Sybrina (3 page)

Sybrina:

I must have fallen asleep because a rough foot kicks me, and I open my eyes to find myself on the deck, curled up in a ball.  My hands are cushioning my cheek. 

“
Get up!” an enormous man barks hostilely.

I raise myself up on my elbow, thoroughly exhausted, my mouth feel
ing like something took up residence in it and sucked up all of the moisture.  I receive another swift kick to my leg.

“
Ouch!” I yell and rub it.

“
You know ya ain’t supposed to be here, boy! Get yerself below with the other damned ones!”  He swings his leg back to kick me a third time, and I roll away.

“
I heard you!” I croak back, colliding with a wooden cask.

I shuffle to my feet and sway with the ship.  The sea seems choppier than the day before. The sky is filled with thick gloomy clouds.

The giant man grabs me by the scruff of my collar and hauls me toward the trap door that leads to the black hull of the ship.  The tips of my shoes scrape across the floor.

Emerging is a man shorter than this one with another sail-wrapped body across his shoulder. I flinch
, knowing what dreadful thing lies beneath its concealment. The sailor that clutches me looks down at my face, and I perceive a hint of pity in his brown eyes. As if a seer, he peers straight through me and lets go of his coarse hold.

“
What is your name?”

“
Paul, sir,” I say.

“
Paul, I think we need a minister again today.”

“
Yes, sir.”  The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles.  I cannot venture to guess what he is smiling about when the ship is preparing for another funeral at sea.

He walks away and leaves me standing on the deck with only the corpse of the man who attacked me and the small deckhand.  I turn around
, not wanting to continue to stare at it.  I move to the railing and watch as the rough wake of the sea bounces and crashes against the bow.  A loud voice calls down into the abyss of the ship.

“
Everyone topside!”

After a minute or two, passengers file out and make their way across the deck.  I squirm, not wanting to do this again.  I unfortunately do not have the soft heart I had yesterday.  I feel no remorse for the loss of someone who would do the contemptible things the dead man wanted to do to me. 

“’Ere you go, Paul.” The large man who kicked me only a few moments ago hands me a Bible and leans down, whispering with secrecy.  “Maybe you could read a tale to us sailors tonight.”

How odd
. He wants me to read to them.  Is the entire crew illiterate?  I find it quite hard to believe.  Education is available to everyone.

The area is quickly crowding. 
“I’m Tinker,” he says, introducing himself.

“
Hello,” I say cordially then open the Bible to the marked page once again.

Two men stand facing each other at the railing holding the corpse at knee height
, waiting for me to perform another crude funeral mass.  Around me, everyone is quiet.  It is much easier to read today without the blast of the sun’s rays blinding me. The dark gray sky is cooling.

A Reading from the Book of Ecclesiastes

There is an appointed time for everything,

     and a time for every affair under the heavens.

A time to give birth, and a time to die;

     a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

     a time to tear down, and a time to build.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

     a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;

     a time to embrace,

     and a time to be far from embraces.

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

     a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

A time to rend, and a time to sew;

     a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate;

     a time of war, and a time of peace.

What profit have workers from their toil?

I have seen the business

     that God has given to mortals to be busied about.

God has made everything appropriate to its time,

     but has put the timeless into their hearts

     so they cannot find out,

     from beginning to end,

     the work which God has done. 

I recognized that there is nothing better

     than to rejoice and to do well during life. 

Moreover, that all can eat and drink

     and enjoy the good of all their toil—

     this is a gift of God.

When I end my reading, the men hoist the body over the balustrade and today I hear a deep splash.  A few heads turn to me, waiting for me to begin the Our Father, but I don
’t have it in me to do so. 

I find a kindly face in the crowd.  The nice man who
had inquired if I was injured last evening, Mr. Overton, nods at me, and with a knowing expression starts the procession back into the hull of the ship.

Below, I rest against my pillar, exhausted and sickened.  On the cusp of being violated, I attempt to sort out my vicissitudes.  The thick, ugly knowledge of
its
presence, and the catastrophic loss of my family and life as I knew it, is almost all I can bear.  All is lost.  My fate is sealed and I will wait patiently right here for my demise.  It will come for me, of that I am sure.  I close my eyes out of pity for myself and retreat to the corners of my mind lost in misery.

*****

People are restless.  My eyes snap open as the ship’s movement sharpens and pitches.  A storm must be brewing.  Tempests are frightful on a ship.  The sides can dip into the sea profoundly and toss its inhabitants mercilessly.  Falling overboard is a common fate.  Water floods and soaks everything and it takes days for it to dry, leaving behind mold and acrid smells.

Shouting is beginning above and it echoes below.  The deckhands rush frantically across the wooden boards
, making them squeak, and fine bits of splinters fall down upon our heads. The distinct sound of the masts, ropes, and sails as they are pulled and run through the iron turbines.

I wrap my hands around my column as the first signs of a plunging dip of the ship hits us.  People, bedding, clothing, and other personal items jettison across the floor.  Rain showers down through the door in the top deck and with a sudden knock of it
, it slams, dimming the light to a weak blackness, causing my eyes to adjust to my surroundings once more.  Someone must have gone by to lock us in.

