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Tir
For the next two days, Tir stifled every urge to jump overboard with the same thought:
Just 48 more hours.
Just 47 more.
46.
Time dragged its feet, squeezing every ounce of willpower it could from him. He had no idea a ship could get so disgusting. Why did they have to leave their waste in the walkways? Why couldn’t they just vomit over the edge of the ship? And — most importantly — why did everything have to reek of piss?
Focus, Tir reminded himself. Just 45 more hours to go.
By the time he’d made it to the lower deck, he’d gone through three sponges and a handful of dirty rags. His elbows and knees throbbed with every crawl down the hallway. It was almost like the sailors were intentionally letting things get dirtier. He began to wonder why he didn’t just stay in the barrel. When he relieved himself over the edge of the stern, he felt he’d made the right choice. The fresh sea air was a welcome respite from the scent of sheep and manure.
Even through the aches, the scents, and the taunting of the sailors, he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He was finally free. Tir wondered how his parents were doing — what they thought of his choice. Would they be out looking for him, or had they’d found the goodbye note he’d left atop his pillow? For a brief second, his thoughts turned to Alicent. She’d be upset today. Maybe tomorrow, too. Eventually, though, she’d get over it. They were just too different to make it work, he concluded. She must have known that, too.
No point in worrying about all that now, he concluded. Time to get back to it.
Despite the sailors’ best efforts, he’d managed to clean down to the foundation of the wood, revealing a fresh, vibrant color beneath all the grey grime that had accumulated over the years. Unfortunately, the high of this surprisingly satisfying discovery did not last. A foul-smelling sailor by the name of Oxfur entered the hall, brandishing a bucket of chum. As soon as Tir saw it slip from his fingers, he winced reflexively. Blood, guts, and all manner of fish spilled about Tir’s handiwork.
“Oops,” he guffawed, his buck teeth splitting his lips in a twisted grin.
Tir thought to scoop up some of the chum in his rag and throw it at the man like a sling, but opted against it, instead offering him a little disappointing nod that fathers often give their children.
“Proud of yourself for that one?”
He regretted saying something the moment the words left his mouth.
“Shut up, stowaway,” the sailor replied, kicking the bucket across the room.
Oh, if he were in charge, that man would pay. Tir wouldn’t kill him, for killing was not in his nature. Instead, he’d tie the man to the front of the ship, let the sea snakes nip at his legs, allow the sharks to get just a little too close for his liking. Then, just when something contemplated the taste of raw Oxfur, Tir would rescue him, reminding him to never do something foolish like that again.
Oh yes. That would surely show him.
Tying his bandanna tighter around his head, Tir got back to work.
That night, he was invited to dine with the crew.
A watered-down stew and tack, a hardened biscuit, made up the menu for the evening. The tack was dry and the stew lacked any semblance of flavor. It was actually a miracle that the mess cook had earned his position. Despite this, it was one of the best meals he’d ever had — not because of the flavor, but because of what it represented. Here was the first meal he’d ever earned on his own. It could’ve been a rotten apple and curdled milk, for all he cared. What mattered was that he’d earned it.
This was his hardened biscuit and watery stew.
He wolfed down the meal with such hurried pace that the other sailors began to eat quickly as well. Most of them paid him no mind, but the few that did weren’t exactly subtle about it. Tir met the gaze of one, whose grin quickly spread from ear to ear. He smiled back, raising his empty bowl in toast. The sailor replied by tapping his bowl on the table. Tir mirrored the motion. Before he knew it, he was engaged in a sort of back and forth game where one man would tap his bowl to the table while the other responded.
Soon, others took notice and joined the game, bringing pounding fists and stomping feet into the fray. Then, to his surprise, the crew began to sing. Stories of lust, love and longing filled the air. Tir struggled to keep up with the beat. He was never rhythmically gifted — staying on the mark was a battle in and of itself. Still, the experience was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. Most Islander songs were about sheep or farming. This was something entirely different.
