasts. Thomas gasped, blinked.

When his eyes reopened, she was gone. Thomas began to cry.