... has the motley crew ever written a story? Perhaps with crew members as characters? As well as auctorial presences, furthering the story around them? Or a play?
I can remember a Voyage Round the Ship conducted in verse. And a long-running saga in which the principal character was a hamster. And at least one Nativity Play.
I love story threads, but I have observed a few features which make for a successful one.
A level of light-heartedness and silliness - which doesn't come as readily among the darkening shades of age and mortality.
A readiness to springboard from one post into a new twist, while maintaining a coherent narrative thread.
Not insisting on your favourite character/plotline irrespective.
The drum beat to quarters and the crew did too. A threat had been perceived in the foggy doldrums. @Martin54, not long out the brig, three reprimands away from a keel hauling, stumbled out of the jakes, pulling up his breeks. And yes he had wiped his arse, but his OCD mahout never quite mastered his ADHD elephant, and he had used more than four sheets at times. What intrigued him, more than the threats, was that he dressed to the right, as it were, all the way down at the waterline. Damn! He hadn't wiped away the traces of his bowels' fascist tendency!
By the capstan, sailor @Net Spinster, who had been writing in her diary, noted that the fog had gotten thicker but could not quite dampen the sound of waves crashing on something. Were they closer to the Cornish coast than they should have been or maybe the coast of Tol Eressea; the officers seemed to be unsure about where they were? She put the diary away and stood ready for what the ship officers ordered even if it were another futile exorcism.
No captain or crew had expected those ghosts of the Edmund Fitzgerald to board the Ship as they sailed past White Fish Bay on the long route from Duluth to the Soo Locks to Huron to Erie to Ontario to the St Lawrence and finally the Atlantic. The havoc! The futile, futile exorcisms! And yet the ghosts persisted.
Suddenly @Kendel bolted from the galley, still gripping a red hot griddle and dragging an enormous sack of collards after her.
@ChastMastr, from his home in the more dungeonesque part of the brig, crept up to the deck, peered about, and then went back down. Later he was found happily playing pinochle with one of the ghosts.
Lacing his breeks with a book in his hand was nigh impossible, so @Martin54 held on to both, which hampered his running to quarters, the whole length of the ship from head to poop, where he was a swabber. His left hand being clamped on breeks and book, skewing his run, he stumbled on the grating of the beak and banged his port parietal bone on the bowsprit's port side. Stunned, he stopped and blinked head hung shaming tears of pain and groaned, with a moaned Anglo-Saxon monosyllable. The sea was deceptively placid through the grating. Hating the wimpishness as the pain still crested, the pulse of self loathing fired up a 'FUCK!' from his head thrown back. 'God that stings!' he muttered head ahead.
As he was about to totter on to the fo'c'sle, where @Net Spinster was already at the capstan, but not ready to haul up the anchor which could take up to six of the crew, something spectral glimmered in his right eye's right corner, where nothing should, out in the mist south east toward the Great Sea and the mythical floating isle of Kernow. He blinked to wipe the tear. It was still there and his eyes tracked right and his right eyebrow rose. 'Not another of those sodding ghosts that are never there when you look properly, tho' that swab @ChastMastr sees 'em and more', flashed the thought, in the scintilla of an orbiting eye. No it wasn't. His jaw went slacker than when he banged the side of his head. His breathing stopped. His heart too in a missed beat.
@Kendel hissed, " @ChastMastr, summon the rest of these ghouls down to your card table!"
and unburdened herself of her burdens useless to the task. "Especially the cook!"
"What was that flying outta the mist from starberd?!" "It bean @Martin54? He stunned?!"
Rocky Roger, having shivered his timbers and spliced his mainbrace, forgot to batten down his hatches, sailed too cose to the wind and was found down in the doldrums dead in the water.
'Sailor Vee', sighed Bosun Arrows.
The book leaves susurrated with laughter in his shaking hands. The deck vibrated as the ship's Rolls-Royce PWR3 purred up as the her nuclear engineer opened up the rods an nth. Something was up. All too much for @Martin54's multiply enfeebled mind. What with what he'd just seen south east, after bludgeoning himself. That had impossibly looked back. Trick of the sun. He saw @ChastMastr pop up amidships in the middle distance, through the masts and rigging and turn aft toward @Kendel the cook who'd just surfaced from the galley. She cupped a hand to say something for him alone and he disappeared below decks again. Whoever he was off to conjure up now to play pinochle or poker or go with was nothing now if it wasn't a trick of the sun. That poor bugger @RockyRoger? He'd been dead three days and three nights now. Stinking up the hold. They'd sew him up and launch him Sunday. What's @Kendel cooking up? Collards 'n' grits he hoped. Hominy of course. That sack looked promising. Or is that Tuesday? She should watch it with that damn griddle. He looked suspiciously at the book, turned it face up. Then his breeks fell down.
Rocky Roger, having shivered his timbers and spliced his mainbrace, forgot to batten down his hatches, sailed too cose to the wind and was found down in the doldrums dead in the water.
