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Dr. Crocus sat on the chair with the thick medical records spread out in front of him. He was enjoying a brief moment of rest by wiping his glasses. Cleaned the lens first, carefully wiped off the evenly distributed dust, and then the nose pads, mercilessly drove away the patina dyed by seawater and sweat. After wiping the temples for a little, he let out a light chuckle from his thick and protruding lips, and put on his glasses again with satisfaction—the feeling of the clean temples driving straight behind his ears was gratifying—and he was ready to continue his research. He was slightly tired, but his mind was still active.
In his exclusive ship's doctor's room, there were just him and Buggy, one of the two apprentices on the ship. The latter was lying in the shadow cast by the curtain, sleeping soundly against the wall. There was only one regular for this room full of medical orders that are yelled out: Gol D. Roger. The captain of the ship in his prime, the owner of the medical records, suffering from an incurable disease, and needs to be caught for a check-up every day, so as to adjust the details of the analgesic plan as well as a series of other plans. This person's lack of compliance is as strong as his strength. After a commendable hard battle, or a banquet that consumed all the liquor on board, this room would also welcome a few sick and wounded. The pain was carved on the wall riding on droplets and grinning screams, filling the room to its brim.
(Roger often laughed in front of Dr. Crocus, saying that he was almost taking over all the "bad businesses" that the original ship doctor brother was responsible for, his tone full of banter and subtle distortion caused by alcohol, which made people immediately know how nasty this patient is upon hearing that. Despite this, all his characteristics had nothing to do with the identity of being a patient, and thus he was very loved and trusted by Dr. Crocus.)
Dr. Crocus took out a piece of paper from the drawer, dipped the ink with a quill, but felt unable to do it. This was somewhat rare. Thus he stretched his arms, trying to relax the muscles. When he tilted his head back to a considerable angle, he saw the hands of the clock hanging directly below the dial, and it was twelve o'clock, the first shift hour of the day. He figured that tonight's watchmen, no matter on the bow, the stern, or the watchtower, would do no harm in being lazy.
He then put the paper back in the drawer, and continued to devote himself to the fitting and analysis of life expectancies. It was the time when a weak human voice was mixed into the indifferent tide. Someone called him.
"Mr. Crocus."
The shadow moved. Dr. Crocus responded, closed the medical records, stood up and walked to the big bed in the corner of the ship's doctor's room, and opened the curtain with one hand. "Boy," he moved unhurriedly, as if he wanted to convey a signal that there is no need to worry, "you woke up?"
"Mr. Crocus, I'm so thirsty," Buggy said, still buried under the soft white quilt, with only his sickly head showing. Dr. Crocus thought Buggy was the funniest kid he had ever known. He was nearly fourteen, just in his exact adolesensce, and he was too lively that according to the outdated theory, he was typically a choleric person. He also made a deal with the devil, obtained an un-choppable body, and almost lost all of the reasons that would make him here. It's just that there are exceptions to everything. Before dark, he suddenly felt unwell in his body, being cocooned in his private hammock for a while didn't do him any good, and therefore he was buried in this extravagant white quilt. For Dr. Crocus, his looks alone--the clown's round nose, the slightly drooping corners of the eyes, the extraordinarily active orbicularis muscle covered by a layer of light-colored skin with short fuzz--are enough to motivate his desire to amuse. However, these places are now dangerously flushed, and something in Dr. Crocus's mind is speaking. It was not the medical ethics education he had received so far, but another simple concept, beating him to quickly put these inappropriate thoughts out of the sky and do something good quickly. He did.
Buggy pulled his arms out of the quilt, then sat up, took the cup, and drank in small sips. Otherwise, he could easily burn his tongue and nose at the same time.
When he put the cup down, there was a layer of water in it about half the length of a thumb. "I'm a little better."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Special medicine added." Dr. Crocus looked aside casually.
Buggy looked up, his face tensed with slightly moved emotion, revealing the sobriety that was precious in the intervals of fever.
"What's that? It smells like boiled soup."
