The Crying Figurehead
"Looks like a storm brewing. Oh! I've got a fun idea! Why don't we tie him to the prow? I was getting sick of the old figurehead anyway."
Those were the last words Stanford heard before being dragged off by the rough hands of the crew. Some were laughing hysterically at the idea. Saying that he would look better than the boring old mermaid. While others nudged each other, making bets behind their hands about if Stanford would survive. None seemed to care for his wellbeing, but as he tried to dig his heels into the wooden boards of the deck, Stanford knew he shouldn’t have expected something as kind as sympathy.
The wind was knocked out of his lungs as he was slung over the prow of the boat. His arms tied back with thick rope; turning Stanford, much to Bill’s delight, into a human figurehead.
“Careful you don’t make the mermaids jealous.” Bill mocked. “I hear they get bitey this time of year.” He poked him with his cane.
The rope was tied uncomfortably tight to his elbows, making escape impossible. The cane prodded between his ribs harshly. Stanford tried to lean out of the way, but his bindings kept him in place, subjected to more cruel jabs from Bill Cipher and his cane.
“Good job keeping him sturdy!” he called back to his crew. He knelt down to whisper in Stanford’s ear. “Maybe this will jog your memory to find the treasure you promised in Port Cascada.”
Bill turned, cackling, his shrill voice rang out over the raucous laughter of the crew as they made their way below deck. Preparing for the oncoming storm.
Stanford, ever the determined man, struggled against his bindings with all his might. But all he was rewarded with were terrible burns in his elbows as the rope cut into his skin. The sky overhead began to darken with many heavy clouds. The wind whistled and blew in Stanford’s face, whipping his hair to and fro, getting it in his eyes and itching all over his forehead. He turned around trying to focus his gaze on something, or anything. However, with his spectacles locked in Bill’s quarters, Stanford had little hope of finding anything to help him escape. He pressed his feet against the prow, trying to keep himself from getting soaked by the ever violent waves beneath.
In a few minutes, he felt the first drops of rain. Their soft falls tickled his skin. This was not to last, as before Stanford could hope for the storm to be much lighter than Bill and his crew anticipated, large heavy drops of rain began beating down on him. He tried to keep his footing, but under the weight of the pelting rain, and the slickness of the prow; Stanford lost his hold and felt what was the first of many ice cold waves that slammed him against the ship. Knocking the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air.
On and on his torture continued, The water knocking him back, the ropes keeping him in place, his arms holding the weight of his body. The cold of the rain and wind did little to soothe the burns that grew on Stanford’s arms as he was whipped around like a ragdoll. He screamed in pain when a frayed piece of rope stabbed into his arm, still firm, despite the gallons upon gallons of water that were being thrown his way from every direction.
Lightning struck, lighting up the stormy sky. Stanford lifted his head squinting through the rain, hoping to catch a glimpse of a ship, an island, or even some sharp rocks to crash this damned ship and every heartless bastard upon it. He had no such luck. Even with the water in his eye acting as a small lens he could not see anything apart from even more open sea. Thunder boomed, it’s sound echoing across the ocean before Stanford. But for this tired sailor its sound was lost amongst the noise of the crashing waves and the intense pain in his arms.
It had been multiple hours since Stanford had been tied to the prow. He could feel the cold in his very bones as he struggled to keep himself conscious. His legs were numb and he could hardly feel the boots on his feet. His arms were bleeding, but under the heavy rain, Stanford could not notice. It was when another wave cruelly knocked his ankles against the ship in a painful angle when Stanford heard something that woke him from the trance of pain he'd been suffering through.
It was the sound of revelry, cheer, songs sung off key and stories of bold adventures being told in loud voices. The crew were making a ruckus loud enough that it almost rivaled the deafening sound of the crashing waves that Stanford was fighting against. Their volume itself wasn’t what made them loud, it was their revelry itself.
They had thrown him out here, and now it was almost as though they planned to make him listen to them enjoying the warmth and comfort of the ship while he froze to death outside. He was never of value to them, an object to be used for their amusement. He knew that he didn’t matter to them, it had been an underlying thought of his. But to have it forced into the forefront of his mind made Stanford’s blood boil with vigor he had lost many waves ago.
“That bastard did this on purpose.” Stanford said under his breath. “He wants to tempt me with warmth.” The words were like venom on his tongue. His nostrils flared, blood now running with a warmth only possible from a deep hatred. The numbness that once stiffened his body began to melt away as anger flooded its way through his veins. But under the pelting rain, and the many cold waves beneath, Stanford knew his new found warmth would not last.
