All Sweet Things

       On the second day out of port, Filly went down into the hold to check the cargo. It was more out of boredom than necessity: the route was a familiar one, the weather was behaving, the crew knew their jobs, and thus the captain had nothing better to do. The barrels were all in place, standing in neat rows almost to the ceiling, smelling of vinegar… Wait, what? Filly sniffed the air. There was a smell. One of the barrels was leaking. Blast it, she’d checked every single one herself when the cargo was loaded! And the boatswain was useless—he snorted with his ever-runny potato-like nose and grumbled that he couldn’t smell a thing. What if the leak had started yesterday, and a whole barrel of the most delicate Staverian pears, left without its preserving brine, had started to rot? Catastrophe! Financial penalties! A blow to their reputation! It would be the end of the clipper Cormorant and Skipper Fillyjonk’s fame as the fastest, most reliable transporter of perishable fruit! No, stop that. She’s not some common hysterical fillyjonk, she was a daring, talented captain, capable of getting her act together. Snatching the lantern from the boatswain, she plunged into the narrow aisles between the barrels to find the leak. She didn’t have a cold; her nose was longer and her body far more suited to squeezing into tight spaces. She didn’t find a puddle, but right on the lid of one barrel, a pair of pear stems lay neatly crossed. Filly summoned the boatswain with a sharp gesture and pointed her snout at the offending sight. “Rats, probably,” he muttered, drawing his head down into his shoulders (though stortasses didn’t possess any notable shoulders). “Rats?!” she hissed, barely restraining herself from taking a bite out of his long, twitching ear. And she sent him packing—both to hell and to fetch more help and lanterns. Of course, there were no rat-tooth marks on the stems. And… wasn’t the lid of the barrel sitting a bit crooked? With some effort, Filly pried out the lid. Just as she thought. The pears on top weren’t packed snugly one against the other, as they had been at loading, but were arranged with gaps. “Rats, is it?” she repeated under her breath, listening intently. Nothing, just the sound of waves hitting the bow and the distant voices of the crew… “Right then, rat!” she nearly shouted into the darkness between the barrels. “A crowd with lanterns is on its way, we’ll turn this place upside down, find you, and I’ll have you keelhauled until the sharks are full!” “And this instead of a thank you…” a lazy male voice replied from above. Filly jumped, swinging her lantern beam upwards. There, by the ladder, stretched out on the top tier of barrels as if on a bed, was some fellow, hard to make out properly, only his eyes gleaming with a bluish light. “Thank you?! For what?” “Well,” he yawned. “I’m checking if the pears are starting to spoil, and… disposing of any fruit with blemishes, to prevent them from ruining the entire barrel.” With that, he dropped down silently, like a ragdoll, landing right in front of her. He was some unknown creature that came up to her chest, dressed in a crumpled green smock and a wide-brimmed hat. He had no fur or a long snout, though his nose seemed darker than the rest of his face. “Oh, and I chased the actual rats out of this hold and into another one,” he added with a serene smile. “Truly, it would be more economical to call off your men and leave things as they are. I might even waive my fee.” The sheer nerve! And her pistol was sitting uselessly in the safe in her cabin. He wasn’t holding a weapon, but who knew what was in his pockets? She needed to stall until the boatswain returned. “Let me guess,” Filly said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Running from the Cape Green police?” “Nothing of the sort,” he waved a dismissive hand, leaning casually against the barrels. “I dislike the cold, that’s all. And now, after wintering in the tropics, I am, like the migratory birds, returning to my native latitudes aboard the fastest, most renowned ship in two oceans, with the most experienced and fortunate captain…” “Flattery won’t help you,” Filly cut short his little ode, though, of course, it was rather pleasant. But also highly suspicious. She’d have to have this migratory creature locked up at their destination port and send a telegram to the Cape Green authorities to see if he was wanted for anything. Some bounty wouldn’t hurt. “So, you’re hiring me as a quality tester?” he asked with infuriating nonchalance. “Over your dead body!” Filly’s whiskers trembled, though not solely from rage anymore. She wouldn’t tolerate such cheek from her own crew, but there was something about such insolent men… And this one was rather handsome, in a scruffy way. Keep him around for amusement? It wasn’t comme il faut to flirt with her own crew, and she didn’t find passengers for this run. Just… She sniffed the air again. Yes, this stowaway clearly had an aversion to soap and water but didn’t mind low-grade tobacco. Finally, the clatter of boots and paws sounded on the companionway ladder. The creature nimbly ducked behind Filly’s back as she informed the boatswain that she’d dealt with the 'rat', and would Mr. Svensson be so kind as to have water heated for the captain’s bath? The “rat” recoiled in horror behind the barrels, protesting that he was perfectly fine as he was. “You’ll either have a bath or be scrubbed overboard!” Filly threatened. “What’s your name, anyway, 'passenger'?” “Joxter, at your service,” he said, not