Red Skies at Night

A mysterious and twisted ship travels the seas

“42 knots north, 78 south,” she murmured, slumped over on the floral print couch, cradling a leather bound book of decorated maps. The boy she was speaking to sat across from her, delicately clasping an ink pen. Smoot onyx-blank lines flowed across the yellow paper. He ignored her remark, smiling gently at his work. The room they were in had an air of elegant sophistication, behind a thick veil of age and dust. Thick, heavy drapes of muted color hung, lamps were laced with knots of fringe, smudged gold plating shined gently against the unlit fireplace, slightly peeling patterns were pasted on the wall spotted with heavy buds of roses, black coffee desks and tables blanketed with dust furnished the study, a sleek but weary grand piano stood broadly in the corner laced with scratches and deeply untuned, a dignified but slightly rusted brown and gold record player sang beautiful notes of some distant violin melody, a dazzling chandelier illuminated specks of dust dancing idly in the air. Everything swayed softly like a cradle, as they were aboard ship, yet  this movement did nothing to impair the boy’s ink lines he formed. The one across from him looked up every so often, studyingly so. 

Just below where they lounged, a hot and steaming kitchen was placed, scattered with utensils and ingredients over piling themselves on all available space. The kitchen was a ridiculous sight indeed, with bundles of potatoes and and turnips hanging from the low ceiling, a black coal oven emitting waves of smoke and steam as cheese and dumplings inside it’s belly cooked, and pasta filled water bubbled and stewed atop it’s chest. The lurching of the room intensified the symptoms of clutter and mess throughout the much too small capacity. Holding himself steady against the counter was a boy, nineteen years old, with an apron tied tightly around his waist, and rag strapped around his forehead to keep his ruffled bangs from sinking into his vision . His face glistened with sweat as he worked through the sweltering atmosphere. His hands were a blur, chopping carrots, tomatoes, throwing herbs and spices, turning knobs and switches, while catching the assortment of items that flew about at every sudden motion. During which he was constantly hopping about, avoiding the scurrying paths of rats and roaches.

As the evening grew on, eventually the pair studying maps ventured from their flower printed study, seeking refuge within the dining room. Beneath a refined dark wood dining table etched with gold vines, a scape of stunning dark reds and blacks intertwined in thread and embroidery to form the delicately laced pattern on the floor. Above, was a company of fair size chandeliers hung with strings of twinkling lights every few spaces on the ceiling. With all the matching dark wood chairs tucked in under the table, and a glimmer of a lit candelabrum flickering in the center, the banquet like scene was ready. All the lights and candles were made sure to keep a low gleam, so as to not draw attention to varying degrees of interweaving scrapes and scratches on the fine wood, the wearing patches etched into the rug, the strips of wallpaper tearing away, or even the effects of water damage seeping in through the decorated, embellished ceiling. Tiny flames quivered with the lurches.

Pulling out her chair at the head of the table, the keen girl placed herself on it lazily. Splaying her arms out onto the dining space, slouching dramatically. The young man was less curt, absentmindedly but gently seating himself next to her absorbed and preoccupied with the design of the map he held in front of him. Slamming her palms on the table repeatedly, she called.

“Jens I dearly hope you’re not trying to starve us!” 

Just then the dining room doors burst open. Jens emerged, arms heavy with platters of food, his face flustered but focused. Silver plates were placed throughout the table, as Jens brought them all out, adorned with delicacies of glistening roasts, glowing tendrils of pasta covered in blankets of red sauces, steaming shells of lobsters bursting with meat, potatoes cut open and salted, bowls of soup bobbing with stews of carrots, rice, cream, and chicken, strips of buttered salmon, and shrimps hanging out of cocktail sauce. Desserts topped off with tufts of whipped cream, ringlets of chocolate syrup, bathed in frosting and sugar. To top it all of, glass after glass appeared filled almost to the brim with different shades of french wine sparkling under the light of the chandeliers. Jens stood proudly, upholding the feast he single handedly created. The young pair at the end of table, Chaney and Stein, applauded the cook by delving into the marvelous meals, with little concern of manners. 

