Outer Ocean Odyssey

Three: Salty Machinery

Chris could smell the gears before he saw them. They rarely rested, even when the house was anchored, and the resulting mix of burning grease and heated metal quickly switched his brain to engineering mode.

The view from the attic never failed to take his breath away. Two glass panels separated him from the outside world, viewable on good days from the balcony beyond. At the centre of the room was the steering wheel. The rudders that it moved had rusted long ago, but Chris still liked the illusion of control.

He oiled the engine, and cleaned the pipes that were visible. Stepping out onto the balcony, he washed the windows, taking care to remove all the streaks.

A squeaking noise drew him back inside.

One of the smaller pipes in the chain was visibly shaking, vibrating the entire line in the process. The squeak grew in volume, turning to a whine, then a whistle. Chris darted over and released the pressure by turning a small wheel on the side of the pipe. The noise eased, but another started.

This time, a rumble. Deep and menacing. Another, larger pipe began to wobble. Chris rushed over and repeated the process. To his horror, another started to shake, and another, and another.

"Ryyyyyyyye!"

"So, if you turn into a fish when you see sunlight, how come you don't turn human in the basement?"

Rye's questions were answered by softly blown bubbles, rhythmically appearing at the surface of the murky water. Aruana watched her, big bulging eyes protruding from the depths.

"Unless whatever it is changing you knows what time of day it is, except that it didn't recognise Red-Belly's shift ..."

More bubbles. Rye licked her lips. "God, you look tasty—"

"RYE!" Chris's voice boomed from upstairs.

"What?"

There was a muffled bang, as though something heavy had been dropped. After a moments silence, the creak of the attic hatch opening sent Rye to the steps. Chris appeared, covered from head to toe in black soot. His hair was stood on end, his thick-rimmed glasses tinted to look more like shades. He stared at Rye - unknowingly so, as his eyes were completely obscured - and coughed gently, sending a dark cloud towards his friends face.

"I take it the engine has blown again."

"Perceptive, aren't you."

"Do you want me to have a look at it?"

"Not unless you have some spare parts on you."

He wandered to the front door and out into the garden. Foam had collected on the edge of the path, and coated the purple and red flows in a light doughy cloud. The larger sun loomed overhead, while its junior hid behind a layer of mist. He knelt by the waters edge, removed his glasses, and began washing the soot from his body.

"I don't think that'll come out," Rye said, tugging at Chris's shirt.

"It didn't come out the last one," he said. "I'll keep it, all the same. Will be useful the next time I have to fix something."

"Later today then."

"I told you, we'll need new parts."

"So no engine, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. We'll have to use the sails."

The sheets rose with a ferocity neither Rye nor Chris were expecting. The wind took them as high as the ropes would allow, puffing out like the chests of proud men, while shaking like the consciousness of one.

Chris stood back and admired their handiwork.

"Looks stable enough."

"Yeah, I'm sure they'll last a long time."

"Hopefully, they won't have to."

Back inside, he connected six temporary lines to the wheel, turning the house left and right in quick succession to check that they were secure.

He heard a pan clatter to the floor, and an ornament of some kind smash.

"That I can fix, at least," he said, looking out at the now slightly blocked view, the smallest of the three masts standing strong in the front garden.

... It's been a long time since we had to use the sails. Actually, I don't remember ever using the sails, which, now I think about it, worries me more.

If we find land soon, there's a chance I can gather what we need to fix the engine, but if not we'll just have to manage. It's what we're good at!

As you know, I stress-bake. I found some gull eggs in a crate, floating in the basement, and thought there was no harm in using them. Muffins make an egg-cellent cure for nerves ... get it? There's no way to not get it, I suppose. Puns don't really work written down, do they. Again, I'm sure you'd tell me off for even thinking they could.

This is what I've been reduced to. Bad writing, and cotton sails. I know it's worth it, but I'm starting to wonder whether the mission should end soon. It's not my call to make, I know, but it's just a suggestion.

I'm starting to feel like a pirate. Rye is like my parrot, but I won't say that to her face. I've seen her eat some extraordinary things, and I have no doubt that if I offended her enough she'd eat me as well.

Anyway, until tomorrow, then!

Chris placed the diary next to him on the garden table. The empty deckchair beside him ruffled gently, catching the same breeze as the sails. Rye appeared, carrying a small mug of brew. The concoction held a similar texture and taste to an average cup of tea, but the colour resembled that of a strawberry milkshake. Chris took a deep sip, letting the warm, inviting liquid to traverse down his body and into his stomach.

"Thanks for making it tonight," he said to Rye, who had taken the second chair.

"You earned it today. Too much went wrong."

"Yeah, it's any wonder we're still floating."

"That's the spirit."

They drank, and watched the infinite waves. A large fish escaped the horizon for a moment, rising out of the water before descending in a splash. The ripples reached the edge of the garden, but merely sprinkled the flowerbed. A cluster of flowers shivered in its wake, surprised but excited.

"Do you ever think about home?" Chris asked.

After a pause, Rye shook her head. "Not particularly. Do you?"

"More and more, it seems."

A soft beeping broke the calm. Chris looked up at the balcony, seeing the flashing green light of the sensor in his minds eye.

"Oh."

"What is it?" Rye questioned.

"Haven't heard that in a long time."

"What is it?"

"What an odd coincidence ..."

"What IS IT!"

Chris turned back to Rye. "Land ho."

"Land?"

"Sort of. That sensor picks up signals from hundreds of miles away. I guess we're heading towards something."

"Oh ..."

"If we stay heading in that direction, we may reach it in the next few cycles," Chris added. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"Here's hoping," Rye raised her mug. "These sails won't hold forever.

Inside the helm, unbeknownst to the others, a little blue mouse with two tails eased its way out of a gap in the panelling. After a few tentative sniffs, and a quick taste test with its tiny tongue, it came to the conclusion that the ropes holding the sails to the wheel were quite the delicacy, not to be missed.

It began to nibble.