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Glen
Gish cures, for seasickness
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There is a lot of rope on a ship. As much, Glen thought, seeing sailors moving about placing more of it, made in heavy coils, under masts and next to toolboxes, as any other material aboard, other than freakin’ wood. The problem with rope was, other than the occasional need for it when a person is confronted with a difficult climb up a window or an estate’s high wall, it wasn’t useful for anything else.
Not so much.
Not so thick.
“Never knew, Lord Reeves had a grandson,” Captain Aron Gray said, deep voice breaking through the ship’s noise and the sound of the waves. He’d long white hair, caught at the nape and a same color rich beard that covered half his face and neck. Eyes black and intense, but his appearance refined, his leather navy coat of excellent quality. “And I know the man and his son as well… knew him I suppose, the latter.”
“His mother died in childbirth,” Sir Emerson explained. “But Glenavon recognized him afore he died, as his own.”
Glen nodded, by now well trained in this particular deception.
“You’re a Gray from Greywood?” The knight asked, steering the conversation away. He knew these sort of details about the nobility, all the known names and families, pretty well.
Glen had to give him that at the very least.
“Aye. You caught it right Sir Knight. My family left when the Issirs claimed the place. Moved to Raoz, to live among Lorians.” The captain replied politely.
“Why not Regia?”
“Regia was plunged into a civil war then. Raoz seemed the better place to raise a family.”
“Someone should gather all these personal stories,” the knight said, “Make a history out of them. More people should learn how the Lorian Kingdoms were birthed. It would be illuminating.”
Aron shrugged his shoulders, eyes on the dark blue expanse and the distant mist over the waves coming from the south.
“Nobody cares to stir the pot and disturb the High King,” He replied, his meaning obscure, but still borderline treasonous. “If the nobles aren’t willing to risk their necks, why should the people? It’s the fools that get hung.”
Glen thought it an excellent point.
And another usage for rope, he hadn’t thought of.
The last part, also a solid piece of advice.
Don’t be a bloody fool.
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“What do you mean?” Glen asked the Knight, after they squeezed through the narrow quarter-deck hatch to reach their shockingly small cabin. He’d found more room inside a water barrel. Glen shuddered at the memory. Twas it a close call. “It’s a big ship! What do they use, the rest of all that space for?”
“A merchant ship,” Sir Emerson said, repeating his previous answer. “Most of it, is cargo holds. No surprise there." Seeing him getting ready to sit on the bunk, he added. "You shall take the upper bed.”
Glen grimaced, seeing how close his head would be to the ceiling.
“Why?”
“You’re more nimble,” The knight paused, seeing his expression. “What is the matter with you? Feeling sick?”
He was, terribly so. The floor under his feet had started dancing.
“Is this normal?” Glen asked, green in the face.
“I don’t know,” The knight answered, not looking much better himself and quickly followed him outside.
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The captain explained to Sir Emerson that they would face some weather, but nothing untoward, until they make the turn and cut through the Krakentrap Straits. All straight sail from there, the man said, towards the Shallow Sea. Glen heard some of that, busy puking down the poop deck, until by the fourth time the young man realized he’d nothing more to expel, his stomach empty.
He raised his head, face and hair moist, eyes smarting from the seawater and put his back on the rail, to take a couple of deep breaths.
“It helps,” The huge Northman said, looking almost as wretched as he did, long red hair covering half his face, the rest of it lost, under his impressive beard. “Breathin’ hard.” He thought about it some, small eyes narrowing. “And ale. But I haven’t found it… yet.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Glen said, pulling slowly away, until his shoulder touched another warm body and recoiled in panic. Two red-rimmed eyes stared at him, tiny holes where a nose should’ve been, shaded by an explosion of pink curls and accompanied by the naughtiest grin, Glen had ever seen on a woman.
“Boo.”
The weird girl said mockingly.
“The fuck… how did you pop up—”
Whisper Jinx used the pinkie on her left hand to clear something lodged in her front teeth, and finger-flicked his nose once with her right, a tap with no strength on it to stop him talking.
“There will be no fucking,” She said, voice firm.
Glen blinked once, dumbfounded.
His nose smarting, but not more than his pride.
“What does this have to do—”
“Are you sick now?” She asked casually.
Glen paused, face flushed, lock of wet hair in his eyes. He pushed it back with a hand and breathed once easy, the sickness gone.
“No. What does this—”
“You can thank me now,” Jinx replied.
“For what?” Glen exploded, not getting it. Her constant interruptions infuriating. “Are you insane?”
She stopped mid turn, as she was just about ready to leave and stared in his face.
“My ways are better, than his,” Jinx explained, pointing to her nostrils. “Ye just have to get smacked once right there, when you’re small. No Gish, ever gets seasick again. Second best treatment actually.”
“A Gish?” Glen asked, wanting to smack her hard in the face. Right at the nostrils.
“Island people. Very social,” Jinx droned.
“What’s the other treatment?” Glen asked, with a tired sigh.
“Fucking,” The Gish deadpanned and sauntered away.
A seething Glen watched Jinx sway her arse all they way to the bottom of the quarter deck’s stairs.
“I’m not small,” He murmured sourly, to no one in particular.
“Yeah, she’s right at that, little fella,” The big man said. “Although Zola believes, Pretty lies all the time. Um. So ye may have a point there.”
Glen stared at him blankly for a good while.
“Who the hell decided, to call her Pretty?” He finally asked, still frustrated.
Soren shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d hump her. Plenty of meat on that arse, considering her size.”
Right.
Glen pushed that mental image away.
An awkward moment later, he decided to wrap up their bizarre conversation.
“Well, I… ahm. I will see if there’s anything to eat,” He blurted out, after a couple of false starts. Apparently puking, had raised his appetite somewhat. Nothing much and he mostly said it, to get rid of the big man.
“Hah, that’s a great idea,” Soren agreed, smacking him on the back once. Hand as big, as a spade. No strength there though, same as Jinx earlier, but he did sent Glen tumbling, almost over the rail and into the sea. The Northman let out a roaring laugh at that. “Yeah,” He said, mind made up. “Little guy, all right.”
“You used too much force!” Glen growled, holding onto the rail, heart beating wildly in his chest.
“Nah.”
“You’re too fuckin’ tall!”
“Compared to what?” Soren asked troubled.
“Normal people?”
“Hmm.”
“You know I’m right.”
Soren sighed, after he paused long to think it through.
“I can’t figure stuff out, when I’m hungry. Especially numbers,” He said, sounding embarrassed.
And nonsensical.
“Wanna check the kitchen? I’m certain, we’ll find one thing we like.” Glen offered, seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere with him.
“Sure,” Soren replied, a pleased smile on his puke covered face. “But I’ll need more than one.”