Rising Tide 4

The ship creaked subtly as it bobbed on the waves. The mixed smell of sea salt and blood stung their noses. The duo had begun scrubbing almost immediately. Mops dragging the water in a smudged mess. The foot prints thankfully came up easier than puddles. A distant sound came from somewhere on the ship. Lighter than the horror Wilkes found himself ankle deep in.

Rangpar's story telling voice carried through the floorboards beneath them. The deep rumble of laughter followed shortly after, mixed with the voices of children who had no idea what waited above their heads.

Wilkes dragged the mop through another dark stain. It did not come out. He pushed harder. The threads of the mop squishing nearly flat. . The soapy water rushed out and made a puddle over the dried mess.

"Won't help."

Erik spoke quietly beside him. His own mop moving over a different puddle. His pail’s contents was a shade of scarlet Wilkes had only seen in the sunset before. There was something deeply unsettling about it. About human lives just being a mess to clean.

"Scrubbing harder won't make it disappear."

The elf looked down at the deck. Wilkes floundered for words. Trying to push his mind in the right direction to help his friend with the stresses of this. Nothing came.

"That's how ye know it's real." Erik finished speaking after that. The sound of soggy mops splashing around and children laughing distantly was the only accompaniment to the howling of wind and crashing of waves. They worked like that across the whole voyage back. The captain occasionally checked in on their progress.

Muttering about, running his hands through his hair Barry wandered the deck. He had been writing the death tally report before coming for air initially. It seemed however that the possibility of pirates knowing their fishing route had sent him into a fit. He’d already polished off the only bottle of rum with the captain. Only drunken pacing and nervous tendencies could soothe him now.

The captain sauntered over, both the rocking of the boat and booze forcing his steps to sway. He gripped the mops firmly and wrenched them from his former apprentices’ hands. He shrugged lightly before speaking.

“Boards’re clean enuff. Leave a reminder, the ole tub has to remember a few things, ye? Gods above know I do.” He spoke softly, the stench of whiskey rolling off his breath. The captain then tossed the mess out of the pails and stumbled towards the stairs down towards storage. He fished the flask out of the inside of his coat, and Wilkes finally noticed the color of it. It was navy blue, faded by sunlight. The trim was flaked sure, but bits of copper still stood out. He finally saw Captain Tellish, not just his captain. He decided to keep the realization to himself.

Captain Tellish yanked open the door. Sunlight pouring down in beams shone onto the unmarred wood below. The three lads ran up to salute him. He swore at them and started barking orders. A smirk tugged on Wilkes’s face as the white faced boys ran amuck. He paused when Svend stopped and stared at the boards on the main deck.

“It’s… still there.” He spoke softly. Wilkes gave him a gentle shove between the shoulders, urging him away from the stain. Shooing the young half elf to work elsewhere. The young sailor was the one who needed to see it, not the barge lad. Something else nagged at him.

The trace bits of black powder were still on the floor. He squatted down and rolled some granules between his fingers. Definitely left over from how Erik and Barry had been moving. He saw through lines that followed their movements during the scuffle. They’d been spreading the stuff all over the deck. He brought it closer to his nose. It was sharp in stench and texture. Exactly as he’d thought, gunpowder or some other kind of explosive powder. He wasn’t an expert on the stuff, but could at least tell when it was right in his face.

He rose slowly, planting his hands firmly on his knees and pushing as he did. The captain stood at the helm, steering them on lazy winds. Wilkes did his best not to stomp as he ascended the stairs. His fists were clenched, and the wind picked up slightly. He breathed as deeply as he could manage as he approached.

“Cap’n, can I ask you something?” Wilkes spoke slowly, weighing each word as it rolled off. A glassy gaze beheld him before simply nodding.

“What troubles ye lad?” The captain pressed the conversation onwards.

“The powder you had Erik and Barry scatter… what was it?” Wilkes couldn’t accuse the man of anything. He didn’t have the heart to turn mutinous. He just wanted an honest admission. To be told any form of the truth. Preferably a kind one.

“That would be the last of the gunpowder on this ole ship me boy.” The captain spoke drily. He stared ahead into the rapidly approaching dot of green that was Thellin. Wilkes grit his teeth, and the sails were further filled.

“Ye know that’s not the whole answer I wanted.”

“What do ye want me to say? I planned to blow us all to high heavens before surrendering the ship to pirates? That I was gonna kill myself, me nephew, and the first lad with balls enough to court my daughter in a way that matters?” The captain turned to question him. The glassy glint in his eye didn’t mask how tired he was. A man burdened.

“Because lad, I was planning on it. This here used to be a warship. The Gracious Pearl. She’s my retirement gift.”

Wilkes looked back toward the deck below. The scars in the wood, some older than the sailor himself. The strange balance of the hull, like it was shaped to ram. The way she cut through waves like she had been born for something greater than hauling nets.

"A warship..."

The captain said nothing.

"All this time..."

The captain nodded slowly. His hands never left the wheel. He stared out at the sea, aiming for home. There was no great response after that. No apology. No hanging his head. No tearful speech. Just admitting that the shipping vessel had once been a weapon. Wilkes didn’t stand there for long. He stepped down the stairs almost leisurely. The broken banister near him reminded him of Carden. It was odd that he thought of an enemy now. Particularly one he had killed then handed over to the navy for money.

