When first we meet our hero, he is in the Captain’s quarters hard at work practicing the harpsichord – cursing under his breath as he does so because, due to either the humidity or the salty sea air or the jostling of the waves, the dratted harpsichord is always out of tune. Despite that fact, Warren has always felt a strange, inexplicable draw to the instrument that, up until the time he discovered it in the Captain’s quarters a few years back, had only been used as a decoration that the Captain had chosen for his rooms in order to make himself look more deep and well-rounded.

More practical for a life at sea were Warren’s dear banjo and accordion, both of which he could rival the most seasoned professional at in a musical duel. Not so with the harpsichord, though, but still Warren plugged away at the thing with equal parts love and frustration. The Captain let him have pretty much unlimited access to the instrument through the day because it meant that at least Warren was out of his hair, which was more than the Captain could say of the rest of Warren’s family.

You see, Warren’s family was a traveling theater troupe, and they had been, for the past few years, paying the Captain to transport them about the seas to different ports of call; the money they paid was just enough for the Captain to overlook the fact that they were a very annoying lot. Warren’s father, a tightrope walker named Bernard, was always climbing up into the rigging to practice his craft; Warren’s mother, Emily, a fire eater, was a positive menace on the deck; the Captain had assigned a crew member with a bucket of water to follow her around whenever she was practicing -- the very last thing that they needed was to have the sail or mast or other ship bit burst into flames. And Warren’s sister Corrine was very irritating due to the fact that she, as the playwright and poet of the family, was always traipsing around reciting her poetry, or distracting the crew by asking their advice about whatever scene she was working on – and, since she was a young lady, much of the crew was so infatuated with her that they would literally drop whatever they were doing in order to help her out. It is a problem when crewmembers on ships will literally drop whatever they are doing while on the job; dropping a rope before a knot is properly secured can result in a boom or sail smacking another crewmember in the face; dropping a cannonball before it is in the cannon can result in a hole in the deck; and dropping one’s hold on the helm can result in the ship meandering off course while the person in control of steering is instead helping Corrine find a good rhyme for ‘purple’.

So, the Captain was more than happy to give Warren access to the harpsichord in his quarters since it meant that Warren was out of the way. And the general ruckus of the crew hollering and running around doing their ship sailing stuff meant that they could barely even hear the horrible sound, which was a bonus.

On the day we meet him, Warren was plinking away at the keys, when he heard the pitter patter of rain hitting the deck above him and then some thunder off in the distance, which meant his family would be busy above.

Warren’s family loved storms. His father would be climbing into the rigging because he liked to practice his balance in adverse weather, his mother would be practicing keeping fire burning in the rain, and his sister would probably be climbing into the crow’s nest to soak up the feeling of the dramatic forces of the stormy sea – she found storms to be quite inspirational. Warren himself loved storms too; they were quite motivating for composing banjo music. He usually sat on deck as the rain poured own, playing frantic tunes that made the already-anxious crew downright jumpy. Thunder sounded again and Warren stood to go find his banjo.

Meanwhile, up on deck, it was apparent to Captain and crew that a storm was a’brewin’. A nor’easter. I wish I could think of more seafaring apostrophe-riddled words. “Tell the passengers to stay down below!” barked the Captain to his first mate, Biggby. The Captain knew only too well how the family behaved during storms, and since this storm was looking like it was shaping up to be a pretty bad’un he didn’t want his crew to have to deal with dodging a tightrope walker in the rigging, a fire eater on the deck, and a daydreaming poet in the crow’s nest, all while being regaled by a wild banjo tune from the boy. The captain scanned the fast-approaching, menacing black clouds and said, “Move, Biggby!”

Warren was just exiting the Captain’s Quarters when he was shoved back in by Biggby, who was walking past on his way to find his family. Biggby barked, “Stay in there!” then slammed the door. Warren narrowed his eyes with annoyance at the slammed door, but he knew better than to try to venture out again – Biggby was super scary when he was mad.

Warren sauntered over to the porthole to watch the storm. Then he heard the door open again, and turned in time to see Biggby fling his sister unceremoniously into the room before slamming the door shut again.

As she caught her balance and brushed off her dress, looking miffed, they both heard the door being locked from the outside.

“A storm’s a’brewin’?” Warren asked.

“Must be,” she growled with annoyance and sat down, glaring at him as though he was the one who’d pulled her from where she’d been basking in what little was left of the sunshine composing poetry, without so much as a “Sorry about that! Captain’s orders!”

“Geez, don’t look at me like that,” Warren muttered.

“These people, Warren, are downright brutish,” she said crankily.

“Well, they are pirates,” he pointed out.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Still, I mean, mom and dad are paying them good money to transport us around. You’d think it would be money enough to earn us a bit of respect.”

“I think it has earned us a bit of respect,” Warren said. “You know how they treat people who don’t pay them.” The deal that they had struck with the pirates years back was simply this: the pirates attacked and raided the smaller ships and got all the spoils, but for the bigger ships (the ones that would be harder to raid successfully anyway) the pirates pulled down the Jolly Edmond (Fritillary didn't have a Jolly Roger), masqueraded as roadies (seaies?) for the troupe so the family could perform their plays and songs and acts, and the pirates got a 25% cut of those profits. In return, the family got room and board, and a much more streamlined mode of transportation than they would otherwise have been able to afford, thus enabling them to reach more ships, get more money, and gain a greater fan base.

