A Simple Prop, To Occupy My Time...

[Eliza Lacrimosa]

Gravity pulled heavily upon Eliza?s lashes. She had tossed and turned for most of the night, and the little sleep she?d managed had been that ruddy annoying sort which tricked her into dreaming that she was still awake. How on earth these stupid corsairs managed to get any rest in their flimsy little lean-tos was beyond her.   

The fire crackled miserably. Eliza poked at it with a stick, sending up a cascade of sparks. The tiny lights spiraled aloft, fading away into the dawn. The pine marten frowned at them, bitterly thrusting her poker into the embers.

It hurts, doesn?t it? 

No! Eliza stabbed the fire again. It doesn?t hurt! Damask left because he?s a stupid jealous little fool who deluded himself into thinking he loved me because... Well, because he?s an idiot! I shan?t miss him at all. 

Then why did you keep the bangle?

Eliza absently stroked the thing, tracing its curve with a claw. Because it?s pretty, that?s why. This seemed like a lie, and hardly a good one. The bangle was tarnished, and a bit scratched in places. Any jeweller back home would taken a single incredulous look, sniffed, and had it melted down for scrap.

?It?s pretty.? Really? That?s the reason? Not something sensible, like, ?Because it was a gift,? or ?Because it matches my dress,? or even the truth, ?Because, maybe, deep down, I actually did care just a little bit about Damask, because maybe amid all of the verses and stanzas I saw just that one tiny glimmer of actual selfless, real love, and I didn?t know what to do about it, and it scared me, and maybe I actually kind of liked it, just a little bit!? How does that sound?

Eliza stared furiously into the flickering blaze, refusing to answer herself. She focused on the sounds of the grove, letting the ambient noise flood her ears and drown her thoughts. The fire crackled and hissed, but not nearly loud enough. The wind was whispering, setting the palm leaves aflutter. They sounded like feathers... No! Shut up! Just shut up! I don?t care, all right? I never cared! I toyed with him because I thought he could be useful, and that?s it. I don?t need him, and I don?t even need Venril any more, because I?ve found my own way home. I?m going to go home, and I don?t care about stupid Damask or stupid Venril or any of these stupid wretches with their stupid cares and concerns.

There was another sound. Footpaws, grinding into the sand, gradually heading her way. Eliza looked up, eyes narrowed, expecting Venril to emerge. Doubtlessly, the stoat?s addled mind had prompted him come back for another ?rescue.?

What an idiot. His naivet? could almost be tragic, if it wasn?t so bloody stupid.

However, it was not Venril, but a bleary-eyed Matukhana who stumped out of the foliage. Eliza shifted aside as the Captain slumped onto her log, taking no notice of her annoyed glare.

Eliza sniffed as she studied the dishevelled Captain. Matukhana sat hunched, swallowed in the folds of a bulky cloak. The fox stared straight ahead, his eyes glimmering with golden fury. Below them, a perimeter of scabbing and sickly pus lined the ragged jaw wound, giving him a grotesque half-grin. The contrast made him look mad as rabbits.

Matukhana?s lips shifted involuntarily, and Eliza smirked at the resulting shudder of pain. So much for your great veneer of invulnerability, Captain. You bleed just like the rest of the wretches, no matter how you try to deny it. And facial wounds bleed for a long, long time... 

??m ?ungry,? the Captain finally croaked, his voice thin. ?Find Kirby?n gemme summ?t t?eat.?

Eliza sniffed. ?Do I look like a minion to you??

The fox snatched her paw and twisted it, hard. Damask?s bangle crushed fur and skin. Eliza squealed in pain.

?You are wha?ever I say y?are, wench. Now go,? Matukhana snorted, and flung her away.

Eliza's tongue dammed a tirade of violent curses and insults. Her breath came in short spurts. She wanted to scream at him, draw her knife and lunge forward and stab him and stab him and stab him. Stab him right through that wicked black-veined heart and kill him, and throw his stupid carcass into the fire and let him burn all the way to Hellgates.

No. Home. Kill him, and you?ll never get home. Just go. Do what he wants. Eliza stumbled off, her arm throbbing. One painful tear slipped down her cheek.

