Sybrina (4 page)

“What, boy?  What you gonna do wit’ that?”

“
Lift your leg, sir,” I direct.  He does it with effort, and I help him. I grasp underneath his calf.  He lets out a groan of discomfort, and I gently place it on top of the chest.  “This isn’t a cure but should help with the discomfort.  Anytime you get a bout, raise your feet up.”  I shift his leg to a more comfortable raised position and add, “You may also have a touch of arthritis.”

The old man laugh
s at what he thinks is absurdity, but complies. I drop my vocational demeanor for just a moment to smile back at him and continue with my self-appointed work.

The people on this side seem to be less afflicted. My thoughts drift to concern for the man with the broken arm and the desperate need of dry bandages for the open wounds. I have almost made my way around to the other side where those items are desperately needed.

I shoot my eyes to him.  He is watching me intently, cradling his broken arm.

Where is Mr. Tinker?

As if my thoughts called to him and he answered, the trap door opens and gray light pours in.  A cagey, wiry man, dressed in burlap pants and a shirt that was definitely made for another much larger man, descends into our cell.  He is carrying two glass bottles and cloth.

My friend
’s eyes find mine and his register disbelief that my request was granted.  The sailor looks around dartingly and calls out, “Paul!”

I step quickly toward him and Mr. Overton joins me from his position across the way. The sailor thrusts the contents of his hands at me.

“These are from Tinker.”

“
Thank you.”

I take them gladly, unaffected by the lack of propriety of the giver.  I fully expect the sailor to traverse up the ladder into the daylight since his task is complete. Instead, he just looks at me oddly as if my presence may somehow offend him.

I don’t have time to explore the mystery of this man’s expression.  So I hand the bottles to my friend and carry the cloth to the woman who is still beating back the flowing blood of her husband.

“
Rip these into strips,” I order her.  She begins the task quickly.

I peer over at the wound; it has slowed down considerably. I examine it gently. I reach my hand back in a gesture for a bottle of the whiskey we just received, and my hand meets the rough edges of burlap.

It startles me.  This man is so close and hovering over me.  I jump up, the events of last evening plaguing me.

“
I was told to help too,” he grinds out in a low, rough tone.  Standing behind him is Mr. Overton.  I reach around to take a bottle.

“
Oh,” I say, not sure what this is about. I take a strip of cloth and soak some whiskey into it.  “Here take this and hold it on the lesion.” He blinks in confusion at me.

Oh Lord, do they throw people overboard when they get a splinter
?

“
Here.” I point to the oozing gash. “Hold this right here.”  It’s like talking to an infant.

“
The man over there has a broken arm,” I say to my friend, Mr. Overton.

“Please give him that bottle of whiskey.  He must take four good swigs before I can set the bone.”

My friend, Mr. Overton, needs no additional instruction.

The woman continues methodically to rip up the cloth.  I grab some additional strips and carry them with me as I make my rounds.  I drop them where needed.

It is time to set the broken arm. Mr. Overton waits by the side of the patient.

“Can I help you, Paul?”

“
I’m supposed to help!” travels loudly through the underbelly of the ship.  Oddly, the deckhand comes over. “The wife has the lee-chun,” he says, pronouncing the word “lesion” as if it is a word of foreign origin.  His behavior is most peculiar.

“
Thank you,” I return cordially.

The man
’s arm is resting across his middle.  I reach down to examine it, so I know exactly where I need to set it.  The young man flinches.

“
Do you know how to do this?” he questions, worry lining his brow.

“
Yes.” He nods and stiffens with a wince. “I must shift it to set it.”

The young man seems to summon all his energy and courage.  I gently inspect the break.  A splint would be most beneficial with the bandages.  I scan the area.

“What do you need, Paul?” Mr. Overton notices that I am searching for something.

“
A piece of wood, flat, like a small board.”  I gesture with my hands.

“
I can get one of those,” my
helper
responds eagerly.

“
You can? What is your name, sir?” Mr. Overton asks.

“
They call me Mouse,” he says proudly like a small child.

“
It would be most helpful if you could do so, Mr. Mouse,” I add.

The deckhand sent to help me, Mouse, scurries like one, up the ladder and topside.

“A few more moments, and I can take care of this,” I assure him. 

“
I’m Michael,” the injured man says.  His voice is deep but carries a bit of youth to it.  His hulking frame must make him appear older than he is.

“
Hello, Michael.  I’m... Paul.”  I nearly needed to catch myself from spewing my true name.  “This is Mr. Overton.”  I introduce us.

Michael winces in pain as the ship rocks.  His eyes meet mine as he peers at me intently.
I kneel beside him to hold his arm steady.  He is very brave; the break must be agony.  I glance up at Mr. Overton, who looks sincerely troubled to see this man suffer.  I can’t help but wonder what has brought each person to this voyage. 

