Riven Isles

8 | The "Just Right" Captain

Upon waking, my eyes are unpleasant to open. It gives me, right off the bat, a sourness towards the coming day. Rubbing the peculiar crusty goo from the lips of my lids, I roll my neck and shoulders. Propped against a wall hadn't been a kind resting place for me, and the stiffness in my joints fill me with regret.

Dr. Oswald and the professor are talking, but I don't find myself giving them any attention.

"I'll tell you one thing good that's come of this," says Simon, "I've finally finished my book. A few hours late, but, I'll settle."

The room's odor is further dampening to any positivity I might have had left. A great deal of the reek can be credited to a peaky-looking Simon, who, despite the drink spilled upon him, had not removed his jacket nor his vest. In the night, his sweat had mingled with the stains.

I'm grateful to be cleaner than he. I'm smug, too, but he'll never know.

Of us three, the doctor is in the best shape. He isn't sweating, despite the humidity in the den. He irritably smokes his pipe. They're discussing their distaste for the captain, for the fish people.

The smoke doesn't smell too nice, either. And the fish people are another matter entirely.

I sit up and wrinkle my offended nose. The men notice me and spare me their attention.

"Good morning, Walter," greets the good doctor.

Simon adjusts his glasses and glances away. Miserable, he is. I can see it. His nose is red, and his puffy eyes are... well, they aren't unfocused, exactly. But, they aren't as sharp as they had been. He pulls his droopy bowtie loose.

"Good morning, doctor," I return, though my enthusiasm is lacking. "Hi, Simon."

"Woods," grumbles Simon, "Mr, or Professor, Woods. Good morning, Walter."

"Avery," mimic I, "Master, or Mr, Avery."

Simon sneers, but it is half-hearted. He rises from the table, a thick wooden hunk to one side of the main chamber, and fights to peel off his jacket. The article clings and his limbs flail fitfully with frustration.

The doctor sighs and shakes his head. He rises to assist his companion and folds the tweed jacket over his arm. He drapes it over the back of Simon's chair. "I'd recommend you take the vest off, too. The fumes are getting to you. Walter, can you see that? It's plain as a painting."

"I can see it," I nod. I press my hands to my knees and push myself to stand. "Plain as a painting."

"Plain as a painting," Simon sourly mimics. He waves the doctor away and brushes the sweat from his brow. The lipstick stain smears. "What's it matter? There's no chance at fresh air until that rum-pot ape gets up and agrees to work with us."

The doctor puffs on his pipe. He ushers Simon to sit down again. "Relax, my man." He smiles at me. "Now, Walter, I've got a piece of apple crumble for you. It isn't much, and I'm afraid it is soggy and a little squished from being in my pocket, but it's all I have on me. A growing young man like yourself needs to eat."

A growing young man like myself does indeed need to eat. I extend my hands towards him. "I'll admit, sir, I'm hungry."

He drops a folded paper bag into my palms. "We'll get something substantial for you as soon as we can, on my word."

"Thank you, sir."

He folds back into his seat and starts into another conversation with the professor, this time a conversation that I can tell is in the attempt to raise the man's spirits. Simon is a stubborn soul.