13. Vinicola

13

Vinicola

T he man with piercing green eyes, Zayan, definitely doesn’t like me. He’s made that obvious from the moment he leaped onto the ship like a madman. Now is no exception. He leans against the wooden wall of the ship, arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face as I struggle to lift a chest from the water.

The chest is heavier than I anticipated, waterlogged, and cumbersome. My arms ache, and the damn thing is slippery, but I just grit my teeth and bend my knees for support. The scary pirate behind me doesn’t move to help. He just watches, his gaze cutting through me like a knife.

“Art is pain, huh?” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery. But the joke is on him. I know what his real problem is with me.

I manage to haul the crate and put it on a barrel.

“Art is pain because art is love, Mister Zayan,” I tell him, breathing heavily. “And love doesn’t choose, no?”

He doesn’t expect this. His eyes flick to Miss Captain who is searching on the far end of the space. He can’t help himself. Then, he glares at me again, and I meet his stare, eyebrows lifted.

Oh yeah, I know what you’re about.

“Whatever you think you know, you know nothing,” he whispers angrily.

Doubtful. I know love when I see it. It’s been enchanting me since I can remember. Life without love feels hollow; it’s the strongest force that propels us all. What’s between this man and Miss Captain? It’s as obvious as the sunrise.

Yet, he’s delicate in matters of the heart—not physically, but emotionally. I can see that, too. He doesn’t seem like the kind who freely shares his feelings. Well, I don’t want to widen the gap between us any further, but I just can’t help but probe a little.

“I think it’s incredibly heroic, what you did. When you leapt onto this ship, I thought for sure you’d die! But your passion—it gave you wings! You soared like a hawk, and when you faced me, the way your eyes jumped to—“

“You—“ he snaps, pushing off the wall and advancing toward me. I’m pretty sure his eyes didn’t jump to me , I think. But I don’t say another word. He might hit me if I do. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He’s delicate. Oh, very delicate. I have to be careful with this man. But my tongue itches to ask him questions. Each one is pushing onto my mind harder than the last. How did it feel to jump over that abyss? Did his heart feel like giving out when he looked her in her eyes? Was he ready to die for her right then and there?

Instead, I swallow them down, and settle for, “You’re right. I probably don’t.”

I step back, giving him space, and turn my attention to the chest. My hands shake a little from the effort and tension. Zayan is right behind me, watching my every movement. A hawk was a good metaphor for him. It suits him.

But seconds pass and he doesn’t go back to that wall of his. He hovers over me. So soon enough, naturally, I break.

“I’m just saying,” I add cautiously, whispering, “that it’s clear you care about Miss Captain. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

I don’t look at him. I act like my words are not such a big deal. The delicate types need this kind of handling. A touch of nonchalance, a sprinkle of humility and a pinch of genuine curiosity. Just enough to disarm, not enough to provoke. Unsurprisingly, he bites.

“I made a promise to her father,” he finally mutters, his voice low. “That is all.”

Huh. Interesting. Miss Captain didn’t tell me anything about it. Perhaps she doesn’t know.

“That’s very noble of you,” I reply, nodding.

I busy myself with opening the chest, finding the latch and forcing it open. Inside are a couple of soaked maps.

Why the hell would someone put maps in a chest that weighs a man and a half?!

He huffs, a sound somewhere between frustration and resignation. “You don’t get it.” But he still doesn’t walk away. My empathy radar is tingling. This man needs to let some things off his chest.

My mother always used to say, “If a man keeps everything bottled up inside too long, he’ll start to ferment. And trust me, it won’t be the kind of ferment that turns into fine wine.” Bless her heart, she’s always been a walking vineyard of wisdom—and an actual vineyard owner, too. That’s how I got my name. She named me Vinicola, which means ‘vineyard’ in our language. It’s her favorite word in the whole dictionary.

She was right to name me so. Because, just like wine, I have a way of making people open up.

I glance at Zayan. His eyebrows are furrowed together, a stormy look in his eyes. He folds his arms across his chest. Defiance and annoyance shine bright on his face, but so does unrest. He’s cracking.

But just as he opens his mouth to speak, Miss Captain drops something with a splash and a thud, diverting our attention. She spins around, a triumphant look on her face.

“I think I found it!” she exclaims, striding toward us. She holds up a small, brown, leather notebook, with a golden crest right in the middle of it.

My eyes light up as I drop everything and rush to meet her halfway, a broad smile spreading across my face.

I’m sorry, Mr. Zayan. Our talk about love will have to be postponed.

“Yes! This is it! That’s my songbook!” I laugh, taking the notebook from her hands and eagerly flipping through its worn pages. The leather has done its job well; it’s a miracle the ink hasn’t smudged. I have everything here—every single song and poem that has come to my mind in the past two years.

“What’s it mean?” Gypsy asks, pointing at the golden crest. “Looks important.”

