The Journeys of dead men

Chapter Two

     A big raindrop splashed across his face and woke him. The sky was mainly dark but for the east, where the morning sun was painting grey clouds to a bright red, when the rain started to fall. Another bad night. Nash had been tied to the foremast of the caravel when they departed the land of ice five days ago. Although he was given food and water, they wouldn't let him go to the privy, so he sat all day and slept all night in his own piss and shit. Washing himself was also not possible, so he was grateful for the rain. He had hoped that it would wash away the worst of smells, but it didn't. While the heavy rain soaked his clothes, the stink lingered.

How could I have forgotten the fisher's boy, he thought in regret. Reveygh had killed his men with hardly any effort, swiftly swinging his slim, light sword, cutting through fur and flesh. His friends then tied Nash up and filled him with questions and insults alike, but he ignored all of them. Only one of them had understood his plan without asking, the same man who made sure he would be brought back to the king alive, so he could 'answer for his crimes'. Nash was afraid of confronting the king, confessing what he had done to his own cousin. Should he tell it true and hope that he can at least keep his life? Or should he lie, make up some story? After all, they had no proof. Nash couldn't decide, but he still had another good fortnight to figure it out.

The rain was falling fast and loud, so it wasn't long before Nash could see the first light lit inside a cabin. Shortly after a man came up and out and changed watch with the captain, who was soaked and tired and eagerly awaited some rest. When the sun was well above the horizon, good smells started coming from inside, smells of food. It was a long time since he had eaten, Nash realised, so he started impatiently shouting for food. It has been days now, hasn't it? Not truly, he knew, but being tied up there was nothing much to do all day except grow hungry. It was after four shouts that Grye came up on deck shouting back, "Shut up, or you won't be getting any!"

"But I'm starving!", Nash complained, but that led to no good. Grye's face turned sour as he walked towards him.

"I care little and less about your 'well-being', asshole!", Grye yelled, kicking Nash in the guts, "You killed my friends and many good men, including your own damn cousin."

"Why don't you kill me then?", Nash teased, but that only got him another kick.

"As much as I'd want to, you need to stay alive. You need to be dealt with justly."

At that all light went out of Nash's face. That means torcher. He had forgotten about that. It was custom to torcher men that killed innocent people, and the capital was known to have the worst dungeon of all known Kingdoms. I will lie then, lie until the last moment, Nash decided. Grye broke off his thoughts,

"I still haven't asked you why you killed them. Not just Sawyer, but all of them.", his face was red from anger, and it was plain to see that he wanted nothing else but to kick Nash bloody. But he didn't. He calmed himself and went on, "now's not the time for that though." Grye was about to turn and leave, when a thought caught him.

"You know," he started, untying his pants, "the privy's occupied right now. But luckily we've got another one right here."

"No," Nash begged, "please don't...", but the pants fell and piss splashed warm across his face. I forgot that one too, he thought.

That was the last warm water Nash got from then. From that day on it was only cold meals with cold tea, or piss for all he knew. The meals also got less frequent, and the entire crew seized to exchange even a single word with him, so he started singing, singing of food. That however resulted in more kicking and Nash soon found himself not doing anything at all, all day long. The first few days and night were cold, but as they sailed further north, the winds grew warmer.