Poseidon's Revenge

No place for a woman on a ship.

Bad luck, she is. Nothing good will come of having her here.

Send her back to the whore house you found her in, cap’n.

Their words swirled in her mind. Once they had stung as sharp as their blades and it had been all she could do to keep her head aloft and ignore their jeering and outright hostility.

More than one of the sailors had actively tried to block her from joining the ship, The Poseidon’s Revenge. Her clothes had been thrown overboard and she had been forced to fish them from the harbour, rushing as the gangplank was pulled up while she was still ashore.

Only the captain had smiled at her fondly, told her she reminded her of his granddaughter and promised her safe passage through to Central America. He allocated her a large room to accommodate her equipment and a desk to write her findings. Every night she charted the stars, every day she watched the waves and recorded her observations.

Then came the storm.

All the sailor’s words rushed at her like the waves battering the boat. Nobody stopped to spit them at her anew but they didn’t have to. One man roughly marched her to her room along corridors that rocked and swayed dangerously beneath her feet. The lock clicked behind her and she was left to a view from the porthole window, watching as angry dark water smashed her window then receded to prepare for another bout.

As she sat and shivered, drenched from the storm and in no mood to dry herself off when the men were risking their lives above deck, she wondered if this had been a terrible idea. Wondered if there was a grain of truth to their fears of having a woman join their crew.

Had she angered Poseidon by daring to trespass in his waters?

The question was answered the very next morning. The sky lightened and the ocean was calm and sleepy, winking golden in the sunlight as if apologising for last night’s outburst.

Morning had come but nobody approached her chamber. For hours she sat staring at the door, her clothes now dry but crusty with sea salt. Her stomach rumbled and her tongue darted over her lips in thirst but still nobody came. She took to pressing her ear to the wooden door, straining to hear footsteps that never came. She knocked, she called but nobody heard her.

Darkness fell. The temperature dropped and the boat rocked but the waves were merely playful slaps. Nothing to worry about.

She was starving by now. There had been a heel of bread she had taken from the previous day’s supper, having intended to read late into last night and keep the bread as a snack. There was half a cup of water too, a little stagnant but it was all she had. Already her throat was painfully sore, her lips cracked and dry.

She tried the door again but it was locked tight still. Banging her fists against the wooden panel she screamed as loudly as her sore throat would allow.

With a sigh she slid to the floor, pressing her back to the door and staring out of the small porthole. The sky was ablaze, bright blue and cloudless. Midday. Probably. Her mind was getting hazy and she had no instrument to tell the time upon her person. Somewhere in the confusion her pocketwatch had slipped from her pocket.

What did it matter? She would only be able to tick down the seconds remaining of her life. She had resigned herself to the conclusion that the crew had been killed in the storm. Swept to sea or rotting on deck, what did it matter? Dead was dead.

If there was no way for her to open the door then she was going to starve or dehydrate. How long did that take? No more than a couple of days, she was sure. And it had already been a day and a half. Not long now before she would start to hallucinate.

Her head banged against the door as she slid sideways.

“Oww,” she said aloud.

Then fell back into her daydream. What would she hallucinate? Her mother, perhaps, five years gone. Her sister, who had snubbed her for her career choice.

Apparently, her hallucination would come in the form of a stranger.

“Is there someone down here?” called a voice. Male. Older. Half terrified.

She blinked a few times then chuckled. Of all the things to hallucinate.

“Hello?” the voice called again.

Oh well, may as well play along. “Hello?” she called back.

A few seconds later stumpy footsteps stumbled her way. “It’s the woman,” the man said, his voice gaining a hard edge. “What are you doing down here?”

“My name is Martha, not woman.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“I was locked in. I did yell. Many times.”

There was a grumble through the door. “Been unconscious. Just woke up. Thought I was alone. If you’re the only company I wish I bloody were alone.”

Charming hallucination. Martha laughed. “You’ll be alone soon enough. I don’t have the key so unless I get some fresh water soon, your precious ship will be women-free once more and you can enjoy your solitude.”

There was a pause and if Martha held her breath and was perfectly still she was sure she could hear the man groaning softly.

“Not right to let you die. Now I know you’re in there.”