While the crew sang their songs, Tir scanned the room. Save for the ship’s Spotlighter, the crew was comprised entirely of Seafolk. He hadn’t expected to see another Islander, but the fact that he hadn’t even encountered a Soutehrling or Volthari or even a Mainlander was surprising. His gaze came to a halt at the only sailor that wasn’t participating in the festivities. A cold shudder ran down the back of Tir’s neck.
Oxfur pouted in the corner of the dining hall, a glare fixated on Tir. With a trembling hand, Tir raised a cup in a nervous sort of salute. The sailor replied by drawing his thumb across is neck. He wasn’t familiar with the gesture, but, judging by Oxfur’s piercing glare, it wasn’t a good one. A tap on his back made him yelp. Prentice pulled up a stool beside him, dropping an extra piece of tack on Tir’s plate.
“Is it everything you hoped it’d be?”
“Something like that,” Tir remarked, taking up his cup in salute.
The two clinked glasses, knocking their drinks back. Tir had chosen a foul glass of fermented wine. He regretted it almost instantly. The taste made his lips curl, eliciting a laugh from Prentice.
“Bet you’re regretting it now, eh?”
“Let me have a few more and then we’ll see.”
In hindsight, Tir regretted how much he’d drank. His lips were cracked, his belly ached, and his head — oh, his head! What sort of demon had infested him last night? Where had his mind gone? Then, the contents of his stomach bid farewell, spilling themselves out all over the spot he’d just cleaned. Ugh. Breathing through his nose, he got to it again, putting his elbow into it.
When at last he finished cleaning up his mess, he heard a door click open. The captain — who Tir now knew as Ardsman — entered the room, stepping widely over Tir’s handiwork. He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Pristine!” The captain clapped delightedly.
“You won’t find a cleaner deck this side of the Great Ocean,” Tir chuckled in a tired tone.
“There’s just one problem.”
Tir moved off his knees, taking a seat beside one of the pillars of the deck.
“Oh?”
“What would you do if I told you someone in my crew wanted you dead?”
Tir dropped the wet rag he held. It hit the ground with a heavy squelch.
“What?”
Captain Ardmsan laughed, his bellow echoing along the empty hall.
“Oh, pay no mind to it. Happens all the time. This one’s always been a little ornery. Not very fond of newcomers.”
“So he wants to kill me?!” Tir exclaimed. “Aren’t you going to do something about it?”
Ardsman tugged at one of the ribbons on his beard.
“Lad, I didn’t get these from helping out stowaways. I’ve got one job: keeping my crew happy and our pockets full. If that means they’ve gotta kill you, who am I to stop them? Still, I felt I owed it to you to let you know in advance. Give you some time to prepare.”
Tir had never felt the sting of mortality before. On Laithlach, the closest thing he’d found to danger was the time a horse almost bucked him off its back. But murder?
“I’m not just going to roll over and let him kill me,” Tir protested. “What do I do?”
“Well, way I sees it, you’ve got two options,” he grumbled, lighting his pipe with a match. “You can either try to convince the man to lay off, or…”
“Or what?”
“Or you can fight him to the death.”
Tir gulped. There were very few things that the boy knew about himself. But the one thing he knew with absolute certainty, though, was that he was no fighter. He couldn’t even step on the ants that raided his mother’s kitchen, much less even think of harming someone. It was like asking a fish to breathe air. Ardsman, seeing the panicked look on his face, clapped the boy’s shoulder with his hand.
“The one that wants you dead’s named Oxfur. But, judging by the look on your face, I imagine you already knew that.”
“He’s not very subtle,” Tir grumbled.
“Maybe you can talk him out of it. He’s a big gambler. Maybe you can challenge him to a competition.”
“A competition?”
Captain Ardsman grumbled in the way that older men often do, something between a cough and a groan.
“He plays cards below deck ‘round this time of day. Might as well start there.”
Tir pursed his lips.
“Fine,” he said with some hesitation. “I guess I’ll start there.”
“Best of luck, lad. You’ll need it.”
