A soft but persistent knock on his cabin door brought Captain Thomas Lightfoot to wakefulness. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the spears of dusty light that shone through the gaps in his drawn curtains. With an ease and swiftness that defied the throbbing in his head, Thomas pulled himself erect off of his cot, and walked upon bare feet to the door. As he passed the chair where he had hung his bandolier, Thomas withdrew a pistol, and locked back the flint. 

“Who is it?” Thomas said, his voice dark and raspy from the dryness in his throat.

There was an almost imperceptible chuckle from the other side of the door, and a voice that spoke in soft Japanese. Though Thomas spoke little of the language of the Far East, he recognized the voice instantly. With a smile upon his face, Thomas carefully disarmed his pistol and opened the door.

There on the other side of the entrance was a short, wrinkled, and kindly looking Japanese man. The man’s dim eyes looked up to Thomas through a seemingly endless array of folded skin, with a smile drawing up the corners of his mouth like the bustled fabric of elaborate draperies. The man was dressed in traditional Japanese garb that was clean but obviously very old. His hair was gray-white, cut and shaved into a well-oiled top knot. Hanging over his thin shoulders was a large piece of cloth that was tied across his chest, and held what looked like a tall wooden box against his back.

The man’s smile broadened, and he bent at the waist to bow slightly to Thomas.

Immediately Thomas returned the man’s gesture, though he made certain that his bow took him much lower than his precursor’s.

“Goro-san,” Thomas said, “I’ll admit that I forgot you were coming this morning.”

The tiny man chuckled, and replied in heavily accented, but clear English. “I thought as much. Your father was no different.”

Goro shuffled past Thomas, his wooden shoes clicking softly upon the [i]Skate’s[/i] decking. 

“Though you shared no blood with him,” Goro said as he began to untie the knot in the fabric sling, “you are truly Lightfoot’s son. I know he would be drunk with pride if he could see you today.”

Thomas nodded and closed the door. Goro had taken the box from the sling now, and had set it upon the floor. It was a fine box, crafted of rich lacquered wood and protected with delicate brass filigree at the corners. With reverent and disciplined movements, Goro kneeled in front of the box, and began pulling out the thin drawers.

“Goro-san,” Thomas said, still using the moniker of respect for the ancient friend of his adopted father, “your words do my heart good. To be compared to such a man is no light compliment.”

This elicited another chuckle from Goro, and the man affixed Thomas with his inky gaze. “I never said anything about that being a compliment.” Goro beckoned Thomas over with a wave of a hand knobby with arthritis. “Let me take a look at the piece, and we can continue. I know you have much to do.”

Thomas sighed pleasantly at the old man, and shuffled his way over to where her knelt. He had slept without a shirt, and Thomas only had to slither his way onto his stomach for Goro to inspect his back. The decking was warm and a little sticky with pitch, but Thomas didn’t mind. In mere moments the sensation upon his chest and stomach would be forgotten anyway, as his senses would be overwhelmed with the pain stabbing into the skin of his back.

Goro ran his rough fingertips over the upper portion of Thomas’ back, all the while looking down his nose and occasionally adding a contemplative, “Hmm,” as he examined the skin.

“You have healed nicely since my last visit,” Goro said, now pressing lightly with his fingers. “I would say we can finish the piece in two more sessions.”

Thomas let out an exaggerated groan. “You just like stabbing me, don’t you Goro-san?”

The little man smiled. “It is long overdue revenge for all the gray hair your father gave me.”

“Fair enough,” Thomas laughed, “fair enough. Let’s get it over with then.”

Goro pulled out several vials of colored ink, a small bamboo board with shallow slats to divide it, and a long wooden shaft with an end sharpened like that of a quill. 

“Tell me,” Goro said as he set his space like a painter preparing to begin his masterpiece, “has anyone seen my work yet?”

Thomas shrugged, “I am not certain. If the crew have seen it, none have mentioned it to me.”

“Ah, and what of the [i]yūjo[/i]? Certainly some woman of pleasure has looked upon you?”

“Well,” Thomas laughed, “to be honest I have not kept the company of a woman, yūjo or otherwise, for some time.”

Goro looked down to him with genuine surprise. “Such self-repression is not healthy, Ritorufīto,” he said, referring to Thomas by his given Japanese name of ‘Little Foot.’ “Are you ill?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “No, Goro-san, it is nothing like that.” A smile crept onto Thomas’ face, and his eyes looked up to the old man from where he lay. “Let’s just say I have been leaning towards the path of the rogue as of late.”

Goro did not follow, and so he waved Thomas’ words away with a gnarled hand. “Quiet now, we have been wasting enough of the morning chatting like women. It is time to begin.”

Without further preamble, Goro rested a hand upon Thomas’ back, and slid the wooden shaft over his knuckles with a forceful jab. The sharpened end easily pierced the skin, leaving behind a speck of aquamarine ink. 

Thomas winced, his body unprepared for the old man to begin so abruptly.

The rest of the morning past silently, with the only sound inside the cabin coming from the breathing of the two men, and the dull wet jab of the wooden dowel into Thomas’ flesh. 

As he lay there, his head resting upon his hands, Thomas imagined the wooden needle lancing into him, each thrust of pain completing just a little more of the image forming upon his back. Months ago Goro had finished the outline for the piece; a large sea monster, ensconced in thrashing waves, with its tentacles wrapping artfully around the existing scars from Thomas’ real life encounter with the kraken. The image itself, along with the means in which it was applied, was done in the traditional Irezumi style. It was an art-form he had first seen displayed upon the elder Lightfoot, and Goro had stabbed every last bit of ink into the grizzled pirate himself. 

For the longest time Thomas had only admired the elegant designs, never wanting to partake in the permanent decorating of his own body. In recent years however, he had changed his mind on the matter. Goro, a long-time friend and confidant of his father’s, was getting no younger, and a tattoo done by the old man’s skilled hands seemed like a most fitting tribute to the pirate that had given Thomas everything.

Several hours passed in this silent and contemplative manner, both men silently focusing upon the demands of their minds. When he was at last satisfied, Goro cleaned off Thomas’ back, and applied a salve to the tender, but now colorful, skin. With quiet efficiency, the old man cleaned and repacked his kit, and stowed the box once again in its sling upon his back. The two men bade each other a warm farewell, and Goro wound his way off of the [i]Dusk Skate[/i] as quietly as he had come. 

Since Thomas lacked a mirror, he simply pulled a linen shirt over his shoulders, taking great care to not rub the tender skin of his back. With bare feet he made his way out into the hot, now noon-day sun, and wound his way below to the galley area of the ship. He took a loaf of hard-bread, and a small cask or water in his arms and retraced his steps to his cabin, leaving the door open as he did. 

Sitting back gingerly into a rough chair, Thomas ate his food, his feet crossed and resting upon a second chair, waiting for the arrival of the First Mate, or anyone else that required his attentions.