Of course, she’s interested in the gold that introduced the thing.

Every pirate I have met on these seas is interested in gold, especially one that looks this shiny.

The two that shackled me were interested in it as well. Amidst the need to deliver me to Dorien, they had time to strip me off my songbook and hide it to pawn it later.

What is funny, though, I noticed, that no one is really interested in the power of words on the islands. It doesn’t seem to have a place in their hearts.

“Ah, you know, it’s just a family emblem,” I say casually, hoping to deflect the attention. “Nothing more.” I’m still smiling, but my fingers already hook the songbook over my belt. I’m perhaps the least possessive man that sails around here, but this particular item is mine.

“Your family puts gold on all notebooks you own?” she presses on. There’s a glint in her eyes.

“Nope, just this one,” I reply.

A smart man would probably already take the golden crest off the leather by now in order not to make it such an obvious target for greedy men, but I never could make myself do it. That’s why, typically, I’m exceedingly careful about how, and whom I allow to see my songbook. But I know that if I’m supposed to spend some time with Miss Captain and Zayan, I can’t hide it from them.

The two of them… inspire me. The way they look at each other makes me want to write. And I wouldn’t be able to hide the songbook, given the way Zayan is determined to watch me non stop. He’d see it sooner or later. So, outing myself with my secret is the next best thing to do.

The two of them only look at me weirdly, until Gypsy shakes her head and swipes the back of her hand over her forehead. “You’re a really weird man, V,” she quips. Her sharp eyes narrow down on me, crinkling at the corners and even though it is a little intimidating, her gaze lacks that threatening quality it has whenever Zayan says something she doesn’t like.

“Why, thank you.” I crack a smile. “Also, I appreciate the nickname.”

“It’s not a nickname; I just forgot your name,” she says with a smirk, brushing past me toward the deck. Water sloshes in her wake as she moves away. Zayan and I follow. Me first, him behind me, breathing on my neck.

“Ahh,” I chuckle. “That’s because you don’t know what it means in my language. But fair enough.”

Gypsy turns over her shoulder as she continues walking. “Really? What does it mean?”

“Vineyard,” I answer proudly. “My mother was a poet in her own way,” I reply, a hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice. “And a vineyard owner.”

“Was?” Zayan grunts behind me. “Is she dead?”

I feel myself getting a little pale, but I tip my chin up anyway. I’ve noticed something about the locals—they’re incredibly blunt. Talking about death is like discussing bad weather. Both seem to be frequent occurrences here.

“I don’t know,” I find myself saying. “The last time I saw her was two years ago.”

“She’s probably fine,” Gypsy says, unfazed. “Two years isn’t long unless you’re a pirate. Plus, Sizzle, the cook on my father’s crew, always said drinking a lot of wine helps you live longer. Your mother drank a lot, right, being a vineyard owner and all?”

“Of course,” I respond softly.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” She climbs up, with me just on her toes. The sun is merciless, and my cheeks burn as the rays kiss them. But something else grabs my attention—the sea. It’s blue, calm, and utterly terrifying. My heart skips a beat.

I’m not a man of the sea. My roots are on land, where my heart feels safe. I never told Miss Captain that, since I had no choice but to sail into that storm with her. But now, my legs feel like jelly beneath me.

“You ready?” Gypsy asks, shielding her eyes from the sunlight with her hand.

“Ready for what?” I ask, though I know the answer. I remember Zayan coming for me to join her on the island, and I understand it’s the next step for the three of us.

Still, that doesn’t mean I want to jump into the water.

“Wait a minute…” She pauses, and Zayan sighs behind me. She turns to face me, her expression serious. “I know you’re a scaredy man, Vinicola, but don’t tell me what I think your body is telling me.”

Words press into my mind.

She stared at me, expecting,

Telling me to dive,

Into the azure depths,

Where my fears come alive.

I chuckle nervously. “What is my body telling you? Hopefully nothing, haha, because I don’t want any trouble.” I point at Zayan. “You get it?”

Am I panicking again? Yes. Yes, I am. Zayan’s mouth sharpens as his lips press into a thin line. Gypsy runs a hand through her hair and shakes her head. No one laughs. Well, no one except me.

“Jump,” Gypsy orders.

“What?”

“Jump,” she repeats.

I take a step back. Then another, waving my hands in the air as her eyes follow me like she’s a lioness waiting to pounce me. Zayan watches me too. In fact, the two of them look incredibly scary right now.

“Listen, maybe if we sail closer to the island, then—“

“We’re the closest possible,” Miss Captain interrupts.

“Then maybe a skiff…?”

“We don’t have any.” This time it’s Zayan who replies.

My heart is threatening to give out.

Ocean deep is daunting,

Ocean deep is fraught,

Ocean deep swallows men,

And leaves them all to rot.

