POTC fic: "Near-Death Becomes Her" (part 2/3)
Title: "Near-Death Becomes Her" (part 2 of 3)
Rating: R for "rowdy" (language and humor, that is)
All other summaries and disclaimers may be found in Part 1.
Life didn’t move at a very fast pace at sea, nor did death, as Prissy and Griselde soon learned - though the Flying Dutchman did have its moments of unique excitement. The first time they felt the deck rolling and dropping out from under them, the two women clutched at one another’s arms and figured they were finally going to meet their Maker. When their feet remained fastened to the wood twenty feet below the surface and descending, though, and they could still yelp without drowning, they remembered where they were. It was amazing what the mind could accept once the body was tested, but the one thing Prissy never did figure out was how when the captain stopped to explain he took them out of sight because there were mortal ships on the horizon, that she could hear him clear as air and not at all muffled by the water skating just above her skin.
The first three days they were forced to find their own entertainment, as there was nothing to do. Turner had bid them think of themselves as passengers, not crew. There was no embroidery to keep their hands occupied, but Griselde knew how to read a little and would sit on a small crate across from Prissy’s and read to her a few pages at a time in the daylight from one of the novels stored in the captain’s cabin. She went slowly, but changed voices for the characters, and Prissy would look out to sea, or watch the crew work as she listened.
And when Turner walked by or was giving orders, both would gladly let themselves be distracted by the comely young man. In fact, Prissy didn’t realize how distracting he was until the morning of the fourth day when he was talking directly to them and instead of listening, she was simply nodding and enjoying the sight of the way of his hair curled between his long neck and broad shoulder.
“… and certainly we can find something other than the scenery of my corpus to keep you occupied.” It was only in the silence immediately following that she blinked and realized he was frowning at Griselde, who had a dreamy expression of her own. “Did you hear me?” he verbally prodded.
“Grizzy!” Prissy snapped her fingers, and the redhead shook her head and flailed a bit sideways, nearly falling off her barrel. “He’s been talkin’ to you.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She smiled, clutching the book. “What did you say?” she asked him.
Turner looked to Prissy as if prompting her to remember, and she was forced to clear her throat and look away, indicating her own lack of attention. He sighed noticeably. “I said, though you are guests, I believe you might benefit from having something to do, and the crew could use some help. What is it you are trained to do?”
Prissy was first. “I was a washerwoman and seamstress.”
He nodded in approval and looked to Griselde. “I was a … lady of the evening.”
His eyebrows rose. Diplomatically, he said, “I’m sure you can offer other services.” He looked pointedly at the book. “You can read, yes? Good. And count?” He turned and waved over Bill. “This is First Mate Turner. He could use some help with inventory - we sometimes scavenge from wrecks so we have supplies for survivors we come upon, but the sorting is haphazard.”
“Pleased, sir,” Griselde said, as the older man nodded at her.
“Just keep calling me Bill.” His own smile was somewhat charming, and Prissy finally saw resemblance with the captain.
“Are you the captain’s brother, then?” Griselde asked, hopping off the barrel.
Bill offered a hand to help her. “He’s my son,” he explained, at about the same time it occurred to Prissy that it was unlikely someone would name two of their boys William.
“Really? You look so young.” He was laughing as they walked away.
“Prissy, is it? Would you mind helping mend sails?” Captain Turner was asking. She stood and saluted, and he smiled. “No need for that; we’re not Navy. Right over here, then,” he gestured, leading her to a couple of young gobs on another part of deck, surrounded by thick bleached canvas. “Just do as much as you’re able, at your own pace. These boys’ll help you with anything you need.” She saw the quasi-stern look he gave each; they nodded quickly, mumbling “Aye, sir” before Turner patted her shoulder and walked off.
She’d worked with other women before in a sewing circle, but not men, and was surprised that they were as given to gossip as any hen she’d sat across from. The content of theirs differed in that it was mostly about feats and tasks - sometimes they couldn’t even remember the name of “ol’ so-and-so” - whereas the women and girls had been very specific to pin names to deeds (or, as the case often was, rumored misdeeds). The morning passed pleasantly enough and at lunchtime, she took a walk around deck and luxuriated in a nap in the captain’s cabin, to escape the heat of the day.
