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FOR THIRTY-TWO days, the wind doesn't falter, the currents flow strong, and the food stores remain sufficient. The nice weather and even better sailing conditions put the crew in surprisingly high spirits, leaving them to belt sea shanties to the salted breeze for hours.
The blood has long been washed from the deck planks, injuries sustained from the pirate attack healed over and leaving only scars, including my own.
For thirty-two days, the Dawn Treader with her lithe dragon hull and rich purple sail cuts through the eastern ocean without so much as a few clouds blocking out the sun. For thirty-two damned days, nothing exciting happens. Nothing at all.
I find myself stuck back in the loop of night watches, hauling the ropes, cleaning the deck, working the rigging, and even operating the bilge pump, as I'm the only one of the crew who can essentially turn off their sense of smell. Thankfully, I have Caspian's company to fall back on when I need to, breaking up my routine with a sparring session or even just talking with him on the stateroom balcony.
My real saving grace is my shifting, though. Whenever I find the time, I'll take to the sky and practice my winged forms, hoping to perfect a simple pair of wings I might add to my human form if need be (the real trick has been finding a way to accommodate for my bodyweight without altering too much of the existing bone and muscle structure). Or, on the slower sailing days, I'll swim just behind the ship, perfecting my marine forms, studying the creatures of the ocean, and riding the white-crested wake of the Dawn Treader.
And on the days my bones ache and my muscles burn and my skin is marked with too many bruises to count, I climb the dragon figurehead and sit in the lookout's perch, watching the horizon for all it might bring. Which is exactly what I do on the thirty-second day of our voyage to Brenn. In fact, with the golden sun shining upon the prow, I decide to lay along the dragon's flat snout in my red cat form and bathe in its warmth.
The ocean is calm and doesn't spray up to mist my fur, and the massive sail behind me catches any wind that might be a bother. It's the perfect place to laze in the sun, out of the crew's way and with the best view to offer. I know it's unlikely we'll have such perfect weather for the rest of the voyage, so I make sure to enjoy it while I can, the shanties sung by the men lulling me into a state of almost-sleep. Until the loud shout of the spotter rings through the air, calling about something in the water.
"Off the larboard bow, captain! Looks like men adrift!"
I straighten, sharpening my eyes to see whatever Baziras spotted in the water. It does look like men — three of them — with their heads and shoulders bobbing just above the water, no evidence of a shipwreck or a boat in sight. They don't seem to be panicking, either. Just calmly treading water in the middle of the ocean. How did they get so far out?