——
Feile
The bells that signaled their arrival nearly threw Feile from her bed. She hurriedly dressed herself, flinging what few possessions she brought into her travel bag. When she was confident she had everything, she made her way to the top deck.
The morning mist had just begun to break free from its confines, spreading out over the rooftops of the coastal village of Kestrel. The town was small — some would even described it as quaint. To Feile, Kestrel was just another backwater bumpkin village that she’d forget about as soon as she left.
This town, to Feile, was remarkably unremarkable. Sure, Kestrel was a corporate colony of the Triune — but it very clearly lacked the panache of Mainlander handiwork. In lieu of tenements, these people had decided to build cabins and triangle-roofed homes. They called Anderthal the Stew of the Seven Isles. No one race called this island home. Thus, the architecture was homogenous and the food was made to please big crowds. Feile hated it. She missed the marinated meats and fresh produce of Plumeria already.
Departing the vessel, she embarked upon the fish-filled docks, covering her nose with her sleeve. Foul. She added fresh fish to the list of things she hated. Ducking below a low-hanging sign, she darted down the dilapidated dockside before arriving at the town square. Tourists and newcomers darted in and out of shops, while locals did their best to accommodate the newest arrivals.
A sherbet vendor offered her a cherry-colored treat for just two coins. Despite her efforts to retain a sense of duty, she couldn’t resist it. One bite made her reconsider her thoughts on Kestrel. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad here, after all. The flavor was sweet, yet familiar. A taste of childhood. It reminded her of traveling carnivals and lantern festivals. Who said she couldn’t have a little fun while she was here?
Anderthal was dangerous for Feile’s wallet. Just about everything had a price tag: travel, food, and lodging barely scratched the surface of how they separated you from your coin. Even a few of the frontier roads carried tolls. While money wasn’t an issue for Feile, she still retained a decidedly conservative mindset with spending. When performance reviews came, she didn’t want to receive negative marks for her liberal use of company funds. Then again, she thought, would she really be an effective Threadbearer if she didn’t treat herself every once in a while?
No, she concluded. Minimize your time here. In and out.
Everything is better at home, anyway.
Large Reultian spires loomed over the Kestrel outskirts, ancient watchtowers of an era long since passed. Their twisted spiral designs looked like large worms bursting their way from the earth, sprouting their pointed noses toward the sky. From a distance, she could see a team of archeologists studying the structure. Feile paid them no mind. The Reultians were long dead. What was the point of studying them now? They failed. We survived. If they were so advanced, they’d still be here.
Feile just wanted this job to be over with already. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about it for long. Strange, she thought. Where was the horseman?
The carriage house was just as confused as she was.
“Do you know who I am?” Feile barked at the service worker. “I’m a Threadbearer with the Triune. It’s bad enough that the ship wouldn’t weigh anchor in Cormorant. I should’ve already been on my way by now. What is this?!”
“We profusely apologize for the delay,” the worker rested her head on her hand, stamping a page in her book.
“When will your next carriage be ready?”
The woman looked up at her, pushing her glasses back to the bridge of her nose. She stifled the kind of laugh one emits when they’ve been asked a particularly stupid question.
“Booked for the rest of the day.”
Feile felt the blood rush from her face. The rickety boat was bad enough. The condescending sailors frustrated her, sure, but this was something altogether worse. A snooty carriage house employee. She probably didn’t even make close to what Feile made in a year. Oh, just wait until the higher ups hear about this, she thought. This woman will have much to explain. She might even get deported. This is why you can’t trust Southerlings to get the job done, she thought.
“The rest of the day…?”
“Mhm.”
The woman stamped the paper again, turning the page over.
“So, there are no more carriages available?”
“Nope.”
“But I need to be in Cormorant by tomorrow,” Feile protested. “It’s important Triune business! I can’t wait on a carriage!”
The carriage worker shrugged, never once meeting Feile’s gaze.
“Journey’s only half a day on foot.”
Feile thought she was going to lose her mind.
“ON FOOT?!”