The next morning passed in much the same way. By ten o’clock, she was almost literally bored to tears. (Though part of it might have been the sun in her eyes, glinting off the calm waves to her right as well as shining directly into her face.) She found herself watching others on the deck longingly, people doing almost anything but the drudgework of pushing a half-dull needle through too-thick cloth.
She was rousted by a shadow falling across her field of vision. It was Captain Turner, standing with crossed arms and watching her; guiltily, she went back to stabbing the equivalent of a brick of iron with a cat’s whisker. Only a few seconds passed before he said, “Come with me, Prissy.” The tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t one to be ignored, either. She sighed, put aside the cloth, and hauled herself to her feet, stretching out stiff muscles.
They walked a short distance across deck before he spoke. “You’re used to more physical labor than sitting and sewing.” He paused and eyed her stocky physique, neither salaciously nor critically - which, in her experience, was something of a feat among men. “The gunner could use some help with maintenance. It’s heavy work, and dirty, but it requires some skill and attention to detail.”
Cannons? Well, why not? All right,” she answered easily enough.
Tom Spar was the Dutchman’s gunner, and he was as quiet as Griselde was garrulous. At first, Prissy wondered how she would learn anything, but soon enough she learned to shut up and watch - it cut down on the volume of her questions, paring them to a useful point that didn’t leave the man looking quite so put out when interrupted with one. She was surprised to find after only a few hours that she liked this work. It passed relatively quickly, quietly, and, more importantly, on one of the cooler lower decks of the great ship.
When she got to the cabin that night, Griselde was waiting already. “Prissy!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You’re a right mess!”
“Evening to you, too,” she shot back, yawning.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that.” She indicated Prissy’s dress. “Just that you’re dirty and dusty. Were you playing in coal?”
With her new work came bathing. Prissy had never held much stock with frequent baths, but having sweated at sea and been around an amazing number of unwashed bodies floating on the world’s largest ready bathtub had altered her outlook somewhat on this score. She welcomed the water that Turner had one of the younger crewmen help haul to his cabin, especially by the time she dropped her perspiring, exhausted body into it right before supper. She ate and dropped off almost immediately to sleep that first night and several thereafter, after minimal conversation with Griselde - but as the younger woman seemed similarly tuckered, it was at least companionable slumber.
After six days, the captain called a day of rest. Prissy had never been particularly worshipful, so she slept late and stirred only a little when she heard Griselde quietly waking and dressing to leave. She thought the woman was daft for getting up early on a day she didn’t have to, but rolled over and went back to dreams of cool rain and white sand.
She spent the day mostly alone after rising later in the morning, wandering the deck and watching people do light necessary work, or playing a bit of a tune, or laughing over something or other, or even watching the captain move among them, pausing to converse every so often with an individual or small group. Prissy had learned long ago to live with Cletus gone long at sea, so she didn’t feel left out.
It was while she perched on a barrel, somewhat drowsy from her week of hard work and weeks of sun, eyes half-glazed on the horizon, that she missed the approach of her benefactor. “I thought you might like to know that’s where he liked to sit sometimes, too.”
“Hmm?” Prissy swiveled her head. “What?”
“Cletus. Sat there quite a few times on our way to The Bridge.”
She didn’t ask what Turner was referring to; she could guess well enough. “How on earth do you remember that old string bean?” But her tone wasn’t harsh or critical.
Turner tapped a forefinger on the side of his head. “Part of the job,” he explained. “Also, difficult to forget being shoved aside so I didn’t sully your honor.”
Prissy cackled at that, pressing her palms together and doubling over. “That was so many years ago!” she managed to exhale. “My honor had passed on to the Green Fields long before even then.”
Turner grinned, showing dimples incompatible with Death. Then again, that’d sure lure in a hell of a lot more souls than ghostly eye sockets and jagged teeth, she figured. “Depends on what kind you’re speaking about,” he observed. “At any rate, I was with Jack Sparrow. He and chastity spent less time together than the Whore of Babylon’s thighs.”
“I’d be curious to know, Captain, if you don’t mind, how’d you end up in the company of that scoundrel?”
He gave her a condensed version of the story, complete with pirates and villains and treasure. And, of course, a girl. Quite a fascinating creature, judging by the faraway glint of Turner’s eyes when he talked about her. It countered the whimsical rolling of his eyes when he talked about Sparrow.