They ate their fill each before collapsing back into their chairs exhausted and with their protruding guts. Leftover sauce, shell, meat, and soup grew cold on their china, it was amazing they were able to hold as much as they did. They were now content, Stein leaning back with his eyes closed dreamily, and Chaney stretching out as she commended Jens.

“Great as always, Jens,” she complimented, stretching like a lazed cat

“Thank you,” he said timidly, “Do you think.. maybe now..”

“If you’re gonna ask about your ‘freedom’ or whatever,” she derided, “Then you’d do better to hold your tongue,” her words were laced with clear annoyance. Jens’s face grew hot

“Of course, Miss, my apologies,” he spoke with clenched teeth, “Careful, Miss, next time rat poison might find its way into your tea,” he said under his breath, retreating back into the kitchen, arms full of dishware. He returned a minute later with steaming tea to appease the two he was serving, a heavily detailed, pretty set of tea cups and small plates were presented, full of swirling, sweetened tea accompanied with silver spoons bathing in the mixture. 

The rest of Jens’s night was filled with the dubious scrubbing of porcelain, tin, ceramic, and silver in a tub of sweltering water and overflowing soapy bubbles. Rubber gloves climbed up to his elbows, and his shirt was soaked through with sweat and splashes from the tub. His shoulders and wrists ached from scrubbing.

Up a short stairway, Chaney and Stein relaxed back in the drawing room. Stein’s fingers slid slowly, over dreary washed out keys that sunk with a heavy disposition whenever he pressed one. Loud, clamorous bouts of noise, but also strangely delightful melodies rang out from the stomach of the piano. His hands movements seemed lazy but struck out solid symphonies, twinkling sonatas, dazzling waltzes, and heart pounding concertos that leapt from the hammers inside the machine. Chaney’s head rocked dumbly to the sound, absent minded, and wide eyed she sat in front of the now lit fireplace, pages of sheet music folded in her lap, wild flames dancing pirouettes in the brick chamber. The curled pages she kept, were dotted and lined with intercrossing, increasingly complex maps of music. Sharps and flats, dipping into the bass clef and soaring beyond the treble, an endless parade of intermezzos and fortissimos. Stein’s foot spasmodically held and released the pedal, dropping like the beat of a drum. Her eyes fell to the sheet music, drowsily scanning the paragraphs of notes. She held one up to the light.

The night drew on, waves licking up the sides of the ship. Chaney laid drowsily on an open rug near the fireplace. Tiny tongues of flame curled on the blackened wood, tiny figures of shadows promenaded on Chaney’s body. Her eyes consumed the fire, mirroring it’s jumping light. 

Stein watched her lay, himself drolled out on the regal felt couch, his hand leaned against knuckles. He was complete, watching her. 

Once she fell asleep, he gathered her in his arms. Their master bedroom was almost grander than all the others, covered in a thick blood red color from wall to wall. The bed posts were a black coffee brown, and a tarp of scarlet hung over a fat mattress high with blankets and golden pillows. The lights were made up of low candles, and it was so dim that everything was dipped in midnight. Formal, slender chairs stood proud with carved roses and vines in their wood, complex spanish rugs hung on the walls and pooled the floors. The holes, and thinning spots were invisible beneath the quiet light. Scratches and chips in the bountiful wood disappeared within the designs. They both slept beneath pale satin sheets, the color of sweet vanilla. Trays and trays of blue glass piled up on the round table, littered with stray tea cups of butterflies and tulips. In the bottoms of these cups, drops of tea the color of adobe clay sat stilly and cold. Almost silently in the corners, coal black rats nibbled crumbs between their sharp yellowed teeth. Chaney’s arms draped over the pillows, Stein slept accordingly. He adjusted his position at her every movement, never disturbing the sleeping girl. 

