What will we do with a thankless caller?

What will we do with a thankless caller?

Early in the morning!

Drop 'em and forget 'em

Early in the morning!

Hand 'em to the law man

Early in the morning!

- Tavern shanty recorded by the Great Geoffry Ginte

Plucky was the most predictable thing in his life. Even if her hold was filled with all manners of grumpy farm animals this time in the morning, courtesy of Port Regate's generosity from days earlier. He had been exaggerating then, he didn't want roast, and after an evening smelling all manners of burnt things, it turned him off meat entirely for days. But he couldn't help but grin widely, watching as Perre attempted to coax Goatsby back into her pen. She was almost black except for a white mark on her flank shaped like a horseshoe, which was why Jori kept her. It was definitely not because she produced milk, she was opinionated. Like this morning, when she was having none of being told where to go and attempted to eat the unfortunate Perre's beard. At that Jori decided he ought to intervene and spare the man his dignity. It only took Perre seven months to grow the thing on his face, the crew would never hear the end of it if Goatsby shaved it off.

"You are so generous today, Captain," Giersa remarked, beaming, when the whole kerfuffle was resolved.

Giersa was wrong, Goatsby was bribed with a carrot and therefore won.

"I thought I told everyone not to call me Captain," Jori muttered, but he didn't have the heart to keep on correcting the crew. It was a pleasant day at sea, the breeze was strong and steady, and if the crew wanted to entertain the delusion that he was the Captain then he'd let them.

He didn't want to dwell on it, but he did anyway, because being called Captain reminded him why he was here in the first place. For all he could call Plucky his home, she wasn't his. Plucky was his father's ship, and it was her sails on the horizon that had young Jori running to the door and his mother rushing to pull off her apron and wash her hands. It was on one of these occasions that Jori had first seen Giersa, he'd opened the door and was then pulled into an enthusiastic hug that nearly knocked him over.

"What a strapping young lad!" Giersa had declared, turning to beam at Jori's mother. Jori had only caught a brief glimmer of something gold around the sailor's throat before a hand was being offered to his mother, "You must be quite the lucky lady, Mina. Captain Armad speaks so fondly of you!"

Jori's mother had given Giersa a very peculiar look, but she shook the russet hand that was offered to her, "You are sailing with my husband?"

"Mina!" his father was there, taking her into an embrace and pulling her into such a deep kiss that had Jori gagging. "My darling! I was so worried!"

"Worried about what?" his mother had scoffed, though her cheeks were pink and she took off his hat and tossed it into the corner, where Jori wandered over and put it on his own head. That was tradition, when his father was home, Jori wore the Captain's hat.

The hat question had been placed on Jori's head, it flopped over to the side and covered his eyes before he adjusted it to see his father sweep into the room. Amard had always been a presence. Jori had been too young to really understood why, and to this day he couldn't see what women, and some men, saw in his father. Amard was dark-skinned and brown eyed and entirely not like the paleness that was in fashion everywhere.

"Worried you'll be swept off your feet by another man," was the reply, all mirth, "worried that I'll find you've taken the house apart and sailed away yourself."

That remark had earned him a rather unsatisfactory, at least, in Jori's opinion, slice of pie that evening. He loved his mother's cooking, her pies in particular, and while he knew every step that she did by heart, it wasn't the same, the pies he made on the ship. He blamed the sea, and whoever was responsible for keeping his flour dry. Maybe it was usually one of the newer hands, they usually got the worst of the jobs on Plucky. They were also the ones who looked surprised when they found him cooking in the galley. To which he'd simply said that it was his ship and he could do whatever he liked on his own ship, if they disagreed they could get on their own ship or find a new Captain to sail under.

None of them did, of course, because for all his 'quirks', as Giersa would call them, he ran a fair ship. Not to the detail, he didn't do the scheduling of the jobs, it was Raphye who made sure everyone knew what they were doing. But he did not met out punishments, he didn't keep a whip on hand neither held food over the sailors' heads. No, he told them outright what he wanted, where he was going, and what they would get out of sailing with him. They were free to bail whenever they wanted, that was even in the contract they signed with him.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Though he suspected that the contact had since been minutely changed by Giersa. Under his father Giersa was the first mate and Jori felt no need to change the title. Giersa did their job well enough, though occasionally an unwanted task was hefted onto Raphye.

"The second mate," Giersa had said, clapping an annoyed Raphye on the shoulder. "Are you not happy with your promotion?"

"As happy as clams in Jori's pot," Raphye had muttered, adjusting his cap with more force than normal.

For all his faults on land, Raphye took everything seriously when his foot touched the Plucky. And it was his voice that Jori heard, telling off some poor unfortunate soul.

"Were you letting the cats in the Captain's cabin again? You know they're supposed to be earning their keep not basking in the sun."

The Plucky was usually home to three or four cats at a time, it was hard to say precisely how many, they came on board freer than the sailors, and could leave whenever they wanted. There were some ships that named their cats, even had little hats made for them but Jori rather liked Goatsby and thought it would be funny to dare a fellow sailor to dress the goat. He'd never had the opportunity for such a thing but it was a fun thought to entertain on occasion. Such as this one, when someone entered his father's cabin.

