Road To The Moon [one-minute stories]

Coffee Makes You Immortal

"One day, you will get off this cursed rock."

Looking out over Sandy Bay spreading out beyond the lawn of the Doveton House it was hard to believe that day was today. No longer could the Rollers wreck my ships. No longer could a measles outbreak kill my men. I stood as strong as the rock which raised me and would finally shed the crown of thorns passed done to me by my father.

"Mi'lord, we are ready to unearth his eminence," the young servant boy announced to me.

For a folk who called themselves Saints, their incomprehension of the British language was ever baffling. Some say it's out of spite, a trade father told me to exploit to great extent. After all, we are no English.

Here on St. Helena Island, no true-born English man would last very long among the people they've either dumped or enslaved here.
On this basalt outcropping of land in the South Atlantic, surrounded by thousands of miles of water and not much else, a steep natural fortress augmented by British-made battlements, bristling with rusty cannons that commanded the far reaches of the surrounding ocean, all its inhabitants are prisoners in a way.

Yes, one would choose wisely to dispose of their enemies here.
Death seems almost like mercy in comparison to live on St. Helena.

Making my way back to Longwood House I take in this great disappointment that I've called home.
It lay on an arid and damp plateau high above sea level, open to the buffeting trade winds and often blanketed with mist. A damp and cheerless place crawling with mold and festooned with cobwebs that the servants camouflaged by hanging fabric and paper on the walls and ceilings.
Still, over the years I had formed a certain fondness for the place. Entering the large and bright anteroom, I can almost see father's ghost standing there at the billiard table, still replaying his missteps in the battle over spread out maps.

"Learn from my mistakes, boy."

His scent engulfed me still when I sat down on the bed the servants had placed in this room. It made my chest feel heavy and my jaw tensed. This house, this entire island seemed inhabitant by father's ghost, everywhere I went, I was reminded of him. How could someone so strong, so unbreakable, be defeated by the measles?

Count Bertrand entered with a knock, "Ah, there you are! Come, boy."

I glare at him and he quickly corrected, "I mean-my, lord. You'll be staying somewhere far better than these few dark rooms with low ceilings."

As we walked past the main salon where our threadbare court had attended formal dinners served on fine Sèvres porcelain by butlers in livery the trapping proceedings created an almost comedic opera quality. More poignant still are the portraits of the empresses on the walls. Their pristine white dresses alluding to a distant glory.

"Let's go, my lord. There is nothing here but shadows," the Count urges me on.

"These shadows are my existence, Lord Bertrand."

"No," the Count replies, "your existence awaits you in Europe."

Europe, the continent that once was within his grasp if it weren't for that one battle. The people who have locked him away have now provided me with freedom, even if they don't know it yet.
"I trust you have been able to sell my stock of coffee beans for a reasonable price?"

"Absolutely, my lord. St. Helena coffee has never been in higher demand. It's renounced as the best coffee in the world."

"Not the best, simply the most expensive," I reply in a chuckle. The Count's brows knit in confusion as I can almost hear him internally wonder what the difference is.