I hear someone on the ladder and just as I suspected Mouse is lithely descending.  He rushes over to us.

“Here.  Will this do?”

“
It’s perfect.” I smile at him.  “Take those bandages.  Pick out the longest ones.”  I decide to try and distract Michael’s thoughts as I set the bone.

“
Is this your first time on a ship?”

He shakes his head
, grimacing.  “No,” he grits through his teeth.   I shift his arm, quickly setting it.

“
Hand me the plank.”  Mouse hands it to me and I position it under the break.  “Now the bandages.” I begin wrapping it.

“
I am heading home to England.”  His breathing is labored from the sharp pains.  Each time he looks at me, it is queerly.  Michael’s gaze is admiration and confusion.

“
Is there any more whiskey?”  Mr. Overton places the bottle to Michael’s lips.  He takes a long pull.  I finish wrapping up his arm.  “Keep this as steady as possible so it will heal correctly.”  He nods in understanding.  “Try to rest now,” I order. 

I straighten to a standing position and scan the room, fairly satisfied that everyone has been tended to.  I look back at Michael and he is staring at me.

“Your help, Mr. Mouse, has been most invaluable.  Thank you.” I attempt to redirect the attention from myself.

Mouse puffs out his chest with pride. 
“Anything else I can help ye wit’?”

“
I think we are all fine for now.”

Mouse gets close to me and sniffs.  I am terribly uncomfortable with him being so close.  I casually step away, hoping that he will take the hint.  He slips close to me again and whispers
, “Tinker thinks you’re a girl.”

My eyes go wide at his proclamation.  I don
’t dwell on it because I have to make my rounds again; throwing myself into my work I recheck the passengers.

*****

My feet dangle from the large crate I use as a seat, and I fit the great tome in my lap. Oh, how I miss my books. The medical journals, textbooks, even my own notes.  I painstakingly drafted renderings, findings, annotations, and detailed records.  Everything I saw and heard in lectures and laboratory experiments found their way to paper.

The crew positions themselves in repose, relaxing.   Some are perched on the massive machinery used to ascend the ship
’s sails and some lie across the sodden floor.  They settle in to hear me recount the Melville tale of the great whale.  I insert my index finger between the untouched pages and find page one, chapter one.  I suck in a breath to carry my voice and catch the intensity of the eyes of the sailors.  I begin.

Call me Ishmael.

Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse...

A ship-hand snorts at the prose and I continue.

…and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original
—the Tyre of this Carthage—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?”

I read on and on.  Taking in the emotions and responses of the crew that is clearly starved for words.  Their unwavering attention clearly exudes their needs unmet by the sour
captain.

...that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man
—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all.

Elijah:

My senses tighten as my body prepares to fall into the immortal sleep. My eyes have been closed as I sit here alone in my cabin by the small wooden table listening to her voice. The tale of the great white whale upon her lips is like consuming a sweet wine. It must be savored and cherished then devoured.  Many times I have wondered what the taste of her would be, a sugary honey or candied strawberries. 

This life has
a blandness
to it. The richness of the senses and the maturity that comes with humanity’s aging is lost.  Vampires don’t have the luxury of change. Sophocles’ sphinx challenged and ate the townsmen who could not solve his riddle on the stages of man. Growing from child, to adult, to old age is a gift that completes a perfect circle—with each chapter, experiencing life through changing eyes. An infant’s senses are vivid putting everything in their mouth and watching the most mundane thing with fascination. A child has the pleasure of viewing the world with newness and awe. Adults have the wisdom to combine all of their knowledge and experiences into finding worth among the earth. The elders sit back and watch all that has transpired with a renewed outlook and remembrance. Placing a value on humanity and all its riches.

We are finding our stages of life and our own worth in this existence. Like the struggles of mankind, we make our own mistakes.  Longevity does not make us infallible or omniscient. Many vampires search for purpose or find mischief to fill the long years.  The truly unlucky wretches find madness, like Vadim.

Sarah’s death brought on the madness.  A
vampiric condition
I have only heard about on the whispers of the tempests that blow my way from time to time.  I should have been more wary of his propensity for such a thing.  The signs were visible, but I only realized them as an afterthought, stretching and reaching for puzzle pieces that eventually spelled out dementia.  A fate that, if I had a choice, to me would be considered worse than that of a Revenant.  Humans brought back to life as the undead. A minion or servant heeding commands and living off of the baser human instincts. Destruction, killing, and bloodlust—with no conscience or sense.  The vampiric madness is a most foul disease. I pity all those who suffer from it and the humans that cross their paths.