"No?" said the hapless man, shaking his head, "No, I didn't."

Everyone knew the Captain's cabin was off limits. Everyone. Ralphye should have told the green sailor that. He shook off the consoling hand Giersa offered him.

"Hmph. How peculiar," said Giersa, glancing at Jori with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't feel a sudden burst of nostalgia and waltz in did you?"

"Don't you think I would have locked the door behind me?" he said through gritted teeth.

Which he did the last time he walked in, double bolting the door behind him. It wasn't frequent, he never liked going into the Captain's cabin. The whole place felt and smelled like a mausoleum. He ignored the nagging thought that it was his own hand that kept it that way, a shrine to a man who clearly vanished. There were little seashells Jori had given Amard on the desk along with carefully folded letters from both Jori and Mina. His father's clothes were still neatly folded in the heavy oak chest by the bed, his hat still balanced precariously on the wooden chair by the writing desk. It was as if Amard had simply gone out for a walk and would soon return.

The choice words being, 'as if', Amard had not been seen in over ten years.

"Are you thinking again?" said Giersa, tapping his shoulder. "Please, stop. The last time you had a thought we all suffered through ten days' worth of burnt pies and biscuits."

"You know I don't like anyone going in there!" Jori snapped, slamming his hands onto the wooden railings.

Giersa's eyes softened, and the hand that was on his shoulder rubbed soothing circles, "Look, we can have a look and see what the cats have done to Amard's bed. I'm sure nothing terrible happened."

"Please tell them to keep away," Jori said, clenching his hands into fists. “I thought I'd told you to say that."

"I'll make sure Raphye hammers it into their thick heads," Giersa offered, delegating again, because no doubt Giersa was done explaining to people why he reacted so badly.

He walked towards the door with Giersa at his heels and closed it with a heavy thud after him. At first he heard nothing, then something scuttling noises in the direction of the bed, and both of them looked at the pristine bunk at the same time. Jori, because he knew that the sheets didn't make noises, and it was too heavy for a cat.

"I thought cats like the sun," Giersa remarked. "Eh, who knows what goes in the minds of wee beasts?" Giersa shrugged, "Oi, get out, you little bastards," said Giersa, clapping loudly, "Shoo! Shoo!"

When there was no movement or scuffle from beneath the bunk Giersa shrugged and looked at Jori. He nodded, and Giersa silently walked over and pulled the sheet aside to reveal a haggard looking figure. Well, that was being rude, Jori supposed anyone would look faint if they'd gone for how many days without adequate food or drink. There was a small cloth bundle she had by her head, for a pillow, he supposed, but he doubted she accounted for drinking. No passenger ever accounted for water when they boarded a ship. He scowled, no wanted passenger.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, even as Giersa offered the woman a hand to get up.

She swayed, and Giersa motioned for him to get her a chair, Amard's chair, and Jori shook his head. This earned him a scowl, and Giersa motioned for the woman to sit on Amard's bed instead.

"You want a drink, lass?" said Giersa, holding out a waterskin and at the other woman's hesitation, added, "it's water."

Jori scowled, and refused to look at either of their faces. Of all the ships to board, she chose this one? Then he frowned, and took in her appearance. He'd thought she was wearing a dress, layer upon layers, like all the fancy ladies did, but no, it was one of those new-fangled fashions they had in stock the last time Jori had bothered docking at a rich port city. The man selling them had proudly proclaimed that it would show off that you didn't just have a wife. You had the wife. The fabled dufois, those who were both male and female and treated more like things than people. Jori had been nauseated by the display and nodded his agreement for Perre to pelt the man with the fancy half-eaten pie the sailor had in his hand.

So they had a stowaway that was the prized treasure of whatever lucky man that lived on Port Regate. Brilliant, just brilliant, the man, a rich one no doubt, would no doubt raise a stink about the whole thing and call a bounty. He scowled, crossing his arms and glaring at the dufois. Wouldn't they be happier dancing or whatever it was that rich wives do in their spare time? They certainly had the physique for it. Then he stopped himself because he was thinking like one of the rich men that paraded their wives about and he was not one of them. But there was no room on the Plucky for someone running away from their life with a rich man and his purse in pursuit. The Plucky could only risk outrunning and outgunning so many ships.

"This isn't one of King Hamund's ships?" said the dufois, handing back Giersa the waterskin with a grateful smile.

"Sorry lass," said Giersa, before Jori could splutter out an incredulous response at that ridiculous question, "You're on the Plucky and we don't sail for no King. No merchant either," Giersa added, sounding sympathetic.

The dufois's blue-grey eyes widened, and in a voice that spoke of complete bewilderment said, "But— but— what kind of pirate names their ship Plucky?"

"It's not a pirate ship!" Jori exclaimed, as Giersa cackled.

"We're not pirates either," Giersa said kindly. "Though you'd best get out from under there before Captain Jori pulls out the bucket and mop."

"I told you not to call me Captain!"

Giersa ignored him, "And he doesn't like being called Captain."