Open The Bilge In The Bucket Sing Me To Sleep

[Darragh Harper]

Eskila was awake, but that did not mean Darragh was free. He wriggled downward to escape her embrace, then finding his toes were cold, wriggled back into it and wrapped his scruffy tail around his legs, his still-unbuttoned pyjama shirt rumpled up to his chest. Pressed against Eskila, he was soothed by her warmth for a time.

Minutes passed, Darragh balancing one discomfort with another. He didn’t feel like facing the cold again, but he needed the loo, and now that Eskila had mentioned it, he wanted waffles too. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten waffles, though he had a memory of them as a kit, when the family had attempted a summer vacation down at Tully Shore. They had been hmphed at a lot, bringing the tumbling chaos of loud young stoatlings onto the beach and disturbing the adults lazing around on wicker chairs and straw mats. Darragh’s mum had worn a yellow sun-dress, they had played chasing and splashing games, and dug a very dangerous series of holes in the sand for unwary beachgoers to fall into.

Darragh remembered the salty old rats strolling between the frilly umbrellas of the Rich and the thatched umbrellas of the Poor, calling out their wares as they pulled their wagons. Sandwiches and sweets, lemonade and strawberry cordial, and…

He spiraled in the memory that wasn’t about waffles after all. Where had he eaten them? Had they gone to somewhere fancy in Tully Shore for breakfast one time? How had they afforded it? How had they not been kicked out?

“I’ve got a couple gilders,” Darragh murmured. “Might be ‘nough for somethin’.”

Those couple of gilders had meant to be for the Sleep Aide that had never come, who Darragh had mostly forgotten about. Bilge food was cheap though. He had grown up making every quarter-gilder count, and what was a waffle but a bit of shaped dough? He could treat them.

Wiggle. Wiggle-wiggle squirm.

Sitting up and patting his pocket (miraculously, the gilders hadn’t fallen out), Darragh’s thoughts were still so far south-east of Bully Harbour that it took him a good few moments of staring through the Paper Totem, before the phrase Paper Totem reached out to boop his nose and nudge him out of his sunny daydreams.

“…Uh…”

Darragh squinted down at the Totem on the floor, then back at Eskila. He curled his tail up around himself, and pinched the tip through the black-tipped tuft.

He wasn’t dreaming.

It was made of something cheap and pulpy, which instantly brought to mind the Smelt. Smelt papers were used as everything from fish-and-chip wrapping to insulation, and usually lasted longer that way, rather than by the value of whatever had been printed on them. The Paper Totem resembled an eerie, bald, earless, muzzle-less head, with a long thin neck and gaping round holes for eyes and mouth. It screamed at Darragh silently, fully in possession of a mouth, but with no voice to be heard from within.

Darragh’s eye was drawn to Eskila’s puffed tail trailing across the bed. Could she have…? While he was sleeping? But why?

The statuette unnerved Darragh. He half-believed the thing was some kind of demon or spirit that had manifested itself out of detritus and come to haunt them. After all, the last statuette that Darragh had encountered had spoken to him, in that way only Darragh seemed to hear. The fact it was just… there in the middle of an otherwise mostly-bare room made it seem as though it was a thinking thing trying to get his attention.

He glanced back at Eskila again. Had she seen it? It wasn’t visible from the bed unless she sat up. He slunk his way to the edge of the bed, and cautiously, daintily stretched a footpaw down until his claws scraped the floorboards.

The Paper Totem sat silent and unimpressed, or at least unchanged in its lidless stare. Another white-furred paw touched the cool floorboards, and Darragh eased himself into a squat. He flexed his fingers, and thought back to that time on Urk, when he had touched the Wolf Idol. The poet had done this once before, and it seemed no coincidence that another mysterious statuette had entered his life, and given him another chance at Sculpture Psychometry…

Darragh’s pawpads alighted on the crown of the paper head.

Hello? Darragh tried in his own head.

There was no answering voice. Darragh had been bracing himself for a scream, and released a nervous breath. He stared into the thing’s black-hole eyes, then reached out with his intuitive sense of the spiritual, the imaginative Inland Empire of his mind. He still wasn’t getting a voice, but he began to sniff in curiosity.

Could he smell watermelon?

 

[Eskila]

Slowly, but surely, Eskila sat up. It was a process, and it didn't quite finish. There was grappling at blankets, at the wall, at the mattress, at her own legs, which simply teetered backwards until her long body was briefly a slightly annoyed U-shape. There was twisting, and push-ups, and finally she'd clawed her way upright and wobbled side-to-side with a vacant stare and a pink tongue-tip clamped between her fangs.

Her tail went: swish-swish-swish.

She regarded the paper totem alongside Darragh. Then she regarded Darragh. He was seeing it, too.