Corrine was silent a moment, thinking back to what she’d glimpsed through her porthole as she had watched what she could of the pirates’ most recent raid. “True,” she said at last with a shudder. “Good point.”

Warren went back to studying the sheet music at the harpsichord, and she ambled over to sit beside him at the bench. “Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, just trying to figure out this--“

The door was unlocked once more, and they both looked up to see their father being pushed into the room, balancing stick still in hand. They had clearly grabbed him from some quality practice time in the rigging, and he had grudgingly allowed himself to be hauled into the Captain’s Quarters.

They were then joined by their mother, who, not knowing her children were in the room already, yelled some inappropriate things at the pirates on the other side of the door before turning, seeing she had an audience, and joining her family in a short awkward silence – the kids burst out laughing, she said it wasn’t funny, then they were all silenced by a mighty crack of thunder which sounded as though it must be right above them. Seconds later, shouts of alarm and much scurrying from the deck suggested to them that something on the ship was amiss; a moment later, the mast cracking at its base and crashing into Captain’s quarters, bringing down the ceiling all around them and covering them in splintered wood, debris, and rain confirmed their suspicions that all was not well.

When the dust settled and they’d all stopped panicking enough to take stock of the situation, it was discovered that their father, Bernard, had a cut across his forehead, Corrine had a pretty deep sliver in her left hand, their mom was OK if a bit flustered, and a bit of the harpsichord was smashed.

Oh yeah, and Warren was pinned to the floor under a fallen ceiling crossbeam. His right arm appeared to be pretty darn broken. Bernard and Emily stayed with him while Corrine scurried off to ask for help, but, no matter how much she begged the pirates, they said they couldn’t help yet. They were all so busy with their own injuries or with discerning whether to save or abandon ship that they weren’t available to help move the beam, which was too heavy for the family to deal with on their own.

“Get me the doctor!” Warren hollered, staring with horror at his arm. The pirates didn’t really have a doctor per se on board; more of a guy who had figured out through trial and error how to fix typical pirate injuries like stab and slash wounds and minor bone breaks (nothing like what Warren was dealing with). The pseudo-doctor was named Brock, and the Captain had christened him the doctor of the ship mainly because he thought it would be cool to be able to call him Doc Brock.

“Honey,” said Emily as she sat beside her son, worriedly patting his arm. “That man is a quack. You don’t want his help.”

“But we have to do something, Ma!”

“Sweetheart, remember we’re not in the middle of the ocean. We are in the Bay of Fritillary. Your father can take a lifeboat to shore once the water has calmed down a bit and he can find a real doctor.” She was really quite relieved that, if this accident was going to happen, it had happened near the capital instead of out in the middle of nowhere with no one but Doc Brock to help.

“I want help NOW!” he yelled.

Pacing around the rubble, Bernard said, “I don’t think we’re supposed to move the beam – I think it could make things worse-- son, we can’t help you – we have to get a real doctor--“

“Dad, sit down,” Corrine said from her perch on some rubble nearby. “You’re hyperventilating. Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths.”

He nodded and did as she suggested, then she said, “Guys, seriously, let’s stay calm. I think dad is right, we don’t want to move that beam until a doctor is here. And I think we are all in agreement that Doc Brock should be kept far away from Warren.”

Her mother nodded at her, her father (with his head still between his knees) said some muffled thing that didn’t sound argumentative, and Warren looked at her beseechingly, hoping she was about to come up with some fabulous plan.

“I think mom’s right -- the only thing to do is row to shore as soon as we’re able and get a real doctor. Dad and I can go, and, Mom, you stay here with Warren and make sure Doc Brock doesn’t come near him.”

Bernard, Emily, and Corrine all concluded that this was their only alternative. Warren was in shock at this point, so no one took it personally when he yelled at them and told them what a stupid idea it was. To the backdrop of Warren’s addled ranting and the crew’s yelling, the family sat back in the rain and made themselves and Warren as comfortable as they could as they waited for the sea to calm enough for them to row into the city.

But after just few minutes of that trash, Bernard hopped up and said, “Come on, Corrine, let’s go. Those waves aren’t so bad.” But he wasn’t looking at the waves; he was looking at Warren, who had stopped ranting and was looking way too pale and still as the rain fell steadily down onto his vacant face.

Corrine had been watching her brother the whole time too, getting steadily more and more concerned, so when her father suggested that they go she was on her feet in a moment, ready to put aside all reason and safety, and row to the city even though the storm was still a’ragin’.

“The waves will make it so we’ll barely have to row,” Bernard said optimistically, “and then if we can just get to the city we can wait out the storm while looking for a doctor, instead of waiting here doing nothing while things calm down.”

Corrine nodded and looked to her mother who sat with Warren, looking indecisive. Sure the waves would do most of the work getting them to shore, but the real problem was how to safely dock the rowboat once they got there. “I-- I don’t know--“ Emily said, and bit her lip.

“Mom,” Corrine said, looking significantly at Warren, “We don’t have a choice. We can’t wait.”

After a long moment, Emily nodded a small, nervous nod. Bernard and Corrine gave her hasty hugs goodbye, and then they were off.