Chapter 60

A Very Quick, Very Short Nap

Boggo

The gangway was down and it scraped against the dock as Barnacle-eyes’ sloop bobbed at sea. A path made by paws and boots had plowed a path in the snow up the gangway. A path wide enough that my little feet could find purchase in the wood beneath.

With my hammer in both hands and my waterskin slung across my back, I climbed up the gangway. Waves crashed against the hull. I ducked low when a swoop of wind tousled my fur. I trembled whenever I felt the gangway bob with the sloop. But I conquered the climb. When I was on deck, I paused to regain my breath. I took big whiffs of the bitter cold. I shielded my eyes from attacking snowflakes. I listened to the chaos of wind and sea, and the murmur of people.

My ears perked. Thrush’s laughter was distinct. It was gravelly and doom-ish, yet muffled. Other voices rose in muffled laughter. I turned to the deckhouse. The door was closed, but I saw motion through the gap between door and deck. Shadows were moving there. I could make out some conversation.

“How are you on Anti-gravity attribute ale?” Abigail said.

“I’ll need a few more barrels,” Thrush said.

“Leave some of your inventory here to lighten your load,” Hawkin said. “Remind me to brew a few silver rank batches of warm warm beer for everyone.”

“I might leave things on the beach,” Thrush said. “Warm warm beer is delicious, thank you. But may I have some ethereal ingredients to eat as well? I haven’t had any lately and I miss the snack.”

If Thrush had his hands on ethereal ingredients, maybe I could trade him some crystals and underground treasures to see what they look like! However, even if Thrush would be willing to shoot dice with me, I didn’t like the idea of being around other surface creatures, so I thought to approach him about it later. I didn’t like the idea of not experiencing the sea on Barnacle-eye’s sloop either, so I hopped from foot print to foot print until I crossed half the deck and came to the hatch that led down to the cargo hold. The peen of my hammer helped me squeeze through.

I hopped down the stairs as the waterskin of warm warm beer sloshed behind me. The waterskin was so large that it felt as though I were hauling another blue bestie who squirmed in a sack.

At the bottom, I noticed how warm it was and froze when I first heard something drip. It dripped again a minute later, and again a minute after that. And in all that time, my eyes adjusted back to seeing in the dark. I finally saw the barrel that dripped. It was on its side on grooved planks so that it wouldn’t roll. The rest of the cargo hold was filled with upright barrels whose labels shimmered with colors I’d never seen before. Colors I couldn’t quantify.

When I put my fingers to the labels, I discovered the color wasn’t like mine—not against my skin and fur. I sniffed them. They had no smell. I tilted my head at them. The more I sniffed, the more I caught other scents.

I smelled a multitude of yeast and beer and malt. I smelled freshly planed wood. I smelled mildewed canvas and wet rope fibers. I even smelled dreambons! I searched for the dreambons, letting my snout guide me. I sniffed from barrel to barrel, I scampered from one to the other.

I had to have them; Thrush always let me eat some from the barrels in Hawkin’s cellar. Whatever I found down here shouldn't be any different.

I was getting closer. The smell was getting stronger, so strong I could almost see them in my mind’s eye. A perfect sphere of gleaming red. Bands of silver rings that sheened like moving winter clouds. I could hear them break open and could almost see them too. Oh, I couldn't wait to get my hands on some!

They were the only food I was interested in—since meeting Thrush. Of course the fish was good. Sometimes I had Hawkin’s leftovers that he left in the cellar for reasons unknown to me. Psh. …Leaving his food where the besties could find it. Never even noticed either. Since eating his leftovers wasn’t part of our deal not to eat his winter stores, I indulged myself in those leftovers.

But nothing hit the spot like a dreambon did. No root, no aquifer fish, no rhizome, no crunchy crystal, no clay soup; nothing fed my soul like a dreambon did.

What a change dreambons were from the monotony of the blue bestie diet. The only horrible part of blue bestie life was the same dirty foods, season after season, year after year, decade after decade, century after century. Tough, chewy, watery roots, over and over and over.

It wasn’t my fault I never took to blue bestie foods like everyone else did!

“I don’t care if you don’t like it,” mother always said whenever I complained. “It’s good for you—eat up. Makes you strong—eat up. It’s not bland—eat up. Not my problem—eat up. Stop complaining—eat up. Your siblings don’t have this problem—eat up. Eat up, Boggo—and stop throwing dice!”

Ugh. That’s when father came growling in with his perfect know-it-all wisdom. “Can’t you appreciate that we have something to eat? You’re always looking for tastier treats—Kikki said you wouldn’t stop bothering them to try acorns from an abandoned squirrel dugout. If you go looking for treats, you’re going to die to woodland creatures. You’re going to get yourself in trouble!”

“Well, Thrush scared the woodland creatures away,” I told him last year.

But he only answered with a growl, and when I vented to my buddies, they shocked me by taking father’s side!

“It’s not so bad eating roots,” they said. “Better than being something else’s tasty treat. The colony has lost two lookouts in the last two hundred years. We’re good at staying alive. You’re risking your life by even thinking of going above ground!”

Now that I’d been trading warm warm roots with Hawkin in exchange for dreambons, everyone wanted a tasty treat.

“Any more dreambons today?” everyone would ask under their breath. Yes, I’d tell them. Then I’d share everything—sometimes having none for myself. But when I ran out, they always turned back to saying, “you’re drawing too much attention to the blue bestie existence. Why can’t you be a normal bestie like everyone else?”

It wasn’t the words that hurt so much. It was the expressions I pictured on the faces of my friends and family when they’d said those words. Faces made old by practiced furrows and accusing eyebrows and burning eyes. They always showed teeth when they talked down to me.

But I always stood tall when besties talked down to me. As tall as I could because I had to stand up for myself. I had to!

There, in the dark cargo hold of Barnacle-eyes’ sloop, I did just that. I stood up straight, put my snout to the air and exhaled all the stress of blue bestie life. When I inhaled long and deep, that’s when I got a big juicy whiff of dreambons from the barrel before me.

“It must be filled to the top with dreambons!”

I pulled out my dice and rolled a 6 and a 1. I made sly eyes, looked over my shoulders, and knocked the 1 so that it became a 6.

“It most definitely has dreambons in it!”

I dug my claws into the barrel and shot up the staves. I stopped at the rim. The barrelhead was not quite on all the way and I used the peen of my hammer to pry it free.

It was like opening a chest of sparkling treasure. First came the myriad aromas. Then, I could swear that the dreambons even gave off light!

I jumped in and ate to my heart’s content. I dined on the divine! I reveled in my solitary heaven! No one could bother me there. No one could growl that I was out looking for trouble.

“Trouble,” I muttered with a mouthful. “No trouble ever came from eating dreambons.”

I ate another. Then another. Then more. I ate until my belly bulged and It was too much effort to heave myself out of the barrel. I was surprised how much I’d eaten in what felt like so little time. I could no longer reach the rim. The effort was much too great to climb out. I only had enough energy left to make a padded bowl of blue fur amongst the dreambons and take a very quick, very short nap.