Won't You Eat Even Like This? (7)
The thirty-year-old creaky cog ship Desire's Virgin groaned as it vigorously pulled away from the harbor. The wind was perfect, and the worn sails were stretched taut, looking like they might rip at any moment. Once fully clear of the port, Hesta let out a small sigh and wiped her forehead. She called over one of the crewmen to take the helm, then marked a spot on the map with her pencil. She flipped over one of the sand timers of various sizes on the desk.
"Turn ten degrees to port when the sand runs out."
"Aye, Captain."
Hesta stepped aside for the helmsman and approached us. "How's it looking?"
"Great. Should be a smooth voyage."
"Come here. Let's talk."
Hesta led us into the captain's cabin. It wasn't much to call it that—just a crudely partitioned space under the raised poop deck with wooden planks. The tiny room held only a narrow bed and a low desk. Through the window at the stern, we could see the vast horizon and the white foam trailing behind the ship.
"Sit, sit."
We settled into the small, rickety chairs, and Hesta spoke up. "So, you're heading to Grovbrook Island to catch that moonlight cod, right?"
"Precisely around there. They say the currents are fierce."
"Hmm... about here, then..." Hesta tapped a spot on the sea chart spread across the desk with her finger. "This is where we are now, that's Grovbrook Island, and this seems to be the area you mentioned."
Francois, who couldn't read charts, just stared blankly, while I examined it closely.
"Damn. This'll be a tricky sail."
"No worries. We'll navigate with heaven-defying seamanship and sea-shattering boldness."
"Ah, right..."
"But let's make this clear. We're not planning to land on Grovbrook Island, so we can't spend much time helping you catch that fish."
"We won't impose. It'll be quick—just four or so. But one thing I'm curious about."
Hesta nodded for me to go on.
"Why land on Grovbrook Island at all? Honestly, with this ship, it seems damn tough."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. Old cog, twenty crew... A caravel might manage, but I'm worried. What if we sink during landing?"
Hesta burst out laughing at my words. "Don't worry, Balder. Once we reach Grovbrook Island, we'll haul enough treasure to outfit a fleet of ships of the line."
"Balder, not Balgie."
"Ah, sorry. Balder."
"Treasure? You mean there's pirate booty buried there or something?"
But Hesta just grinned without answering.
"You're Francois, right? Lunchtime's approaching—why not show off your skills?"
"I'll do that. But... is there a kitchen...?"
"Of course. Head to the lowest deck; the stove and everything's set up."
The ship had a galley. For a vessel this size, it was more like basic cooking facilities than a proper kitchen. Still, it had one, and Francois, who'd never been on a ship before, seemed genuinely surprised.
"Does that mean no labskaus?"
Ah, damn it. Hesta's words brought back that shitty pork stew slop. I'd eaten it a few times on long voyages during my hero days, and I wondered if there was any food more revolting in the world. On extended sea trips, fresh ingredients are impossible to come by. So they bake bread rock-hard for longevity and salt-cure the meat. That's hardtack and salt pork. Hardtack could double as a weapon with a bit of exaggeration, and it always had weevils for... nutritional supplements. Salt pork shrivels your tongue if eaten straight; it has to soak in water forever to desalinate. Boiling those two abominations together makes labskaus. Not fit for human consumption, really.
Francois headed out to prepare lunch. Hesta nodded toward the door as it closed. "Inn head chef? And you're the owner?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me about the place. For the owner and chef to come all this way for lizardman tastes, it can't be your average inn."
"Sure. Perfect topic to kill time."
I told Hesta all about our inn.
Drool dangled from Hesta's half-open mouth. She slurped it up belatedly with her sleeve and asked, "Are you a bard by any chance?"
"No, really. It's not a tall tale—that's exactly what the place is."
"Impossible..."
"More believable than pirate treasure on Grovbrook Island, I'd say."
Hesta was about to retort when a knock came at the door. I opened it to find Francois and a crewman with a tray.
"Lunch is ready. Captain said to eat separately, so I brought yours."
"Ah, uh. Come in."
Francois entered, took the plates from the crewman, and set them on the desk. Hesta let out a bizarre shriek upon seeing them.
"Whoaaa! What is this?!"
Thick-sliced pork roasted with simple garnishes—ordinary stuff. With fresh ingredients right after departure, Francois had shown off a bit. I thought, What's the big deal?—then corrected myself. Hesta was a seafarer, probably at sea since adulthood. Even naval fleets struggled for decent meals; a cog like this would be worse. Pork in that context? No wonder her eyes bulged. And the chef was from Verabche's Cuisine Academy. One bite, and she might faint.
"Why only one plate?"
"Captain always eats alone."
"Ah."
Hesta not eating with the crew wasn't arrogance or authoritarianism. On a ship, hierarchy is more vital than life. Absolute obedience to the captain keeps everyone alive. Otherwise, lost bearings, sinking, or mutiny. Officers and crew are strictly separated to prevent that. Caring for subordinates is different from blurring ranks casually.
Hesta scratched her head, then ordered the crewman to fetch our shares too. "Eat with us. You're passengers, not crew."
"Suits us fine."
Soon our plates arrived, and Hesta declared meal time. She hacked off a corner of meat, ignoring decorum, and shoved it in. Then she really seemed to faint—not quite, but she froze stiff, speechless, like choking. As Francois fidgeted, wondering if it didn't suit her taste, Hesta teared up and yelled,
"Fuck, it's so good!"
She slammed the table. "Yes! This is sex!"
What kind of vulgar expression is that...
"Sex? Pfft. Eating delicious food is sex!"
Francois flashed an awkward smile amid the barrage of crude praise. I wondered if the ship's name Desire's Virgin referred to the captain herself.
The voyage went smoothly. Hesta was a skilled captain, and the crew followed her lead, so no major issues arose. The problem came outside navigation: the fresh provisions from port ran out.
Francois had made mass sauerkraut and other pickles with crew help, but it wasn't enough for twenty. Most ships fed officers well while crew got pig slop or rat— but not Francois. She eyed the weevil-ridden hardtack and salt pork, then got Hesta's permission for a request to the crew.
Thus, Hesta leaned on the rail, scanned the sea, dropped anchor at a good spot, and moored.
"Water this color means good fishing."
Crew grabbed rods and hit the deck. Some launched the lone small boat and cast nets. Soon, enough fish for all piled up, and Francois's special grilled fish brought universal joy.
But even that didn't last. The southern ocean was hot; fish spoiled fast. Fishing once or twice was fine, but deeper offshore, it got harder—common knowledge.
Finally, Francois reluctantly reached for hardtack and salt pork when the lookout atop the mast shouted,
"Dolphin pod off starboard!"
A school of dolphins leaped starboard, swimming parallel to the ship.
"Two would make a feast... but the smart bastards are hard to catch..."
Hesta muttered, nudging the ship toward them. Watching the pod, I grabbed a crewman. "Got a harpoon?"
"Yeah, but... way too far."
"Doesn't matter. Fetch it. I'll show you something fun."
The crewman skeptically brought a rusty old harpoon. In full view, I hoisted it to my shoulder, aimed carefully at the dolphins.
"Easy, Balder. Don't spook them into fleeing—approach calmly... Eek?!"