The salt spray kissed Maimie’s face as her ship, proudly named ‘Maimie the Pirate’, sliced through the turquoise waves. The timbers groaned a familiar, comforting song beneath her feet. She was no longer the farm-bound hobbit, content with quiet fields. Reading about Robin Hood had ignited a fire in her, a yearning not just to see the world, but to change it, one act of defiance at a time. She stood taller now, her muscles hardened by climbing rigging and the occasional scrap, her eyes sharp and missing nothing.
Her crew, a motley but fiercely loyal bunch, were bustling about the deck. There was Gena, the girl they’d sprung from that dreadful cage, her initial fear replaced by a growing confidence as she learned the ropes, literally. And Martha, the latest addition, whose sharp eyes and even sharper wit had quickly made her a favourite. Martha had sought them out, drawn by the tales of their daring rescue, her own past marked by the callousness of the wealthy merchant who’d controlled her town.
Martha found Maimie leaning against the rail, watching the horizon. “Thinking deep thoughts, Captain?” she asked, a smile playing on her lips.
Maimie grinned, her hobbit nature still evident in her cheerful expression. “Just remembering the fight for Gena. Quick, it was. Almost too quick. But satisfying.” She recalled the charge, the surprised shouts of the guards, the clash of steel (though Maimie often preferred a sturdy, well-aimed belaying pin), and the sheer joy on Gena’s face when the cage door swung open.
“Victory always is,” Martha agreed. “Speaking of which, I overheard some talk at our last supply stop. A particularly pompous Port Admiral, Horatio Grumble, is due to inspect the docks tomorrow. Apparently, he struts about like he owns the sea itself and treats the dockworkers like dirt beneath his polished boots. Makes them polish the mooring posts with their own sleeves, I heard.”
Maimie’s eyes lit up with mischievous glee. “A rotten sort, then? Sounds like someone who needs… adjusting.”
Martha leaned in conspiratorially. “My thoughts exactly. He’s notoriously vain about his perfectly tailored uniform and his ridiculously large, feathered hat.”
“Is he now?” Maimie chuckled, a plan already forming. “Martha, my dear, I think it’s time we initiated you properly into the… lighter side of piracy.”
The next morning, as Admiral Grumble’s launch approached the main quay, Maimie and Martha were already in position. Using her hobbit-sized agility and knack for going unnoticed, Maimie had slipped onto the quay overnight. Martha, taller and able to blend into the dockside bustle, acted as lookout and accomplice.
Admiral Horatio Grumble stepped onto the quay with an air of profound self-importance. His uniform was indeed immaculate, gold braid gleaming, and the hat was an explosion of purple feathers that wobbled precariously with every step. He immediately began berating a dockworker for a smudge on a bollard.
This was the signal. Martha ‘accidentally’ bumped into a stack of fish crates nearby, sending them tumbling with a clatter, distracting the Admiral and his aide for a crucial few seconds. In that moment, Maimie, hidden beneath a pile of discarded sacking near the Admiral’s feet, expertly wielded a small, sharp knife she kept for just such occasions. Snick! With two swift, silent cuts, she severed the main stitches holding the seat of the Admiral’s pristine white trousers.
She melted back into the shadows as the Admiral, outraged by the crate incident, spun around, puffing out his chest to bellow orders. As he did so, the compromised seam gave way entirely. There was a dreadful ripping sound, followed by a collective gasp from the onlookers. Admiral Horatio Grumble, commander of the port fleet, stood with the entire backside of his trousers flapping open, revealing a pair of rather unflattering, polka-dotted undergarments.
The Admiral froze, confusion warring with fury on his face. Then, realising what had happened, he let out a strangled yelp, clutching frantically at his exposed posterior. The purple feathers on his hat quivered with indignation. Laughter erupted from the dockworkers, first a snigger, then a chuckle, then outright roars of mirth they could no longer contain.
Hidden nearby, Maimie and Martha clamped hands over their mouths, shaking with silent laughter. They exchanged a triumphant glance. The Admiral, utterly humiliated, scarlet-faced, and trying desperately to preserve some shred of dignity while backing away, tripped over a mooring rope (perhaps loosened slightly by Martha earlier?) and tumbled backward into a large basket of very pungent seaweed destined for the compost heap.
As Grumble was hauled out, spluttering and smelling abominably, Maimie and Martha slipped away, melting back towards the ship.
“Welcome to the crew, Martha,” Maimie whispered, still giggling.
“Best initiation ever, Captain,” Martha replied, grinning broadly.
Aboard ‘Maimie the Pirate’, the tale was recounted with much embellishment and laughter. They knew they couldn’t solve all the world’s injustices, but they could certainly make life difficult for those who perpetuated them, one ripped pair of trousers, one pilfered treasure chest, one rescued soul at a time. And as they sailed away from the port, leaving behind a fuming, seaweed-scented Admiral and a dock full of cheered workers, Maimie felt a deep satisfaction. This was the life.
Adventure, camaraderie, and just the right amount of mischief. The world was wide, and Maimie the Pirate was ready for whatever came next.
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