'Sailor Vee', sighed Bosun Arrows.
Hearing what sounds like "Sailor V," @ChastMastr decides to show some of the ghosts the live-action Sailor Moon series, which in fact has a character named Sailor V.
Thank God @Net Spinster now had her back to him, writing in her diary on the capstan. Even so she turned to her right, drawn by the emerging morning sun, and he covered his modesty with the oddly noisy book. He had little to be modest about. But the book still said 'Ooo I say! Mmmph'.
For the third time that morning his jaw went slack.
At that moment @Net Spinster reached the port side, as close to the sun as possible, no sheet, stay, line, halyard, shroud rigging in the way. Her head jerked down as if pulled by a puppeteer's rod from below. "Man overboard!" she shouted.
He pulled his pants up and ran to her side. And there was @RockyRoger, immediately recognizable by the tattoo on the back of his neck, that everyone but he knew was there, even from thirty feet. Face down. Someone must have turfed his stinking corpse overboard in the night. It raised its right hand.
Oh God, thought @Martin54. Here we go. Handing the book to @Net Spinster, he vaulted over the side.
It didn't look like @ChastMastr was playing pinochle with @RockyRoger's shade just yet. Or maybe he already had...
@Net Spinster shouted "Two men overboard" and noted in her diary the incident. She then went to check whether any other of the crew had recovered from Cook @Kendel 's previous meal. She suspected that was most likely explanation for the lack of response to the drums.
"Damned Newfi mushrooms!" muttered @Kendel. "Half the crew's delirious or hallucinating. Just look at @Martin54 and @RockyRoger thrashing about bourne up by imaginary rafts! And Lord knows what @ChastMastr is seeing below deck."
"And @Sandemaniac with double vision of entendre."
What a disaster.
Well, we know who ate the most!
Kendel went back to the galley to destroy the rest of the mushrooms. "Good to have a ship with a proper reactor and civilized coolers for fresh foods. And freshly prepared antidotes." The pagemaster consulted her books of remedies.
Then she remembered @Martin54 had confused her for a hag. Noted.
Across the other side of the marina, @Miffy put down the telescope and speed-dialled Solent Ghost Busters Inc. Then, GIN in hand, she leapt on to the floating bridge and disappeared into the misty hinterland of West Wight.
Ma Etta's remedies and advice are always the best. Tricky sun was not yet up, so @kendel worked by artificial lantern light. It had been a long, sleepless night.
As the conconction cured and cooled, @Kendel attempted the most tempting Monday breakfast possible from her stores. Perfectly steamed eggs with sesame oil and green onion; smooth, creamy grits with extra sharp, 1 y.o. cheddar from Horrock's Big Cheese -- the end of the 10k of this delight she had smuggled on board for the crew; the freshest of the coffee on board; fried apples; bacon; more bacon; hand made pork sausage patties; and tender, silver-dollar pancakes. Being a foreigner in the kitchen made things tricky somtimes, but the crew was generally obliging. She hoped they would be today, in spite of the delirium.
She laced it all liberally with Ma Etta's cure and rang the bell.
.
.
.
.
.
The undead of the Fitz kept it clanging. "Quitcher tolling, ghosts! We know how many your crew were!" and they did.
.
.
.
"Now where is mine?"
Kendel began to prepare trays and the massive serving cart to deliver the food to quarters.
After @RockyRoger saved @Martin54, with the philosophical Sailor Vee, Bosun Arrows and @Net Spinster hauling his half dead form up the cargo nets, with a plague of ghosts, having an ectoplasmic pee break during @ChastMastr's video fest, cheering on their failure, ''e's not wurf it, leave 'im to us', 'Down! Omlaag! Down! Deorsum! Down!, Kato! En bas!' and several other living and dead languages, he ended up sat on deck clutching his trousers with both locked hands.
The morning's events had left him wondering if they were an outtake from Christopher Nolan's Tenet. How many times had @RockyRoger died? If at all? What was in that sodding mushroom ragù they'd had last night? All because that silly cloth eared woman had misheard him only say 'Hag' when in fact he'd said 'HAGgis on the menu when again @Kendel?', with the emphasis on the first syllable. As evidenced by her scowled 'Hag? HAG?!', across a multiply heaving galley in a storm with the gimbals grinding.
What's the Isle of Wight ferry doing in the Bay of Eldamar?
"Focus on getting through this day," @Kendel reminded herself. 'Tuesday will arrive without my help. Tomorrow Morning things will look better." @RockyRoger did appear a bit better after the reviving broth she brought him -- not quite fit for breakfast after so many death experiences so close together. That much was encouraging. @RockyRoger even lent her the galley proof of a new mystery to enjoy, in her non-existent free time.
In spite of the storm, breakfasts had been delivered, and eaten; the remedy had been administered. In spite of the ghosts incessant droning: "Fella's it's too rough to feed ya!"
When, where, how can the crew find a real exorcist?! Once they're in range, we can call a library for help. Librarians know everything; everyone knows that! Surely librarians could find an exorcist who will come to the ship, since the ghosts won't cooperate.
