"What did you mean by saying he was 'cashiered', Simon?" I ask.
Simon sighs in that way that makes it clear that he has no interest in telling me. In fact, it's that way that implies that since I don't know it, I must be utterly dimwitted and therefore, he doesn't expect me to understand his explanation, anyways. I grit my teeth.
"Simon," I repeat.
"It is Mr. or Professor Woods to you."
"Don't be difficult, Simon," Dr. Oswald scolds.
"It's a military term," Lydia says. "I'm not sure of the meaning, either. You wouldn't think me dull for not knowing military terms, would you?"
Simon sighs again, this time in a kinder fashion. "It is public degradation. A ceremony to humiliate and shame military deserters. It isn't exactly surprising that he endured it; what's surprising is that I've never heard that he did. I used to hear everything about..." His eyes flicker to me and he stiffens, carrying on, "Henry Avery was a known deserter, yes, but I don't recall records of him ever being caught, much less publicly punished, besides being, supposedly hung. I saw him in a cell when I was a boy, but there are no records of even that. There are records to say he was hung, and nothing more."
"How can you tell, then?" I ask. "And why do you think you should know everything about him, anyways?"
Simon closes his book. "It's obvious, isn't it? His sleeves have been stitched on with red thread; you can see where they were torn off. And all the proud insignia of His Majesty has been stripped. I imagine his sword would have been snapped in half, too. The one he carries must be a forged replica, or perhaps the same hilt and guard with a new blade."
I wait for him to continue, to answer my second question, but he stands up. The doctor and Lydia stand with him.
"Wait a minute," I protest. I stand up, too, in front of Simon. "You're very observant Simon, Mr. Woods, and it's really fascinating that you know all this military stuff. But how do you know it? You study diseases. And you don't really come off as a military man, no offense."
"Oh, step aside, Walter. I have work to do. If you must know, I have military ties, and keep up to date with the Praedoran navy for personal reasons. All right?"
I nod and let him pass me. Lydia says something bitter about her situation and dismisses herself to the cabin up the stairs, at the other end of the hall. She kindly takes Simon's books with her, at his polite request.
I walk at the professor's side, with the doctor in front of us. Simon doesn't like me, no, and as I look at him, I can see him fighting with himself not to attempt to get rid of me. His hand twitches by his thigh. There's a tic to his eyelid. That's okay. I don't really like him, either.
At least I'm not a prick about it.
"So, you have family in the navy?"
"That's none of your business," he snaps.
"Well, you said you have ties."
"Walter, leave him alone," the doctor orders. Obediently, I bow my head and shut my trap in respect for the doctor.
I fall back a little, trailing them up the stairs and putting together my own (possibly over-suspicious, and quite unevidenced) theories on Simon. When one doesn't answer a question, it indicates an uncomfortableness around a subject, and in Simon's case, I instinctively feel as though I've struck a nerve. The doctor, I think, must know all the sensitive details of Woods, hence why he so promptly and efficiently shut down my askings. Perhaps Simon is his patient, and they have a confidentiality agreement around the subject of family.
Perhaps Simon's family is being hunted by the navy, and he learned to use a gun to protect himself and keeps up to date with the navy to see if his family is dead or alive! That would be exciting. It would give him an excuse for being so utterly boring. The navy would look right over him. It would be quite a clever method of hiding. Like camouflage, but less captivating.
"The fiddler has some talent," Dr. Oswald remarks.
"Some," Simon dismisses.
The music from the deck is hard to make out from below. I find my ears instead pounding with the out-of-rhythm, anarchic thudding of a crowd of dancing men in heels and sandals. Stepping out into the open, the music becomes clearer over the dancers—I'd estimate twenty of the crew, spilling drinks and tripping over each other. Boots plays a folksy tune on his fiddle, while Tussock squeezes and pokes keys on his accordion with a great deal less talent. I suppose his clumsy accompaniment adds a homely touch to the event.
There's the captain. I can't place why, but I was searching for him the moment I appeared in the wind. He skips among the jostling crowd, darting between different partners to dance with. Their ineptitude gets masked by his confidence as he leads them and returns as he discards them and moves on.
"You know, I'd assumed that the activities of this celebration were going to be much less... traditional, I suppose?" comments the doctor. "If I had younger bones, I might have joined the dancing. It admittedly looks enjoyable."
"Half of them look drunk, already," Simon sneers. "I would, personally, prefer not to have my toes crushed beneath their stumbling."
Increas Langley and Dorian lean against the bow stairs and watch with their arms folded. Dorian's finger (claw?) taps along with the music, and I can see his eyes following the captain, just as mine had been. Langley's move the same track, and, there's something funny and out of place on his face.
