Ch 25 Side Story III: Castor Counts Heads

Castor sat up in his bunk when the moon rose.

He hadn’t been asleep. He’d closed his eyes for a while, listening to the creak of the hull and the muffled slap of seawater on planking beyond the bulkhead, waited for his breathing to slow, then opened them again.

He pulled on his boots slowly, careful not to let the hobnails click against the floor. He fastened the top button of his vest. The short axe and the rope at his waist stayed where they were — he never took them off. He straightened the blanket on the bunk. Not for neatness. Habit. Then he walked out of the crew quarters.

The corridor was dark. He didn’t need a lamp. He’d walked this ship long enough to know, by feel alone, how many steps from the companionway to the deck, which plank was warped and would creak underfoot.

Up on deck, night wind came from the west, carrying salt and a touch of cold. He didn’t look into the wind. Didn’t look up at the stars. Didn’t check whether the cables along the gunwale were cinched tight.

He walked toward the foredeck.

The watch sailor crouched by the base of the foremast, back against the cable coil. He raised his head at the click of hobnails, saw it was the first mate, and nodded.

Castor nodded back.

One.

He didn’t break stride. Past the foredeck, past the anchor-chain coil. The wind flipped up the collar of his grey-brown canvas shirt. He pressed it down with one hand.

By the gunwale on the port bow, another watch sailor leaned there, a piece of line in his hands, tying knots, eyes on the sea ahead.

Two.

Castor turned back, passing the foremast, reaching the main deck. The main hatch cover was propped half-open for air. He stood at the edge of the hatch and looked down.

The hold was too dark to see more than outlines. Two rows of hammocks hung from the bulkheads on either side, some with curtains drawn, some without. Someone turned over; the hammock ropes groaned. Someone breathed evenly.

He didn’t need to see faces. The one who’d turned — the hammock swung wide, heavy. Probably Davi. Or Hank. Their bunks were side by side. From the other direction came a faint sound of teeth grinding — Tali. She never did it during the day. Only at night.

Three, four, five. He counted on, identifying by sound and position in the dark. From the second row on the port side came a brief cough — short, once, then silence. From the far end of the starboard side came a snore deliberately muffled, as if the sleeper had caught himself mid-snore and tried to swallow it back, not quite succeeding.

Six, seven, eight.

He kept walking.

The tool-locker door was ajar. He pushed it open a crack and looked in.

Ronn was asleep under the workbench.

Specifically, he was curled on the floor between the workbench and the bulkhead, an old piece of sailcloth under him, his head on his own coat folded into a pillow. His tool belt was still on, hammer and chisel ring resting at his side, a roll of wire pressing against his knee. His mouth hung slightly open, his breathing deep, a short snuffling snore coming through his nose.

The kid had fallen asleep next to the saw again. A two-foot frame saw leaned on the tool rack less than a hand’s breadth from the top of his head.

Castor looked for two seconds. Didn’t go in. Ronn’s breathing was deep and steady — dead to the world. The saw wouldn’t fall on its own. He’d reinforced the rack.

Nine.

He pulled the door shut and moved on.

A faint clink of bowl against bowl came from the galley.

Castor’s pace didn’t change. He passed the galley doorway without stopping, only turned his head for a glance. The door was open. On the low shelf by the stove sat a guttering oil lamp. Morton crouched on the wooden stool in front of the stove, cradling a bowl, drinking something. Soup or porridge — if the stove still had heat at this hour it would be leftovers from noon.

Morton looked up and saw Castor’s shadow. The bowl in his hands pulled in toward his chest.

Castor said nothing. Morton said nothing. The two of them held each other’s gaze in the nighttime galley doorway for less than a second.

Castor walked on.

Ten.

Old habit. Morton getting up to eat in the middle of the night — he’d done it since the day he came aboard. The first time Castor caught him he’d asked, “Can’t sleep?” Morton had stammered, “Hungry.” After that Castor stopped asking. Hein stopped asking too. A bit of soup missing from the stove in the morning, and nobody mentioned it.

He passed the sick bay.

A sliver of light showed under the door. Thin, not an oil lamp — a candle. Castor knew Bryn used candles instead of oil lamps. She said the lamp smoke contaminated the medicines.

He didn’t knock. The light from under the door cast a narrow bright line across the corridor floor. From inside came the faint rustle of pages turning, pausing now and then, as if someone were writing.

Bryn, updating her records. Her notebook wasn’t like Edmund’s — no wind direction, no barometric pressure. She recorded every crew member’s physical condition. Which day, whose old injury, whose sleep, whose fingers had cracked, whose shoulder had stiffened. The ledger in her head, put down on paper.

Eleven.

Castor climbed back on deck and walked to the quarterdeck. Moonlight filtered through thin clouds.

Starboard.

Corven leaned against the gunwale. That perpetual posture — arms crossed, head tilted slightly back. Black soft-soled boots soundless on the planking. His eyes were on the distant sea, his irises a paler grey in the moonlight.

As Castor passed, Corven didn’t move. Didn’t turn his head, didn’t speak, didn’t so much as glance his way. But Castor knew that Corven knew he was there. This man never needed to look to know who was beside him.

Twelve.

He kept walking. Down the companionway from the quarterdeck, past the captain’s cabin.

Light under the door.

Kael was still studying the chart. Or studying the compass. Or both. A lamp burning at this hour was no surprise on this ship. Castor stood one pace from the door. Inside, a chair leg scraped lightly on the floor — Kael shifting his weight.

Thirteen.

A small shadow lay curled on the floor by the cabin door.

Sol lay at the threshold of the captain’s cabin, curled tight, tail draped over his nose. His ear turned as Castor approached, but he didn’t open his eyes. His breathing was slow, his body rising and falling faintly. The teal gemstone on the pendant caught a flicker of lamplight leaking through the door.

Castor looked down at him. Sol’s tail tip moved once.

Then Castor walked on toward the crew quarters. Past more bunks — curtained, uncurtained. Someone snoring, someone turning over, someone clutching something and mumbling in a dream. He moved through the corridor slowly, setting his hobnailed soles down softly.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.

He reached the end of the starboard row of bunks. Naia’s hammock hung close to the bulkhead, a little higher than the others. The curtain was drawn — she’d hung it herself, a piece of dark grey-green canvas, the hem cut but not hemmed, swaying gently with the roll of the ship.

From behind the curtain came the sound of even breathing.

Castor stood three paces away. He didn’t need to be closer. When the curtain’s hem swayed he caught a glimpse of a braid hanging over the edge of the hammock, the small beads woven into it rocking faintly.

Twenty.

He turned back. Down the corridor, past the remaining bunks.

Twenty-one, twenty-two.

He returned to his own bunk. Sat down. Loosened the laces of his boots but didn’t take them off. The axe handle dug into his hip; he shifted it to a different angle.

Twenty-three.

Castor pulled the blanket up and closed his eyes.