At first she swears she smells it in the cabin, a sex-smell. But after a time that doesn’t matter anymore. Ophelia is sliding down the long, dark wave of seasickness once again.
This time, however, even from the depths of her private misery, Ophelia can tell there is something wrong. The boat pitches so much she is almost falling out of her bunk. Shouts, cries, the sound of feet running along the decks. The wind is screaming like a tribe of banshees, and underneath it is a deep thrumming note, like something from a bottomless pit. Through it all, now and again, she hears the deep voice of John Canoe calling orders. Every time she hears him, she feels just a little bit better, before sliding down the sick wave again.
Even Pim is sick. She’s wedged into the bunk above, and Ophelia can hear her retching. They haven’t spoken since Ophelia walked in on her and The Gor. Being sick is a good cover for not being sure you want to talk to your friend. For not being sure your friend is your friend at all.
Time goes by.
The noises coming out of Pim are starting to change. She’s growling, like when she had that fit back in the city. Ophelia thinks dully that she never asked Pim about that. She doesn’t know if Pim has had an episode like that before, or if it was new. Is it happening again? If it is, Ophelia doesn’t think she can help this time. She couldn’t sing right now if her life depended on it.
Is Pim turning into a . . . monster? It’s hard even to think the word. Dragon.
There’s a rending crash above and shouts, cries. The motion of the vessel changes, she heels over to one side, sluggish. A wave smashes into her and she jerks, water sluices across the cabin floor. Another. “Cut the rigging, get her free!” John Canoe is shouting; it’s the first time Ophelia’s heard a note like that in his voice. The boat’s not rising to meet the waves, she’s down like a punch-drunk boxer in a ring.
Pim is saying something, but it’s coming from a long way off. Her legs are coming down, she staggers and falls onto the cabin floor. “. . . help us.” She’s gasping. She looks awful; she looks as bad as Ophelia feels. “. . . with me.”
Pim takes Ophelia’s arm and is pulling, pulling, trying to get her up. She’s shaking her head, her long ears twitching, eyes half-closed. Growling. “Now!” she says.
And everything lurches and twists.
Another great wave has hit the boat. The cabin shudders, and there’s an awful groaning sound.
The wood at the ship’s heart is breaking.