I was a charnel creature by the time I got back to camp. I hadn’t the opportunity to wipe the blood and viscera off. It had all crusted and dried on my skin and pulled it taught. A couple of men collecting firewood caught sight of me on the outskirts of our camp. Suffice to say I caused quite the commotion. Hobbling on my captured shillelagh I painfully made my way back without any further trouble. I delivered my findings to the men. A single islander ship don’t know how many, not friendly. After that I was forgotten. There was an argument forming on what to do. We would outnumber the single crew but most of us were at sea. We had butchering tools but against spears and shields we would be slaughtered. But we didn’t know if the other crew was a group of belligerent fishermen or a well-armed warband. One half wanted to attack the enemy now, hit them hard and fast before they did. The other half wanted to dig in and sit tight, if we presented a difficult target, they hoped the natives would leave us alone.

I cared little for their immediate course of action. Instead I felt an all-consuming urge to be clean. Stripping off my soiled garments I walked into the surf heedless of the looming crisis. I rubbed myself raw in the briny waters. A sharp pain in my hands made me look at them. I discovered that I had cuts I had not noticed. My hands must have slipped on my knife during the confrontation. Drying off and dressing myself, I went back to my bedroll and rummaged through my belongings. I fished out the same ointment and boiled bandages I used yesterday. I dressed my hands and ankles again. I wished I had a flask of the first drop to clean my wounds. The cattails would do the job, but the poteen was far more potent. Tying off the final bandage I gave my work a last look. The ankle would swell and become more painful; I should keep it cold and put my weight off it. As I looked to my hands, I noticed that blood was still caked underneath my nails.

Sitting on my bedroll and picking at the crusted blood I began to feel hungry. I had received some curious looks for my actions but for the most part I was far more concerned about seeing to my own needs. As I ambled on my new shillelagh turned walking cane, it seemed like some sort of consensus was forming between the parties. Reaching our store of supplies I haphazardly rifled through the containers for something to eat. I found a half empty box packed with salt cod. Taking out a piece at random I closed the crate and sat on top of it. The cod was un-soaked so it unpalatable tough and salty, I gnawed at it anyway.

Absorbed in my efforts I was oblivious to the looks and passing comments I had attracted. Despite changing into a new shirt, I had no spare of britches. I was a mismatch of cleanliness nonchalantly snacking away in the middle of a whirlwind of action. Someone needed something from the stores and the man sent to fetch it took the opportunity to speak to me.

“You want something to go with that son?”

It took me a while to realize he was speaking to me. I was there but not quite all there if you understand.

“Oh. Yes.”

“Figures, that fish being salted to leather and all. There some biscuits in boxes by your foot. Should be alright, still give them a tap though.”

I found the biscuits the man had mentioned and tapped the brick like he recommended. Nothing happened so I went about working my teeth into it. Ah yes, ships biscuits. You call it hard tack in the south. The stuff is as tough as a brick if unsoftened. As for why I tapped it… I will leave it for you gentlemen to discover yourselves should you try. I sucked on the biscuit more than I chewed on it. Giving up on the brick I returned to the fish.

More men came and went from the stores. I overheard their chatter as I ate. A compromise had been reached. Most of the men would sit tight and make ourselves as difficult and imposing a target possible. In the meantime, a scouting party would take themselves up the hill I just came down from. More seasoned eyes would then get a better picture and decide on what to do next. Nobody had anything to say to nor looked for me. So, I finished my fish and pocketed the biscuit. I wasn’t particularly hurried in volunteering myself to be useful. My ankle was a source of pain and bad humor by that point. I decided that doing nothing was the preferable and best course of action.

Returning to my bedroll I watched the figures of the scouting party scramble up the hill. They had left with an assortment of knives and hatchets. Whatever they found would dictate what our next course of action was. Either way, I would not take part in any of it unless it got truly desperate. So, I sat by my things and got busy doing nothing.

I saw none of what happened next, but I was told later of the standoff at the hill. Turns out that the natives were as unsure of what to do as we were. Our scouts ran into their native counterparts just as they were reaching summit. More or less equal in numbers, neither side was keen to get stuck in. It was a stroke of luck that we claimed the summit before they did. Our scouts found that there were a lot more natives than us. They were forming up on their beach and had sent some ahead to get a sense of what lay before them. Ours had the sense not to run back screaming down our side of the hill. Instead they held their ground and denied the native scouts a better look at our camp. Look, outside of those blood mad young aristocrats, nobody wants to pick an even fight if they can help it. Our scout’s boldness was taken as confidence. They made the natives pause in their attack.

We had misled the enemy and had now reached a point the old imperials would call a crisis. Not the crisis in the modern sense. It originally meant the moment of razor edge of decision that divides success from failure. Cunning and audacity seized the opportunity. Creighton, one of the scouts, turned and began shouting and beaconing to some imaginary force behind him. The others caught on to his idea and began posturing aggressively towards the natives. They charged them off the hill without a fight. Men from our camp began ascending the hill to figure out what was going on. Long story short we ended up having a lot of our own standing single file on the ridge line. Denied the opportunity to get a better look, the natives were presented with the front rank of a presumably larger host.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

It was a good ruse. We held the high ground and set up stakes to look like spear points just behind the summit so that only the tips were visible. There were a few running skirmishes to keep the islander scouts from getting too close. The truth was that even if we had larger in numbers, we would have still hesitated in taking the fight. We were wolves, vicious predators but cowards at heart. Regardless it all worked. We had managed to hold off the natives until the afternoon. By that point we could see the sails of the Bright Lance and the Red Smile on the horizon. We suffered no losses nor inflicted any except for me. It was a battle of hurled stones and insults when our screening pickets met enemy scouts. Nobody wanted to commit to a potentially disastrous engagement.

