Pirate Souls

I - Chapter 13 - Adios

I would have loved to sketch this moment. The bandits' stupefaction as they see my horrendous demeanour is hilarious. These pirates show off less when they are faced with horror. Real horror.

Covered in blood, I climbed back up the ladder. I then walked through steerage, under the harsh but admiring gazes of my companions in misfortune. The guard saw me, screamed and moved back to pray to the Virgin Mary.

And here I am on deck under the driving rain. In front of the crew of the Anarkhia. Jaime makes a sign of the cross. For the first time, Cook actually looks surprised. Rotten Rick breaks down on the spot (both literally and figuratively). Nick rushes under the poop deck to fetch the captain.

The Irishman arrives. I can almost sense his bad mood. The ship's boy must have woken him. When he sees me, it is with a blend of awe and extasy.

Like all the others, he awaits some form of explanation. I shall not give any. I walk towards him, drawing myself up to my full height. The wind of the storm whips at my torn shirt and my windswept hair. A true figurehead.

"All slaves on board have the right to two proper meals and a walk each day," I say as I pass near the captain.

"Wait..." he tries taking hold of my arm.

"Sea water will suffice for my ablutions."

That is all. I escape to the makeshift privy and wash myself of all the blood. My index finger is on fire. Painful spasms pulse across my face to the rhythm of my beating heart.

From where I am, I can hear everything. Uproar aboard the Anarkhia. They have found John's body. Cook bears witness to the fact that I was in my place less than an hour ago, well locked up. There is no doubt that the mate attacked me and that I defended myself. Steven orders a return to normal.

John, or at least what is left of him, is thrown overboard.

Back in his cabin, Steven does not utter a single word. Yet, I have helped myself to his personal attire to clothe myself and I know full well that he hates anyone touching his affairs without his permission.

Tonight, he is the one to look after me. And to stitch me up. My cheek has well and truly been smashed. An end to my porcelain face and its rosy complexion. From this evening, I am marked by a nasty scar which runs from my left cheekbone to the corner of my upper lip. Another smaller one on my right brow snakes towards my temple.

As he did before me, I drink and fall into slumber. How good it feels to be free.

When I was small, I almost died of an unexplained fever during an epidemic of measles at L'Aigle. Even nobles were not spared by this disease. Mother had just given birth to a fifth child. A boy, who was taken a few weeks after he was born.

I was deeply affected by the death of my little brother. I was around eight years of age. My temperature took me into madder and madder ravings.

I remember one of them. Mother was beside me. She untiringly applied cold, wet cloths to my body in the hope of lowering the fever. Father was there too. He held my hand. And there was a priest. Stifling incense. I thought that I was witnessing my own death. It was exquisite, I felt loved and cossetted. I am not inventing the feeling on my forehead. Mother's skin was soft.

I remember a doctor. He said I was condemned.

"If I base my findings on Hippocrates' temperament theory," he declared. "This young lady is totally unbalanced. Her four humours denote a personality which is not viable in adulthood."

"Her humours?" Mother asked.

"Yes, blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. There is no point in bleeding her, Monsieur le Marquis, your little girl will not be cured. I have never seen as much phlegm in any of my subjects. She is blonde, white, sickly and delirious."