Ships in the Night

Far out in the depths of space a small, seemingly insignificant lump of rock is flying along. Of course it is only small and insignificant if you're not in its flight path and it is only small in the way that a mountain is big. It could be tracked using radar; or the passengers of a passing space shuttle might comment on its peculiar colour and the way the sunlight glints from its many facets. Unfortunately for the inhabitants of the planet it is about to collide with, they have not invented radar and the most sophisticated transportation system known to them is the pedal powered sailboard. Therefore, when it eventually lands the only thing to pass comment will be an aged mountain goat on its way home from an all-night yodelling party. What it said was not recorded.

Far out in the depths of the ocean sailed The Pickled Herring a small but sturdy two-master. She had carried her crew over many seas and through many a heavy storm without complaint. The Captain was lantern-jawed Jack Cutler whose maritime exploits were related in every bar throughout the northern lands; was it not he who rediscovered the lost lands of Akabar and returned home to tell the tale? His bravery was not in doubt, although his sanity was somewhat in question. As for the rest of the crew, they followed their captain, if not blindly, with one eye open. Their faith in him seemed to be entirely justifiedas, through a mixture of luck, good timing and enough sense to hire a decent navigator, he had steered them right time after time and they were now all recognised as heroes in every port. The mere sight of The Herring on the horizon was enough in some towns for the bells to ring out and crowds to gather on the pier to welcome them in. Until recently that is. It all changed about six months ago when ports started closing and borders became more difficult to cross. It was as if people, after years of trusting their neighbours, had suddenly started to remember old feuds and disputes; long-forgotten debts were called in and bars closed on time. Now the crew of The Herring were greeted by sour-faced harbourmasters demanding mooring fees with menaces.

On board the , ships navigator Meredith Huge adjusted her instruments. Derrick had offered to do this for her but she had refused, not only did she take her job very seriously she had no time for exceedingly poor double entendres. First Mate Derrick Perkins went below to find someone more satisfying to annoy. He always got restless after the first couple of weeks at sea and hankered after the stable horizon of terra firma; that and the plentiful refreshments available in the snug of The Rusty Anchor. Somehow a shot of the Cedric's cooking lager in the rope locker just wasn't the same; still any port in a storm he thought.

Derrick found the lager without any trouble; most of it was inside Cedric who was propped up against the galley door trying to work out which end of a chicken to stuff. Not that he really cared. Ship's cook was a bit of a come down from pastry chef at the royal palace; but then at least the clientele wasn't so discerning.
"Ah, Cedric, there you are, thought I'd find you with your hand stuffed up a bird!"
Cedric smiled indulgently before clouting the first mate round the head with two kilos of semi-thawed poultry.

Derrick came to a few moments later to find an open bottle of lager and a pile of sandwiches laid out on the galley table.
"For you," said Cedric "by way of an apology."
"Thanks, suppose I deserved it", Derrick took one of the doorsteps "Any for you?"
"Course not, I know what's in them."
Resisting the urge to peek, the first mate took a large bite; there was a hint of seagull with overtones of seaweed but overall it was ok.
"Any idea how long we'll be out here?" asked the cook.
"Well, according to Merri we're in the right area, so it's just a matter of waiting I suppose." He spoke between mouthfulls; he was a well brought up first mate, "I doubt it'll be much longer."
"What's he going to look like, how will we recognise him?" asked the cook. The first mate gave him a look so old fashioned his grandfather could have used it. "Shouldn't be that hard. We won't find too many people floating around in the middle of the ocean!"
Cedric paused for a moment and took another swig of beer, "It'll be good to have a new face around the place," he looked longingly at the pile of cookery books on the shelf, "and a new mouth to feed. A cultured soul such as he would probably appreciate some class fodder, unlike certain barbarians not a million miles away."
"The Captain said we were to make him feel at home not posison him and...what do you mean barbarians?"
"He's bound to be more cultured than you lot, goes without saying. No one could be less appreciative of 'Hote Kwiseen" than you. You wouldn't know a Béchemel sauce if it came up and bit you on the bum."
Ignoring this not altogether unjustified insult, Derrick shrugged and opened another bottle of lager.
They sat in companiable silence for a while, until the bottle was finished and the sandwiches gone, listening to the sounds of the ship they both knew so well.