The Cargo of Shadows

Episode II – Relics and Rumor

The Orlop’s Secret

The orlop groaned with every swell, ropes sighing against timber as though the ship itself had lungs. Julii climbed down with a lantern in her hand, meant only to fetch a fid for the boatswain. But curiosity gnawed louder than orders, and her feet carried her deeper between the stacks of crates.

The chalked words on the lids were plain enough: linen, tin, pork. She passed them one by one until her light caught a lid sprung by the last storm. She crouched and tugged back the waxed cloth.

The lantern flare spilled across what she had only half believed when whispered: bronze reliquaries, green at the seams, glass inset with a sliver of pale bone. A chalice wrapped in linen. And beyond these, her breath snagged at a gleam of gold thread: vestments heavy with embroidery, stitched with precious stones, folded neat as coin.

Her cap’s brim shadowed her eyes as she pulled the cloth back into place. She had seen enough. It was one thing to hear men mutter about bones and bells; another to stand over them, lantern shaking, while jewels glimmered in the dark.

She climbed back to the deck quickly, carrying more weight than the lantern in her hand.

Whispers in the Fo’c’sle

That night the fo’c’sle throbbed with steam and talk. Men bent over their bowls, voices pitched low but sharp.

“They’ve saints’ bones boxed below,” muttered a gunner.
“Saints don’t like salt,” another spat. “They rot when you take them from shrines.”
“They foul the water,” someone said. “Mark me—the casks are cursed.”

The youngest boy, his hammock slung nearest hers, leaned close. His eyes were wide. “Juli—did you hear it toll?”

She thought of the bound bell. She tugged her cap lower and grinned. “No sound but your snoring.”

Laughter cracked, uneasy but real. Men hunched back over their food, the edge of panic blunted. Julii sat back, startled by how a sentence could change the weight of a room. Words had pulled tighter than rope.

Morning Ritual

At dawn, before duty stirred, she took the quill stub she had hidden and scratched lines on a scrap of paper. Not the captain’s measured words, not the Admiralty’s phrases—just her own: the color of the sky before the sun, the feel of rope burning her palm, a dream of drowning she wanted to shake free.

She did not know why she wrote. Only that it left her clearer, lighter, as if emptying a bucket before filling it again. She folded the page beneath her cap and went to work.

The Captain’s Dictation

Evening brought the glow of the captain’s lamp and the measured pace of his voice. He dictated standing, hands behind his back, measuring the weight of each word’s value in the barter of exchange with those who would read it.

“To the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty… Cargo intact. Religious articles consigned for His Majesty’s missions. Crew stout under strain. Estimated landfall: six weeks, winds permitting.”

Julii copied, her letters still uneven.

He paused, watching her. “Do you know why bones matter, Julii?”

She shook her head.

“Because men need them. Spain roots towns with crosses and relics. A bone in a chapel is a flag no storm can strike. It doesn’t feed the belly, but it feeds the mind enough to keep knives in their sheaths. That is food of a kind.”

She dipped her head back to the page, unease gnawing. The relics looked like cargo. Yet his words framed them as ballast for empires. He spoke not with faith but with the certainty of one who had counted costs and chosen to bear them.

Knife at Supper

The biscuits grew brittle with weevils, the water metallic. Men’s tempers soured faster than the casks.

One night a quarrel over rations cracked wide. A sailor cursed the purser, another jeered, and a blade flashed in the lamplight. Men fell into a circle, their hunger hungry for violence.

The boatswain barked, but his voice was only more noise.

The captain stood at the far side, calm deliberate, and turned his head toward her. “Speak.”

Julii’s pulse hammered, but her mouth moved. “Fear weighs more than bone,” she said, loud enough for all. “If you want the ship lighter, throw that.”

The words sliced through the murmur. A ripple of laughter followed, jagged but real. The knife dropped. The circle broke apart into grumbles.

Later, by lamplight, she copied the log. The captain watched the black water slide past the stern.

“You felt it tip,” he said.

“I did.”

“That’s why you’ll keep writing,” he said. “So your hand learns where to place weight before your tongue must.”

She nodded. She thought of her dawn pages—the unguarded words about rope and fear—and realized he was right. Writing was practice. A rehearsal for steadiness.

Shadows Below

The voyage stretched on. Men still muttered, but less loudly when she was near. Each morning she filled her page, emptying her spirit before it could choke her. Each evening she bent to the captain’s letters, shaping words meant for lords and bishops.

Below deck, relics gleamed in darkness, folded neat as coin. Above, words—his chosen, hers unplanned—fought fear into order.

She was Julii to all. But in the margins of her pages, she began to glimpse Julia waiting, steadying, sharpening.

WE&P by:EZorrillaMc.