wolfling: I should be jailed for reviewer neglect. And possibly pants fic, but oh well.
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Chapter Six
Englehorn swirled his whisky. The next destination on the map was Calais. It just so happened that he knew a barman there who enjoyed giving old sea captains free drinks. He couldn't wait to indulge in that little perk of not being all too personable.
Three wardrobes, four dressers, and ten dining tables were being escorted for some new hotel that had been set up in what was, admittedly, a less than posh area.
He looked down at the book he had left open on the table.
'Supernatural Activity'
He couldn't believe he was stooping to this level.
With a sigh, he flicked through the pages. So many crewmembers had been complaining of seeing strange things that some investigation had to be done. It disturbed him that it hadn't started with Chef either. Before that, people saying that they had heard snatches of garbled speech, as if in another language. People claiming to have seen unrecognisable, dark skinned creatures wandering about the ship.
Recently, one man had claimed that he was cleaning the hold when he was attacked by a tiger, which had then faded away into thin air. He had demanded to be allowed to leave the Venture in the next port.
It worried and annoyed Englehorn. It worried him because of the chance that there might be something on the ship. It annoyed him that he was buying into the onboard hush and panic, and the simple fact that these things kept happening to him.
Effing Island.
The other book open on the table was a comprehensive book of diseases, and, curiously, a book about potatoes. You see, it had been chef who had helpfully suggested when she served him his dinner that when a person ate a green potato, it often resulted in the same sort of symptoms which Jimmy was currently suffering from.
She had then said 'perhaps it's some kind of possession he's going through, or something', at which point he had snatched his plate from her and stormed off up the stairs.
He glanced at the other book for a moment. The diseases were mostly obscure, and ranged from ear-maggots to how to amputate a leg infected with gangrene. Nothing about fainting, or fevers, or psychotic somnambulant shouting.
Scruffy entered the room and stood at the door nervously.
"Well?"
"Sir, he's not getting any better."
Englehorn sighed, Scruffy could only see his shoulders, clothed in white and blue stripes, the shape of a hat masking the back of the mans head.
"What have you been giving him?"
"Chef has been sending us up some herbal medicine, but aside from that we've got nothing that would help him. We've settled him; he's sleeping peacefully now. But…well. You know."
No he didn't, he didn't know, and this annoyed him greatly.
"Where is he?"
"In his quarters. Although, we've given him some extra sheets, soft ones. In pastels, won't alarm him when he wakes. Er…" Scruffy fidgeted "Chef will send dinner up in a few minutes."
"Tell her I don't want it."
"Sir-."
"That's an order. Go."
Scruffy muttered something weakly and left.
A while later, feeling hungry and walking along to the Galley, Englehorn heard a loud shout and great crashing.
He chased after the sound, until he reached the open door to Jimmy's cabin.
The boy was sitting bolt upright in bed, hair stuck with cold sweat to his head, a great fear dashing through his eyes and his hands wrenched tight into the sheets.
"It's not real! It's not real!"
"What's not real?" Scruffy was leaned over the boy in a sort of awkwardly worried way, dabbing randomly at Jimmy's forehead and only managing to panic the boy even more.
"Get off me!"
Englehorn entered sternly "Leave him alone, Scruffy. Get back to the bridge."
Scruffy left looking anxious, and Englehorn took his chair, leaning back in it. Jimmy looked at him, hands still writhing in the bed sheets, eyes still wide open and bloodshot, but somewhat calmer.
"Hello Skipper," he said in monotone.
"Hello, Jimmy."
For a moment, there was silence. Jimmy, still shaking, looking around the room with sharp turns of his head and then said very quietly "It wasn't real, was it Skipper?"
"I wouldn't know."
"But-but…you always know, Skipper."
"I'm afraid I don't this time. What was it, exactly?"
Jimmy looked at his writhing hands and smiled and laughed weakly "No I expect that it wasn't real," he smiled artificially and said, "He's dead. It wasn't real."
"Well hardly, if he's dead."
Jimmy laughed again, weakly, but still louder than before "Of course not. Old Mister Hayes. He's dead. He's dead."
Englehorn stood as the artificial beam faded from the boys face "Yes he is. But, if you ever see him again, you tell me. Now get dressed. Go for a walk."
Smiling again, Jimmy swung his legs out of bed as the Skipper left. Weakly, he called after him "Thank you, Skipper."
Englehorn heard it only vaguely, but allowed himself to smile at the comment.