They both fell quiet for a couple of moments after Turner described his own death and resurrection. Finally, he said, “That’s how I’m here, and how I came across Cletus.” He hesitated. “His death was quick; he didn’t remember anything of it, that’s how I can tell.”
She had a feeling this … man, could tell in more ways than that, but didn’t contradict him since it was obvious he was trying to give her some comfort. She opened her mouth to thank him, and out came, “He said he wasn’t ‘fraid to die at sea, but on land.” Prissy picked at a nail. “I didn’t take it personal,” she lied.
“I can assure you that you meant more to him than you believe.” The captain regarded her calmly, his dark eyes steady with reassurance and truth.
“You gon’ tell me he talked about me all the time? That I was his one true love?”
“No.” Turner shook his head, softening the blunt word. “He often referred to you when talking to the other men, though. Right up until I delivered him to the distant shore. He told me you’d catch up someday.”
“Unless I’m off to the Other Place.” She tried to be flip, sharp emotion feeling sour in the back of her throat.
“There is no other place, Priscilla.” He produced a dry, ragged square of worn but clean cloth from seemingly nowhere and passed it to her. “But you won’t be joining him for a long time yet. So, if I may be so bold as to suggest it, you need to decide what you would like to do other than sewing and washing. You don’t seem suited to it.”
Besides Griselde, it had been a long time since anyone had showed enough interest to offer advice. Prissy didn’t like it - or at least her eyes didn’t. She folded the hanky and averted them, trying not to see the compassion Turner wore like his skin. “No ‘fense, Captain, Sir … but you don’t know me.”
“I do not.” She could see out of the corner of her eye that he was turning to walk off. “But your husband seemed to.”
It was just as well he’d gone, since she didn’t know how to counter that. She stayed on the barrel for a while longer, letting the afternoon sun burn off the few tears before they could properly emerge, until she could breathe deeply without the burn in her throat. Damn you, Cletus. Trust you to run off at the mouth to strangers with things I should’ve been hearing all along, and save your complaining for me. But it was hard to stay angry at a missing corpse, and eventually she went back to the captain’s cabin to get out of the heat and find a sip of something.
As though a mind reader, Griselde showed up not long after, fanning herself with her hands. “I could use a bath,” she declared. “It’s powerfully hot out there.”
She did look hot and sweaty and about half put-together, as she had pretty much every night last week. “You’re not supposed to be working today,” Prissy pointed out. “You haven’t even been in the sun; how’d you get all ruffled up?” Griselde flushed and fanned herself even more with the collar of her blouse now. “Grizzy?”
“I need someone to help me carry water-”
“Ohhhh, no.” Prissy shook her head and stood between Griselde and the door. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! I just want a bath!”
Prissy thought fast. “I’ll help you carry water,” she said agreeably, pulling a sigh and a grateful smile from the other woman. “If you tell me what’s going on.”
“Prissy, I-”
Griselde never called her anything but Priscilla. She was obviously flustered and hot, and wanted to clean off, and- “Have you been-” She paused, thinking of the right way to ask. “Fucking the crew?” Hmm, that was subtle. Somewhere, your unborn children are thanking the Good Lord for other parents.
Griselde’s jaw dropped, along with every bit of color from her face. “PRISCILLA-!” She dropped off, gritting her teeth and shaking a fist down by her side. “I don’t know your last name, bless it all!”
“Are you at least charging?” Prissy winced; she hadn’t meant it to sound that way.
“It’s not like that!” Griselde’s face was suddenly red, and she looked about to explode. Prissy thought of how much safer it would be right about now to have her arm halfway up inside the barrel of a newly-fired cannon. “It’s not for money!”
Uh-oh. “So you’re in love?
She shook her head frenetically. “It isn’t like that, either! Just - oh, damn, you don’t understand.”
“Then what is-” She frowned as the obvious occurred to her. “Wait, who is …” She trailed off. “Turner?” Griselde said nothing, shifting from one foot to the other, looking at anything but Prissy. “Really?”
“I would rather not explain this.”
But Prissy was undeterred. She’d seen those muscles shift beneath the fabric; she wanted details. “You can’t just say that and then not say anything more-”
“I didn’t say anything in the first place! I wanted a bath - that’s all!”
“Why?” A much less pleasant thought finally broke through. “To wash off the dead ick?”