Jens’s quarters were much smaller, more modest. A twin sized bed with a sky blue quilt, and two pillows with canvas covers. White and brown paintings of fishermen and soldiers were framed on the wallpaper of light browns. He sat by candle light, in a smudged and dirty lantern on his quarter sized bedside table of cheap wood.  He read a notebook, a leather journal, of old paper and thick ink in writing that hung to the right. The book was not well cared for, as the spine was stiff and cracked. On the first page wrote: Here lies the log of Captain Harbar of ‘Mermaid’s Tail’ God be with her. On the stained wood floors of his cabin, stood a stack of similar journals but all different shades of supple leather. 

The morning rose with a sleepy manner, a skin of frost crept around the main mast and over the deck. Jens woke first, as always, to begin his morning chores. By the time Stein and Chaney stirred, eggs were bubbling on a leather-black pan. 

A darling morning nook was built into the right side of the ship, and always turned so it faced the morning sun. The sky blushed with cherry red flame. Chaney spoke little in the early hours of the day, and only stared wistfully out the pretty pane glass windows. The room was dressed in honey yellows. Moon faced plates piled high with fried eggs, their eyes the shade of sweet pineapple flesh. Buildings of toast stood, charred golden brown, butter like liquid gold melted in the middle. Iced milk, and earl gray tea refreshed the meal. In the circumcenter of the table, a stack of merigold steaming pancakes drank in it’s own pool of molasses thick syrup.

Forks scraped porcelain plates, Jens stood customly. He seldom ate a formal meal, and only picked at food as he cooked and prepared it. It usually filled his stomach well, and he could take whatever he wanted from the plentiful leftovers. They paid him no notice in the morning, their nerves too raw to play with him, or pretend courtesy. 

“87 north, 62 south,” Chaney mentioned emptily, her voice barely a whisper. Stein stuffed another strip of bacon into his mouth with a crunch. His eyes fell to Jens, and Jens was stunned to see them filled with something he was unaccustomed with, disgust. Perplexed, Jens exited the room, anxiously. 

“Chaney, were getting close to shore,” he ventured once the servant was gone, his voice soft for her

“I know,” she answered immediately, she turned to him, her eyes like a whip

“And what are you thinking?” he asked bluntly, meeting her at her hostility. She put her chin to her palm, admittingly, and shrugged. 

“Chaney,” he urged, tense. She sighed slowly, the seconds dragged out like hours. 

Finally, her jaw as tight as metal coils, she relented.

“North,” she ordered disdainfully under her breath. The boat lurched, and you could feel the twist and sway of waves. 

By that afternoon, the clouds above had already begun to swirl and gray, profiting an oncoming storm. Jens witnessed this, strung up on the main mast, ropes wrapped in his fists like a monkey. Most of the ship work was handled by Jens, on top of already cleaning the interior, preparing the fine, luxurious meals, and waiting on both Stein and Chaney. None of this was an easy task, and Jens was always overworked and exhausted. But his savored his time in the air the most, when he rose above the deck laced with the twiney knots of the ship. The wind flew around him, and he swung with it, it whistled to him and he sung back. He was almost far enough away that his mind separated from this ship, from the ones he served. Almost. But, at the moment, even though he had one arm on the wooden pillar, the rest of his body hanging loosely, he did not enjoy it with much zealous. A storm was coming, he could feel it in the arms of the wind, and he would have to face it alone. 

Chaney could also sense the impending disaster, a monstrous hurricane had begun growing. She was green with sickness, as the ship hurdled between waves. She knelt in the gilded bathroom. pearly tiles, and glinting gold lamps decorated the lavatory, all a mass of white and golden. Although smudges, and smears lurked within every shine. She was bent around the porcelain toilet, trembling. Stein leaned against the sink, knuckles white on silver smudged metal. Chaney’s hands pressed onto her skull, wilding her hair.

“Ahh! make it stop,” she begged, her teeth fiercely clenched together. Stein’s hands bit the rim of the sink, knuckles as tight as a wound up gear. Everything in Chaney head was sliding and crashing together like the furniture on board, it rang like an unanswered telephone without rest. After an hour of pain, she yielded to laying on the cool tiles, limp and tired. Jens was busy above deck, pulling ropes with raw hands, and tying knots till his fingers bled. The rain was light now, but thrown about by the wind so it fell sideways. Soon enough his face was numb with cold. 

