Tevun-Krus #36 - A Very Merry SteamPunk Christmas

White Christmas - A Short Story by @jinnis

An earsplitting sound reverberates through the hull as the anchor chain rattles out. Teena wakes with a jolt and clambers our of her favourite hiding spot on deck, between crates filled with vegetables, roots and coconuts. She picks up her worn book and stows it in the back pocket of her oversized working pants. A quick glance to the sun tells her noon is near. A confirming glance to her timepiece reminds her she forgot to wind up the precious clockwork. She stows her father's heirloom carefully in the front pocket of her dungarees and hurries towards the bow of the steamer she calls home these days.

Chico flashes a brilliant grin while he adjusts the pin to secure the anchor chain.

"You're too late, Tee, I'm done. Better go see the old man. I've got you covered."

The girl grins back. She gives the deckhand a thumbs up and is on her way to the bridge. In her hurry, she rounds a corner too fast and bumps into Uncle Henry's hammock, setting it to swing. Her uncle snores and shifts to the other side. Teena shakes a mop of reddish curls while she climbs the worn rungs of the ladder to the wheelhouse.

Uncle Sebastien greets her with a stern gaze. As usual, a faint twitch of his mutton-chop whiskers betrays his generic good nature.

"Late again, Tee. How do you want to become first mate if you spend manoeuvres asleep? You're supposed to supervise the anchoring."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Seb. I'll improve, promise. Shall I fetch your tea?"

Instead of a reply, her uncle sifts through a stack of letters, probably searching the one they are to deliver here. For the first time since she awoke, Teena takes in the beautiful view.

They are no longer on the broad expanses of the main river, but in a loop of one of its bigger tributaries. The water is greener, less muddy, speckled with tiny floating plants. Primary rainforest lines the banks, the branches of giant trees reach out far over silent water.

Teena loves the wilder parts of the river. But she doesn't understand why they dropped anchor in this picturesque spot: There is no settlement or even single house in sight.

"Uncle Seb? Why do we anchor here?"

"We've got mail and supplies for a camp in the vicinity. But we can't get the old Lady Marilyn through the narrow passage to the lagoon. Their only possibility is to fetch the stuff by canoe as soon as they get message we arrived."

"And how do they get message?"

"Don't worry, Tee, news travel fast in the forest. In the meantime we should enjoy a nice cup of tea, what do you say?"

Teena has learned to take her cues. Uncle Seb lives of huge quantities of strong black tea as much as Uncle Henry does of a hellish blend of pipe-tobacco and generous daily dose of gin. So far, Teena successfully steered clear of both, gin and tobacco. Tea, to the contrary, is one of her vices too.

She enters the pantry where old Luigi, master of pots and pans, points wordlessly to the captain's private teapot. It sits steaming on a thick hot-pipe. Five of them run up from the engine room and supply heat for cooking and baking. Uncle Henry is proud of this unique fire-free pantry and insists the intertwined pipes and chunky valves have to shine at all times. This makes cook Luigi also maintenance master of this small brass kingdom.

Teena picks up the ancient monstrosity of a teapot. She handles it gingerly, aware from experience the hot metal will blister her fingers if she is not careful. In passing, she nudges Henry's hammock.

"Uncle Henry? We're having tea on the bridge. Want to join?"

An incomprehensible grunt is the only answer. Teena doesn't mind. Her uncles may be twins, but they are as different as day and night, or porridge and rainbows. Not that she perceives a connection between porridge and rainbows, but that's exactly her point.