Flotsam was quite amazed at how readily things settled down amidst the crew. They simply didn’t dwell on the battle gone by, at least not in the usual sense of the term. They gloated, bragging their stories to one another.
They were kept busy, and lent themselves to the work before them with an almost giddy air. Running the ship was a full job, even when it wasn’t punched full of holes with a mast improvised out of spindly island palm trunks. Even through all that, the crew mares were thoroughly satisfied with themselves. Flotsam felt it too, the almost manic exhilaration as all the scariness and danger drained away, leaving only the distillation of excitement and heightened awareness. Slowly, that too was coming back to normal. More than a few of the crewmares were standing shoulder to shoulder, measuring knicks.
Flotsam was glad, at least, he was cautiously optimistic that this outcome had been one of the better ones. Work seemed to do Patches good, although the stallion privately wondered and worried if she used hard labour to dodge her own concerns. Regardless, the filly had attached herself to him – valet and limpet combined in one little frowning pony – and what she lacked in tools or delicacy she made up for with sheer single-mindedness and grit.
It was a slow, uncomfortable afternoon of scouring tar clear from Flotsam’s coat, and he wasn’t the only pony that needed it, but his case was undoubtedly the worst. Hard Tack, Scuttle and Shanty had tarry hooves, which they’d earned in preparing the fiery cannonballs. Windlass was in the same boat; only difference was she’d been throwing them like some kind of reverse lightning goddess. Or a mild-mannered volcano. Either or. She had a few unhappy looking gashes partially obstructed in the heavy, thick, increasingly frustrating, tartarus-spewed tar, but she seemed to accept both conditions with a degree of graceful acceptance that actually made her come across as just the littlest bit boring. The few times Flotsam saw anypony make any sort of fuss over her, Windlass would say she was fine and quietly shuffle away to some new task.
Flotsam was by far the worst for tar. He had gone face-first through it in his fight with the griffon hen, and now Patches attacked the task of cleaning him. Her strategy was that of a glacier carving a valley: slow, relentless, and not to be turned aside. She had to hoof a flat piece of tin that she used to scrape at him with and a hoof brush that was so wizened with hard use and age that if it lost any more of its flattened, colour-faded bristles it’d actually just be a rather ugly clog.
Flotsam's impatience – if not his skin – was balmed by the many congratulations he was getting. Mostly these were slaps on the back; namely, the reddened, viciously scrubbed, tar-free portions of his back. A few made to kiss him. His evasive actions were nominally successful, but the chuckles he garnered from doing so embarrassed him more than just accepting them as they came. His shielding had put him in a lot of good books today.
This time the well wishes came as a punch to the shoulder. He winced and tried not to make too big a show of recoiling. These mares did not go in for weak punches. “Hey, big guy.”
“Oh, hey. Hop Scotch.” He smiled and it took some effort to keep his expression straight, seeing as Patches was using some kind of lesser known torture technique on his leg. She grumbled and insisted he keep still, and Flotsam did his best to comply with that. The last he’d seen of Hop Scotch, the light brown earth pony mare had been caught up in a duel with a griffon – a duel inexplicably perched, log-rollers style, atop the ship’s wheel.
All things considered she seemed pretty intact and confidently self-respecting for having gone through that.
The mare tossed a cursory glance down to the bustling filly – who abjectly ignored her – and then treated Flotsam to a lazy half-smile. “Looks uncomfortable. She won’t stop, you know. Busy little bee.”
“I’ll put up with it if it gets me clean again. This stuff is actually evil.” For the past two hours he’d really gotten to know the stepped-on-freshly-spat-out-gum sensation, as his hooves held on a little too affectionately to the wooden planks. And it was with every single step they did that. It was maddening.
“Yep. And we use that to waterproof the ship. It’s supposed to last for months at a time, so, for all our sakes I hope you don’t get some kind of rash and lose half your coat. Be a real bummer, that. Who would entertain us?”
Flotsam glanced surreptitiously to Patches. She gave no sign she’d heard anything. As always, she reduced her world to the smallest possible size and that world, for the moment, consisted of tar, scraping, scrubbing and the occasional grumbled command to be still. Then he flashed Hop Scotch a dirty look. Not sexy-flirty dirty kind of look, but more the telling her off sort. The Come on, she’s right there sort.
The mare’s face lit up and she poked her tongue out for a second. Relax, she mouthed.
Flotsam glowered. After a moment, he decided to just let it go. “Not wearing your eye patch?” he asked.
Hop Scotch had never needed an eyepatch – both her eyes were absolutely fine. Even a little demure looking, given the long lashes and her little round mouth. She could have walked through almost any door and faked the sweet and innocent look easily enough, if she wanted to. She wouldn’t though, except to get a rise out of Flotsam.