As the galley continued to sway, it seemed rather that the slithy toves made the gimbal gyre rather than grind. The exhaustion was overtaking @Kendel. She loosened her laces and sank into her kitchen hammock. The ship rocked her to a fitful sleep.
Hugal sat in the library. He needed a rest after he had exorcised a particularly un funny ghost of a comedian. It had been a frighten one, particularly when it had gotten to how many ghosts does it take to change a light bulb joke, Hugal thought he wouldn’t get out alive.
Now however he was sat in the library, looking out of the window at a ship not too far from shore. Something tingled. He had a feeling the ship had a prominent place in his future.
@ChastMastr decided to get while the getting was good, what with his spectral friends in danger, so he hopped on board a lifeboat with the ones who wanted to join him, and sailed away over the horizon with them. They all lived (er, as it were) happily ever after.
"Do you happen to have anything like a reliable atlas? I wish to check the location of the ...."
of the head! Owww! I've got to pee.
Stupid hamock!
Thud!
Daylight!!!
Head! Now!!!
Supper!
What time is it?
Run! No, walk!! With a purpose, @Kendel .
@Net Spinster returned to the capstan, pulled out her diary and noted that the last lifeboat had been taken by @ChastMastr and his ghostly entourage. Thirteen in total if she had the count right plus the dead albatross. She chose grits to eat from @Kendel's selection as it seemed the safest choice; she wasn't sure where or when he got the eggs.
He remembered when he hovered between life and death, hearing a host of voices screaming 'Down!', and other, foreign, words, with glee, ending with groaning when he splatted on the deck and coughed his lungs dry. The 'downs' had a lot of strong north North American accents. Things had gone to hell since they crossed Superior in early November. Hell of an unseasonal storm. Godforsaken place. God knows how they'd come through it. The light bulbs kept going since for a start. In that superposition of the ship that was electro-mechanical of course.
Whilst on the jakes he hadn't heard a shout from the crows nest, so what had happened to cause the captain to order beat to quarters? He was still on the fo'c'sle, still the whole length of the ship to go to his station on the poop. Finally he laced his sodden breeks, after wondering why his hands were gripped on them, then hauled himself up by his bootstraps.
@Net Spinster gave him the book. @RockyRoger gave him a look. Back at the capstan she didn't realise that the note she'd made was in @Martin54's book. It had deliberately deceived her of course. He witlessly clutched her diary but noticed what she had, @ChastMastr sneaking off alone with the last lifeboat, singing Stravinky's 'The Owl and the Pussycat' with strange harmonies and superpositioned accents. Acoustics on the water eh?
He'd be back.
Here comes the cook with a look in her eye. He felt his spirits lift for some reason.
Food! That, @Sandemaniac reckoned, was what was needed. Surely the perfect thing to take his mind off that missing double entendre was a good helping of meat and two veg?... DAMN! There it was again! Could he ever drag his mind out of the scuppers? Did he actually want to....
Sod it, he decided, he'd have a good supper and roll into his hammock to sleep the sleep of the just (the just what, he wondered) and dream of the halcyon days he'd spent in the arms of his Orcadian lover, Scapa Flo.
With piercing arrow focus on her earlier pressing task @Kendel hadn't noticed the small but gathering crowd surrounding @Martin54. He looked terrible, almost as if rigor mortis were setting in to his extremities. The reference to hag Tuesday -- certainly he hadn't meant Tuesday Taylor -- and her sack still stung. But really, at this moment, he seemed almost pitiful. Rather than pity, she rifled through layers of her skirts, found the right pocket and handed him a flask. "Tea, '54? Id'll cure what ails ya."
While the swabber considered the wisdom or even desirability of accepting this offer --from a Midwesterner nonetheless -- the cook learned of librarian @Hugal 's valorous visit to the ship and his heroically effective exorcism of the ghosts not enticed away by the pied piper of the Ship, @ChastMastr. "Glory be!" she cried. "IFLA'll never letcha down." @Net Spinster reported the events precisely with time stamps, and @Sandemaniac filled in the sordid details, vivid language and carnal gestures of the incorporeal evictees.
The crew was looking hangry, and that's never good for the cook's neck. She needed to high-tail it to the galley again, but she still needed that atlas, and some answers. She pulled her ancient compass from her pocket and showed it to the crew. "It spins counter-clockwise incessantly since we've passed Prince Edward's Island. Even without the curs'ed ghosts."
"The reactor?" croaked @RockyRoger.
The book under @Net Spinsters arm rasped something indistinct. @Martin54 shrugged, took a chance and guzzled down the contents of the flask.
"And where are the co-captains? I haven't seen either of them since early yesterday. Downstairs. In the cellar, where the drums were beating."
@Net Spinster stared at the spinning compass and stood in deep thought. "What did we take on at Prince Edward Island? I seem to recall a group of you smuggled a Newfi statue aboard from some park while we were at St John's as well as", glancing at @Kendel, "those mushrooms".
