My sanity is slipping.
It's been seven days since I arrived, I think. It's hard to properly keep track in an environment like this, when every day follows a routine that's painfully monotonous. At dawn, the hammocks below deck are stowed for the day and the crew set about their various tasks of scrubbing above and below deck, the ladders and the hatches until Drinian determines it adequate. Breakfast consists of biscuits and sardines, though on Saturday's we're treated to salted pork, and occasionally someone brings out a bottle of wine to begin the day. When that happens, I've found it to be a sign of a great day which eventually turns sour; I partake when included and drink as much as I can get away with, grateful for its light buzz to numb my panicked thoughts, but after lunch the lurching of the ship catches up with my weakened stomach and I end up bent over a railing returning the sardines to their rightful home. Thankfully, the crew chalk it up to a lack of sea legs (now only partly true. I'm getting there.) and have yet to deny me my one saving grace in the mornings.
Following breakfast, a select few carry out further maintenance while the rest dissolve into their smaller groups and socialise. Some mend clothes, other spar, but mainly they talk, laugh, shout and sing shanties. In my case, I dedicate my morning to scanning the horizon and trying to will a piece of land into existence so we can dock or finding a convenient barrel to hide behind so I can observe the others.
Tavros, the minotaur, no longer shocks me merely with his presence and, for the most part, neither does the fact he's the sweetest member on board. Though not able to help cook – his exceptional strength combined with his hooved hands making it an impossible task, despite his determination – he's the most complimentary about the food and is always the first to help clean afterwards. From what I've seen, there's not a single member who dislikes him in the slightest way, and he makes a point of communicating with everyone and sustaining morale on the occasion where we're lacking. It sounds strange, having been here for such a short time, but I feel my mornings back home when I return will always be incomplete without his unfailingly cheerful greeting.
Caspian, once he's finished listening to reports from Drinian and the other high-ranking lieutenants, emerges from his office to have lunch with the crew, followed by overseeing the rowers changing shift, and stays on deck talking and sparring until dinner. It's hard to remember he's considered a king here, wherever here is. Despite his clothes differing from the uniform everyone else (including myself) wears, his regal posture and the broadsword that puts our cutlass's to shame slung at his hip, those features seem to melt away when he's in conversation. The ease with which he jokes with the crew is something I never expected from a king, not those in my childhood storybooks, at least. Always so stoic and stately, like Drinian, and unswervingly old. Caspian seems to defy everything I thought a king would be, except his humble offering of his private cabin to me on my first day here. When I saw the hammocks strung from the rafters in columns three high, where he had moved to for the nights, I was infinitely grateful for it.
Much of the crew stayed clear of me, to which I felt a mix of gratitude and disappointment. It was easier to observe at a distance, though I think that may have been one of their reasons for keeping far – I was always watching. A faint part of me recognised how weird it must seem, a stranger washed up in the deep sea claiming to be from another land, spending all her time observing without comment, but I was fascinated with this world of fauns and minotaurs and even a giant talking mouse called Reepicheep, who sang and talked more than the rest and always bowed the deepest. It never felt good to be alone, though. On the occasion that I did interact with others, they were unfailingly polite, which made me feel guilty about being so odd. Thankfully I had –
"Get out from behind the crate and spar me, Blackwill!" -Marco. He appeared above me, leaning the top half of his body on the aforementioned crate and grinning down at me. I startled and looked away from the gap between boxes I used to spy and up at him.
Marco Diesmich, second son to an esteemed blacksmith, was the youngest member on board at only 19. Apparently, his father had made all the blades on board the Dawn Treader, and he joked that he was here to oversee their care, but I had learnt from Caspian that he was currently in disagreement with his father about his future and offered his service to evade him. Caspian had seen his determination and desperation and agreed, believing that the fresh air and free time would help him think.
"We've only just had lunch, can't it wait?" I whine. I was too busy wallowing in despair to focus on trying not to get sliced open while being watched by mythical creatures. The pressure was intense, especially when I consider my shoddy footwork and our previous match that resulted in me trying to pry my cutlass from the mast, only for Tavros to lift it out with a swift pull. The problem, however, was that I was still holding on to the damn sword. My legs dangled above the deck as he brandished it in the air, my hands trapped underneath his around the hilt. He soon noticed and apologised, and I did my best to hide my embarrassment as I went to Marco giggling by the railing, giving him a swift elbow to the gut.
