Chapter 3: Of Cabbages and Kings (Concluded)
At night, it seemed to Octave of the restless spirit that the weathered hull of the Eriphyle took on the same watchful, wary demeanor as her crew. In the quarters below, Octave's fellow mariners tossed and turned, whispering to each other or sleeping with ears open. On the deck above, the fire-winged warrior kept his midnight vigil over a sea nearly invisible in the gloom. And in the gaping mess hall where Octave sat, the howling of an unnatural wind eliminated the line between the ship and its surroundings. The ship contained the entire universe, and there was nothing in the universe but the ship. Octave could almost hear Eriphyle taking her pulse.
The restless spirit's thoughts strayed, as they so often did, to his captain. Dunam, called the great-hearted, had been remote of late. Perhaps he sensed -- as, implicitly, did every man and woman on the ship -- that the Eriphyle's mood had changed. Ever since Dunam had ordered his crew to attack their kinsmen on the Calypso, trust in the once-beloved captain had wavered. Unfairly, perhaps. Yet, to tell a legion of loyal mariners that they were to take up arms against fellow Greeks, on the basis of a vague dream...
Had there ever been a dream? Octave sometimes doubted it. He could not help but remember when his captain had punished him for giving a dishonest man his due. Octave had scrubbed the deck once, twice, thrice, while his mates took in the sights of Ismarus. And with every back-and-forth of the rag, Octave wondered if his captain had done the right thing to preserve order at the expense of common morality. Or, the thought insinuated itself, might Dunam not consider himself above common morality?
The air shifted, and Octave realized with a start that he was not alone in the mess hall. The gaunt figure of the ship's cook approached, and seated itself across from Octave.
"Trouble sleeping?"
"What are you doing here? Evening mess was hours ago."
"I'm preparing breakfast." The cook raised his head, his sunken eyes staring into Octave's. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. They say it gives you the strength to see the day through. Though of course, it takes more than strength to get through the day."
Octave feigned annoyance, though he found himself interested despite himself. "And what else does it take, O earliest of risers?"
"Conviction."
"What?"
"Strength without conviction is like thunder without Zeus. There is no direction, no purpose. It strikes where it may, even against the gods. No good can come of it."
Now Octave was listening hard. "And the Eriphyle -- does it have conviction?"
"Oh, yes, the Eriphyle does. It is her crew that does not. I know that you too hear the whispers. Now they are whispering the name of Dunam. But they whisper with doubt, and no more do they call him great-hearted." The cook paused. "Soon the voices will whisper another name. They will whisper it in trust, and they will call the new name's bearer great-hearted." The cook lifted a thin eyebrow at the restless spirit across the table -- then, meaningfully, extended a bony hand.
In a moment Octave realized what the man meant. Horror and hope mixed in equal measure. He suppressed the urge to yell, taking a deep breath instead. In a moment he answered, neutrally: "What are you offering me, cook?"
"I used to serve mead in Athens, before I came to Ithaca. In Athens, the bars are full of hungry mouths and empty minds, and he who fills the one may just as easily fill the other. There's really little difference between a bar and a mess hall."
For a moment the sound of the wind disappeared, and Octave could hear only the beating of his own heart. His dreams, fears, conscience, and intuition mingled in a dissonant symphony -- or perhaps a consonant cacophony. He stared half-unseeing at the cook's outstretched hand.
"Well?" whispered the cook.
The restless spirit's thoughts strayed, as they so often did, to his captain. Dunam, called the great-hearted, had been remote of late. Perhaps he sensed -- as, implicitly, did every man and woman on the ship -- that the Eriphyle's mood had changed. Ever since Dunam had ordered his crew to attack their kinsmen on the Calypso, trust in the once-beloved captain had wavered. Unfairly, perhaps. Yet, to tell a legion of loyal mariners that they were to take up arms against fellow Greeks, on the basis of a vague dream...
Had there ever been a dream? Octave sometimes doubted it. He could not help but remember when his captain had punished him for giving a dishonest man his due. Octave had scrubbed the deck once, twice, thrice, while his mates took in the sights of Ismarus. And with every back-and-forth of the rag, Octave wondered if his captain had done the right thing to preserve order at the expense of common morality. Or, the thought insinuated itself, might Dunam not consider himself above common morality?
The air shifted, and Octave realized with a start that he was not alone in the mess hall. The gaunt figure of the ship's cook approached, and seated itself across from Octave.
"Trouble sleeping?"
"What are you doing here? Evening mess was hours ago."
"I'm preparing breakfast." The cook raised his head, his sunken eyes staring into Octave's. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. They say it gives you the strength to see the day through. Though of course, it takes more than strength to get through the day."
Octave feigned annoyance, though he found himself interested despite himself. "And what else does it take, O earliest of risers?"
"Conviction."
"What?"
"Strength without conviction is like thunder without Zeus. There is no direction, no purpose. It strikes where it may, even against the gods. No good can come of it."
Now Octave was listening hard. "And the Eriphyle -- does it have conviction?"
"Oh, yes, the Eriphyle does. It is her crew that does not. I know that you too hear the whispers. Now they are whispering the name of Dunam. But they whisper with doubt, and no more do they call him great-hearted." The cook paused. "Soon the voices will whisper another name. They will whisper it in trust, and they will call the new name's bearer great-hearted." The cook lifted a thin eyebrow at the restless spirit across the table -- then, meaningfully, extended a bony hand.
In a moment Octave realized what the man meant. Horror and hope mixed in equal measure. He suppressed the urge to yell, taking a deep breath instead. In a moment he answered, neutrally: "What are you offering me, cook?"
"I used to serve mead in Athens, before I came to Ithaca. In Athens, the bars are full of hungry mouths and empty minds, and he who fills the one may just as easily fill the other. There's really little difference between a bar and a mess hall."
For a moment the sound of the wind disappeared, and Octave could hear only the beating of his own heart. His dreams, fears, conscience, and intuition mingled in a dissonant symphony -- or perhaps a consonant cacophony. He stared half-unseeing at the cook's outstretched hand.
"Well?" whispered the cook.
Octave of the restless spirit, please select an option.
1. Shake the cook's hand.
2. Shake your own head.
3. Call a warrior to put the cook in the brig.
Octave chooses option 1 by default, and the cook spreads rumors of his heroism and Dunam's shadiness. Octave's vote will count triple in any calls for Mutiny and elections for new Captain for the remainder of this Lacuna and the next. Had he chosen option 2, there would have been no effect except a disappointed sigh from the cook; had he chosen option 3, every Mariner on the Eriphyle would have lost 5 Morale as a result of the lack of good cooking and a chance for change.
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