Taking in a sharp breath, the worker closed her book, folded her hands under her chin, and stared down at Feile. From her tall chair, it appeared as if she were a judge about to deliver a proceeding.
“Unless they taught you how to sprout wings and fly, I’m afraid that’s your only option.”
Looking over Feile’s shoulder, the employee waved her hand at someone behind her.
“NEXT!”
Before Feile could protest, the woman had already engaged the next person in line in conversation. Stomping her foot and crossing her arms, she stormed her way out of the pastel structure, slamming the door behind her. On foot. A Threadberaer, an envoy of the largest corporation in the world, traveling on foot?! Oh, this woman would be receiving an earful. As would the logistics team. To be treated like a common girl in a situation like this. How dare they. Don’t they know how respect works around here? Do they not see the three-headed lion on her cloak? The Mark of Employment upon her face? She should be looked at like royalty here. Not like this.
Her eyes traveled down the main road leading out of town Cobblestone brick sprawled itself across Kestrel’s co course, trailing off up the hill in favor of dirt. The frontier. A vast, unpredictable mass of untamed land. There weren’t market stalls or corner stores in the frontier. Nowhere she could rest her feet. She couldn’t enjoy a pastry with a disease-ridden opossum. The best she could hope for in the disgusting wilderness was a sore back and a short temper.
She patted her bag reflexively, letting out a small sigh of relief. It was still there. At least that hadn’t gone wrong yet. If she lost that, her life would be over. The might even Terminate her. The thought of losing her employment sent her into a brief state of panic. You’ll be fine, she thought. Just get the job done. That’s all you have to do.
Feile had barely made her way out of town and the pain had already begun. Her blisters practically had blisters. At this rate, she’d make it to Cormorant with nubs where her feet once grew. Ugh. This was supposed to be simple. Why was this never simple?
A small part of her contemplated taking the tattered remains of her shoes off and going at it barefoot from here on out. But they’d know. Drondin would certainly know if she’d done this. She was already on thin ice as it was. There was no point in risking it. Better to deal with the discomfort of blisters than the ire of a Tailor.
Feile was convinced she was cursed. It wasn’t a big curse, the kinds that forced you to tell lies or do misdeeds. This one was a curse of minor inconveniences. Broken shoelaces, poorly-bound books, and fully-booked carriages were small incidents when isolated. But, as they continued to add up, they chipped away at her. The momentum the curse brought upon her grew with each passing day. It was bad enough that the ship had a limited packing policy. To lose out on a carriage ride, too? With grey clouds on the horizon?
As if on cue, another blister decided to call her heel home.
This was getting ridiculous.
——
Tir
Tir had to summon all the courage in his body to open the door to the lower deck.
Oxfur was cackling around a game of dice, collecting dirty gold coins from a group of grumbling sailors. Using what appeared to be a rusted butcher’s knife, he pulled his winnings towards his end of the table, emptying them into a burlap sack at his waist. When Tir finally approached the table, the rest of the sailors moved aside to encircle him. No turning back now, he thought.
“Hello.” Tir attempted to keep his voice steady. “I’ve heard we’ve got some business to discuss.”
“Yeah,” Oxfur replied, pretending to cut his own throat with the knife. “Business.”
The rest of the sailors chuckled. Oh, Tir thought. So that’s what that thumb gesture meant. Steeling himself, Tir recited the phrase he’d been repeating to himself while he cleaned.
“Let’s be honest, in a fair fight, I wouldn’t stand a chance against you.” He held out his stringy arms as if to emphasize the point.
The sailor to his right, a scrawny fellow with one eye, burst into laughter. “You can say that again! Oxfur’s one of the mightiest men I’ve ever seen! Built like a bull and lives up to his name!”
“Quiet,” Oxfur barked at the man. When the man grew silent, Oxfur nodded to Tir. “Go on.”
Tir sat across the table from him. Oxfur leaned forward, placing his knife between Tir’s legs. Tir gulped.
“I’ve heard you like games.”
“Who doesn’t?” Oxfur stated plainly. “But I play for money. And you don’t exactly look like you’re bleedin’ gold.”
