Chapter 10: Of Shadows and Cabin Boys

My Dearest-,

Tintin looked at the paper he had written on, then shook his head and crumpled it up, beginning again.

Dear Captain-,

"No, that won't do," he muttered as the second paper joined the first on the floor.

My-,

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Tintin cried, tossing his pencil and paper into the air, "This is getting me nowhere!"

Snowy glanced up from his spot on the floor before laying back down.

Tintin put his head in his hands, grunting in frustration. For the past three days, he had been trying to write a letter to Captain Haddock, but without much success. Every time he tried, he failed within the first sentence, the lad never deciding what to tell the Captain first.

"I'm a reporter, for crying out loud! Writing an introduction should be a walk in the park, right Snowy?"

There was silence.

"Snowy?"

Tintin turned to look at Snowy, relieved that his canine companion was still there, even if he was giving Tintin an odd stare.

Sometimes, I swear that dog can talk, Tintin thought as he gathered the abandoned papers off the floor. No doubt he calls me a fool at least seven times a day!

As Tintin sat back at the desk again, he heard a noise to his right. He quickly shifted his attention to a sailor rushing into the radio room.

"Do you have a message?" Tintin asked, looking the wheezing man up and down.

"Knives," the sailor responded, in a gasp of breath.

Tintin blinked. "Sorry?"

"Knives, you idiot! Where are the knives?"

"What knives?"

The sailor groaned, banging his fist against the wall. "Ernie! That cheat!"

"What's Ernie got to do with anything?" Tintin questioned, eyebrows furrowing, "If you don't have a message, then, please -."

"No! You don't understand. He told me he'd leave Ming's knives in here with you!"

"Well, he hasn't." Tintin paused, "And, I still don't know what you're talking about!"

"YOU!"

Tintin and the sailor jumped as a new but familiar voice joined the commotion. In a flash, Ming caught up to the sailor, grabbing hold of his arm.

"Where are my knives?" Ming demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. "What have you done with them?!"

"What knives?" The sailor asked, feigning innocence.

"'What knives?'" Ming repeated. "'What knives?!' The knives you buffoons stole for target practice from my kitchen! Where are they?"

"Oh," the sailor said weakly, "Those knives."

Ming grabbed the sailor's ear. "Yes," he whispered. "Those knives."

"Gentlemen, please!" Tintin interrupted, finally able to break from his stupor and move from his chair, "There's no need to fight in the radio room! There's a lot of equipment in here."

Ming glared at him. "OH~! You're one to talk about messing up equipment. I seem to recall a certain incident in the kitchen with your dog! I'm still cleaning mashed potatoes off of the ceiling!"

Tintin winced, the memory now fresh in his mind as his hand gave a painful throb.

Great job, Tintin.

Ming shot him one last poisonous glare before beginning to drag the yelping sailor out by the ear.

"I'll have you mop that ceiling spotless when I'm done with you!" Ming shouted, ignoring the sailor's pleas.

Tintin couldn't bear to watch any longer, the opportunity slipping from his fingertips.

"Wait!" He cried, causing Ming to stop in his tracks, "What if I found your knives?"

The chief snorted, "Fat chance of that happening." He paused. "But, if you do... we'll be even." And with that, he dragged the poor sailor, who was shooting Tintin icy looks, out of the door.

Tintin, mind still tumbling over what he had seen, sank back into his chair.

"Well, at least I know what I'll tell Papa about first..."

Hours later, Tintin found his eyes wandering once again to the clock on his table. Just a few more minutes before his lunch break, and better yet, a chance for finding the knives.

Maybe, he reasoned, it would better his chances at getting along with the rest of the crew. Ever since the incident in the kitchen, the Karaboujan crew was avoiding Tintin and his terrier like the plague, disaster and trouble following them like a shadow.

"Who am I kidding?" Tintin asked himself aloud. "There's almost no chance of making up that fiasco."