moving far from the gap between the barrels, and gave a bow that turned into an elaborate curtsey, pressing his removed hat to his heart. Then he suddenly slapped his forehead and vanished back into the stacks. Before Filly could finish a particularly creative curse, he reappeared with a guitar slung over his shoulder. A musician, too! This voyage was promising to become considerably more interesting. The sight of the hot bath made Joxter balk again, and the only thing that finally got him into the water was the persuasive authority of Filly’s pistol. While he scrubbed off what seemed like years of grime, Filly had a proper look at her acquisition and was thoroughly pleased. No fur on his body, no tail to speak of; almost like a human, if you ignored the peculiar dark mask across his nose and forehead. That pattern did remind her of something, but Joxter was so cute sulking that Filly didn’t go further into details of his lineage. After a decent meal in her cabin and a couple of glasses of wine, he thawed considerably. His manners were impeccable, his compliments deftly delivered; he didn’t get sloppy drunk or crude like some men. Sure she wouldn’t forget that he was going to such length just to save his hide, stuff his stomach, and have a piece of sex. Still it was nice. And then there was his voice—a beautiful instrument. He sang magnificently, anything from raucous sea shanties to lyrical ballads of his own invention. He was an excellent kisser, and proved more than satisfactory in other respects, too. Ah, but he did differ from humans: those sharp fangs provided a very piquant sensation when he nibbled her neck, and his tongue was rough, like a cat’s, which also delivered a lot of novel impressions. A pity that Cormorant would reach its destination in less than a week. This thought made her wonder if there was some secret affection budding, but sleep dragged her under before she got alarmed or indignant. In the sweet haze of near-dawn, she stretched and suddenly remembered what sort of creature had that particular colouring. Mumriks. She’d seen one once, long ago. And she’d heard a great deal more. Antisocial types, vagrants and thieves. The realisation jolted her upright in bed. And the mumrik himself was gone. Growing cold with anxiety and the chill air, Filly lit the lamp. No one in the room. With trembling paws, she fumbled for the key to the safe, then checked the safe itself. What if this was all a con? What if he’d deliberately ingratiated himself, stolen all the money and jewels, overpowered the watch, lowered a boat, and was now miles behind them? “Do you always wake up this early?” She jumped. The mumrik was standing in the doorway, staring at her with quiet curiosity. His clothes and hat were spattered with droplets of water. A gust of salt and tobacco smell creeped through the cabin. “Where have you been?” she asked, too sharply, and was immediately angry at herself for the tremor in her voice. Stop that, she’s not some common hysterical fillyjonk! “Getting some air and open sky. I don’t fancy sleeping under a roof. We mumriks are not domesticated.” Yawning, he walked into the room and tossed his hat onto the table. He looked at Filly, at the open safe, her shaking paws… He spoke again, with a tone of sad resignation. “People say many things about us. But believe me: no mumrik would ever stoop to stealing money or trinkets. We are above that.” “I can’t seem to find my cufflinks. The pearl ones.” Joxter, continuing to undress, slipped under the blanket. Her blanket, incidentally! “If you mean the things from your sleeves, you were in such a hurry to get that tunic off yesterday that something flew off onto the floor. Ah, there’s one under the table. You’ll have to hunt for the other in the corners.” The second cufflink was indeed under the bed. A wave of hot shame washed over Filly’s ears and cheeks, as if her mother had caught her stealing jam. “I’m sorry,” she forced out a sincere apology. “You… you may be above such things, but for us ordinary entrepreneurs, money is rather important…” “It’s quite alright, I’m used to it.” Then he peeked out from under the blanket, his eyes narrowed with a sly glint, and Filly felt a weight lift from her heart; he wasn’t too offended, then. “True, I don’t believe in private property, but the most I’ll ever take is some tasty bit, like a pear or two.” That was hardly reassuring! Instinctively, she glanced at the chest in the dark corner, and immediately heard: “And what’s in the chest? Emergency chocolates for stress relief?” “Don’t even think about it,” she said, scrambling up hastily. “Nothing edible!” “Well, now I won’t be able to sleep, wondering what’s in there.” He propped himself up, tilted his head, and put on an adorable, kittenish expression. “Go on, tell me, or I’ll have to go and look myself.” Somehow, right after a misplaced fit of mistrust, she didn’t feel like lying. “Highly valuable cargo,” Filly admitted reluctantly, sitting on the edge of the bed, and decided to quote the promotional leaflet. “Tropical guava fruit. Grows on only one island, on one table mountain, where the trees are tended by the most beautiful of the chief’s daughters, and the local savages let no one in on pain of death, selling only a few pieces a year to foreign merchants.” “So maybe,” the mumrik perked up, “it needs a quality check? What if they’ve started to spoil? Let me at least have a sniff…” “Absolutely not!” Filly snapped. “The fruit is fiendishly expensive, and the client is extremely important. So don’t even think about