If I Were a Herald
Chapter 29
Do Virgins Taste Better
A/N (12/6/05): Another forum war, and yet more people telling me how worthless I am. Honestly, folks, I thought New College was supposed to be one big, happy, gay family. Where everyone got along. At least that was my impression the first few weeks I was here. I even have people thinking I don't have one single redeeming quality. Um… maybe that's because I don't? At least in the eyes of assholes like you. Excuse me, I meant in the eyes of jerks like you. I'm the asshole, because I'm a first year, and I'm damn proud of it! And I'm proud to be the only blessed Republican on this entire campus—or at least the only one willing to stick out her neck for the sake of her beliefs. There are others as well—I think there might be as many as five in the entire college. Did you know that we won the award for most amount of weed smoked on campus? Or something like that. But don't tell my parents. They'd yank me out of this school before you could say "nolo contendere." On another note, I'm beginning to think that the number 6 on my keyboard was never meant to be used. I've been typing a bunch of numbers (statistics from Domesday Book for a paper I have to finish tomorrow), and the sixes are really annoying. Yeah. My bitchy comments for the day. Because you know, the original version of this story was what I used to bitch about life in general and whatever was bothering me that day in particular. My chapters would start out as rants and somehow segue into the story.
Nawyn: I think the main reason things went off so well is that I had Jacoby's support. He's a good captain, and his crew respect him. But I'll definitely keep that in mind for the revised version… note to self: write a scene about the pirates being upset about having a woman as quartermaster If I punch Mortimer, he'll kill me. But I'll make you a deal; I'll stick him with a sword for you, okay? And I'll laugh as he dies. And do tell which other things you think are too easy for me! I want this story to be a success, and I'm perfectly willing to write whiny chapters where I'm struggling through something. Like… lute lessons or something. Because I really am not that good at stringed instruments.
Jerry Unipeg: Thanks. I rather like Kerowyn. If I had an annoying magical sword, I'd threaten to drop it down a well. And my oh-shoot-me-now comments definitely come from her.
Fireblade: note to self: do not do Final Strike while on board ship. Would not be healthy for Jacoby. I don't know if it's a yawl or a ketch, and I don't really know—but I got my Tempest script the other day, so prepare for Shakespeare quotes! Now, lyrics to Another Irish Drinking song: Gather 'round ye lads and lasses, set ye for a while, and hearken to me mournful tale about the Emerald Isle. Let's all raise our glasses high to friends and family gone, and lift our voices in another Irish drinking song. Consumption took me mother and me father got the pox. Me brother drank the whiskey 'til he wound up in the box. Me other brother in the troubles met with his demise. Me sister has forever closed her smiling Irish eyes. Now everybody's died, so until the tears are dry, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more. We'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light, then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again. Ken was killed in Killkenny and Claire she died in Claire. Tippen Tipperary died out in the derrier. Shannon jumped into the river Shannon back in June. Ernie fell into the urn and Tom was in the tomb. "Cleanliness is godliness," me uncle Pat would sing. He broke his neck a-slipping on a bar of Irish Spring. O'Grady he was eighty, though his bride was just a pup. He died upon the honeymoon when she got his Irish up. Now everybody's died, so until the tears are dry, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more. We'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light, then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again. Joe Murphy fought with Reilly near the cliffs of old Doneen. He took out his shillelagh and he stabbed him in the spleen. Crazy Uncle Mike believed he was a leprechaun. In fact he's just a leper, and his arms and legs are gone. When Timmy Johnson broke his neck, it was a cryin' shame. He wasn't really Irish, but he went to Notre Dame. MacNamara crossed the street and by a bus was hit, but he was just a Scotsman, so nobody give a shit. Now everybody's died, so until the tears are dry, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more. We'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light, then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again. Me drunken Uncle Brendan tried to drive home from the bar. The road rose up to meet him when he fell out of his car. Irony was what befell me Great Grand-Uncle Sam. He choked upon the very last potato in the land. Conor lived in Ulster town, he used to smuggle arms until the British killed him and cut off his lucky charms. And dear old Father Flanagan, who left the Lord's employ drunk on sacramental wine, beneath the altar boy. Now everybody's died, so until the tears are dry, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more. We'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light, then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again. Someday soon I'll leave this world of pain and toil and sin. The Lord will take me by the hand to join all of me kin. Me only wish is when the Savior comes for me and you, he kills the cast of Riverdance, and Michael Flatley, too. Now everybody's died, so until the tears are dry, we'll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we'll drink some more. We'll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light, then we'll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again. If you'd like, I can send you the song. I still have your email somewhere….