There was an odd silence for a while. Doctor Crocus fine-tuned his neck and eyeballs, and moved the door of the ship's doctor's room to the center of his field of vision. He slowly, slowly emptied everything he was thinking about, only thought about that closed thing, made with good wood, practical and beautiful, and it fits perfectly into the door frame. The only entrance and exit. The idea bloomed like his name: someone might open it in the next second, break in here, and report the message that needs to be reported. He felt that he should've brought something to sit on and take a good look at this beautiful place. Don't bother moving his favorite chair for studying medical records (It was taken out of the lighthouse when he left Twin Cape. At that time, Silvers Rayleigh himself helped him fix it next to the table), a high stool with a cushion like a sponge cake embryo for the patient should be enough.
If it wasn't Buggy who was sick, Dr. Crocus would call him, using a clever tone that was far from commanding on the surface, so that the kid would do it willingly.
Dr. Crocus paced to fetch the stool he needed. He didn't use the buckle reserved on the ground to fix it, because the chief navigator Scopper Gaban mentioned at yesterday's route discussion meeting that the ocean current near this port is very gentle, "too good to be true".
He sat down, crossed his arms, looked at the door again, and answered, "Salt scraped off the skin of the fish."
"Ah... ah!" Buggy's gray-blue eyes widened angrily, "Don't tease me!"
Dr. Crocus turned his head, his facial expression remained unchanged, but he was proud of the compromise he had found inside. "There is also the belief that I hope you don't die. Do you think I said this just to make fun of you? Don't look down on doctor, I will try to explain it in terms your little head can understand. I thought it was Five-Day Disease but we haven’t docked for a while, and you are the only one acting like this on the whole ship, which means that it’s not the problem of being bitten by insects, nor is it food poisoning or the bacteria on that food reserve of yours has mutated; the blood smear is normal, visceral inflammation and immune system rampage can be ruled out, not to mention that I cut your body open to see—this can't be done on other people—no obvious pathological tissue was found; dominant symptoms, dizziness, fever, vomiting, all in all there is no specific pain in a certain location. So what should I think?" Dr. Crocus finished these words in one breath, with a serious expression, as if implying that the only realistic treatment plan is a sedative and a straitjacket. "Thinking of me as dude Gaban. He's teasing you just for the sake of teasing you. Poor young guy. Nobody's going to sue for you, death suit, insurance suit—even if there is, I'm confidently assert that this is a self-limiting disease, and believe that in the early stage of the disease without deterioration, supportive treatment for each symptom is enough. If you vomit, take in salt water. If the fever is severe, apply ice water. If antibiotics are needed, use the courses fully. Otherwise, what else can you think?"
He pushed his glasses and adjusted the pendant on his chest. "Medical skills are not a tool for me to show off, but there is a reason why Brother Rayleigh asked me for so long."
The little patient shrank his neck in confusion, like a criminal who has just received a life sentence because of impulsive contempt of court. He obviously had no medical knowledge. To a person of this age, destruction is much more natural, easier, and more interesting than repairing.
But he didn't choose either way, he just chose to raise the cup. "I'm finished, Mr. Crocus..."
"Not bad." In fact, there was still half a thumb deep in the water, "I'll give you—"
"Mr. Crocus! I want to ask—"
"Nothing to ask."
This sentence seemed to irritate Buggy, and he let out a "click, click, click" sound from his throat.
"Follow the doctor's orders!" Dr. Crocus raised his voice, "Otherwise, you get off the ship and seek medical treatment, and see if the people are happy to see you, you little pirate brat with a knife around your waist—"
"—Mr. Crocus! Well, will I die?!"
The almost screaming questioning made the vocal cords that had just entered the voice-changing period hoarse.
"You've been in this business longer than me! Even though a apprentice. You shouldn't be afraid of death."
"But—"
"You threw up too much, it's a mess!"
Mr. Ship's Doctor took the cup anyway. When he opened the curtain again, there were two extra things in his palm. He sat down with the attitude of "nobody could ever let me move this time".
"Don't bite the capsule, this would be the last cup of it."
The last thing Dr. Crocus wants to see is things—things that should be as tacit as the well-constructed jokes of various comedy performances—being pointed out by roundabout words, like being stabbed over and over again till death, life ended, soul rotted, and the dead body collapsed pale and shriveled. Why do people always validate things only if they could be seen? When he was studying paediatrics, he had thought that since children acted on instinct, at least they would not be fooled by this sort of ignorance.
