The opening in the Giant's Ring looks like nothing more than a black hole, obscured by thick sea-spray. We're far from it, but even from the distance, I can see that there is no light within, not for a while. It's an intimidating thing, looming in my near future as it is. We'll be entering the currents soon, and once the keel catches that rush, there will be no way to turn back or think twice.
Simon keeps staring at it. I've caught him many times since it has come into view. He sits on the barrel by the chartroom, the forecabin, and reads his book, and every hour, once or thrice, he looks up to squint and stare at the gap in the rock wall.
He isn't the only one, of course. I do it, too. The doctor does it, the crew do it, Lydia does it. The captain looks, too, but not with anxiety like the rest of us. He looks with excitement. It's the sky that he looks to with anxiety. The sky where the moon sleeps with us every morning, nearly full, and today, hidden beneath blankets of gray cloud.
Harvey Cobbe and Rabbit clean and care for the deck cannons, preparing them. Wearily, I'm worried as to what for. Increas Langley continues to spar with us, and sometimes we see him high up the mast, uncannily crossing swords with the captain along the top of the sails—balancing on their beams, just for sport.
Leslie encourages morale, but we all have nerves despite his cheer. The choppy seas knock the ship about, and our confidence rolls with it, threatening to bounce over the edge. The weak ones, the frightened ones, the fault in the captain's system of trust have been weeded out. The captain apparently allowed, though very disappointed and angry about it, this group of spineless men to jump ship. Mr. Tussock, Mr. Walsh, and a half-deaf fellow called Teek disappeared.
There are no longboats missing. The captain, grumbling, may have claimed to have 'allowed' them to leave, perhaps, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that those men are no longer among the living. If they didn't have a longboat, and they aren't aboard, they'd either been tossed over and drowned, or they'd been killed and then tossed. Of course, Simon has theories, but I avoid them. I'd rather not dwell.
The upside is that the remaining company aboard are people we can trust. Not 'confide in' trust, just trust, though there is some uneasiness yet around the werewolves, especially the ones without the 'cure'. The captain is always watching them, and when he isn't, Langley or Leslie is, or another man sent to watch them in their cell in the brig. Simon, too, of course, investigates, but that should go without saying. He's expressed his worries of the moon's phase more and more frequently.
The captain's smoking habits have increased with the phase, which only makes Simon more worried about whether this apparent 'cure' works.
"His instincts are kicking in. The aggression, the alpha-male temperament..."
"Laod is with us, Simon," the doctor assures each night.
"So is my pistol, and it'll be of more use."
He hasn't used it on anyone, yet, but I've been anticipating it. Every time an officer passes him, his fingers creep to the hilt of his weapon. Yesterday, the captain had teased him behind his back, to me. He'd made me laugh at Simon, but the professor won't know. The professor won't know that he amuses all the officers. That he amuses me.
I watch the captain leave his cabin now and dump the contents of his pipe into the sea. He rubs his eyes and scratches his whiskers and reaches into his pockets for his tobacco pouch. He'd shaved his chin clean a couple of days ago, but the werewolf cycle makes his hair grow unusually fast.
Increas approaches him, and the captain puts an arm around the taller man's shoulders. Increas bends slightly to listen. Avery points to the upper deck, where Leslie inhales the wind at the helm, and after a few words, the sailing master trots off to see the quartermaster and relay whatever message given.
Captain Avery lights his pipe, flicks the match overboard, then trudges up the stairs to join his officers. He shoos Leslie forward, and the giant swats lazily back.
They are an odd bunch, the officers. I amuse myself with imagining them younger. A group of young men led by the suave and charismatic captain, who would, I imagine, attempt to charm all the girls. With Leslie as the protector, and Increas as the brains. I'm certain that Increas, though he speaks seldomly, is a very intelligent man. It's in his eyes, but it's different to the intelligence in Simon or the doctor. It's experienced, and... knowing. As if he's seen and experienced so much that he would never expect to be surprised.
Then there's Harvey. He'd tag-a-long with the group as the butt of jokes, the spastic one that needs to be controlled and protected at the same time. And Dorian isn't an officer, but he's sort of like the captain's little brother. The captain teases him but won't allow anyone else to do so.
"ASSEMBLE," Leslie barks, loud and clear. "Any men below decks, bring them up. The captain has words."
