Chapter 2~ Just the Cabin Boy386Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡomu5Segt4c
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That was that. After a full hour of my own screaming and the mad yelling coming from Captain Thomas Tew, I’d collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground, sobbing softly and letting the blood seeping from both of my ankles puddle around my bare feet. I'd survived my first torturing. And surely that was not my last because I hadn't answered a single question. My heart pained me far worse than my ankles did. Every passing second I could feel the charred crust of depression forming, and my yearning for my father had grown unbearable.
"Father…" I moaned helplessly, silently begging to be taken away and to perhaps find a moment of peace. Ah, I should've known better. Peace was extremely rare to find in the world these days. Life was cheap to folks. Gold was much more valuable. Only a fool thought otherwise.
How I dreamed things would change. For, I hoped that one day I'd rest in a world where kindness had no need to be asked for. I'd live in a world where thievery was unnecessary and greed was only a myth. This world, I assure you, would exist whether I was still breathing to observe it or not. I knew it and I lived it like a prayer.
Things were changing already. Time always moved. People always changed. Ideas were always passed down as a legacy to new generations. Maybe we'd one day use them. But not that day. That day, I was remembering what pain was from the bottom of a ship filled to the brim with dirty, brainless, and—not to mention—evil pirates. I wanted so much to change. I’d been so foolishly bullheaded. And now, things were coming to an end. Maybe the world would do better than I. Maybe it would perish all the same. Yet, whom I sought relief for was myself.
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The door was opened, but my lack of energy prevented me from lifting my head. It wasn’t as if I'd find pleasure in seeing who it was anyway. The sloshing movement of a filled bucket came next. Surely, they’d come to drown me now. Footsteps rattled the room, and a bucket and a tray were set in the middle of the room. The footsteps were stopped. There was another breath in the room. I felt myself hold my own breath in anticipation for anything—a word, a movement, a fatal blow. Anything.
Then, whoever was there moved back towards the door and halted. There was a thought. I could hear it floating in the air like the way you can feel rain coming. Then I heard the words, "Christ, I'm gonna regret this."
The footsteps grew louder and closer. I was still holding my breath. My lungs were beginning to shrivel and sting. Then, I felt warm hands lift up my arms and pull me up but not roughly. Tears were still streaked down my cheeks. My vision was blurred and my lashes were crusted with dried tears. The person hauled the bucket of water over. And as one of the last rays of sundown slipped through a crack in the wall, I caught a glimpse of a face. It was a boy around my age. He was dressed in a stained white pirate's blouse with a brown leather coat over him. The coat was nearly threadbare in spots and was too big for him. A compass on a leather string hung lowly around his neck. The boy was barefoot, though a white rag was tied around his ankle. Then, as he came closer, I saw his face. His skin was golden, not withered like the others but seemingly soft and more durable than perceived. It was sun-kissed and dotted with the occasional freckle on his cheeks. The boy had unmade bronze-colored hair that constantly brushed over his eyes. A thin silver scar ran over his nose. But, what caught me breathless were his eyes. They were a warm, caramel brown, comforting me and reminding me of my father. But, his eyebrows furrowed over them with a quiet intensity.
He moved closer to me and knelt down by my side, sitting me in an upright position. He then took a small knife out of his pocket and a little gasp escaped my lips. He’s mad, I thought, He’s going to kill me.
Quickly, the boy pressed a hand against my mouth and pressed a finger against his own lips. He hushed me as I squirmed and squeaked under his hand.
"You mustn't speak, Miss Every,” he hissed, “If I'm caught here, I'll receive far worse punishment than you. I swear I’ll not hurt you.”
He looked into my eyes for some sort of sign that I wouldn’t become an issue. But, his voice rung in my head and nearly made me dizzy. He was English, but there was a relaxed, informal lilt in his voice as spoken like one conditioned by the abrasiveness of reality. I hadn’t heard a voice like his from any English boy his age. Coming back to it, I blinked back the fogginess in my head and tried to slow my breathing.
After deciding I wasn’t likely to do anything foolish, he continued, “I’m gonna remove my hand now, okay?"
My head made a slight movement to be accounted for as a nod. The boy removed his hand slowly, making quite sure I wouldn't scream out or any nonsense. When I stayed silent, he nodded to himself and released a held breath. Then, he set the knife to the fabric of his right trouser leg. I watched him with bewilderment as he cut a small rag out of the end of his trousers and soaked it in the bucket of water. Once the rags were dark with water, the boy looked at the mess of dried blood staining my ankles. Hesitantly, he touched the skin. I flinched, jerking my legs away from his hand. He pulled back, looking at me as if I was made of glass.
