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I knock on the Bentwoods’ door.
“The captain is about to question the snake charmer,” I say to the closed portal. Apparently, they have breached their divide. A good thing. It’s time to end this mischief, and yes, that is exactly what I mean. Mischief, mayhem, folly. But I get ahead of myself.
Captain Harris has denied knowing Singh, or his snake, to be on board. Which is ridiculous. Singh is both the ship’s cook and a very fine one, from all accounts. He is also the preferred healer, as the men do not trust the surgeon, Mr. Richards.
Above board, an enthusiastic crowd has gathered on the foredeck, hanging from the rigging, to see what will happen with the snake charmer. Montague and I are already there when the Bentwoods hurry forward.
Zenji is near the mast where he goes through his paces every morning.
For a diminutive man, the charmer walks tall, strands of wooden beads about his neck. An immaculate white headpiece adds to his stature, and a woven snake basket is clutched in his arms. Even if they weren’t afraid of his serpent, the man is imposing.
Chest puffed up, comically so, Harris challenges him, “What are you doing on my ship? And what is this about?”
“I am your cook,” Singh reminds him, clearly confused.
“And your serpent?”
Singh looks about.
“Naga is always with me. Every sailing.” Other sailors nod.
“No room for a serpent on our ship.”
“He eats rodents…” Singh is starting to get nervous.
“Stop,” Harris chastises. “We need not hear more from you. Your serpent, and you, have put lives in jeopardy.”
“No!” Alarm trembles through Singh. “That is not how you—”
“I warned you to stop,” the Captain orders again. “Now show me this… this creature.”
Dropping to his knees, basket before him, Singh lifts the lid, reaching gently inside for the knotted pillowcase. His fingers tremble as he loosens the knot.
“No, no, no,” Captain Harris shouts, “put that thing back in the basket and shut the lid!”
The charmer looks up.
“Do as I say,” the Captain’s soft command is in stark contrast to the serious consequences the charmer is facing.
One does not cross a Captain. He is the law on this vessel, and I respect defined order. Nor do I wish to have a cobra roaming the passageways, and yet, I am hard-pressed to hold back. The poor man is confused, his eyes wide, his body shaking.
“Now.”
The Captain’s voice is lower, quieter, and Singh’s basket topples to a chorus of gasps. Even I step back, or try to, but too many are crowded close.
Singh swoops down, retrieving the encased cobra, stuffing him under the lid as he tries to explain.
“But I was ordered—”
Harris’s voice slices off the snake charmer’s words.
“Fix it shut!”
A premonition of awfulness nudges me to step forward, but this is not quite the time. One must be sure before unwrapping truth.
A tear hits the basket, but the charmer does as asked.
“Now give the basket to me.”