Harvey is faring the worst of all the officers under the moon's phase. His skin appears closer to gray than his natural brown and I haven't heard him speak for two days; only snarl. In between priming the cannons and the smaller arms, he has done little but nap.
The captain is the next worst, with sunken eyes as though sleep escapes him, and smoke constantly taking refuge in his lungs. He may have shaved and chopped off a fraction of his ponytail, but as all the hair grows back, double-time, it seems scruffier and more uncared for than ever. He finger-grooms it now, clearly aware of the mess he's become.
Increas appears quite indifferent to the moon's phase. Impossibly, he's turned a shade paler despite the sun, and looks ghastly, like a specter. He acts the same. Perhaps with a mite less patience. The most out-of-character behavior he has developed is occasionally borrowing the captain's rum flask, or shyly sneaking a bottle and then pretending he isn't sneaking. (I've caught him.)
Leslie, on the other hand, in a matter of days, has grown a mane, like a lion's. A bushy orange beard covers his jaw and neck and seems to connect to his thick shrubbery of chest hair. The frizzy drapes off his head and falls just past his shoulder blades, and the hair exposed on his arms and legs may well be fur. His manner has changed little. If anything, he has found more energy, and more desire to embrace those around him, rather than becoming detached like the others. Yesterday, I saw him beg for a tobacco plug from Harvey.
The full crew stands on the deck. The captain stands above, clutching the railing centered on the upper aft deck, with Leslie and Increas on either side. He releases the railing to beckon everyone towards him.
"Come closer, come closer," he says, and the smoke on his breath disappears in the wind. "Who are we missing? Where is Franz?"
"Here, Captain," pipes Franz from the helm.
Captain Avery turns. "Ah. Marvelous."
I slide off my cannon seat and join Dr. Oswald in the crowd, closer to the speaker. The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder.
"Well, gentlemen, and my lady..." Lydia rolls her eyes. "... we'll be turning into the Giant's Claw in an hour, and then, we shall be in the hands of Astiza."
"The moon?" Dr. Oswald questions, only barely loud enough for me to hear. Astiza, our moon, rarely acknowledged by name.
"It must be a delusion of religion," Simon snidely returns, equally quiet, "perhaps a new side effect to the werewolfism disease."
"The currents will take us to the entrance in, I would estimate, two, or two and a half hours," Captain Avery continues, "and I will need all hands on deck by that time. It will be evening, and every lantern aboard must be ready and lit on deck, lifelines must be secured, and I will need two spotters on either side at the bow, with men to relay to me, at the helm, any obstacles. There will be, doubtless, shipwrecks. It will be difficult to see, and we will be moving quickly. The entrance to the ring will be, if the same as the other entrance, around twenty meters of solid rock tunnel, and I can't guarantee what is beyond that. There is an interior wall within the ring, which will likely involve a second tunnel passage."
"I don't like tunnels," mumbles a nearby sailor.
"The moon's light will be an essential aid to us," the captain continues.
"What about the four werewolves that are in the brig?" Simon questions, "What happens when they..."
"Professor Woods, don't you worry your pretty little head."
Simon frowns, offended.
"They'll be locked away and kept under Harvey's sights."
"Of all the irresponsible watchdogs he could have picked..." Simon mutters, and though I don't voice it, I do agree with his skepticism. I wouldn't trust that man to clip his own toenails without doing something ghastly. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if, in a moment of sudden spite, the goblin released the wolves intentionally.
The captain carries on, oblivious to the professor. "Passengers are to stay below decks and out of the way. Orders from myself and my officers are to be listened to and heeded double-time, and if you plan on eating anything tonight, I would suggest you do so now. Barker?"
"Aye, Cap'n, the stew's jus' heating on the stove."
"Excellent." He breaks eye contact with the cook and points to the sails. "I want two reefs in each sail, and, Dorian, I want a back-up rudder chain rigged for emergencies."
"In two hours? Moment's notice, Cap'n," Dorian complains.
"I think you are capable if you get started right away."
"Yeah, yeah. Right away." Dorian's tail collides with the ankles of the men around him as he turns around. He slinks through the crowd and exits the forest of the men. He lopes towards the stairs and disappears below decks.
Captain Avery takes a long pull on his pipe. "All clear?"
"Aye!"
"Off with you." His back turns to the men, and us, and he exchanges words with the two officers behind him.
Simon looks to the doctor, "And we are to stay below decks, and die there without seeing the sights? I think not."
