text: Olive perked awake as she realized the music had begun. The vibrations had almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels. &#x200B; Her whiskers twitched in a satisfied hum as her heart adjusted to the comfortable rhythm. This nightly ritual made the long months of hiding, scurrying away scraps, and swaying of the earth worth it. &#x200B; She ran the well-worn path up the wooden beams, bouncing back and forth to stick to the darkness between flame-lit lamps, and squeezed into her gap up to the open deck. It was an especially cold, moonless night, and she crept up the mast to perch on a poorly-laid plank that had been retro-fitted to keep rusted nails from crumbling out. This was the best view. &#x200B; Olive squeaked as she took in the scene. The deck had been laid out with branches from pine trees and open candles. Glasses were filled with a dark red liquid instead of the usual clear and the air hung thick with smells of cinnamon and oranges. The whole crew was on deck, wrapped in scarves and stomping boots in time to the steady beat. &#x200B; As the sailors moved from one song to the next, Olive looked at her paw. She concentrated hard and tapped just her front right foot in time. It barely made a sound. &#x200B; She wrapped herself up into a ball, tucking her tail under for warmth, and let the music work its way through her bones. Today’s set was elaborate and joyful. Olive wondered if this meant they were close to home - the humans always seemed to like that. She didn’t understand why they kept sailing away when all they seemed to want was to return. But she was grateful for the music, and it was best not to dwell. *A curious mouse is a dead mouse*, her father always said. &#x200B; The song ended and the crew raised their glasses with a shout. As everyone downed their cups, several of the smaller men brought up and unpacked a large chest. They placed four wooden barrels - but smaller, with more tones of brown, and some shiny bits Olive didn’t recognize - and a boxy thing with a vertical stack of white bars among the singers. &#x200B; Olive shivered in the sea breeze and debated climbing back down towards a candle in the back corner. It would be warmer, but the sound was much clearer up here. And who knows how long it would be before she’d hear this new set again. She decided to stay. &#x200B; One of the singers picked up the box and began strumming his fingers up and down the white bars. It exuded sounds, haunting and beautiful and perfectly harmonic. Olive closed her eyes and swayed as the others joined in with complimentary voices. &#x200B; Finally, they began to tapping on the barrels, creating a sound as deep and rich as the luscious white-rinded cheese she’d stumbled on in the kitchen a few days prior. She forgot the cold and the sea-sawing of the ship and the weariness. Sometimes, Olive felt she could live on just sounds, strung together all lovely like this. She felt whole. &#x200B; Olive relaxed into the melody, sinking down onto the plank with satisfaction. &#x200B; Until the ground disappeared from under her feet. Her eyes darted open to a blur. The wind bit into her as she fell, and fell, and fell, and landed in water. &#x200B; Olive panicked, paddling around in all sorts of directions as she realized it was too dark, too thick, too sweet to be seawater - she’d landed in an open barrel of red drink. She stopped scrambling for a moment and found herself floating to the top, head bobbing back in the night air. &#x200B; The song had ended but the humans remained distracted with their chats, so Olive swam to the edge of the barrel and hopped over. The chill set in harder into her soaked fur as it clumped together. &#x200B; But there would be time to dry up later. Now, she had to find a spot to finish listening to the set. &#x200B; Olive scurried over to the candle in the back corner of the deck. The sailors here were mostly asleep or distracted by the challenge of standing on two legs. The flame’s heat enveloped Olive’s back like a blanket. &#x200B; She shook her head repeatedly to stay awake as she waited for the next song. The fall had really knocked the energy out of her. *No matter, though, once the song starts,* she thought as her heart raced. &#x200B; Several minutes passed and still they had not resumed. Olive scurried up the side of the deck for a better view. &#x200B; The singers were tapping the odd barrels and moving their mouths. But there was no sound. &#x200B; *No sound.* &#x200B; Olive listened for the familiar hum of the wind. For the clanking of the kitchens. For the low voices of men gossiping. &#x200B; She heard nothing. &#x200B; Olive panicked, looking around. Groups of men around the deck all moved their mouths, chatting. The singers slammed their boots upon the deck more vigorously and the rest of the crew joined in. But it was all silence to her now. &#x200B; She bounced down to the deck and towards the singers. Her ears were just clogged from the fall. She just needed to get closer. &#x200B; A sharp pain launched up her tail as she turned and found a boot on it. The man turned to look down as she darted into a gap to the kitchens below. &#x200B; The kitchen was always the loudest, busiest part of the ship, but silence was all that remained for Olive. She leaped through shortcuts to her bed behind the barrels. Olive climbed onto the ledge and curled