Grey Horizon

Stowaya

My boots clank on the stark metal staircase as I make my way from the roaring air of the open deck to the warm, dank, and dark belly of the cargo ship, Qubæ. Hearing Herbert's heavy footfall behind me as we step farther into the darkness, I let my hands slide along the moist rusty rails. I could still feel the hum of the thunder vibrating my bones and the jolts and pitch of the deck beneath my feet. 

The storm is building.

Reaching the last metal grated step, I hop off easily as the floor tilts to the left, erupting shouts and small screams. A gas powered light flares to life, and my eyes adjust to see the worn accommodations given to the crew and passengers. Bunks bolted to the walls with crates and barrels stacked in heaps to the sides. Buckets and sacks of mystery items are used as seats next to the single cast iron fire stove, its grates pouring bright red embers, only to be smothered by the damp metal floor. A mixed crowd of men, women, and some children gather together in a far corner. Their clothes soaked from the water leaks from the pipes above, some vomit into buckets while others mutter prayers for the storm to subside. 

I watch them quietly as I take my seat. In a cargo vessel like the Qubæ, it was common enough for passengers to book cheap passages, and even more so for people to sneak aboard and stowaway. Staring at their faces now, I note the light coloured hair and eyes, the warm and thick clothing, and the fear in their eyes. Thinking back on my own appearance, I note the stark differences. I was a passenger, just like them, but there was far more mystery to my tale.

The difference? I can't remember anything.

I was found screaming,  delirious, wearing nothing but boxers, in an empty oil drum strapped to the very bottom of a cargo shipment not three weeks ago. I had no prior recollection of who or where I was, or how I'd come to be squished into an oil drum and shipped on a cargo vessel. Herbert, the oldest crewman of the Qubæ offered to take me in until we docked in Nukaro.

Letting my mind wander, I can recall the old man taking me from the Captain's office to his own small bunk hole. We had been walking down the sleek deck passed the hull doors with a rucksack of clothes in my arms when I caught my reflection in the glassy metal surface for the first time - or was it. 

The rough-hewn face took me off guard for a few seconds before I realised the person staring back at me, was me.
After a generous warm shower, a bowl of stew, and a haircut, Herbert gave me the name, Amsterdam. After the manufacturer that produces the oil drums.  I hadn't been too fond of it at first, but the old man refused to call me anything else, stating that if I wanted a name, I'd have to pluck one out of my head. Seeing as how I had no memory of anything, let alone a list of names, Amsterdam I became.

"Isn't it Herbert, blaring out there?"

My glassy eyes clear at the gruff accented voice of one of the crewmen, Milson. Getting from my bucket seat, I wander over the iron stove and ladle a large portion of Casey-cooks world renown gumbo. At least, I was told it was world renown. There wasn't much I could go comparing it to, so I was at the mercy of Casey-cooks word. 
"Tis that," agrees Herbert, his rough callused hands working at an old apple with his own seamen's' knife. 
"Did you see the whale?" I ask, finding my seat again and positioning myself towards Herb.

The old man grunts as he works, barely giving a glance up through his bushy white and grey peppered eyebrows. 
"Every bleedin swell in between, oh aye-" Herbert lifts his knife in warning as he points the edge at me. "Mark me, Amer. One of those hideous beasts will come crashing from the sky, one of these days, and hope we don't be underneath, you pray to Giddeon."

I smile wryly, noting the hint of a smile in Herb's weather worn face. All manner of sea life floating in the sky during storms or cloud formations was a stunning sight, that is, until they come crashing back down to the dark depths of the ocean the second the sky clears. 

Blowing my gumbo to cool, I watch apathetically as a few droplets from the rusty pipes above fall into my mixed rice and sauce. I'd learned quickly that keeping things clean in the belly of a cargo ship was near impossible.
"Tell me about Nukaro," I ask, turning my attention away from the now contaminated edges of my food.

Herb grunts once more, finishing the carving of his apple and slicing it into chunks. 
"Nag of curiosity our stowaya has, eh?"

I shift my jaw at the name. It was, in essence, a jab, a name I had learned to mean something lesser than what is expected. 

How ironic it sounded like, stowaway.

"Lots I've told, boy." Herb states.

I shovel some food into my mouth with my two fingers and groan as I swallow.
"Only that it's a massive city and there are hundreds of people there-"
"Millions!" Corrects Herbert, setting aside his apple.
"Venders and markets, street filled. Two stories taller, buildings are, and ships that sail the skies."

I listen in silent awe. Such things I believed were true, but none of them I could even recall having seen myself. From the moment I had 'arrived' on the Qubæ, every act was a first. Taking a shower, eating food, talking to people. It was almost as if I was a giant baby that was just now learning how to do things. How to live.

"Days now just a few," Herb crows, noting my wandering gaze. "Remember what I said, you do?"

I perk up and nod.

"Yeah. Stay hidden for port inspection then make a break for the harbour at midnight."

Despite it being one of the five main cities of Valen, Nukaro didn't like people without papers. And despite my status as a stowaway, I still didn't have papers. At least, none that I knew of.

Herbert gets to his feet, his body flowing with the pitch of the ships floor.
"Long now it's not. Get some sleep you should."

Tilting my head, I slowly nod and finish the last few scraps of my food and dump the bowl into a bucket full of cleaning solution. Licking my fingers clean, I wipe away the liquid and cross the small mess deck to the makeshift bed of blankets and soft bushel bags positioned in such a way that keeps me from rolling away in my sleep.

Peeling off my overcoat, I hunker down onto the rough surface of my makeshift rack and rest my head on top of my arm. The light pull of the ships hull slowly rocks to a dreamless sleep and my breath shallows. Letting my eyes sag, I watch as Casey-cook trundles from his rack to stir the gumbo before I finally drift off to darkness.