Monthly Archives: January 2018

Log 45: A Fool Before Beauty

Log

Damn me but I hate to look a fool in front of a woman. Having done so twice this night, I cannot decide if it is worse to play the fool before a woman I respect and admire, or before a woman of great beauty, of surpassing loveliness of face and form, and who, too, I admire, though it is admiration of the most penetrative . . . the most – overwhelming. Underwhelming? – Fah! I know not what I say. These women, this night, have me all in a dither and a twist. I curse myself for a fool when ’tis any soul who thus beholds my folly, or indeed if none espy me but the empty sky above and the fallow earth below.

First there was my idiotic escape attempt, wherein I cleverly led my men, who could barely make their way down a flight of stairs, to a garden enclosed by a high wall, a wall the which I had failed to discern in all my wandering there, despite every promenade around the garden paths that I made with my lady Flanagan. She knew of the wall, even with her ancient eyes: she had seen it and recognized how it would foil our plans – plans she had descried in mere moments, just as quick as she pierced our disguises. ‘Twas she who kindly saved us, this past night – and she who, with kindness all the greater, said naught and laughed not, but simply came to our aid.

And then, but an hour later, we feature the second act of this great farce entitled “The Illimitable Folly of Damnation Kane –An Addlepated Ass In Two Eras.”

We waited in kind Margaret’s chambers until her grand-daughter – noble and loyal, she is, albeit not so much as she is lovely – arrived and informed Lady Flanagan by telephone. Then Margaret brought us to the stairs, where we said our farewells with many thanks and a sweet kiss ‘pon her soft cheek; then made we our slow, clumsy way down. Upon opening the door at the bottom, the building awoke in lights and shrieks as if bogeys and ban-sidhe had arisen from the very walls! Thank the gods that Margaret had forewarned us that opening the door would set off the fire alarm, else we might have frozen in panic and been apprehended once more, and aye, e’en more ignominiously! It was a close thing, in truth, as Margaret’s concept of a “fire alarm” differs from ours by – aye, well, by three centuries, isn’t it? I and Lynch and MacManus all bethought that a man’s voice would cry out the alarm, such cry being taken up then by several others, with perhaps a ringing bell to carry the signal: little did we know that directly o’er our heads, close enough to touch with outstretched hand as we passed through the door, would be a light as bright as any lantern and red as a cock’s comb, spinning and flashing fit to dizzy a man who, naturally, looks up at such a thing when it comes to life just above him; and with this light – by Lucifer, what a braying! ‘Tis loud enough to wake the dead, split the ground above ’em, and shake their bones back to life! My ears do ring still even now. I have heard quieter cannons. Perhaps they seek to frighten the fire out.

Still and all: we did escape the onslaught of noise and light, and made our way to our arranged rendezvous with Margaret’s grand-daughter, the beauteous and dauntless Meredith Vance. She hesitated not at all, despite our assuredly wild-eyed desperation, but helped MacManus and Lynch into her beast-wagon – a much larger breed than those we knew from the Glass Palace and the House of Lopez – as she directed me to put MacManus’s wheeled chair into the stern, through a hatch the which she opened with a wave of her hand, from which was emitted a strange and otherworldly chirrup, somewhat like the chirping of my ivy box within the hospital, but now coming in two notes, lower then higher (though both equally shrill) not unlike a bosun’s whistle. Alas, I could not force the chair into the cargo space thus revealed; it remained too bulky. Until the enchanting Meredith, finished with her own tasks with remarkable alacrity, came to assist the Fool Eternal with his own smaller duty, and showed me how the conveyance folded into itself for ease of storage. I was struck dumb by my own incompetence, though the genteel maid forbore from comment. She simply ushered me to my place, took her own at the wheel, and ferried us to freedom.

And then began our second display of folly.

