Rena Rätter

Rod sighed as he shuffled into the cramped galley. It was time for one of his least favorite parts of the day: cleaning dirty dishes. He had understood going in that stewarding was a job saturated by dull, unending tasks, but he did not expect so many of those tasks to involve cleaning other people's disgusting messes. There wasn't much of a choice though, he supposed, he'd just have to persevere. Soon enough he'd advance to the rank of midshipman, which he expected would entail more refined, dignified duties. But in the meantime, he must clean filthy tableware. Working on this ship gave him newfound respect for the maid who did these chores for him back at home. Rebecca was her name, as he recalled. He ought to write her a note of appreciation once he returned to Northam.

Footsteps from behind interrupted his train of thought; it was Davey, going to the starboard counter to begin his work of cleaning all the pots, pans, ladles, and kettles Sefton used to prepare lunch. Rod assessed the load he was charged with: a dangerously tall stack of gravy-encrusted dishes and a cluster of silver tankards, sticky and rum-scented. Delightful. He reached up on his tip-toes and plucked the topmost plate off the tower. He began to work away at the long task ahead of him, wiping crumbs off with a damp rag. He wished to make conversation with his cleaning partner, but nothing he could say came to mind. Rod had quickly learned they had little in common beyond their roles on the ship and, more importantly, Davey was far from a talkative sort of boy. And so they resigned themselves to working in stilted silence instead, save for clinking of dishes and clanging of pots. There were five dishes in Rod's clean stack when Fillip strolled over to him with a proud grin and a puffed-out chest.

"Hallå. Hur mår du?" He greeted Rod.

Rod turned his head up with a quizzical expression plastered on his face. "Eh?" was all he could get out in response. He continued to stare at the man, making circular scrubbing motions on the plate in his hand.

Fillip repeated himself with the same cheery tone as before. It did nothing to ease Rod's confusion.

"Are you speaking Swedish?" he asked, setting aside the now clean plate and grabbing another dirty one. Six plates in the stack.

"Ja. Do you not know the language?"

Rod raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out where Fillip had gotten the idea that he did know it. "No?" he answered.

The Swede scoffed. "You mean to tell me you spell your last name with two 'e's and you don't speak Swedish?"

"No sir." After the words came out, Rod realized he got them mixed up. He really must get better at that. "I mean, yessir. But Mr. Dahl, I don't understand what my last name has to do with my ability to speak Swedish." He added another dish to his stack. Seven.

"It has everything to do with it, boy. Your name ends in s-e-n, but most others like it in England end in s-o-n. You've noticed this, surely."

"Of course. But my father's family is Norwegian, not Swedish."

"A-ha!" Fillip's face lit up as if he'd uncovered some great secret. "You have Norwegian blood in your veins, eh, boy?"

"That's correct."

Fillip let out a hearty laugh and gave Rod, still bewildered, a slap on the back. Sometimes Rod wondered if the man was going mad. He made slow movements, as if anything more would cause Fillip to attack like a beast. Eight.

"That explains it then! You see, there aren't many differences between the languages spoken in Sweden and Norway. They are like brothers almost, and the last names are similar too," he explained with a glimmer in his eye. "Do you understand?"

Rod's mouth twisted into a faint smile. The old man wasn't quite mad, he was only trying to find a way to connect with him. He decided he might as well play along, setting down his rag and turning to face Fillip.

"Well, my grandpa did teach me a few Norwegian words. It's been a couple years since I've spoken it though."

"Wonderful! Show me what you remember." He leaned on the counter and looked to Rod like he was a magician about to perform a magic trick.

"Err... Jeg heter Roderick Andersen og er... femti år gammel." It took all of his concentration to string the words together, but he did it. He felt proud of himself.

"I think you've got your numbers confused there, son. You've just told me you're fifty years old." Fillip said with a playful smirk. Quiet laughter slipped out of Davey from across the room. "In Swedish, you'd probably want to say 'femton' instead."