“He’s not dead.”
“He’s part of this ship, idn’t he? Is he alive?”
“Well, he sure seems like it!” Griselde snapped.
She thought about it. And made a face. “Oh, Grizzy … you mean you put his-”
“IT’S NOT DEAD!” she yelled. She clamped her mouth shut and waited several beats, obviously calming herself, but looking no less annoyed. “He’s not dead, Priscilla. Trust me.”
“Sorry.” Prissy scratched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I mean - really? It’s not …”
“Not what?” Griselde demanded, arms crossed, tense like a snake routed from hibernation.
“Not … strange?” she ventured. “Cold? Dry? Rough?”
Griselde chewed on her lower lip. Hard. “I am not fucking a dead body. He’s perfectly alive … or something like it,” she conceded, exhaling some of the obvious tension. “We’re just having a good time.”
Prissy thought about that. “So - he can, you know … get it up, still?” She tried to school her face in curiosity instead of revulsion; the longer Griselde glared at her, the easier it was to let contrition finish the job. “It’s a fair question.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not just …” Prissy frowned, thinking of how calm the man usually looked. “You know - like that all the time?”
“First you ask if he can get it up, then you think it’s hard all the time?”
Prissy was about to reply, but a quick knock at the door silenced her. Both women turned to watch the captain open it and come in; he obviously sensed something was up, because he paused, raised both hands in a mock of surrender, and crossed the room to retrieve a sword from the impressively-decorated wall of weaponry. As soon as he was gone, Prissy said, “Well. I guess I shoulda offered to leave you two lovebirds, there.”
“Why?” Griselde appeared confused, then snapped to awareness. “Wait, you think he’s-”
But Prissy had, in one of those serendipitous flashes of logic, already figured it out. “HIS FATHER?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me!”
“You’ve been giving it to the old man?”
“I want a bath, damn it!” Griselde nearly quaked with indignation, her face deeply flushed. “You promised to shut up and carry water!”
“I-”
Griselde shut her up with a finger in her face. “Get. My. Water.”
For once, Prissy wasn’t inclined to push the petite woman. Rather than verbally acquiesce, she hummed, shook her head, and turned away to pick up pails and head out the door.
*****
Part 3 ...
Rating: R for "rowdy" (language and humor, that is)
All other summaries and disclaimers may be found in Part 1.
Life didn’t move at a very fast pace at sea, nor did death, as Prissy and Griselde soon learned - though the Flying Dutchman did have its moments of unique excitement. The first time they felt the deck rolling and dropping out from under them, the two women clutched at one another’s arms and figured they were finally going to meet their Maker. When their feet remained fastened to the wood twenty feet below the surface and descending, though, and they could still yelp without drowning, they remembered where they were. It was amazing what the mind could accept once the body was tested, but the one thing Prissy never did figure out was how when the captain stopped to explain he took them out of sight because there were mortal ships on the horizon, that she could hear him clear as air and not at all muffled by the water skating just above her skin.
The first three days they were forced to find their own entertainment, as there was nothing to do. Turner had bid them think of themselves as passengers, not crew. There was no embroidery to keep their hands occupied, but Griselde knew how to read a little and would sit on a small crate across from Prissy’s and read to her a few pages at a time in the daylight from one of the novels stored in the captain’s cabin. She went slowly, but changed voices for the characters, and Prissy would look out to sea, or watch the crew work as she listened.
And when Turner walked by or was giving orders, both would gladly let themselves be distracted by the comely young man. In fact, Prissy didn’t realize how distracting he was until the morning of the fourth day when he was talking directly to them and instead of listening, she was simply nodding and enjoying the sight of the way of his hair curled between his long neck and broad shoulder.
“… and certainly we can find something other than the scenery of my corpus to keep you occupied.” It was only in the silence immediately following that she blinked and realized he was frowning at Griselde, who had a dreamy expression of her own. “Did you hear me?” he verbally prodded.
“Grizzy!” Prissy snapped her fingers, and the redhead shook her head and flailed a bit sideways, nearly falling off her barrel. “He’s been talkin’ to you.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She smiled, clutching the book. “What did you say?” she asked him.
Turner looked to Prissy as if prompting her to remember, and she was forced to clear her throat and look away, indicating her own lack of attention. He sighed noticeably. “I said, though you are guests, I believe you might benefit from having something to do, and the crew could use some help. What is it you are trained to do?”