To start, MacManus could not describe the dock where we had made landing. He directed Lady Meredith to the harbor, presuming there to be but one such, but her immediate rejoinder – to wit, “Which harbor?” – quickly put the lie to his presumption. He endeavored to peer out the ports of the beast-wagon, attempting recognition of our surroundings, but failing: it has been a fortnight and more since we passed this way, and then it was daylight but now ’tis the blackest night without moon nor stars; and Lynch and I, fevered and unconscious at the time, were of no use to him. I thought to ask how we had been conveyed, and learned that Vaughn had solicited from a local citizen the site of the nearest doctorage, and we had been carried there on litters made of boarding pikes and sailcloth. It had been a painful trek for him, and he remembered little more than discomfort and the odd stares from the people of this time, the which we have grown accustomed but not inured to.

But this gave Meredith a clew, for her mind is as quick and sharp as her face is lovely: she made for the nearest pier, in relation to the hospital, assuming that the men would not have trekked far with such a burden and such scrutiny. And on the second attempt, we struck it aright; MacManus shouted out that he knew the place.

Aroused and confident now that we would soon rejoin our shipmates, we stepped out and I offered my deepest and most sincere gratitude to our bewitching savior, while Lynch assisted MacManus in disembarking from the beast-wagon. Lady Meredith – though I quiver to state that she blushed, most fetchingly, as I laid a gentle kiss on her graceful hand – frowned (Still most becoming!) and said, “Are you sure this is where you want me to leave you? There’s nothing here, and it’s the middle of the night.”

I waved away her concern. “Ta, milady, the night is our shipmate, sure. A friend and ally, cloaking us in her shadows that we might find our way unseen by our foes. And we do not intend to abide in this place for more than minutes, I assure you.”

Her smooth white brow furrowed at this, her large and luminous eyes narrowing as her delicate lips made a pretty moue. Then her face cleared, like the dawn sky after a storm. “Oh – is someone else coming to get you?”

I bowed. “Such is our belief and our hope, milady.”

One perfectly shaped brow raised. “But – you’re not sure?”

I shrugged. “What is sure in this life?”

A wry smile crossed her generous mouth, showing the perceptiveness belied and camouflaged by such ethereal beauty. “Tell you what – why don’t I just wait here until your friends arrive, okay? Just in case.”

I shook my head. “Nay, milady, there is no need. I assure you that we are prepared to confront and conquer any obstacle, dare any hazard that may arise in our path, as we have done countless times before.”

Gently rounded white arms, dotted with the faerie-kisses of freckles, crossed over shapely bosom. “Do you all have any other clothes?”

“Nay, milady, but these will suit for as long as needed, to cover identities and protect modesty.”

“Mmm-hm,” seemed to be her response. “Any money?”

“Money can always be found and acquired.”

“Of course. Ever been in Charleston before? Know your way around?”

“I have sailed across the ocean! How difficult could a city be?”

She nodded, her fiery tresses curling becomingly around her angel’s face and smooth white shoulders. “I’ll just wait. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you – I’ll just stay in the car.”

She suited deed to word, the grace in each motion not hidden by the darkness nor lessened by her attire – well-fitted britches of blue broadcloth and a sleeveless sort of tunic of pale green that did not quite cling, and did not quite reveal – but I could live my life in that “not quite” and die a happy man. I shook myself from my reverie when Lynch – rather snappishly, I thought – called my name, and I turned and saw that he had MacManus situated, and was prepared to follow our course from here.

And so we did: MacManus identified the pier where the Grace had docked, we made our way to the very spot, and then I paced while MacManus counted aloud, as Lynch propelled his chair a step behind me. As the directions were simple enough, I could look ahead and discern our approximate destination: ’twas an establishment on the docks, though set back from the actual pier, with a sign naming it Bucky’s Bait Shop and Fishing Tours. Was this Bucky, then, our ally and informant? Had Vaughn left a message with the proprietor? What of Clio, the word left with Lynch?: A momentary survey showed me no sign reading Clio, nor anything similar, nor yet Lynch’s second clew, “setting.”

