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The thing about sailing is it’s a lot like what will follow it many, many years later, that being the flying of airplanes, in one distinct way: there are only very brief periods of excitement, interspersed with much longer periods of absolutely nothing notable happening at all. One might even call them boring .
Even Crowley, siren and technical sea creature, finds them boring sometimes. Less so aboard the Siren's Song , where there is always someone doing something, than on his reef, years and years ago now, when sometimes months would go by without seeing anything more remarkable than a flock of birds overhead unless he left in search of it, but still. Boring. Sometimes.
Right now, for example.
They have been more or less stationary for the past 4 days, becalmed by a lull in the winds no one, including Crowley, had foreseen. It hadn’t been so bad at first, more mildly annoying during the first day or so, but now the traces of cabin fever are starting to set in.
Well, for the crew, or at least those that can’t or don’t like to read the books Aziraphale kept in the galley. Crowley considers himself lucky that being a creature who cannot read, he has an alternative form of entertainment, that being plunging off of the ship and into the ocean and seeing what there was to see.
Unfortunately, this far out, there is not much to see. He’d eaten a few mackerel, mostly out of boredom, but aside from having to chase one enterprising bull shark away from a few crewmembers who’d gone in for a swim, there’s been precious little to do or see. He’d even gone all the way down to the bottom, just because, and found nothing but wide swaths of wave-turned sand, and a few crabs.
Today, he is perched on the railing of the ship and staring blankly off to the east. He has been doing this for the past 2 hours. He’s also been debating retreating to Aziraphale’s cabin for a nap, but Aziraphale is busy elsewhere at the moment, fixing sails or something with sewing, and the prospect of a nap without company lacks appeal.
He could go swimming again. To what end, who knows, but maybe he’ll figure it out at some point. He could hunt, try to find some fresh fish for the crew, but they’d raided another ship just before the lull had hit, and frankly have an excessive amount of food in the hold. All manner of things, some of which might spoil if they can’t find somewhere cooler to store it soon. Tracey had been dithering about that with Aziraphale yesterday, hadn’t they? Maybe he can find a piece of driftwood or something, and drag it back for no reason other than … Stars he’s bored.
“Crowley?”
He isn’t startled, because he’d heard the clumping of Anathema’s boots coming up behind him even as he was lost in his thoughts. He twitches a wing to indicate he’s listening and then, when she pointedly waits for him to acknowledge her beyond that, turns around with a great sigh. “Yes?” he drawls.
“Bored?” she asks, expression mild.
“Transcendentally so, yes.” He likes that word. Aziraphale taught it to him a few months ago, and he is still trying gamely to work it into conversations whenever he can. Anathema knows this, and it makes her laugh.
“Good. Want to do something that might be entertaining?” He’s jumping down off the rail in a second, rather than answering. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she chuckles, and gestures for him to follow. “Come on, the kids and I were down in the galley, and they came up with an idea.”
Crowley hesitates. Uh-oh . The kids are … are fine , usually, but sometimes they come up with wild games, or strange ideas, and he finds he just can’t play along with them. Anathema shakes her head though, still smiling, and says, “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you’d do it. It’ll be fine.”
“I’ll eat you if you’re lying,” he says, and they both know he’s the one lying. She laughs again, and he follows her belowdecks, claws clacking on the wood as the boat drifts on. Once in the galley, he sees that the kids, every last one of them, are sat jammed together on one side of a long table, their pre-teen bodies barely fitting onto the same bench anymore. They’re growing again, Crowley notices. He looks them over warily and says, flatly, “What?” For the first time then, he also notices Tracey, seated at the head of the table. In front of her is a basket covered with a little tartan - of course, yes, obviously it would be tartan - cloth. He asks again, “What?” and the kids giggle.
“Have a seat. We have an idea,” Anathema urges. She gestures to the empty bench on the opposite side of the table. He doesn’t move, so she sighs and sits down on the bench first, at the end closest to Tracey, and pats the board next to her. “It’s not a trick, promise.”
