Riven Isles

25 | Take Time to Tantrum

I clench my throat tightly and swallow invasive nausea. My other hand crawls over the partition wall behind me, feeling its stability and hoping to find some for myself. All those men, just starting to deteriorate in the constant action of the sea, had scarred me. But, the admiral was Simon's father? And Simon had to look and see the corpse, a puppet to the current with a rope noosed at his neck.

I think of my mother and dive for the bucket under Lydia's bed. Each of the savants keep a bucket under their bed, supplied for our predictable seasickness. I hug the bucket to my chest and woozily fight the urge to hurl. My bandaged head throbs.

Professor Woods clamps his hand over his mouth and turns away. "Dead!" He takes a hold of my hammock's rope to steady himself. "And I'll be joining him! Right here! Where I'll never, ever be found!"

Just as I've been thinking. My eyes, pried open and glued, look back to the wake. The night sky is above, and the full moon laughs at us from its safety through a crack high in the cave's ceiling. The cave gapes from behind, the H.M.S Swallowtail lying on its side just at its opening.

"We will be all right, Simon," Lydia insists, taking his hand.

I sit against the wall and hug my knees to my chest. The ship swerves, and swerves again, and continues to do so frequently enough that I have to place my hand on the floor to stay up. I fix the bucket between my knees. The doctor curls against the window. The others sit down and hold on to their beds.

Rocks shoot past in the window, safely maneuvered from. The seamanship of the captain to miss them all so cleanly! It's shameful that we ever doubted. Cannons sound, and I watch rubble of rocks and ships sinking in the wake.

"It is honorable for a navy man to die at sea," Lydia says quietly, pressing two fingers twixt her brows in solemn prayer, "and for a captain to go down with his ship."

Simon had mentioned, in his convoluted way, that his family was involved with the navy. This, I recall. And so, I can see. With my own eyes, I saw that Simon's pa was strangled by his own lifeline on his own proud Praedor ship, skin bleached by the glowing waters. An admiral, but with only one ship. Blown asunder in a storm, perhaps? Carried by the powerful current of the Giant's Finger.

The professor cradles his pistol on his lap.

There aren't so many shipwrecks anymore. Only the best sailors could survive this far.

A light, armored ship built of steel is halved on a boulder that quickly shrinks away.

"What are the chances?" Simon questions, and to me he sounds annoyed. Irritated. However, I think it may be anguish. And indeed, what are the chances?

"Simon...," Dr. Oswald begins softly, but fails to continue. His expression says everything, each wrinkle warped in a compassionate sympathy.

"He deserved to die," Simon pointedly sniffs. "I'm only upset that I couldn't kill him myself."

"That's not true, Simon."

"It is," the professor insists, and looks right back at the doctor. He looks injured, and queasy, but persists even so. "I couldn't kill him myself. I couldn't. I'd like to think I could, but I absolutely know that I could not look a man in the eyes and kill him. I simply..." he sighs and tosses the pistol to the other end of his bed. "Couldn't."

"That's not a bad thing. You are a good man, Simon."

"I've been plotting my vengeance since I was sixteen—Walter's age. Did you know that?" Simon crows. "Every little trip I took away from you, I went to a different gun range, and perfected my shooting. And yet, every year I was too afraid to go and face the behemoth. And here he is, dead, and I didn't have a hand in it at all."