Hotel of the White Wake
As the two sailors are chatting, Devon returns looking slightly winded. “The Captain will see you now. Again I am sorry for the delay.” He leads you to the door leading to a hallway. It too is lined with paintings of naval scenes. To the right is a butler’s pantry where various cleaning supplies that seem to have had recent use are piled rather haphazardly—brooms, dust pans, dusters, rags and buckets. Devon makes a half-hearted attempt to conceal the mess in the pantry by standing in front of the door and motioning you to the opposite door which leads into a study. The room is paneled in exotic woods and has double doors of glass panes leading out onto a balcony where a telescope is set up. The doors are open to let a bit of fresh air into the somewhat stuffy room. This is clearly the room of a man who has led a full life. Stuffed heads of exotic beasts and preserved fish are hung around the top of the walls in this room which has a high ceiling. Various maritime memorabilia, unusual shells and assorted bric a brac of all description fill shelves, stands and tables around the room. A fireplace dominates one wall of the room and the mantle is lined with items from the far corners of the world. Above the fireplace, a boar spear and harpoon are crossed on the wall above a long barreled firearm of some sort. A large polished silver circled cross of the church of heaven is flanked by a couple of lamps on one wall. An oversized chart table with three well worn high backed stools is in the center of the room. Beneath the glass a well marked up chart of the local waters can be seen. Comfortable looking wing chairs with crackled leather seats face the fire place in a semi-circle. A roll top desk is opposite the fire place. Book shelves filled with old volumes line the walls on either side of the door you entered. Models of ships highly detailed and carefully carved top the shelves. A couple of portraits are on the walls, a stout old woman with a sharp face that reminds you of the prow of battle ship and a middle-aged man with sullen eyes and a drooping chin standing next to a mast that some of you recognize as the Son in Marin and Son, Allois. The room smells of brandy and pipe smoke. The old sailor referred to as ‘Uncle Terry’ sits somewhat morosely on a dusty sofa in a tapestry fabric that has faded until the scene is no longer recognizable. He nurses the beer stein now only about half full of vile liquor and seems a bit intoxicated. You notice that a small closet in one corner of the room has a chair pushed against the door and a few odds and ends are sticking out around the door. It looks as if this room has been hastily cleaned. There isn’t really a sitting area that will hold all four of you.
Presently, the only other door to the room opens and a wizened old man comes in leaning heavily on a cane. His thin white hair is wispy and flows about his head in a soft cloud. He is dressed in loose trousers, deck shoes and a heavy dark green wool sweater. Greta follows closely and her hand darts toward the old man a couple of times as if she fears he’ll need her support not to topple over. He glances around as they enter and mumbles, “Now Greta I’ve told you not to bother with my study. I had things the way I wanted them. When Lorrainna was alive, the Gods rest her soul; she knew that I didn’t like her muddling about with my stuff. I always told her ‘the women folk can do as they like with the rest of the house, but the study is mine.’” He raps his cane on the floor sharply for emphasis and wavers a bit, but manages to right himself. To those of you who know him, it is obvious that the years have finally caught up with Captain Honager Marin, who must be pushing 90 if not a 100. He squints a bit at you all. Despite the bright afternoon sun streaming in the double doors he complains to Greta, “blast it woman can we get some lights in here. I’m not broke yet, don’t be sparing the wax and whale oil, gets some lamps and candles going.” She hurries about with a long tindertwig taken from a box near the fireplace and lighting lamps and candles. His milky eyes seem to clear a bit as he focuses on Radoon. “Radoon,” he almost bellows, “my old friend I’m glad you could make it.” He totters over to you, straightens up as best he can and claps Radoon on the back with surprising strength. “How are you, you old sea dog.” His eyes focus on next Morwyn, “I’ll be keelhauled, I almost didn’t recognize you lad. You were just a pup the last time I saw you. A fine looking man you’ve become" and with an effort he gives Morwyn a firm clap on the back. Next he turns to Rook, “I swear man you get blacker every time I see you. Like the hold of smuggler at midnight you are. It’s good to see you. He delivers yet another clap on the back, this time followed by a fit of coughing. He manages to wheeze out, “A drop of brandy if you please Greta, for everyone.” With a grin he turns to Morwyn, “young Morwyn here may be old enough to drink by now.” Finally, he sees an unfamiliar face. He strains to take a good look at Michael Storm. You can feel a powerful intelligence behind the watery eyes evaluating him from topsail to keel. “I’ve heard good things about you lad. Good things, but I have to say you dress like a Westlander pimp I knew back in my navy days.” He shakes your hand in both of his leaning heavily on you, but putting considerable effort into his grip. He smiles in a way that lets you know he’s just joking. You all start to fall under the spell of this man who had seen and done it all before most of you were born. He has a powerful charisma and a good natured jolliness that is infectious. You have no doubt that this man was able to command his crew to follow him to the ends to the world. Greta has managed to equip each of you with a small snifter of fine brandy the color of polished mahogany. Captain Marin stands as straight as he can and says in his still powerful voice, “to those we lost along the way,” and takes a healthy swig of the brandy after giving it a swirl in the glass. He says common seaman’s toast with such solemnity that you feel an odd stirring of memory for those you’ve lost over the years. After a moment of silence his smile returns; once again the room is filled with light and good humor. He half sits half falls into the wheeled chair in front of the desk and only a deft move by Greta to place a foot behind the chair keeps it from rolling out from under him. “Gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know him that old Rummy of a tar behind you is Terry Lockspar, the finest deckhand you’ll ever meet and my oldest friend.” He gestures to the old sailor on the couch who now holds a nearly empty beer stein in one hand and a mostly empty brandy snifter in the other. He nods to you a bit unsteadily.
Suddenly Captain Marin almost shouts in a voice of command, “Young Morwyn, to the telescope, tell us what you see.” He adds after a moment, “the course is true, but you may have to adjust the focus a bit for your young eyes.”
