‘Named what?’
‘You know, the undead.’
I turn to him. ‘By Paranish, they need to amuse themselves, don’t they?’ I work the bones out of the flesh and set them to one side. ‘But I don’t like it. Those things should be dead. I don’t want Bibaand Isagani getting too attached. I’d rather we managed how we did before. They give me a terrible feeling.’
Finlyr laughs, cleaning his knife.
I stop my work and stare at him. ‘There is nothing humorous about this – you know that, right?’
‘You and I are the same type.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘We have to do everything ourselves.’
I shift uncomfortably, realising we’re elbow to elbow again. He looks at me and blows his growing hair out of his face. It was a bit of a mane in Umasa, but now it’s growing longer, there’s a wave to it. Sometimes he ties it in a knot atop his head. I’ve seen him teaching Isagani how to rope-braid their hair to keep it out of their face.
‘What about your crew? Surely a captain must delegate.’
He shrugs and sighs. ‘They were capable enough, but it was my ship, you know? Everything is ultimately my responsibility.’
‘Not anymore,’ I insist. ‘You have to let someone else take on some of it.’
‘Hence the undead crew.’ He smiles. ‘See, I knew you’d come around.’
I bump him with my shoulder, and he mimes being in great pain. The door to the galley swings open, and we jump apart.
‘Holy Aistra, you have to come see this!’ Isagani shouts down at us.
Finlyr and I share a look. Their tone is one of utter excitement and amazement, but we have that parental instinct to presume trouble. We clean up and head back towards the deck as quick as we can.
The supplies are still drying on the deck, and Isagani and Sinigang peer into the store cupboard. The door is open wide and it’s a still a mess of mould and cobwebs. In the shadows sits Biba, right next to the pile of produce we had decided was too spoiled to be saved. She grabs a mango and squeezes. The skin is wrinkled with brown spots.It looks like mush and the smell of mould permeates the air. When she removes her hands from the mango the fruit is the oranges and pinks of a sunset, and a cloying floral aroma hits my nose.
Finlyr grabs the mango, disbelieving. He stares and then examines his sticky fingers where the juices have leaked. He shoves them into his mouth like a child. He sucks for a moment and his face lights up. ‘It’s good,’ he says, gleefully. ‘It’s really good. How did she do that?’
By Aistra, I had almost forgotten this problem. The reason we had to flee in the first place.
Isagani stands, mouth agape, as Finlyr continues to make a mess of the mango. ‘You’ll be sick,’ they say. ‘The fruit’s no good.’
Finlyr shakes his head excitedly. ‘Fresh as the day it was picked.’
‘How is that possible?’ Isagani asks, coming towards Finlyr and peering over his shoulder. They narrow their eyes at Finlyr continues to eat, as if they’re waiting for him to explode. They examine another rancid mango, and hand it to Biba.
‘Can you do that again?’ Isagani asks.
Biba looks at me and shakes her head, returning the fruit. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
Both Isagani and Finlyr turn to me then. ‘Why is she afraid?’
‘She has to learn to control it,’ I say, quietly.
‘Ris, this isn’t like the fire at the inn,’ Finlyr begins, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘This could help us. It’s a blessing—’
‘If you’d seen what she’s done, you wouldn’t call it a blessing.’
The undead carry on, completely unaware of the tension on board. I watch one of them scurrying around, swabbing the deck with a swish of its mop. Another rustles as it moves, the sickening sound of broken ribs knocking together.
‘Stop it!’ I yell, holding back tears. ‘That noise is driving me to the plank.’
