image [https://i.imgur.com/ok3cF7c.png]

Down in the galley, Picaro felt the loss of his freedom. No more could he feel the wind through his hair atop the crow’s nest, or hear the murmur of the current as it lapped against the sides of the craft. He could no longer go where he pleased, for the crew were of one mind and they were determined to catch him if he left his post. Beside, Onion made sure he was plenty busy. There was always something to prepare or clean. The cook kept a close but kind eye on the boy.

Onion was a soft, round and jovial man. Picaro thought he sometimes looked like an onion in the way he was shaped in the belly, and wobbled as he walked. The cook always had a towel over one shoulder and often wore an apron tied around his waist. He was greying in the beard, and his hair thinning. His clothes were pocked with stains and burn marks. Yet most of all, he wore his characteristic smile. He enjoyed his work immensely, and it showed. Never was he not humming a tune as he bustled around his small galley.

At first, Picaro didn’t think there was room in there for the both of them. There was often a fire burning beneath a pot that swung above it as the ship rocked in the current. But Onion moved about the galley with a grace belying his stature, dodging passed the boy with ease as he prepared dishes in the hazardous environment. The cook never lost a step, nor his patience, and never raised his voice. He had cool command of his kitchen. And though he may not have looked it, he was perhaps the best man aboard with a knife.

“Here, look, this is how you peel them,” said Onion as he watched over Picaro’s shoulder. He stepped deftly beside the boy, nudging him gently aside. “Find a seam and start unraveling. There you have it. Anyone show you how to hold a knife afore?”

Picaro bit his lip but stood defiant. “I can handle a blade,” he said bravely.

Onion chuckled heartily. “This ain’t no blade for battle, laddy. It’s a cook’s tool. Only heart you’ll ever take with this is the heart of an artichoke. Deary me, that was a good one,” Onion wiped a tear from one eye. “Let me show you. Now, this is called the handshake grip. Hold your hand out like you’re going to shake my hand. Good. Now hold the spine of the knife here like this. Just two fingers, pointer and thumb. Okay, use the rest of your fingers to hold the handle like so. How’s that, well balanced, eh?”

Picaro tried it in his grip. The knife was big for his fingers, but he found he could hold it well enough. It did not feel too heavy for him. “I think I got it.”

“That you do. The other hand is to hold the food as you chop. Now tuck your fingers in like you got yerself a crab claw.” Picaro obliged, but couldn’t help but snicker at the idea of having a crab claw for a hand. Onion’s smile widened. “See, now hold it like so, and chop quick. But mind yer fingers. See, like so.”

Onion grabbed a real onion from the bunch, halved it, quartered it, and began to dice it into small pieces. The knife was a blur of motion as the cook dissected the onion into bite size bits with the speed and precision of a well-trained swordsman. Picaro’s eyes widened, trying to track its movements, but it was near impossible to follow. The large pieces of onion were quickly reduced, and the cook never came close to cutting his own fingers off.

“They don’t call me Onion for nothing,” he said, and winked. “That’s what’s called a dice. Now you try.” Picaro did, but his pieces came in many different sizes, jagged and lopsided. He moved slowly, too, for he was afraid he would chop his own fingers off if he went any faster.

“That’s good. Trust yer guide hand. You can’t cut yourself if you keep those fingers tucked. Rest the flat of the blade against yer knuckles. The weight is yer friend, laddy. Don't fight it. Go with it, see? Try another." Picaro did, and he went faster this time. “Aye, that’s it, you’re getting it. That’s a fine dice. Yer a killer crustacean now, that’s for certain.” Picaro snorted, and Onion laughed heartily.

Onion’s demeanor began to rub off on Picaro, who found himself humming tunes that came into his head, or that Onion put there. Picaro quickly discovered the kitchen was its own wonderland. Onion taught him how to tell when water was about to boil. How to clean, descale and skin a fish. He taught him how to how to carve a pig, and how to cook eggs. How to make soup and prepare cured meats. He taught him how to make remedies with herbs, which interested the boy greatly. He taught him fancy knife tricks, spinning the handle in his fingers so it whirled around his hand like a propeller.