“This is… This… I…” I stutter.

“Zayan, catch him,” she orders. And of course, Zayan listens.

Swiftly, his strong arms locking around my waist before I can take another step back. Panic grips me, my palms instantly damp with sweat. I thrash weakly, but as much as my pride aches to admit it, I’m no match for him.

“Don’t fight it,” Gypsy advises, nodding approvingly as Zayan guides me to the ship’s edge. “You’ll be fine.”

Fine? My heart pounds in my chest, each beat thundering in my ears, drowning out everything else.

“I thought we are friends!” I shout, my voice coming out as a long whine. I can’t do this. I can’t. Sailing out in a storm is one thing, but swimming is another.

No, no, no.

“You’re a bard, no? Your lungs should be holding air well,” Zayan chuckles as I keep trashing in his grip. He’s evil. He’s an evil man. I was a fool to try and talk to him about love. He has no love in his heart.

“So? It’s still a betrayal of trust!” I shout.

“Oh, he’s doing quite a lot of that lately,” Miss Captain quips in. But before I can say that she’s against me here too, I’m already thrown out. The last thing I can do before hitting the surface is wiggling my songbook from behind my belt and flinging it onto the ship.

My lungs are burning.

I’m trying to get onto the beach, but the salt water is in my mouth, my nose and my eyes.

The eyes are the worst. They sting me so bad I can’t open them, and I don’t know just how much longer I have to keep fighting for my dear life to get onto the sand.

I dart my hands in front of myself again. This time my nails scrape the sand, little pebbles hurting my fingertips.

I’m just a man abandoned,

Cast aside, left alone,

By those I thought were friends,

But their true colors were shown.

Oh, Mother, what would you do if you were betrayed like that?

She’d probably fling a bottle of wine right over their heads. Yes, that’s exactly what she’d do. But I don’t have a bottle within reach, and I’ve already lost this round.

But you know what, Vinicola? You’re not a loser. You’re the man who will rise above this, no matter how fast your heart is pounding. You’ll live to tell the tale.

Father always said, “Dead men tell no tales.” He heard it from his privateer friends and kept repeating it over and over.

Well, it stuck with me.

I’m a storyteller who will keep singing my songs, no matter what.

“Just a bit more, Flaxen Hair,” I hear Miss Captain’s voice. She’s laughing at me. “You’re almost on the shore.”

That’s cruel. But at least, she’s telling the truth.

I push forward, dragging myself until I can feel the solid ground beneath me. When I finally collapse on the wet sand, my chest heaving with effort, I feel both triumphant and utterly defeated.

Someone comes over to me, and by the deep, pronounced footfalls and a heavy slap on my wet back, I assume it’s Zayan.

“Get up, man,” he says. “I caught your songbook.” He drops the notebook next to me, just a hand’s reach away where it won’t get touched by the waves. “Just don’t sing or I’ll cut your tongue off.”

I groan, feeling the exhaustion in every muscle of my body. Slowly I pick myself up, checking if the songbook got wet. It didn’t. I don’t know how that’s even possible, but I’m not the one to complain when luck shines my way.

Still, I won’t thank Zayan. He threw me off the ship.

“Uh-uh,” I mutter, squinting up at him through the salty sting in my eyes. “Did you save my dignity too, or was that too heavy to carry?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Your dignity? Oh, that sank faster than you did.”

“Mm, I thought so. You couldn’t carry it out because you don’t know what it even is,” I blurt out in response.

Miss Captain chuckles a couple of feet away. Zayan cocks a brow.

I just untie my leather vest and take it off.

He watches me in the process before creaking a smile as Gypsy is walking towards the line of the jungle. She can’t hear us anymore when he tells me, “I changed my mind about you. I don’t want to kill you anymore.”

“Is that so?” I reply.

He’s referring to the conversation we had when he was supposed to get me onto the land. He told me then that if we weren’t just the three of us here, and Gypsy wouldn’t have absolute certainty that if something happened to me it would be because of him, he’d kill me.

I’m sure he meant that.

Now, he nods, eyebrow still cocked and stilled halfway to his hairline.

“But just so we’re clear,” he says, “that girl is off limits to you, you get me?”

Jealousy, jealousy…

I roll my eyes. I might be falling easily in love, and by all means, Miss Captain is a very beautiful woman, but the way her emotions exploded like fireworks when Mister Zayan boarded our ship made it crystal clear: her heart belongs to him.

Me and her? It would never work.

“Who am I to stay in the way of true love?” I ask him, shrugging. It seems to satisfy him, because that eyebrow of his drops and his lips split in a smirk.

“Alright,” he says. “Now, let’s get us some resources, huh? Just better don’t tell me that you’re scared of the jungle as well.”

The truth is? I’m scared of just about anything on these goddamn islands. But I lick my lips, grin, and shake my head.

“Who? Me? Definitely not.”