Riven Isles

18 | Hoist and Flail

The sea is choppy today. The sails flutter, and the ship rises and falls and crashes onto crests in rough and jagged movements. It's sickening. The waves, though small, one or two meters high, are plentiful and fast-moving. Larger, slower waves are easier to tolerate. I'm quite used to it now, though the morning had me stumbling and clutching my throat. Around ten o'clock, the choppiness had smoothed out enough for the sailing to become tolerable, which was in good time for brunch.

Further away, off the starboard bow, the waves are almost nonexistent, but reflections of the sun on their rippling crests show their rapid movements, giving the illusion of a rushing river rather than an ocean. Leslie explained to me earlier that this was the Giant's Claw: the current that runs towards the Giant's Ring. Our course will be taking us along the skirt of it, and merge much farther on.

The sail that Dr. Oswald had adjusted will be raised today. According to the quartermaster, it is designed for easier and more precise control, which will be essential while riding the currents. To me, it looks like an ordinary sail, with a couple stitches out of place.

Simon staggers onto the deck and keels over the rail. He hasn't brought up his studies yet, today. In fact, he's not spoken a word but to complain about his tea tasting as though it had been tampered with. I think he is starting to take some shame in his paranoia. None of us approve of his strange ideas, and after last night's discussion, he knows it very well.

When he recovers from his nausea bout, he pauses for a few long breaths. I get back to my mopping. He starts coming towards me, and I stop again.

"Walter," he breathes, and it really disturbs me. He'd been fine at brunch. Why is he suddenly so... distant? His eyes are dim and foggy. Elian had seen it before me, I think. That's why he hadn't asked for Simon to help clean up. Is he sick?

He fumbles with his bright handkerchief, drawing it across hi brow, then rolling it in his fingers.

"Walter," he repeats, standing in front of me. He looks unsteady, like when you look up at a tall building and it gives the illusion of toppling over. "I know you don't believe me."

There is a faint slur to his words. "Are you drunk? Simon? Ill? What is... What in the world...?"

He opens his mouth to respond and suddenly looks rather upset. He flounders and struggles to answer. He grabs his hair in his fists and looks away. "They tampered with my tea! I said it, I said it. I shouldn't have kept drinking. I'm stupid. But of course, everyone was saying, it was all in my head! All in my head!" He pulls on his handkerchief, twisting it between his hands.

My brows pinch. I lower my mop to the deck. "Someone actually put alcohol in your tea?" It would surely have been a stupid prank. How would anyone have even managed it? The professor is notoriously observant. "It would have to have been pretty strong stuff."

"I'm not crazy," he insists in a whimper, and I feel sympathy for him. He sounds almost as if he doesn't believe it himself.

He is undoubtedly tipsy, and too shaken to have been drinking on his own. If even just for pity's sake, I believe him.

"Okay," I decide, "How can I help?"

"Just... listen. Listen."

I pick up my bucket and mop and jerk my head in the direction of the stern stairs. "Let's go there."

He clumsily nods and follows me over. I dump the water from my bucket over the side of the ship first, then tuck the mop away behind the stairs, and turn the bucket over to sit on. Simon clambers on the water barrel. He pulls out his notebook and opens it, dabbing his brow.