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The most important role aboard a ship is that of a dog. This is a Truth, of course. Why else would every sailor pay their respects when Neptune approaches?
He has several duties, the most prominent of which is the dispensation of Adoration — a responsibility he takes very seriously. No time to fliff and fiddle about when there’s hard work to be done nuzzling hands and shins. It is employment both honorable and mutually beneficial; the Men crave companionship and affection, two supplies which he gladly doles out in spades, and most of the time his efforts are reciprocated threefold.
Not all the Men are quite so enthusiastic. Some, such as the Master, are reserved in their tributes, choosing to give Neptune measured and respectful appreciation by way of firm pats along the ribcage. Other Men of colder temperament might give a curt scritch on the head with a tight-lipped grimace, or even disregard him entirely, but of course that is due to their own shortcomings. Neptune knows he’s well-qualified for the task (another Truth), and so his confidence never wavers.
Until one night, when the Master refuses to open his cabin door.
No? Out? Stay? Nonsense! The Master always welcomes Neptune inside for an evening pat-down! Not the brief kind given during the Bright Hours, but a genuinely affectionate five-minute check-in built on a foundation of safety and loyalty, and which lulls Neptune into the proper state of mind for a good night’s rest. In return Neptune demonstrates the appropriate tail-wags that make the Master smile. It is their way! How else is Neptune supposed to fall asleep peacefully at his post outside the door if he cannot finish his final task of the day? This is nothing less than dereliction of duty!
Sound? Neptune’s ears twitch as he snuffles around the door frame through which hushed voices slip. One of them is the familiar grinding, cantankerous cadence of the Master, of course; the other sounds like the Master’s enemy, the one with very tall legs and chiseled head like a tree. But they are so quiet the drafts and creaks of the ship render them unintelligible.
Well, this is unacceptable. Neptune’s routine is incomplete. There’s only one thing to do: Find Help! Help is the clever man with sky in his eyes. He is always nearby when the Master needs anything (another Truth), and his presence always softens the Master’s face. If Neptune can find Help, he’ll unlock the door and they can all resolve the evening properly.
But where could he be?
~~~
Neptune pads down the darkened passageway, eyes alert for any movement, heading into the place with Sharp Smells. He noses through the door. Help?
No, not in here. There’s only Fluff and Sun, the two nice Men who handle blood, steel, and screams. Sometimes they need to inflict pain to prevent worse pain from growing. Right now they are playing with many small papers on the table.
“Ah, we’ve got company, John!” announces Sun, showing his many shining teeth. (This used to unnerve Neptune until Sun produced a small stick of beef from his woolen pocket one day, earning a solid friendship.) “I’ve no treats for you at the moment, laddie, but how about a ruffle, hm?” Down comes an inviting hand, against which Neptune nuzzles appreciatively. A dog’s work is never done.
Fluff gives a mellow smile from beneath his soft dark fur and says nothing, as usual.
Help? Neptune repeats politely.
“You seem to be restless tonight, friend,” Sun chuckles. “Care to join us at cards?”
Help! Where? Neptune insists.
Fluff regards him thoughtfully, fathomless umber pools flickering with interest beneath a furrowed brow. He gives two light taps on the table with his fingers to get Sun’s attention and cocks his head.
“Yes, he is acting unusual,” Sun agrees. “Well, it’s a calm enough evening. What say we investigate?”
Oh, there’s no use. They obviously don’t know where Help is. Neptune shakes his head, huffs, and pads out of the room. For some reason they’ve decided to follow him, a whim he allows for the the time being. There are more important things to worry about.
The Place That Smells Like Home is still and empty save for Food. Food’s tone can be sharp like vinegar, but he always crafts things that fill the Men with energy. They couldn’t work without him! Neptune holds him in high regard, and so approaches with a respectful wag of the tail.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, doctors?” Asks Food.
“Evening, Diggle. Neptune’s got a bee in his bonnet about something, so John and I are looking into it.”
“Ah, he’s probably hungry for an extra snack after supper. As if I didn’t have enough people to feed with Fitzjames and the others visiting from Terror.” Food shakes his head but there’s no real malice beneath his grumble. On the contrary, he shuffles around in a cupboard for a moment and withdraws a coin-sized chunk of beef, wiggling it around Neptune’s nose. “Enjoy it while you can, boy. No more extra treats after we pass Greenland.”