Prissy was first. “I was a washerwoman and seamstress.”
He nodded in approval and looked to Griselde. “I was a … lady of the evening.”
His eyebrows rose. Diplomatically, he said, “I’m sure you can offer other services.” He looked pointedly at the book. “You can read, yes? Good. And count?” He turned and waved over Bill. “This is First Mate Turner. He could use some help with inventory - we sometimes scavenge from wrecks so we have supplies for survivors we come upon, but the sorting is haphazard.”
“Pleased, sir,” Griselde said, as the older man nodded at her.
“Just keep calling me Bill.” His own smile was somewhat charming, and Prissy finally saw resemblance with the captain.
“Are you the captain’s brother, then?” Griselde asked, hopping off the barrel.
Bill offered a hand to help her. “He’s my son,” he explained, at about the same time it occurred to Prissy that it was unlikely someone would name two of their boys William.
“Really? You look so young.” He was laughing as they walked away.
“Prissy, is it? Would you mind helping mend sails?” Captain Turner was asking. She stood and saluted, and he smiled. “No need for that; we’re not Navy. Right over here, then,” he gestured, leading her to a couple of young gobs on another part of deck, surrounded by thick bleached canvas. “Just do as much as you’re able, at your own pace. These boys’ll help you with anything you need.” She saw the quasi-stern look he gave each; they nodded quickly, mumbling “Aye, sir” before Turner patted her shoulder and walked off.
She’d worked with other women before in a sewing circle, but not men, and was surprised that they were as given to gossip as any hen she’d sat across from. The content of theirs differed in that it was mostly about feats and tasks - sometimes they couldn’t even remember the name of “ol’ so-and-so” - whereas the women and girls had been very specific to pin names to deeds (or, as the case often was, rumored misdeeds). The morning passed pleasantly enough and at lunchtime, she took a walk around deck and luxuriated in a nap in the captain’s cabin, to escape the heat of the day.
The next morning passed in much the same way. By ten o’clock, she was almost literally bored to tears. (Though part of it might have been the sun in her eyes, glinting off the calm waves to her right as well as shining directly into her face.) She found herself watching others on the deck longingly, people doing almost anything but the drudgework of pushing a half-dull needle through too-thick cloth.
She was rousted by a shadow falling across her field of vision. It was Captain Turner, standing with crossed arms and watching her; guiltily, she went back to stabbing the equivalent of a brick of iron with a cat’s whisker. Only a few seconds passed before he said, “Come with me, Prissy.” The tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t one to be ignored, either. She sighed, put aside the cloth, and hauled herself to her feet, stretching out stiff muscles.
They walked a short distance across deck before he spoke. “You’re used to more physical labor than sitting and sewing.” He paused and eyed her stocky physique, neither salaciously nor critically - which, in her experience, was something of a feat among men. “The gunner could use some help with maintenance. It’s heavy work, and dirty, but it requires some skill and attention to detail.”
Cannons? Well, why not? All right,” she answered easily enough.
Tom Spar was the Dutchman’s gunner, and he was as quiet as Griselde was garrulous. At first, Prissy wondered how she would learn anything, but soon enough she learned to shut up and watch - it cut down on the volume of her questions, paring them to a useful point that didn’t leave the man looking quite so put out when interrupted with one. She was surprised to find after only a few hours that she liked this work. It passed relatively quickly, quietly, and, more importantly, on one of the cooler lower decks of the great ship.
When she got to the cabin that night, Griselde was waiting already. “Prissy!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You’re a right mess!”
“Evening to you, too,” she shot back, yawning.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that.” She indicated Prissy’s dress. “Just that you’re dirty and dusty. Were you playing in coal?”
With her new work came bathing. Prissy had never held much stock with frequent baths, but having sweated at sea and been around an amazing number of unwashed bodies floating on the world’s largest ready bathtub had altered her outlook somewhat on this score. She welcomed the water that Turner had one of the younger crewmen help haul to his cabin, especially by the time she dropped her perspiring, exhausted body into it right before supper. She ate and dropped off almost immediately to sleep that first night and several thereafter, after minimal conversation with Griselde - but as the younger woman seemed similarly tuckered, it was at least companionable slumber.