Gingerly, and only after checking the underside of the table for traps, he perches on the seat. Anathema beams. “So Wensley had this idea. Tell him, Wensley.”
Crowley looks to Wensley, who responds by pushing his glasses up his nose a bit further. “Actually, it was a bit Warlock’s idea too. But mostly mine.” He looks to Tracey and her basket, and then back to Crowley. “Last time we were in port, Warlock and I went to this tavern to eat. And when we were in there, there was this man eating one of every dish - all of the things the cook could make! - and saying what he thought about them. Said he was writing them down to put in a paper. He called it ‘ culinary review ’, actually, but mostly I think he was just complaining.”
“Alright,” Crowley says slowly, cocking his head to one side.
“And -” he pauses, looks to Warlock and gets an encouraging nod, and starts again, “And today we were thinking, well, what does it matter what he thinks? Everyone’s taste is different. Like I like tuna, and Pepper doesn’t.”
“Blech,” says Pepper, as a matter of emphasis.
Wensley nods. “And, and then we were saying, actually, you know Crowley’s not even a human, and he eats barnacles ,” Crowley nods, because yes, he does, he’s rather fond of them, actually, “so I wonder if he had to review the food what he would say?”
“Ah,” he says, neutrally. He thinks he sees where this is going, but he’s not entirely certain yet, so he waits. Wensley looks concerned.
“So actually, we were thinking if we put together some foods -”
“A tasting plate,” Tracy cuts in gently, smoothing the cloth over the basket down.
“Yeah, right, tasting plate, if you would like … tell us what you think of the foods?” Wensley looks hopeful. All of them do, actually. Crowley looks at each of them, from Greasy at one end down to Warlock at the other, and then shrugs.
“You are bored, aren’t you?”
Pepper leans forward. “So you’re in?”
“I just have to eat food? That’s it?” He looks to Anathema. “Yes?” She nods.
“And rate them out of ten,” Adam adds. “Like, bad is zero out of ten, really good is ten out of ten, and okay is five out of ten.”
Brian sits up a bit straighter. “I’m going to be keeping score.” Indeed, he produces a scrap of parchment and a pencil from somewhere. It’s grubby, of course, so probably not from one of Aziraphale’s books, but then again with Brian you never knew. He does consider for a minute whether or not Aziraphale would punish all of them if he found Brian had torn a page from a book, and then decides that the kids are all well smart enough to know better than to do something ridiculous like that.
Crowley slumps his elbows onto the table, and his wings cock out as his shoulders relax, one of them perhaps nudging Anathema on purpose. She pushes it away. Tracy rubs her hands together. “Oh, excellent. Right, now which to do first …” She pushes the cloth back, takes stock of what she has inside - food, Crowley can smell all kinds of food, meat and vegetables and all sorts - and makes a decision. “Right. Start you out easy, yes? Let’s do this one first. Chicken gizzard.”
The gizzard flops onto the table in front of him, and Crowley regards it for a second. “Fresh,” he says finally, before carefully picking it up between two claws and dropping it into his mouth. He chews it, swallows, and then thinks. “Pretty good,” he decides. “Give it an eight.”
Brian dutifully records the score. “Well, we figured you’d like that one well enough,” Warlock says. “Try something kind of different next.”
Tracy nods, having already made her selection, and sets a cube of sweet-smelling something-or-other down in front of him. He regards it appraisingly. It’s red, and juicy, and so sweet . “Watermelon,” Tracy explains. “It’s - well, I wouldn’t want to bias the judge. See what you think.”
Crowley picks it up and sniffs it once more - still sweet - and then nibbles at one of the edges of it. “Hm.”
Brian watches carefully, his pencil poised. “Yeah?”