We completed the count, and found we had moved just past Bucky’s place of commerce; thirty paces to port took us into a shadowed alcove where there was – nothing. Naught but a large container for refuse – I was minded of the Latin Lion I had flogged in a similar alley behind another shop, after tying him to a similar container, back in Florida – and a telephone attached to the wall of Bucky’s Bait Shop.

So this, then, is our intended means of contact. Fine, Master Vaughn. Now what? MacManus is napping in his chair – the escape was most difficult for him, who should still be abed. Good man. Lynch is staring at the telephone and brooding over his useless, meaningless clews, and I record this log with near as much use and meaning to it. We had thought, upon Lynch’s discovery that the number-toggles on the telephone had letters inscribed thereupon, that we could spell out his words to reach Vaughn, but it proved to be of no use. Pressing C-L-I-O-S-E-T-T-I-N-G summoned to the earpiece a woman’s voice, who most frustratingly would not respond to any words of mine, but merely repeated the same cursed phrase over and over: “You must press one before the number you have dialed.” When I gave over my attempts to communicate directly with that ice-throated wench and followed her instructions, she demanded eighty-five scents! Damning her to Hades’ blackest fire-pits served no purpose, of course, though it was somewhat satisfying. Nothing we said would impel her to explain what on Danu’s green and verdant Earth she wanted from us: how in the name of all the saints and angels are we to acquire what she asked? How would we give them to her that demanded them? Frustrated at last, we replaced the handset in its holder, which shut the bitch up, at the least; then we tried, one after the other, C-L-I-O, which brought nothing but a pause, and then that same harridan’s mocking tone informed us that our call could not be completed as dialed; and then S-E-T-T-I-N-G, followed by S-E-T-T-I-N-G-C-L-I-O, both of which brought further demands that we deposit scents. Lynch had the rather esoteric idea that the woman was a witch, and wanted to smell us for some arcane and mysterious reason, but even were I willing to rub the telephone under my arms, the hag demanded eighty-five scents, fifty scents, and ninety-five scents for our three completed pressings. I was certainly not going to find near a hundred strangers and cajole or compel them to press the telephone into their oxters; even were I to do so, I would not then willingly put the same to my face.

And so, frustrated and stymied at the last, I sit at a table set out before Bucky’s Bait Shop, and keep my log. And I feel a consummate fool, for here I am, writing these purposeless words in this worthless log, while Lynch stares at that thrice-damned telephone, and MacManus sleeps, fitfully and clearly in pain but too exhausted to care – and a hundred paces away sits an intelligent and genteel and sublimely beautiful woman, watching me, watching us in all our gloriously asinine folly. I cannot bear to look up for shame – even though, by God Almighty, I hear her approach us now. Curse the gods for making beautiful women to be the bane of we dim-witted men.

Later

We have taken advantage of Lady Meredith’s most kind and generous offer of hospitality – and my dear Margaret’s, as well, for it is her domicile where we bide this night, and seek rest, each of my companions granted a bedchamber to sleep in, with a wonderfully cushioned bench for myself – more than adequate to my needs.

The beauteous Meredith spoke to me of the need to stay off of the city streets, as she put it, as we are likely now wanted men; too, she did not need to do more than glance at MacManus, who is in dire need of decent rest, which he could never find in that chair, outside in the damp night’s humors – the atmosphere in this city is most close and pressing! ‘Tis like breathing through damp wool. Though that would smell better, to my nose. Perhaps that telephone-witch sought relief from this city’s stink, with her absurd demand for scents. Did she want perfumes? Bah! The very thought renews my ire, and chases away the rest I need.

I will think of Meredith, and so to sleep.

28th of August – is it still?

As it ever is, all is brighter with the dawn. I am sure we will find the solution to this mystery, and in the meantime, we are free, we are comforted and secure in the house of my good friend – whose generosity I will endeavor to, but fear I cannot, repay – and I am in love. For milady Meredith Vance, I have now discovered, performs a rite called Yoga.