A smile. Thin, close-lipped, and just enough to lift and warp the scar on his cheek. His sleepy, watchful eyes are more relaxed, with a twinkle I can spy clearly from across the deck—at least in his good eye.
"The way I see it," says I, "if they're all terrible, uncoordinated messes on the dance floor, then my own abilities will look professional by comparison."
Dr. Oswald chuckles. "Indeed."
Dorian yelps, grabbed by the captain. He protests as the man drags him to the skirts of the bouncing crowd. The captain giggles, holding the fox by both paws. He bends over to do so, for Dorian, awkwardly struggling to get away, barely rises above Clarke's naval. The captain holds him close and speaks to him.
Dorian laughs, an odd series of shuddering barks, and relaxes. He says something in return, and they clumsily frolic.
"That fox!" the doctor chuckles. "Dancing like that with the captain, he looks like a child. It's good to see him relaxed. With him barking over me all day, I was almost hoping he'd get ulcers. He's only nineteen; barely older than you are, Walter."
"Only nineteen? He's a fox. He should be just about dead," says Simon.
The captain scoops up Dorian and holds him over a shoulder; the same way a parent would carry a sleepy child. Dorian pushes away from the shoulder.
"HANK!" he hollers.
Captain Clarke pats the fox's back, shushing him, grinning. He swaggers towards us with the struggling carpenter firmly held.
"I'll tear you to shreds, Hank, I swear! Put me down!" Dorian whines. His fluffy tail angrily swishes. "I'll get my claws out!"
"Ooh, men don't have claws, Dorry," the captain clucks, "You'd be admitting you're not a man."
"FUCK YOU, HANK."
Clarke holds the fox's head over his shoulder and smiles at each of us. "As pleased as I am to see you turtles surfacing, if you aren't going to join in, you can leave. Have a drink, have a dance. Join in some gambling, wrestling, sparring. It'll be grand." He hushes Dorian and kisses his wrinkled muzzle. Dorian growls.
It's a different kind of growl; like the kind of growl that a cat makes in the presence of a threatening dog. Continuous, warning, aggressive.
"No, thank you. But, since we're talking," says Simon, "there's a great deal that you haven't explained to us that we would very much like to..."
"Ooh," the captain winces, making a face. "See, I told you not to ask me these things this afternoon. That's insubordination. Ask me again, and I'll have Leslie escort you to the brig." He leans nearer. "The Aquians have really made the place their own. You'll love the smell. Oh, and the grime is divine."
Simon greens at the very suggestion. He quiets, but livid defiance trembles in his every muscle.
The captain lowers Dorian safely to the ground, and the fox swears and shakes his paws before scampering away. Clarke steps closer to Simon and reaches towards his chest. The professor steps away and draws his pistol.
"Don't touch me."
Clarke sighs. "Son, you don't scare me." He grabs the pistol by its barrel and pulls it out of Simon's grip. The professor doesn't fight it. The captain tucks the pistol into his own belt and snakes his fox-bitten hand into Simon's vest. Simon flushes and stammers and pulls at his wrist, trying to step away. The captain draws out the professor's notebook.
Simon starts and tries to snatch it back, trembling and bright red. "You can't read that! Give it to me!"
"Stop it, Woods," the captain orders so sharply that the professor recoils as if struck. Clarke shakes his head. "None of you will be ruining this night. Especially not you and your snooping." He holds the notebook out to me.
I blink.
"Walt," he says, "keep it away from the stiff, eh? Join me for a dance?"
My chest swells at his attention, and I drop the notebook down my shirt. "Yes, sir!"
"Ohh," Simon moans, "not down your shirt!"
The captain looks to Dr. Oswald. "Doc, you're a reasonable man. If you aren't going to join the festivities and have a drink—and I honestly don't care if you're drinking dilute brandy or wine rather than the ship favorite, if that's your taste—then cease your loitering and join Mrs. Marks below. Your awkward watching is making the men uncomfortable. The main goal of the night is to get utterly sozzled, and your soberness is, well, unwantedly sobering."
Dr. Oswald swallows and clears his throat. He gestures to the staircase. "I'll be going. Lydia might like some company."
"Marvelous, thank you so much, my good doctor. Goodnight."
Simon bows his head and starts, defeated, after the doctor. Clarke hooks an arm around his shoulders. Simon stiffens and stumbles, eyes hard on the floor. The captain pulls him near and starts walking towards the dance floor.
If he dances with Simon, I think I'd be jealous. I feel strangely prickly about them being so close as is. Thankfully, the captain halts outside the crowd, holding Simon at his side.
"Elian!" Clarke hails, waving over heads. The blonde and chestnut curls start to bounce towards us.
Simon, stiff as a board, has his arms stuck to his ribcagse as though glued.