After six days, the captain called a day of rest. Prissy had never been particularly worshipful, so she slept late and stirred only a little when she heard Griselde quietly waking and dressing to leave. She thought the woman was daft for getting up early on a day she didn’t have to, but rolled over and went back to dreams of cool rain and white sand.
She spent the day mostly alone after rising later in the morning, wandering the deck and watching people do light necessary work, or playing a bit of a tune, or laughing over something or other, or even watching the captain move among them, pausing to converse every so often with an individual or small group. Prissy had learned long ago to live with Cletus gone long at sea, so she didn’t feel left out.
It was while she perched on a barrel, somewhat drowsy from her week of hard work and weeks of sun, eyes half-glazed on the horizon, that she missed the approach of her benefactor. “I thought you might like to know that’s where he liked to sit sometimes, too.”
“Hmm?” Prissy swiveled her head. “What?”
“Cletus. Sat there quite a few times on our way to The Bridge.”
She didn’t ask what Turner was referring to; she could guess well enough. “How on earth do you remember that old string bean?” But her tone wasn’t harsh or critical.
Turner tapped a forefinger on the side of his head. “Part of the job,” he explained. “Also, difficult to forget being shoved aside so I didn’t sully your honor.”
Prissy cackled at that, pressing her palms together and doubling over. “That was so many years ago!” she managed to exhale. “My honor had passed on to the Green Fields long before even then.”
Turner grinned, showing dimples incompatible with Death. Then again, that’d sure lure in a hell of a lot more souls than ghostly eye sockets and jagged teeth, she figured. “Depends on what kind you’re speaking about,” he observed. “At any rate, I was with Jack Sparrow. He and chastity spent less time together than the Whore of Babylon’s thighs.”
“I’d be curious to know, Captain, if you don’t mind, how’d you end up in the company of that scoundrel?”
He gave her a condensed version of the story, complete with pirates and villains and treasure. And, of course, a girl. Quite a fascinating creature, judging by the faraway glint of Turner’s eyes when he talked about her. It countered the whimsical rolling of his eyes when he talked about Sparrow.
They both fell quiet for a couple of moments after Turner described his own death and resurrection. Finally, he said, “That’s how I’m here, and how I came across Cletus.” He hesitated. “His death was quick; he didn’t remember anything of it, that’s how I can tell.”
She had a feeling this … man, could tell in more ways than that, but didn’t contradict him since it was obvious he was trying to give her some comfort. She opened her mouth to thank him, and out came, “He said he wasn’t ‘fraid to die at sea, but on land.” Prissy picked at a nail. “I didn’t take it personal,” she lied.
“I can assure you that you meant more to him than you believe.” The captain regarded her calmly, his dark eyes steady with reassurance and truth.
“You gon’ tell me he talked about me all the time? That I was his one true love?”
“No.” Turner shook his head, softening the blunt word. “He often referred to you when talking to the other men, though. Right up until I delivered him to the distant shore. He told me you’d catch up someday.”
“Unless I’m off to the Other Place.” She tried to be flip, sharp emotion feeling sour in the back of her throat.
“There is no other place, Priscilla.” He produced a dry, ragged square of worn but clean cloth from seemingly nowhere and passed it to her. “But you won’t be joining him for a long time yet. So, if I may be so bold as to suggest it, you need to decide what you would like to do other than sewing and washing. You don’t seem suited to it.”
Besides Griselde, it had been a long time since anyone had showed enough interest to offer advice. Prissy didn’t like it - or at least her eyes didn’t. She folded the hanky and averted them, trying not to see the compassion Turner wore like his skin. “No ‘fense, Captain, Sir … but you don’t know me.”
“I do not.” She could see out of the corner of her eye that he was turning to walk off. “But your husband seemed to.”
It was just as well he’d gone, since she didn’t know how to counter that. She stayed on the barrel for a while longer, letting the afternoon sun burn off the few tears before they could properly emerge, until she could breathe deeply without the burn in her throat. Damn you, Cletus. Trust you to run off at the mouth to strangers with things I should’ve been hearing all along, and save your complaining for me. But it was hard to stay angry at a missing corpse, and eventually she went back to the captain’s cabin to get out of the heat and find a sip of something.
As though a mind reader, Griselde showed up not long after, fanning herself with her hands. “I could use a bath,” she declared. “It’s powerfully hot out there.”