"I see." The foolish blunder deflated Rod's ego a bit, but he was grateful to Fillip for pointing it out to him. He repeated the word a few times, letting it get comfortable on his tongue. "Thank you. I did warn you my skills are rusty."

"It's alright, none of us are perfect."

"Aye!" Samuel's voice barked out from behind. That man had the habit of being unnervingly stealthy; he'd crept into the galley without anyone even realizing it. Rod whipped around to look at him, as did Fillip and Davey. "What're you doin'? It's nearly time for Sefton to start supper and you gobshites are standin' around and chattin' about languages!"

Davey spun around and went back to work. This was not about him and he wasn't going to stare long enough for Samuel to make it about him.

"Sorry, sir. I'll get them done as fast as I can." Rod stuttered and returned to scrubbing once more.

"You'd better. I'd hate to report to Mr. Perrott that his darling little steward isn't performin' his duties sufficiently." Samuel hissed. Rod winced. The thought of a bad report terrified him, although the problem with Samuel was that Rod could never tell if he was being genuine or said venomous things merely to get under people's skin. Whatever the case may be, he did not want to push his luck. He picked up his pace. Nine.

"Don't blame the boy for this, Galligan. I'm the one who interrupted his work." Fillip explained.

"True as that may be, he's equally liable for lettin' you distract him." The Irishman replied pointedly.

Fillip's mustache twitched. He did not like it when Samuel was like this. "Come on, leave him be. Chastising him won't make him work any faster." Ten.

"He needs to hear it though." He cast a spiteful glare upon Rod's back. Although the boy couldn't see him, Samuel hoped he could feel his eyes stabbing into him like daggers. "If you want to reach those lofty goals of yours, lad, you've got to keep your wits about you and do what you're told. Wastin' your time with meaningless conversations about speakin' Swedish isn't gonna earn you a commission."

"Of course, sir." Rod said. Although he hated the way he said it, Samuel was right. He had to be more diligent. Eleven.

Samuel looked up at Fillip again. "Well? Don't you have duties to be attendin' to?"

"No." Fillip answered sternly. If he were an honest man, the answer would've been 'yes', but he was not letting this snake of a man sink his fangs into these boys. "I really do not like your tone today, Galligan. You'd better watch your tongue, else you will be the one receiving an unfavorable report this week."

"I fail to see a problem with what I've said. All I've done is try to keep a schedule and discipline a boy for deviatin' from it." Again, it was hard for Rod to discern the sincerity of the words he spoke. Twelve.

"Although you seem to think otherwise, you are not the chief steward of this vessel. You do not have to concern yourself with what your peers are doing. If Andersen here were doing a poor job, it would be my responsibility to correct that. Not yours."

"Aye, he's still my subordinate, is he not? I've spent three of his lifetimes out on the high seas, I know the inner workings of a ship better than anyone else on the Obra Dinn." Samuel challenged. "Surely my experience grants me some authority over him." Thirteen.

"We are not having this conversation, Galligan. Go off and see if Nichols needs help with anything. There is nothing for you to do here." Fillip ordered with tense shoulders and a scowl carved into his face.

Samuel's thin lips parted before he pursed them tightly. This one time, he'd best bite his tongue. He straightened his posture, scratched his nose, and slithered out of the galley without another word.

Fillip's broad shoulders drooped as he let out a disheartened sigh. He looked down to Rod, whose eyes were fixated on a plate, mouth bent into a small frown. The boy wasn't upset or scared— he was tougher than that, he'd like to believe— but he was put on edge by Samuel's words.

"Are you alright, son?" Fillip asked.

"I'll be fine, sir." Rod answered, although it rang hollow.

"Oy, hand me a cloth." Rod grabbed the next nearest rag and put it into his waiting palm. "I'll help you out."

And the three stewards worked away at their task, hoping they'd finish in time before Sefton chewed them out.