Riven Isles

17 | The Notebook Knows

Increas Langley eyeballs me from the stern. He makes my skin crawl. He stands so utterly still, and yet seems lither than even I, at sixteen. His hair and one-shouldered cape move as fluidly as the waves. I obey his summons without much thought and take my place beside Lydia in front of him. Thenshie plays with her blade on the other side of the physician's assistant. The hilt is stuck to her weird fish-person hand.

"I expect you to be more prompt in the future, Mr. Avery."

I bow my head. "Yes, sir."

He has a faint accent. It's hard to pick it out, but it's there. If he spoke faster, it might present itself more clearly.

"En guarde."

Lydia draws her blade and holds it out. I don't think she knows what she's doing any more than I do, and Thenshie is entirely clueless. I copy Lydia and unsheathe my weapon.

Langley scowls down our line and steps forward to correct us.

Forgive me for not speaking pirate.

He bashes Thenshie's elbow with the hilt of his elegant rapier, just hard enough to give her a shock. Her blade clatters to the floor.

"Pick it up."

Thenshie barely has to bend. Her long arms reach easily, and she blankly blinks for further instruction. Langley gets into a stance. It's like a squat, but not as deep or awkward.

It remains to be awkward.

"En guarde," he repeats. His seriousness makes the gawky position appear normal. Lydia mimics his stance, then I, then Thenshie.

The sailing master stands straight once again, and with one hand behind his back, begins to fix Thenshie's stance with the flat of his blade. He prods different parts of her body.

Elbow out. Feet ninety degrees. Knees bent, back straight, face forward.

Lydia takes account of the corrections, and when Langley scans her, he gives a respectful nod. No corrections for her.

He narrows his dull gray eyes at me. He pushes my elbow out. His blade feels cool and controlled. I am in no danger of being cut.

"Very awkward," he says, tapping at my heels.

I move one foot further back.

His expression tenses, not in one place, but all over, and only very slightly. It relaxes to the expressionless mask once again. "Better."

He steps back and sweeps his rapier in front of us. "This is 'en guarde'. You will use this stance while learning for better balance, control, and speed. In a true fight, there will be no rules, and the stance becomes... expendable."

Then what point is there in learning it? It feels ridiculous. Dr. Oswald's eyes twinkle at me from across the poop deck. Mr. Walsh barks at him to pay attention to his own musket lessons, and the doctor looks away.

Langley starts to teach us his commands. He says them first, and if we don't understand what he wants (I, for one, don't understand any of his orders), he shows us or explains things. I know he expects me to remember everything. I can see it in his eyes. Simon has the same look. The teacher look; the look where they know that they've taught you something, so they have every right to punish you or blame you for your lack of expertise.

He's quite intimidating. I feel like I'll have a hard time forgetting.

***

It's invigorating to hear that both Lydia and the doctor agree with me that Simon is putting too much serious focus on his werewolf theories. Simon, of course, has no interest in our opinions, but at least they are there; and united.

The professor insists that we should trust him, and that he is doing it all for our protection.

"You won't be safe come the full moon. We'll have to confront the scoundrel captain about it. If we lock the wolves in the brig, everyone will be safe."

"Simon, please," hushes the doctor.

"I shall keep it to myself if I must, but my methods are sensible and factual. I have studied the disease, and, like any other disease, it has identifiable symptoms. Consistent reoccurrences of all of the symptoms indicates werewolfism," the professor knowingly growls. He pauses and considers whether or not to continue; as if continuing would contradict his own standing.

"What aren't you telling us?" Dr. Oswald presses suspiciously. The professor is as readable as his books.

Simon sighs and adjusts his specs. "Or, it could be false symptoms," he admits in a dismissive manner. Lydia, the doctor and I deepen our frowns and increase our skepticism. Simon doesn't notice; or if he does, he doesn't show it. "There is a tick, discovered only four years previous, that transfers most of the physical and psychological aspects of the disease—though the teeth remain human—while not causing the host to 'change form' at the moon's peak."

"Ah hah," remarks Lydia, "so these men may have these ticks, you could be imagining things, or they could be werewolves, specifically eight, that somehow have survived sailing with each other in the past."

The professor scoffs, his pride taking obvious injury. "I assure you I am not imagining things. I have spent the past week studying these people; narrowing it all down. And the tick is entirely irrelevant, I promise you. In the hundreds of thousands of werewolves in captivity—it is war, and we do have big numbers to study from, which makes our results very accurate—only six instances of the tick's bite have made themselves apparent. These men, aboard this ship, could not have—at the very least not all of them—been bitten by the tick. Statistically."

I slip off my shoes and climb into my hammock. If anything, he bores me. Spewing all this repetitive nonsense. Perhaps it may be me who is in denial. Of course it is possible for werewolves to be among the crew. The disease has affected at least a hundredth of the world's population. It just seems unrealistic.

Call me a sucker, but I trust the captain's ability to choose a regular, safe (albeit grumpy, alcoholic, or trigger-happy) crew.

"You are doctors! I can't believe that you are doubting science," Simon scolds. "Walter, I can understand. He hasn't even been to a school at all, has he?"

My eyes widen and I sit up. "I was home-schooled! I'm not uneducated or stupid or—"

"Enough," Simon snaps. "The wolves know that I know. But, I can protect myself." He lays a hand over his pistol. "They wouldn't dare try to silence me."