He blamed the cold on the weather.
Unseasonably Cold
Captain Rook pulled his coat together. The wind came through a different hole.
“Unseasonably cold,” he announced.
There was nobody in the boat to disagree.
He shifted along the bench, tucked one bare foot beneath the other knee, and lifted his bottle towards the grey sky. A little amber liquid slid from one end to the other.
“To better weather.”
The bottle knocked against his teeth. He lowered it and settled back, looking satisfied with the toast if not the temperature.
Around him, the mist moved slowly. It lay inside the boat as comfortably as it lay outside, slipping between boards that had long ago stopped fitting together.
Rook peered over the side.
A fish skeleton peered back.
Captain’s Orders
“Morning,” Rook said.
The fish moved past him, its red eye bright against the fog.
“Or evening. Difficult to tell.”
It circled the bow and disappeared beneath the broken end of a plank. A moment later, it emerged inside the boat beside his heel.
Rook drew his foot away.
“Passengers come aboard at the side.”
The fish slipped between two ribs of the hull and went out again.
Rook watched it go.
“I haven’t finished.”
He moved to the other bench. The wood gave a long, damp creak. Here the breeze reached him beneath his collar instead of through his sleeve.
“Worse,” he muttered.
The fish returned, drifting level with his knee.
“You’ll find conditions are much better towards the stern,” Rook told it.
He looked towards the stern.
A second fish was already there.
“Apparently.”
An Uninvited Passenger
For a while, he watched the first fish make its small circuit: past the bow, through the gap, beneath the bench, and out beside the stern.
On its fourth visit, Rook lifted his foot before it reached him.
“There you are.”
The fish passed underneath.
He rested his heel on the bench and rubbed a frayed edge of his coat between finger and thumb. Years ago, that cuff had been blue. He remembered having strong opinions about the brass buttons, too. Someone else had suggested plain ones, and he had insisted a captain ought to be recognisable.
Now there were no buttons left.
“Still a good coat,” he told the fish when it returned.
Its eye turned towards the sleeve.
“Good pockets.”
He put the bottle into one. The bottom had gone, so he caught it neatly as it emerged.
The fish hovered.
Rook looked at it, then at the bottle.
“Accessible pockets.”
He set the bottle beside him and laughed. His shoulders rattled against the wood.
The fish resumed its circuit. This time, he followed it with his head until it vanished into the mist.
It took longer to come back.
Rook leaned forward.
“Mind that loose nail by the bow.”
A red eye appeared between the boards.
He settled again.
Better Company
The boat turned a little. Rook looked up, remembering that he was meant to be going somewhere.
“Which way would you suggest?”
The fish moved towards the stern.
“We’ve just come from there.”
It turned, passed his knee, and headed for the bow.
“That seems reasonable.”
He raised his bottle again. The fish paused beside it, while the second one drifted nearer through the fog.
“One for the crew,” Rook said.
He lowered the bottle without drinking and made room on the bench, though neither visitor seemed likely to need it.
Then he pulled at his collar.
“Tell me,” he said to the first fish. “Is it warmer out there?”
The fish slipped through the hull, circled, and came back in.
Rook waited for its verdict.
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