“Ye’ver think about how strange it is?" Erik asked while leaning against the center mast. Wilkes glanced over.

"How strange what is?"

"How easy it is."

The elf looked at the stained boards beneath their feet. Wilkes tapped his foot impatiently, flakes of red staining his pristinely shined boots. His arms found themselves folded over his chest, scratchy bandages rubbing against the soft cloth. The two spoke half way across the deck, and that was the least of his annoyances. Sighing, Wilkes closed the gap and leaned against the mast with him. Erik just stared at his own hands while speaking.

"A person can spend years becoming someone. Learning, laughing, loving. Then one moment happens and they're just..." Erik spoke with a hollow tone, his fists clenched against air. A haunted glaze shone over his eyes when he finally looked at Wilkes.. "...something someone else has to clean up."

The rest of the voyage home was near silent. Gull cries and crashing of waves were the only sounds. The dull roar of mercantile habits eventually joined the medley. The docking process was mechanical, years of practice with the addition of teaching the barge lads their knots over again. Wilkes smacked Leif upside the head when he blundered his knot twice. Svend balled a fist but was stopped by Dortas.

“If ye can only tie a knot below deck we’ll have to find another set of apprentices capable of figuring out how to do it right!” Wilkes snapped, the boys glared at him but ultimately nodded and moved on. Their work day had ended, they were cut loose to go home. He shook his head and looked back up the ramp. Erik had his arm around Amy and the couple walked off quickly.

“Ye coming to work again tomorrow, ole pal?” Wilkes called after him, Erik looked over his shoulder and gave him a thumbs up. Still engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with his lover. The bags under his eyes still stared back from below. There was nothing Wilkes could do about that now though.

His feet fell upon the dock, the creaking of wood was less sullen here. People milled about, faceless things in the crowd around him. Children laughed while kicking a ball around. A bottle of wine that was on display was knocked over, tumbling to the planks with reckless abandon. It shattered, the sanguine drink within spilled out in a haphazard tide. His own reflection stared back from within the puddle. The old planks drank greedily and began to stain.

Breathing suddenly became difficult. A tightness in his chest welled up. It wasn’t rage, or the same kind of fear when he was fighting. This was different. His eyes went wide, scanning around for anything suspicious. No one was out of place, it was the same people of thellin it had always been. Yet it gnawed at him. This was all wrong. He had to run. He had to go home and grab his sword. He needed it.

The wind whipped against his face. The salt it carried stung his eyes. The clamor surrounding him was deafening. He tried to push through the crowd, to fight and rage against the traffic. He barely moved in the sea of bodies. The jostling and bumping was unending. His breathing only became more labored. He was surrounded. He needed out. Let him out. Let HIM OUT.

A hand rested on his shoulder, patting him gently. Small circles rubbed between his shoulder blades. He felt his shoulders slouch, the tension dropping from them. His fists unfurled, he hadn’t even felt them ball up. He glanced up and saw a worried Rangpar staring back.

“Breathe Friend. Slow and deep. Do not let it claim you.” Rangpar spoke softly, he ushered Wilkes off of the dock. To onlookers it seemed they were simply strolling to the Orc’s abode after work. With the rumor mill working overtime after both of the favored young orcs in town had wandered off with Wilkes in tow.

The walk to Rangpar’s home was relatively uneventful. It was the same spot on the outskirts where he had apologized to Beatrice. Familiarity washed over him like cold water. The door creaked open slowly, Rangpar spoke but it sounded distant. Like Wilkes had cotton stuffed into his ears. A chair jumped out under him, letting him rest after the walk. He now noticed he was trembling.

When did he start trembling? The beginning of it couldn’t be placed. Beatrice glided through his view. She looked worried. A cup of hot tea was placed in front of him. She threw a boar pelt across his shoulders and rested her head in the crook of his neck for a moment before she walked back off. More shadows danced past. The Captain, an orc woman he recognized but couldn’t place, and a glimpse of Barry. Distant shouting came for a moment. The tea had gone cold in front of him. He’d hardly moved.

Finally strength returned to his hands enough to lift the cup to his lips. It was cold, and had gone bitter because of it. The taste of mint helped, but minty and bitter wasn’t a mix he enjoyed. His mind was still reeling. He kept seeing flashes of his sword drawing blood. Of his own blood being flung in the streets, in the woods, and on the boat. His grip tightened on the cup. His whole body tensed over again.

Something fell over in the kitchen. A pot or a pan maybe. Regardless, the noise startled him over again. His grip clinched fully, and the cup shattered in his palm. The jagged bits of clay ate at his flesh. Cold tea mixed with blood as it dripped into his lap. He began to shake more violently. What is this? Why is this happening?

Beatrice pulled a chair up beside him and slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She hummed an old tune he didn’t recognize. It was slow, but not particularly sad. Just melancholy if he had to place it. His breathing slowed a bit, and he felt someone bandaging his hand. He kept getting hurt. He needed to break that habit.