Beyond

Day 7

Haiv looked from side to side as he entered the hold, again with a bucket under one arm. Today he hadn't been assigned this job. He was supposed to be in the rigging, but the rain still pelted them so hard, no one would notice he was gone. He carefully made his way down the steps. A sailor named Mad Fisk was filling up a bucket with the rainwater that had filled the floor.

Mads nodded to Haiv, heaved up his full bucket, and headed back on deck. Haiv would have to hurry before he came back. He scuttled to a crate of jerky that was far enough away from the hatch that no one would look down and see him. Squinting in the dark, Haiv drew his sword and wedged it under the lid of the crate. With a twist and a crack of wood, the lid popped off.

After sheathing his sword, Haiv grabbed a handful of the jerky and shoved it into his bucket. There was a creak on the companionway. Haiv quickly shoved the lid back onto the crate and spun around. Mad Fisk was descending the stairs. Haiv forced his shoulders to unknot and he carried his bucket past Mad Fisk and up onto the deck, trying not to look guilty.

Spir was sick.

He had burned with a fever during the night, and hadn't had the strength to roll out of his hammock in the morning. And he wasn't the only one either. This storm had kept them all wet and cold for too long. Several sailors were reduced to sniffling lumps of soggy skin. And there was no sign that they'd be allowed to get better any time soon. There just weren't enough dry blankets to go around, and after all that food had gotten ruined yesterday, daily rations had been cut in half.

As soon as he was above decks, the wind and rain slammed into him. He hunched over the bucket in his arms, trying to keep the contents dry, and stumbled toward the second hatch aftdecks. It had only been raining for three days, but Haiv was already trying to convince himself it wouldn't last forever. He wouldn't be soaked to the bone forever. Shivers wouldn't haunt him forever. Someday he'd actually be able to see more than five feet in front of him.

"Stop whining," he told himself. "Least yer not sick like poor old Spir."

But Spir wouldn't even be sick if it weren't for this soulless storm, his self responded, still whining. If the cap'n had just changed his course for a few days, we wouldn't be in this mess.

"It could be worse."

He couldn't quite convince himself of that, however. His chest felt bare underneath his soggy shirt where the pendant used to be. Haiv would get it back. Somehow. If Spir's crazy mutiny idea actually worked.

Haiv grimaced. He was worried, but Spir would be alright. Once the storm was over, Spir would be his cheerful self again and he'd make sure the plan to take over the ship was successful.

The rain became a dull, slapping sound over his head as he once again descended below decks. He passed through more stacks of supplies in various states of dampness—though the floor had managed to stay mostly dry here—and into the crew's sleeping area.

About a dozen bunks were occupied with either those who were taking the night shift, or others who were sick too. As quiet as he could with his wet feet slapping on the wood, Haiv crept toward Spir's hammock, trying not to disturb those who were sleeping.

Spir lay on his side, wrapped tightly in a damp, ratted blanket. His pale hair clung to his temples and neck. His mouth was open in his sleep and his eyes were crusted with uggly yellow puss. He looked so miserable, and Haiv felt even worse for complaining about the undesirable weather.

Haiv gently shook Spir's shoulder. "Psst," he whispered. "I got somethin' for ya. Wake up."

With a soft groan, Spir's eyes peeled open. He peered up at Haiv with a groggy expression. "Hiav.... What's—" a hacking cough interrupted his disjointed question. Haiv wanted to provide some comfort, but wasn't sure what to do. He settled on reaching under and patting Spir's back through the canvas of the hammock. When the coughing subsided, Haiv dug out a piece of jerky and held it up.