“Sweet.” He takes a bigger bite. “Juicy. Suppose it’d be nice to most.” He shrugs and pops the rest of the cube into his mouth. Chewing it to a sugary pulp he says, “5 out of 10.” Brian scribbles, and Adam and Pepper nod approvingly, like they were expecting that. Crowley swallows, and looks to the basket. “Right. Next?”
He smells it before it’s cleared the cloth, and he smirks. The pork rib clatters onto the table and Crowley doesn’t hesitate, just picks it up and crunches his teeth into the bone. “Transcendental,” he says, teeth gnashing until the bone is so many chips, and he can swallow it easily. “Can I give more than ten?” The kids exchange a look and ultimately, Adam shrugs. “Twelve,” Crowley says. “Fifteen. Twenty. A hundred.” He glances to the basket, and Tracy laughs, covering the contents with her hands to hide them.
“No more,” she says regretfully, while the kids giggle. “You can try this, though.”
In front of him, she places a fungus. He looks at it, and it rolls around a little on its rounded cap when the ship rocks with a wave. “That’s a fungus,” he says at last. He looks away from it, and then looks around the faces of the watching humans. “That’s fungus.”
“It’s a mushroom, actually,” says Wensley.
“It’s a fungus,” Crowley repeats.
“Mushroom,” Anathema reiterates. “Yes, also a fungus, but it’s called a mushroom.”
Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’s not poisonous ,” Greasy giggles. “It’s portabellonous .”
Some of the others groan, although a few laugh. Crowley blinks. “I’m not eating it.”
“Well you have to taste it, at least.” Warlock gestures to the mushroom, exasperated.
“I don’t.” And then, feeling a bit petulant, he crosses his arms. “I won’t.” He mantles his wings up a little, around his shoulders, making himself appear larger and more intimidating to, perhaps, the mushroom. The mushroom fails to react to this display. “I don’t eat fungus.”
Pepper frowns. “You ate a chicken gizzard. And a rib. With the bone in.”
“Is that a fungus?” Crowley waits pointedly for an answer. Eventually, Pepper harrumphs out a quiet little ‘no’, and Crowley nods. “There you are then.”
“So what should I give it?” asks Brian. “A zero?”
Adam picks up the mushroom and regards it forlornly. “‘Spect he would have had to try it to get a zero. How about … negative ten.” Brian nods. “Yeah. Negative ten, wouldn’t even try.”
“It’s a fungus,” says Crowley for the last time, as if that explains everything. He is watching Tracy as he says it, trying to sniff out what she’s grabbing before he can see it. The smells from the basket are less now, much less, and this one smells like the sea, like fish.
It’s a cup of anchovies. Crowley nods approvingly, and slurps them down. “That’s more like it,” he says once the cup’s empty. “Proper food, that.”
“Yes,” says Warlock with a very flat tone, “Raw fish. Delicious.”
Crowley hisses. “Aziraphale agrees with me.”
“Aziraphale also likes mushrooms,” Anathema points out. Crowley sniffs, but isn’t exactly sure how to respond to that. The children giggle again. He hisses again, just because, which doesn’t really help, just inspires more giggling.
“Well, then let’s try this.” Tracey produces a long, thin, green plant from the basket and hands it to Crowley. He looks it up and down, sniffs at it once or twice, and then takes an experimental nibble on the end of it.
“What’s this?” he asks, chewing pensively. “Some kind of plant?”
Wensley nods. “A green bean, actually.”
Crowley hums, and takes another, larger bite. He chews some more, and then realizes the fibers of the casing are getting stuck between his teeth. He sets the remainder of the bean down and frowns, swallowing the bite he’s taken only because Aziraphale has already had several stern words with him about spitting out chewed food. “Unpleasant,” he concludes. “Wouldn’t eat again. Bad to taste. Zero out of ten.”
“I’m seeing a trend,” Anathema says wisely, as she removes the bean. “Not a fan of vegetables?”
“I like seaweed,” Crowley replies, defensive.
