High Seas

Robin's peg clunked with a wooden certainty against the damp boards of the deck, the early morning sea air brisk against her skin, curling through the open throat of her white blouse. The red scarf tied around her head fluttered slightly in the breeze, its knot neat but fraying with salt and wind. Her cropped blonde hair, hacked to her chin with the precision of someone who had done it with a dagger and no mirror, hung damp from the salty spray. She was squinting against the dawn light with her good eye, the right, an icy blue like a sky moments before a storm broke, her left hidden beneath the worn leather of a patch dyed dark with oil and time.

Her pantaloons were a faded blue, the cuffs rolled carelessly up to the calves. Her right leg ended just below the knee, the flesh of her stump encased in the smooth curve of teak carved into a plain but sturdy peg leg, strapped tight with old leather. The peg tapped rhythmically across the deck’s planks with every step she took, while her bare left foot made only the quiet slap of skin on wood, calloused and steady from long practice. She moved with unthinking grace, a balance that came not from caution but from absolute familiarity with the way a ship danced underfoot.

“Land off the port bow!” called a voice from the rigging. Serel, barely more than a girl, but sharp eyed and quick with a pistol.

Robin twisted to look, her grip tightening on the rope she'd been knotting. “How far?”

“Hour maybe! Big rock formation like a hook, might be Hollow Fang!”

Robin’s mouth tugged in something not quite a smile, just the edge of a smirk, like she was remembering an old fight she’d won. “Perfect.”

She pushed off the rail and strode toward the helm, red sash knotted around her hips flapping in the wind, peg clicking, bare foot whispering. “Helm, west by south! And trim that foresail, dammit, she’s fighting the wind!” Her voice cracked across the ship like a whip, and the crew responded instantly. All women, every last one, from Ava the cook to tall, grim Ilse who handled the cannons like lovers. Not a man among them unless you counted the preserved finger bones in the Captain’s lucky pouch.

Robin wasn’t captain, but when she spoke, the captain listened. She’d earned her place, not by birth or charm but by surviving what others hadn’t. First mate because she’d thrown a harpoon into the back of the last man who tried to sell them out to a Spanish brig. Killed him where he stood without a word. Just the throw, the scream, the silence after. No one had questioned her since.

Now the crew respected her. Respected, feared, sometimes adored, depending on the rum.

She ducked below deck into the map room where Captain Vaya stood barefoot herself on the slatted floor, dark skinned and tall, black braids coiled down her back like ropes. A thick parchment map was spread out across the table, corners pinned with dagger tips.

“Hook-shaped rock. West,” Robin said, planting her peg just inside the door, one hand still curled around a coil of rope she hadn’t realized she brought down with her. “Looks like Hollow Fang.”

Vaya looked up, eyes gleaming. One of her braids was wrapped in gold thread. “You’re sure?”

Robin cocked her head. “Sure as anything on water.”

“If the map’s right,” Vaya murmured, tapping the curled edge with her hook, “there’s a cave there with Spanish gold and a galleon wreck full of silver.”

“Or sea wolves and broken dreams,” Vaya muttered.

Robin’s grin finally broke full. “Even better.”

They made landfall at noon. The island did indeed hook upward like a dagger thrust from the sea, its sharp edges ringed in jagged coral and dark stone. The longboat cut through the surf, and Robin stood at its prow, peg planted firm, her bare foot gripping the boards behind her, toes spread for balance. The sun had warmed the wood, and she felt it beneath her foot like a promise.

“There.” She pointed. “Behind that outcrop. Tide’s high enough we can slip through the channel.”

Myra and Ava rowed without question. Jinny beside her didn’t look up, just kept steady pace, trusting Robin like they all did when it came to sharp rocks and hidden shoals.

The cave yawned ahead like a wound in the cliff, dark and rimmed with tide scum. The longboat slid in, oars lifted to avoid echoing the walls, and the light dimmed to a pulsing green.

By the time they returned to the beach, arms heavy with loot and clothes torn by the claws of giant cave dwelling crabs, the sun was dipping low. They made camp just beyond the surfline, where the dry sand held no secrets, and the cliff kept the wind at their backs.

Robin sat cross legged beside the fire, clothes hanging on a nearby tree to dry. Her bare foot buried in the warm sand, toes wriggling now and then, while her stump flexed and stretched, finally free of its socket. Her peg and its leather harness spread out nearby, close, but not too close, to the fire. Her body crisscrossed with long scars and newer scratches, one of which she was cleaning with a rag and a flask of rum. She hissed softly at the sting but didn’t flinch.

Jinny dropped beside her, brown skinned and smudged with cave grime. She tugged off her own blouse, shaking out pebbles. “You always know where the treasure’s hiding.”

“I don’t know,” Robin said flatly. “I just don’t care if I’m wrong.”

Jinny tilted her head. “What happens if one day you are wrong?”

Robin took a swig of rum, then passed the bottle. “Then I die in a place no one’s ever heard of. And my bones rot next to gold.”

Jinny nodded, drank. “Could be worse.”

“Could be landlocked.”

Jinny laughed, her bare foot bumping against Robin’s peg as she leaned back on her hands. “You ever think of leaving?”

Robin eyed the fire. “Did once.”

Jinny blinked. “When?”

“Long time ago. Before I was First Mate. Not long after I got this,” she tapped her outstretched stump, “Thought I would be a burden to ship and crew.”

“What made you come back?”

She paused a moment. The fire flickered in her good eye, dancing like lightning in a storm cloud. “The Captain. She was the one who convinced me that even with a peg I still had value, that I was worth more than the sum of my parts.” turning with a grin she added, “Truth be told, I didn’t need that much convincing. The life of a tavern wench didn't suit me. I'll take turbulent seas and perilous adventures over lecherous drunks and endless scrubbing any day. Give me the salt spray and the roar of a storm, the glint of a cutlass, and the promise of uncharted lands. I'd rather face a kraken than another Saturday night spilling ale on some greasy patron.”

That night, the fire burned low. The crew sang soft songs, old tongue chants and sailor’s dirges that sounded more like wind than melody. Robin lay back with her arms behind her head, her bare foot still nestled in the warm grit. She closed her eye, a faint smile playing on her lips.