I cannot even describe it. I slept deeply and well, in smallclothes under a thin but soft blanket as Meredith kindly (and ably) laundered Jackson the guardsman’s uniform along with the clothes MacManus wore; Lynch is slight enough to wear some of the attire in this abode – Meredith claims it was her grandfather’s clothing, but I think it likely her own, and I curse the breadth of my shoulders that I cannot let her dress me, as well, in her own apparel. Any road, I awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the many glass windows that pierced the walls of the room – ’tis a parlor, rather than a bedchamber, and thus far more open; though the couch where I lay my head was as soft and restful as any bed I have known. I rose and went to the windows to greet the day – and there, on the lawn behind the house, the which is surrounded by trees and high hedges, there I saw Meredith, wearing little more than her own silken skin, as she – danced.

She is dressed much as the Enchantress was, when I first spied her in her glory as she swum in her pool; but Meredith’s attire, while similarly fitted to her skin, covers somewhat more. She stands on a small rectangular cloth, a thin carpet, perhaps, on the grass; she faces the rising sun. She stands on one leg and raises the other, as she lifts her hands over her head. She is in profile to me, and I can see that her eyes are closed, her face serene. Her hair is drawn back into a tail which spills down her back like a stream of fire. She lowers her arms and her leg, and then – bends over at the waist and touches her toes. Then she leans far to the left, and then the right, just as a swordsman might when he thrusts, but a hundred times slower, with wondrous grace; and to watch the smooth movement of her limbs, the flexion of her taut sinews under such gleaming porcelain skin – my God, I have never seen anything so lovely. I know not how long I watched her slow, lithe movement, but she never opened her eyes, and I never closed mine. Until she finished with her hands folded before her and her head bowed, as though in prayer; I managed to break myself away from the window, then, before she could catch me in my admiration. She came into the house, now covered in a thin robe, and greeted me where I sat on my couch – with the blanket providing modesty to my smallclothes. I inquired as to her health and activity on this fine morning, and she told me she was well, and had been doing her Yoga.

Gods bless that Yoga, and Meredith Vance, as well.

And may the saints preserve me. For I am a pirate, and a fugitive, and a man lost in time, without resources or prospects, or even a shirt I can name my own. And I am in love.

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Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Log #44: Escape

Log

August 26th

 

Blast our weakness to the darkest depths of Neptune’s realm. I should be writing this as a free man, but I am not. I bide, still, in this accursed hospital. Indeed, my circumstances have worsened: I am now prisoned in this room, with a guard at my door, wearing a pistola.

We were discovered in our attempt this latter night. We got MacManus out of his bed and into the wheeled chair that Lynch had used – the which was a most troublesome endeavor, as it obtained, requiring time and effort and quite a fair piece of forbearance through pain on MacManus’s part, particularly when he himself drew the invading tube from his manhood. Thank the gods I was shot above the waist. But he did draw it out, and bit back the screams; and we did move him into the chair, and then we made our way down the hall and along a second corridor, all without detection. We reached the dressing-rooms, and here we divided, at Lynch’s urging: with his youthful frame, quoth he, he required a more diminutive suit of livery, which he would be unlikely to find among the masculine apparel; and so for him, the distaff chamber.

‘Twas our undoing. For as MacManus and I quickly changed apparel, fitting ourselves into our assumed guises quite readily enough, in my case, and with somewhat greater effort and not a little agony on Shane’s part, Lynch crept into the women’s chamber and there was he discovered, en déshabille, as it were. Some noise of alarm was transmitted to our chamber, and so MacManus and I were largely unsurprised when Lynch came a-gallop from his dressing-room, hissing that he had been seen and that the observer – one of the nurses who had our charge, and they had each recognized the other – had eluded his attempt to capture and subdue her, slowed as he was by his injury. She had made off, back down the hall to the nurses’ station, where reinforcements awaited.

