by Kara LaReau
How to Set a Table
Formal table setting
A • BREAD PLATE
B • WATER GLASS
C • WINE GLASS
D • CHAMPAGNE GLASS
E • FORK (FISH)
F • FORK (DINNER)
G • FORK (SALAD)
H • PLATE
I • NAPKIN
J • DINNER KNIFE
K • F ISH KNIFE
L • SOUP SPOON
M • OYSTER FORK
As it turned out, each of the grain sacks weighed more than each of the sisters, so it took both of them using all their strength to lift each one. Fatima pulled away the cauldron filled with stew and replaced it on the hearth with an empty pot. She lifted the cauldron lid and smiled at the contents.
“This seemed to go over well with the girls last night, eh?” she said. “No one says no to a bowl of Fatima’s Finest.”
Kale felt a rising of bile in the back of her throat. She tried not to look directly at the stew that had plagued her so terribly the night before, which was wise, as it appeared even less appetizing by the light of day.
“So what are you making?” asked Jaundice.
“We’re makin’ what the girls like every mornin’,” the cook said, unfolding a long, sharp jackknife. The Bland Sisters’ eyes grew wide as the blade flashed before them and sliced open the sacks of grain. “Fatima’s Rib-Stickin’ Gruel.”
Kale leafed through the G section of her dictionary while Jaundice looked inside the sacks. The contents were familiar. In fact, they’d seen the very same contents in their sundries basket each week.
“Oats,” Jaundice said.
“Yep,” said Kale, showing her sister Dr. Snoote’s definition. “Gruel is oatmeal.”
“I don’t care what fancy names ye have fer it,” Fatima growled, pointing the knife at them. “Fatima calls it gruel!”
“Of course. My mistake,” Kale said, as Fatima lowered the blade. She indicated the basket filled with hard crackers. “And what are these, then?”
“What? Are ye addled? Everyone knows that be hardtack biscuits,” the cook said, taking the top off of one of the barrels. It was filled with water. She pointed to it with a sausagey finger. “Now, scoop that into the pot until it’s half full.” Then she handed a bucket to Jaundice. “And you, go down to Lizzie in the hold and get this filled with milk.”
Kale and Jaundice did what they were told. Though in their minds, they knew they were making oatmeal, and this pleased them to no end. Of all the things in the world pirates liked to eat for breakfast, it was the very thing the Bland Sisters ate each morning, too.
negligence |'negləjəns| noun
failure to take enough care
Chapter Thirteen
Of course, Jaundice took a bit of a detour on her way to find Lizzie and the milk. She climbed up to the deck and waited until Millie Mudd was at the other end of the ship, then she rerouted the Regina to sail south.
“Easy cheesy,” Jaundice whispered under her breath. Following a plan was almost as satisfying as following their daily routine at home. Jaundice missed their routine; doing the same things over and over again each day helped pass the time, and kept the Bland Sisters’ hands and minds occupied.
It was Jaundice who had come up with the idea for the sock-darning business. She wrote up the sign that said
Thankfully, the grocery was open to trafficking the darning basket along with the sundries basket. Until they were kidnapped by pirates, the Bland Sisters were doing a decent business, Jaundice recalled. As she was good at numbers, she also handled the money.
Now she just needed to find this Lizzie person who knew where the milk was kept. Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to find anyone down in the hold, it was filled with so many animals: chickens, pigs, goats, and a cow.
“Hello?” Jaundice called. “Lizzie? Are you here?”
The cow behind Jaundice mooed softly.
“Shh,” said Jaundice, stroking the cow’s nose. “I’m trying to find someone.”
Again and again, she called Lizzie’s name, walking all around the hold, with no luck. Jaundice leaned against the cow’s pen and sighed. Clearly, this woman was not where she was supposed to be. Jaundice had half a mind to report her for negligence.
“And look,” Jaundice said, pointing at the rail of the pen. “Lizzie’s even carved her name here, so I know she must be skulking around somewhere.”
Moooooooo, said the cow, gazing at Jaundice with her big, dark eyes.
Jaundice looked at the name carved on the rail.