“Then why don’t we play with higher stakes?”
This seemed to intrigue Oxfur. “Go on.”
Sweat fell like rain from Tir’s brow. It was hard enough to not be nervous around a man of Oxfur’s stature. The knife at his thigh only made things worse.
“If I win, you have to stop bothering me.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then…well, I guess you get to kill me.”
Oxfur stood from his chair, stepping widely over the table, bringing the knife to Tir’s neck. Tir struggled to keep himself composed, wincing as the cold steel brushed against his skin.
“I could just kill you now and be done with it.”
Tir did his best to conceal his fear, plastering a smile on his face. It was time to gamble.
“If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve already done that. But I think you’re intrigued.”
There was a hesitation in Oxfur’s eyes. Oh, thank the Great Navigator, Tir thought, praying that the warm feeling running down his leg wasn’t what he thought it was.
“What do you say?” Tir added on. “Let’s put your skills to the test.”
Oxfur had never been much of a philosopher. He was a doer. The hand that holds the axe. He liked when a person pointed in a direction and told him to shoot. The thinking types drove him to wit’s end — and this Islander was one of the worst he’d ever met. His nasally voice, upbeat tone, and the way he always stared out at the water drove Oxfur mad. It’s just water, he thought. Stop trying to make it anything more than that. This game idea, however, intrigued him.
“Fine,” Oxfur said finally. “But I get to choose the game.”
“That’s fine by me.”
That fool, Oxfur mused. He’s as good as doomed now.
“We’re going to play Fishbait.”
The ripple of noise through the other sailors made the hairs on Tir’s neck stand on their end.
“C’mon, Ox, isn’t that a little unfair?” one of the crew asked him.
“He said I could pick the game,” the man protested. Tir was clueless — a fish out of water, so to speak.
Ha.
His ma would’ve laughed at that one.
“What’s Fishbait?”
“Head up deck and you’ll learn all about it.”
At Oxfur’s command, the crew cleared a wide swath from the bow. Tir was surprised at how quickly everyone worked. This, clearly, wasn’t the first time Oxfur had played Fishbait. Even Captain Ardsman, who, just earlier, had screamed at two crew members for lallygagging, seemed intrigued by the game. Two buckets filled to the brim with chum were placed on the starboard side of the ship.
“He doesn’t know the rules, and I don’t feel like explaining,” Oxfur stated, plopping himself down beside one of the buckets. “Someone else do it.”
Cereno, the ship’s shrewd navigator, spoke up, her shrill voice cutting through the windy afternoon. “Fishbait’s a game of attraction. See those buckets of chum?”
Tir nodded.
“You’re going to use it to attract the largest creature you can. Simple enough, right?”
“I just have one question.
The crew groaned in unison.
“Yes?” Cereno moved her hearing trumpet in Tir’s direction.
Tir cleared his throat, annunciating his voice as he spoke.
“Do we have to throw our chum in the water right away?”
“You’ve got an hour to go.”
Tir knew nothing about the sea creatures of the Great Ocean. He’d seen what he thought was a Lightlurker bobbing around on the horizon once. The short, stubby fish emitted a dim light that flickered in and out of the water’s edge. He’d always wondered what they looked like up close. Prentice said they were quite ugly.
“You ready, stowaway?” Oxfur grinned, clapping his hands together.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
Prentice approached him, deep creases dragging their way across his brow.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing, boy?!”
“It’s this or death!” Tir protested. “What other choice do I have?!”
“I ought to throw you over the side of the ship right now and save you the embarrassment,” Prentice shook his head, stifling a cough. “You know what they used to call him in his hometown?”
“What?”
“The Kingfisher.”
Tir gulped.
“I’m gonna enjoy gutting you,” Oxfur chuckled.
“One hour,” the navigator withdrew a pocket watch. “Starting…now!”
For the first time in Tir’s short knowing of the man, Oxfur looked placid — studious, almost. He watched the waves with the intensity of a scholar deciphering an ancient text, his furrowed brow masking the yellow marbles of his eyes. Like a statue, he stood in place, bucket in hand, tipped at a slight angle toward the waves.