it. Otherwise, I’ll skin you alive. I’m not joking! And you couldn’t look anyway; they’re in a sealed, airtight special container. That’s the end of it. If you’re that restless, I can offer you some sugared cherries from my personal stress-relief stash.” “I won’t say no,” Joxter purred. “Especially if accompanied by some juicy, honey-sweet pears…” His hands encircled her waist, sliding higher, towards her breasts, hinting at what he meant by 'pears.' Filly shivered. Well, there was still an hour and a half until breakfast and the meeting with the first mate. The scoundrel was good, though! Not just during, but after, too. He cuddled cosily, and if stroked through his thick mane, he purred like a proper cat. And he could maintain a nice small talk on plenty of subjects: faraway lands, wretched customs officials… A couple of times, Filly had to remind herself not to get too attached. “Just in case,” sleepy Joxter murmured during one such moment, nearer the end of the voyage, “I have a name for a child: Snufkin. Funny, isn’t it?” Filly laughed, but for a different reason. “Silly, what child? I take measures,” she indicated the size of a pill with her fingers, “to ensure there are no children. I don’t have the time; I have a business. And no intention of having little burdens with just anyone.” This was one of her favourite moments in these dalliances. When a man thought he’d been so marvellous that she was utterly besotted and dreaming of marriage, and she got to disabuse him of the notion, making it clear that he had been a disposable plaything and was now free to roll on to his next port of call. The looks on their faces! Joxter was clearly taken aback, too. Somehow, that didn’t bring Filly as much gleeful joy as usually. She even smoothened the final jab. “And you really were angling for a permanent position as a tester?” “Nah, the thought never crossed my mind. It’s just…” He sighed heavily. “There are so few of us mumriks in the world, so I try my best to increase our numbers…” No, he really was a funny creature! Filly flicked him on the nose and told him not to despair. She was sure, she said, that with his talents, he’d leave a brood in every port he visited. *** The lighthouse of Fredrikshaven appeared on the horizon, and Filly forgot all about her passenger. A captain had more than enough to do: summon the pilot and tugboat, prepare the paperwork, make twenty frantic inspections of the hold, wait for the Port Doctor at the quarantine anchorage, grease his palm, obtain the Bill of Health in an hour instead of half a day, then more tugs and mooring, unloading goods into the bonded warehouse, hosting a parade of officials and inspectors aboard, returning the visit to the customs house, meeting the consignees, running between chandlers and brokers… So, she merely waved him off with the signed Bill of Health when, in the background, Joxter, with nothing but his guitar slung over his shoulder, waved goodbye and followed the Port Doctor down into the sanitary agency boat. Good riddance, she thought, saves me having to add him to the crew manifests… A special courier arrived at the berth for the special order, and Filly, taking a sailor with her, went to fetch the container and the bills of lading to her cabin. She flung open the door… A damp draught from the raised casement window hit her snout and hair. She hadn’t opened that! Had thieves broken in? The safe was in place, locked, the key was in place, on its chain around her neck, along with the key to the chest containing the vital cargo. Letting out a breath, Filly bent over the chest, but the key wouldn’t turn the right way. Yet it turned easily to lock it. Meaning… it was unlocked? The captain threw back the lid and shrieked: inside lay the shattered remains of wax seals and scraps of twine. The container was gone! Catastrophe! Financial penalties! Wait, calm down, what was that scrap of paper in the corner? A torn page from the ship’s log, by the look of the ruling, with a scrawled, ink-blotched message: 'sorry wanted to check the seals and the box fell out of the window. love and kisses, Joxter.' Filly screamed, not knowing whether from horror or pure rage. She leaned out the window, looking down at the filthy port water, but didn’t see anything, of course. Should she throw herself in? “Are you alright, Captain?” The sailor inquired from behind. No, stop that. She’s not some common hysterical fillyjonk, she was capable of getting her act together. But the client… She had to deliver the cargo right now, or the fines and consequences would be so severe she could lose the Cormorant! She fell to her knees before the chest, as empty as her future prospects. No, she’d rather run and turn pirate than let the ship be taken away! But before that… Even if it meant spending her entire savings, she’d hire thugs to find that scoundrel and explain that you can’t treat a lady like that. What was better, to mount his head on the bowsprit or sell to a third-world country school as a soccer ball? A memory of the lazy smile and sapphire gleam of the eyes floated up, much to her surprise. What sort of secret affection insinuated itself into her thoroughly businesslike mind and free heart? Time to pull it out for good! …But maybe, keeping the rascal’s head in a jar of spirits in her cabin would be enough to sate that affection? Right, let it be the jar. With a pear in the mouth. No, stop that. First, she had to find a similar-looking box and forge the seals within the next five to ten minutes, otherwise her head would be the one in the jar.