Story for the Day: The Morning Business

A morning micturition was never so strangely interrupted:

It was here that Danaco roused himself from a short sleep, to stand on the main deck and welter in the quiet splendour of the early hours, that time during which all sounds are subdued save the stridulation of brave beetles, the dying chyrme of a distant nighthawk, the hirrient chutter of the finch and siskin, and the pobble of the water lashing under the pier. Another breed of nature, however, called the captain out of his cabin, and he meant to stand by the railing, to contribute to the marine ecology and scatter the neritic schools pooling around the ship.  

                He opened the door to his cabin and turned toward the docks: a few crapulous fuddlecaps stumbling homewards from nocturnal taverns languished around the pier, the docksmaster dodging mysterious puddles on his way to his post, the shopkeepers and marketmen navigating the wending lanes toward the trader’s stalls to get their daily buyings done early charmed his view. Lanterns were lighting, those who must move before the sun mounted the horizon left their homes in quest of millet and a dish of tea, and Danaco decided to tend to his business on the other side of the ship, away from the eyes of eager strumpets and curious lookers-on. The maindeck was still damp from Rannig’s having oiled the new boards the night before, and instead of practicing his heathenry and walking barefoot to the railing while nobody else was about, Danaco remained at the threshold, fitting his feet into his boots—but only succeeded in getting the left one on, however; a slight ‘mmff’ whispered out from the right boot when he put his toes in. He glanced down, found two eyes blinking back at him from the inner lining of the boot, and smiled to himself.

                “Well done, my bootbeetle. Consider me devilish impressed that you managed to horn yourself in there.”

                From the toe of the boot came a muffled, “Thank you, sir.”

                “Now, please, quit my footwear. I having business at the railing, and I should not like to do it with you gaping up at me from the oblivion of black velvet and fine embroidery.”

                The boot slumped over, and Peppone poured himself out, deliquescing in a serpentine crawl, first his arms, then his head, then his small body and legs. He reassembled himself in front of the captain and bowed, and Danaco took up his boot and studied it.

                “By Myrellenos, how you will compress yourself,” the captain marveled. “I thought your powers at compacting yourself into a standing vase were astonishing, but here you managed to fold yourself into in a cylinder tweleve inches tall and four inches wide.”

                “I put my feet together and folded them into the toe, put my body under the vamp, and just got my head in the shaft,” Peppone explained. “Getting my body in there wasn’t difficult, but having my head fit was not easy.”

                “Yes,” the captain mused, examining the inside of his boot. “As impressed I am by your exmplary performance, if you have hurt my precious shoes or widened them, I will have your feet removed from your legs by commanding you to throw your blade and have you to watch it come back to your ankles.”

                “I was careful, sir,” was Peppone’s promise.

                “That remains to be seen. These are Ruvani hunting boots, the golden trimming and flowers sewn on by family hands. They are an heirloom, a relic given me by my grandmother, and if there is one thread out of place, you will be left in the brig, to rot into spores and have the ship weevils nibble on your fermented toes.”

                “Where are the weevils, boss?” said a voice from below, in a panic.

                “None, my nervous little pheasant. I am only making threats for a future that I hope shall never be.”

                “Oh.”

                “Get you to bed now, my precious peacock, and dream of a world with no weevils.”

                “Aye, boss.”

                “And you, Peppone,” Danaco continued, “I will hand you over to Barlteby, to be carved and studied as a scientific curiosity should you have hurt my shoes.” 

                “Rightly, sir,” Peppone nodded.

                Danaco donned his boot and moved his foot about. “The thread seems unfringed, and the leather has not been pulled. By Myrellenos, you have not even stretched the heel. I will apply to you when I have a shoe cobbled and need them softened. You would be a famous good wedge for the toes.”

                Peppone made a low bow. “I have many uses, sir.”

                “Rannig will be monstrous pleased that you managed to wedge yourself into my boot—“

                “Well done, vase imp!” was the cry from the galley.

                “And so will all the men be amazed at your pedial persuits.” The captain gave Peppone a descering look. “You have my permission to fold yourself into anything you may press into, if only to trinkle on a conversation or toss your knife into a deserving neck, and I do emphasize, nindano,” with a pointed look, “that the decapitation must be deserved.”

                Peppone gave his oath that he would only kill those whom he deemed worthy of his blade, those who promised to lay a hand against the captain and his crew, and agreed to employ his contortion talents carefully, folding himself into the centre of the rolled up cloth that was leaning by the captain’s door and rolling happily away.

                “How odd a creature,” said Danaco to himself, walking to the railing. “Another one for the ranks. How My Lady does put such bogsome babbarts in my lap. I hear you whisper to me, begging me to take them all in, but I cannot save them all.” He turned and watched the cloth hop along the steps to the foredeck. “What an oddment he is. My Lady favours me with so many precious charms.”

                The business he had originally come out of his quarters for was done, but instead of returning to the cabin, to try and gain a few more hours of sleep, Danaco remained on the main deck, to gratulate in the height of aurora, regaling in bird calls and dock cries, watching moored ships rolling out, listening to crones marching along the main street, begabbed and besmirching, eyeing the corner women as they sauntered by. The letter from Lamir, he hoped, would soon arrive, the anticipation of which was probably owing to his unwillingness to return to his quarters and reintroduce himself to his bed. Word from home, from one whom he had long wished to see and speak to, animated and enlived him, and he sat on the main deck, relishing the sun and the sea, watching Peppone try to fit himself into the scuppers, listening to Rannig hum to himself in the galley as he prepared the morning tea.