“I’m pretty sure I lost it. That was actually the spare. Dropped the first one overboard ages ago. I think this one might have snagged on the griffn’s talon when he was trying to put my head through the wall. He’s probably got it now, back on what’s left of his ship.” At Flotsam’s widened eyes she simply chuckled dismissively, “Oh don’t worry. Do I look like that happened? No, missus Harpoon dropped on him like an anchor. Ends a fight pretty quick, let me tell you.”
Flotsam kept getting caught up on the mare's appearance. He didn’t mean to keep falling for it (he was pretty certain she hadn’t noticed him doing it, but if she theoretically had noticed, it’d be suggesting the wrong things entirely and probably only encourage her). It was just that this slightly smaller than average, brown earth pony with brown eyes looked so un-weird as to become weird out of some sort of misplaced context. Hop Scotch looked like a foal’s first piano teacher, one that spoke only ever soft encouragement, had maybe had two colt friends in her entire life and had never deviated or splurged any bits from a very sensible savings plan.
Her roughly cropped hair completely betrayed the look. It, like the rest of her, was another variation on the theme of warm, genial brown, except it looked like it had been simply hacked away with a sword. Given the number of swords here and the somewhat lax attitude about their handling, that actually was a more reasonable than was strictly-reasonable possibility. And the eyepatch? The eyepatch had been nothing less than transformative. No one, anywhere, ever had mistaken a patch-wearing-pirate for a children’s piano teacher.
It just wouldn't happen.
Flotsam did recall that the first time he’d met her. It'd been during the night watch, well before the storm had ever hit them. Before the whole thing with the island. Hop Scotch essentially lived at night, it seemed – where Hop Scotch prowled the deck, or more aptly, kept the wheel steady and occasionally ducked into a sheltered nook to suck at the wrinkly little roll-up cigarettes she made.
Flotsam had been restive that night, unable to sleep for a tossing ship and his own churning worries. He’d bumped into her on the deck, one shadow and another, she'd offered a puff and he'd politely, awkwardly declined. There’d been small-talk, a few verbal prods of a flirtatious nature sent his way (which Flotsam had weathered with mixed appraisal) and then, out of the blue (or the black, all things considered) she’d pulled in real close to and dared him to move the black slip covering her eye and look inside.
She was missing that eye. Was there any other reason for a pony to wear a patch? That's what she'd asked him, but he was too rattled to even think about answering. She’d said there was a hole straight through where her eye should have been, and she said if he got a little closer, and came down to her height... and dared nudge it aside... (she’d let him, too, she promised she’d let him) he’d be able to see all the way through to her brain, crinkled, pink and glistening.
Flotsam declined the invitation with all the grace he could muster. Which wasn't much, truth be told. He was wondering with some worry what her game was and if it were true about the missing eye, what kind of health issues that incited (this being before he know ‘twast all a jibe at his expense; her eyes were ordinary, lovely, in an amount equal to the proper plural and in every way fine). There was definitely a ploy to kiss in all that faces-together bit. Even Flotsam could spot that. And there was unquestionably some mirth to be had in his stirring up horror and imagination-conjured revulsion.
Both ideas made sense when they were alone. Putting them together had been a bit odd though. Horror-flirting wasn’t something Flotsam had ever considered existing before. Maybe she’d been testing him, gauging his reaction?
Or maybe the night watch got boring and Hop Scotch just liked stirring the pot. Whatever the case, Flotsam had gotten to sleep at long last that night, for he was too full of bothered questions about his encounter to remember a whit about his own cares.
He dreamed the moon was an eye searching the world over for him and a heart beat-beat, going drip by drip into the ocean. He hid; awoke; lay awake in the pitch blackness, all the sounds of wood and water and sleeping bodies to crowd into bed with him. Eventually he fell asleep again and did not dream that time. The morning softened the details and he reasoned away the images that had haunted his night, with such talk as missing eyes and exposed brains enough to induce spirits into any troubled pony's mind.
A hurtful tug at his mane twisted Flotsam’s head and brought it roughly to the mare’s chest. It jarred him into the present moment. Tar, Patches, Hop Scotch, him. Patches tore at his hair with a steel-toothed comb that felt like it was sooner going to remove the scalp from his skull than the thickened tar from his hair.
“Ow, ow, stop. Patches, stop!” Flotsam said urgently, his neck cricking more by the second as he held the over-flexed, sideways posture. The other mares cleaning themselves from a shared bucket stopped and glanced his way.
