The smell of ginger from the spiked switchel wafted through the ship’s gallery, swirling with— then being devoured by— the stench of cigar smoke, hot fish, and body odour. Cheers and chatter were accompanied by the clinking of pewter tankards. Those who had overly indulged much too quickly carried their groaning gossip to the scuttlebutt as they tried to drown the rum with water. It had been announced: the crew was stopping at the next port that wouldn’t hang them on sight. The prospect of fresh food excited everyone a fair amount, but, for those who partook, brothels and wenches were a far more attractive possibility. At that moment it seemed the crew at large forgot about the sea monster below their feet.

Santiago had slipped away from the rest of the crew to work on charting a path— however it was no loss to him. He was far too sophisticated to enjoy drunken gatherings, though not too sophisticated for the salted beef and hardtack he squirrelled away with him. He had dropped a piece of meat on his way out, much to the delight of the ship’s elusive mouser. The cat was quick to snatch up the beef and quicker to vanish, she had learned better than to stick around populated areas and get her tail stepped on by bumbling drunkards. 

Rat wrapped her hardtack in a sweaty, frayed handkerchief and slammed it hard against the table with a loud thwack. It did not break, it only bounced. It usually took a few good bludgeoning from her to shatter, unless her father stepped in to help. He could just break it in his hands. Unfortunately Eddie was too preoccupied with the rum and switchel. She was two thwacks in before Oliver noticed her struggling, and three by the time he got to her.

”Allow me, Imogen.”

”Rat,” she corrected. Her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s and her brow furrowed. She thought she looked pouty. She handed her handkerchief to him and immediately crossed her arms when he took it.

Grasping the wrapped hardtack, Oliver first tried to break it with his hands as Eddie would. It did not give. His face reddened, either from how much force his shaking arms exerted, embarrassment, or the fact he forgot to breathe. After a short while he let out a desperate gasp as if he had come up from drowning and resorted to Rat’s method of wielding it like a flail. It took him two thwacks before it broke. His eyes couldn’t meet hers as he handed back her handkerchief and muttered something so softly it was unintelligible.

Brigit had her plate of dried meat, stale beans, and entirely too solid hardtack in one hand and a tankard in her other as she tried to leave the gallery and sulk elsewhere. She had indulged a little too much in the rum before adding it to the switchel, it embarrassingly nearly took out her sea legs from under her. Normally the captain had no issue drinking and eating alongside her crew, but her head was too muddled for that now. She had enough mind to know she’d say something stupid, speak a little too freely of the sea monster in the ship’s belly, and worst of all: express how conflicted she was over it.

A sea monster’s nature was something she knew since she was a wee babe. She had seen the devastation they caused first hand. Even the octopus they had captured postured and spoke with entirely too much sauce. He– no, it spoke how she imagined any sea demon would. Yet he sat in gaol doing nothing. He traded his body and knowledge so she didn’t sink a ship of carnies. Santiago himself, though advised she kill the monster, said he was weak. Weak, meaning Nia might have been right about him.

Ugh. She was doing it again. Slipped into thinking of it as a he. The rum must have really been clouding her mind.

“Sir.”

Brigit’s head spun only to see Nia standing behind her. Her dark eyes were cast to her feet and she swirled her tankard as if it were a wine glass. The usually proud woman’s meek disposition made the captain brace in every sense. Her body stiffened and her voice strained.

“What?”

“The mermaid, have ya sent him any grub?”

Brigit scrunched her nose. “No. I ain’t know what ‘em beasts eat.” She gestured to her hardtack with her tankard, the switchel inside audibly sloshed up against its lid. “Would a fish even bother with hard flour?”

“I reckon so. The fishy bits don’t start til about…” Nia wavered her own tankard around her hips, “Here. He ought to have a stomach like us.”

Brigit tutted, and turned away from her right hand woman. Nia was, once more, probably correct. Not about the stomach— though that too was likely right— but about feeding it. Weak did not equate to harmless, starving the beast was one way to make it lash out. “Do what you will. Just don’t speak with it.”

“Aye, sir.”

***

As the hatch opened, a hair of light streamed down upon the merman once more. He did not wonder why, from the joyous sounds of clinking tin and rambunctious chitter that echoed through the ship he knew it must have been time for a meal. His insouciance was already on full display before Nia climbed down to him. He sat with a blank expression and his hands folded in his churning lap, as he always did at this point.