She looked at the cow.
“Lizzie?” she said.
The cow blinked.
Jaundice blinked back.
“Ah,” she said. “Well, then.”
bereft |bi'reft| adjective
lacking in something needed, expected, or desired
Chapter Fourteen
While Jaundice was gone, Kale was feeling a bit bereft. Somehow, she’d learned to live without her parents, but she’d never been apart from her sister, ever. And Fatima was not working out as a substitute.
“Stop watching the pot, galley rat!” she shouted from her stool. “It’ll never boil!”
But Kale enjoyed watching the pot. It reminded her of their oatmeal pot at home, only this one was about ten times as big, and at least ten times as dirty. Clearly, Fatima needed some help in the housekeeping department. Kale looked around at the rest of the galley, which was equally filthy.
“I think I’ll tidy up a bit,” Kale announced, grabbing a broom.
“Suit yerself,” grumbled Fatima.
At home, Kale found great satisfaction in cleaning. At first, it was because she wanted to keep the house in order for her mother and father, for whenever they returned from their unspecified errand. When it became clear that they were not coming back any time soon, cleaning became less a series of tasks for Kale and more an all-consuming passion. She would spend hours polishing a single spoon or cheese knife to gleaming perfection, and devoted her every weekend to washing windows, vacuuming carpets, dusting knickknacks, and her favorite domestic chore of all: scouring the bathroom sink, bathtub, and toilet, which she found was best accomplished with her favorite cleaning implement, a toothbrush. (It might be helpful to clarify that Kale was in the habit of cleaning with an old toothbrush, and not one in current use for the cleaning of her teeth or Jaundice’s.) The best part about cleaning, for Kale, at least, was that it was never done. Sooner or later, everything would get dirty again, and she would happily start over with her regimen.
“So,” said Kale, sweeping the floor one plank at a time, “how long have you been a pirate?”
“Oh, it’s been close to ten years now,” Fatima said, cleaning her fingernails with her knife. “But I been a cook fer half that time. Ever since the accident.”
“The accident?” Kale asked. She stopped sweeping and gave the cook her full attention. This had the potential of being another story.
“I used to be the lookout here on the Regina, but they’ve got that Millie Mudd doin’ it now,” the cook began. “I could spot land a day away, without even usin’ a spyglass.”
“And then what?” Kale prodded.
Fatima sighed. “Well, weren’t much to do up there in the crow’s nest, other than look out fer land and other ships, and eat hardtack. Ye can see where that got me: a bit broad in the beam, and not in the best of shapes.”
This was true. Fatima was nothing if not spherical.
“So one day I’m up there, and I spy a ship we’ve been tryin’ to track down: The Booty Myth, captained by the fugitive Ann Tennille. I jump up to give Delilah the ‘Sail ho,’ and me feet crash through the bottom of the crow’s nest. Next thing I know, I’m flat on me back on the deck, starin’ at the sky.”
“Gosh,” said Kale. “Were you all right?”
“Nary a scratch on me,” said Fatima. “Thankfully, I had somethin’ to cushion me bum.”
“A bag of grain? A coil of rope? A folde
d-up bit of sailcloth?” Kale guessed.
“Nah,” said Fatima. “’Twas Peg.”
“Oh, dear,” said Kale.
“She never knew what hit her,” said Fatima. “Until she woke up and someone told her. She was fine, except fer her leg. Though that was nothin’ that a jug o’ rum and a sure blade couldn’t fix.”
Kale tried not to visualize the details. “Wasn’t she upset? About losing her leg?”
“Not so much as you’d think,” said Fatima. “She said she never liked that leg much, anyway. And she forgave me fer my part in the whole incident, bless her one-legged heart. That’s a true friend, see. Someone who’ll always be there fer ye. Even to break yer fall.”
“So how did you end up in the galley?” Kale asked.
“Guess Delilah and Lefty felt it suited me. I’m too big fer much else these days, anyway,” Fatima said, sighing. “Such a stereotype, that is: Make the chunky one a cook. But I try not to let it take the wind out of me sails. Like I always say, When Life Gives Ye Rats, Make Stew.”
