Riven Isles

33 | Reeling Rapids

Never in my life have I felt less alive. The sinking, heavy tow of my stomach pleads for me to stay under the covers, heavy as a cannon shot, while the rest of me seems all but non-existent. If my heart is beating, I can't feel it. My fingers and toes must be miles away.

Distantly, I hear the doctor and Mrs. Marks speaking and Professor Woods loading his pistol with a series of delicate clicks, and I know it is morning.

Any minute now, they'll call for us to haul the anchor.

The knock comes abruptly, bolting me upright in my hammock.

Simon answers.

"Everyone upstairs," says Leslie. "We're shorthanded and will be making use of all of you on this leg of the trip. The captain says your medical bags should be prepared for when we land."

"Do you mean anchor?" Simon asks.

Leslie grins. "I mean land. The plan is to land her keel in the shallows, dig in, and abandon ship as quickly as possible." His grin disappears and he looks to each of us in turn with his bushy red brows knit. "All hands on deck, now. The Witch starts work early and so do we."

He turns about on his heels and clunks off down the hall, just like that.

Everyone looks at me. I blink back.

Now, yesterday, I don't recall feeling so shaky, heavy, numb, or ill. I was shaky, but I blamed it on the chill of the cave, and something much more akin to excitement than fear. It had been interesting to watch Dorian run around with his hammer and toolkit, barking orders at other sailors as he repaired and upgraded our ship. The captain sparring in the shrouds with Increas, then with all of us pencil-pushers (his words) on the deck, had been reassuring and invigorating, because his injury didn't change that he could defeat each of us. Increas gave him a better fight, but the captain, in the end, after much back-and-forth-action, learned a dirty trick where he swung his crutch out to topple his opponent and was victorious with one quick (and a little clumsy) fleche. But, the captain's watchful eyes on me in every spare moment had gnawed excitement and invigoration to naked fear. They haunted my dreams.

"Best to be up now, Walter," the doctor says with a kindly smile. His wig is off, exposing wispy tufts of grey and white and the great bald spot at the back.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can do this. I weigh down the edge of the hammock and roll out, but my fingers wrap around the edge and I hang there for a while after my feet land. A wave of nausea gurgles from my gut to my throat and I cringe, bowing my head.

The doctor puts a hand between my shoulder blades. "It will all be over soon. One last push, dear boy."

Simon shrugs on his jacket and tucks his pistol in his waistband. "If you are going to be sick, you had better do it on deck. Let's move along and get this over with."

Mrs. Marks secures her and the doctor's medical bags on a cot, which is bolted to the wall. She fastens the latches and gives them a pat. "Ready." She looks the most prepared, wearing proper boots and seaworthy, flexible clothing, with long hair braided so intricately that what usually falls to her waist hangs just above her shoulders.

Simon looks ridiculous by comparison, in tweed and a rumpled waistcoat. I snicker, out loud, looking queasily between them all. The doctor, too, looks out of place with his long white coat and fancy shoes. And me, with my stripy socks and bronze buckles.

"What's so funny?" Simon quips. He squints at me, but briskly leaves before I can respond. Mrs. Marks straps her sword around her waist and follows.

"Come on, Cornelius, Walter."

The doctor kneels and helps me put on my shoes. My cold, cold fingers wobble uselessly around the leather until I just leave him to it. He takes my hands and blows gently. "Take a breath, Walter."