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"Another world," the strangely dressed man says, "and you can never come back. I don't know where; I don't control it. But you can send others on, as will they in turn. The sharing and the sending are one."
There are a hundred things that should go through her head. He's crazy; it's a street performance; it's a con; it's a joke; it's a prank. None of them do.
It's never really a choice.
She takes his hand—
and she's gone.
"Yeah. It's kind of nice, actually."
Whack whack. She's gradually getting faster. ...almost spilled some, there. Slow down a bit.
Steady but efficient. A nice controlled pace. Whack whack whack.
Whack whack whack. Walta quietly sings a cheery little work song.
"Gather, hold, carry, fold, ev'ry thing to its place, cut and pull and shred and shake, island's bounty once you wake..."
She hums along after her breath, once she's picked up the tune. A few rounds later she has the words as well.
Another bag.
And another, and another, another, and-
Nick waves at them, carrying a basket full of wild potatoes and onions and berries and things. "You two want to help me fell and trim a tree? There's a nice tall birch here, it'd make good timbers for spares on our maneuvering fins."
"Thanks."
Right then. Are there... hatchets? Saws? She hasn't actually done this before.
Nick directs them! Ropes and hatchets and saws all three. They mostly de-branch it before even felling it. It takes a while, but with three people working on it, it's not too daunting a task.
Excellent. Saw saw.
Saw, saw, saw.
...
whoof. She might be starting to slow down.
saw. saw. saw. saw.
"You don't need to keep this up if you're tired. Take some of the seeds and go plant them around the island, perhaps? May as well, so someone else will have a tree to cut down later. You too if you want, Walta."
"Thanks, I'll do that."
She takes a trowel and a handful of seeds, and goes off to do that.
(Still tired. But at least this is a job she can do sitting down. And not working to Walta's rhythm. Even though the tune's still stuck in her head.)
Nick and Walta both look tired too by the time they're done and the new timbers are loaded up. "We'd better all settle into sleep soon, I want to get moving again at sunrise."
Oh good.
She's a little slower up the ladder than she was on the way down.
...where's she sleeping again?
"Spare cabin. Had to convince him to put it in - so it mostly gets used to stash stuff. I'll clear it out for you."
"Thanks." She follows; she'll try to help if she can, but it's more important not to get in the way.
Moving boxes of things to the pantry, or to the leisure room, or to the cargo bay's many shelves - "Oh I still need to run all that grass through the processor." She sighs slightly. "I'll do it later."
Yep, she can help with some of those things.
And soon enough they're done. She bids Walta goodnight, shuts the door, and – after only a brief hesitation – strips for bed.
Zzz.
The bed is mediocre. The ship sways some, not rhythmically, shifting in breezes.
It's raining when she wakes up, and the wind is much stronger than yesterday. Not quite a storm but close.
She dresses in... the clothes she wore yesterday. They smell of sweat and grass and dirt. Sigh.
She heads to the bathroom, hand brushing self-consciously over her cheek.
Walta left a note outside her door.
Hey. Just realized you probably don't have replacement clothes. Here are some - might not fit though. I unpacked a razor from the cargo like Nick mentioned, that's here too.
Also, there is an actual bath room that we also do laundry in. You can get to it by-
And there are brief directions.
Oh thank fuck.
Half an hour later she's clean and shaven and changed.
She goes to investigate breakfast. She doesn't remember how to make pancakes... are eggs scarce like meat? Butter?
There are clanking and tool sounds from the back section of the ship during this.
There are a few eggs. Butter is a 'no', but they must have something that takes butter's place? One of these oils?
Anything that still looks like oil is fine for frying things, but not for putting on toast. Margarine would work (that's made from vegetable oil or something, right?) but if they have that she hasn't found it yet.
There are few enough eggs that she probably shouldn't assume they're okay to use without asking.
Plan B it is: porridge. With raisins, ideally. And cinnamon. (Hopefully she'll be confident enough in this kitchen to do better tomorrow.)
Nick rolls through, half-asleep, and makes tea, taking hot water straight from a tap. "Oh, cooking again. Thanks. Back later."
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