Ari Chapter 26, a pocahontas fanfic

A/N Ugh, I know. Y'all even remember the last time I updated? But I'm out of school in two weeks and I promise it'll get better. And the character I stole last time was Gavroche Thenardier from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.

Book of the Update: The Risk in Being Alive by Brian Hancock (So good…look it up)

Chapter 26

I wake up to the sounds of shouting and waves splashing. Ugh. I roll over onto my side, away from the porthole, and flop my pillow down over my ears, holding fast to it with my opposite hand.

"GOOD MORNIN' SUNSHINE! WAKE UP!" someone bellows near my ear, accompanied with a slap on my exposed rump. I jump up in shock and for a moment feel violated, but then just angry at him for disturbing my sleep.

It's odd; the men on this ship touch each other more than they do women: slapping each other's behinds, jumping on their backs, doing this weird handshake that's also kind of a backslap…..it's pretty weird, but I've gotten used to it for the most part. (A/N Like the way baseball players always seem to be touching each other XD)

I bring my pillow round and it hits the man square on the back of his bald head. He spins around in shock, his face red, but I just laugh along with everyone else who saw it.

"That's payback for wakin' me up, ye hear?"

He just grumbles and walks away, spitting onto the deck as he does.

Oh well. Already awake now; might as well do something before Captain wakes up and sees me down here sleeping and wasting the day away, not working.

I slide down off of my bunk, my bare feet landing with a thump on the floor. I teeter a bit as I take the few steps towards my boots. Still haven't gotten back my sea legs.

Hopping around on one foot, trying to pull my other boot on, I somehow make it across the cabin and end up on both feet near the stairs. I'm about halfway up when I hear someone call my name and spin around.

One of the guys who has a bunk a few down from me holds up a boot with a smirk on his face. "Can I have mine back now?"

I look down at my feet. One of the boots is black, and definitely much bigger than my little brown ones. I look up, sheepish. "Sorry," and take the boot off, tossing it to him.

He catches it and throws mine back with a thanks. I smile and tug on my boot, walking up the stairs finally. I think that guy's name was William? William Mason or Maser or something like that. He's probably the nicest guy on this ship though, always helping and he never complains…not out loud anyway. Who knows what he's like inside his head?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

I stop scrubbing for a moment to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, feeling it drip down my back and everywhere. Most of the guys take off their shirts when they have to swab the deck, rather face the sun that the sweat, they say. I wish I could….I made up some excuse about having fair skin and not wanting a burn, but I'm at my wit's end. I'm about ready just strip down right here, no matter what the consequences. Anything to escape the heat that this summer noonday sun brings. Ugh…my eyelashes flutter as sweat drips from my eyebrows. Gross.

I splash the rag into the bucket and leave my hand in the filthy water a bit longer than necessary, just to feel the cooling relief it brings. I yank my hand out and begin to scrub furiously before I can do something stupid, like splash the nasty water onto my face and let it run down my shirt and onto my back. I feel as if I'm being cooked, right here on this deck. Like some giant has me under a flame, roasting me.

Finally, the stupid deck's as clean as it'll ever be and I climb up the ropes to a spot where the flags provide some shelter from the sun and the heat. I make a sort of nest out of the ropes and stretch out, lounging. The wind is better up here, and a light breeze blows my short hair into my face and cools off my skin a bit.

I begin to hum a little tune, something I remember from when I was little and my mother used to sing to me. Most of the memories I have of her are singing. Mother loved music…she had a wonderful voice, and wherever she was, a song or bit of tune was sure to follow. She taught me all sorts of songs, from all sorts of places, but I've forgotten most of them now. She used to say that music was its own history; that songs told stories of times past and of faraway lands.

My humming soon turns into words to a song my mother and I used to sing when I was a child…

There was a shepherd and he, kept sheep upon a hill

And he would go each and e'ry morning look forward to drink his fill.