Warm tears fell down his cheeks as the hopelessness of his situation began to cement itself in his mind. Rather than give into despair, Stanford chose to curse. His parents had forbidden him from partaking in such an unbecoming habit in his youth. However, he had learnt enough from his peers through his many years of sailing that he did not need any guide to teach him how to release his emotions.
After several minutes Stanford’s throat had grown sore, cursing everything and everyone on the damned ship on which he was held prisoner. Gathering the last of his strength, Stanford gathered all of his rage, all of his hate, every last morsel of emotion he could feel into a scream. It was primal, it was undignified, and if any of the crew could hear him against the sound of booming thunder, crashing waves and heavy rain they would have mocked him. But in that moment, Stanford felt himself grow lighter.
The weight of his emotions left him with a new vigor. Bill wanted him to fall into despair, to become weak and beg for mercy. To become like clay in Cipher’s detestable hand. That would be the last thing he would give him. Stanford just needed to hold on for a little longer. Bill and his men would make a mistake, they may have been notorious pirates but Stanford still had his wits. All he needed was one opportunity and he’d be able to break his way to freedom.
With a newfound strength, Stanford pulled against his bindings. It hurt, the burns had made his skin raw and his left arm had many cuts from where the rope had started to frey. Despite this, Stanford soldiered on, with the rain pelting down on his head, the waves beating against his legs; he tugged and pulled against the ropes. Hoping against hope, cursing under his breath, praying to anyone who’d listen for the slightest give in the rope.
He worked for what felt like hours. The storm had lightened enough that he could hear the crew leaving for their quarters, their night of revelry coming to an end. Despite all of this Stanford still worked against the rope. It was then that Stanford felt exactly what he needed. The burning pain in his arm had lessened ever so slightly. All of his tugging and turning had loosened the rope just enough for him to pull his left arm through the loops of the rope. His wrist had difficulty making it through, but with the slickness of the water that had been raining down upon him and splashed up from below, he was able to free one arm.
Initially Stanford had planned to use his free arm to untie his second arm then pull himself aboard, sneak into one of the lifeboats and row as far away from Cipher and his crew as possible. There was one minor hiccup in that plan. That was he was now hanging precariously from the prow of the ship by one arm. All of his weight which was once equally spread between both arms was now being held in place by one.
The pain was sudden and flared through his entire arm, the pressure added onto his sensitive skin only increasing his suffering. Stanford let out a pained scream. He reached for the loosened ropes to balance himself. He needed to work fast. The wind was picking up again and he knew he did not have the strength to weather another storm with one arm. He took a deep breath and tried his best to reach for the knot that had held him in place. Alas it was out of his reach. With little other choice Stanford dug his nails under the rope. He bit his lip as the sensitive skin of his arm flared with pain once more.
“Any kind of give. Even the smallest inch.” He thought desperately. “If i can get that then I can-”
A wave slammed against the ship, knocking Stanford against the prow. His back hit the sharp edge of the wood in a painful way. He cried out, hardly able to keep his eyes open as the pain of his arm being twisted against the tight rope flooded his mind.
‘Was this really it? Am I truly doomed to become Bill Cipher’s plaything until my body is broken and blue?’ Stanford thought. Hot tears fell down his cheeks as he hung from one arm.
Another wave crashed into Stanford. The harsh wave slammed his head against the hard wood of the prow. The last thing he felt before his mind faded to black was an even greater weight on his body, as a pair of arms wrapped themselves around him, followed by a loud splash.
Stanford awoke with a start. His six fingered hands scraped against a jagged rock.
“Where am I?” He muttered.
He looked around, hoping to catch his bearings. Unfortunately, without his spectacles, he was as blind as a bat. All he knew was that he was somewhere dark and rocky. Had he been thrown into some hidden chamber in the ship? That was unlikely. Bill took pleasure in keeping him close enough to torture and mock. This place did not sway the way the ship did. The sound of crashing waves was still present, but distant. That combined with the rocks on the floor, Stanford surmised that this was likely a cave. Turning his gaze, Stanford was able to see a figure sitting near the mouth of the cave, under the moonlight.
“Is someone there?” Stanford called out. He tried to walk, but his legs buckled under his own weight. He felt weak from the ordeal he had endured on the ship. “Please, where am I?”
Stanford’s heart beat loudly in his chest. He tried to reach out. This could be one elaborate trick by Cipher. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for that madman to drop him off on an island purely to make him think he had a chance at escape. But something inside of Stanford pushed him towards the blurry figure.