"Elian was in law school, you know. He's as educated as you are, but he's a gem. He knows how to go with the flow, have a good time, and not be a goddamned stick up my ass all the time. You're going to learn from him."
Elian Arrow appears and Simon's ears paint themselves pink.
Clarke presses the professor towards the cook's assistant. "Elian, get this man a drink, and teach him to loosen up. Put him on a leash if you have to, but his constant studying of everything is stressful just to watch."
Elian knowingly smiles and wraps an arm around the poor, embarrassed teacher's shivering shoulders. "Don't you worry, sir. He'll be in good hands with me."
"Marvelous," appraises the captain. He gestures for Elian to be on his way, and the young man cheerily leads Simon away, asking the professor about his drink preferences and assuming wine before receiving any answer.
The captain nudges me with his elbow. I flinch away on impulse.
"There may be hope for him, yet," grins Clarke, eyes glinting. I smile in return, because I haven't the smoothness of tongue to think up a response, nor the motivation to. He takes a hold of my bicep, and I let him, but my gaze drifts back over my shoulder. Concern, I think. I'm concerned.
Elian leaves Simon to awkwardly sit alone on a lidded water barrel, his knees knocked together and his hands clasped. The captain tugs me forward and I blindly stumble, keeping my eyes on Elian until he disappears below decks. Fetching the alcohol, perhaps?
Elian and Simon are friends. Right? If Simon is ever to enjoy himself, Elian is the right company. Isn't he? I think so.
"It'll be good for him," purrs Clarke, grasping at both of my hands. I turn my attention back to him. A few men jostle around me, but the number of dancers has thinned to ten. I don't count, but estimate a ten.
"Huh?"
"Relax, Walt. If I wanted to spook your stickler mate, I would've sent him off with Harvey." Clarke pulls at my arms, one after the other, causing my torso to turn from side to side.
Come to think of it, I'd rather not dance. I've never done more than a jig around the living room, and then only in privacy, or with my mother. I allow him to move my arms, but otherwise remain firmly planted.
"Even I wouldn't want to get within a few meters of drunken Harvey," the captain laughs. He twirls me like a puppet, and frowns. "Boots, play something lively."
The fiddler's pace picks up.
Clarke starts bouncing. He pulls my arms some more. I trip over myself when he pulls one arm too far, and he catches me. Then my back is to his chest and he's sidestepping behind me, and I'm clumsily sidestepping with him because I have no choice because my hands are in his, my strings are his.
He dips me down and my ponytail tickles the wood. He beams at me, the warmth darn near hypnotizing.
"Walter...," he coos. "I'm going to lose interest if you keep this up. Where's your energy, boy?"
He tugs me up again and lets go of me. I purse my lips, and I smile just as he starts walking away. I grab his wrist and try to recall his moves.
"I'm not a boy," I challenge, in good nature. I am sixteen. I'm still fresh out of childhood.
He purrs in his throat, "Show me."
And we dance. It's graceless at first, but I pick it up quickly and soon follow his leads with confidence. It stops being a chore in a snap, as soon as I stop worrying about Simon and how stupid I look, and how I'm at the center of attention because he is the center of attention. It becomes fun, and enjoyable, and I'm laughing when nothing's funny. I'm laughing out of joy, and it's freeing.
After a while, he slows down, after Tussock's accordion disappears and is replaced by a flask, after Boots's arms tire and he retires his fiddle. The only music left is the slurred murmurs of incomprehensible song from a few swaying swashbucklers. Snores fill the air.
The captain slips away from me and drops into the wooden chair that Tussock had been using. His banjo is safely tucked beneath the seat. He inhales a long breath, and exhales with a chuckle. My breathing grows heavy upon a sudden. I start to pant and join him by the railing to recover my wind.
I sit on a cannon and lean over the railing to look down at the black water. It's dark. A few lanterns light the deck, but my eyes have mostly adjusted to see by the pale starlight. The water laps the hulls in a peaceful way. With a few reefs in the sails, the Orpheus drifts dreamily along. I fold my arms on top of the rail and rest my head.
"Enjoy it while you can," says the captain. "In about a week's time, we'll be in rough waters."
I close my eyes.
I can hear talk behind me. It's quiet now. A few men left awake.
Leslie and Increas and Dorian have joined the Captain, but I don't listen to their conversation. Something about model ships in bottles.
When I'm near to being asleep, the banjo calls for me to open my eyes. A few plucky notes at first, and then a recognizable tune. My tune. My nameless, wordless tune.
Dorian whines.
"Hank! No!"
I stare at them.
The captain, leg crossed over his knee, smirks at his fox friend and continues to play. Leslie laughs. Increas watches me.
"Hank! Stop it!" wails Dorian, uncomfortably flicking his gaze around.
"How's it go again?" Captain Clarke asks. He starts from the top.
