The main deck was shrouded in ropes and sail. The Sea Star was so long and big there was hardly an unobstructed line of sight from fore to stern. The ship’s crew were about a steady business of sailing and maintenance but it was hard for the Ascendant to know what the crew did.

The prisoner jumped to his feet. He said, “But why is the shadow here and not there? It doesn’t make any sense! There’s no sun!” He had taken ill. His stomach felt like a thousand pounds.

Riz said, “No, sir. The light comes down from the sunset like a waterfall.” Riz pointed again to the sketch he’d made as if one more glance would finally convince the prisoner that the Sea Star’s science spurning shadows were in good order.

Riz was alive five centuries earlier than the prisoner and the prisoner couldn’t debate the man, not for lack of trying, so he walked away. The prisoner felt horrible. He was drinking and eating but his bowels hadn’t moved since Twelve gave him that stinking gourded potion. His hands were a deathly taupe shade. He couldn’t get a straight answer out of the crew and the other Ascendant were uniformly too uneducated or too mystical to make any sense when the prisoner tried to rationalize things.

Ishikawa, who had been a samurai and a nobleman in Japan’s Tokugawa shogunate, and had studied in the Portuguese school in his prefecture, was regaling Rosalie and two other women with tales of battle and intrigue when it happened. The world’s worst, most cavernous sloppy roast beef fart escaped the prisoner’s backside. Ishikawa’s hawkish features contorted into a mask of disgust.

Rosalie said, “Oh my!”

A few others made their similar sentiments known with lesser but varying degrees of tact.

The prisoner smelled it and it was the worst of his life. It was the worst by far. He threw his hands up in frustration. He pointed at Ishikawa. “I mean how the fuck does he speak English? And you, French caveman, how the fuck do you speak English?” There was another group of three black men and a black-looking woman looking at him. The prisoner waved his hands angrily at them and said, “He literally invaded Spain from Africa and he speaks perfect fucking English, man! I mean... what the fuck!?”

Then he realized he’d soiled his britches too. A slow, wet slop worked its way down his trouser leg. He considered the disgust turning to pity on the faces around him and felt ashamed. “I’m sorry about that, y’all.” Not knowing where he could clean himself, he headed belowdecks. He wanted to see Twelve again.

Just before the prisoner reached the hatch, a sailor in the rigging yelled, “Arrr! Poseidon give us a breeze!”

When the prisoner turned to mount the ladder he saw his trail on the deck. It was something like uncooked sausage links and blood. He missed his handhold on the ladder, slammed his chin on the third rung, and fell down the shaft to land in another ghastly, poopy fart explosion.

The carpenter’s mate dropped his work planing a new hull plank. “Careful tharr, master, ye— Oh, have mercy on me all ye fish in the sea!” He covered his nose and mouth with an oil cloth. “Are ye shipshape, master?” The mate kept his distance. Then he stepped back.

The prisoner groaned, “Would you get Doctor Snacks Bar for me, please?” The prisoner thought his jaw was broken but he didn’t want to check because his hands were covered with mess. His trouser britches ripped in the fall. He said, “Twelve, I mean. The red man.”

“Aye, arrr.” The carpenter’s mate avoided the second hatch at the prisoner’s feet and climbed down another ladder at the back of the hold.

Shadows danced around the prisoner. Several heads were visible at the top of the ladderwell but he couldn’t see their faces for the light streaming down behind them from blackest night. Rosalie yelled, “Are you ok? It looked like you fell.” Her voice sounded funny because she was holding her nose.

The prisoner said, “Don’t come down here.”

Ishikawa laughed. As if.

“Are you ok, love?”

The prisoner looked at his hands and felt the throbbing in his chin. “No, Rosalie. I don’t think I am.”

A voice he didn’t recognize asked, “Dost thou require aide, comrade?”

“Outta my way, yous,” a burly sailor jostled past Rosalie and the others. He slid down the ladder despite the prisoner’s protestations.

