Abhorrent Practices - Book 1

Chapter 7.4 - Downtime (Scene 4: All That Sparkles)

Skrawl was carefully inspecting the ship's supply of wax-coats, the thick garments worn in severe weather. Made of a heavy canvas, and treated with three different types of oils and waxes, it was vital that they be kept weatherproof. With two of his hands, Skrawl held up each coat in turn, his swivelling eyes searching for signs of undue wear. The fingers of his other two hands flitted rapidly across every inch of the yellow-brown fabric, searching for tears.

Beside him, Sandrine looked out over the port gunwale at the row of six thin spikes of rock jutting up out of the sea, grey and needle-like in the distance. When the tides were higher, the smaller columns would have been completely submerged. The tips of the taller ones would have just broken the surface, tiny islands, home to nothing but several species of mollusc.

"You think we'll need those?" she asked, glancing sideways at the pile of wax-coats beside the preen. "This close to the Dry Season? You think it's going to be that wet?"

"Not w-wet," giggled Skrawl nervously, redirecting one of his four eyes towards her. "W-windy. Naylor says the winds on Orrin's Rock reach speeds that will cut right through anything else."

Sandrine returned her gaze to the pillars of rock. At this time of year, they stabbed skywards, rising from the sea like the uneven teeth of a broken comb.

"Tempestine's toothpicks," Naylor informed her, strolling casually towards them, his balance automatically compensating for every minute roll of the ship. He hopped up onto the gunwale and seated himself, one foot folded beneath him. Sandrine smiled. With nothing more she could do to prepare for the Lord High Abbot's contract, she was finding herself more relaxed with each day they spent at sea.

"Another story?" If there was anything Naylor loved as much as the sea, it was stories about the sea, and Turlish folklore had enough to fill the Great Library of Durhoun. The only thing Sandrine knew about Tempestine, the Turlish goddess of storms, was that she was known for her anger.

"It's said the toothpicks were stolen by Orrin who needed them to harpoon a giant Sea Serpent called Phideon," explained Naylor. Orrin was the legendary Turlish pirate, who'd given his name to the island of Orrin's Rock. Tales of his daring battles with the gods had been thrilling young Turlanders for generations.

"It looks like he missed."

"Only the first six times," laughed Naylor, waving at the six slender pillars of rock. "The seventh entered the monster's eye and pierced its brain. Phideon swam away to die, and its body was never found."

Skrawl dropped the wax-coat he was examining, and turned all four of his eyes towards Naylor. He loved Naylor's stories.

"I'm not sure I approve of stealing," said Sandrine. Her voice was controlled, but Naylor was sure he caught the merest hint of a smile in her eyes. A joke?

He sprang to his feet, his footing secure on the gunwale.

"Nor did Tempestine," he grinned. "When she learned one of her toothpicks was lost forever, she summoned a storm to destroy Orrin's ship, and stranded him on the most barren island she could find."

"For half a dozen toothpicks?" Sandrine raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Those Turlish gods can be harsh!"

"Seven," Naylor corrected her, his perfect teeth glinting in the sunlight. "And they were very nice toothpicks."

"Did he die?!" asked Skrawl, his tail beating on the deck with excitement. "Did he die?!"

"No," chuckled Naylor. "But the barren island he washed up on is still known as Orrin's Rock even today."