Seas of Affliction

A pass of one month time

I sat in a bar, a drink called an ‘ale’ clasped in between my palms tightly as I let the coolness of it seep into my body in an attempt to get just the slightest relief from the hot and humid climate. The buccaneer hat that sat atop my head was acting more as an insufferable heat trap than some disguise. When deciding what my attire should be almost a full day ago with the aid of Priscilla and a friend of hers, one that owned her favor and in return helped me gain some agility and footwork, he placed his hat on my head. Desmond, his name, was at the moment the only one of the humankind that I didn’t have to resist an urge to throttle. He was patient and kind, understanding and quick witted. When we parted, he was a friend.

My ability to adapt quickly was something I had long forgotten, having done all the adapting I could do under the sea. On land though, with legs, by two weeks I was sprinting. Then by three weeks dodging advances from Desmond and by the final week, was spent giving me some sort of alias, a small sort of clothes, shearing my precious and well-loved hair off in preparation that I could pass for a male. Although by comparison to any other male on this forsaken island they call Peoria, I am far to small and weak looking to be one.

I had high hopes, confident that I could easily persuade my way into securing passage but alas, I’ve failed each and every time. And this only with passages to the ill-fabled Tangia, the few that there were. No matter how insistent I was, how much at one point almost pleaded with a man, how I told them repeatedly I required no pay, I was turned away because they needed able bodied men and I was not in the slightest one.

Unbeknownst to them, I possessed twice or thrice the strength of the able bodied man that they required. This was something I wouldn’t flex, it’s too easy to not be able to control the strength difference, I’d rather not release it for all it’s worth. Desmond spent a majority of the tail end of the first week and most of the second week incorporating and teaching me to control my strength, which usually ended up with him bruised and battered from my fault.

It was quite easy to start feeling as if this monumental shift and effort was for none. Priscilla and Desmond were positive that I’d find passage with some crew. Instead, I was sitting in the last pub in Peoria that I had yet to search through. To my discredit, I wasn’t actively looking like all the other places. No, I was exhausted, my feet singing and my legs aching from walking perhaps the entire encompass of the island. Besides my calloused heels and toes, my pride was as well. It had been just as bruised as any other part of me. And the ale that I was drinking, despite it’s uncomfortable bitter aftertaste, was relaxing me little by little.

By my third one in fact, I was feeling more confident than ever. I listened to nearby conversations, most of them being a pattering of stories from the sea or the gypsies that had payed them a visit a night before. Then, in almost a whisper amongst a crowd of voices, I heard the word I seeked-Tangia. I turned, trying to find the source of the single uttered signal for what I needed. I swiveled my head around, peering through the throngs of drunkards and resting souls to see a lone 12 foot table in the back, occupied by men rigid in concentration.

My seat scooted back loudly behind me as I got up with no conscious of how hard I had pushed against it. Thankfully, the ruckus was masked in the noisy atmosphere. I left my ale, my whole being aimed at that table. When I approached it though, I had realized I had no words prepared but only actions.

“Can we help you, lad?” An older man had asked after my blank stare and unmoving lips produced nothing of value.

I swallowed hard, giving myself an internal smack on the cheek to check back in with reality, for my head not to be so foggy. “Yes, I couldn’t help but oversea--I mean, overhear,” my stumbling of words caused an embarrassed heat to rise up to my cheeks, “your destination of Tangia. I require passage there for matter too important and complex for me to explain shortly but I can say that you group of gentlemen may be my last hope.”

All eyes were on me and I felt myself grow hotter, wondering if I looked as idiotic as I felt. Then, a man with a mane of dark hair and sharp cerulean eyes rose from the table, the palms of his hands supporting him with ease. His eyes raking over me in inspecting fashion, almost as if he was looking for something.

“We have a full crew I’m afraid-,” he paused, a look from him had me realizing after a little too long that he was waiting for my name.

“Fredrick. Fredrick Tate.” I was using Desmond’s surname. Mermaids and other beings such as Priscilla don’t normally possess such names.

“Frederick,” the man nodded affirmatively, “I’m afraid we have a full crew.”

I kept myself planted where I was, not letting this opportunity slip away like all the others. “Whether you are playing me for as I look, and do have room for another crew member, I must assure you that I’m well more able bodied than I appear.”

He narrowed his eyes, muttering something so lowly, I almost didn’t hear it. “And other things.”

“Excuse me?” I inquired, wondering if I was suppose to hear what he had said.

He walked around the length of the table. His eyes were unwavering, still as continuous as before was scrutinizing me in a way that had me nearly squirming out of the pub all together. Once he stopped in front of me, he did the oddest action. He smelled me. I could feel his breath against my stiffening neck, then he leaned back into a normal posture. Then, once again without any predictability, he took my hands, examining them thoroughly. And in one last obscure act, he turned my around by my upper arm, leading me towards the exit.

My senses kicked up and I was prepared to snap his neck if he tried to lay a violent hand on me but he let go of me when we reach the quieter air just outside the pub. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I ask you the same question,” he retorted, crossing his arms tightly.

“Whatever could you possibly mean? My intentions are nothing but honest-,”

“Yes, but your identity is not.” His voice had a finality to it, so much that my mouth snapped shut. “You think I can’t recognize a woman in disguise? Smooth hands, no stench that sailing men have sticking to them, and your stature,” he chuckled, “I’m almost curious of how you thought that would work out for you.”

It took every nerve in my body to keep my composure at ease from his unbelievably accurate observations, one that none of the other seamen I had spoken to earlier in the day had noticed. “You accuse me like it’s a dishonor.”

“A woman can be many things but she cannot be a fitting man.” I glowered, stepping up close to him.

“I dare say the opposite, sir. A woman can be anything she needs to be, men are no obstacles for her willing might.” His face remained indifferent as with the deep sigh, he stepped around me.

“No need to get your-well bridges I suppose given what you’re wearing-in a bunch. As your intentions are nothing but honest, mine are in this given occasion are as well. I’m doing you a favor, lady. A ship full of confined, homesick men is no place for a woman.”

“I must say, I can handle myself plenty enough, sir.” He grimaced.

“You must stop calling me such a formal title. My name is Theo.”

“I feel as if we are past the pleasantries of names. You’ve offended me.”

“Again, with good intentions.” He reminded.

“Intentions that are misguided by assuming from the image men have projected of women.” I countered.

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “If, hypothetically of course, I were to allow you passage on my merchant vessel, how do you plan to maintain your disguise well? How do plan to explain missing certain extremities that a male possesses when you go to use the communal shit and pissing bucket in the corner of the bunking room? Hm? Or more so, even try and match the physicality of the rest of them.”

“I find that I can as invisible as I need myself to be. And as for the physicality, it is your men who will be trying to match mine.”

We stood, staring at each other, as if the first to look away was the wrong one in this debate. After two minutes, he relented. His mouth was scrunched into defeat, a roll of his eyes told me that I had made it out victorious.

“First sign of trouble, I toss you overboard.” He held his hand out and I shook it tightly.

“If you’re insinuating for that to me my untimely death, I can promise than I am a more than exceptional swimmer," I smirked.

He leaned in just enough for me to have my head taken aback from the proximity, watching with daring eyes as he a shadow of a challenging look to his features.“We’ll just see about that, deary.”