The Danger of Rabbits. An Historical-Fantasy Spoof (Of Sorts)

A David Sands Competition story by Jennifer Newbold

An entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition

It all happened because I was celebrating my divorce.

Okay, ‘celebrating’ is misleading. I was coming to terms with my divorce. Adapting to the idea of divorced-ness. Not that we didn’t both agree that it was the best solution for us, it was just that we had been married just out of school. I’d been Mrs Myles Morrison for twelve years.

Now I was merely Brigit Cuthbert again.

We’d admittedly drifted a bit from one another over the years, but I suppose somewhere we’d crossed the equator of no return. I just sort of missed the significance. I must have had my head down in some advertising copy that day. Asleep at the wheel, as they say.

One evening at dinner Myles started spouting some rubbishy nonsense about ‘tradwives’ (I originally thought he was talking about herring girls). Six months later he informed me that he was having a baby with some office intern named Chrysalis. Never mind that he’d never had a baby with me. (I’m sure that had nothing to do with me. He’d always told me he ‘wasn’t ready’. It turned out that I wasn’t ready for what he had in mind.)

All that is just a long expositional way of explaining why I was wandering around by myself in a Bronze Age monument site of standing stones in Cumbria. I was wearing my brand-new smart watch on my wrist and had visions of the new, fit, fabulous me, who would make Chrysalis look like a frumpy fishwife. Not that I intended to have anything to do with Myles anymore, but it’s the principle of the thing.

I was responding to a prompt on my new smart watch and wasn’t watching where I was going, and I tripped in a rabbit hole.

I must have hit my head on the closest monolith, because things went a bit dark, with kaleidoscopic sparks of colour blinging about the edges. And then, I found myself…

Well, I’m not sure where I found myself. It was obviously on a floating vessel of some sort because it made this up-and-down motion I associated with a summer office cruise that had people hanging over the gunwales feeding the fish partially digested G&Ts and finger sandwiches. It also had a dampish smell. And it was rather dark down there.

Eventually a dim, yellowish sort of light appeared behind the grilled window in the wooden door, and someone turned a key. The man who stood in the doorway was wearing capri trousers, a striped smock, a red and white neckcloth, and a bolero jacket. Strangest outfit I’d ever seen on a man. And I work in advertising.

‘Am I in the brig?’ I asked.

‘No, it in’t a brig. ’Tis a frigate.’

That didn’t make immediate sense.

‘Cap’n wants ter see yeh.’

‘Is that a statement, or a summons?’

‘Eh?’ He squinted at me. ‘I dunno as it’s one or t’other, but ye’d best foller me.’

I follered him.

We climbed some ladders and passed a whole row of cannons. Two whole rows, one row on each side of the ship. Then we climbed another ladder, and I was dazzled by brilliant, clear blue skies and a turquoise sea.

We were definitely not in British waters anymore.

We stopped in front of a bulkhead (I was very proud of myself for remembering this word), and my companion knocked on a sturdy wooden door. Someone said something unintelligible on the other side. The sailor—he must be a sailor!—waited.

‘I said, “come in,”’ the voice said more clearly.

If I’d thought my liberator was dressed in an extraordinary fashion, I was unprepared for the garb this boy was wearing.

He looked to be around eighteen years old, with pale hair that he wore in a long tail down his back. His blue coat had skirts—skirts!—and shiny brass buttons, and the shirt peering out of his white waistcoat had ruffles. I had tripped in a rabbit hole and woken up on HMS Pinafore.

‘I am the captain of this vessel, HMS Walrus.’

So, not Pinafore.

‘Who are you, and do you know how you got here? And what are those clothes you’re wearing?’

I looked down at myself. I was wearing the same things I’d had on when I left the Airbnb this morning: cargo trousers, sturdy boots, microfleece, and windcheater. Oh, and a camisole and silk undies underneath, which he didn’t need to see.

‘My name is Brigit Cuthbert, these are my clothes, and I have not the first idea why I’m here. I tripped in a rabbit hole and hit my head on a stone, and you must be an hallucination. That’s the only thing that makes any sense.’

He sighed. ‘Another one. When I got sent to this infernal station, no one warned me about this.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but this being, what, exactly?’

‘“Exactly’, I have no idea. But it happens, occasionally. You’re only my second one, but the last captain of this vessel had four. He didn’t bother to tell me what he did with them, he was in such a hurry to get on the ship headed back to England. Of course, he looked like he might expire before they could weigh anchor, so I can’t say I blame him.’

He sank into the only chair, set behind a table strewn with various charts and journals. ‘That last chap we got was absolutely raving. Said he’d been on the thirteenth hole of some links in Scotland—Gleneagles? My first lieutenant is a Scot, and he’s never heard of it—his—I never get this right…bella phon?—device rang, and he woke up in my hold.

‘Told me we had ruined his golf game. Claimed we had kidnapped the leader of the greatest country in the world (he didn’t look like King George to me), and he intended to slap economic sanctions on us.

‘I am afraid I couldn’t really take him seriously. He was wearing nothing but an odd undershirt and drawers—no waistcoat, coat, or breeches—and his face was an alarming colour. The ship’s surgeon didn’t know what to make of it; we thought he might have some sort of tropical disease and we’d have to keep him in isolation until we got to Port Royal. But he made himself so unpleasant, always demanding this and that, that we set him adrift in a launch near the coast of Nicaragua. The tides should have delivered him to the mouth of the San Juan river in a day or so, and there’s an indigenous village near there where they would have known what to do with him.’

He scrubbed his hand down his thin face. ‘Honestly, this is a pestilential place. I’m sorry you ended up here. I notice you’re not saying much.’

‘Erm… I’m picturing myself adrift on a raft headed for heaven knows where.’

He looked indignant. ‘It wasn’t a raft. It had gunnels and a tiller; might even have had oars, although I didn’t order the coxswain to provide them. Didn’t trust the chap; the current is more reliable. Not that he looked as though he could row, anyway. And we provisioned it with fresh… well, drinkable, anyway…water, and some bread and cheese.’

‘Oh, well… that’s better, then. I’m sorry, Captain. I’m a trifle… whelmed.’

‘You are not the only one. Damn me, if only I could get rid of this beastly headache! You’re welcome to stay aboard until we reach English Harbour. Maybe by that point we’ll have figured out what to do with you. Are your accommodations satisfactory?’

‘It’s a bit dark. And a tad damp.’

‘Oh, well, it would be, wouldn’t it. I’ll have them give you a lanthorn. Can’t do much about the damp, I’m afraid. You’ll get used to it. The alternative is a hammock on the berth deck, but you’d have to berth with the men and I’m afraid that’s not acceptable.’

‘No, no, of course not. I’m sure a… lanthorn… will make all the difference.’

His weary expression changed for a moment to one of perceptive empathy. ‘I am aware that this situation is less than ideal for you. I will do what I can to make it less disorienting.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’

He seemed like a kind person. Terribly young to be in command of a warship, but it was better than a raft.

At least, I think so.

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About Jennifer Newbold:
I have published two novels of a three-part series, with the third *coming soon!*, a novella, and a handful of short stories. This one is perhaps shorter than most, but I had fun writing it! CLICK HERE to learn more.

If you would like to enter The Sands of Time competition please CLICK HERE

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