He frowned and leaned over the crate to tug on my arm, cheering when I reluctantly stood up, accepting the cutlass he had holstered at his hip. If I'm being honest, Marco was hard to say no to. What with his boyishly rounded face, untameable black curls and dimples, he was like a little brother I wanted to protect, and his seemingly infinite energy always managed to infect me. I was lucky to have him here, it was easier to connect with somebody my own age rather than men of 30 years or more, many of which had wives and children back home. That and we were almost the exact same size, so his clothes fit me well.
We took up our places opposite each other on the deck, circling slowly as the tension built. I knew Marco was doing it for my benefit, he was always ready to lunge right in but it was the moments before, the anticipation for that first clang of metal and the vibrations it sends down my arm, that got me ready for a fight. I had grown to love the way the stress melted from me as I assumed position, my limbs loose and ready to dance. I let a slow grin take over my face, to which Marco returned, and then, he lunged.
I brace myself with one foot in front of the other and parry his attack, forcing him back and allowing me to shift into a feint, raising my sword as if to swing towards his face as he lunges again to deflect, only to allow me to attack with a downward swing, using gravity as my ally. He retaliates with a circle parry, curving his tip of his blade against mine to deflect and forcing us apart. We circle again and I can feel my body thrumming with adrenaline, waiting for the next move so I can let my limbs take over and guide me back into this dangerously elegant dance. He feints left and I stumble, catching myself in a lunge and only just managing to parry his beat attack. He swings his blade against mine continuously until rapid-fire clangs of metal against metal is the only sound left audible, the pressure in my arm as I'm forced to keep slicing upwards steadily increasing, throwing off my aim. He waits until my arm is swung out wide before he performs a regular attack, bringing his blade to my neck so that I can only deflect the tip. Immediately he lets go of all force, letting my blade slide against his and down to my side as he does the same.
He swings an arm around my shoulder. "Better luck next time, kid!" He calls, skipping off to a group of seamen who watched the match.
"I'm older than you, you little-" I cut off abruptly when I see Caspian waiting by the railing, holding out a cup of water. I accept it and thank him, leaning against the wall and regaining my breath.
"You're getting better. In another week I think you could beat him."
"You'll need to teach me some new techniques, I think he caught on to me using gravity to my advantage." He nods in agreement. Despite alternating between training and instructional spars with Marco on deck, Caspian had taken to teaching me in his quarters when I arrived. "I promise you I will you get you home, but I would sleep easier if you could wield a sword lest we meet danger." He said the morning after I arrived. When he first handed me a sword, I was sceptical. The blade was as long as my arm with a wickedly sharp curve, but I couldn't deny the excitement I had felt too, the feeling that I had a chance at becoming like the heroines I read in stories as a child.
"It would be my pleasure." He responds smoothly. "How have you been?" I shrug and look out across the boundless sea.
"I still miss home. All this… there's not one thing the same. It's still taking time to adjust." Except the feeling of being surrounded from all angles by people I can't get away from, but I don't include that.
"If you were home, what would you be doing?" He says, mimicking my pose with elbows on the railing, looking down into the ocean.
"Visiting a gallery maybe," I feel a pang in my chest at the thought of Dulwich. The white linoleum tiles, gilded golden frames, and an atmosphere so cosy it wrapped around you like a fluffy blanket. I wonder if the receptionist spared a thought for my absence this week; that gallery has plagued me with the only homesickness I'd ever experienced, but would anyone notice? I chase the thought from my head. "or painting."
"You're an artist?" He says, with what I believe to be genuine interest.
"There's nothing I love more. I've been doing it for 12 years." He's quiet for a while. I turn to him, but he's already looking at me.
"I'm sorry we don't have the equipment here."
"It's okay, frustrating sometimes though. There're so many things I'd love to sketch here. People, too." My fingers itch for a pencil as my eyes trace over my favoured areas, the things I would draw first. The bowsprit. The crows nest. Reepicheep. Finally, Caspian. He leans in conspicuously.
"I heard Tavros was a model in his youth. I'm sure he'd volunteer for you." We grin, turning to where he's speaking with Drinian. At that moment he decides to flex a hairy arm, making us laugh. I notice that even the stoic captain cracks a smile too.
We stay by the railing in a comfortable silence, appreciating the simple sounds of the water lapping up the sides of the boat and the blurred murmurings of the crew. I turn to view his profile, admiring the straight line of his nose, the hair curling over his shoulders and how the gradually thickening stubble defines his jaw. "How old are you?" He startles from the break in the silence and looks to me, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Where's this coming from?" He asks.