The burly sailor said, “Yer right messy thurr, master. Yarr, ya are.” The sailor nudged one of the prisoner’s chunks with his boot. “Ne’er saw a sick passenger ‘fore. Narr! Narr, not a one.” He looked at the prisoner as if expecting an answer. The crisscrossed creases in the sailor’s furrowed brow cracked the leather skin from eyes to scalp. The prisoner heard the whispers of whomever Rosalie was with.

The sailor pressed the prisoner. “Mr. Bicklesworth woke ye from yon nap did he?” The prisoner looked away and the sailor raised his voice, “Yarr er narr, tell me now!”

The prisoner made a show of wiping his hands on his ruined britches. The sailor kicked him in the foot and bellowed, “Dammit! I’m the sailing master o’ this ship and I’ll know my heading.” Then he added in a tone of reconciliation, “Yarrr, I will.” He tossed the prisoner one of the carpenter’s oil rags. “Was it ye who napped and yet remain? Answer you me.”

“Yarrr! ‘Twas I,” the prisoner answered.

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A great smile spread across the sailing master’s fat, wrinkled face. “Yarrr! Methought ‘twere ye!”

The prisoner realized he didn’t feel so bad once the embarrassment was wearing thin. He said, “Yarrr!”

The sailing master yarred again and a few enthusiastic yells of, “Yarrr,” came down from above.

The sailing master tucked his fat ogre’s thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his boot heels. “Yarr, yer alright, matey.” He looked around. “Were Mr. Woodwright in ‘ere when ye entered?”

The prisoner didn’t know who Mr. Woodwright was. He said, “He went to go get the doctor.”

The prisoner stood up and ignored the flow of bodies from his trousers. The sailing master frowned at the aromatic wave but stood unflinchingly. “C’mere, young master. Wasser name?” The prisoner told him that he couldn’t remember, and the sailing master introduced himself as Mr. Black. Mr. Black offered his hand in a startling display of poor hygiene. The prisoner wiped his hand one more time with the rag and shook Mr. Black’s hand which was like a mooring cleat hanging five wood bananas.

Mr. Black said, “Garr, tharr,” and pointed to his own chin. “Ye’ve got a wee thing ‘anging free.” He reached out his other hand and plucked something from the prisoner’s face. In Mr. Black’s hand, the prisoner saw his chin.

“Good sir! I’ll not have the ship’s crew scouring the flesh from my wards!” Twelve burst into the room in a brilliant red flash. The spastic motion would have reminded the prisoner of Kramer from Seinfeld if he could have remembered, but he could not. Dr. Twelve said, “Remand that flesh to me this instant Mr. Black,” and stomped his foot emphatically. “Harumph!” Mr. Black tossed the chin to him, wished them both good day, and climbed abovedecks.

The sails hung slack but the clouds showed that the wind would pick up soon. The smell lingered and Rosalie walked away from it which was hard to do with no wind. A few of the ship’s crew and more than a few Ascendant made their way to observe the prisoner’s leavings. Rosalie walked all the way to the bow and even leaned forward a little trying to smell the salty blue water. It wasn’t far enough and she walked toward the stern. She went down the stair from the forecastle to the main deck, then down another stair to the waist of the ship where the gunnel became a bulwark.

On the Sea Star’s waist, Rosalie took note of an eccentric man and her rush slowed to a meander. He was an older man with a peg leg, an eye patch, and a hook hand. He advised some discipline for half a dozen men, all replete with limbs, hoisting a cargo net through an open deck plate. He said, “Altogether now, lads! Put yer backs into it!”

The man looked at Rosalie and she felt awkward when he caught her looking at his eye patch instead of his one good eye. He said, “The poopdeck.”

Rosalie said, “Yes, excuse me. I was trying to get away from it.”

“Narr, lass. The poopdeck is where ye wanna be. Abaft o’ da quarterdeck.” He pointed the way she was heading and shooed his nose.

“Yes, the poopdeck.” She’d heard the term before.

The men drawing the cargo heaved again and most of the big net appeared. It looked very heavy and she counted four blocks in the rigging. Ben would have liked that. He was an engineer. He had been.

The man sunk his hook into the net. When he pulled it, a crane arm that Rosalie didn’t notice at first creaked. The man leaned into it and pushed with his peg leg while balancing on the good foot. He said, “Watch out, lass. ‘Tis heavy, aye.”

