Infernal Waters

Four ~ Fairytales

"Un jour, un jour, je serai un nuage,

pour voler au-dessus des paysages,

et je guetterai de là-haut ceux qui sont comme moi,

qui regardent toujours le ciel pour voir ce qu'on y voit..."

I sing as my head steadily thumps against the wooden boards that line the ship, keeping in beat with the slow cannon fire.

The Spanish girl clutches a cross made of wood scraps and snippets of cloth to her chest as she mumbles a prayer in her native language. Her words vibrate against my shoulder, where she lays her head.

"Un jour, un jour, je serai un nuage..."

I pick away at the hay that coats the floor of my cell until I have an impressive pile of fine dust. I've no particular use for the dust, but it beats my previous pastime of trying to block out the rats by building walls of the stuff.

I swear, there was no keeping the little pests out.

Life was rough aboard the ship, even more so than the Spanish galley. None of the pirates speak to me, leaving me to suffer alone, without even knowing what became of the other slaves on board.

I do, however, think often of the mystery pirate who kept me alive.

I can't stop thinking about how very mythical he seemed.

The way the dim light of day was behind him, casting a great big shadow of his looming figure across the entire ship. Or the way that the rays of light danced across the golden tip of his cutlass. More than that, it was the way his mere looks emulated all the pirate fairytales we were told as children. The ones they would use to warn us of their cruelty and sheer brutality.

Soon enough, the loud rumble of my stomach brings me out of my reverie.

Out of the few days I've been here, I've only eaten once. They gave me a bowl of watered-down broth and two biscuits, both as unappetizing as the other. Yet, I found myself savouring the morsels until there wasn't a drop nor crumb left to spare.

Luckily - if you could even call it that - my overwhelming misery numbs the pain of my hunger.

When I arrived, though, they all clamoured for my attention. One bleeding pirate to the next, I cleaned their wounds and stitched them up. It took hours, and I'd treated no less than 50 men before I'd been allowed to rest. 

And although I treated what felt like the entire crew, the captain, the man that saved me from descending into the turbulent waters, did not need my services. Which means that he either survived the battle unscathed or wants nothing to do with me.

The entire time, a man watched me cautiously, as if waiting for me to act out. If I had but half a mind, I may have considered it.

The man, who I later find is named Irwin, sports the largest pair of hoop earrings I've yet to see. They were so large, in fact, that they very nearly extend past his shoulders. Had I not been concentrating on the wounded pirate at hand, I may have laughed.

Though considering the hostile vibes I receive from most of the crew, I'm sure my humour wouldn't have been shared.

In any case, once the job had been done, I was thrown aside and left to rot.

Collecting the hay into a pillow of sorts, I lay down and tried to get some rest before my services would be needed once again, and I'd have to work till I passed out.

This time, my confinements aren't a suffocating cabin on the lowermost part of the ship, but rather a small cubicle of sorts, just below the deck. The roof leads directly to the top deck, separated only by a criss-cross of rusty iron bars.

Every time a pirate walks upon it, I am showered with this metallic powder. Which, unfortunately, is quite often. This usually sends me into a raging fit of coughs.

And when the pirates above can no longer stand the sound of my incessant wheezing, they grace me with the utmost respect a pirate could offer a woman - a murky glob of spit.

Though, I couldn't help but feel an immense hatred toward myself. How is it, that I was capable of so easily helping these evil men? Although they weren't the same pirates who destroyed my village and kidnapped me, to me, they are one in the same. And, out of all the pirates I have ever met, I was unable to detect even the smallest shred of kindness in them.

Yet, here I was, saving their lives. The only rationalisation that could console me, was that I needed to do it. To survive.

As I lie there drowning in my self-pity, I am distracted by the sound of a chain of bracelets making an awful racket. I turn to see Irwin struggling with the lock on my cell.

"What is it? What's going on?!" I shout, immediately standing up. However, I'm not graced with a reply.

As soon as he manages to undo the lock, he grabs me by the strings of my bodice and shoves me outside and into a dim narrow hallway, locking the cage once again.

"Move," He demands in his sour, gravelly voice.

I, not knowing where I'm even supposed to go, stand there dumbly and stare at him.

Heaving a deep sigh, he once again grabs me, this time by the sleeves of my chemise, and propels me down the rickety wooden steps leading to the deck below.

It must be the Pirates living quarters, because canvas hammocks are splayed across every angle of the area. Piled up on top of each other like puzzle pieces.

As soon as my bare feet touch the rotted wooden floorboards, I am greeted with the glares of a crowd of pirates. They all stand in a circle, as if surrounding something.

I'm led right into the thick of it. I'm pushed past the circle of men, and toward a man laying down in a hammock. The hammock itself is worn down. It's supported only by its weak bindings to a wooden pillar, of which several other hammocks are similarly connected. Yet despite my uncertainty, one tug on its knot and my doubts are buried.

Though, it's not the hammocks I'm here to inspect. But rather, the man lying down on it.

The man is frighteningly pale, and the way in which his rib cage juts out from his sunken belly is daunting. Though, the most startling feature of this man is not his complexion, but the wound that stretches across his abdomen.

The wound, though stitched up by my own hand, has turned a dull shade of green. The red and inflamed flesh surrounding it is a starking contrast to the man's paling skin.

I inch towards him and place the back of my hand against his forehead.

His fever is high, and it becomes obvious what his ailment is.

"He's sick," I say, turning toward Irwin.

"Aye," Says an unknown pirate that leans apathetically against a wooden pillar, "and it's you what's done this to 'im."

"No, I haven't. I've done my job, closed his open would. What's become of him is beyond me or you." I say.

"Spit it out, lass. What's wrong with 'im?" asks Irwin.

"The wound's infected,"

"Well, then shut up and fix it!" He yells.

"Okay, but first, I'll need a dagger, rum, and an open flame."