Four sodding wet ponies sat together at the rear of the ship. There wasn’t enough heat in the remaining sunlight to get them dry. Shanty was cold, and Flotsam regretted taking advantage by magic, but he didn’t feel too bad about it either. She’d started the water-fight, after all – discounting the casual calamity of Hard Tack and Scuttle – and besides, even with the ocean breeze the air felt warm to him. She’d be alright, and seemed to still be enjoying herself.
Their burst of playful activity had been brief, but, like the proverbial breaking of the ice, it had opened up something in Flotsam’s demeanour and allowed it to move more freely. He did feel more relaxed, in a way he wouldn’t have been able to describe. Less guarded with himself. Damp ponies were leaning against him and he found himself not wanting it to end.
It would, he knew. This out of the way nook was hidden from sight, but sooner or later someone would uproot them. For the moment Hard Tack, Scuttle, Shanty and himself simply sat in the one area of the MoM’s top deck that had escaped damage and enjoyed the setting sun.
“I wonder what happened to the griffons?” he asked the evening.
Scuttle grabbed his head, pulled his cheek to hers and sighted him along an outstretched hoof reaching into the distance. “Dare flound’ring inner wake out dare, past arr whore-rye-son, spittin’ curses that day evarr crossed blades with da Mudder. Of. Merrr-Seaa!”*
Flotsam was jostled and Scuttle peeled away. She was chortling. Hard Tack gave her companion a thump and said, “Shore day arr, buttarr kind-harr-ta colt here was askin’ if day’ll be a’right.” She bobbed a toothy curtsy to the colt. “Day arr, eye tale ewe clarr as day that day arr. This ship ain’t da Mudder of Rooflessness, narr be it da Mudder of Cold Blood, dough we bring enough of those when way neighed to.”
This time, Scuttle thumped Hard Tack. “Oi!” she grunted. She tut-tutted to herself.
“She’s right dough, eye’m strayin’g from da point. Flotsam, she be the Mudder of Mercy, ewe hair? ‘tis da name, and the name is taken to harr-ta. Take it on may word’a on-arr that day’ll bay a’right. Batt-arr’d, Bait’n end hue-million-ate’d, but a’right all da same.”
Flotsam wasn’t at all sure what had just transpired, but whatever it was it felt profound. Hard Tack and Scuttle bantered amidst themselves endlessly and loved verbal cues, but he’d never heard such a long and serious speech of what were very likely to be words from them. He believed them. “…thanks.”
He stared out into the orange and purple waters of evening and could almost imagine he saw the ship they left behind. What would the griffons do now? Same as themselves, he supposed. Lick their wounds and limp to port, arduously. Flotsam closed his eyes and saw fireballs.
It was Shanty who voiced the thought. “Maybe we should have sunk them for good. We’re going to run into them again, and they might not be so stupid next time. All things considered, we got off easy. We got lucky,” she said, and knocked wood doing it.
“Aye, Shanty, whale more’n likely meet arr griff’n friends egg in end aye, weighed not if weighed put damn down fur good. But put too many souls and-arr da what-arr and da weight of damn all is shore to bring ewe down too, mark may words. Win yarr’v bin on da ship long-arr ewe will un-darr stand.”
Shanty made a fervent, fleeting, eyes-to-lips prayer sign of the Sirenada. “I think I understand already.”
Hard Tack and Scuttle, who usually looked like bad-side-of-town grandmothers, had hard, ungentle eyes now. They made the same prayer sign with less fervour, their eyes stayed open and on Shanty. “Shay-say grand ol’ one, that Siren, but eye dent bay leave shay pro ticks wanton killers from demselves.”
Then the expression softened to its usual puffy leatheriness. Scuttle patted the teen’s head. “Dent you worry none ‘bout that. Captain knows all dat, and ‘bout what to do should weigh mate day griff’ns egg in. Nauticaa is the captain of da Mercy and da Mercy is Nauticaa’s ship. Trust the Captain, she knows what shay’s doing.”
“Mercy isn’t weak,” Flotsam mused.
The old mares grinned. “E’ gets it!” said one and “So E’ can learn, this ‘un!” said the other. They shook him between them.
Flotsam accepted the gently teasing approval. His mood was gone sombre as the conversation. It surprised him to see Shanty more shaken then he felt. He would have said something, but nothing came to mind, and asking if she was alright would likely only get her back up.
Then the Quartermaster stepped ‘round the corner, her fiery head of hair bobbing with each step. Shanty was on her hooves in a heartbeat. “Charm!”
The unicorn smiled curtly, nodding and dismissing her. “You and you,” she said to the incorrigible elders, “I expected to be here.”
“Ways hard ought work, ways is,” said Hard Tack with inscrutable, earnest honesty.
“Ways keepin’ watch. Eye’s peeled end all that.”
“Eye’s watchin’ da what-arr for dare ship-”
“End Eye’s watchin’ da sky! Days got wings, aven’t ewe ‘eard?”
Flotsam wondered if this were a recurring game or performance enacted by the two. Charming Booty smiled and threw them a new obstacle. “And you’re soaking wet, because?”
“Tis sweat. Like ways said, bin hard at work.” Hard Tack didn’t miss a beat. She said it so straight that Flotsam, knowing it was a lie, still found that he almost believed her.
Charming Booty licked her lips in pleasure and flicked her horn his way. “What about him?”
Scuttle proved as quick as Hard Tack. She didn’t bat an eye. “Shore, way was train’n him to cape watch. Hard work, is cape-in watch. It taint his fault ay got all sweaty. Colts just taint got da stam’na like what day had in arr day.”
The unicorn mare seemed to consider this. She nodded with pantomime approval. There was no doubt for him now – Charming Booty loved this. “And her?” she asked innocently, flicking her horn to Shanty beside her, “is Shanty soaking wet because she’s been keeping watch as well? Four ponies keeping watch?”
“I-”
“Shay’s just glad to say ewe is all!” and “Oint it obvious?” the two said. The elder ponies burst into hooted laughter, slapping their sides and nudging one another. “Glad ta say ewe!” they hooted.
Poor Shanty. Poor, poor Shanty. The colour rose in her like the tide. She stood stiffly as if weathering a storm and her face was pinched tight, refusing to explode into expression.
Charming sighed pleasantly and absent-mindedly patted Shanty on the back. The earth pony’s cheeks puffed tighter, fit to burst, and went even more brightly red. Charming said to Flotsam as the laughter bubbled around them, “You, at the least, can do some honest work. Unless you are sweaty and tired?”
He took the hint.
Patches, he remembered, hadn’t come back with that bit of chocolate. She’d probably got caught up with something, and he was pretty sure she’d approve whatever help he could give. She’d seemed in a bit of a huff earlier. He remembered the bandana at his ear. That’d been kind of her, and she had scoured him clean, or at least, scoured him less dirty. Maybe some shared work would brighten the filly’s mood. He owed her that much.
He left the four mares to work whatever it was going on here out amidst themselves. He rounded the corner to the open deck and heard the thick throaty cough of one of the elders and the subsequent thump on her back. He recollected that that’s what had kicked off the water-fight to begin with.
Keeping watch, they’d said. Four ponies keeping watch. Or, if he kept strictly to the colourful version Scuttle and Hard Tack told, three ponies plus Shanty. The thing was, though; the thing was… they weren’t wrong. There were crazed griffons behind them and an unknown port and Captain’s decisions ahead of Flotsam. He’d have to keep watch, too; as much as the old timers had claimed to be. He glanced ahead, his eyes far as they could out into the darkening horizon. He saw water and the first of the stars for tonight and wondered what the future held for him.