I calculated quickly. Shane was still pale and breathing harshly, clutching at his hip as he slumped over the wheel of his chair; Lynch was pallid, too, and sweating, though he bore two patches of red high on his cheeks – shame at his failure, I thought. But he crouched as well, bent over his wounded gut. And I myself – I favored my right arm, that shoulder made painfully sore by the night’s exertions, particularly the maneuvering of MacManus into his current berth. I made a decision.

“We surrender without fight,” I told them, and overrode Lynch’s outraged cry. “Stay! We surrender, and laugh at this. We wanted a drink, is all. ‘Twas but a lark.”

“But Captain, now they be aware of our intent, ’twill be the harder to find the chance,” Lynch argued.

“Aye, ’twill indeed, thou cursed scrawny pup, and whose fault be it? No matter,” I said vigorously, squelching the boy’s contradiction. “For if we but jest now, the careful watch they put over us will not be wary. That will give us our chance.”

Just as I finished, two lusty stalwarts in blue burst through the door and accosted us, followed by the nurse, hands on hips as was their wont. I threw up my hands and laughed as I gave myself into their custody without struggle; my men following my lead after a trifling pause. Good lads. But a bit unlucky. So now there is another obstacle to be overcome.

This hospital would oppose my will, would captain the course of my life. Very well, says I – Lay on, MacDuff. And damned be he who first cries “Hold, enough!”

 

28th August, after midnight

I must write quickly: we have little time. We are making good our escape – and this time, we may not retreat, for not only will we have made them wary, but full wroth, as well.

We waited a full day and night, and through a new day. MacManus needed the time to recover, and Lynch as well, aye. I spent such time chatting with my guardian – the hospital marked me as the wellspring of our rebellion, and so only I received such accompaniment – an amiable fellow named Jackson. He ushered me to my visit with Margaret in the gardens, and chaperoned our promenade along the white-stone path most politely as I regaled my friend with the tale of our escape attempt. I did try not to let my gaze linger on the trees that bounded that pleasant space, through which we plotted our course to freedom; now I would that I had looked closer!

Any road, Yeoman Jackson sat by and watched our game of draughts, participating in our conversation and relaxing his watchfulness moment by moment.

In the meantime, MacManus was declared fit enough to evacuate his own bladder, and relieved at last of his torturous tether. ‘Twas a relief to me, as it would speed our movements – but ’twas a far greater relief to poor Shane, in truth. Lynch, too, was much recuperated: he is able to move about without his sittable conveyance now, though not too far, and not too long. Long enough and far enough, for the nonce.

That night, my guard changed, and that man was less friendly. So it must be on Jackson’s watch that we made our move, I knew. I had had a visit from the Accountman Sanderson, and he had seemed suspicious of my levity regarding our first attempt, though he had not questioned me too closely over it; he still awaited confirmation of my claimed identity and station – and wealth, of course. Thus, it must be soon, or Sanderson would surely have us locked away, or manacled, or whatever else this place does to its delinquent custom.

Jackson returned this past evening. I took him for a constitutional, and we did pass by the rooms of Lynch and MacManus, where I gave my men the signal. Jackson and I strolled briefly through the gardens – Margaret was not then present – and then returned to my chamber, where we divided, I to my bunk, and Jackson to his post outside my door.

Soon enough, Lynch arrived. As we had discussed, we three all had feigned greater discomfort from our hurts than was true, so as to further lull suspicion; Lynch came in as bent over as an old gaffer with the gout, alist and shuffling like an arthritic badger. I waited as the door eased shut behind him, ere he was halfway to my bunk, and then I sat patiently as he continued to belabor his slow way to me. He arrived at last, looked up from his own feet to meet my gaze – and grinned.

“Art thou a-ready now, Master Cripple?”