"That's strange," she said. "Usually the thing I see when I fall asleep goes away when I wake up again. Am I still asleep? Is this a waking up in my sleep dream again? No, I only ask that question the second time I wake up."

She rose from the bed and pondered the totem. She picked it up. She turned it over. She stuck her paw into the base of it and her finger-claws popped out of its wide mouth and she made a gull noise at Darragh while opening and closing her paw. Then she put it on the table beside the bed and went to the door, closed it, and started picking up the various pieces of armour and strapping them onto her body.

The paper totem passed from her mind as just something that had happened, but which had no meaning or lasting impression on the rest of the day. Eskila was graced with a certain indifference when it came to some things which she felt she could not explain or control and which she had deemed harmless.

"You can save your gilders," she said. "The Bilge doesn't make good waffles. I know where the best waffles are. It's only nine blocks away, and there's maple syrup and buttercream unless Oreva ate it or fed it to Commander Sandwichbask Chompsy." She caught the confused glance from the stoat. "He's a turtle," she explained, as if that actually did explain it. "I think he's a he, anyway. I told her he shouldn't eat it, but I don't know if I got the paw-signs right and she really likes laughing when he gets a dollop on his head and it looks like a fancy hat. And I like hearing Oreva laugh, because she never gets to hear it herself, and it's the most pure laughter there is. You know when you laugh sometimes and you feel embarrassed so you try not to, or try to make it quiet, or louder? Laughing is like... a social thing, you do it to fit in, but she laughs because things are funny. Even if they could be unhealthy for turtles."

She finished buckling her cuirass on, popped her helmet over her head, slung her shield over her shoulder, and gathered up her bedding and tucked it under an arm. The orange pieces clashed terribly with her purple pyjamas, but her dark fur somehow made it all work. She cut a striking figure, svelte and slightly bent under the weight of it, while still maintaining a semblance of regal poise inherent in all beasts who take their duties seriously.

Then she picked up the paper totem and placed it in the middle of the bed. It felt like that was appropriate to do. It looked sleepy, to her, with its wide eyes and eternal yawn.

Eskila opened the door and stood in the doorway, and once again considered Darragh.

"It's cold outside," she said slowly. "Do you want me to carry you? Do you have boots?"

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh nodded in understanding, though his focus remained on the statuette. That is, until Eskila picked it up. The seriousness of the moment evaporated, and Darragh giggled a raspy zheeping noise in his throat at the pine marten’s antics. He definitely understood her commentary on the art they’d discovered. Just as the Alkamarian radical painter MaFritté had painted a pipe that was pas une pipe, so too did Ikamaye state the eternally screaming face of the statuette was, in fact, pas un visage.

The orange-painted armour reminded Darragh of all Eskila had been telling him earlier. True, some of it he had only half-absorbed in his exhausted daze, but he remembered the important parts. Eskila was a persecuted jill, under physical threat from poetry-haters, and a pawn in the schemes of the rival noble houses that vied to be her patron.

The corners of Darragh’s eyes crinkled and grew a little moist, as he smiled at the thought of Oreva’s honest laughter. Eskila saw something even in that. Laughter came so naturally to Darragh that he had never thought too much about why he was laughing. She was right though, there were many kinds of laughter. Nasty laughter, surprised laughter, the laughter of a big sister humouring you one last time before bed.

Why was Darragh thinking of his big sister? Well…

The stoat lad blushed around his ears, squeezing his pillow. He had no boots, and that had been the case through almost his entire life, come mud, snow, or really sharp gravel. He’d been thoroughly courteous today in washing and wiping his footpaws on the scratchy doormat - clean bedding was one of those precious small joys in life you had to treasure.

When Darragh was feeling very fancy and like he ought to look like he belonged in Artistic Society, he had a different outfit he wore. Silky ruffled shirt with poofy sleeves. A red sash cinched tight around his twiggy waist. Scandalously fitted breeches. A hat of crushed blue velvet with the feather of an exotic bird (An ‘Oz-tritch’ the hatter had called it) in the brim. And black boots - the only pair he owned - shined to Stoatorian standards.

It was an outfit so nice and so expensive, the first thing he’d blown his Navy paycheck on, that most of the time he was too scared to actually wear it. But it would have been perfect to impress Eskila! Or… would it? Maybe she liked him for his rustic bare-pawed humility.

…did he want a tall strong warrior-poet jill to carry him in her arms??

The answer was yes, always, and never put me down, but Darragh knew this would not be fair on Eskila. She was offering to be practical and considerate of him. He could walk on cold wet cobblestones just fine. He knew why he would want to be cradled in her arms, but he wouldn’t be sharing the same moment with her, and that was the part that would have made it special.

Darragh shook his head. “I can walk how I am. Only got boots for special occasions. Much as I appreciate it, Eskila, I don’t mind a bit of a chilly walk with you. I bet the waffles will taste all the better for it.”

