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The old woman had tested the girl with a finger. No hymen, which was unfortunate but explained by the girl’s athleticism, but the girl was dry inside so it wasn’t her time of the month. If she’d been bleeding, the old woman would have had to delay until it was over and the girl was clean again.When the girl was securely strapped down, the old woman had brought her out of the trance and cast a truth enchantment on her.“Are you a virgin?” the old woman had asked.“Yes”, the girl had readily replied. Or had there been an almost imperceptible hesitation? It didn’t matter: the girl would not have been able to lie while under the truth enchantment. The old woman had then put the girl back into a trance and forced her to drink the ritual potion.Now the two hours were up, the old woman released the girl from her trance but she didn’t stir. The old woman gave the girl’s face a couple of gentle slaps but there was no response: the ritual potion had taken effect.From memory, the old woman. When the auto-helm’s mood was martial, steel gears meshed perfectly and the course was true. Hearing no answer, the Captain added a certain threat, ‘You fuck up this time and I’ll rip out your Nazi guts and feed ’em to the crabs’. This was an idle threat. He knew the machine’s stingy heart offered little nourishment and even crabs had taste. The Captain hesitated as his finger hovered above the switch. The switch reminded him too much of the red button that homes for the elderly placed close to their patient’s head – a substitute care for some or a desperate last call for others. Relinquishing his command with the flip of the switch, he collapsed into his bunk, his boat and doubtful plans resting in the hands of his unsteady mate. Laying an old hemp line across his chest, he wrapped the bitter end around his bunk and cinched it tight. Whether by rogue waves or unsettling dreams, he’d recently found himself on the floor several times, angry welts across his skin as if some stranger.
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