Marcys: Lost Water

February 24,

What a day!

When we set sail I honestly questioned if we would make it. I could see us sinking at the hands of Osin in a great storm or running aground in unknown, shallow waters, but it looks as though simple thirst will be our death.

Earlier today, before the heat could descend upon us, most of the royal family was touring the small deck of our sea-bound home in an effort to get some exercise—during most of the day Oswyn keeps the women down in their tiny cabin—when a loud cry from below deck range out.

Ardythe, Haddock, and I raced to the nearest hatch and descended the steep steps. I could see Forlaith at the hatch opening, wanting to follow us. Instead she received a tongue-lashing from Oswyn for running. “A lady never moves fast enough to rustle her skirts!” Oswyn was saying as we followed the noises down to the very lowest level.

A few steps down the last ladder and we saw what had caused the outburst. The lowest level, used for storage, was filled with a few inches of water.

“Are we leaking?” demanded Haddock before he had reached the watery floor.

“No sor,” responded one of the lower-ranking sailors. “’tis fresh water. Our kegs have all sprung leaks!”

I must have been slower than the others, or just not used to sailing, because it took me a moment to realize what he meant. Ardythe and Haddock already looked sick when I suddenly realized the sailor meant our kegs of precious fresh water were leaking.

“Have you plugged the leak? Which keg was it?” asked Haddock.

“Moss of ‘em, sor,” said the sailor, gesturing toward the enormous pile of kegs.

“How much has been saved?” asked Ardythe.

“Oh, m’lord, I’d say ‘bout one thard.”

“One third?” I said, echoing his statement in my shock. How could we possibly make it to Mallawi on one third of our water supplies?

“Aye sor.”

I glanced around, noticing the water being soaked up by different sacks of flour, beans, and the like. “You there,” I said to the sailor poking his head down into the hatch to see what was going on. “Get the cook here, right away!”

The man darted away, the words barely out of my mouth.

In record time, the surprisingly small man—all sailing cooks are small so that they can fit into the tiny kitchen available to them without ending up in the fire pot—arrived to assess the damage. Without any consideration for rank or procedure, the cook began barking orders to remove the sacks of food that were being effected by the leaking water. At the same time, I began to order the original two sailors around. They did their best to save as much of the fresh water as they could in the few pails we could find in the ship, sadly most of the lost water was already soaked up by the sacks of food.

Once the work was well under way, with the cook and another sailor in charge, Ardythe, Haddock, and I went up to the cabin Haddock and I share. Haddock immediately went to the small space where he stores rolled up maps and pulled the one he wanted out. He spread it across the small table, each of us taking a corner to hold it in place.

“It’s been six days since we set sail. We could make it back, winds permitting, without having to decrease water rations too much,” explained Haddock as he guided our attention from one point on the map to another.

“No,” said Ardythe in his most commanding voice, one he used for erring soldiers and clinging whores.

“My lord,” I said, using my most deferential voice, which always followed. “We have to have water.”

“We continue on. There are islands that we can stop at to gather water and supplies.” He gestured to a tiny arpeggio of islands some distance from where we suspected we were at present.

“We have no guarantee that we can make it that far, my lord,” said Haddock. He copied my example and kept his voice low and submissive.  

“Well, you better find a way to speed us up.” With that final statement, Ardythe turned on his heels and left the cabin. I looked at Haddock, whose face likely matched my own. How were we to survive untold number of weeks on less than a third of our water supplies? Our rations would have to be cut to the bare minimum.

If we make it to Mallawi, these next few weeks will be the toughest of the long journey.

Marcys