He scrambled up, his paws haphazardly matching buttonholes to the few remaining buttons of his striped pyjamas. He tucked his pillow under his arm, and followed Eskila’s lead out the doorway. He did look back, for one moment, at the still vignette of the tousled bed, and the Not-A-Face Statue. A small smile passed his lips. Just an object. An object in a room.

It didn’t mean anything he didn’t want it to.

 

[Eskila]

"I don't know how cold footpaws make waffles taste better," Eskila admitted, after staring at Darragh for a very, very long time. "That's not where tongues are supposed to go."

She gazed upwards a moment, staring intently at the ceiling, as mud-wrestling jills rolled around in her mind and fitted together in a few very specific ways.

"At least not your own footpaws."

She turned to the door, took Darragh's paw, and led him out, down the hall, down the stairs, through the evening-crowded tavern, and out into the street. Nine blocks of silence, contemplative and thick with yawns and the light jangle of armour pieces clanking together where they didn't quite fit. And she held his paw the whole way, even when he might've been trying to pull back and gain some independence. Her grip didn't falter.

It could have been sunrise, the way the sky darkened with oranges and mauves and purples tinging the clouds. It could have been a brisk morning walk before breakfast, with all the refreshing energy of a good night's rest surging through her limbs. But it wasn't. It was evening, and if she had slept, her body didn't know it either. Every step was a struggle, slogging through invisible piles of snow that had yet to build up. The only real word for it was trudging.

She walked the same way her mind thought. It seemed slow, but it was deliberate in its destination no matter how many detours it took around various obstacles in the road, and it didn't stop, not even to shake off rain or snow. She carried momentum that built up and threatened to topple her long, lithe body to the ground at any moment, at the slightest misstep, yet somehow never did.

Darragh might have realized at some point that she was not holding his paw for his sake.

There was a simple plaque and bell on the doors declaring the building "Bully Harbour - 14th Fire House - Ring Bell In Case of Emergency". The wide double doors were on the corner of the building, facing northwest, with a short stairway that had several grooves the width of wagon wheels chiselled into it. Above the doors were a balcony, overlooking the intersection, which was partially decorated with gull droppings, and boasted a larger bell for the Missertross to ring.

The doors were unlocked, and Eskila pulled one open and finally released Darragh's paw to gesture him inside ahead of her.

There was no welcome mat to wipe his footpaws on. The spacious front room was full of tables covered in gear. Hoses, barrels, buckets of paint, a wagon wheel and axle, various bits of armour, stacks of yellowed paperwork, rolled up maps, unrolled maps held open with mugs festering with the scent of stale coffee, plates with crumbs and forks. Muddy tracks criss-crossed the floor, leading to a short hallway in the rear that contained another set of doors. A wagon piled with barrels sat in the middle of the floor, ropes hanging haphazardly from its yoke, one wheel smaller than the others.

Eskila frowned at it all, then led Darragh past it towards a staircase tucked against the far left wall. She plodded up the stairs and called over her shoulder, "How many waffles do you want?"

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh poked out his tongue, cheeky and joyful. Eskila’s humour was as dry as a sun-baked stone, and her wordplay as twisting and lively as an itchy ferret. What fun! The smaller mustelid let himself be led along, grinning at the few odd looks he got as they passed through the Bilge. An armoured jill tugging along a half-dressed jack… was he being arrested? Being arrested was a good look. It made you seem tough and dangerous. The way Eski gripped him, it certainly did appear that he was firmly in her custody. Darragh attempted to give off an air of carefree abandon, perhaps with a bit of loose cannon wildcard thrown in. What crimes had he committed with that pillow? The breakfast crowd at the Bilge could only gossip!

So focused was Darragh on playing the part of Outlaw Poet, that he almost fell over when Eskila let go, their evening stroll together over too soon for him to propose another topic of conversation. They had arrived at the wide double-doors of a sturdy brick building that ordinarily, the dreamy stoat’s eyes might have slid over as just yet another block of utilitarian function amidst the choking drabness of the Slups. He barely had time to read the plaque under the bell before he was hurrying in after the sable.

Eskila had led him to a Fire House. The 14th Fire House. The Fourteenth. Her Art Movement, the Fourteenth, which was a Fire House, because Eskila was a Volunteer Fire Fighter in her Volunteer Fire Fighter armour. The quarter-gilder piece dropped and hit the floor with the hammering reverberation of a fallen anvil. The conversation they’d had that morning, full of implication and symbolism, shifted its meaning in Darragh’s mind. Eskila was not a talented poet leading an underground art movement persecuted by nobility after all.

Eskila was a ‘Gates-damned hero. And a talented poet.