It came full force that night past midnight, the deck planks submerged, and the sails soaked. Ropes flew like vengeful whips, while the rain hit with the force of flying rocks. And there was Jens, a dirk held tight in an icy grip, his hair had fallen loose and stuck unto his forehead, half blinding him. He was held upward by a smaller mast to which he held, He screamed into the tunneling winds and cackling lightening, out of fear and strange excitement. The ocean sea was black and nasty, illuminated every so often by the flash of lighting that separated the storming sky like glowing cracks. With every strike, the rearing of the seas, the jackets of bubbling white they wore was ignited. The ocean swelled and broke without mercy, carrying the ship with it like a toy in a bathtub. If only a splashing child was too blame. This was the work of an angry god.

He felt a tug at his shoulder, no, not a tug, a shove. H recognized the feel of a boot. The air was so bright, when he opened his eyes he was looking at the eye of the sun. Suddenly he realized the aching pains that covered his body head to toe, his mouth was slick with blood. When the light faded away, he was staring into the annoyed face of Stein, grim and willful. For a moment he turned on the deck like a caught fish, before finding his bearings and sputtered up a stomach full of seawater. Iron mingled with salt in his mouth and he wiped it with the back of his cold hand. a streak of red painted onto pale skin. He was now on all fours spitting out the water, and quickly turned his head up when he felt Stein’s eyes stinging on him. 

“What are you doing?’ Stein asked shortly, a scowl plastered. Jens found no words, but instead whipped his head around searching for the storm like it could be hiding behind mast or sail. Instead, the waves were peaceful and blue, the sky pale and soft with the sun kissing everything. He ran a hand over tightly snarled hair and faced the boy who loomed over him.

“Are we dead?” he asked dumbly, Stein scoffed, but Jens was too occupied to notice,”Wait, you two can’t die. Am I just dead then, is this Heaven?” then shook his head, “Hold on a second, this can’t be my heaven. You’re here,” he figured as he rambled, eyeing Stein suspiciously. 

Stein rolled his eyes, and opened the cabin door behind him. 

“It’s the eye of the storm, you have about fifteen minutes before the other side comes over,” he explained before slamming the finished oak, viciously. 

The storm had rolled on for hours until the sun had risen again. Jens was covered in bruises and scratches that darkened and bled all over.  His linen shirt was nearly torn away, and his fingertips were nearly sawn off with overuse. The muscles inside his legs and arms screamed at every motion. But he had no time to rest, he had to take down the rest of the sails, tighten every knot, batten down every hatch. The storm was too wicked it blew up all the work he had done, but now the air was still and quiet and he could work fast. So, when the sky began to shower and blacken again, encoring it’s last performance. Jens could, gratefully, find solace in the safety below the floorboards. 

He didn’t dare disturb Stein and Chaney locked within their room. With every storm their tempers grew ill and short, and this hurricane was by far the worst they’d seen. He crawled under his thick quilt, slumping down immediately into a heavy sleep. 

Chaney also found comfort in sleep, collapsed beneath a layer of feathery blankets. Her cheeks still colorless, and hands still clammy, her sleep was restless, but better than before. Stein lay next to her, propped up against pillows, watching over her protectively, as she twist and turned. 

By the time the storm had fell apart, the Sun was growing red in the distance. But Stein still woke Jens from his slumber to clean up the mess it had left behind. Draggingly, bitterly Jens trudged through the rooms, pushing chairs and couches to their places, and cabinets and bookcases back to their walls. He cussed and muttered through the chores, hot anger rising in his head. He picked shards of broken cups and plates from the floor, and gathered all the books, scrolls, and papers that fell from the shelves. There was damage among all the rooms, and it would take weeks to put everything back in place. Not to mention sewing new sails for the ones that had holed, and slinging new ropes and mending the masts. His work would consume every waking moment for months to come, for he had to keep up with meals and service. 