“How very kind of you.”

“Water you need, right?”

“Something to eat would be nice too. I’m rather hungry.”

“Water. Food. Stay there.”

Martha didn’t bother responding although she did allow herself an eye roll. For a few minutes she stared out of the porthole at the unchanging sky and wondered if she had dreamed the whole encounter. The rational side of her brain reasoned that a hallucination would centre on food and water as they were her greatest needs, so she had dreamed up a sole survivor who would get her what she needed.

“But surely if I’m dreaming then I’d imagine someone a bit nicer?” she asked the sky. The nimbus puffs offered no explanation.

Uneven clomping broke her from her musings. There was a rattle of metal and then a key was shoved into the lock and turned.

“You have my key?”

“I have all the keys, woman,” he grumbled.

She stood and brushed off her skirt, trying to make herself look presentable despite her incarceration.

The door swung open to reveal a granrled older man with a brown leather eyepatch and one leg missing below the knee, a knobbly stump of wood accounting for his mismatched footsteps. His shirt was damp with salt water and his shirt (possibly once white?) was filthy grey and blotted red on the neck on the left side. There his grey hair was matted with dark blood.

“You hit your head?”

“Told you I was unconscious. Wasn’t bloody sleeping, was I?” He grunted and moved stiffly to the bedside table where he set a jug of water and a plate piled high with meats, cheese, bread and fruit. “Might as well eat like kings, nobody else here going to enjoy this shit.”

Martha sat on her bed and immediately poured water into her empty cup. She drank it greedily then refilled it and set it down, picking up a banana to peel. “Are they…dead? The crew? The captain?”

The man scratched his head and his fingers came away bloody. He wiped them on his shirt. “Aye. All dead. Most swept away, died at sea. A few lingering for the flies. When I can see a bit straighter I’ll give ‘em a proper send off.”

She nodded in agreement, working on eating the banana as fast as possible as her stomach sang to her gratefully. But then she gave pause. “Your vision is impaired?”

“What? My sight, girlie, my sight is swimming like the fishes. Headache to make the baby Jesus cry in his cradle.”

“Would you like me to take a look? I’ve had medical training.”

“No. Stay where you are, sea witch, I’ll not have you making things worse. You’ve done enough already. This should do you for now, I’ll bring more tonight.”

He stepped out of the room and started to close the door.

“Wait!”

He paused.

“Could you…would you be so kind to…”

“Spit it out, woman.”

“My…my chamber pot.”

“Oh.” He glanced to the item in question and heaved a sigh.

But he collected it and a few seconds later a new one from another room was tossed inside. Then the door slammed shut and the lock was turned again.

That night the routine repeated. The old man brought her fresh food and water and replaced her chamber pot but refused to stay longer than necessary. She managed to wheedle out of him two things only: his name was Peter and he had been a general handyman on the ship.

For three days they passed in this way but as time went on Martha began to notice a decline in Peter. He would sometimes choose incorrect words, the times he would visit would vary and once he forgot her entirely. More and more he seemed to lean on his real leg, the wooden one almost dragging behind him.

Every time he attended to her he would complain of a blinding headache. Soon this became an aversion to light. Then she noticed he was losing weight and he snapped that it was none of her business but he was vomiting like a drunkard.

One night Martha lay awake in her bed and considered the symptoms. Peter had a concussion, she was sure, and potentially an infection to the head wound. She hadn’t been able to get close enough to check.

She was determined to help, though, however much the old man grumbled at her. She wasn’t happy about accepting his help either; her only companion being a woman-hater who kept her locked away and brought her food like she was a caged animal! And despite lack of options, refused even to engage in companionship and conversation.

Oh, how she wished he really had been a hallucination!

But he was real, that much was clear. Now that her mind had regained its sharpness she was certain that they were in a sticky predicament, and that Peter’s condition was worsening. And that somehow she had to insist he accept help.

The next morning she dressed in her least-filthy dress; an ankle-length powder-blue affair. She brushed her hair and pinned it up, then sat on her bed and awaited breakfast.

