The Tale of Fern

Chapter 1: No Time for Seasickness

Once upon a time, a time when most stories happen, it was a dark and stormy night. The moon was full but no one would have been able to swear it was so, as the clouds had blacked out the night sky. No one was looking up much either, as the sea was giving into the powerful winds and was drawing a bit of attention to itself as it tossed sailors to and fro on the clipper, The Wasted Walrus. Now The Wasted Walrus was no small ship, and was helmed under the capable hands of none other than a Rakasha named Khajj.

Now think back to your biology lessons and remember that Rakasha are none other than humans with cat-like features: ears, tails, and claws to name a few. And before you ask how Rakasha are made, the answer is go ask your parents, but starts with when a human and a cat love each other very much...

Anyway, Khajj was at the wheel trying to steer the ship into each huge wave as to avoid capsizing into the tumultuous seas, a decidedly terrible outcome for himself and the two dozen or so crew people he had on board. Now this was tricky enough and before anyone could question how this could possibly get any worse, eight, yes there were a counted eight, tentacles that popped out of the water and surrounded the ship posing a strange new threat to the alliteratively named ship. It should be pointed out that a sailor by the name of Thomas swears there were nine tentacles that surrounded the ship but he always had to outdo everyone else and therefore is not to be believed. Whether it was eight or nine did not matter as they crashed into the deck sending splintered timbers in too many directions to count.

The sailors panicked like ants who just had their hill destroyed by an unthinking child, and ran about without direction trying to fix the first problem they saw. But Khajj's orders soon bellowed out bringing order to the chaos and direction to those under his command. The stronger sailors to the ropes trying to bring the sails to bear while the younger filled with hot blood drew cutlesses and charged any of the beast's tentacles which dared to come within their reach.

It was a perfectly suitable plan if they had not been fighting a giant tentacled monstrosity in the middle of the storm, but they were. Tossed asunder like leaves in the wind till crashing into the deck or more unfortunately into the sea.

A young girl crawled her way up from the cabins, the handrails bearly allowing her to stand. Her short black hair plastered to her scalp as the rain poured down on her. She was not dressed as a sailor or a pirate in a light brown vest, black pants and boots. A bag weighed down by miscellaneous objects swayed in the wind unlike the black cloth holster in an X across her chest. Upon it was a green pouch attached upside down partially hidden beneath a deep brown hood which she fruitlessly tried to pull up against the rain and the wind. And pockets so many pockets, not for fashion but for use, but more on that later.

Cannons fired almost knocking the ship over into the waves but striking true and causing the monster to usher forth an equally monstrous scream. It pierced the ears of the sailors and even Khajj, who for those who are learned would know was picking it up octaves above the range of his human crew, and thus was knocked to his knees by the noise alone. The tentacled monster was the first to recover, thrashing the deck with a vengeance causing blood to mix with the water that threatened to flood the ship's deck.

The girl in the hood made her way, on all fours staying low, and falling flat as one of the arguably eight tentacles swept overhead making a go for the mast but deterred by several cutlass slashes that wounded it for its attempt. Forced to slide on her belly she skated along on the deck till she got to a wounded sailor bleeding profusely from a head wound as heads are want to do when dropped against the hardwood of the deck. She lifted him up in a low crouch by his armpits and pulling with all her might.

Now many things could be said about this young person, but one that could not would be overwhelming feats of strength. It took her leaning back with all her weight to budge his form and a hard fall on her buttox that was unpleasant and barely moved him a foot. But she got up and did this again and again like the world's saddest inchworm, making progress till she hit the stairs and then gravity did the work with his feet hitting every step hard on the way down.

At the bottom she dug through her pockets searching and searching and searching till she found a rolled strip of rag pre blooded but dried. It would serve her purpose. She set to apply pressure to the wound with it to stem the red tide. Then...

Thud. Thud thud thud thud. A stroke of luck as another injured sailor fell right into Fern's lap...literally. After the knee jerk jump back and a high pitched scream she would never admit to, Fern began inspecting the other man; a broken leg and probably a concussion, he was less of a priority than the first so she went back to treating the dying man. Once his life was no longer in mortal peril, Fern looked to setting the leg back in less of an ill-advised position.

Now to go on and on about the slapdash medical procedures that Fern had performed over the hour or so that The Wasted Walrus was in a pitched battle with this multi-limbed monstrosity, so back to the action. Above deck, it was a war of attrition with all sorts of fluids ranging from the overwhelming amounts of water that threatened to sink the ship, to blood from both the crew and the beast, as well as a viscus inky substance that held its own unique smell that no one would ever dare bottle into a perfume. Blows were traded and both sides cut deep but the perseverance and drive to survive won out on behalf of the crew, not only because this story needs to continue. The tentacles receded back into the sea with a dreadful roar that filled the remaining crew with relief. This was short lived as the sailors were ordered to get the wounded below deck. They were not trained in being able to spot the difference between alive, dead, or mostly dead, brought most of the crew down below to Fern who, between stitching up wounds, had to sort each of those types into separate piles to be dealt with in order.

But as the sailors pleaded for Fern to resuscitate a dead comrade, "Dead is dead. Fern cannot fix dead," over and over again. It was not until Capitan Khajj came down in order to restore, well, order, that Fern was left to perform her dirty work in peace. By the time the sun just began to rise and bring warmth to the cold reality of the night, Fern managed to leave the belly of the ship and crawl up to the deck where she sat, soaking in the early morning sun.

This moment of peace, which was more than well deserved at this point, was broken by Khajj who cast his pointy eared shadow over her. "Are you alright doctor?"

"Fern is fine." Fern tried to stand but she found that all her energy had fled her so she slumped back down to her comfortable slouching position.

"Uh huh..." came the dubious reply, "I'll send someone up with food and water. You earned it. You need to eat up we will be approaching port soon."