He saluted. “Aye, Captain. I stand ready for all.”

I stood, and gathered my meager armament. And my will: I was fond of Jackson, and was not eager for this next task. But we must escape, so – “Then down with ye, O Maudlin Limper.”

Lynch threw himself to the floor, with a crash made largely by the action of unbalancing my supper tray and scattering its contents. He cried out as in pain, and I called for Jackson. The man came in at a rush, and I backed water away to reveal the poor pitiful wretch, who had managed tears for his eyes as he clutched at his ankle with the one hand, and the side where was his true hurt, with the other. Jackson went to him with a kind man’s natural instinct, and knelt, with his back to me. And I, who am no kind man, slipped the loop, fashioned from the ivy tube (which gave slightly when pulled taut, but had the main strength) and hid in my right hand, over Jackson’s head and around his neck. I pulled, bringing him arching back; Lynch was ready, and as Jackson’s hands went naturally to the cord about his throat, my shipmate relieved the man of his pistola. I loosened my strangle, then, and when Jackson slumped forward once more, coughing, I drew back and brought the club which the good doctors had fashioned from my left arm crashing down on his skull.

It worked, aye; Jackson was well and truly a-slumber, but he was breathing well and the blood pulsed in his neck when pressed, as I had hoped. But I was ill-prepared for the agony which coursed through me when I struck; I thought the wrapping was to protect the limb from harm! Hard as stone, it seemed! ‘Tis not. This club-arm is not a weapon I will use again.

But all was as planned, and Lynch helped me raise Jackson into my bunk and remove his uniform. Then Lynch went out, now moving far more easily and quickly, and slipped down the corridor to the dressing room once more – this time he would collect his livery from Eve’s side, once he had determined it to be unoccupied, and then move to Adam’s chamber to effect the change; it had occurred to us that the staff here are far more frequently feminine, and so the traffic through their room subsequently greater, and so too the chance of discovery. I strapped my dreaming friend into the restraints on my bunk, and then, as I had watched the nurses do to me a hundred times, I slid an ivy prong into his vein and set the liquid within on a slow course through his body – ’twas the stuff they set in me anight, to let me traipse off to Dreamland despite the ache in my wounds. So far as I know, good Jackson slumbers still.

I donned his uniform – a decent fit, for we were much of a size – and made my way, quickly but not furtively, to MacManus’s room, gathering a wheeled chair along the way. I was soon joined there by Nurse Lynch (Which name we enjoyed applying to the boy, for his face reddened each time – especially when MacManus requested a sponge bath.) and we maneuvered MacManus into the chair after dressing him in the shirt and breeches which Lynch had liberated from the tiring room.

That was when Nurse Winslow came into the room, her head bent over a clip-board – ’tis a thing they often carry and refer to its cryptic contents, somewhat akin to a pupil’s slate but covered with papers bearing hieroglyphics instead of words or ciphering – until she looked up and saw the three of us, frozen with surprise, standing in our transparent disguises before she who knew us all in an instant.

Thankfully, I recovered first, and remembered my new-won pistola. I drew same and aimed at her heart; she but looked in my eyes, and then, aye, she saw me, for the first time, as I am: Damnation Kane, scoundrel and captain of scoundrels. She did not struggle nor cry out as Lynch and I restrained her in MacManus’s bunk, after bandaging her mouth shut.

I will say there are abundant resources in this hospital for those who would kidnap, restrain, and confine their fellow men. Most useful.

From there, ’twas an easy jaunt down the corridor with Nurse Lynch pushing Invalid MacManus, flanked by Guardian Kane. Until, that is, we came to our greatest obstacle: the stairs. MacManus was sure he could manage stairs, with the help of a rail to cling to and a shipmate to assist him, and indeed, ’twas just so that we achieved the first flight of steps, with Lynch bringing the chair; but our progress was too slow, as MacManus could not manage more than two steps in a minute, so very painful was the motion on his injury, and, we discovered, my shoulder prevented me from taking his weight over it, as I have done countless times for shipmates injured or inebriate. Too, the chair was almost Lynch’s undoing – he lost his grip upon it when his wound twinged of a sudden, and was only just able to keep his own balance as the device went crashing down with a clatter that must have woken the dead. And we faced a second flight of steps, then.