Buggy fell silent, swallowed the pill, and quietly sipped from his cup. This time he drank it all nicely. The confusion brought on by the fever seemed to take over him again, and Crocus was finally able to quietly look at the door for a while as Crocus himself. Through the round lens, he enjoys what the out-of-focus lens brings—two doors overlapping each other. Then, like a stock of squid released from a large net, his thoughts began to wander around, as if they were swimming. This boat is truly amazing. Wherever those soft and delicious creatures swim, there was his praise. This is an truly amazing boat. He felt as if it was only yesterday that he practiced medicine and guarded the lighthouse at Twin Cape on the other side of the world, and now he is here, on this huge ship with red sails. The only regret was that the reason that he accepted Silver Rayleigh's invitation has fallen through.
"What's the salt for?" Buggy asked suddenly.
"Inner environment of the human body. Electrolytes. Let me put it this way. Your body is like a miniature sea," Crocus looked at the short, disheveled hair on his head, that rare blue color was always hidden under different beanies, "When seawater level drops, we would have to add some into it artificially...forget it. Biochemistry. You won't be interested."
"Oh...oh. What does this have to do with chemistry? I know chemistry pretty well."
"So that's how it is."
"Let me tell you this: nitroglycerin can be used to make dynamite. Isn't that right, Mr. Crocus?"
"You're right. That's what it does in the field of chemistry—"
"And the field of pirate, the field of explosion! But they're about the same thing. I don't apply for this thing anyway... what is it called?"
"Patent."
"Pa-Tent! Anyway, won't apply for a patent on this thing. The profit is too little."
Crocus thought to himself, and decided not to tell him the mechanism of nitroglycerin for relieving angina pectoris and the value of this discovery. After all, this kid couldn't even figure out why he had to drink salt water after vomiting, even though it was essentially the same as the well-known rules of survival at sea number one, "Do not drink sea water no matter how thirsty you are". At the same time, Crocus was also worried that the situation of the venerable Roger would be accidentally revealed when being too carried away—as if a squid had gently sprayed some ink, darkening the corner of the vision, forcing him to close his eyes and shake his head to clear the air.
"Uncle Tom." From the front of his knee, Buggy's voice suddenly sounded again.
"What?"
"The builder of this Oro Jackson. Uncle Tom."
"That long-horned cowfish fish-man."
Buggy lay on his side and nodded. "He seems to be studying trains or something. I admire his research spirit."
"You sound so polite."
"Sometimes when I talk to Shanks, we just call him Tom."
"This is the attitude that you little brats would have." Crocus commented, "He is a good brother, and he is really good at building ships."
"But I don't call it that in front of Captain Roger. Captain Roger and Uncle Tom are very close, because Uncle Tom built the ship—well, although it made him and his workshop people have to moved to Scrap Island. Under the bridge hole." Buggy split one hand, hovered above the smooth forehead and gestured, "Uncle Tom said that when a boat was built, it was built, and he only told this to us. So if the boat is no longer used, being abandoned as a boat is also a way out. He liked us very much and persuaded the captain to let us be in charge of the launching ceremony, and even fed us local specialty Mizu Mizu meat..."
"'Us'?"
"—Shanks."
"I thought it was 'you guys.' A bunch of people."
"Just me and Shanks, the two of us." He made a gesture of "two".
"Oh." Crocus rested his chin on one hand with great interest. What a reasonable thing.
"No one else. But it would have been nice if it wasn't him. I could have done it alone. At that time, as part of the ceremoy, we need to each smash a wine bottle on this Oro Jackson. It would have been fine if I had just smashed it. But I was so happy that I said the most wrong thing in my life: I have not had enough. Then the guy dragged a whole crate of empty wine bottles over and was ready to smash them all... Really, I’m just... I’m too mature to do these kinds of things anymore! I'm the more mature one! Still I was pointed and laughed at, uh, damn it..." Buggy made up his mind, took a deep breath, and endured the most meaningless tears in the world, "Captain, Tom, Kokoro, Yokozuna. Even Mr. Rayleigh laughed. They laughed together, as if I told him that I wanted to play this a hundred years ago. It was so annoying. If I knew it, I would have smashed the full bottle on his head. Damn..."
