Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

September 26, 1620

I woke up this morning, sick to my stomach. It wasn't because I'd been thrown through time again—although that probably didn't help anything. It was because I woke to find myself on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

The Mayflower, to be precise.

My name—strangely—is Obedience Smith.

I've been unable to leave my bunk since we set sail from Plymouth, heaving my guts into a bucket. And I'm not the only one. Nearly all of the passengers have been laid low by seasickness. And sitting here down in the dank hold of this wretched ship is not helping. I know I'm not supposed to go above decks alone. The sailors don't share our beliefs and all of us younger women have been warned against their wickedness.

But Father is as sick as I've been—practically insensible. He won't miss me if I'm gone for but a moment and I'm desperate for a breath of fresh air. Perhaps the smell of salt spray will help to ease my stomach.

After nearly twenty days of suffering in the dark, I'm willing to risk or try anything. So much for obedience. Then again...perhaps the part of me that remains Abby Kilken is the one inspiring this rebellion. Or maybe it's Abigail Pryce?

Which only makes me feel guilty about the fact that Obedience might get in trouble for something that isn't even her fault. But...if she is somehow me, perhaps this isn't entirely out of character?

Now my head is hurting to accompany my stomach.

I sat up carefully in my bunk, eyes straining against the dimness. Father lay motionless in his bunk and didn't move as I pulled myself to my feet, my knees shaking beneath my weight. Keeping my eyes trained on him, I slowly wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, ignoring the roiling sensation just below my ribcage. From somewhere farther in the bowels of the ship, the squelchy sound of retching echoed toward me, bringing a sympathetic lump to my throat.

Stumbling against the rocking of the ship, I managed to sneak my way toward the stairs that would lead me out of the hold.

My shoulders stayed hunched up around my ears as I expected at any moment for one of the men of our group to call me back, but no one did. I only let myself relax once I'd reached the deck, knees and shins sore from having fallen several times on the stairs.

The main deck was a bustle of men and shouting and all I could do was stare. Many of the men had their sleeves rolled up, exposing muscular forearms despite the brisk chill in the air. I couldn't make sense of what any of them were doing, but they all moved with purpose and self-assurance.

The last thing I wanted to do was get in their way and draw attention to myself. That would surely get me hauled back down into the ship's hold in disgrace.

After a moment of studying the pattern the sailors seemed to dance through, I gathered my courage and darted to the starboard rail, far enough from the rigging and the quarterdeck that I wouldn't be too terribly noticeable. When my hands found themselves resting on the slick railing, I let out a long breath, shivering at the spindrift dampening my skin.

The cold air tasted like salt, but didn't quite overpower the smell of unwashed bodies and sickness that seemed to cling to my very skin.

I stared down at the slate grey water for a while, brooding over the miles of ocean below us and all the toothy creatures that followed in the wake of the ship. But as I watched the waves sloshing against the Mayflower's wooden hull, I found my stomach rocking in time with the boat. I clamped a hand to my mouth and shut my eyes, which only made it worse.

"It helps to look toward the horizon."

At the deep voice, I jumped nearly a foot in the air, feeling like I'd been scalded. I whirled around to find one of the sailors watching me with an amused smile on his face.