"I can't figure it out. You look young, but isn't there some kind of law about how old a king should be?" Pretending I pay attention to laws and history seems like a smarter route than mentioning that all the (fictional) kings I know of are old and grey.
"Not if you're the only royal left alive." A crease forms between his eyebrows. I wince, cursing my lack of tact.
"O-oh. I'm sorry."
"Not to worry. I'm 20." He quickly covers any pain or sorrow up with a smile.
"Good to know." I nod slowly. Curious how the highest-ranking person on board is one year off from also being the youngest.
"And you?"
"The same." I can't stop the smile that twitches my lips upwards. "Do you have a queen?" I blurt out. Subtle, I chastise myself.
"I'm afraid not, I rule alone. Have you any wisdom to share in the art of courting?" Other than the time Bobby Price tried to kiss me when we were fourteen and I ran into a wall to get away from him? I decide not to share that story. Sometimes I think I can still hear the thunk of my forehead against the plaster, feel an echo of the pain that immediately blossomed in the seconds before I passed out. He watches me carefully.
"Unfortunately, no. Though I think Drinian would look dashing in a wedding gown." I raise my eyebrows and turn to the captain. Even if he were dressed in a flouncy frock, I doubt anyone would think to cross him still. His presence is formidable even beside Tavros. Caspian laughs and together we watch as he strides across the deck barking orders to adjust the mast.
"I should help." He says regretfully. With a soft smile and a swift nod, he leaves to assist one of the crew with tightening the knots attached to the ratlines.
With no other distraction available, I think back to Dulwich. I'd give anything to be back there again, to feel my thoughts numb as I overwhelm my senses with colours and scenes and textures. I try to think of a piece other than the ship that I can recall with the same clarity, but it's impossible. Always, without fail, my mind drifts back to the ship. A nagging voice tells me there was a reason I was drawn to it, something far stronger than mere appreciation. I could have a purpose here, but what? Amongst sailors, fighters, kings and fauns – where do I fit in?
Yesterday morning creeps back into mind. I woke at sunrise and waited for Caspian to arrive for our sword fight session by the window. As I studied the waves rolling forward, and the occasional water nymph leaping from them like a dolphin, I felt a strange sense of belonging. The ebb and flow of the sea and the distant creaking from those on deck filled me with warm comfort, and I itched to go out and take my first inhale of the crisp, clean air for the day. My mind was clear from thoughts of England, but when I caught the sunlight glinting off my home keys on the table, miraculously not lost when I almost drowned, I was uneased. In that moment, London felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, fracturing the near complete picture as it forced itself in. Or maybe… Maybe I was the incorrect piece. There was a knock on the door, and I shook those thoughts away to greet Caspian. Every time the unease snuck back in, I thought of Dulwich and the comfort it brought me and ignored how even then the reassurance was linked to the Dawn Treader.
Afternoon hours pass by lazily as I try to list everything I like about England and everything I dislike about being here, forcing myself to remember which one my real home is. I try not to worry about how it's becoming harder to do as time goes on.
Some of the crew are passing around a bottle of rum, singing a shanty about a dragon and a dryad, when Marco joins me in silently appreciating the view. "How long do you think this journey will be?" I ask.
"A few months at least. We thought we'd be able to see the first Lone Island by now." He responds, untroubled at the thought of spending months on a piece of floating wood, rarely seeing anything but an endless expanse of blue. I nod and try not to let my panic consume me. It hits me then, sudden and unwelcome, that I have no idea what this journey is for. I never thought to ask and rarely dwelled on passing conversations when the crew spoke of their mission. This wasn't just for rest and relaxation, I know that much.
"Excuse me." I say, scanning the deck for Caspian. When I don't find him, I head to what I've come to see as his office, the semi-circular room I was taken to when I first arrived. I hear voices inside and consider leaving it for another time, but my worry has consumed my head all too quickly. I can't walk away from an answer. I knock and am greeted with Drinian's permanent scowl, with Caspian in view on the bench behind. "Sorry to interrupt, I was wondering if I could have a word with Caspian?" I ask timidly. He turns to the man in question.
"Inform the men. We can discuss details later." He addresses to Drinian, who nods and turns to leave. He stops by me, hissing in my ear.
"It's King Caspian." I say nothing, side-stepping away from the door so he can close it behind him.
"What did he say?"
"A mere reminder that I should be calling you King." I wave my hand flippantly.
"Why don't you?" He asks, but without scorn. It sounds like mere curiosity.
"You're not my King. England hasn't had a king ruling us for years." He gestures to the bench hugging the far wall, inviting me to sit.
