Post by Cid on Nov 18, 2009 6:05:52 GMT -5
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,
Where roses are always in bloom.
I will croon you a song as we float along
To that shore that is blessed of God,
Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,
That beautiful Land of Nod.
~Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "The Beautiful Land of Nod"
---
The halfwit stood, or floated, in front of a porthole, somewhere on the back half of the ship that was less populated. He stood and he gawked out at something--towards something, or ever into something. He'd sometime do this when he was behind the large, custom-built wheel the captain had installed when he'd first seized the Bones, however-many years ago that was. He'd do this and pucker his lips as if ready for a kiss. Those stars were a great-big bosom and he wanted to suck them. Like a child on a teet, he wanted to suck 'em dry.
He didn't know where this expression came from, he didn't really care. All he cared about was getting behind that great-big "oak" wheel and spinning it which-ever way the captain said. "Oak," he'd heard the captain say it before, but didn't know what it was. It was cool to the touch and not like any metal he'd felt.
Sometimes he'd just go whichever way and completely forget about what was said or who was saying it, and somehow he'd always be right where he needed to be. He was mute, not deaf--just mute--but he sure felt like God had removed a little something extra out when he'd taken his speech. Maybe, like an orange, he just plucked out the some of the juices and left the rinds. The shit nobody wanted to eat.
The captain knew he was good for something, even though he wasn't sure what. He was allowed to bunk in the old navigator's quarters, and had it all to himself. The Jove's apparently put a lot of stock in their crew's luxury when they built these ol' things, Ted once said. The navigator was something special, because they had a whole room to themselves to do anything they wanted. He'd hung a hammock across the portside wall to the door frame, and even though there was no gravity to keep it taught, he'd wrap himself up in it and feel like a fish snug in a net, floating in the waves.
He'd never really thought much about space, and would probably never truly grasp its limitlessness, for Mutie only believed in two things: what he was told and the blackness outside. The blackness filled him with a strange happiness, a happiness he was particularly accustomed to. He generally was pretty happy. That is, when the crew wasn't making him the butt of their jokes or if the captain wasn't angry at someone. The captain was angry a lot, though.
He had no reason to not be happy most times. He got to do what he loved most--touch the oak wheel and stare out into the blackness. He was pretty good at it, he guessed. He was born to do it, he might say. He would die doing it, hopefully.
But he wouldn't. Not at the moment.
Right now he was doing only one of the things he loved best, but it was enough. His room didn't have a porthole, so he had stole down one of the many corridors of the old ship and found one where no one would notice him.
It was a great-big ship, and he felt it headed somewhere grand. Grand was not quite the word, but, ah... he didn't know words! He would be the one to carry them there, that much he knew. Maybe he didn't know, but he hoped. He really, really hoped. In a way, he loved the captain. He loved him more than the oak and would never touch the oak or look out into the blackness if he ordered him--nay, even if he asked him to.
It would be hard, but the captain had taken care of him better than any other human, his mother included, and he owed him that much. It might kill him, but he'd do it. Just for him.
He knew that that would never happen. The captain needed him to steer the ship, and even though there were dozens upon dozens of men who could do it just as good as he, he'd chosen Mutie, and Mutie would not let him down.
No sir, he wouldn't.
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,
Where roses are always in bloom.
I will croon you a song as we float along
To that shore that is blessed of God,
Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,
That beautiful Land of Nod.
~Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "The Beautiful Land of Nod"
---
The halfwit stood, or floated, in front of a porthole, somewhere on the back half of the ship that was less populated. He stood and he gawked out at something--towards something, or ever into something. He'd sometime do this when he was behind the large, custom-built wheel the captain had installed when he'd first seized the Bones, however-many years ago that was. He'd do this and pucker his lips as if ready for a kiss. Those stars were a great-big bosom and he wanted to suck them. Like a child on a teet, he wanted to suck 'em dry.
He didn't know where this expression came from, he didn't really care. All he cared about was getting behind that great-big "oak" wheel and spinning it which-ever way the captain said. "Oak," he'd heard the captain say it before, but didn't know what it was. It was cool to the touch and not like any metal he'd felt.
Sometimes he'd just go whichever way and completely forget about what was said or who was saying it, and somehow he'd always be right where he needed to be. He was mute, not deaf--just mute--but he sure felt like God had removed a little something extra out when he'd taken his speech. Maybe, like an orange, he just plucked out the some of the juices and left the rinds. The shit nobody wanted to eat.
The captain knew he was good for something, even though he wasn't sure what. He was allowed to bunk in the old navigator's quarters, and had it all to himself. The Jove's apparently put a lot of stock in their crew's luxury when they built these ol' things, Ted once said. The navigator was something special, because they had a whole room to themselves to do anything they wanted. He'd hung a hammock across the portside wall to the door frame, and even though there was no gravity to keep it taught, he'd wrap himself up in it and feel like a fish snug in a net, floating in the waves.
He'd never really thought much about space, and would probably never truly grasp its limitlessness, for Mutie only believed in two things: what he was told and the blackness outside. The blackness filled him with a strange happiness, a happiness he was particularly accustomed to. He generally was pretty happy. That is, when the crew wasn't making him the butt of their jokes or if the captain wasn't angry at someone. The captain was angry a lot, though.
He had no reason to not be happy most times. He got to do what he loved most--touch the oak wheel and stare out into the blackness. He was pretty good at it, he guessed. He was born to do it, he might say. He would die doing it, hopefully.
But he wouldn't. Not at the moment.
Right now he was doing only one of the things he loved best, but it was enough. His room didn't have a porthole, so he had stole down one of the many corridors of the old ship and found one where no one would notice him.
It was a great-big ship, and he felt it headed somewhere grand. Grand was not quite the word, but, ah... he didn't know words! He would be the one to carry them there, that much he knew. Maybe he didn't know, but he hoped. He really, really hoped. In a way, he loved the captain. He loved him more than the oak and would never touch the oak or look out into the blackness if he ordered him--nay, even if he asked him to.
It would be hard, but the captain had taken care of him better than any other human, his mother included, and he owed him that much. It might kill him, but he'd do it. Just for him.
He knew that that would never happen. The captain needed him to steer the ship, and even though there were dozens upon dozens of men who could do it just as good as he, he'd chosen Mutie, and Mutie would not let him down.
No sir, he wouldn't.