Interlude: Poppy (2nd draft)

Second verse, same as the first.

Well close anyway. Here is the re-write and a bit of an addition to the first couple paragraphs of the children's story..

Poppy was 10 years old before she realized she was the only one who could see the stain on the bulkhead. It had been there for as long as she could remember, but in the last few months it had started growing. It started as only a faint watery smudge as large as her hand, but, slowly, the dark fingers of the spot had crept upwards, stretching along the length of the steel wall. Now, she could barely reach the top of it while standing on her toes. She had never bothered to say anything before. After all, it was so small and had almost surely been there long before she’d arrived. But, the color had been darkening as well as if the steel were a sponge soaking up stray water, making its presence harder and harder to ignore.

Maybe it isn’t their fault, Poppy thought. Perhaps no one else noticed the anomaly because this particular bulkhead was located in the last baggage compartment deep down in the bowels of the ship. No one ever ventured this far below the residential decks—well, no one except Poppy and one of the deckhands, Mr. Navire.

Mr. Navire was a large man with hands meant for pulling rope and lifting crates. His rather round belly hid a terrifying strength that Poppy had seen him use only once. He had lived at sea his whole life and took every opportunity to regale those on board with stories of his wanderings from port to port. Most ignored his ramblings, but Poppy adored visiting him to hear tales of pirate attacks and fierce squalls that sent men tumbling to early and waterlogged graves. Of course, his favorite topic was the ship itself, Poppy’s home. He loved The Summerland (or Mag Mell) like it was his very own child and would always worry over the boat’s idiosyncrasies during their chats. Surely, she thought, Mr. Navire would have recognized the growing imperfection tarnishing the boat’s insides. He always noticed imperfections.

When she showed him the spot, however, he only opened his mouth in a cavernous “O” and laughed his big booming laugh. “You had me worried for a moment. Believe me, little flower, if there were a stain on this wall, I would see it. Now stop scaring me with jokes and get back above deck.”

‘Little Flower’ was Mr. Navire’s pet name for Poppy. He gave it to her when they first met, claiming she was perhaps a little too delicate for the sea. It was true, of course. She had never quite adapted as well as the others to life on waves and was frequently subject to the stomach aches and nausea of a much greener seaman. At the moment he was teasing her, of course, knowing how angry she got whenever he used the name, but, today, even this offense could not draw her attention from the dark streak in front of her.

Why could he not see it? As Poppy walked the distance from the stairs to her room she tried to remember if there was something different about the light or the coloring that could have fooled him. Was it possible she had imagined it? That there was in fact no stain, no need for concern or worry.

“Where ya been, Poppy?”

Poppy, completely lost in her thoughts, jumped at the voice and whirled towards the open doorway. A small squeak followed by a thud reverberated in the room as the shadow fell backwards over the metal door jamb. Poppy peered into the hall and saw a tiny tow-headed boy on the ground blinking up at her, dazed.