Riven Isles

31 | Spiderwebbing Cracks

The morale is low. The crew is quiet. There is little more sound than the gentle creaking of the ship against the currents. If I look for long enough, I might catch the flash of a fish in the water before it shoots along the salty rapids. It's calmer here, but the anchors still strain, and the sand far below shifts and stirs.

The light of the cave seems dimmer than before.

The constant rush of the water sweeps a cool draft over us, engulfing us in a chill that in the rush of the evening we hadn't noticed. I hold my arms near to myself and focus on everything to distract me from thinking of the one thing. Dr. Oswald smokes his pipe at the stern deck, conversing with Mrs. Marks. Elian Arrow loops and knots a rope, making some sort of time-biding craft and whistling idly all the while, and Harvey Cobbe polishes a gun—his shoulders sagging and his expression slack as he half-heartedly chews his plug.

Leslie is in charge, as quartermaster, in the captain's absence, and he strolls about the deck and below, ceaselessly engaging in chatter in the attempt to raise spirits and convince the superstitious, the religious, and the plain and simply confused that the beastly sirens wouldn't be returning for their souls, or at all.

If you are wondering, I didn't clean the mess from the deck. I woke to it gone, like a bad dream. I imagine it has shot off down the waterfall, somewhere around the bend, by now. As has the body. And my stomach, for that matter. I missed brunch.

A sudden familiar reek spills over the deck, and I'm throwing myself over the rail again with the force of reflex. I press my fist to my lips and look to the heathens. They have seldom appeared on deck during the length of our trip. Rootwig peers dumbly around, her giant lenses seeming to gape at everything; the light-speckled ceiling, the ill sailors, the rushing water. Then she looks across the deck, to where Mike had spilled out, and where the werewolves had fallen, and she stares for a while.

She grabs Thenshie by her gangly wrist and totters towards the captain's cabin. I frown as they disappear inside.

Hours later, Dr. Oswald pats me softly on the back, pulling me from a daydream. I blink and rub my eyes, looking up.

"All right, Walter?"

I nod, covering a yawn with my hand. "My watch?"

"Yes, but I can take it if you would like." He smiles sympathetically, brows knitting together. "I know that the captain was up walking last night—and it did him no good, I can tell you—and I saw for myself what he did. Ghastly." His lips purse. "Just... speak to me if you need to, Walter. Most young men don't have to witness so much carnage in a night."

Warmth flutters in my heart, and I redden, averting my gaze. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll take the watch. I'm fine."

How can he be so kind so easily? He, too, is broken and frightened and upset, that is plain to see. I don't know what he experienced with those creatures, the guilt of swooning for them is painted clear as day in his wrinkles. Readable, as always.

"If you're sure." He offers a hand to me and helps me up. "The Aquians healed the wound earlier, but he was asleep when they did it and he doesn't know. Simon dressed the stub as if it were still infection-prone."

I frown. "It's healed?"

"Yes. Remarkable."

"And the captain doesn't know it?"

"No." The doctor shakes his head. "He lost a great deal of blood, Walt. That man is frightfully impulsive, I think, and I don't want him gallivanting about just yet. I don't know anything about the Aquian methods, but I do know about amputation and trauma and the needs of a man to recover. What he needs is as much water in him as he can manage and no stress on that leg."