A small boat on muffled oars sidled up to the ship. A figure in a black cloak and carrying a small bag climbed up to the deck. Fortunately @Net Spinster was facing the other way as the figure slid past. Making for the door to below deck, the figure slid through the door and in the safety of the dark corridor Hugal pulled down his hood. Now where to next?
But the drummer amidships is still beating 'Heart of Oak' to quarters and there are three at the capstan now and more coming, it can take twelve, two per spoke for a rapid up anchor. Run! Ah, the cook's rocked up proffering a brew, bless her. Hang on. I've had some interesting dreams on her tea. Recurring ones of Scarpa Flo, 'lookin' like a queen in a sailor's dream' indeed. Ah well, here goes. What's she on about? The Eiffel Tower? Strange woman. Eye Flo tea?! In my dreams! Could she be reading my mind? Love her. And now she's waving a compass about. Oh bugger, here's the ship's corporal, a petty officer indeed, 'Ah, unable seaman '54, you are not scrubbing the poop because you were idle whilst drowning I see? And now 12 lashings of idle tea to add to a couple more rounds, if not a death sentence.' he droned in his particular and nasal south London accent. @Martin54 tried jerking in to his run, with a 'Sir' and touched forelock, if he'd have succeeded that would have been another dozen of the cat's nine licks, for some infraction of the 25th of December 1749 Articles of War.
'Not so fast '54. I think XXVII.' enunciated as letters of the alphabet, 'Ex, ex, vee, aye, aye, dot. Sleeping, negligence, and forsaking a station. No person in or belonging to the fleet shall sleep upon his watch, or negligently perform the duty imposed on him, or forsake his station, upon pain of death, or such other punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the circumstances of the case shall require, covers it I'd say. The serial and parallel negligence. What other such punishment should the court martial think fit, '54?' with a hand on the latter's chest. 'Ooh and Happy Christmas, '54, it's come early for you again'.
The tea worked its magic. 'A week's stoppage of grog, Sir?'. All eyes were on him, but as you never look an officer in the eye, he noticed a hooded figure sliding behind @Net Spinster, who jerked her head back to her book from cook's back spinning compass. The corporal's eyes flashed with rage just as the reactor changed up a gear. The drums below decks ('cellar'? What a lubber!) played a different, Newfi, tune. So that's where the co-captains went. And all eyes facing for'ard pivoted sharp left, outside his right peripheral vision.
Hosts or gods had abandoned this ship long ago, much like the officers (other than a corporal which was odd as the ship didn't have any marines). @Martin54 babbled like a deranged Ezekiel though who knows what kernels lay in those words or in his book that he had unwittingly given her. Drums beat in the deep, echoing the drums on board.
Something must be done to break the doldrums. @Net Spinster went to the galley to talk to to @Kendel the cook about having a solemn feast and to which all the crew would contribute. All she met on the way were asked to bring song or story, dancing or decoration, prayer or poetry. She did not see @Hugal
Hugal found one ghost left on the ship. Which he dealt with easily. It was bored on its own anyway. What to do now. A wicked thought struck him. No one knew he was on board. He decided to have a bit of fun with the crew.
Kendel agreed that @Net Spinster's plan was worth a try. If the feast were to be ready before sundown, she'd have to work fast. This was the perfect time for those collards. She loaded the pressure cauldron with black-eyed peas, smoked turkey, onions, garlic, New Mexico peppers, herbs, a bit of cayenne and jacked up the heat. In the meantime, she washed the collards and let the drain, pulled out the left over pan of solidified grits, sliced them and melted a shallow lake of butter on the big griddle this time. She chopped collards as batches of grits transformed in hot butter to delectably-browned, rectangular johnny cakes. Moved the cooker off the heat and released the pressure, while she put the cakes on a platter and set them in the warming oven. Once the lid was free, she opened the cauldron, and let the collards cook in the heat from the stew.
She laid out a satin cloth on the serving cart. Canoe sized soup-tureen on the bottom to reduce sloshing, Johnny cake on the middle shelf. The last keg of Keweenaw Widow Maker on top. If ever there was a time to make such a sacrifice, this was it. She was holding out, however on the Founder's Porter. Good to keep something in reserve. Particularly while the grog was stopped.
Ach! Don't forget the sauces! Cholula Chipotle. Just what the doctor ordered.
And this time, she tasted everything, before subjecting the crew to it.
The gingery apple pies would have to wait in the galley, until the cart was cleared for another round of eating.
As Kendel wished for Babe to help haul the laden cart, she thought about all the unnatural ways a sailor could die by Articles of War alone. "All robbery committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death, or otherwise, as a court martial, upon consideration of the circumstances, shall find meet." brought @sandemaniac to mind for some vague reason. She wondered about @Net_spinster jerky movements. Sign of a neurological disorder, perhaps? And @martin54's oscillating hemispatial neglect. Hard to say. Maybe all that whacking himself in the head? And why that?