Tempeste-Silere: That's my next project, then. Stormwind story. Tayledras version. I already have a Stormwind story—I just like the name—but it's PotC, not Misty, so no Tayledras.
Jay: Thank you for your comments. Even though half of them were at my suggestion. And it stripped my little heart-thingy on my profile. Yes, the Goa'uld and you-will-suffer-greatly-for-your-insolence. I liked that essay. It was funny. All Goa'uld should go screw themselves with a deli slicer. No doubt I-will-suffer-greatly-for-my-insolence. And you think I have redeeming qualities, don't you? You must; you're going out with me. And my snake eats both bandits and Sun-Priests.
Dark Angel Lytha: Yay! You're back! And I made you laugh. Double yay! I sympathize with you on the little brother issue. Little brothers were made to annoy older siblings. Should have more updates soon. I've (mostly) finished the research for the paper, now I just have to do statistical analysis… after that I'll be away for about a day and a half, then I'll be home. So I should (hopefully) update on Saturday. And I think I replied to your last review… not sure though. If you didn't get the reply, tell me. If you did get it, tell me that.
"Sing us 'The Young Lassie from Notterdam,'" Martin requested. I shook my head, not recognizing the name.
"Nay," Jacoby said. "She's a lady, don't ask 'er to sing such a bawdy tune."
At the word "bawdy," my ears pricked up. "Oh, do tell. I don't know the song, but I'm game to learn."
"It's really not very appropriate—" Kent began, but I cut him off.
"Nonsense. I know plenty o' bawdy songs. Why, I'll sing one for ye. Take up the sheets, me hearties. Water the deck with brine. Bend to the oars, ye lousy whores; none is bigger than mine."
After hearing that song, both Jacoby and Kent agreed that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if I were to learn the tune Martin had asked me to sing. There were requests for more bawdy songs, which I didn't know, because one just didn't learn the bawdier tunes at Bardic Collegium. I apologized for my lack of knowledge, and offered to make up for it by singing songs I did know.
"This is an amusin' little tune. Perhaps not as bawdy as ye'd like, but I 'ope it'll do. It's called 'Do Virgins Taste Better.'"
I stared into Jacoby's eyes as I sang the chorus. My Wild Talent came out in the music, in the questioning. More a joke than anything else, but hey, Lyrna was with me on this."Do virgins taste better than those who are not/Are they saltier, sweeter, more juicy, or what/Do you savor them slowly? Gulp them down on the spot/Do virgins taste better than those who are not?"
:Finally, you're at least flirting with him. But you didn't have to do it in front of the whole crew.:
A slow grin spread over his face. "Depends on the virgin, don't it boys," he said with a hearty laugh at the end of the song.
"We're right good at makin' sure there's no virgins at all," Yeller added.
I uncurled myself from my position on our makeshift stage. Catlike I stretched, to the obvious appreciation of the sailors. I preened under their attention.
:They're pirates, and you're the only human female in sight. Oh, and you just sang some very suggestive songs. Of course they're going to look at you like that.:
:Oh, shut up, horse. This is my mission, not yours. I'm the one who has to catch Mortimer.:
:That doesn't involve putting on a show for the crew.:
:Like hell it doesn't.:
:Save your shows for the captain. Now there's a man who can appreciate them.:
:Would you stow the matchmaking: I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
:Just seduce him and get it over with. You know you love him.:
:What's gotten into you? I do not love him! It's a silly crush, because he happens to have a body to rival Johnny Depp.:
Lyrna laughed in my head. Damn secret-keeping Companions. She still knows something I don't. It wasn't just that Shadow-Lover dream. She knows something.
