Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

34. Fresh Air

33rd of Uirra

A bead of perspiration dribbled out of my hair and ran down my face to drop onto the page of my journal.

Again.

Writing had become quite the rugged experience since we crossed the 30th parallel.

The weather outside hadn't suddenly become warmer, but the sides of the Stryka were painted black, which made everything hold heat above the waterline. Even with the porthole winched all the way open, Penweather's cabin quickly became too stuffy to stay in for any length of time.

But, since my journal now contained dangerous information, I didn't dare write in it anywhere but holed up with the door bolted.

I figured if I wrote as much down as I could, I'd be able to use it somehow. Prove that it happened, maybe. Wrap my head around it.

I still hadn't quite managed to do that yet, even after studiously scribbling away most evenings. I was still the hollow husk from the lifeboat: empty, scraped out and cold. It took an awful lot of effort to truly feel anything. Always at the back of my mind was that ever-present lack, my father is not here, my father is not here, my father is not here. The weight of it clung to me like a shroud, and it only got heavier when I was alone.

Today was no different, but Raggan was busy, and Des'Cready had banished me from the galley for the rest of the day after I set fire to the fruiteponne this morning.

I longed to talk to Laffa. I'd have even let her poke me in the ribs again. Tell me to eat fiiiiiish and start living. But there I was, sitting in a stuffy, overheated cabin, sweating through my blouse, with no one to talk to. I didn't even know if Laffa would recognize me if I snuck down to see her.

I needed to do something, though, or I was going to go mad.

Here lies Miss Brenorra Warring.She was whole, but now she's pouring.Into puddles see her forming,Oh, poor Miss Brenorra Warring.

I took all of ten minutes composing the above, doodled a bucket around it, added a bunch of flowers and leaves to the margins and a sketch of my own fingers off to the side, then heaved a huge sigh and stabbed Pennweather's pen nib-first into its sponge, and sat back in the small folding chair.

I couldn't stand me anymore. I needed some fresh air.

~~~

I wandered the quarterdeck for a few minutes, staring up at the sails, mesmerized by the play of bright sunlit white against crisp blue shadow.

Around me, the Stryka was abuzz with an orderly sort of energy.

The civilians had settled in, and the familiar midday scent of beef hash drifted from the hold. The hum of conversation in the mess aft of the galley was clearly audible; Des'Cready must have opened a few portholes in the galley to let in some fresh air.

Evers and Reiskelder were up on the aft deck, their faces scrunched with disgust as they emptied the privy buckets into the ship's wake.

A few sailors were swabbing the quarterdeck behind me, the movements of ragmop and water a syncopated, 'slop, squish, tap, splash.'

As I stood at the railing, face to a pleasant late-winter breeze that tugged at my hair and cooled my skin, there was a shout down on the main deck, then more shouting back and forth between the Stryka and the Angpixen. Curiosity piqued, I made my way to the railing of the balconette.

NaVarre was preparing to send something over on the cargo sling, but had to wait because there was some sort of bother with the Stryka's loading bay hatch cover – the steel-bound double panel that could be pulled up to expand the existing main hatch, making it possible for the ship to take on large cargo.