She did look hot and sweaty and about half put-together, as she had pretty much every night last week. “You’re not supposed to be working today,” Prissy pointed out. “You haven’t even been in the sun; how’d you get all ruffled up?” Griselde flushed and fanned herself even more with the collar of her blouse now. “Grizzy?”
“I need someone to help me carry water-”
“Ohhhh, no.” Prissy shook her head and stood between Griselde and the door. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! I just want a bath!”
Prissy thought fast. “I’ll help you carry water,” she said agreeably, pulling a sigh and a grateful smile from the other woman. “If you tell me what’s going on.”
“Prissy, I-”
Griselde never called her anything but Priscilla. She was obviously flustered and hot, and wanted to clean off, and- “Have you been-” She paused, thinking of the right way to ask. “Fucking the crew?” Hmm, that was subtle. Somewhere, your unborn children are thanking the Good Lord for other parents.
Griselde’s jaw dropped, along with every bit of color from her face. “PRISCILLA-!” She dropped off, gritting her teeth and shaking a fist down by her side. “I don’t know your last name, bless it all!”
“Are you at least charging?” Prissy winced; she hadn’t meant it to sound that way.
“It’s not like that!” Griselde’s face was suddenly red, and she looked about to explode. Prissy thought of how much safer it would be right about now to have her arm halfway up inside the barrel of a newly-fired cannon. “It’s not for money!”
Uh-oh. “So you’re in love?
She shook her head frenetically. “It isn’t like that, either! Just - oh, damn, you don’t understand.”
“Then what is-” She frowned as the obvious occurred to her. “Wait, who is …” She trailed off. “Turner?” Griselde said nothing, shifting from one foot to the other, looking at anything but Prissy. “Really?”
“I would rather not explain this.”
But Prissy was undeterred. She’d seen those muscles shift beneath the fabric; she wanted details. “You can’t just say that and then not say anything more-”
“I didn’t say anything in the first place! I wanted a bath - that’s all!”
“Why?” A much less pleasant thought finally broke through. “To wash off the dead ick?”
“He’s not dead.”
“He’s part of this ship, idn’t he? Is he alive?”
“Well, he sure seems like it!” Griselde snapped.
She thought about it. And made a face. “Oh, Grizzy … you mean you put his-”
“IT’S NOT DEAD!” she yelled. She clamped her mouth shut and waited several beats, obviously calming herself, but looking no less annoyed. “He’s not dead, Priscilla. Trust me.”
“Sorry.” Prissy scratched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I mean - really? It’s not …”
“Not what?” Griselde demanded, arms crossed, tense like a snake routed from hibernation.
“Not … strange?” she ventured. “Cold? Dry? Rough?”
Griselde chewed on her lower lip. Hard. “I am not fucking a dead body. He’s perfectly alive … or something like it,” she conceded, exhaling some of the obvious tension. “We’re just having a good time.”
Prissy thought about that. “So - he can, you know … get it up, still?” She tried to school her face in curiosity instead of revulsion; the longer Griselde glared at her, the easier it was to let contrition finish the job. “It’s a fair question.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not just …” Prissy frowned, thinking of how calm the man usually looked. “You know - like that all the time?”
“First you ask if he can get it up, then you think it’s hard all the time?”
Prissy was about to reply, but a quick knock at the door silenced her. Both women turned to watch the captain open it and come in; he obviously sensed something was up, because he paused, raised both hands in a mock of surrender, and crossed the room to retrieve a sword from the impressively-decorated wall of weaponry. As soon as he was gone, Prissy said, “Well. I guess I shoulda offered to leave you two lovebirds, there.”
“Why?” Griselde appeared confused, then snapped to awareness. “Wait, you think he’s-”
But Prissy had, in one of those serendipitous flashes of logic, already figured it out. “HIS FATHER?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me!”
“You’ve been giving it to the old man?”
“I want a bath, damn it!” Griselde nearly quaked with indignation, her face deeply flushed. “You promised to shut up and carry water!”
“I-”
Griselde shut her up with a finger in her face. “Get. My. Water.”
For once, Prissy wasn’t inclined to push the petite woman. Rather than verbally acquiesce, she hummed, shook her head, and turned away to pick up pails and head out the door.
*****
Part 3 ...