Kale didn’t have time to ponder the implications of Fatima’s adage, as their conversation was interrupted by the return of her sister. Jaundice looked a bit worse for wear. Her clothes and hair were soaked, and she had the distinct markings of hoofprints on her shirtfront.
“I’ve got the milk,” she said weakly, holding out the pail.
“It’s about time, shark bait,” Fatima growled. She grabbed the milk and began stirring it into the pot of pasty oats. Jaundice climbed onto the nearest stool, put her head down on the table, and thought wistfully of how easily milk was procured by the Bland Sisters before today, delivered in clean glass bottles to their basket by the mailbox.
Kale patted her sister on the shoulder.
“Cow milking must be a trying endeavor,” she whispered.
“Utterly,” said Jaundice. Though “udderly” might have been more apt.
vehemence |'vēəməns| noun
force, intensity, or passion
Chapter Fifteen
After another few minutes of stirring, Fatima decided that the gruel was ready.
“You!” she yelled at Jaundice. “Grab them bowls!”
“You!” she yelled at Kale. “Grab them spoons and tankards!”
The Bland Sisters did what they were told, with concerted effort. The bowls and spoons and tankards were made of wood and they weighed a great deal. Fatima, however, had no trouble. With one arm, she picked up the gigantic pot of gruel as if it weighed nothing, then lifted a keg of ale and put it under her other arm. Jaundice and Kale took simultaneous note of this; also, they made a note never to get on Fatima’s bad side, more than they already had, anyway.
The crew was assembled in the hold just below deck. They were evidently very hungry and not in possession of very good manners; everyone was pounding on the table in unison, shouting, “Food! Now! Food! Now! Food! Now!”
“All right, all right,” Fatima shouted back, seemingly louder than all the other voices rolled into one. The Bland Sisters were impressed; she had not only exceptional upper arm strength, but also a sizable pair of lungs and a remarkable ability to project her voice. Fatima brought the pot of gruel down on the table with a THUNK. Then she motioned to Kale and Jaundice. “What ye waitin’ fer, bilge suckers? Start servin’!”
The Bland Sisters hurried around the table, setting out bowls and spoons and tankards. It turned out Dr. Snoote’s table-setting guide really did come in handy.
“Got yerself some lackeys, I see, Fatty,” said a pirate named Princess. She was tall and very thin, and covered nearly head to toe in tattoos, except for her teeth, which were studded with diamonds.
“I need someone to do me dirty work,” Fatima replied, plopping gruel into Princess’s bowl. “Not like any of ye wenches were volunteerin’.”
“I didn’t think anyone else could fit in that galley with ye,” Princess said. “Not with the ballast yer carrying.”
“Ye lassies best be careful,” a pirate named Smokey said to Kale and Jaundice, puffing on a mermaid-shaped pipe. “Ole Fatty here might run out of hardtack and eat ye both as a snack.”
Just about everyone at the table laughed, even Fatima herself. Though the Bland Sisters could tell that the cook was only pretending to think the jokes were funny, as she gritted her teeth and plopped gruel into Princess’s and Smokey’s bowls with particular vehemence.
“Come on, now, mateys. That’s enough humor fer one mornin’,” Peg said, giving Fatima a sympathetic look.
“Good ole Fatty,” Smokey said through a spoonful of gruel. “She knows how to take a ribbin’.”
“She’s got a thick skin, that one. A very thick skin,” said Princess. The crew erupted into laughter again.
Making fun of other people’s appearances isn’t nice, Jaundice and Kale thought at the same time, as they filled the pirates’ tankards with ale. But, as they came to realize, most pirates aren’t very nice, either.
tact |takt| noun
the ability to deal with others or with difficult issues without offense
Chapter Sixteen
“So why is she called ‘Princess’?” Kale asked after breakfast. She was thoroughly scrubbing the bowls, spoons, tankards, and gruel pot, Jaundice was drying and stacking, and Fatima was supervising, which meant she was sitting on a stool, eating a considerable amount of hardtack.