“Brought ya somethin’ to eat. Salted beef, beans, hardtack, ‘nd some water to soak it in.” She placed a plate in front of the merman. The dried goods were stacked atop each other and shoved to one side while a bowl teetered on the other half of the plate.

The two sat without speaking for a long while, the only sound was the muffled crew from the gallery and the ti-ti-tink from the bowl vibrating against the plate with the ship’s movement. Nia stared down at the silvery offering. She wondered if she should have first come down and asked if the merman ate the same as people did when he failed to immediately take it. Slowly from her peripherals two orange tendrils inched towards the meal. Her body relaxed, but she did not look up.

“We’re gonna set sail for port,” she told him, “We’re just lookin’ into what ones near might accept pirates.”

“Oh? Off to sell me to the highest bidder, now?” He asked, his moist tendrils stopped short of the plate.

“No. She knows I wouldn’t approve of sellin’ folk. Half fish or not. She just needs some time to think— away from deep ocean, I reckon.”

The octopus hummed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, it vanished as he closed his eyes and regained complete control of his face. “Have I frightened her?” He asked, the slightest twinge of a toying tone licked at his question. Even still, he didn’t seem to want an answer. “Fetch me a chart.”

“Pardon?”

“Fetch me a chart. You wish to know of a port, I’ll give you one.”

Nia’s face drained of all its blood as her veins turned to ice. She had not ‘wished’ for anything, so him phrasing it as a ‘wish’ struck her hard. Her jaw hung slack as she finally looked at the merman’s face with big horrorstruck eyes. Even as she looked straight at him she couldn't see him, her hammering heart blurred her vision and made the edges vanish into a fuzz. He was trying to cozen her soul from her. Dread of her misplaced defence of him began to well in her guts, but before the claws of panic were able to totally overtake her, his voice shattered them.

“You haven’t asked it of me, nor have I asked for anything in return, so put away that face,” he said, “If it helps your jumpy old heart, fetch me the chart and a quill and we needn’t exchange another word. I am simply doing as I said I would.”

She watched him skeptically, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her heart was still racing, her hands shook from the sudden shot of adrenaline that needlessly coursed through her. The captain would be very, very miffed if she let this sea creature ruin a chart. But… he was right. Was this not what they brought him aboard to do? To sense magic off others, to offer insight into a sea monster’s mind, and to scry. Not in the way of seeing the future, but to descry in a way only mermaids and witches could. To see. In this case, to see a port they could use.

Without exchanging another word, she stood and left.

***

Brigit sat at her desk within her quarters, examining the bottom of her empty tankard with thinly veiled dismay. Her tongue longed for the hints of vanilla that the rum gave the switchel, and her throat and stomach longed for the burning sensation that made her core a pleasant warm. The lingering smell of molasses and oak tickled her nose, flirting like a temptress. She was debating returning to the gallery for another fill when there was a rapping at her door; she was torn from the salacious beckoning of more alcohol.

“Santiago, come in,” she called as she placed her tankard down with a tinny clunk. To her surprise, Nia came through the door with parchment in hand. “Nia? What’s that?”

Nia took a deep breath as she approached. “Sir.” She brushed the tankard to the side and laid out a chart flat across the desk. On it was a mark, the ink was still fresh and slightly smudged from when Nia rolled it up.

“Did Santiago send you to deliver this?”

Nia shook her head. “No sir. The mermaid said the nearest pirate friendly port is here.”

Brigit’s face immediately soured, her already flushed cheeks seemed to flare an even brighter red. “What?! You’d ask directions from it?” Spittle flew from her mouth as she yelled.

“No, he offered.”

“So you trust it's not gonna feed us to some whirlpool or other such nonsense?”

Nia opened her mouth to defend herself, but another rap on the door and a sudden clearing of a throat cut her off. This time it really was Santiago shadowing the entrance. He too had a yellowed chart rolled up in his arms.

His polite yet nonchalant face made it seem like he was oblivious to what he had walked in on— though he did not know why the women were beefing, it was more than he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t wait for an answer before stepping into the room. His footfall was as measured as ever, but it only seemed to agitate the building tension in the room. “I believe I’ve found the closest port.” He extended a rolled up chart to the captain.

Brigit snatched it out of his waiting hand with a snort and glare at Nia. She unfurled it; ‘I told you so’s built in the back of her throat to wield like daggers— but those words instead stabbed at her own tongue and deflated her. As her eyes flicked from the parchment in her hands to the parchment on the desk she realised: the marks were in the exact same place.