Riven Isles

17 | The Notebook Knows

The new moon party had left the deck in shambles; a mess I hadn't noticed in the dark of the night. Drunk men had drooled and relieved themselves in their sleep wherever they had collapsed.

On top of that, there was the puke, and the overall smell of it all. I took one look, and one whiff, upon waking, and had decided very firmly to stay below. During an oddly quiet brunch, where only a half of the crew (and not the captain or the sailing master) showed up, I found that it had all been cleaned up.

Who by? Surprisingly adhering to the captain's challenge the previous night, the soberest men on the deck. The rules were clarified during our meal, for Leslie did not like to see us so puzzled as we were. Pete and Mike had been caught on the deck at midnight, the time was very specific, a drink or two from perfect sobriety. There had been soberer men aboard, indeed, but Barker and Walsh and Boots (and the doctor and Lydia, though they were told) knew from experience that it was best to stay below if they weren't drinking. Boots had been playing his fiddle at midnight, but had been let off the hook because of his contribution to the evening.

I haven't gone to look at their deck-swabbing, yet. Officer Langley appeared at the end of the meal to give summons to Lydia and I, and told us to fetch our blades. Lydia had taken to carrying hers, while I left mine in the cabin. She followed him immediately out, and Dr. Oswald left shortly after with Walsh, the ship's best musketeer. Harvey sought out Simon, but the man wasn't there. He hadn't shown at brunch. I haven't seen him all morning.

It is supposed to be his job to clean up after the meals, remember. Elian doesn't look up to doing it all on his own, even with much of the crew absent.

Dorian hands Stevey a saw by the mess hall wall, and points to the low ceiling that hangs out of his reach. I don't know what they're doing, but it looks more destructive than constructive.

Elian starts to pile the dishes, yawning, swaying slightly on his feet. Guilt floods my gut. I could be helping, but I am not. I am on my way out the door. Where is Simon? This is his responsibility.

"Are you going to your cabin, Walt?" Elian asks.

I turn, and I nod.

"Would you ask Simon to come give me a hand?"

Simon hadn't been there before brunch. I had been playing cards with Lydia and the doctor. "Sure. If I see him."

He waves me off. "Thank you!"

I nod once again and stroll into the narrow hallway.

Heading towards my cabin, I have to skirt around a man called Arty. The bulky pirate grunts at me and picks up another two barrels to haul down the stairs. Of the long line from last night, only three barrels remain in the corridor. It would be interesting to know how many were emptied after the festivities, and, thinking such, I regret that I hadn't peeked when I had the chance to this morning.

I dip into the cabin and close the door behind me. Simon kneels on the floor, hunched over a book. He runs oil through his hair and studies a piece of white rock. He ignores my entrance, and half-consciously finger-combs his hair to one side. His attention switches between the rock and the book.

"Good morning, Simon," I greet, in the attempt to politely rouse him from his transfixion.

He shakes his head, and mutters, "A rock can't cure werewolfism. It doesn't make sense."

"Is that a new book?"

He lifts the volume for me to see for myself. Geologic Compendium of The Northern Hemisphere. There were others still that I hadn't seen him open yet. He lowers it once again to the floor. A book on rocks.