As she heaved, she remembered the beautiful time last August when the Ei-fla Tower was transported to Rotterdam for nearly a week. Those were the days.
From the shadows Hugal watched his mouth watering as the food was prepared. He had to get to this meal. He had stolen a uniform to live around easier. One of the crew would have nothing but a black cloak to cover their embarrassment
He daren't look. And several eyes weren't looking for'ard before looking to their left. Those that were, were looking decidedly slack jawed, open mouthed. They were seeing what he had seen before jumping overboard. Even the master-at-arms' assistant's petty intent was erased. But he had to look, and turned his head, and his eyes right, in it. Something just winked out like a turned off cathode ray TV screen. Whatever that was. Yeah. It had been that again. @Net Spinster was cooking up something with @Kendel. Having looked at me, and her diary, as if I, and it, were babbling like deranged Ezekiels! And what was that sneaky bugger @Hugal up, or down, to? He might be good at exorcism, but that could be a very good bit of maskirovka. A house divided and all that. He saluted the corporal, who, blinking, slowly raised a hand back, and darted aft for his station. Where he could sneak peaks at his now mute book. He'd never noticed how noisy it was before, now that it wasn't. The drums above and below were.
@Kendel rang the bell for supper, but nobody appeared. Not even @Net Spinster who had suggested the plan. Space had been cleared below deck and planks and kegs used to make seating enough for the crew. Barely able to move the cart another step, Kendel abandoned it to go above deck to find the crew.
Everything about this trip was nothing like she'd ever experienced before. Not even on that leaky packet where she spent 6 months, attempting to feed a crew from Aotearoa, wantin' to sail 'round the world. All quick-tempered individuals, who couldn't work together. She got tired of hearing of their ship-wrecked love. As in libraries, hospitals, churches, bars -- the public thinks a person at a counter is obliged to listen to their problems and agree with them. For free. This time the table was turned; she needed information or help or both.
Climbing up to deck she saw the crew and one officer, slack-jawed and open-mouthed, jerking to stare in the same direction. @Martin54 was completing his salute as the corporal returned to his station. Away from the hum of the reactor, the drums were nearly deafening, boring into her brain. She'd not heard anything like it since Camazotz. Her very breath seemed confined to it's rhythm. Near @Martin54, she cupped her hands and rasped as loudly as she could to his ear, "'54! What is going on?! What has happened to the crew? What are they looking at? Who at sea would have a CRT? That's no Fresnel lens! What is it, if not a lighthouse?!"
The ship rolled in time with the drums. Kendel awkwardly rolled with the ship until she fell.
@Net Spinster lifted up @Kendel from where she fell. "Come, I can smell the delicious feast you've prepared" She beckoned the crew to come including @Martin54 though she was worried.
Once seated, she pulled out a small harp from her bag and sang the Harp Song of the Dane Women:
"
What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in—
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you—
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you....
Once finished, she laid the harp aside. "I've made my offering for this meal with this song. @Kendel has made hers by preparing this meal. Each here should make their own offering whether story, song, dance, decoration, poetry or prayer. We will change the fortune of this voyage!"
While @Kendel went upon deck. @Hugal took his chance at grabbing some of the food. It was delicious. He suspected @Martin54 had seen him somehow. Never mind. Having eaten @Hugal went to deck while the others were down eating. He tied a rope to the ships wheel. The ship started going round in circles. When would everyone notice?
"@Net Spinster this crew looks famished. They've had little to eat all day. Would you pull pints, while I dish up the meal?" Then @Kendel raised an eyebrow. A bowl was missing. And a spoon. Impatient, sneaky devil, whoever it was.
The cook watched the crew as they took their meal. One shipmate curled a lip at more "foreign food" and snorted, "Dig in. No telling when we eat again." Another looked relieved at what strongly resembled fried polenta. At last @Net Spinster and @Kendel served themselves and sat to eat with the crew.
"@Kendel this is delicious. Where did you find the lemongrass? or what did you use for a substitute?"
Then @Martin54 stumbled in looking a bit like he had been battered by orcas going after a seal. "Come have some of the WidowMaker" she called to him.
“Thank you, @Net Spinster . Nothing so exotic as lemongrass in it. Nothing exotic at all; just common pantry herbs. I’m glad you enjoyed it, as I did your singing and playing. I hadn’t heard that song before.” @Kendel rifled through layers of skirts for the right pocket. She pulled out a soft leather case and then the carefully folded map from inside.
“As there seems to be no one else around but a hungry thief, the unconscious Martin54, and the two of us, I have been thinking it’s time for me to leave. The party is over by attrition, I’m afraid I’ve been mapping the places in Richard Rutt’s book, along with Alice Starmore’s, James Norbury’s, Priscilla Gibson’s, Lela Nargi’s. I won’t get this chance again, and that after dreaming for years to follow the route through the Lakes to the Atlantic. I’d like to follow the coast up and up and up, maybe go inland, and then ferry over to islands big and small, see the world of woolworking and knitting. With a name like Net_spinster, perhaps you’d like to join me.