There was a knock on the door, and Tintin turned to find Tom, his lunch replacement, grinning at him.

"Hey, Tom."

"Hey, Red. How's your morning?"

Tintin shrugged. "Alright, I guess. Strange... but alright."

"Yeah, I heard about the knives." Tom chuckled. "Ming is going off on everyone."

"What does Captain Allan say?"

Tom frowned. "He hasn't come out of his office all day."

"Oh," Tintin said. "That's odd."

Tom shrugged, entering the room and closing the door behind him. "Not really. He's just checking to see if we're still heading to Bagghar. Making sure we don't end up in the Sahara. Fun stuff like that." He took a seat on the spare chair beside Tintin.

"What about you?" Tintin asked, taking off his headset.

"I've just been making the rounds, making sure things are running smoothly... or, as smoothly as they can with Ming issuing death threats left and right."

Tom's eyes wandered up to a space above Tintin's head, a small smile breaking on his lips.

"Don't look now," Tom whispered, his eyes glittering in amusement, "But, you have a shadow."

Tintin paused and turned slowly around, following Toms bright gaze.

There at the door, a pair of dark eyes stared back.

Not a pair of eyes, Tintin realized with a start, but a pair of sunglasses. The whole porthole window was taken up by a strange face, the mouth and nose covered up by a green scarf, the frayed yellow ends peeking out from underneath the large wrap. Between the spaces the scarf and round sunglasses took up, the man sported deathly pale skin, curly and unruly dark hair framing his ghostly appearance. However, as soon as Tintin caught sight of him, the man ducked with a small sound and scurried across the deck, disappearing down the stairs and out of sight.

Blinking in surprise, Tintin looked back at Tom, who calmly donned the headset. "Who was that, Tom?"

Tom, still staring over Tintin's head after the mysterious man, chuckled, "That's Little John." He explained, looking back at Tintin's gaze, "Although, if that's his real name, we're not sure. He's never told us otherwise."

"Why?"

Tom gave the radio man a shrug, "You can say Little John is a... man of few words." There was a pause as Tom's smile slightly deflated. "He's very shy and is rarely seen without his scarf and sunglasses on." Tom scoffed, "We could be in the dying in the Sahara from heat stroke and he wouldn't dare part from them."

"Perhaps they're sentimental to him." Tintin pondered aloud, standing and gathering his spare pencils and papers.

"Maybe," Tom murmured, looking out where Little John disappeared.

"I still feel bad for him though..." Tom whispered, adjusting the headset to fit his larger skull, before turning the radio back on. "He's a crow in a flock of doves."

Tintin held his breath in anticipation.

There, sweeping the deck, was Little John.

And he wasn't much to look at.

After spending his entire lunch time searching high and low throughout the Karaboujan for Ming's knives, Tintin found him working on the open main deck, carefully mopping the wooden planks. Little John dunked the dingy mop back in the bucket, stretching with his palms pressed to the small of his back. He grunted as his back popped, rubbing the sore spot with a gloved hand, the black, silky glove rustling against his oversized sweater.

Looking at Snowy, Tintin was unsure what to do. He wanted to approach the man but, didn't want to scare him. Remembering what Tom told him, Tintin recalled that Little John was as shy as a deer, and Tintin didn't want to make the mistake of chasing him away.

Perhaps he just needs a friend... Tintin mused as he came out from his spot around the corner, his legs no longer doing his bidding. I know I do.

Praying his plan would work, Tintin took a deep breath before smiling toward the man. Little John still had his back toward Tintin, concentrated on his work.

"Hi, there! I'm Tint-."

Before the radio man could even finish his sentence, the cabin boy whirled around, the wet end of his mop colliding with Tintin's legs, sweeping them out from underneath him. The action sent Tintin sprawling on his back, grunting as his body landed heavily on the ground. Dazed, the lad looked up to see the hovering face of Little John...

His full face, to be exact.