Chaney was furious. Tea sets, china, old books, maps, lamps, chandeliers, mirrors, paintings, frames, vases, pots, and countless antiques destroyed in the storm. She had always kept these old, expensive treasures in her highest regard, and were precious to her as if all of them were family heirlooms. She stalked through the rooms, hands stuck on her hips, nagging every chipped fixture. A sloshing bottle of brandy hung from her hand, and bounced against her hip. Her cheeks had already grown pink by the time she had followed Jens into the drawing room.

“Look at all this!” she whined, “And I’m sure the piano’s now pushed out of tune,”

As if it wasn’t out of tune already, Jens thought with irritation, in fact almost everything in the room had already been frayed and broken in some way. But to Chaney the hurricane was to blame for it all. 

Stein ascended the stairs to join Chaney in, he held two wide slightly chipped cups of black coffee that Jens had brewed this morning. He gave one to Chaney, who in turn thinned it from her bottle before drinking. They both stood, just watching Jens as he sweat and worked.

Jens’s hands were mummified with gauze and bandage, but the sores and blisters on his fingers and palms still were sharp with pain at every movement. His lip was also split and purple, swelled painfully. blossoms of blue and violet exploded on his cheek, across his forearms, and over his ribcage. Blood clotted wounds were dark through his hair, and by the end of each day his shoes were soiled with blood from broken scabs. 

Weeks rolled by with high frustration among the crewmates. Chaney grew increasingly moody with the toll of damages. She spent most days sipping earl grey tea from violet cups leaned up against a mountain of throw pillows in their red drenched bedroom. Jens met his match when he was tasked with tuning the giantesque piano, a chore Stein refused to help with despite his extensive knowledge concerning the instrument. Unruly wires curled like cat whiskers, a queer wrench grew sweaty in Jens’s hands. It was eventually thrown in a fit of rage, shattered the glass face of a mirror on the opposite wall. Cursing and sighing as paced over to the pile of shards now hidden by the girth of the bed frame. Jens ran a hand through battered hair, tired and exasperated. Picking up the largest fragment, he saw in it the tiny bodies of Stein and Chaney. Startled, he dropped the piece back onto the heavy carpet and whirled around to see the enlarged couple across the room. Stein mouth was a terse line, he eyes glanced down at the opened piano.

"Useless," he breathed lazily, tapping one of the key listlessly, a deep note reverberated throughout the room. Jens scowled at this criticism and waited patiently for them to leave when stein turned back to Chaney and took her face in his hands. 

"You'll be good as new soon," he promised 

Chaneys eyes were closed and she curled into steins touch 

"Stein..." Her voice was morose and tired 

"We'll sail to morocco, you love that water," stein dreamed hopefully, "we can buy new china, and new furniture,” he cooed

Chaney stretched her neck side to side, frowning.

“Noo..” she murmured, her hands move off from his neck and she turned away

Stein’s brow furrowed almost as distinctly as Chaney’s, his eyes searched her closed lids for an answer. But before one was given, Chaney left the room, stepping away from Stein’s embrace. Even from behind, Jens could sense the discontent within Stein whose hands were gripping the ridge of the piano so hard they were shaking, Jens took a subconscious step backward a lone foot cracking the glass that patterned the floor. Jens froze. Stein spun around, anger and surprise mixed on his blushing face. Both parties were too stunned to speak for a second before Stein’s hand flew pointing to the door.

“GET OUT!” he roared, blushing even more, “OUT!”

Jens stumbled slowly to the opening, hesitant to move closer to Stein. Stein’s angry fist dashed across the piano’s board, sending its layers of sheet music flying in a flock of paper birds to the ground. Jens sprinted through door and down the hall, Steins hands evidently slammed down on the keys as Jens could hear the discordant bunch of notes bolting out. Shaken up, Jens darted down a twirling staircase into the privacy of his kitchen. A silver pot of simmering water sat on the stove’s chest, absentmindedly Jens poured the noodles in to soak. He rubbed his temples, there would sure be hell to follow his intrusion into that embarrassing scene. He pictured the way Stein had touched Chaney