Riven Isles

12 | First Impressions

A series of ordered shouts awaken me. Pink light, barely there, filters weakly through the window, casting shadows of the iron bars across the floor. Thenshie is silent in the bed by my feet. Rootwig is obnoxiously loud at the end of our cot line. I can hear her ear-things flapping, her four teeth chattering, her gums gushing. I try to muffle the sounds with my pillow, holding it over my ears. I bury my face in the sheet to hide from the pale light of just-before dawn.

Another series of shouts come from the deck. I drop my pillow and sit up. I can't make out the words, but I understand, and the desire to go back to sleep disappears as fast as flame underwater. Without tucking in my shirt or tying up my hair, or even slipping on my shoes, I bolt out the door and stumble down the hall in my socks. The doctor squints at me from his opened door, wigless. He has a neat gray buzz-cut, with the start of a bald spot at the back.

I wave to him, but am the up the stairs before he can return any acknowledgement. Ropes are being hauled in and thrown out and men are hopping up stairs, and leaping down, and crossing the deck, and climbing the rigging.

Were I a sailor myself, I'm sure I'd know exactly what everyone was up to. As I am not, I know not. I wonder about it all, and it is glorious, because not knowing makes seeing so much more magical. The man climbing the rigging could be going to raise a sail, or just climbing for a better view, or perhaps preparing to swing down on a rope all grandiose like a spectacular showman.

"Loose the last hitch, and climb aboard, Mr. Walsh!" Captain Clarke stands, the air of leadership and command about him infallible, at the upper stern deck, beside Leslie, who holds the helm. "Mr. Tussock, haul in that rope. Brutus and Arty, take in the ramp when Walsh is clear."

I run to the railing to watch. A rope, tied to a peg at the mainmast, holds us against the dock by hugging a pole. A muscular man at the stern grips the other end of the rope. Below, Mr. Walsh coils up the last rope loosed from the iron cleats on the dock, and throws it up to the deck, where Mr. Tussock—a wiry, grey-whiskered man who looks as if he's just crawled out of a chimney—throws himself forward to catch it. Walsh climbs the boarding plank, as ordered, and our own hiree, Brutus, with the equally buff Arty of the captain's men, pull the long board onto the deck.

Dorian shoos them both away with his swatting claws. He plops down to sit on his rear at the top of the plank and pushes it with his furry feet, using all his strength. The plank impressively folds into itself, turning the long plank into a meter by half-a-meter cube of wood. The fox barks at Brutus to take it to the hold.

"Four oars ready?" calls the captain.

"On your word, sir!" returns a man in a knitted green cap, who stands upon the staircase leading below.

"Heave!" cries the captain.

"Heave!" cries the man, turning to direct his voice below decks.

"Heave!" comes a distant response of four men from beneath us.

"Release the rope, Reuben!" Captain Clarke orders. "Haul it in fast, Mr. Tussock!"

The waters below churn as oars, two below me, splash in unison. They jut out from holes from the level below our cabins, and move forward and back. Lift. Forward and back.

The man at the stern hurls his rope to the dock, and Mr. Tussock reels it in like his life depends on it. And, with that, I realize, we're free. I grin and look up to the masts, where four grand sails billow with wind.

"Up with the mizzen sails. Add a reef until we're out of the harbor."

Men flock to the aft rigging. The oars are drawn in as we clear the dock, and the sails take us away. The waves are so small that we can barely feel them beneath us. The ship charges through. The seagulls circle above. The wind, salted with wet spray, feels strong and cool against my skin.