In an attempt to make them forget about the flirtation and actually think, at least a little bit, I took another tack. "I've got a good friend who's got a good life. He's got two pretty children and a real nice wife, yet he never seems quite satisfied. Well I said, 'I know what's on your mind, but you better think about it 'fore you cross that line. The grass ain't always greener on the other side.' Then what? Whatcha gonna do when the new wears off and the old shines through? And it ain't really love, and it ain't really lust; you ain't anybody anyone's gonna trust. Then what? Where you gonna turn when you can't turn back for the bridges you burned? And fate can't wait to kick you in the butt; then what?"
I was tiring rapidly. No longer feeling up to playing a lively jig, I started a slow Jimmy Buffett song. "Nautical wheelers who call themselves sailors play fiddle tunes under the stars. Petticoats rustle, working shoes scuffle, hustle on down to the bars. Where the jukebox is blasting and the liquor is flowing an occasional bottle of wine. That's 'cause everyone here is just more than content to be living and dying in three-quarter time. And it's dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers. Take me to stars that you know. Come on and dance with me, dance with me, nautical wheelers. I want so badly to go."
Rather exhausted, I sought out my bed. Which was actually now Jacoby's bed, while Jacoby slept on the floor. I'd drawn the line at sleeping in the same bed as him, and had threatened to sleep on the floor myself—well, offered is more like it. It's not like I hadn't slept on worse.
As I lay there in bed, I stared at the ceiling, letting the gentle swells lull me into a sense of security. As I was wont to do at such times, I pondered various things, such as the meaning of life, the transience of time, why Companions were created in the first place, why there were so many of them, what I was going to do about Lyrna and Jacoby (who seemed to be in collusion), and how on Velgarth I was going to beat Mortimer.
:Final Strike is a bad idea: Lyrna told me when I considered that option for the umpteenth time. :Just don't do it, unless there's no other way. The energy involved would destroy the entire ship, not just you and Mortimer.:
:How about poison: I asked hopefully. :I could get Cook to poison his food.:
:You could, if Cook were of a mind to cooperate.:
:Okay, so scratch that idea. Cook still doesn't like me because I'm a woman. What else:
:You could just stick him with your sword.:
:Oh, yeah, great idea: I thought sarcastically. :Hey, Mortimer, could you hold still for a moment while I slide this large piece of metal into your abdomen:
:You're going to have to face him eventually. Remember, the longer you wait, the more chance that someone else will die.:
Everyone knows someone we'd be better off without. But best not mention names, for we don't know who's about. But why commit a murder, and risk the fires of hell, when black widows in the privy can do it just as well? Now poison's good, and daggers, and arrows in the back, and if you're really desperate, you can try a front attack. But are they really worthy of the risk of being caught when black widows in the privy need not be bribed or bought? So if there's one of whom you wish most simply to be rid, just wait 'til dark and point the way to where the widows hid. And say to them, "I think you'll find that this one is the best," and black widows in the privy will take care of the rest.
A/N (12/7/05): I'm serious about the Christmas chapter. Slash Sovvan. Slash it's after midnight and I have a seven page paper due tomorrow (as in thirty-six hours from now), and I'm procrastinating on writing it. But yeah. Christmas suggestions. Any song requests? And anyone know any good Halloween songs? How about pranks? Because I'm going to need those for Fairy Night. Unfortunately I can't use silly string or hair spray, like I did in real life, because I already used those up in our Finally Friday prank. I love you guys! Big group hug! Hugs and kisses everyone, love and laughter, warm fuzzy feelings all around, and free cyber-rum! Yeah. I should really go to bed. And at the moment this chapter is mostly my author's notes. Note to self-slash-note to Jay: remind me in a review that I need to go back and tell how Cook is very superstitious and on general principles feels opposed to having a woman on board.