up into a ball, panting. As her breathing slowed, exhaustion hit, quieting her racing thoughts. She fell asleep. &#x200B; -- &#x200B; The ledge vibrated Olive awake with the familiar clang of a fallen pot. She yawned and twitched her whiskers, memory slowly filling in as knots clenched her stomach. &#x200B; She scurried out behind the barrels and into the neighboring room, where the sailors often sat around exchanging colorful cards and cheering. There were a dozen men there now. &#x200B; But Olive did not hear their familiar low voices. As one group raised their fists in unison, she did not hear the accompanying shout. As a sailor brought in a stew, she did not hear the background pots clanging. &#x200B; Olive was deaf. &#x200B; She sat up on her hind legs, like the humans did, and sniffed around. The tang of alcohol filled the air, with wafts of rosemary and orange drifting in from the kitchen. She licked the plank she stood on and felt the familiar flavors of salt and bitterness. She could still see, and smell, and feel, and taste. &#x200B; But she couldn’t hear. And that was really all that mattered. &#x200B; Yet Olive did not despair. She felt a strange resistance in her mind, a disbelief. &#x200B; She scurried back to her bed, deciding that sleep was the best cure. If she just went to sleep, her hearing would return, heal itself. If she just went to sleep, this would all be a dream. &#x200B; -- &#x200B; Olive awoke for moments, to gather scraps of bread and stew, and returned to bed. Once, twice, half a dozen times. She lost count. You couldn’t see the sun from below deck, so you couldn’t track the days. That was okay. Days didn’t matter to Olive, anyway. &#x200B; -- &#x200B; Olive perked awake as vibrations almost slid her off her corner ledge behind the barrels. &#x200B; The ledge shook in a rhythm Olive knew well. She couldn’t hear it, but she knew this was one of her favorite songs. &#x200B; She scurried up the well-worn path through her gap to the open deck and climbed up to her place on the mast. The pine trees were gone, but the entire crew was gathered again, each holding a candle. The flickering cast pretty shadows on the sideboards. The singers moved their mouths and hit their odd barrels, the men stomped, and she could hear nothing. &#x200B; Olive felt like she was falling all over again. She’d left her family, her wax bed that curved just right for her back, the bakery bread scraps with toasted seeds, and all her other comforts behind because she’d been entranced on the docks by the sounds of this ship. She’d been sailing for eight months on uneven ground, eating nothing but stale crumbs and gray stew, and circling the same few rooms among the same low voices, all alone. It had all been worth it for the music. &#x200B; She watched the singers moving their mouths and suddenly wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Olive scurried down the mast towards her gap in the deck just as the stomping chorus began. &#x200B; She had to stop to let a sleepy sailor pass. On the deck, she felt the vibrations heightening in a familiar rhythm. She still heard the words in her head, still remembered the tune well. Olive closed her eyes and pretended the sounds in her head were also in her ears. &#x200B; As she focused on the rhythm, she felt a new texture to the vibrations. They didn’t just stomp. They had layers. She’d never noticed before. There was a dominant beat of boots. A middle layer of barrel taps. And a soft topcoat, the light vibrato of air from the sailors’ voices. &#x200B; Olive swayed, eyes closed. Her heart slowly gave in and beat to the middle layer rhythm. Her paw tapped to the boots. Her whiskers twitched to the top coat. Her whole body became one with the vibrations. &#x200B; The song ended and Olive opened her eyes. The crew milled around, chatting and drinking and cheering. The cold night breezed again. Candles flickered. And if Olive paid attention, she could feel a faint vibration for each of these. &#x200B; They were not the rich, deep envelope of a good melody. But they had nuance. The vibrations persisted through everyone and everything. She wondered if, perhaps, mice had a vibration. If her family had one. If *she* had one. &#x200B; Olive scurried down the side of the ship, hugging the lip of the deck. The sailors had gathered in the center, taking the light with them, as they stepped in rhythm to the next song. It struck her that she’d never been this far up the ship - she’d kept her distance so as to better appreciate the sounds. But now, the closer she got, the more layered the vibrations became. &#x200B; She found a new spot at the very top of the ship, where the long sides came together in a point. The wooden floorboards curved up so that Olive was level with the knees of the singers further down the boat. &#x200B; The planks hummed a melody for her. She listened with her paws, her tail, and her whiskers. &#x200B; Olive sighed a heavy sigh as she recognized the beat again, the melody playing in her head. She didn’t know this one as well, and so there were pieces missing, like a skipped record. &#x200B; Still, she let herself sink into the rhythm, paying attention to new layers as the beats enveloped her. She felt the quick jitter of a small man’s solo, the unsteady clinks of glasses, and the low rumble of the waves. &#x200B; Perhaps she would be whole again.