Episode 17: The Words That Should Not Be Known

May 21, 2012 – 4:03 PM
Lifeboat Area, Promenade Deck

The sea held its breath.

Wind tangled Rose’s hair into loose strands, strands that clung to her lips as she stared at him unmoving…not even a blink, as if one word too many might shatter the deck beneath their feet.

Her whisper cut first.
Low.
Steady.
Every syllable laced with disbelief.

“How could you know those words? ---You shouldn’t…What’s you play now RIckarte?”

The clear distrust on Rose’ face told Marisse that he is far from gaining her trust.

Further from making her believe him.

Marisse’s breath hitched, but he did not look away. He stepped forward, careful, measured, as though one wrong motion might scatter her like light off water. His voice was soft, but each word carried a weight that pressed against the air between them.

“No play, Rose. Just a confession. That I was wrong, Rose, I was wrong to go to your father regarding your welfare, your life. You made me understood how important it was for you to decide for yourself…I understand that now.”

“Because you told me once… that words were the only place you could be free. That your real life kept you silent, small… but when you wrote, you could stand tall. Loud. Unafraid.”

******

ROSE

Rose was taken aback.

All her life she had struggled, persevered to have some form or even semblance of independence.

Some control over decisions about her life. But along with the realization of the legacy of her family’s wealth came the understanding that her life was never her own.

And that for her to even have a voice, it would have to be one not associated to her as Rose Villamor, the heir to the Villamor wealth.

That was why she started a secret Facebook account void of all her identity. A platform where she can freely express herself unshackled of all the dictates of high society and what was expected of her as a well-known figure of it.

But now here stands a man who seems to have unraveled her in just a few days.

Could he be a stalker? A dangerous predator? But how could he have known those words?

Those were the exact words that she was just about to post in her anonymous Facebook account tonight. She just had thought of it this afternoon as she walks her way to meeting Marisse here at the promenade deck.

Those inspired words in her mind has not even touched any paper…How could Marisse possibly know it???

*******

MARISSE

Her eyes flickered, narrowing. He saw it, her suspicion, her guard building higher by the second. His chest ached, but he pushed on, veering towards total honesty.

For a change.

“I didn’t understand then. Not really. Not until I found that secret Facebook page, the one you kept hidden under a name no one else knew. I read your words, Rose. I heard you. For the first time, I knew who you were when the world wasn’t watching. And God help me; I respected you more for it.”

*******

ROSE

Rose’s breath faltered, lips parting though no reply came.

Inside her, the words twisted like vines: He read me. He knew me when no one else did. He… respected me?

But behind that was a sharper thought, one that sliced through the moment like her aunt’s voice so often did: He is a liar. He lied to Father yesterday. He made me look small, foolish, unworthy of trust. And now he claims he knows my soul?

Her bewilderment hardened into something steelier. She did not move closer, though the pull was there, like a current tugging at her ankles. She steadied her breath and clenched her fists at her sides.

Marisse reached into his jacket then, pulling out a small leather travel journal. Its edges were worn, smudged from the press of his hands. He held it out to her.

“This is yours now. Read it. If you can’t trust me, then trust the words inside. They’ll tell you what I cannot right now.”

She did not take it at once. She only stared at it as though it were some dangerous relics, some proof she wasn’t sure she wanted. “What good is your word to me now? Do you think I will ever believe anything you say---or even wrote?!”

Rose snapped back and Marisse pulled a heavy breath to steady himself. “Up until today, the diary can only show my entry until Msy 21^st, 2012. Though it looks old, it will show you blank pages after today’s date. But check on it tomorrow, and if nothing changes, you don’t even have to talk to me. If nothing happens with the diary, then we are done and I will never bother you again.”

Rose couldn’t understand why but Marisse’s word gutted her, so sharp that she was not able to respond.

“Please,” his voice broke. “Even if you doubt me, afford me a seed of belief. Just one. Isn’t that what faith is? Even the size of a mustard seed can move a mountain. Maybe it can move you.”

He held the journal closer, his hand trembling.

But she would not give him victory in this moment. Not after what he had done yesterday. Not after the humiliation of being confined to her cabin, treated like a child who couldn’t be trusted to take a single step without her aunt’s approval.

So, she clutched the journal as though it were contraband. Something to hide, to study, to use against him if she had to.

She turned as if to leave, but then she turned back and Rose’s eyes lingered on him, full of conflict as if trying to decipher how to move forward with what he just said.

Inside, her mind was sharper, colder:
You lied for Father’s sake. You locked me in that cabin with her. And now you hand me a journal and expect me to trust? No. I’ll read it, Marisse Rickarte. I’ll read every word. But it will not be faith. It will be evidence. Proof. And if you’re lying—God help you.

Rose then walked towards Marisse once more, her voice trembling but low enough only he could hear:

“You’d better prove you’re not lying to me, Rickarte. Because if you are… I’ll never forgive you.”

And then she was gone, leaving him alone with the ache of her doubt and the weight of what he knew was coming.

The deck creaked softly under the shifting weight of the ship. Marisse remained still, the emptiness in his hands matched only by the hollow ache in his chest.

*******

Elsewhere – Upper Promenade Deck

Unseen by either of them, Zeke Morales leaned against the far bulkhead, his posture casual, but his eyes sharp. He had watched the exchange, every flicker of Rose’s guarded defiance, every crack in Marisse’s voice.

But he wasn’t the only one watching.