“Her full name is Princess Kwee-Kweg,” Fatima grumbled between bites. Crumbs of hardtack quivered on her chin as she spoke. “But most of the crew has trouble with pro-nun-see-a-tin’, so we all just calls her Princess. She claims to be royalty, from some place.”
“A real princess,” said Jaundice, who had only ever seen one princess, as illustrated in their dictionary. “I can’t believe it.”
“Her tattoos are incredible,” said Kale, who had only ever seen one tattoo, as illustrated in their dictionary. “They must have taken forever to apply. And I bet they were painful, especially in, you know, the more sensitive areas.”
“Like her toes,” added Jaundice.
Jaundice had particularly sensitive toes. She didn’t like having them touched, even a little bit. All in good fun, Kale once brushed her sister’s big toe with the tip of a feather; Jaundice wouldn’t speak to her for days. She rarely ever went barefoot and preferred wearing socks to bed, even in the summer, all to prevent her toes from potentially brushing up against anything. This was merely one of many quirks maintained by the Bland Sisters, as one may have already surmised.
“The more painful for Princess, the better,” Fatima mumbled, reaching for another biscuit. “An’ I can suggest a few sensitive areas that Smokey should think about tattooin’.”
“Do you have any cheese?” Jaundice asked. “Those biscuits would taste better with some cheese, I bet.”
“These biscuits taste just fine. Mind yer own business,” Fatima snapped, turning away.
Even with Fatima’s back turned, it soon became clear to the Bland Sisters that she was crying. Her whole body shook with the eruption of tears, which made the pots and pans around her begin to clatter. Jaundice and Kale looked at each other. It was the first time they had ever seen such an emotional display; it all seemed so wet and troubling. This was a situation in need of considerable delicacy and tact, neither of which the Bland Sisters had any practice in exercising.
“You know,” said Kale, “we don’t think you’re fat at all.”
Unfortunately, this made Fatima cry even harder. Kale looked at her sister for assistance. Jaundice cleared her throat.
“No,” Jaundice added. “You’re very sturdy. And strong. Very strong. We’re considerably impressed with the way you carry the gruel pot and the ale keg. No one else on the crew could even attempt such a feat.”
“And,” said Kale, “you can carry a tune. We heard you singing your chantey last night. It was delightful.”
“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it,” said Jaundice. Which was, in its own way, the truth.
“Really?” Fatima sniffed. “I wrote that, ye know.”
“You did?” Kale said, with genuine incredulity. “I’ve never heard anything like it in all my life.”
This was true; as was previously mentioned, the Bland Sisters couldn’t remember hearing any song before, let alone a chantey, let alone a chantey performed live by a pirate of certain girth while doing a jig.
“But why do they always have to make fun of me?” Fatima cried, burying her face in her apron.
“It’s because you’re special, obviously,” Jaundice said gently. “They’re just jealous.”
“Also,” Kale added, “from what little I’ve seen, people make themselves feel better by being mean to others.”
“That’s true,” Fatima said, sniffing. “That’s what I do. I’m mean to everyone I meet. Why, I’ve been a right old crab to ye two, and ye’ve been nothing but nice to me.”
“And patient,” added Jaundice.
“And helpful,” Kale reminded, gesturing around the galley. It really was much cleaner.
Fatima dried her eyes with her stained apron. She put her arms around the Bland Sisters. “Ye girls are good to ole Fatima,” she said, pulling them in close. “I’m glad I have ye. And Peg.”
If she squeezed any tighter, Fatima wouldn’t have either of the Bland Sisters much longer. Fortunately, Lefty appeared in the galley doorway. Fatima loosened her headlocks and Jaundice and Kale breathed sighs of relief. They weren’t used to giving or receiving hugs, especially of the extreme variety.
“How are these bilge rats working out?” Lefty asked, looking around. She slapped her cat-o’-nine-tails absentmindedly against her leg, which did not do much to help the Bland Sisters’ nerves.
“Top-notch,” Fatima said. “These lassies are keepers.”
“Good,” said Lefty, “because I need ’em for some hard scrubbin’. I want the decks lookin’ as shipshape as this galley.”