Darragh’s head bobbed this way and that as he stole through the unfamiliar area. There was something inherently uneasy to him about walking through some other beasts’ workplace, even when explicitly invited. It was a place other beasts worked, relaxed, bonded, shared frustrations and triumphs together. There was an intimacy to that which only an outsider seemed able to recognise.

“Erm,” Darragh dithered, not wanting to sound greedy, but after snoozing all day, most certainly feeling greedy. “One… two… er… two if… it’s not a bother?”

Darragh scuttled up the steps after Eskila, hoping that there would be some obvious task at paw he might set himself to. Though she seemed indifferent, Darragh felt Eskila was showing him, still practically a stranger, considerable generosity.

Then again… Darragh was starting to realise he might have accidentally nominated himself as a prospective Volunteer Fire Fighter. Eskila had mentioned training, and letting him think things over. His stomach rumbled, and Darragh decided any further thinking on the matter was best accompanied by delicious waffles.

“Eskila,” Darragh began, a note of wonder in his voice. “Are… are you the captain of this fire brigade?”

 

[Eskila]

The upper floor was like a large living room, one half devoted to a short hallway - much like downstairs - which split off into multiple other rooms. Through open doors, bunk beds could be seen, and a washtub in the furthest. A large picture window looked over the back garden, while another set of large double doors opened to the balcony - closed for now, save for a little window open, through which the distant sounds of the street and a faint, biting wind could be heard.

Furniture here was somewhat sparse, consisting of a bookshelf, a couch, a coffee table, a bedside table along the opposite wall from the couch, upon which sat a small aquarium; a dining table, a few chairs that didn't look like they'd take even Darragh's weight, and a small kitchenette tucked between the north wall and the bunk rooms, featuring not much more than a stove, a sink, a coffee kettle, and cupboards hiding the rest. The coffee table was littered with books and Smelt papers and an open medical kit, and the couch was littered with a naked Oreva and several bloodied bandages. The wildcat was passed out, half her face swollen with a bruise about the eye, her arms wrapped in new bandages, and the one around her thigh was bleeding through and soaking into the cushion. It looked as though she had fallen asleep while holding a clump of snow to her face, and it had long since melted.

Eskila ignored her, and made no effort to keep from making noise as she banged about in the cupboards, pulling out the necessary bowls, spoons, ingredients, and a large waffle iron. She bonked her head several times kneeling to rummage in the lower cupboards, and bonked her head a few extra times while opening the upper cupboards to find the flour and a few eggs.

This was why she kept her helmet on.

"I guess," she said, in answer to Darragh's question. "I'm Acting Captain, anyway. No one gave me a promotion that I know about. There just isn't anybeast else to be Captain except for me. Oreva reads all the mail but I don't know what it says unless she makes me read it and she doesn't make me read it. Nobeast from the Ministries have come by to check in on us since I got back from Tully Shore. They made me go because of the Incidents and then I found out everybeast quit volunteering while I was gone."

The waffle mixture came together slowly, and Eskila became covered in flour and egg shells through no apparent means or effort. Darragh could see that she'd stacked the eggshells neatly off to the side, and still somehow there were bits of them on her helmet and arms.

"Can you light the stove? There's tinder... somewhere... I think newspapers on the table..."

She gestured with a spoon towards the table and sleeping wildcat on the couch, flicking waffle batter across the room. Some landed on Oreva's good eye, and it fluttered open. The wildcat stretched, groaned, glanced at Darragh, glanced at Eskila, and rolled over and went back to sleep, tail flicking in annoyance.

"We're out of buttermilk, I think she ate it all. There's blueberries but I don't like them in waffles. I like my waffles plain. Blueberries make things mushy. Do you ever wonder why they always use berries in things like cobblers and pancakes and muffins? They never use grapes. I've never seen a grape pancake, or a grape muffin. They put raisins in them. If I was Empress I would make that a crime. Beasts who put raisins in things should be hanged by the neck until they're very sorry. And then spanked but not if they like it. It should be a crime to even make raisins. Why take something juicy and delicious and plump and full of life and squeeze out all the life and make it dry and wrinkly like an old ferret? Or put them into big bathtubs and then dance around in it and then make it go rotting and then drink it? What about having some old rat's footpaws in your rotting juice makes it fancy? Hanging might be too much, I guess, it would hurt the throat and chin and neck parts. But they should be punished somehow! Maybe a pillory, where you can throw raisins at them. But then they might like that. So you have to find what things they don't like to throw at them. She's fine by the way, she said she was playing Whack Bat. Do you play Whack Bat? I like watching it but when I tried to play with the old brigade I got hit in the head with a big metal ball and woke up two days later and threw up."

Eskila poured some batter into the waffle iron and set it amidst the coals in the stove.

"Waffles," she said, and gave a happy little bark, her tail wiggling eagerly.