Now Hop Scotch was gently lifting Flotsam’s chin back up. Patches held on for a confrontational second – he knew because the painful tension behind his ears grew worse for a moment, then the mare said, “baby, give him a break.” Her voice was sweet and patient, but with a noticeable hint of tart enjoyment. Then she reined it in. “There’s a bit of chocolate I’ve been saving in my locker. Why don’t you help yourself to a piece of it, Patches?”
Flotsam was quick to agree. “You’ve more than earned it.”
“Okay?” she said without confidence, looking between the two grown-ups. Despite her word she was yet to go take her reward.
Flotsam pulled her to his side (painfully sensitive, yet cleanish for the effort she’d put in) “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, giving a shake that rocked the filly side to side. She had to dance on her hooves to keep with the movements and a snatch of brief giggles and one girlish snort were rocked loose from her.
“Okay!” she said and this time it was a great deal more merry. Flotsam chin-nuzzled her forehead, improvised a chin-noogie from it and sent her on her way. “May I bring a piethe for Flottham, too?”
Hop Scotch played at a curtsy. “You may.” She smiled and it was the sort of smile that really needed to the glimmer of a gold tooth to be complete.
The filly started on the spot, but some loose and shaky concept of good manners reared its head and she hesitated. “Thank you,” she said formally before rushing two steps, hesitating self-consciously and changing herself mid-stride to a cool, aloof filly swagger.
Something niggled Flotsam’s thoughts as he watched the filly round the corner and disappear from sight.
“You keep your lock box unlocked? Doesn’t that make it just a box?”
The mare only shrugged. “Everyone knows everyone.” She turned a mischief-glinting eye on him. “Everyone except you, when you think about it. Should I be worried about a stallion, such as yourself, surprising me when I least expect it? That could be fun,” she admitted. She leaned close to his bandana-bandaged ear, standing up taller, chest out to whisper, “Do you want to open my box? I’m not saying no.”
Flotsam internally bemoaned that his filly had left: she was a perpetual, protective wet blanket against this sort of behaviour.
Then, before Flotsam could think of any response at all Hop Scotch stole the iniative right out from under him. She pulled an about turn, throwing her hips in an arc and Flotsam felt tail hairs brush his face. He jumped; maybe whinnied under his breath.
“You need to relax.” Her voice was languid. She shot him a last look over her shoulder. “And to answer your first question: No. Patches picks locks.” The mare went tsk-tsk but somehow made it sound very approving. “Her and those little knives of hers. Excuse me one and all," she announced for everpony's hearing, "but it's way past my bedtime. It’s practically evening.” Hop Scotch yawned and Flotsam was quite certain she put an invitational lilt to it. Flotsam had never slept in a hammock, let alone tried for a two in one. He quashed the curiosity and Hop Scotch laughed quietly. She mouthed something silently and it might have been: See you tonight?
Flotsam didn’t know what to answer and she didn’t leave him the time to. She left him dangling. He turned to the nearby others and his face must have said something funny because Hard Tack and Scuttle burst out in a round of raucous laughter, the sort old ladies belch out after they’ve been at the brandy (and gin). Shanty rolled her eyes, acting disgusted with their antics but obviously enjoying them. Windlass just looked pleased that everyone else was pleased. The big pony's soft, rumbling chuckles were lost in the more raucous noises.
These were so raucous in fact that Scuttle choked and Hard Tack had to give her a loving thump to the back that would have hobbled a lesser pony. She stumbled, tipped the washwater they'd been using and, falling into it, dragged down her friend as well.
“Think fast, pretty boy!” Shanty ducked in easily, snatched the bucket with its still-sloshing dregs and threw it in Flotsam’s face. The seawater was shocking and crisp – for a split-second he was frozen solid in the overwhelming sensation of it. Something twigged in Flotsam and suddenly it felt very good to join in, like a fresh flame catching on the embers of their earlier excitement. He laughed until his sides hurt more (because they already hurt from the day’s activities) and laughed because so many things hadn’t made sense at all and, for this moment, he was alright with that. A tension that he hadn’t even noticed that had been in his chest unravelled, leaving him giddy. He forgot about griffons, about tar in his hair, the cut in his ear and his own unexplained existence.
Flotsam took a well-earned break to take and enjoy some figurative chocolate. Maybe some literal chocholate, too.
Maybe the piano-teacher lookalike stand-in had been right about that. Maybe Flotsam did need to relax. The bucket of wash water was empty, yes, but Flotsam found himself in a playful mood just then and playfulness is by its very nature a creative force. He realized that sailing on the ocean, spontaneous water fights were never entirely out of the question, empty buckets be damned. He couldn’t leave the score in Shanty’s favour, now could he?
...and if he used his magic to add a bit of cold and slushy ice to his freshly-fetched water before he dunked it over the music pony, well, who was to know?
Shanty, for starters.