"We aren't going to die," I mumble, because Simon's constantly wavering trust of the captain is going to get him into trouble. Avery frowns down at Simon, and I'm quite sure that he heard the bookworm's boldness.
I have, of course, inquired of the professor the secret the captain keeps for him, but the professor doesn't often answer questions. Not in the way I would like, I find. He told me plainly that I would be bored to know, and thusly he would rather remain interesting. I think it more that he prefers to see me suffer.
"Rule number one, gentlemen," interrupts the captain, leaning over the railing above us. "When I say jump, you say...?"
And right away, we all glare at the boards beneath us and broil. The words sluggishly trip from our tongues together. "How high."
"It is for your safety and everyone else's that you stay below. It isn't any sort of punishment." The captain trounces idly down the stairs to join us on the middle deck. His smoke slithers away in the wind. His grubby hand falls onto my shoulder, and he pulls me away from the doctor. I stumble, my back thudding against his chest. It's something political, my companions have decided, that when he and I are about on the deck, he has taken to holding me close to him. My nose wrinkles at the smell of tobacco, liquor, and sweat, but I don't mind it.
"Mrs. Marks will stay on deck as part of my crew." He broadly smiles at Lydia, who is nearer the railing. She frowns at him and nods, quite immune to his charms.
"I have no arguments," concedes the doctor complacently. "Safety is very important. As long as Mrs. Marks' safety is assured as well."
"That is why we have lifelines, Doctor. I don't intend to lose any m... any crew." He releases me and holds his fist to his back in that authoritative way of his. His perpetual air of exhaustion somehow makes his words more genuine, in my opinion. Despite the characteristic arrogance in his tone, his authority and purpose stand out in all that he says with clarity that commands respect. "Now, prepare yourselves for rough waters. With this wind, and those currents, the sea will be testy, and the cave entrance will very certainly be a danger. I will be at the helm, and I personally guarantee you that no harm will befall you in your cabin. But, additionally, I recommend you don't eat or drink. I don't see any of you keeping a meal down." He chuckles draws another puff of his pipe. I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that makes me trust and agree with everything he says, but I'll narrow it to a general idea of what I truly think sells me. It is his confidence. Every word he hoots boasts a knowledge and experience behind it that I can believe in, even when I can't believe in the words themselves.
"Good day." He taps two fingers to his brow, presents a slight bow, and dismisses himself from our company. His cabin door shuts in his wake.
I straighten out my shirt. "Hm."
"Indeed," Simon sniffs, although his mind is not fixed on at all the same thing as mine. When the captain touches me, he always leaves something out of place. Usually my hair. Sometimes my bandana. Today, my shirt. I don't like it.
"He looks in dire need of a night's rest," the doctor remarks, pursing his lips in concern.
"He's a werewolf fighting the moon," Simon grumbles sharply. "I'd like to be on deck just to study him. I don't know what to expect."
"Isn't that exciting?"
"It isn't when I'm not granted the permission to look," the professor sneers.
"Ah, Simon." Dr. Oswald places his arm lightly around Simon's shoulders. "If you want to study this cure, another full moon will come. A month is only so long, you know."
I look around the deck, and my gaze catches with Master Langley's. He looks me up and down with that one silver eye, and after a steady, and uncomfortable, period of fixed eye contact, he carries on with his work. I rub my throat and return my gaze to Simon and the doctor. "Why don't you study Officer Langley or Leslie? While we're out. They're wolves, too."
Simon folds his arms. "I will."
Problem solved.
"But, I'd much rather study the alpha. And I'd much rather do so when the moon is in position for the disease's effect."
***
I'd been on deck when it happened, an hour after the captain had returned to his cabin to, hopefully, sleep off this plague of weariness that clenched him so. Quartermaster Leslie fastened his hair out of his eyes and took over the helm with all the lovable lug air about him dispersing to leave only a responsible aura of command. Increas Langley stood at the bow, an arm around the foremast, eye upon the rising swells. He lethargically peered over at Leslie at the other end of the ship, and blinked his heavy-lidded eyes.
"Young Master Avery, good Doctor," gaze returning to the sea, "I would suggest you go to the lower deck."
I didn't want to, but the doctor took my hand and started to lead me away.
"Stop."
The ship was turning, and the turbulence of the swells was gaining vigor. Langley clenched my arm, and his gloved grip was painfully hard. It felt far more like metal than a human hand, providing a whole new meaning to having 'an iron grip'. A gasp escapes me.
