The Leviathan’s Eye Chapter 3

Most adventures at sea start with perilous storms, which test a person’s courage. It’s the hero’s chance to prove they are fearless on the open sea, knowing full well that danger lurks in every gust of wind and swirling wave. My story, on the other hand, is a bit different. My journey began with a burlap bag over my head for the first thirty days of our three-hundred-and-sixty-day voyage. The salts insisted it was to make sure I didn’t spread a foreign disease.

Sailors, like fishers, love to laugh, and I was a living, breathing joke. My voyage seemed like a prison sentence while I scrubbed the decks, secured the rope, and cleaned the animal locker with a bag over my head. The longer I endured the joke, the more the old salts started to like me. They didn’t know if I was dumb or brave, and I wanted to keep them guessing.

Another joke the old salts played involved forcing me to sleep in the animal locker. “We don’t have enough hammocks,” they said. It was another lie that put sarcastic smiles on their weathered faces. If only they knew that I preferred the company of sheep and goats. A rough, dry hay bed was better than hammock rotations with a crusty old sailor. It smelled better too.

After my thirty days of hazing, the salts embraced me as one of their own. I had done everything they asked with a bag over my head and proved my worth. Or, at least, my ability to take a joke. Either way, I proved something to them.

On the fortieth day of my journey, I began mandatory literacy lessons with Old White Dwight. He was a wise and educated man. No matter how drunk he was. Most of the old salts believed Dwight was a sorcerer. It was their only explanation for why Dwight’s flask never ran dry. After a while, the rumors of sorcery seemed true. No matter how much Dwight drank, he always had a flask full of rum. Whenever his shipmates asked about his mystical ability, he gave them the same answer. “I ration my portions.” If it was sorcery, he never taught me his trick.

Dwight opened a children’s book and pointed to the page. “Have you seen this letter before?”

“I know how to read and write,” I said. “A tavern girl named Lydia taught me. She told me that all the wealthy merchants know how to read and write better than most men. So, while the merchants spent all their money on her, I snuck onto their ships and stole their books, among other things.”

Dwight glowered at me. “Do you have a favorite book?”

“I used to spend my nights reading the ancient epics about the goddess Kellena and her age of heroes.”

“Those are rare books,” Dwight said. “Which story did you read the most?”

“I read Hedra’s adventures more times than I remember.”

“Hedra, Dragon of the East and of the West. Do you remember his prayer?”

“I used to sit on the beach every night and pray for the beast.”

“No one writes powerful words like that anymore,” Dwight frowned. “The dragon’s story made me understand why Kellena’s epics survived the religious purge. Almost made me believe in your goddess.”

“I don’t worship Kellena. I swore an oath to worship our true god, King Winston the Second.”

“I’m drunk, but I’m no fool,” Dwight sipped his flask. “Fishers and farmers worship the goddess. There’s no changing that. Don’t worry; once you finish basic training, you’ll get your royal brand, salute a half-wit drawing of the king every morning, and no one will question your secrets.”

Dwight spent our time teaching me rhetoric, drawing, and how to map the stars. “I’m not supposed to teach you more than your letters,” he said. “The king and his officers want lowly sailors to be literate but not educated. Keep your knowledge to yourself the best you can.”

“Then why take the risk?”