“That’s not a vegetable,” she answers automatically, and then her brow furrows. “Is that a vegetable? Or is it a seafood?”
Crowley has no idea, but he says, “It’s a vegetable.” He looks back to the basket. “One more thing?”
Tracy nods. “One more thing. And thank you, love, for being such a good sport.” She rustles around under the cloth. “Even if we did throw a mushroom in there.”
“Fungus,” Crowley corrects, before the last item appears.
It’s flat, and brown, and crispy on the outside. Fried, probably. It smells of meat, too, which is a good sign. Crowley leans closer as Tracy sets it in his palm, and sniffs. Pork.
“Euch,” says Wensley. Greasy elbows him in the ribs.
“You’ll bias the judge!”
“Shh!” Adam shushes them sharply, and they all look back to Crowley, expectant. Crowley looks from them, to the fried little meat square, and then bites off a corner. “Mm,” he says, after a minute, and takes another bite. Wensley makes a face, and Crowley chews with his mouth open a bit, just because, although whatever it is doesn’t need much chewing. It’s basically mush, pan-fried until it’s become a little square patty. “What’s this?”
Now Anathema makes a face, too. “ Scrapple ,” she groans. “Ugh, I can’t watch.” She looks away, and flips Tracy, who is laughing openly, a rude gesture. “Of course you like it, you’re a sea monster.”
“Siren,” Crowley corrects. He eats the rest of the thing - the outside really is nice and crunchy, and whatever spices are in the stuff are quite good - and asks, “What’s so unpleasant about it?”
“It’s made of organs ,” says Pepper, horrified.”Pig organs. Heart and lungs, and liver, and snouts .”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?” Peppers response is one of unbridled disgust, and he figures that’s probably all, and she probably doesn’t want to even consider that it might not be. Tracy is still laughing, as are Greasy, Adam, and Brian. “Where’d it come from?”
“The last ship we raided,” Anathema answers. She looks a bit green, now he thinks about it. “They had a loaf of it wrapped up. Tracy fried some up for breakfast this morning.”
“I have leftovers,” the cook adds, before setting a platter of cold fried scrapple and nearly-spoiled pork ribs down in front of Crowley. There is also a hopeful piece of watermelon on the edge of the plate, possibly for garnish, although likely because she anticipated Crowley wouldn’t be entirely enthusiastic about that particular food. She produces a bowl of the rest of the melon and sets it down for the children, who fall upon it eagerly.
“Don’t see what’s wrong with it,” Crowley says, snapping into another rib. “It’s just meat.”
Anathema rolls her eyes. “You would say that. Aziraphale said the same thing this morning.”
Crowley crunches down onto the rest of the rib, and follows it up with a few more slices of scrapple. “Because he has good taste. Oh, I forgot to score it.” He thinks about it. Brian looks up, surprised and then sheepish that he forgot, his so mouth full of watermelon that the juice is running down his cheeks. “Better than the gizzard, worse than the ribs.”
Brian nods. “So an eleven. Ish,” he adds, and sprays the parchment with watermelon juices. “Oops.” The ink begins to run, and he whines. “Aw, man.”
“Oh, that’s alright dear.” Tracy pats the boy on the head, ruffling his hair. “We can copy it again later.”
“Yeah, we have to keep a record.” Adam sits up. “If we’re still stuck in a few days, we can try again, with different food.”
Anathema gives Crowley a wry look. “There’s more varieties of mushrooms back there. Any idea when the winds might pick up? If we’re here too long, it’ll be all we have left.”
“Nah, not long,” says Crowley. “Not much longer. Maybe a few hours.” He did smell something like wind earlier, perhaps. And now with the prospect of nothing-but-mushrooms, he scents the air again, a little more desperately. “Yeah. Should be moving in a few more hours.”
And if the wind doesn’t do it, he thinks to himself, he’s going to jump out and push the damn boat himself.