"I won't sing it. I won't. Quit teasing me, you damned drunk."
"Oh, Dooorry, you love this song."
"Stop teasing me!"
"What is that song?" I ask. No one but my mother and I has ever known that song. "Where is it from?"
The fox's jaw drops as he notices me, and he pulls on his ears. He clenches his jaw and heatedly looks away. The captain stops playing and blinks at me.
I'd thought that I had imagined it in the chaos of Wit's End, when we had sought out the captain in his naturally unflattering habitat. "You played it at the tavern. Didn't you?"
He swallows, and shrugs. "Might have. Why?"
"I don't know where it is from or what it is called, but I've known that song all my life."
He gives me the blankest of stares for a moment, and I can see he's had more to drink. Abruptly, he breaks out in a grin and fixes his stare on Dorian. "Oh, Dorry! Let's demonstrate for the lad, eh? Eh?"
"No fucking way," Dorian snaps, folding his furry arms.
Clarke pokes the fox with his banjo, and Dorian's claws lash out to bat the thing away. Clarke pouts. "That's no way to thank me for playing a lullaby for you every night of your childhood."
"Hank!"
The captain starts the tune again. "It's a lullaby from Riven. Used to put this fox to sleep right away."
"Does it have words?" I press.
He snorts and looks wryly to his humiliated carpenter. Every night of his childhood... Did the captain raise Dorian? "In a way, it has words. Doesn't it, Dorry?"
Dorian growls.
The captain pushes his pout further. "Please, Dorry. Won't you sing for me? I won't tease you, I promise."
Dorian turns away. His tail swishes. "You owe me."
"Love you, Dorry!" Clarke squeals in triumph. "I owe you. Ready?"
He plays the tune again, and this time, Dorian adds the words. Except, they aren't words. He whistles first, then growls three times. He whistles, and clicks, and makes noises that only a fox could properly make. I can't help but be utterly befuddled.
"What?"
"It's about the moon," explains the captain.
"It wouldn't sound right translated," Dorian huffs. It didn't sound right as it was.
The fox narrows his eyes at me and storms off.
The captain stands up and goes after him. "Hey, Dorry! He's not going to tease you. Don't be like that!"
The fox slams the captain's door in his face. Clarke frowns and turns away from his quarters. He returns to his chair. "Don't mind him. His mother sang it to him, and he's quite protective of it. He won't admit it." He clears his throat. "I don't know what the words would be. He's never translated them, even to me."
I bite at the inside of my lip. That tune has followed me for my whole life. I had thought that it would satisfy me to know where it came from, but it has only spurred on more questions. The fox singing it had done little more than confuse me.
"Is he... Are you..." I chew my lip. "Are you like... his pa?"
The captain stares, lowering a bottle from his lips. He breaks into a fit of giggles, dragging his hand over his face. He doubles over in his chair to wheeze over his knees. "Ha! Oh, ho! OH. You think I bed a fox! He thinks I bed a fox." He raises himself with a long, strained breath, grinning to his officers. "That's golden, isn't it?"
I rub the back of my neck, swallowing. My humiliation brings heat to my face and I look across the deck for escape.
Simon is still awake, while his companion is slouched against a cannon. The professor leans on the rail, his back to me.
I yawn and stand up. It would be best for me to find my hammock before I drift off out here again. "Goodnight, sirs," I managed, quelling my embarrassment.
"Rest well!" grins Leslie.
"See yah," grunts the captain, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
Langley stays grimly silent, and I'm not surprised. I cross the deck on my tired legs. A few steps, and my weariness catches up with me. It must be after midnight. It must be nearing dawn. I rest my elbows by Simon's. He looks down at me through his specs.
"Do you have my notebook?"
"I'll put it on your bed."
"Thank you." He exhales and bows his head. I imagine that I look ghastly, but his sleep deprivation is just as plain. I'd like to think that he, like myself, has exhausted himself by letting loose and expelling his energy on having some fun.
"Are you going to be coming to bed?" I ask, cocking my head to one side.
"No. Too much wine. I'm feeling green. I can't stand the rocking down there. I'll lose my supper." His expression becomes queasy and he hunches his shoulders. "Actually, could I have my notebook back now?" He swallows and narrows his eyes over my shoulder. "Paranoia, and all," he adds, with some sort of self-conscious chuckle.
I follow his gaze to where Pete sits smoking his pipe. Paranoia indeed. Pete is our own hiree, and he's never given anyone any trouble. Still, I didn't need the notebook myself, and had no qualms with returning it, despite the ridiculous reasons. I reach into my shirt, and hand it out to him. "Protect it with your life," I breath dramatically.
He takes it in both hands, wide-eyed, regarding it like a holy artifact. "Yes. Right."
I leave him with that.
The stupid git.