"Very well. So you know, I don't mind what you call me."
"Alright, you old pillock." I smirk, and he laughs.
"Narnians don't share whatever that is, so I'll assume it was a delightful compliment and move on. Are you well?" I'm grateful that between all the fantasy lands I could have travelled to, I ended up with one that has a king capable of taking a joke.
"Yes, but I was wondering where exactly it is we're going. Not that the journey hasn't been fun, but I don't want to be gone from home too long." If I am, I might not want to go back. He stands up, showing me to the wall beside the door which has been decorated with sketched portraits of seven old, sophisticated looking men.
"We're travelling in search of seven Lords who were once closely employed to my father. They were said to have fled Narnia when my uncle rose to power and never returned."
"So they should be on these islands we're travelling to?" He then leads me to a large map of the land spread across a table.
"With any luck, yes. Before you arrived, we had already been at sea for a month. We've searched the seven isles," he points to a cluster of small shapes to the right of an overwhelmingly large landmass labelled Narnia, "But learnt little. The Lone Islands are our last chance at finding somebody who might know where they are." His hand travels south along the map, brushing three ink dots labelled Felimath, Doorn and Adra. His eyes are set with fierce determination, and a part of me finds that I want to stick around to see him succeed. These men must be the only connection he has to his father, and if I had a similar tether from which I could learn from, I know I'd stop at nothing to find it.
"Will you take them back to Narnia with you?"
"If they wish to join me, yes. I'd be honoured to have my fathers' men in my council." I rest my hand on his shoulder.
"You'll find them. I'm sure of it." He lays his hand on mine and squeezes quickly in thanks.
At some point, we end up back on the bench as Caspian details their travels through the seven isles. From Redhaven, with bread rolls so sweet it felt like tasting summer itself, Brenn and their festival to celebrate good health, lining the streets with flowers crafted from ribbon and glass (he shows me a purple crocus flower made of corella glass gifted to him by a vendor, the sunlight arcs from the petals to scatter lilac rays through the room and I can't imagine anything more beautiful) and finally to Muil, home to fire-breathers and imposingly strong hunters who claim to be the siblings of white wolves. When the sun begins to set, there's a knock at the door. Drinian enters a second later without invitation, which I suppose as captain he doesn't need, and says its time for dinner.
"Right… Right, of course." Caspian responds, his mind split between memories of Muil and the present. He stands, offering me a hand as we leave the room. I murmur thanks to Drinian for holding the door open but stop part way down the corridor when I hear no footsteps. Drinian's hand is on Caspian's arm, stopping him from going farther. "Go ahead, we'll be there shortly." He says, with a smile that looks forced. I turn the corner and pretend to keep walking for a while as I crouch and listen in, waiting for them to think they're alone.
"Do not get attached, your majesty. This won't end well." Drinian says sympathetically.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Caspian's voice is drawn tight, a hidden warning. I hurry to leave when I hear their footsteps.
The following week passes in a blur, as if each day was a blot of paint smudged together by a careless hand. My mornings, once used solely for improving my sword fighting ability, had now developed into long hours discussing Narnia and its many curious inhabitants with Caspian, who I discovered to be a marvellous story teller. I began speaking to the crew more, asking about their home and their travels, drinking in each tale as if it would be my last.
Through it all, I avoided talk of London. And when I drifted to sleep each night, I pictured myself in one of the stories I had heard during the day. Dancing with dryads in the moonlight to a faun's flute, riding alongside centaurs in the Battle at Aslan's How, and participating in the royal court with Caspian and the Kings and Queens of Old. I dreamt of Narnia, aching to visit and explore the land, but always woke with the intention of stopping. England is my home, I reminded myself each morning. Come supper, the thought was far gone, though the guilt when I remembered never lessened.
Approximately two weeks after I arrived, everything changed.
It was midday. I was learning how to tie a bowline knot on deck, the smell of stew minutes away from being completed wafting up through the hatch and distracting me, when the lookout started yelling. Three men, including Caspian, dove off the boat in graceful arcs while those still on board lowered a plank of wood over the side. I recognised it from when I was brought on board, and soon enough there was Caspian supporting a girl onto the deck. More sailors helped two more soaked strays, providing them with towels and greetings. The crowd is thick, and through it I can only grasp glimpses of what's happening. Caspian steps above the crowd, announcing to those gathered.
"Crew! Behold our castaways, Edmund the Just and Lucy the Valiant. High King and Queen of Narnia."