I have a store of empty barrels, lumber scraps, tools and building skills. Tomorrow I can construct us a pontoon boat to get to land, with room to haul Martin54 for medical attention.
I’m open to other ideas, but the doldrums seem to have taken over the story. Steal away? No reason left to stay?
Agreed that we are in the doldrums here and we don't want to suffer the fate of Hudson so we might want to row a smaller boat ashore. Oars might work better than sails given the lack of wind for the latter to be useful. However we might need a sack or two to haul the unconscious around.
@Net Spinster found a few sacks and started sewing them together to provide some shelter on the boat and a means of hauling who needed to be hauled.
@Kendel sang to herself as she brought up barrels, planks, rope, twine, nails, tools, whatever seemed useful for building a pontoon boat. "I hear the Hudson calling, I heard the Hudson call....."
It felt good to work with tools again. To have a project, a goal, the start of a plan.
"Thank you, @Net Spinster . And they fell into the rhythm of their work.
"@Net Spinster , you know anything about the water barrel? I've been enjoying the Widow Maker - and miner's humor."
@Kendel pulled a draught of the beer and passed the cann toward her wobbly shipmate. "Here, @Martin54. This might be safer than the water for now."
She went back to her carpentry. "Sorry '54. We got no curry today. The peas and collards came out fine, though. Go help yourself. When yer done eatin' @Net Spinster and I could use a hand up here."
Comments
I love story threads, but I have observed a few features which make for a successful one.
A level of light-heartedness and silliness - which doesn't come as readily among the darkening shades of age and mortality.
A readiness to springboard from one post into a new twist, while maintaining a coherent narrative thread.
Not insisting on your favourite character/plotline irrespective.
And witty at all times, of course.
Suddenly @Kendel bolted from the galley, still gripping a red hot griddle and dragging an enormous sack of collards after her.
As he was about to totter on to the fo'c'sle, where @Net Spinster was already at the capstan, but not ready to haul up the anchor which could take up to six of the crew, something spectral glimmered in his right eye's right corner, where nothing should, out in the mist south east toward the Great Sea and the mythical floating isle of Kernow. He blinked to wipe the tear. It was still there and his eyes tracked right and his right eyebrow rose. 'Not another of those sodding ghosts that are never there when you look properly, tho' that swab @ChastMastr sees 'em and more', flashed the thought, in the scintilla of an orbiting eye. No it wasn't. His jaw went slacker than when he banged the side of his head. His breathing stopped. His heart too in a missed beat.
and unburdened herself of her burdens useless to the task. "Especially the cook!"
"What was that flying outta the mist from starberd?!" "It bean @Martin54? He stunned?!"
"@Net Spinster you see it?"
"Where's the rest of the crew?"
'Sailor Vee', sighed Bosun Arrows.
He was going to have to wait until they were in port to find a barmaid in the hope that she would give him one.
In the meantime he was just going to have to alter the steam pressure to the whistle if he was going to continue his life's work of lowering the tone.
Hearing what sounds like "Sailor V," @ChastMastr decides to show some of the ghosts the live-action Sailor Moon series, which in fact has a character named Sailor V.
SPOILERS!: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yke6s8iV6q0
For the third time that morning his jaw went slack.
At that moment @Net Spinster reached the port side, as close to the sun as possible, no sheet, stay, line, halyard, shroud rigging in the way. Her head jerked down as if pulled by a puppeteer's rod from below. "Man overboard!" she shouted.
He pulled his pants up and ran to her side. And there was @RockyRoger, immediately recognizable by the tattoo on the back of his neck, that everyone but he knew was there, even from thirty feet. Face down. Someone must have turfed his stinking corpse overboard in the night. It raised its right hand.
Oh God, thought @Martin54. Here we go. Handing the book to @Net Spinster, he vaulted over the side.
It didn't look like @ChastMastr was playing pinochle with @RockyRoger's shade just yet. Or maybe he already had...
"And @Sandemaniac with double vision of entendre."
What a disaster.
Well, we know who ate the most!
Kendel went back to the galley to destroy the rest of the mushrooms. "Good to have a ship with a proper reactor and civilized coolers for fresh foods. And freshly prepared antidotes." The pagemaster consulted her books of remedies.
Then she remembered @Martin54 had confused her for a hag. Noted.
She turned clockwise and returned to the galley.
https://youtu.be/gTNiYNOXqrE?si=HtZTCdeKGjJ7aAZw
As the conconction cured and cooled, @Kendel attempted the most tempting Monday breakfast possible from her stores. Perfectly steamed eggs with sesame oil and green onion; smooth, creamy grits with extra sharp, 1 y.o. cheddar from Horrock's Big Cheese -- the end of the 10k of this delight she had smuggled on board for the crew; the freshest of the coffee on board; fried apples; bacon; more bacon; hand made pork sausage patties; and tender, silver-dollar pancakes. Being a foreigner in the kitchen made things tricky somtimes, but the crew was generally obliging. She hoped they would be today, in spite of the delirium.