She wandered numbly towards the huts, trying to recall which hut belonged to the cook. She vaguely recalled hearing that the woodlanders had permitted the vermin to remain in the drolly titled ?mess hut,? as it was slated for demolition the next day anyway.

Eliza picked her way over to the ramshackle dwelling, and tapped hesitantly upon the door. No reply. She rapped louder. Still no reply.

?Hey! Cook!? she shouted, pounding the wood with a clenched paw. ?Open the door!?

When this failed to produce a result, Eliza invited herself in, pausing first to compose some choice words for the slacker in charge.

She frowned as the door sagged open. The mess hut floor was crowded with sleeping vermin.

Huh, Eliza sniffed. Evidently I?m not the only one who?d prefer not to repose in a filthy palm grove. Gingerly stepping over the slumbering forms, the pine marten made for the kitchen. A dozing weasel barred the door, but moved aside with some footpaw-driven encouragement.

The kitchen was a horrible cacophany of cookware, bird bones, and rotted bits of vegetation. The cook himself lay in the corner, spread across a mat of sacking. The obese ferret was dead to the world, peg-leg twitching. His enormous fleshy stomach rose and fell with each warbling snore.

?Wake up, Wobbleguts!? Eliza commanded. ?Your mighty Captain wants his breakfast!?

Wobbleguts, in reply, shifted slightly and grunted something like ?Rknuh.?

?Hey!? Eliza snapped, kicking at where she assumed the cook?s ribs to be. ?Get up!? 

?Gerrof, lout! ?snot brekkist yet,? burbled the ferret.

The lout kicked him again, sending a ripple through his blubber. ?I don?t care. The Captain wants breakfast! Get up!?

Wobbleguts? mouth sucked in a cavernous yawn. ?Uh?? he queried. ?Cap?n??

?Captain Matukhana wants breakfast,? Eliza repeated again. ?And he?s in a foul mood, so I suggest you shift your flabby self and get to it.?

?Aright, aright.? Scritching at a greasy ear, the ferret heaved himself upright. Glaciers of stomach oozed into place as Wobbleguts donned a threadbare apron. The ferret stumped about, snatching various pots and implements.

As Eliza watched him putter, a delightfully juvenile idea presented itself. ?Do you have any salt??

Wobbleguts? eyebrows contorted. ?Salt??

?Yes,? she said, smiling prettily. ?Salt. Captain Matukhana specifically asked that I bring him something with a lot of salt in it.?

Wobbleguts spoke very slowly and deliberately, as though mentally chewing a tough piece of meat. ??e wants ?is porridge with salt in??

?Oh, yes. Lots.? And I hope his wound feels every single grain.

The ferret sighed laconically. ?Alright, then.?

As Wobbleguts began liberally salting the porridge pot, a stoat poked his head into the kitchen. ?Oy, Kirby, wot?s cookin???

Wobbleguts grimaced, wiping his nose on the back of his paw. ?Porridge.?

?Daw, porridge agin??

?Aye,? nodded the ferret. ?It?s all we?ve got left, an? since those ruddy woodland lot ?ave taken over, we can?t... Oy, Dugan, summat the matter with ye??

Dugan was bent nearly double, coughing violently. Eliza stepped back, wrinkling her snout, as Wobbleguts fetched the stoat a hefty slap on the back. 

?Ghoauww!? the corsair gasped, sucking in a lungful of air. ?Whew. I?m aright, mate, but that wos a good ol? cough, there!?

?Well, we?ll fetch ye some porridge, then, an? let it sort out that cough, eh??

?Aye. Though ye might need quite a bit of it. Half the lads in there were coughin? and hackin? for mosta the night. I hardly got any shut-eye, list?nin? to em.?

Wobbleguts laughed. ?Ah, ye?re all prob?ly just tuckered out from the fightin? and scrappin? yesterday. It?ll be porridge an? soup for ye today, an? ye?ll all be right as rain t?morrer.?

?Aye...? Dugan murmured absently, as though trying to sort something out in his head.

Eliza spoke up. ?As charming as this conversation is, the Captain is still waiting.?

The cook grunted and passed her the bowl of porridge. Large grains of salt dusted the top of the wobbly clumps. ?There y?go, then. I ?ope he enjoys it.?

?I hope so, too,? Eliza lied.