The Stowaway (Or The Tales of Curly and Crooktooth)

Chapter 3

The ship had finally passed the Channel Islands. Micky was busy running nonsense errands for the Captain, so Ratrunner took Michael under his wing. Or tail.

"Now you see," Ratrunner explained, "serving food don't matter for the other fellas." He handed a dull metal plate to the hand near the stove. The hand scooped a mushy goop onto it and the plate was passed to a hungry sailor in waiting.

The galley was not a gloomy place, despite what stories had been told about it. The chef was busy frying fresh fish, thanks to Michael's bout of sickness. The mates that caught some would feast tonight.

"Captain plate," the chef called out.

Ratrunner stood on his tippy toes and grabbed a fancy ceramic plate from a high cupboard. He held it out and let the chef plop a fried fish along with a little greens onto it..

"This goes to the Captain." He handed the plate to Michael. "Don't drop it."

Michael opened his mouth to object.

"I've got to stay here, Crooktooth. Besides, maybe the Captain won't hit you so hard next time if you bring him good food."

Michael's face was still a little red from earlier. "So you saw that, huh?"

"Everyone saw it. Not bad with the mermaid comment, though." Ratrunner smiled. He had a kind, yet weathered face, and greasy dark brown hair tied up in a bun. Michael wondered how he managed to go so long without cutting it. He couldn't have been more than 5'4 at the most. No. Michael made a note of the boots. More like 5'3.

Ratrunner nudged him on the shoulder. "I'd go before the food gets cold."

Michael nodded and made his way to the Captain's quarters. How odd that a Brit ended up on an American ship, and on the west coast no less. He shook his head, brushing the thought away. What still bugged him was the Dolenz guy. Curly. Micky. Where had he seen that name?

Michael knocked cautiously on the Captain's door.

It creaked open.

He swallowed hard. "Your dinner, sir."

The Captain grunted and pointed to an empty spot on a crowded desk.

Michael followed the Captain's finger and carefully placed the plate of steaming fish on the desk. His hands shook from a variety of feelings: hunger, tiredness, fear. Fear was the leader in emotions at the moment. He glanced at the Captain. He was looking over a letter, many pages long.

Another grunt came from the Captain. This was Michael's cue to leave. He edged back as silently as he could and shut the door behind him.

Then he ran.

He had seen things no man should have to see. He wanted to wash his eyes with soap and water. Even the bucket and rag Micky had when they first met would suffice. No wonder Ratrunner didn't want to deliver the food. The Brit was probably too scared to go. Michael couldn't blame him.

He bumped into Micky, knocking both of them to the ground.

"He has-. The Captain-." Michael gasped for his breath.

Micky stood up and brushed his pants off. "Ahh. Visit to the Captain's quarters?" He pulled Michael up, who clung to his arms.

"How? Why? I-" Michael had a tight grip on Micky's sleeves.

"It's disturbing. I know. You don't exactly get used to it completely. I still get chills delivering food and such to him. Man's a freak."

"So this is...normal?"

Micky sighed. "Yep. I'm just glad I'm not on his wall."

Michael released his grip. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He was going to have nightmares tonight. Another thought dawned on him: he was going to have to spend the night on this ship.

He cleared his throat. "Say, um. I don't want to be a bother but-"

"A bother? Man, you've been a bother since I found you." Micky laughed. He watched Michael's face fall and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, joking," he said softly.

"Course. I knew that." Michael shrugged Micky's hand off.

Micky ignored the obvious rejection, even if it was small. "So what's on your mind? A lot I'm sure. What a question. You definitely have some great thoughts even if I don't know what they are. Not that I would want to know. Well, maybe some. That's weird. Sorry. What was it you wanted to ask, Mike?"

"Um. Where should I sleep tonight?"

"Oh, no worries! We're docking briefly at Morro Bay. Usually we spend the night at sea, but Captain has some business to do on shore. That means we get a hot shower and a comfy bed, especially for me." Micky made a sour face at the thought of his creaky cot.

"Alright." Michael didn't want to ask about dinner. He didn't want to have a repeat of this afternoon. To his chagrin, his stomach growled making his decision null and void.

"Hungry? Me too. Just waiting a bit longer till we get to shore." Micky looked him up and down. "Although you can have whatever's the galley special. If you want."

Michael's expression twisted in disgust.

"Yeah. Good choice. It's not half bad, though, if you close your eyes."

•

The ship had about an hour until it reached Morro Bay. Micky and Michael sat under the stars. Michael had never seen so many twinkling lights in the night sky. The city lights drowned them out, so he would escape to the beach to see more. Sitting on the cold deck, the familiar sight of stars was comforting after a long confusing day. There wasn't a breeze to push the sails, the ship drifted with the movement of the sea, so there was nothing blocking Michael's view of the sky. He looked over at Micky; he was perched on the railing.

Michael didn't think Micky really wanted to leave. It was clear enough to him that Micky loved the sea. He claimed San Francisco was his last stop, but with the way he talked about the ocean like it was family, the way he would stare out into the horizon deep in thought, the way he could charm the other sailors with jokes and stories but also take control when needed, Micky belonged at a boat out at sea where he could feel free.

Then it hit him.

The name.

Dolenz.