"Doctoh, grahb thot rai-ul, thar."
Doctor Oswald, frowning, grabbed the rail. Langley forced my arm around the mast and advised me—no, ordered me—to hold on tight.
Leslie threw his head back and let out a roar that could have put a lion to shame. "BRACE YOURSELVES!" He cried at the loudest of volumes, and the men scattered over the deck all planted their feet like mechanisms at his command, and Elian grabbed Simon to shelter the clueless professor, and Harvey let out a howl, and the few in the rigging weaved their limbs through the ropes and clung like fur to the finest clothing.
The sails luffed, and though I'd heard the sound before, it was all the more deafening now with the winds so powerful and the seas so rough, and every bloody sound seeming all the more loud, except my breathing with had all but ceased.
"READY ABOUT," hollered Leslie, sounding faint under the muffling sails.
An order was shouted by Langley and relayed across the deck and up the rigging, and in one smooth movement (and I can't comprehend how utterly smooth it was in such chaos), the canvases above were adjusted, the ship turned and the bow dipped into the trough of a swell. In the very next moment, the thundering boom of the wind caught in the sails, and Orpheus rose up to the crest with such sudden ease, that it felt like we were flying, and I jumped up with it, and I was flying. I swear it, in that moment that we caught onto the wind and the current with unparalleled perfection, I jumped, and it felt as though gravity had relinquished its hold. It was a euphoria that I'd never before experienced, with the salty mist kissing my skin, and the wind lifting me from what seemed like all directions, and the sails silencing in that moment to create a total bliss.
And then we crashed back down, and the sailing resumed as before, only faster. Much, much faster. It was speed enough that when I released the mast, I staggered at the force. But, forget that, and forget whatever it was that the doctor said in his winded exhale, and whatever it was the Langley growled at me when he shooed us both down from the bow deck.
That single moment of bliss left me feeling... like static electricity itself! Stirred! Alive! And I perched on the deck for as long as I could, soaking in that thickening salt mist, and simply replayed the moment in my mind and I've been trying, trying my best not to forget that feeling!
When the entrance to the Ring loomed near, as day began its transition to night, I stared up at that gaping jaw and squinted through the eerie clouds of the mist, now no different to fog. The waters trembled beneath its vastness. It was crooked and wide and twice as high as the tallest mast, taking up just under two-thirds of the massive rock wall, and it was impressive. And it was frightening. And it was dark, and impossible to see beyond. As though we were sailing into nothing at all, led by the guiding force of trickster swells that forced us against all will towards that treacherous, beastly mouth that waited to swallow us whole.
And yet, when we were escorted below decks as the captain emerged with high energy and his hair tied tidily and his coat buttons fastened neater than ever before (for never before had he fastened them), I was still smiling. I hadn't realized then. I only remember now because I remember how Simon scowled at me in his sulking and told me that there was nothing worth smiling about. But there was, and there is.
Because I flew. And I'll relive the moment until it slips away.
Shouts on the deck grow more frequent as the hour ticks sickeningly by. We all lie quietly and obediently in our beds, rocked to quiescence by the cruel sea. Simon too sick to read. Dr. Oswald too sick for cards. Mrs. Marks too sick to cross-stitch, and myself too sick to lift my head from my pillows. She said she would go on deck if she was called.
What is there to do but think? I am happy to think.
If I jump again, timed right at the crest of a swell, perhaps I might be able to recreate the flying feeling as we tear down the trough.
The ship explodes with a terrible crash, and the sickness is replaced with sudden fear. My thoughts flee.
"What was that?" cries Simon, the very quickest of us all to stand.
The shouts above multiply in volume and increase in intensity and amount, but they are all too muffled to hear. We can make out only the urgency expressed in them.
We all trip to the window at the back, pressing our hands to the glass, our eyes wide, but all we can see is the ragged wake. Through the crack of the partition wall, I spy Thenshie and Rootwig doing the same as us, planting their suctioning fingertips against the windowpanes.
"Look at the wake," breathes Mrs. Marks. "We're moving so fast."
The whole ship quakes with a powerful collision, and we are thrust against the window. My head hits hard, and I yelp. I sorely moan and rub the spot. My fingers come back wet with blood. Simon, back against the window, grabs the doctor and folds the man to his chest. Lydia reaches for me, but with one more massive quake, it is too late. In an instant, my head bursts with pain, and all is dark.