He was so indignant, as if what his hoarse voice described was not the expression of the innocence of a playmate of the same age as a child, but a malicious friend who deliberately wanted to bring him to his demise.
He said a few more words, addressed Tom the shipwright and his secretary, Miss Kokoro, no honorific added, and lost himself in what had happened. And Crocus imagined two bottles of red wine, or gin, rum, any wine—taken, grasped, and thrown by more immature hands than the moving one in front of him, drawn a parabola, shattered on those plump breasts of solid gold on the prow of the Oro Jackson, such lusciously boozy. It is acceptable after the age of ten, but shouldn't touch that thing if younger than that, not even opening your mouth to catch a few splashes is acceptable. He stared at Buggy's red face for a long time, and didn't even look into an empty corner where he usually look when he was thinking about drunk Roger. Clatter, clatter, clatter. Perhaps when the ship has completed its mission and is decommissioned, something should also be thrown at it as a sign of respect.
"Rayleigh knows you guys drinking. Drunk."
"He knows. It was after that time." Buggy paused, and then justified, "We drank at the banquet."
"He didn't tell you to go away."
"Hell no. He understands. Of course."
"Are you sure you were not told to go away?"
"No, of course not. Truly, really not."
"Kokoro," said Crocus, this time it was indeed a question, "Is that the mermaid girl?"
"Which one?"
"The one next to Tom."
"That one is already a big auntie."
"Just for you, little brat."
"Then that's the right name. She should be able to communicate with that big pet whale you keep."
"Unfortunately, he is not my pet. He has a name, Laboon."
Laboon is an island whale from the West Blue that lives next to his lighthouse. As the name suggests, an individual of this species can grow to the size of an island, and they are natural social animals.
After saying this, Crocus felt that the squids stopped swimming and began to shed tears in small groups. However, he soon recovered from this pleasant stupefaction. "It's almost time, it's almost time."
"What time?" Buggy put away the shaking hand.
"Don't ask me. I'll go out for a while."
"What? I don't..."
Crocus stood up and looked down: "The days when you got somebody to cook for you—the day that ends."
He didn't know what he had seen in the past three years that was more difficult to deal with than the boy's expression at this moment, so he said again. "Okay, rest well, don't kick the quilt. It will be on time, don't worry if you can catch it, kid."
He hoped that his intentions could be conveyed, even if only the slightest bit. He left the corner and grabbed the doorknob of the ship's doctor's room. As soon as the closed door opened a crack, the squids kept pouring out, never to be found again. That empty feeling that he thought would show up later came over him. He came to the deck of the Oro Jackson, climbed some flights of stairs, walked down some corridors, stroked the solid walls that surrounded the soon-to-be-immortal beings now and then. The grain of the wood was very rare. The night sky was clear, and the few buildings on the island were emitting faint light that needed to be count in window-shaped squares, a few of which came from the lighthouse that was located on a long and narrow beach. After staring for a while, he returned to the cabin without being noticed by anyone, and finally walked into the captain's cabin to report the message that needed to be reported. What the fat fish-man shipwright said had been lingering in his mind.
Shanks was sitting on the edge of a bed one night. The bed was also big, also covered with soft white quilts. He was a little drunk, and the pain was more or less subdued. He stared intently at the bay window framing the dark island, and the basin of water with a towel in it that was placed on the window. Buggy was wrapped in a quilt and lying behind him, steaming, and fell asleep as if stranded under the influence of alcohol. He could hear Buggy's regular breathing, pulling back and forth slowly like a saw blade.
Now it's just the two of us again, Shanks thought.
He tried to vomit, but his stomach delivered nothing but uncontrollable growls. It was the inevitable result of several punches in the abdomen. The few fingers he bit off that had caressed his face still had a taste in his mouth, tingly, sweet and bitter. He gripped the sheets out of that bordem. Nobody was there anymore, and that fact melted into the shameless darkness itself that took over everything. His dear Buggy was breathing in such darkness. On the other side, the sound of the tide was far away, and the chirps lacked rhythm. Shanks focused his attention on the monotonous, detached voice with the mood of just waking from anesthesia. He counted in his mind, contracting his fingers at each count: one, two, three. The breath won't stop. Until the hundredth stroke is over: the breath won't stop. He closed his eyes, never feeling so sleppy.