The man in the navy cap lingered at the edge of the deck, his gaze locked not on Marisse, but on Rose.

Zeke saw it. Saw the way the man’s hand hovered near his jacket pocket, the way his attention clung to her silhouette as she disappeared down the corridor.

Zeke’s jaw set.

He stepped away from the bulkhead, keeping his stride unhurried, unremarkable. But his eyes never left the navy cap as he slipped into the stream of passengers, shadowing the man who shadowed her.

The hunt, Zeke realized, had already begun.

*******

ROSE

Even as she walked her way back to her own cabin, Rose’s head was reeling, unsure of why of how, but his words made her less more doubtful of Marisse’s intention.

It was as if she was flying across the decks that Rose barely noticed the time when she got back to her cabin. There, soon as she was inside and had made sure that her aunt was nowhere in sight, Rose brought out the thin worn-out travel journal and settled herself Infront of the desk there and began inspecting the journal.

There on the first page clearly scribbled were the words, Property of Marrise V. Ricakrte.

Rose’ s chest tightened as she began to read through Marisse’s journal and flipped through the pages as if wondering where to start.

The book was made so thin that it resembles a pamphlet more, rather than Marisse’s infamous journal. But on each page were written words that moved Rose more than she cares to admit.

Finally, Rose saw an entry that had mentions of her name, and so Marisse read through it.

*******

Marrise’s Journal Entry:

Day One – Manila Departure
May 19, 2012

I still remember the smell of it all...Manila Harbor at dawn, hot steel and diesel fumes, mixed with the faint rot of seaweed clinging to the concrete pilings. The city was already awake. Porters shouted, luggage carts squealed against asphalt, and gulls wheeled overhead in the smoky light. For the crew of the Maverick’s Rose, it was just another embarkation day. For me, it was routine: polish the railings, tighten cleats, check safety lines, keep the promenade clear. A job is a job, and I wore mine like armor.

By six-thirty, passengers were filing up the gangway. Silk blouses, straw hats, leather shoes that would scuff against the deck before we even left port. I nodded to some, offered the standard greetings, kept my smile neutral. We were instructed to be visible but not intrusive. That’s what I was doing when I first saw her.

She was standing at the far edge of the sun deck, barefoot. A girl in a light sundress, hair loose, face tilted to the horizon as if the bay owed her something. Everyone else buzzed around posing for photographs, comparing stateroom keys, chattering about Palawan. She stood still, like she belonged to another world.

I cleared my throat softly and said, “Ma’am, the deck isn’t cleared yet. You might get a splinter.”

No response. She didn’t even blink. For a moment, I wondered if she was one of those eccentric tourists who came aboard with their own universe in tow. I stepped closer, boots tapping against the teak.

“Miss?”

This time she turned. Her eyes caught me. They were dark, distant, and just a little embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize.” She slipped her sandals back on, though she clearly preferred the freedom.

“No harm done,” I said. “First days can be… overwhelming.”

She gave a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes but softens a face anyway. “I was just trying to get away from the noise.”

I nodded and gestured toward the safer section of deck. “Maybe the aft lounge will be quieter.”

She fell in step with me, and only then did the recognition strike. Rose Villamor. The Villamor. Heiress to the shipping line. The boss’s daughter. 

Hers was the face I regularly see along with information of our company fleet on the crew channels.

By eight o’clock, word had spread down the chain. The Captain himself stopped me outside the crew galley. His voice was calm but firm.
“Rickarte. You’ll be her escort for the duration of the cruise. Call it a security protocol.”

I knew what he meant. “Eyes on her. Keep her out of trouble.”

“Exactly. Don’t hover, but don’t let her drift too far, either.” He patted my shoulder as though this were a promotion. To me, it felt like a test I hadn’t studied for.

The day blurred with duty of lines cast off, horns sounding, the city shrinking behind us as we pushed into the open water. I caught glimpses of her, moving through the ship like she was both guest and ghost. Always noticed, but rarely engaged.

It wasn’t until evening, during the sail-away gala, that fate...or chance maybe...put us side by side again. The deck was alive with lantern light, the Manila sunset painted gold across the water, and a string quartet struggled against the laughter and clink of glasses. I kept to the margins, half in uniform, half invisible.

She spotted me. Or maybe she sought me. Either way, she moved closer, balancing a champagne flute she clearly had no intention of drinking.

“Do you believe in omens?” she asked suddenly.

I blinked. “Depends on the omen.”

“The sunset,” she said, nodding toward the horizon where the sun sank behind the jagged skyline. “Sailors always say it means something. Red sky at night…”

“…sailor’s delight,” I finished, surprising her.

Her smile grew, genuine this time. “So, you do know them.”

“Old sayings stick,” I replied. “Though I’ve seen enough to know the sea doesn’t care what we believe.”

She studied me then, longer than was comfortable. “You don’t talk much.”

“Not my job,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but when you do, I feel like I should listen.”

Before I could answer, fireworks erupted from a barge nearby, scattering sparks across the night sky. The crowd cheered. She didn’t. She only glanced at me, her face bathed in sudden color, and for a heartbeat I thought she might say more. But the moment passed.

She drifted back into the party, into the orbit of people who belonged to her world. I stayed where I was, watching reflections ripple across the darkening sea.

Her scent lingered, salt and jasmine. I carried it with me long after the music faded, into the hours when only the engines and the waves kept time.

This is Day One. The beginning of something I never expected, and maybe never deserved.

******