Pirate Souls

II - Chapter 7 - Dana

I would never have imagined Cook capable of such a heroic action. After all these years, my friend still manages to surprise me.

Suddenly, with no warning, he turns on Luc. Armed with a short blade hidden in his fist, he plants the steel in Carpentier's henchman's throat. The big man collapses onto the paving stones, a pool of blood collecting around his shoulders.

"Run, Irishman, I'll deal with them!" my comrade shouts as he moves to take care of the captain.

His attack is deflected by Baptiste who places himself between them. I make the most of the reigning confusion to take to my heels and run in the opposite direction from the ports. Despite the late hour, there are still many passers-by wandering around the streets.

And on I run. Without stopping. Northwards. To her.

Carpentier is not chasing me. Gibs acquitted himself well of his task. His deed will have consequences. He acted without thinking. He will pay dearly for his recklessness if he is captured by those rascals.

Sweating profusely, I hurtle towards the first plantations on the hill. A field of corn. I skin my hands and arms as I push through the branches to move forward. My breathing is short. My shirt is drenched with the effort.

As I start to slow down, I am startled by the barking of dogs. It is so dark. I am frightened. The cloudy sky daubs the stars and the moon in black.

But I do not stop. Sometimes my feet stick in the mud or are halted by brambles. With no compass to guide me, I have to trust my instinct. I invoke Dana, the Irish Celtic goddess my mother used to tell me about. Up until now, she has not spoiled me. But now it is time. Yes, it's about time fate lent me a helping hand.

Mother goddess, help me find them.

Does one have to do something in exchange for a wish to come true? I no longer possess anything. A promise then? Who would believe me if I swore that I would become a better man?

I have fallen too low. Gone too far. Through my actions, I have contributed to spreading darkness in this world adrift. I have visited limbo. And ever since, I have been indelibly soiled.

I was twelve. I was young. Thin. An easy target for inebriated adults. They were bored. It was so easy for them. A slap in the face here, a trip up there.

There was a man. He was first mate at the time. He went by the name of Fisherman. The only fishy thing about him was his smell. I was his whipping-boy. He would punish me at the slightest opportunity. One day, hunger forced me to take more than my daily ration of food. I was whipped.

Feeling guilty, he assured me that he would dress my wounds in his own cabin. I knew. Oh Lord, forgive me, but I knew!

I followed him docilely, expecting care, warmth and a pinch of good will. I wanted to believe him to be good.

Hell. Are there words to describe those torments? The only one that springs to mind is Suffering.

But the story did not end there. It continued many years later in the port of New Providence.

A light rain begins to fall. It soon becomes a storm. Water runs down my face and weighs down my clothes. I keep going. I shall not give up.

Nothing will stop me, not exhaustion, nor hunger or thirst. Not even the tears that I can no longer hold back. I, proud Captain Steven Kelly, I am sobbing like a lost kid in search of a mirage. I weep until I am breathless. I am shedding tears for the dead and the living. For hope and melancholy.

I trip over a root. I fall down. All is lost.

I have no idea how long I have been on the ground, shivering with the cold. Early in the morning, the sun brings me back to my body which is racked by aches. Its first rays flutter on my eyelids which are swollen by my tears. I cannot move. Is that sand scraping against my face? A familiar smell. The sea. It is very near.

I know that I should get up. My limbs refuse.

Dana, one promise. Just one.

I can see the picture of my life. A dark one. Blurry. I could swear that it had been painted with mud and blood and blackened by a veil of darkness.

It would only take a few touches of light to bring colour to it.

I shall try.

Brown boots appear before my eyes. They are so close to my face that I can make out the cracks in the leather. A firm grip takes hold of my hair. It pulls me up with not an ounce of gentleness. I feel dizzy and nausea rages in my stomach. I have nothing to bring up so I spit foul bile on the sand. I had collapsed at the edge of the beach.

I can see her, in the distance. She sits proudly in the middle of the creek. Her hull shines in the light of the rising sun.

Anarkhia.

"My ship...," I rave under my breath.

"No, no, no," giggles the person who is holding me down on my knees and holding on to my hair at the same time. "It's hers now."

I raise my eyes to look at my torturer. The black slave woman I purchased from Mustelier stands before me. Gwewa. She owes me her life.

"Florence...," I stammer.

"No, no, no," she purrs once again in my ear.

Her deep, cavernous voice would scare the devil himself.

"Mercy," I plead.

The big woman pretends to think. She unclasps her long fingers and frees my hair. I believe she is going to help me. Yes, she will do it. Or kill me.

She draws one of the pistols from her belt. I cannot defend myself. I have no strength left. The shock is unexpected. My temple only hurts for a second.

Nothing more. No pain, no colour.

A white wave sweeps me into a dark whirlpool. I no longer have a body or a mind.

Rest, at last.