“Oh, you’ve done it now,” one of the sailors said to Tir.
“You don’t stand a chance, stowaway!”
“Show him what you’re made of, Ox!”
For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. Then, like a cat attacking its prey, Oxfur struck. In a single fluid motion, he deposited the contents of the bucket into the water, pouring the chum into the depths like gravy over potatoes. The crew gathered along the starboard end, watching the water in collective silence. The waves began to quake. Something was coming. Fast.
Tir could scarcely believe a creature this large existed. It was to sharks what moose were to deer, a deceptively large beast that swallowed the chum in seconds. White as a ghost, this specter of a shark breached the water in seconds, a colossal collection of teeth, scales, and two sets of eyes dark as the darkest night. As soon as it arrived, it disappeared, retreating below the depths. The ship rocked to the left and right, bearing the brunt of the waves that resulted from its strike. When all was said and done, the men erupted in cheers, patting Oxfur on the back.
“Well I’ll be damned!” Captain Ardsman declared. “A Palescale, of all things?! You’re a master of your craft, Oxfur!”
He rubbed the sailor’s shimmering scalp like it would grant him good fortune. The man grinned from ear to ear, his dagger-like teeth glistening in the afternoon light. He offered Tir a snide little smirk, sticking his tongue out at him.
Panic began to set in. What was he thinking? This was a man who had likely spent his whole life seafaring. Tir had survived a day and a half on the ocean. This was the worst case scenario. Why oh why didn’t he stay in Laithlach? Now he’d wind up on the wrong end of a rusty blade. By the end of the day, he’d be food for some sort of carrion fish.
His eyes darted from the chum to the water to the crowd. Would he be able to attract the same Palescale if he threw in his chum now? It was too late now, he concluded. The remaining pools of gore were almost a distant memory on the horizon. He watched the water. Little serpentine creatures nipped at the waves, hoping for a taste of the rest of the chum. Oxfur nodded with his head toward the bucket.
“What’s the matter, stowaway?” He goaded. “Frozen with fear?”
Tir couldn’t even muster a response. Oxfur had him beat and he knew it. Tir waited and waited, hoping that some sign of a great beast would come his way. The longer he waited, the more impatient the crew got, hurling all manner of creative insults his way. They ranged from jokes about his appearance to implications of affairs with sheep. Nothing Tir hadn’t heard before. Eventually, the rest of the crew grew bored of watching him, scattering off to finish up their tasks for the evening.
“He’s paralyzed by fear,” one of them remarked. “Look at him!”
“Keep this up and he’ll be kicking the bucket soon enough.”
“Ha! That’s a good one!”
“Oi! How much time does the boy have left?”
Cereno referenced the pocket watch dangling from her waist.
“Fifteen more minutes.”
Fifteen? Time was merciless. He needed to think of something. Fast. What would his epitaph say? Tir Galland: underwhelming sheepherder, worst player of Fishbait in history. He imagined how his mother would react. She’d probably find a way to hire a medium, summon him from the dead, and berate him for his stupidity. He just knew it. He deserved it, too.
Burying his hands in his head, he prepared to accept his fate. Maybe Oxfur would make it easy on him.
“Hey, kid,” a new voice cawed. “You gonna eat that?”
Tir looked up, coming face to face with a rather large albatross. Stifling his gasp, he covered his mouth, doing his best to look as casual as possible. He looked around. Most of the crew had returned to their tasks. Only Prentice, Ardsman, Cereno, and Oxfur remained. Where Prentice appeared concerned, Oxfur was delighted. Cereno and Ardsman seemed to almost pity him. When he looked back, the albatross cocked its head to the side, flapping its wings impatiently.
“You listening to me?”
“You can talk too?!”
“Uh, yes, I can,” the albatross remarked. “Are you gonna answer my question, or just sit there like you relieved yourself?”
The bird lifted its head, smelling the air.
“Smells to me like you already did.”