She laced it all liberally with Ma Etta's cure and rang the bell.
.
.
.
.
.
The undead of the Fitz kept it clanging. "Quitcher tolling, ghosts! We know how many your crew were!" and they did.
.
.
.
"Now where is mine?"
Kendel began to prepare trays and the massive serving cart to deliver the food to quarters.
The morning's events had left him wondering if they were an outtake from Christopher Nolan's Tenet. How many times had @RockyRoger died? If at all? What was in that sodding mushroom ragù they'd had last night? All because that silly cloth eared woman had misheard him only say 'Hag' when in fact he'd said 'HAGgis on the menu when again @Kendel?', with the emphasis on the first syllable. As evidenced by her scowled 'Hag? HAG?!', across a multiply heaving galley in a storm with the gimbals grinding.
What's the Isle of Wight ferry doing in the Bay of Eldamar?
In spite of the storm, breakfasts had been delivered, and eaten; the remedy had been administered. In spite of the ghosts incessant droning: "Fella's it's too rough to feed ya!"
When, where, how can the crew find a real exorcist?! Once they're in range, we can call a library for help. Librarians know everything; everyone knows that! Surely librarians could find an exorcist who will come to the ship, since the ghosts won't cooperate.
As the galley continued to sway, it seemed rather that the slithy toves made the gimbal gyre rather than grind. The exhaustion was overtaking @Kendel. She loosened her laces and sank into her kitchen hammock. The ship rocked her to a fitful sleep.
"Haggis. With my dying breath...."
zzzzz
Now however he was sat in the library, looking out of the window at a ship not too far from shore. Something tingled. He had a feeling the ship had a prominent place in his future.
of the head! Owww! I've got to pee.
Stupid hamock!
Thud!
Daylight!!!
Head! Now!!!
Supper!
What time is it?
Run! No, walk!! With a purpose, @Kendel .
Whilst on the jakes he hadn't heard a shout from the crows nest, so what had happened to cause the captain to order beat to quarters? He was still on the fo'c'sle, still the whole length of the ship to go to his station on the poop. Finally he laced his sodden breeks, after wondering why his hands were gripped on them, then hauled himself up by his bootstraps.
@Net Spinster gave him the book. @RockyRoger gave him a look. Back at the capstan she didn't realise that the note she'd made was in @Martin54's book. It had deliberately deceived her of course. He witlessly clutched her diary but noticed what she had, @ChastMastr sneaking off alone with the last lifeboat, singing Stravinky's 'The Owl and the Pussycat' with strange harmonies and superpositioned accents. Acoustics on the water eh?
He'd be back.
Here comes the cook with a look in her eye. He felt his spirits lift for some reason.
Sod it, he decided, he'd have a good supper and roll into his hammock to sleep the sleep of the just (the just what, he wondered) and dream of the halcyon days he'd spent in the arms of his Orcadian lover, Scapa Flo.
While the swabber considered the wisdom or even desirability of accepting this offer --from a Midwesterner nonetheless -- the cook learned of librarian @Hugal 's valorous visit to the ship and his heroically effective exorcism of the ghosts not enticed away by the pied piper of the Ship, @ChastMastr. "Glory be!" she cried. "IFLA'll never letcha down." @Net Spinster reported the events precisely with time stamps, and @Sandemaniac filled in the sordid details, vivid language and carnal gestures of the incorporeal evictees.
The crew was looking hangry, and that's never good for the cook's neck. She needed to high-tail it to the galley again, but she still needed that atlas, and some answers. She pulled her ancient compass from her pocket and showed it to the crew. "It spins counter-clockwise incessantly since we've passed Prince Edward's Island. Even without the curs'ed ghosts."
"The reactor?" croaked @RockyRoger.
The book under @Net Spinsters arm rasped something indistinct.
@Martin54 shrugged, took a chance and guzzled down the contents of the flask.
"And where are the co-captains? I haven't seen either of them since early yesterday. Downstairs. In the cellar, where the drums were beating."
'Not so fast '54. I think XXVII.' enunciated as letters of the alphabet, 'Ex, ex, vee, aye, aye, dot. Sleeping, negligence, and forsaking a station. No person in or belonging to the fleet shall sleep upon his watch, or negligently perform the duty imposed on him, or forsake his station, upon pain of death, or such other punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the circumstances of the case shall require, covers it I'd say. The serial and parallel negligence. What other such punishment should the court martial think fit, '54?' with a hand on the latter's chest. 'Ooh and Happy Christmas, '54, it's come early for you again'.
The tea worked its magic. 'A week's stoppage of grog, Sir?'. All eyes were on him, but as you never look an officer in the eye, he noticed a hooded figure sliding behind @Net Spinster, who jerked her head back to her book from cook's back spinning compass. The corporal's eyes flashed with rage just as the reactor changed up a gear. The drums below decks ('cellar'? What a lubber!) played a different, Newfi, tune. So that's where the co-captains went. And all eyes facing for'ard pivoted sharp left, outside his right peripheral vision.