I had spent the day in something of a daze. When I noticed the return of Wulfric and the whalers, I had found that my fingers were bloody. I had been picking away at the blood beneath my nails. I must have picked too hard. With little else to do, I gingerly rose to my feet and hobbled down to the beach. Wulfric was in a sour mood when he landed, so was I. Without a word he jumped off his ship and walked past me into camp. Quite literally no fish. They had sighted no fin nor tail on the grey and had been worked to the bone. I felt bitter about the whole experience and spat into the sand. I too walked away.

With the return of the crews they changed our entire situation. We now had the real numbers to consider confronting the natives. Wulfric mood had changed when he caught up with what was happening on the island. Despite the potential for disaster if he played this carefully there was the promise of profit. He was loud and boisterous once again. No long running raider is a complete fool. Wulfric could take the most audacious measures and force an uncertain conflict for guaranteed rewards. He could have sailed a ship around to the other side of the island, cutting off any retreat as the rest of us rushed the native camp. That would have been the best method in securing a prize. However, losses in crew was a cost he could not afford. Should things turn sour he would have a skeleton crew to finish the whaling season.

I will spare you the unnecessary details. He opted for a nighttime raid by land. It never happened. The natives must have come to a similar conclusion. Instead of taking a risky fight they turned tail and fled in the evening. A bloodless victory, and not one without its prizes. Once we were sure that the islanders were gone, we combed their beach for anything they left behind. From atop the hill what looked to be a grey boulder was a partially butchered carcass of a whale calf. The islanders must have taken it before they landed. They had done a shoddy job of harvesting its flesh and blubber. I suppose they were under duress of an impending Isle warband.

We ate well that night. Creighton was the hero of the hour. His quick thinking had scared off the natives and secured our first catch. I took my own trappings away from Wulfric’s fire and set myself up alone. I had no taste for talking, especially not for the raucous celebration taking place. I took my own share of flesh and kept to myself. Winston had dropped by to see how I was doing. I told him I was fine. He asked how I got my injuries. I told him I fell. He went off to join in the celebrations with his new friends. I knew I was being unfair. I just couldn’t muster enough emotion to care.

I had skewered my portion of meat and turned it over my fire. As the flames licked the cut, the outside burned whilst the insides remained raw. I was considering shaving off the done portions as it cooked, otherwise I would be left with nothing but a burnt dry husk.

“You should cut it into strips and have them over the fire. It will never get finished otherwise.”

The last person I had expected had come to my fire and squatted on his haunches. Oskar warmed his bony fingers by the fire. He hadn’t so much as said a word to me during our association. He unpacked a linen bundle he had bought with him. In it was a small cast iron pot he set over my fire. He then drew his dirk and sliced his portion of meat before skewering it. Setting a handful of oats to boil in the pot he continued to warm his hands.

“You shouldn’t cook over a burning fire either. You want the coals when they go white. Hotter that way.”

“Thanks…”

His appearance let alone advice was unexpected. The man was a highlander. Though he did not look the part, he had a soft burr to his accent. Frankly, he scared me. He was a mean bastard, as ruthless as they come but he took a liking to me. I think he saw in me what he saw in himself. A killer. The man had a reputation as the nastiest fighter around. So and so might be a better boxer or someone else a deadlier sword. Everybody agreed that in a fight to the death, Oskar would probably come out on top. He was the single most dirtiest fighter I had ever met. He was a survivor.

“You killed a man today.”

A statement. Not a question.

“I did.”

“With that knife?”

I nodded.

“Give it here.”

I unbuckled the heavy blade and passed it over to him. There was some stiffness as he drew the knife. I hadn’t cleaned the weapon before I sheathed it.

“Thought as much. You butchered him I wager. Cut him up slow, caught yourself on the ribs and just hacked away. Your bandaged hands say as much. I bet if we found the body his face would probably be a torn-up mess. Am I right?”

I said nothing. My silence was enough. Instead I took out my smaller penknife and prepared my dinner as he recommended. His advice was good, and the skewers were cooked evenly. I took out my uneaten biscuit and worked on it while I waited.

“You want to soak that or pound it in a bag before you lose your teeth.”

Not for the first time I was making a mental checklist of what to pack on a voyage. I suppose that despite all the unpleasant things that had happened, that there would be a next time. I could see that Oskar had packed his own essentials. I vowed that I would do so as well.

“I’ll share some of my tea if you let me use your pot.”

“Tea?”

“Willow and catnip.”

Willow was bitter and numbing, the catnip was calming and soothing. I took catnip infusions on nights I had trouble sleeping.

“Why not?”

We ate without much conversation. I saw Winston off in the distance, but he seemed like he was having a good time. I met eyes with Stan, but he looked away when he saw Oskar nearby. I had to admit the dour highlander was good company. I brewed the tea in the pot after it was cleaned out. I had not tasted real tea at that time, the leaves costed a fortune to import. Instead my time helping my father had given me a working knowledge of herbology. I doled out our shares and sipped mine from a loaned cup. The numbing bitterness was pleasant. Oskar took a sip and winced at the flavor, then he felt the numbing effect. I used a mixture of dried herbs and concentrated essences. The stuff was far more potent than what my father brewed. Oskar tipped some whisky into his brew. He must have found the stuff palatable because he finished his.

“Feels bad doesn’t it. But I don’t think you feel too bad about it. You’re a killer.”

“Frankly, I don’t care. I couldn’t give a damn. Not a single damn.”

My nails were bleeding again. I sat on my free hand and sipped away until I was comfortably numb.