Never one to deny an offering, Neptune snarfs it down and wiggles his tail again. Help?
Food shakes his head. “No! I’m ain't even supposed to be sneaking you more than rations. Don’t be greedy.”
Neptune expels an indignant borf and shakes his head back. Food seems to think Neptune only came in here for the beef. As if he’d waste his evening in pursuit of something so trivial. How rude! He trots along his way, barely paying attention to the men behind him.
"See what I mean? He's got intentions, that one."
“...Huh. Suppose I’ll join you two, otherwise I’d be up half the night wondering what’s going on with him.”
Neptune continues his investigation further down another passageway, sniffing for clues. The ship groans and creaks around them as Cold Black Water pushes a droning murmur along the wood. No Help here, no Help there. Where could he be? Hm, maybe hiding in the Small Room With Loud Sticks? Neptune pads over and scratches at the door that blocks his progress.
“Looking to learn how to shoot, eh?” Sun muses. “A fine enough pursuit, but a wee bit difficult, I’d expect.”
Neptune nudges the wood impatiently. He borfs, hoping it might charm one of the Men into making themselves useful. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to work, judging from their bemused stares.
“What’s going on here?” Comes another voice. Ah, good! It’s Scamp, the one who always smells of fresh air and leather! (He always says “scamp” when addressing Neptune, which must be his favorite word for some weird reason.) Currently his fierce eyes are tempered with humor. “I didn’t realize we were planning a mutiny so soon.”
“He’s got something on his mind, sir,” Sun explains, perking up at once. He always shines brighter when Scamp is around. (Another Truth.) “He’s been wandering this way and that, restless as a bairn in church.”
Help? Where? Here?
“What’s gotten into you, you little scamp, eh? Eh? What’s on your mind?” The Man chortles, rubbing calloused hands all over Neptune’s abdomen. The effect is quite distracting. It’s impossible to search for Help from this belly-up position on the floor, though, so Neptune flops upright and places a paw against the door again, staring at them all in turn.
“No, boy. None of us has the key to the arms closet, and you’re not qualified to handle a rifle anyhow,” says Scamp firmly. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping by Crozier’s cabin? Come away, ye scamp, come on.”
Well, Neptune can’t smell Help around here anyway, so he may as well search somewhere else. On he goes, right past Scamp’s boots.
“Care to join us for the jaunt, Blanky? Might be good for your health.”
“Never you mind about my health, but I am a bit curious…”
At last! Smell! Yes! Help! Neptune hurries along, delighted by the unmistakable scent of soap and silver polish that wafts through the air, growing stronger and stronger until they arrive at the Room of Tables. The sailors like to gather and eat their food here in thumping, clattering commotion, but the sun (the really big one, not the Man) is gone so there’s nothing but shadows flickering between soft oily light. Well, shadows and two Men sitting very quietly and very close together.
Neptune has eyes only for the one on the right. You! Come, now! Now! Master! Help! He feels his long, splendid tail whipping back and forth as he hurries to the Man in question, who is on his feet in the blink of an eye, straight as an iron rod and twice as polished. The other individual, who has also risen, is the loyal one with the dignified demeanor — the one who never seems to take off his coat. (Neptune has decided at this point that he must simply be made of wool. Very unique for a Man.) Right now he is staring at the group currently crowding the room’s entrance.
“Uh,” says Wool, very white in the face. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Evening, Lieutenant Little. Jopson.” Sun says cheerily, as though he’s just woken up.
“How are things?” asks Wool.
“Pretty well, thank you sir,” answers Food from somewhere in the passageway.
“Something’s up with this little scamp,” says Scamp. “He’s been leading us on some kind of goose chase.”
“And discovered the goose in question, I presume?” Wool asks, glancing between Help and Neptune, who are regarding each other with varying levels of intensity. “Have you considered he may simply need to relieve himself on deck?”