Something must be done to break the doldrums. @Net Spinster went to the galley to talk to to @Kendel the cook about having a solemn feast and to which all the crew would contribute. All she met on the way were asked to bring song or story, dancing or decoration, prayer or poetry. She did not see @Hugal
She laid out a satin cloth on the serving cart. Canoe sized soup-tureen on the bottom to reduce sloshing, Johnny cake on the middle shelf. The last keg of Keweenaw Widow Maker on top. If ever there was a time to make such a sacrifice, this was it. She was holding out, however on the Founder's Porter. Good to keep something in reserve. Particularly while the grog was stopped.
Ach! Don't forget the sauces! Cholula Chipotle. Just what the doctor ordered.
And this time, she tasted everything, before subjecting the crew to it.
The gingery apple pies would have to wait in the galley, until the cart was cleared for another round of eating.
As Kendel wished for Babe to help haul the laden cart, she thought about all the unnatural ways a sailor could die by Articles of War alone. "All robbery committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death, or otherwise, as a court martial, upon consideration of the circumstances, shall find meet." brought @sandemaniac to mind for some vague reason. She wondered about @Net_spinster jerky movements. Sign of a neurological disorder, perhaps? And @martin54's oscillating hemispatial neglect. Hard to say. Maybe all that whacking himself in the head? And why that?
As she heaved, she remembered the beautiful time last August when the Ei-fla Tower was transported to Rotterdam for nearly a week. Those were the days.
Everything about this trip was nothing like she'd ever experienced before. Not even on that leaky packet where she spent 6 months, attempting to feed a crew from Aotearoa, wantin' to sail 'round the world. All quick-tempered individuals, who couldn't work together. She got tired of hearing of their ship-wrecked love. As in libraries, hospitals, churches, bars -- the public thinks a person at a counter is obliged to listen to their problems and agree with them. For free. This time the table was turned; she needed information or help or both.
Climbing up to deck she saw the crew and one officer, slack-jawed and open-mouthed, jerking to stare in the same direction. @Martin54 was completing his salute as the corporal returned to his station. Away from the hum of the reactor, the drums were nearly deafening, boring into her brain. She'd not heard anything like it since Camazotz. Her very breath seemed confined to it's rhythm. Near @Martin54, she cupped her hands and rasped as loudly as she could to his ear, "'54! What is going on?! What has happened to the crew? What are they looking at? Who at sea would have a CRT? That's no Fresnel lens! What is it, if not a lighthouse?!"
The ship rolled in time with the drums. Kendel awkwardly rolled with the ship until she fell.
Once seated, she pulled out a small harp from her bag and sang the Harp Song of the Dane Women:
"
Once finished, she laid the harp aside. "I've made my offering for this meal with this song. @Kendel has made hers by preparing this meal. Each here should make their own offering whether story, song, dance, decoration, poetry or prayer. We will change the fortune of this voyage!"
The cook watched the crew as they took their meal. One shipmate curled a lip at more "foreign food" and snorted, "Dig in. No telling when we eat again." Another looked relieved at what strongly resembled fried polenta. At last @Net Spinster and @Kendel served themselves and sat to eat with the crew.
At which point @Martin54 stumbled down from deck.
Then @Martin54 stumbled in looking a bit like he had been battered by orcas going after a seal. "Come have some of the WidowMaker" she called to him.
@Kendel rifled through layers of skirts for the right pocket. She pulled out a soft leather case and then the carefully folded map from inside.
“As there seems to be no one else around but a hungry thief, the unconscious Martin54, and the two of us, I have been thinking it’s time for me to leave. The party is over by attrition, I’m afraid I’ve been mapping the places in Richard Rutt’s book, along with Alice Starmore’s, James Norbury’s, Priscilla Gibson’s, Lela Nargi’s. I won’t get this chance again, and that after dreaming for years to follow the route through the Lakes to the Atlantic. I’d like to follow the coast up and up and up, maybe go inland, and then ferry over to islands big and small, see the world of woolworking and knitting. With a name like Net_spinster, perhaps you’d like to join me.
I have a store of empty barrels, lumber scraps, tools and building skills. Tomorrow I can construct us a pontoon boat to get to land, with room to haul Martin54 for medical attention.
I’m open to other ideas, but the doldrums seem to have taken over the story. Steal away? No reason left to stay?
@Net Spinster found a few sacks and started sewing them together to provide some shelter on the boat and a means of hauling who needed to be hauled.
It felt good to work with tools again. To have a project, a goal, the start of a plan.
"Thank you, @Net Spinster . And they fell into the rhythm of their work.
@Kendel pulled a draught of the beer and passed the cann toward her wobbly shipmate. "Here, @Martin54. This might be safer than the water for now."
She went back to her carpentry. "Sorry '54. We got no curry today. The peas and collards came out fine, though. Go help yourself. When yer done eatin' @Net Spinster and I could use a hand up here."