“Oh, of course, excuse me.” The great old winch creaked and swiveled toward her as she took a few steps back. The sound of the wooden joints’ twisting soothed and distracted her.

“Alright, lads,” he said. The ropes went slack and the load dropped onto the deck. As the slack went from the net’s drawline, a few things spilled here and there. The peg-legged man began to hobble aforeships.

Rosalie stopped him. “Sir? Sir, excuse me?”

He turned and gave her an inquisitive eye.

“Hello, I’m Rosalie.”

He nodded.

“And you are?”

“They call us Lefty. Aye, so they do.”

“Oh dear! I see.” The man’s left leg, left hand, and left eye were missing and the moniker seemed in good agreement with her general impression of business aboard the Sea Star. “May I ask what task you men have at hand?”

“Yarr,” Lefty replied and left it at that.

“I’ve just noticed that the crew keep so busy, but our destination is so far away. What’s in these bags?” She waved to the net where Lefty’s lads sorted the swag.

“Oh, aye! What’s in the bags is a mystery, young master lady. ‘Ave a look if it’ll make ye right.”

“I can have a look?”

Lefty said, “Aye. We’re ‘ere at yer service. Do as ya please.”

Rosalie liked the sentiment but knew it wasn’t entirely true. The Ascendant weren’t to go belowdecks uninvited, they weren’t to cross the cordon on the quarterdeck, and even then they weren’t to linger on the quarterdeck where the captain and bridge crew drove the ship. Bicklesworth had been rather keen on that. He’d said, “And don’t ye linger! Narr, narr, narr! No lingerin’!!!”

She squeezed into the fray of sailors stacking the bags and barrels. She introduced herself making pleasantries and the sailors did the same.

“Yarrr.”

“Yarrr.”

“Hurrr.”

“Durrr.”

Rosalie picked up a burlap sack and was surprised to see the word mystery stenciled in blue paint. She set it down and picked up a jug. unknown was etched into the hard-fired clay. She shot Lefty an inquisitive look. He smiled and gimped down the ladder where the deck plate was open. She rolled a barrel on its side: things. More Ascendant joined her inspection as they too tried move toward the stern. She liked their curiosity. The general conservative demeanor of her fellows was a drag.

Porfirio asked Rosalie, “What do you make of it?” He and Rosalie had become acquainted during the prisoner’s if-you’re-all-speaking-English-then-why-don’t-you-have-English-names rant.

Before Rosalie could answer, one of the others, a tiny pygmy of a man, answered. He said, “I don’t know what to make of it.”

Rosalie said, “Only one way to find out.” She lifted a small jug above her head.

From nowhere, one of the sailors grabbed her wrist. It didn’t hurt but the man’s hand might have been an iron manacle. He said, “Narr, me sweet sea fire. Can’t be spilling the secrets just yet now can we?” She relinquished the jug and noticed secrets printed on the side. The man shook his head and placed the jug with the other jugs of secrets. “Narrr,” he muttered. She looked at the other sailors and they cast disapproving looks.

Curiosity culled if not quite satisfied, the Ascendant moved back from the sailors that returned to organizing their haul. The gathered Ascendant climbed onto the quarterdeck, moved quickly across it, and climbed onto the poopdeck where the air was fresh enough. Some of them laid down to stare at the sky and space. Rosalie leaned against the gunnel. Daria slid next to her. She said, “Did he call you sea fire? That’s nice.”

“He did,” Rosalie said, glad of the conversation.

Daria said, “It’s very fitting. I could have sworn your hair was on fire once but it was only blowing in the wind.”

Rosalie said, “Don’t you say the sweetest things. I’m Rosalie.”

“Daria.”

In her new life at sea, Rosalie’s youth had returned and every Ascendant person was young and healthy. Rosalie twirled her hair in her fingers half as much as the others watched the waves break and sky roll.

Rosalie said, “I love this,” taking the sleeve of Daria’s silky gown. They talked for a long time, a day or more, before the prisoner climbed up the ladder looking worse than ever. Rosalie frowned at him.

He said, “I’m a zombie!”