Lurid and wide-eyed, Little John had the completion of a ghost, his ragged green scarf undone in the momentum of his sweeping attack. His mouth was formed in the shape of the letter O, a pink, raised scar on his upper lip framing his surprise. High over his head, he wielded his weapon of choice, a dripping mop, which quickly pooled into a puddle on the floor. Blinking, the man lowered his mop, staring at Tintin with a mixture of awe and surprise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Tintin apologized, pushing himself up to his feet.

Still surprised, the timid cabin boy took a step back when Tintin managed to rise to his feet, his gloved grip tightening around the mop's wooden handle. Remaining silent, the mysterious man peered at Tintin curiously from the corner of his eyes, every muscle tense under Tintin's concerned gaze.

"Are you alright? Not too shaken I hope."

Silence.

"Well... um... my name's Tintin. What's yours?"

Visibly relaxing after another moment of silence, Little John held up a gloved finger, reaching and pulling something out of his back pocket with ease. It was a pencil and notepad and Tintin watched as the graphite swirled against the paper before the man pressed it into his open hands.

They call me Little John.

In that moment, Tintin realized why Tom had called Little John a "man of few words."

Little John wasn't just extremely shy.

No.

Little John was mute.

"Little John, huh?" Tintin asked, a gentle smile on his face, "That's a nice name. What do you do on the Karaboujan?"

The man held up a finger as he scribbled across a new page.

Cabin Boy. I clean messes.

The ship swayed and Little John swayed slightly with it, turning green.

"You alright?"

Sorry. I get seasick easily. He wrote and stuck out a tongue.

Tintin nodded. "I haven't gotten my sea legs yet, either. But a good friend of mine once told me that they'll come in time." He paused, waiting for Little John to reply, but quickly remembered the situation. "I'm the new radio man," he said finally, gesturing vaguely towards the radio room.

Little John nodded once, wringing his hands nervously on the handle of his mop before pulling his scarf back over his face.

Tintin gestured towards Snowy. "This is my dog, Snowy. We've seen quite a bit together, haven't we, boy?"

Snowy yipped in agreement, tail wagging.

Without any visible expression, John lowered to the terrier's level, patting the ground in front of him. Snowy, taking this as an invitation, wasted no time running forward for a good pet, the cabin boy rubbing on his favorite spot behind his ears.

Watching the sailor closely, Tintin came to realize how young the boy was - younger than most men aboard the Karaboujan but still, somehow, older than Tintin.

"How old are you?" Tintin asked, breaking John out of his concentration, "Sorry, I've just noticed there's just not a lot of... younger -, well, I mean, people closer to my age, aboard the Karaboujan."

Straightening up, John gave another unreadable expression, scribbling down his answer on the notepad held tenderly in his hands.

I'm older than you think... John replied, cocking his head mischievously.

Tintin, chuckling, shrugged his shoulders, "Fair enough, I suppose!"

After deciphering Little John's vague directions, Tintin resumed his search, looking at his watch as he rounded the next corner.

A quarter till two... Tintin mused, stomach growling, I better find Ernie soon.

Not long after, Tintin found himself at the one place he hadn't searched: the bottom of the ship, near the hold.

Might as well check in there, Tintin told himself. Ernie was supposed to check those crates today...

As Tintin pushed open the heavy door, a silver blur sped past his head, striking the wall beside him. Slowly, Tintin turned to see one of Ming's knives- the butcher's knife, to be exact, quivering in the wall about an inch away.

"Hey, knock before you barge in! That was a good shot!"

At this moment, Tintin realized that he wasn't alone in the hold. Eyes quickly adjusting to the light, he spotted several men on the other side of the room. The one who had spoken stood at the front of the pack. He had sandy blond hair and steely gray eyes. In the flickering light, Tintin spotted a glimpse of a lightning-like scar running from the man's forehead to the bottom of his cheek. He was turning another large knife in his meaty hands, a permanent scowl etched onto his face.