“Let me,” he said, barely a whisper, “I know what I’m doin’.”
I paused, nearly overtaken again by his folksy way of speaking. But, as he continued to watch me, I began to realize what he was trying to do. He was helping me. This stranger was helping me. Finally and without a word, I nodded again. He reached a hand and touched my ankle again. I only slightly flinched when his fingers grazed the cut. With his other hand, he fished out a wet rag and wrung it out. Then, his diligent hands did their best to cause as little harm as possible while cleaning my wounds. I winced several times, but I honestly didn't mind it. He apologized every time with a small wince himself. I watched him carefully as he worked. He really did know what he was doing, almost as if he’d been doing it all his life. Whoever this stranger was was my saving grace.
Once the blood was washed away, we could see the words carved into my ankles. The left leg messily revealed the word CAPTAIN while the right one revealed TEW. The instinctive urge to cry and vomit followed me after seeing the wounds in all their horrific glory. I had to turn my face away so as to not give in to the feeling. But, the boy quickly wrung out the wet rag, tied it around my left ankle, and tied another one around my right. It wasn’t so bad now. Now, I just looked like a beggar from the streets.
He gave a last dejected look at my wounds, sighed, and muttered, "The leftover blood should dry tonight. Before Tew comes in in the morn, hide the rags in your shirt or trousers. He sends me here every night to give you food, so I suggest you eat. Oh, and perhaps you should call him 'Captain' from now on."
With a soft grunt, he pushed himself off of his knees and stood. I watched him fix the leg of his trousers, turn and head towards the door.
Finding my voice finally, I spoke up hoarsely, "Who are you?”
He stopped at the door and turned his head. His shiny brown eyes met mine. Something inside of me sunk. He smiled just a little, his lips pink against the golden warmth of his skin.
"I'm just the cabin boy."
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Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Damn it, why couldn't I stop thinking?! Crouched in a ball, I ran my fingers over the knots of the damp rags, feeling the slightest bit better, safer. It was that bloody boy. The “cabin boy”. He looked scarcely older than me, but something in his intense gaze convinced me that his soul was middle-aged at least. The list of men I’d ever familiarized myself with was quite short. So, I knew for certain that I’d never been touched the way he touched me. So much care. Not an ounce of malice or selfishness. It was admirable, sure, but also ever the more terrifying. I did not know the boy. Hell, I didn’t even know his name. But, he knew mine. What more did he know of me? If he knew anything about me, why the hell would be helping me? Why would he risk his life like that? For the longest time, I’d been debating the question over and over in my head. But, I just couldn’t come up with a logical reason for his actions. Pirates like that didn’t exist. Pirates were cruel, self-centered, obscene, and salacious. And he was a pirate. None of it made sense.
As the night crept over the empty room, my thoughts drifted off out of my reach. So, keeping my eyes on the locked door, I snatched up the food tray consisting of maggot-ridden crackers and a biscuit with mold on one side. Father once explained that that was what pirates ate because food was scarce on a ship. I guess it really was true. Cautiously and doing the best I could, I picked the maggots out of the crackers and munched the stale things down. They sucked the moisture from my mouth and made me feel wholly unclean, filthy even. Food no longer tasted desirable but more like ash on my tongue. Yet, death was the last thing I wanted on my side, so I ate.
The night was calm, ocean waves rocking me as gently as a mother would. On the deck above my head, I heard soft singing from the crew. Though, that didn’t help my drowsiness either. My head rested on the softness of my arms while the rest of me laid on the cold, hard floor. The stinging of the cuts had now faded to only a dulling throbbing. And as I tried to sleep, I imagined myself relaxed on a white ship deck, my feet swinging off the side and the cool breeze of autumn curling in like smoke from a flame. It certainly had been a warm autumn this year. The coolness of this November night air no longer put fear in my heart but a touch of calmness. Or I was mad. I was mad. Why should I have felt so serene, so calm? I’d been kidnapped and I surely had torture in my approaching future! The likelihood of my death was so dramatically high as were the odds that I'd never set eyes on my father again. Why smile? Why even rest?
Yet I easily did, and no regrets troubled me for the remainder of the night in that lonely, unforgiving ship.
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