Time ticked past. She still had no pocket watch but her back grew stiff s she waited. Fear began to run through her veins and she wondered if she had left this too late. Was he already dead? Had he succumbed to his wounds and was lying among the dead on deck, a meal now for birds of prey?

After what felt like a lifetime the sluggish mis-matched footsteps echoed down the hall. They paused briefly and she heard Peter sigh heavily, then resume. When he opened the door he was out of breath and his usual ruddy complexion was ashen.

“Fruit’s going off. Bread’s mouldy,” he said, tossing the plate onto the bedside table without grace.

He turned to pick up the chamber pot and leave when Martha stood.

“Peter, you can’t keep me locked in here forever.”

“The hell I can’t, woman,” he growled, suddenly more energetic. “You stay under lock and key until we dock. Then I’ll hand you over to the police to be hanged for your crimes.”

"A tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Martha asked.

“You murdered the crew, woman,” he hissed, then grunted and raised a gnarled hand to his head. He swayed and collapsed against the wall.

Martha reached out to steady him. “Careful, I think you need to lie down.”

“Away from me, woman!” he barked, waving her off. “I just need to get away from your black magic.”

She huffed a sigh. “I have no magic. But I know how to clean and dress a wound. So if you’d let me-”

“I said no!” And that was final.

Peter slammed the door but when the key slid into the lock Martha rushed to bang on the door.

“Please. If you won’t accept my help then fine, go ahead and die in a corner for all I care. But you’ll be killing me too if I’m locked up in here with no food or water again.”

He seemed to consider this. Martha held her breath, fear gnawing at her insides as she doubted he would care if she rotted in this room.

But the key finally slid from the lock and dropped with a noisy metallic clank to the floor.

Peter grunted again, then his lopsided shuffle echoed down the corridor.

She was free. Once she was sure he had gone she tested the knob and her heart skipped in delight when the door pushed open. Cautiously she peeked out, then once she was sure Peter had truly gone she stepped into the corridor.

Oh how wonderful to see something other than the four walls of her room! The ship wasn’t pretty, too much wood, not enough decoration. But to be able to walk up and down the corridor, then up a set of wooden steps to the deck was glorious. Her legs felt stiff from inactivity and she was glad to give them a good stretch.

Out on deck the sea was calm and gulls called to one another in the distance. The sun was warm on her skin and the air was damp with sea spray. The wind ruffled her hair and she made her way to the prow of the boat, looking out into the dark waters below.

When the wind began to chill her hands she turned and almost jumped when she saw Peter sitting slumped at the helm.

For a long moment she watched him. The wind whipped his straggly grey hair around his pale head but he did not move. He looked drunk or asleep, hunched over the massive wooden wheel.

Cautiously she stepped closer. “Peter?”

No response. He was dead, she was sure of it. Fear clenched her heart as she realised she had no idea where they were and that her knowledge of working a ship was slightly less than nothing. How would she sail a ship that was supposed to hold a crew of twenty? What was she supposed to do with the sails? Where should she head for? How long would it take?

All those questions ran through her mind as she stepped ever closer, preparing for the grim task of dragging his body across the deck and pushing it into the waters for a seamans burial.

But when her hand touched his shoulder he jerked violently and pulled away, swearing at her with every curse word under the son.

“You may be the handyman but you certainly swear like a sailor,” she muttered.

Peter was in no fit state to steer them. And he reacted angrily whenever Martha questioned his credentials. He refused to let her see the maps or the compass and day after day they sailed while their supplies steadily ran low.

The only saving grace was that peter had lost the energy to force her back into her room, so Martha whiled away the days on deck, trying to learn from afar. She took copious notes, in the guise of writing her diary and noted also how much slower peter grew each day. How much weaker. How much longer he slept.

She felt sure that soon he wouldn’t wake up. That the infection she was sure was raging through his grey, sallow body would consume him body and soul.

But day after day he woke, until finally he stomped over to her and dropped a metallic object into her lap.

His face was neutral and looked out at sea rather than at her.

Martha picked up the beautiful bronze disc and pressed a button on the side so the lid flipped open and the needle of the compass swayed slightly then settled North.

Peter cleared his throat. Once. Twice. “I…I need your help.”

Martha’s face split into a smile. “Certainly.”