Me, on the other hand
; he was almost successful in ending me.  Stopping my plight to undo the wrongs others have suffered at his immortal hands. My situation is more unfortunate because the creature’s life he chooses to change the destiny of is a goddess of goodness and knowledge.  Her breath alone can change the scope of the universe.  It is enticing and sinful to someone like me who once walked as a man...

Her likeness to that of Vadim
’s love, Sarah, is not lost on me.  I see the connectedness.  Vadim is showering his wrath and frustration in a delusional fixation to cause destruction and pain on this pure being.  A girl in boy’s clothes that sleeps restlessly against a worn balustrade.  My keen hearing listens to her light breathing, preparing myself for when the unconsciousness comes.  The bouts are fewer and farther between as my eternal body heals itself in an immortal respite.

It is time. My body grows heavy and the urge to repose is great. I stand and mentally prepare myself for oblivion. I cast off my jacket and roll up my sleeves from habit. The bed is made up of
fine sheets. I lay upon them and slip away.

Sybrina:

Ishmael and Queequeg’s first meeting initiates a strong guttural laugh from my audience.  It pleases me to see them so highly amused, but my eyes are heavy, tired.  The night is waning and I am feeling the exhaustion that accompanies a full day. An hour passes and at a natural break in the reading, Mr. Tinker speaks.

“
It’s time for the crew to get back to their stations. The boy is tired,” he announces.  He rises and takes the tome from my hands.  He places a wayward piece of straw in it, marking my last spoken page.  “Let’s get you to bed, son.”  Everyone stands and stretches, as a murmur of discussion about the reading runs through the sailors.

I scrabble down from my perch and walk side by side with Mr. Tinker.  The crew scatters
, going to their duties or bunking down for the night.  The stars are crisp and high in a shimmering and awe-inspiring vision.  I gaze up to absorb their beauty and trip over my own feet.  Mr. Tinker steadies me, sending me a perplexing look.  He doesn’t voice anything, but there is definitely something knowing in his eyes.  At the door in the floor, Mr. Tinker stops and hesitates, thinking.

“
If you need anything, Paul, call on me.”

“
Thank you.  I will.”

I begin to lower myself down the ladder.   Out of the corner of my eye I see a shadow lurking.  My breath catches from being jittery from all of the mayhem that has taken place in the few short days of my trip.  Stepping out from the blackness of cover is Mouse.  A reverent guise passes across his face.

“Thank ye,” he tells me shyly.  “I ain’t never heard a book before... well, besides the Good Book,” he adds slowly.  His eyes dance with merriment.  “The morrow too?  Will ya read again?”

“
You’re welcome and, of course. I would be happy to,” I respond and shake my head in disgust at the illiteracy amongst the men in charge of our safekeeping as we make our way to England.  I stop my descent. “By the way,” I say with concern, looking up at Mr. Tinker, “how is the minister?”

“
The minister?” he questions.  “Oh. Still ill.”

“
How unfortunate,” I state, thinking that maybe I should request to see him.  There might be something I can do for him.  My lethargy renders me speechless, and I continue to my waterborne home.

Beneath the freedom of the deck above, I submerge myself below.  I receive odd glances and a murmuring runs along the walls of the ship through the families and travelers like myself.  I toss my body down and lean up against the pillar that has been a constant from the beginning of the journey.  My eyes close and I let out a sigh. 

The exhale has many meanings: exhaustion, fear, loneliness, and despair. Small creaks in the floor boards alert me that a person is approaching.  My eyes snap open and Michael with his arm carefully immobile sits beside me.  I rest my eyes again.  It is a rude gesture, but I am completely spent.

“
Thank you,” he says.  “My arm is feeling much better.”

“
That’s good,” I respond wearily.  “Sleeping will be difficult,” I add.

He is at close proximity;
I can feel him nod.  We are abutting each other facing the emptiness and captivity in front of us.  His body emits an indecisiveness that he wishes to say something, but can’t find the proper words.  A few moments pass between us.

Softly he asks,
“What is your given name?”

My eyes flip open
, catching his implication.

Defeat escapes my lips. 
“Is it so transparent?”

Michael chuckles lightly
. “It’s your mannerisms that give you away... Feminine.”  He shifts his legs.  I can see them out of the corner of my eye, muscular and well worked.  “What brings you on this voyage?  Have you no family?”  Sincerity entwines within his words.

“
They died,” I say through the lump in my throat that has never fully dissipated since their passing.

“
I’m sorry.”

“
So am I.” 

I pause and let the sorrow run
through me.  The most difficult thing to think about is their deaths.  It is heavy in my heart, making my chest tight.  The fear I have of the one who follows me cannot trump the despair I feel at their loss.

“
Sybrina,” I whisper.

My eyes fill with tears and my nose prickles as I fight back the desperate sobbing that wishes to burst forth.

