s (chair) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-02-28 23:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | charlotte doyle |
Who: Charlotte Doyle & Open to any.
What: Arriving in Los Angeles.
Where: The harbor.
When: 28th Feb.
Rating: TBA. Likely no higher than PG.
Status: Incomplete.
She was balancing on the bowsprit, her bare feet gripping the wood carefully as she reached for the forestay. Giggling, her hair (which really did need a fresh cut, she thought idly; it was getting far too long) blowing into her face so she could hardly see. This was her favorite thing about being a sailor - moments like this, feeling fearless and free. Fixing the forestays in the middle of the night, when she was the only one who was lithe enough to feel her way in the dark.
"Charlotte! Be careful!"
Zachariah's familiar voice sounded just as she lost her footing, tumbling off the bowsprit, her head narrowly missing a collision with the figurehead.
"Zachariah!" She couldn't see; the salt was stinging her eyes and her wet hair was sticking to her face; she couldn't lift an arm to push it away because she was desperately trying to paddle toward what she thought was the ship.
"Grab hold of the figurehead," Zachariah's calm voice came faintly, and she reached out a single hand. It hit the wooden sceptre the figurehead held in her hand, and she held tight... the water around her seemed to be spinning... as if she were in a whirlpool of some kind, she was being sucked downward, she could hardly breathe...
"ZACHARIAH!" Charlotte's voice came desperate and pleading before she realized the water was still again. The part of the figurehead she was clutching wasn't moving; whatever momentary storm they'd been in had obviously passed. Lifting her free arm, Charlotte managed to unstick her hair from her face... but what she was holding onto was not any part of the Seahawk.
A wooden post at the end of a dock, reaching down into the water. Surrounding Charlotte were boats, hundreds and hundreds of boats. But they weren't like boats she had ever seen - none seemed to be made of wood, but rather some shiny white substance. She gaped at the vessels, dumbfounded, before the realization that she was freezing cold struck her. Spying an old rusted ladder nearby, Charlotte swam toward it and climbed up onto the dock, spitting out salt water as she hoisted herself into a sitting position.
It was every bit as dark as it had been on the Seahawk. Which, strangely enough, was nowhere to be seen in this enormous harbour. "Zachariah?" she croaked, coughing a bit before trying again in a stronger voice, "Zachariah!" Standing up, she wrung what water she could out of her short sailor's trousers and her threadbare linen sailor's shirt before beginning to make her way up the dock.
Wherever she was, this much was clear: it was not Providence, nor was it London. There were what appeared to be covered lanterns hanging from smooth rods at intermittent intervals, and it must be a city, for it was full of noise - but different noise, annoying noise, rather like the noise at the mill her father had once made her come tour with him when he was considering purchasing it. Combing her fingers through her soaked, snarled hair, Charlotte furrowed her brow, partly in concern and partly in terror.
What was this place, and why wasn't the Seahawk here, too?