This time we put MacManus in the chair, gripping the wheels to slow them; Lynch clutched the handles in the stern and tipped him back so he could remain upright, and I crouched on the steps, set my back against his feet and braced him. Then we rolled down, one step at a time, with curses and cries of pain and fatigue from each of us growing louder and more profane with every step, every drop down a stair. That bastard kicked me in the head a dozen times, and Lynch lost his grip twice, leaving MacManus’s entire weight once on my poor back, once falling back onto Lynch, though Shane caught the rail before he slid and shattered himself.

Then, just as we reached the bottom and were panting, sweating, and cursing our way to an upright alignment, lo – the door before us opened. We three froze once more, just as we had when Nurse Winslow interrupted us, and then turned slowly to face our discoverer –

‘Twas Margaret’s buffoon, the worthless devotee of the Verizon-stone – what Margaret had most aptly named a cell.

He did not spare us so much as a glimpse. His head jerked momentarily in our direction, his eyes torn from the face of his beloved for but half an instant – long enough to recognize the shape of us, but no more – and then he turned and pressed his back against the door, and waited. Holding it open for us.

We thanked him kindly as we passed by, and made our way to the passage which led to the gardens. He did not look up, merely nodding and grunting in response to our thanks; the only element of his being in motion, his thumbs, caressing the stone again and again. Aye, a cell of the mind, it be, and that fool be well and truly imprisoned.

We won through to the gardens, after straightening our attire, wiping away as best we could the sweat and dirt of our descent – though the wheel-marks on my back were still visible on Jackson’s blue uniform shirt – and we headed toward freedom! When a voice from the shadows arrested us – and, very nearly, our hearts in our chests, so sudden and unexpected was it.

“You’ll never get out that way,” the voice said.

We must have been quite a sight, as MacManus leapt nearly out of the chair and then subsided back with a groan of pain, and Lynch spun entirely around and then fell to his knees; I reached for my pistola, but unfamiliar with the sheath that held it to the belt, I fumbled the weapon, and it fell to the ground at my feet. A proper mummer’s troupe were we, aye, ‘struth.

‘Twas the laugh I recognized, even before Margaret came out of the shadows. I introduced her to MacManus – after I retrieved my weapon and shared a look of both accusation and shame with my shipmates; some pirates, we, scared out of our wits by a sick granny – and she explained what she had meant. Out for a walk alone, as Morpheus’s kind embrace eluded her, most nights, she had watched us emerge, recognized Lynch and I and then discerned our intent from our demanor and our attire, which she knew to be but paltry disguises not fitting our station; thus must we mean to escape this place, by means of the forest that girded the gardens. But –

“There’s a wall, all around, just beyond the trees. You’ll never make it over with your injuries – especially not your friend in the wheelchair,” Margaret said. At this intelligence, we three were cast down by despair. The front entrance, we knew from MacManus’s recollection of arrival, was well-guarded, and our disguises surely inadequate to slip us past. No patient moved in this place without papers, and no staff without a portrait-card attached to their tunics, and we lacked both. And surely the Accountman had alerted the gate guards to our erstwhile escape attempt.