“Are you awake?” The voice had an accent that Stanford was not familiar with. “You were out for a while and I was worried that you were a goner.”
“How long has it been?” Stanford asked slowly.
“Oh, about a sun or so.” the other person said. Stanford slowly crawled over to the other person. Following his voice, he could make out the sight of the round moon, shining in the night sky.
“I did, yes. I caught sight of you hanging from a ship and thought you were a poor lady caught by some cruel humans.”
“Them ropes were no big deal for me.” The other person said. There was a twinge of pride in his words.
“I don’t understand how. But thank you for rescuing me-er. I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t asked for your name.” Stanford said.
“You did just wake up from a terrible ordeal, I wouldn't blame you.” the person said. “My Name is Fiddleford.”
“Well well aren’t we similar.” Fiddleford snickered.
“Yes, that is quite the coincidence, however I must ask you, what happened to the ship. Where is Bill Cipher?” Stanford asked urgently.
“Don’t worry about them.” Fiddleford said. “Humans haven’t been able to track us down for years. Sure they may be able to capture the occasional reckless youth, but this little oasis has been safe from them for generations.”
“What do you mean?” Stanford asked. “Are you not human?”
“Are you not a merman?” Fiddleford replied.
“A merman?” Stanford’s voice jumped an octave as excitement took over his mind. “Good heavens, I thought you were just stories told to children.”
“You’re a human?” Fiddleford asked in disbelief.
“I’m sorry to disappoint.” Stanford said.
“But they hanged you from the front of their boat. Why would your crew do that?”
“They aren’t my crew.” Stanford said bitterly. “They’re pirates. They were going to kill my crew and all my friends. But I was able to bargain with them. I offered to guide them to an island full of treasure in exchange for releasing my crew.”
“Goodness.” Fiddleford said. He rested a hand on Stanford’s shoulder. “I’ve heard of humans mistreating merfolk they encounter. But I never knew they could be so cruel to one of their own.”
There was a beat. The cool night air blew through the cave.
“If I may ask, how did you not know I was a merman? I felt it was rather obvious.” Fiddleford spoke as something fleshy slapped against the rock floor of the cave.
“I’m unable to see normally.” Stanford said. “I must wear spectacles in order to see as well as others.”
“Oh that’s rather uncanny.” Fiddleford said.
Stanford heard Fiddleford rustle through something. “That is just another way in which we are similar Mr. Stanford.”
Something metal and thin tapped against stanford’s hand. Reaching out carefully, Stanford wrapped his fingers around a pair of spectacles. They felt rusted and age older than he. There was no doubt in his mind that Fiddleford had come across this from a sunken ship. However, Stanford was not one to question a gift and placed the spectacles on his nose. The lenses were not exactly to his grading, but they provided greater visibility than his naked eyes did.
For the first time that evening Stanford could see his companion. He had dirty blond hair that was tied back with some plant Stanford couldn't recognise. At the end of his long nose were a pair of spectacles that had a couple of barnacles along the handles and bridge between the lenses. There was a warm smile on his face. Fiddleford wore a brown vest that seemed to be made of tightly woven seaweed. His arms were thin and had fins along the forearm. His hands seemed normal however the ends of his fingers had webbing between them and each finger ended with a sharp claw.
‘Those must be how he cut my ropes.’ Stanford thought.
Looking at just his top half Stanford would have thought Fiddleford was an attractive man, perhaps one he would see working at a shipyard or at a port town. However a single glance at where his legs should have been revealed a beautifully scaled tail that shimmered in the moonlight.
“You’re beautiful.” Stanford said without thinking.
“Well thank you kindly.” Fiddleford blushed.
“Now isn’t the time to be talking jovially.” Stanford jumped to his feet. He ignored the growing redness in his own cheeks. “Bill Cipher could be anywhere. No doubt he’d be sending out his crew to locate me as we speak.
Fiddleford rested a hand on Stanford’s shoulder. “I would not worry about that if I were you. Where I’ve taken you, there is no chance in this world that someone rotten like that will ever find you.”
“What do you mean?” Stanford asked.
“Well, there’s a reason that merfolk like myself have been able to stay hidden for so many generations, Stanford.” Fiddleford said. “That’s because where we hide is kept secret by a powerful spell. However, when sailors catch glimpses of us, they get curious, and that curiosity creates ideas which then turn to rumors. Some think our home is full of beautiful women who reward any perilessmen who venture out to find them. Others think it is full of treasures of the like that none have ever seen.”
“Welcome Stanford, to Port Cascada.”