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There was much to do and learn in the kitchen. The hours flew by into days and weeks. Picaro found he did not miss the main deck quite as much. Though, he still enjoyed the sights, sounds, and feeling of the wind. He continued to take his breaks in his various perches throughout the ship.

The boy began to find purpose and appreciate the feeling of hard work. He didn’t turn to mischief quite as often. His hands grew tougher from cooking and cleaning. The first time he burned himself, he nearly cried and stuck his hand in cold water for an hour. But after the seventeenth time, he merely stuck the finger in his mouth the way he saw Onion do and continued his work.

“Saliva helps the healing process,” said Onion. It seemed to work, the boy thought.

One day, as Picaro descended the steps, Onion stood there in a readied stance, holding a knife, grinning. He tossed the boy his own. Surprised, Picaro caught it deftly, but stood dumbly. “Now, how would you hold a real blade?” asked Onion.

Picaro thought for a moment, then swung the knife around in his grip so that the blade pointed out toward the side of his pinky, and would be pointed toward himself when he lowered his arm. Onion laughed and shook his head, straightening. “I thought you said you knew how to hold a blade. That’s won’t do you any good.”

“But it will let me parry better,” said Picaro, holding the knife up ready in his grip. “I’ll be able to counter you.”

“You think so? You’d be skewered before you realized your mistake. Always hold a blade out, point first. The closer the tip is to your target, the less distance it will need to travel. Think of it like an extension of your arm. A sharp finger.” Onion flashed out with the blade, taking a hunk of meat from the rack and flipping it onto the cutting board. Another stroke brought the blade slicing down with a weight stroke. The blade cut clean through and the meat fell into two pieces.

“A sharp blade does the work for you, see? Holding the blade the way you are, the minute you have to run, yer liable to stab yourself more than you are anyone else. I seen a man do it once. He thought he was just as sly as you think you are, too.” Onion smiled one of his characteristic smiles that made Picaro feel sheepish, but comforted.

Picaro flipped the knife in his grip so he held it out point first. “Like this?”

“Aye, and this time you want all your fingers on the handle. And see here, watch this.” Onion flipped the knife, holding the point between his fingers, and flung it at the wall. It bit into the wood, quivering like an assassin’s dagger. “Now you try.” Picaro did. The first few times, the blade hit the wall flat and fell awkwardly to the floor, tumbling over itself.

“Remember, the weight is still your friend here. The way you hold the blade will dictate how it hits your target. Let’s start easy, with a one spin throw. Feel the weight. Flip the knife in the air as you throw it,” said Onion. Picaro tried again, and the tip of the blade struck but glanced off the wood. “Not bad, lad. Try to put a little more into the next one.” With time, Onion taught him how to throw a knife, and also how to defend against a knife attack.

"Nothin's certain in a knife fight, savvy? Never let a man get close. It's nearly impossible t'defend. Once he gets inside, the blows will come in bunches. Best thing I know to do is grab a towel like this, and wrap it around the blade if y'can, or at the wrist. Wrist control, that's what we need." Onion managed to wrench the blade free from Picaro’s hand in a deft motion. "See, now you try."

Picaro laughed. "Is that why you always carry that towel around?"

Onion gave him a wink. "Never know when I might need to turn a pot, or maybe a blade."

“How do you know all this?” asked the boy as he practiced a few strokes and then put the knife aside to begin his morning chores.

Onion looked out through the small window of the galley to see the ocean lapping against it in the bright morning light. The sea was dazzling, the sun shimmered off its faceted waves. “You don’t live to be as old as I am without learning a few knife tricks, laddy. I’ve had me own share of glory. Else I wouldn’t be here aboard this ship. I’d have chosen a quieter place to retire if that were the case.”

“Yeah? But why not go somewhere quieter, more peaceful?

“And be at the whim of some dullard? Nay, that ain’t me. The life of a free man, it’s intoxicating, isn’t it? Once you get a taste, you can’t get enough. Ye know what I mean?”

Picaro nodded, staring far off. “Yeah, I do.”