High-pitched cries of children douse the sour air as water begins to flow through a crack in the keel.  Whole families attach themselves like I am to any support pillar they can reach.  A small child flails
past me, and I stretch to grab her.  Tears streak her face as I yank her to me.  I pull her in front of me, and yell into her ear to hold on.  She wraps her tiny arms around the thick pillar the best she can.

The rocking changes direction and everything slides the other way.  I send up a prayer for it to end soon.  My arms are sore and achy from holding on so tightly.  I crush my body into the little girl trying to keep her in place. My feet are soaked with cold seawater.

An older man loses his grip and stumbles fruitlessly, thrashing his arms attempting to gain purchase.  He flips over a wayward trunk and lands hard.  I am too far away to aid him and would risk the child before me.  This frustrates me fiercely.  

Time passes too slowly.  It is in a stagnant freeze.  An eternity of fighting to stay upended finally ends.  The ship uprights itself.  Some of the water drains away as the floor evens out and soggy possessions slip back across the dark room.

Hordes of people rush around gathering their things or helping up the elderly. The mother of the child I have wedged between me and the column comes over in hysterics.  She thanks me over and over again in an Irish accent.  Her gratitude pours into me through her embrace.  The child swivels in place to hug me. Her grip is tight. Her mother pulls her away to check for injuries.

I see a young man against the wall favoring his left arm.  From this distance, I can see the pain on his face and can deduce that it is broken.  I stride over to him, my medical training kicking in. 

“Let me look at it,” I tell him.  He nods with an agonizing strain on his face and turns away as I examine his arm.  I am as gentle as I possibly can be.  It is a clean break, but it must be set.  The hurt will be unbearable without anesthetic or even a bottle of rum or whiskey to ease it.  Everything is wet, so I have nothing to tie it with. I glance around.  Many people are injured.

“
I’ll be back.  Try not to move it,” I instruct.  He nods in understanding with clenched teeth.

A woman pats a sea
-soaked cloth on a man’s head.  He has a deep gash running along his forehead that is oozing blood. I intervene.  “Like this,” I say, showing the woman how to apply pressure to stop the wound from bleeding.  “You must stay like this until it stops.”

“
Thank you,” she says and gives her attention back to her duty.

“
Paul?  Are you hurt?” a voice calls from behind me.  It is my only friend down here, come to check on me.

“
No. But we need alcohol and dry bandages,” I say matter-of-factly.  He agrees.

I walk over to the ladder and climb.  The trap door is still shut.  No one has come by to open it.

“What are you doing?” he asks in an exasperated tone.

“
Getting what we need,” I say, resolved.

“
You don’t want to get thrown in the brig!” He’s worried.  “Captain Stokes is a remorseless, harsh man.  He is as mean as the sea.”

I scoff at the warning.  My mind is made up
; waiting for my expiration or not, I can at least help these people. I raise my hand above my head and pound my fist on the trapdoor.  Nothing happens.  I do it again.  No one comes.  Alarmed, I think that maybe all of the crew was lost in the storm when a click of the lock makes me look up.  The door is thrown open and crashes against the deck.  A surly-faced deckhand stares down at me, livid.

“
You know Cap’n’s rules!  You stay down there!”  He reaches to slam the door again, and I reach my hand out to stop it.  It bends my wrist back painfully.

“
We need clean bandages and some kind of alcohol for wounds and anesthetic.”

He gives me a gruff, perplexed twist of lips
. “Anesthetic?” he questions.

I suck in a breath to accompany my explanation.
  “Yes, it’s when you give someone something to make them unconscious or deaden their sensitivity.”  The dullness of the crew frightens me. 

He stares at me like I am a character in a Dickens novel, possibly the ghost of Christmas past. I race around in my mind searching for how I can convince this poor ignorant soul to help me.  Our one-sided conversation is interrupted by Tinker, who crouches and sticks his head down to my level.

“Paul?” he questions.

“
Hello, Mr. Tinker.” I suck in a breath and voice my requests.  “We need bandages and alcohol.  Can you get it for me, or allow me to speak with someone who can?”

“
I will see what I can do,” he rushes out genially.

Mr. Tinker closes the lid on our tomb, and I scurry back down the steps of the ancient ladder.  The din is filled with concerned chatter and moans of uncertainty.  The floor sloshes with residual water from the ferocious storm.

I assess the controlled chaos.  The best way is to start right where I stand and work my way around to everyone. I get to work, remembering esteemed colleagues and friends back in England and wishing silently that I could call upon their expertise. Joshua would be beneficial right now for help and guidance.

I move methodically and professionally, checking each person, looking at bruises and cuts.  A few odd stares come my way.  Only one older man questions my credibility.

“Ye can’t be more than fifteen! What you know about mendin’, boy?”

I respectfully respond,
“Only what the good Lord put in me, sir.”

That spiritually acceptable response
wins me a wrinkled smile and admittance to his person to check for wounds.  The man lies down for me, and I raise his lower leg.

“
Ouch!” he cries.

My eyes shoot to his face in surprise.

“It’s the gout, boy.  Ain’t nothin’ to do for the gout,” he comments straightforwardly. “Them there feet are old.”  He points for good measure.

I scan the room and see a trunk.  It is just the right height.  I reach for it, and pull the heavy wooden piece with all my might; it drags loudly and scratches the damp floor.