“Sybrina,” Michael repeats.  “It suits you.”

We sit silently.  The unseen clock ticks by and my body succumbs to my fatigue.  Even in my uncomfortable mental and physical state, I slip away into sleep.

Slivers of moonlight shine through the window casing; my family’s house is always beautiful day or night. I walk through the great hallways peering into each room.  Ahead is Paul’s room, a pair of shoes lying haphazardly by his doorway.  My brother, so typical. Mother constantly refers to him as a sweeping tempest leaving a shambles where ever he goes.  Inside his room, a book lies on the floor, binding bent open to save the page.  My nocturnal gaze lands on the bed and I shriek...

An eerily light scratching sound wakes me.  I must have slept late because the passengers are milling around cleaning up after breakfast. I let out a sigh of relief at the normal goings
-on, afraid of hostile men or rats. The tall form of Michael approaches me with a tin plate in his hand.  He appears enormous from my reposed position.

“
How about breakfast in bed?” he comments jovially.

“
Thank you. I could have retrieved this myself.” A knot of bread and a hunk of cheese lie on the well-used dish.  I sit up and lightheadedness travels across the back of my eyes.  I must be hungry.

“
How did you sleep?” he asks, making conversation.

“
As well as any night here, I suppose.”  I break off a piece of bread and gnaw on it, watching the
young girl I clasped against me during the raging storm use tailor’s chalk to draw a hopscotch grid onto the  wood planks—the scratching that woke me. She is only a few feet from me. She smiles at me when I catch her gaze. I have definitely made a friend.

“
Will you play with me?” 

Her mother, apparently hearing the request
, scolds gently, “Leave the boy alone, Helen.”  Putting my plate down, I rise from my seat on the floor and smile back at Helen.

“
I would love to.” I direct my words at Helen’s mother. “It’s no bother.”  Helen’s mother gleams at my willingness to offer her daughter a distraction.  Michael stands to observe the game with mirth.

Helen holds a tiny rock in her hand that she must
’ve carried aboard from Boston where we cast off from a week ago. Helen becomes all business and seriousness as she explains to me the rules in her childish voice. Unruly brown curls bounce as she goes into a great deal of detail in explaining hopscotch. Just listening to her is a welcome reprieve and amusing.

“I’ll go first to show you.” Helen drops the rock on the square marked one and effortlessly jumps over it and completes the grid landing gracefully on each square. “Now, I have to put the rock on number two.” Helen tosses the rock and it lands perfectly and she proceeds to hop onto one, skip two and finish up to number eight.  “You try.”

Her tiny hand places the rock in mine. I let it go to land on number one and proceed to hop and complete jumping up to number eight and back.

“Well done,” Helen compliments me.

She is such an adorable child that for a brief moment I think how wonderful it would be to have my own. But such a musing brings back the devastation that has plagued me over the past month. Playing with a child is such a trifling event but rallies my spirit into remembering a simpler time.

We continue the game, and I converse with her regarding the uncomplicated notions—fashionable dolls, school, and her situation. Her family has left Boston with only a meager means in their pockets to go back to their homeland of Ireland.  Her mother’s family has a farm. They have to take over due to a sickness that has consumed her family. A tale told too often. Health and vigor the two most important essentials for the difficult work farming offers.

My eye catches movement at the hatch in the floor
. A head peeks in and leans down.  Mouse!  Our eyes lock and he beckons me with a motion of his hand.

“
Excuse me,” I say to Helen.

Mouse is upside down making a silly face,
as he leans down through the hatch. He waves his arm for me to follow him to the top deck.  Grinning, I ascend the ladder one rung at a time, slowly. Mouse is clearly excited about something; he is practically bouncing out of his worn-out shoes.

“What is it?” I ask, his merriment contagious. He has my curiosity piqued.

“Follow me,” he whispers. We cross the deck and sailors are hard at work fixing a broken mast. A light mist of sawdust fills the air around them, hovering in a light brown fog. I am transfixed at their diligence and quick agility. They work together as one making the task less arduous. The air has a tropical cast to it today, unseasonably warm.
Pleasurable appeal
is what today offers, starting off with Michael’s generosity, Helen’s exuberance, and Mouse’s curious appearance. In this moment, despair is swept away.

Quick strides by Mouse cause
me to have to pick up my pace. “Wait up,” I call out.

The captain is engrossed in a conversation with his first mate on a small elevated deck that has a short stack of stairs.   My next step is in hesitation; I am not supposed to be on the topside.
  His uniform is sharply pressed. The captain is perplexing, attentive to detail and acutely conscious of his dress, but wallows in the ocean of illiteracy.  His eyes narrow to slits, and I know that he sees me out of his peripheral vision. I continue to follow Mouse, my two strides equaling his one.