"Sorry," Tintin replied cooly. "I didn't realize the hold had become a target range."

"Tintin!" came a voice from the back of the din. Tintin, stretching to look past the burly man, spotted Ernie standing nearby, a cool bottle of ginger ale in his hand. He finally made his way forward, smiling unconvincingly. "Well, I, uh... I see you've met Sharkey. Sharkey, this is Tintin, our new radio man."

At this, there were whispers from the group. Tintin suddenly felt all of his muscles tense, every fiber ready to fight.

Sharkey glared menacingly.

"What brings you down here?" Ernie asked politely.

"Ming told me to come look for you," Tintin said, eyes shifting from the large man to Ernie. "He needs his knives back."

"Does he now?" Sharkey growled.

"Yes," Tintin replied. "Yes, he does." He looked at Ernie. "Why didn't you bring them to him when he asked?"

Ernie winced. "Sorry. I got... sidetracked."

Sharkey cut in before Tintin could reply. "Don't listen to this pipsqueak. If Ming wanted them so badly, he could have come for them himself." He turned to Tintin. "As for you... you had best learn to keep your nose out of other people's business." He turned the knife over in his hands. "If you want to keep it, that is."

"I didn't come for a fight, Mr. Sharkey," Tintin said. "I came to help out a friend. Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned to grab the knife next to his head. "I'll be taking this knife." Before he could pull out the knife, he felt a gust of air above his head. The knife in Sharkey's hand had clipped the top of his quiff before embedding itself into the door. His eyes shot to the blade, then he quickly reached for the handle. A third knife whizzed through the air, painfully pinning his sleeve to the door. He cried out in surprise, the cold steel biting into his arm.

Tintin turned around, watching helplessly as Sharkey began to stalk towards him. Just as Tintin began to prepare himself for a blow, Ernie appeared between them.

"That's enough, Sharkey."

Sharkey growled and pushed Ernie aside, knocking the man to the ground. "Outta my way."

Ernie jumped back up and ran in front of Sharkey, bracing his feet to prevent being pushed over again. "I said, that's enough!"

Sharkey stopped, glaring daggers at Ernie as he shoved him back, away from Tintin.

"I'm done playing games, Sharkey. If you won't take the knives back, I will." With a grunt, Ernie managed to yank the two knives out of the wall before crouching beside Tintin.

"So, what? You're going to protect that pipsqueak now?" A voice called from the glaring men.

"Perhaps I will," Ernie retorted, hands wrapping around the knife's handle, "More than I could say for you!"

At this, Sharkey got incredibly close, his breath tainted with days old whiskey.

"You can't protect them all from everything!" Sharkey hissed, low enough for Ernie and Tintin to only hear.

"Perhaps not!" Ernie growled, working at loosening the blade, "But I know I can protect them from the likes of you!"

Sharkey, baring his teeth, laughed, "Please! Who would want to protect him? After all the pain he's caused us already!"

Sharkey, leaning closer, suddenly became all that Tintin could see. His heart leaped into his throat, and absently, his hand scrambled to get himself free.

"You'll never fit in here Radio Boy!" Sharkey whispered, "As long as I'm around, trust me, I'll make your trip aboard this ship your worst nightmare!" He chuckled, "Your rich little Papa isn't here to save you now!"

With a resounding pop, Ernie managed to unpin Tintin's sleeve from the door. Without hesitation, Tintin bolted from the spot and rushed up the stairs, ignoring Ernie's yells behind him.

Upon reaching the second flight, Tintin ducked under the steps, making himself as small as he could. He listened as Ernie raced past his hiding spot, unseen by the frantic sailor.

"Tintin! Tintin, come back! I can explain!"

Soon, the voice died, leaving Tintin, hands trembling underneath the steps of the Karaboujan. Sitting in the semi-darkness, Tintin felt something hot slide down his cheek. Tenderly, he reached up to touch his face, and, with a shock, realized what he had felt were his own tears.

And silently, he let them fall.