“Sorry,” Tir replied, burying his head in his hands. “I’m just a little distracted.”
“Why so sad?”
“I’ve put my life in the hands of a stupid game,” he muttered through folded fingers. “If I don’t use this chum bucket to attract a large beast, I’m as good as dead.”
The albatross cocked its head from side to side, stomping a few times with its webbed toes on the dock.
“Why would you go and bet your life on a stupid game like that?” the bird asked, shaking its head.
Tir leaned back non the ship’s balcony. Was he truly about to spend the last few moments of his life talking to a bird? He’d lost his mind. He was certain of it.
“Tell you what, kid,” the bird remarked, nudging Tir’s elbow with its beak. “I know a thing or two about these waters. You share a scrap of that good stuff with me and I’ll tell you exactly when a big guy’s about to drop by.”
Tir looked up at the albatross.
“You mean it?”
“Sure,” the albatross cawed. “You’re the first person in years that actually felt like talking to me.”
He couldn’t believe the situation he’d found himself in. “Am I really leaving my fate in the hands of a bird?”
“Hey, way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice.”
Tir lifted the bucket with both hands. The sludgy substance had grown even more foul under the late afternoon sun. Tir breathed through his nose, turning the bucket over to the bird. In a few short hops, the albatross was beside the bucket, flapping its wings excitedly.
“Take whatever you want.”
“Get the liver for me, will ya?”
Tir peered into the bucket. He couldn’t make heads from tails of the mess that filled the rusty bucket. The longer he looked at it, the worse he felt. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his hand into the gunk, gagging at the raw squelch from the chum. The albatross peered into the bucket, watching him work.
“A little lower…to the left, there…No, your other left…There! You’ve got it!”
Tir wrapped his fingers around what felt like a thick hunk of jam. Pulling it from the chum, he freed the liver from its confinements, his hands coated in a bloody, sticky substance. The albatross gobbled up the meaty treat without a second though, raising its head high and dancing around on its feet in excitement. One of the sailors caught wind of this, laughing and pointing.
“Look, everyone! The stowaway’s lost it! He’s talking to birds now!”
Others began to look over, and, before he knew it, a chorus of laughter had erupted from the crowd.
“They’re laughing now, but they won’t be laughing after this,” the albatross muttered. “I’m gonna fly high, and when you hear my cry, dump the rest. Got it?”
“You’re sure this’ll work?”
“If it doesn’t, can I eat whatever’s left of you?”
“Ugh,” he grumbled. “Just go.”
In a split second, the albatross took to the wind, flying higher and higher until he disappeared just beside a low-hanging cloud. It didn’t occur to Tir until after the albatross left that the bird could’ve just been looking for a quick snack. Here lies Tir Galland: he left his life in the hands of a bird.
“You’re almost out of time,” Oxfur sneered. “If you give up now, I’ll make your death quick.”
Tir picked up on something in his tone. There was confidence, sure, but whatever this was didn’t carry the same weight it had earlier. Was he bluffing? Or was he just excited to finally see Tir fail?
Regardless, Tir had nothing to lose now. Well, nothing save for his life, that is. The sun had almost set, painting the sea a bright shade of cinnabar. With growing dread, Tir realized that fishermen worked in the morning. As far as he knew ,there weren’t a lot of nocturnal creatures that called the Great Ocean home. Well, he thought, this is it. If he was to die, he could at least make it fun for the rest of them. The rest of the crew had assembled again, awaiting the boy’s final move — and, more than likely, the last decision he’d make in his life.
“One minute left!” Cereno declared. “Better make it count.”
With both hands on the rim of the bucket, he held it above the water, letting the rancid scent waft through the air.
“Just do it already!” A sailor shouted.
“C’mon, let’s get this over with!”
“Hurry it up, now!”
Tir hesitated. He should just give up now. Accept his fate, he thought. Turning to Oxfur, he opened his mouth to offer his surrender. Before his vocal cords could spring to life, a loud cawing cut through the sky.
He dropped the bucket over the edge.