Bea’s Beauty

“There’s a reason why I know so many stories,” Cathasaigh said as he emerged from behind a barrel of apples. He struck a match and lit the oil lamp he had brought with him. He pulled an apple out of the barrel and took a contemplative bite.

“Put some clothes on and I’ll tell you.”

Bea pulled some clothes from her little bundle and pulled them on sedately. Then she sat back and made herself comfortable.

“Go on then,” she said.

“You don’t seem worried.”

“Tell me why you know so many stories.”

He chuckled.

“You really aren’t worried. Even though I told you it bodes ill having a woman aboard.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re going to do to me. Before we get to that humour me.”

Cathasaigh crouched down beside her and put the lamp between them. He took another bite of the apple and chewed it slowly, looking her dead in the eye the entire time.

“I watch. I listen. I pay attention to people and things. My mother, God rest her soul, reminded me constantly that my name means watchful, and it stuck with me. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

Bea nodded.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t know it was you, but I knew I had a stowaway. It’s not hard to tell when you know what to look for.”

He pulled a stool close and sat down. He quickly started telling her stories again. Stories from his travels. They sat there for hours. Bea began to realise it wasn’t the content of the stories that held her in this boy’s thrall. It was his ability to weave each strand of each tale together so masterfully the whole imprinted on her mind before she had a chance to think about it.

She watched him closely as he spoke, taking in the details of his face, his voice, his mannerisms. He wasn’t the most beautiful man she’d known, but there was something about him. A few generations ago she would have appeared to him and made him her high priest, but times had changed.

Or had they?

In a momentary lull in the story, she spoke.

“Do you want to know why I’m not the slightest bit worried?’ she asked.

“Hmmm?” He responded, his train of thought derailed. “Oh yes, that. Well I assume you’re young, dumb and in love with me and my stories.”

She laughed out loud at that one.

“One out of four is pretty bad, Cathasaigh.”

“Which one, though?”

“I like your stories. And I have a story for you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

She smiled and watched him take in the idea of another being the weaver of stories.

“So?” He said eventually.

“So.”

“Are you going to tell your story or what?”

“Not now. And not how you do. I don’t have your gift with words.”

“Just tell it anyway,” he said, suddenly impatient.

She yawned theatrically. He sighed deeply and took the hint.

“Aye. Sleep now. I’ll stand watch so you’re not thrown overboard until you can tell your tale.”

“You really want to hear this story, don’t you?

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

She got up and took his hand.

“Come, then.”

There was something in her voice that made him follow her without question.

It was early, and the sun was just starting to break the horizon. They walked up to and across the deck, past the bleary eyed early risers who were setting themselves to their tasks without so much as a glance at them. In a moment they reached the mast.

She threw off the heavy coat she had put on, and the shirt she had on underneath it. The skin he could see glistened in the pre-dawn.

“When you tell this story for the first time, I want to be there.”

He glared at her, slightly irritated.

“Are you serious? Tell me your tale, wench, or I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

She winced at the word. It spoiled things. She told him so as she climbed up the masthead.

“What are you… Good God!”

He watched her dive off the front of the ship and turned away, expecting to hear her get smashed to bits.

Whooooooosh

He turned again at the sound. Massive purple wings were unfurled in front of the ship.

“DRAGONNN!” He screamed.

“Werevern, actually.” Bea said quietly as she flew near him.