“No. If he’d needed to do that, he’d have nudged open the hatchway; or if it was locked, he’d have sat and whined.” Scamp scratches his stubble. “I guess he’s been searching for Mr. Jopson directly, for some reason.”
Help smiles; not one of his interesting curved ones, but the very humble one reserved for company. “Honored, sir. Though I’m not entirely certain what he means by it.”
Neptune turns ‘round in a circle and paws at the floor.
“He’s not sick, is he doctor?”
“I’m not a veterinarian, but this is no behavior I’ve seen from any sick dog.”
“And he’s been fed his supper, yes?”
“Certainly.”
“He might just be extra hungry, sir. He did ask me for another…well, he sniffed at the beef in the galley.”
“But if hunger’s the problem, why sniff around the arms closet? Why search for Mr. Jopson? I cannae make sense of it.”
Oh, this is ridiculous! Something very serious is occurring with the Master’s door and here they all are, hemming and hawing like sleepy seagulls! Desperate times call for desperate measures. Abandoning all civility, Neptune grasps the hem of Help’s pant leg and tugs. Not enough to turn him over, mind you, but certainly enough to make a point.
“I say,” says Wool.
Fluff insistently gestures for everyone to clear the way to the door, pointing at Neptune’s efforts. Help proceeds at once with no further questions, and Neptune could lick his face for it. They all jog back the way they came, along the Chilly Groaning Wood and flickering lamplights and Sharp Smells until finally, here is the Master’s door, as closed as ever! What a tragedy! Neptune paws at it and whines at Help expectantly.
Looking concerned, the Man steps forward and gives three polite knocks. “Sir?” There is a long, tense pause.
“Francis, look alive,” yells Scamp helpfully, drawing a few coughing snorts from Sun and Food.
Lo and behold, the door slides open! A slice of light illuminates the passageway and emphasizes the stout outline of the Master, who is looking flushed, bewildered, and very, very, very annoyed.
“What?” He says.
Help is smooth as butter. “Forgive the intrusion, sir. Are you well?”
“Of course I’m well, Jopson. Was that Blanky I heard shouting?” He leans forward to see the passageway crowded with Men. “What in the—“
TREE! Neptune exclaims, making them all jump. A terribly impolite outburst, to be sure, but how else is he supposed to respond to the sight of the Master’s enemy, right there in the cabin? But his heavy woolen coat lies discarded on the floor and his luxurious fur is all tumbled about. How embarrassingly disheveled he looks! Neptune knows how important appearances are to Tree, and this is most irregular. It must be why he’s standing stock-still in the corner of the Master’s cabin, completely out of sight of everyone but Neptune.
“Forgive the intrusion, sir. Neptune sought me out and led me — well, all of us — to your cabin, and I thought perhaps you required assistance of an urgent nature.”
The Master steps out, squeezing into the passageway and carefully sliding the door closed. “No, I am in bountiful health, I assure you. He’s probably just complaining because I forgot to bid him goodnight.”
Neptune doesn’t appreciate the Master’s tone; are a dog's Duties a joke to him? And after all this trouble —
This is promptly forgotten amidst the sheer bliss of his favorite pats. It’s fine, really. As long as the job is done, all is well. What was he complaining about? He can’t remember but oohhhh, that’s the spot, right near the collar. Neptune’s tail is going all over the place again, producing trails of fur midair, and he hears Wool suppress a sneeze.
“There we are, problem solved. As you were, gentlemen.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Huh. That was easy.”
“Evening, Captain.”
“Good night.”
The group disperses — as much as a group can be said to disperse in a narrow wood-paneled bottleneck — the cabin door clumps shut abruptly, a lantern creaks over head, and Neptune slumps onto the floor, musing to himself. The Master seems to be hiding Tree in his room to spare him the embarrassment of appearing before his fellow Men in such a messy state. This must mean Tree and the Master are no longer enemies! This new Truth feels strange and silly, but Neptune will file it away for future reference should it become relevant to his duties. The Master’s happiness is paramount, and if befriending Tree is important to him, it’s important to Neptune.
As his eyes drift shut he could swear he hears a warm chuckle drift through the cabin door, but he’s already had enough confusion for one night. He exhales into sleep, content in the accomplishment of his Duties.