But then our discoverer proved to be our savior. Margaret (rather shamelessly, I thought – but then, gray hair grants great license) bid us back to her chamber, and would hear no demur. We went, having no alternative, and there that good lady made use of her telephone to contact her granddaughter, the lovely – and tractable, it seems, as she hearkened to her granny’s call after midnight; though perhaps she is simply a good lass who feels proper loyalty to her blood and respect for her elders – and providential Meredith Vance

Now we wait for her arrival, with a beast-wagon to bear us away; Margaret has made known to us that at the bottom of the stairs – alas, more stairs! But a single flight, however, and we be driven forward by the spur of freedom so close – is a door offering egress, which will, upon opening, sound a fire alarm, as Margaret called it; in the ensuing confusion, which Margaret assures us will be prodigious and profound, we will make good our escape. Fortunately, Margaret was not seen in our presence this night, and so will not be held accountable for aught, so long as we are not discovered here, or with the fair Meredith.

We have all offered this wondrous lady our most solemn gratitude, which she waves off; most humble, is she, and most kind. All she will accept in recompense is a game of draughts with each of us – and, now that she has destroyed Lynch as she did MacManus, it is my turn. I think, with my mind sore fatigued from our activities, that my only hope is that Meredith’s call will interrupt my drubbing.

 

Later

It did not. But we are free.

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Log 43: Most Interesting Encounters

Log

August the 24th

Yesterday after noontide, I had a most interesting encounter. I woke from my postprandial slumber and made my way out to the gardens for my evening game of draughts with my dear Margaret – who, like many of nature’s most graceful creatures, is most active about the hours of dawn and dusk. I found her in the gardens already, and accompanied: accompanied by a vision of beauty that set my heart to racing, and dazzled my poor rattled brain.

‘Twas Margaret’s grand-daughter, one Meredith Vance. Tall she is, for a lass, and slender and shapely, by Jove. Locks of deep red, nearly crimson, and skin of ivory, and a smile that would charm a dead man, with a voice so melodious that the birds themselves must hush to listen. I did approach, nowise showing my flusteration, and made my courtesies and obeisances; I flatter myself to think that I did detect a becoming flush in Meredith Vance’s cheek when I smiled and bowed to kiss her soft hand.

Then she crushed me at draughts. While Margaret sat and watched and the two of them laughed and laughed.

A most fetching woman, this Meredith Vance. Alas that she must see me thus, aswaddle in bandages and without my finery, my weaponry, my gold, or my ship. My humble self did seem to her liking, though, so perhaps I can impress her anon.

I hope she will visit Margaret again.

Later

Ah, and here I thought la policia would be the dread and torment of this serene place. But Drucker and Rice have been as mere gadflies to he whom I did encounter this day.

Today, at luncheon’s hour, I was visited by one Tobias Sanderson, hospital accountman. A factor, it seems. A rabbity fellow, of damp eyes and pale flesh; one more at home with books and parchment than wind and rain, or sun and moon and sky.

Master Sanderson made a brief courtesy, and then moved right to the heart of the matter: the bill for my keep. Apparently, the hospital had contacted my mother country, as Ireland now offers her aegis to her sons when they ail; something called the National Health Service pays the doctors’ wergild – the blood price, that is. But neither the consulate, an office I know nothing of, nor the National Health, had heard of an Irish son by the name of Damnation Kane.

Aye, I thought, for such a name surely vanished when I did so, in 1678.

But I smiled my most charming grin, and told Master Sanderson: Nay! Damnation be but a friend’s name for my humble self. My Christian name is Nathaniel, known also as Nate. What kind of mother, I scoffed, would name her child “Damnation?”

As he wrote this new intelligence in his folio (I have my own folio?), my mind was racing. Once he fails to find this Nate Kane, I thought – or, if one such there be, by chance, once the accountman discovers that he is not I – I feared this acquaintance would grow rapidly discomfortable. How does one dissuade and put off a functionary, I wondered. Then it came to me: like a nobleman, of course; the bane of all government.

“My good man,” quoth I, in my haughtiest tones, “There is no need to search me out in this, this – National Health. I am here. I am all that you will ever require. The Kane name is one of the finest in all of Europe; of course we will stand for our obligations. I will make good on whatever is owed; for myself and my companions, as well.”

He looked me askance, then, peering over the top of the folio and the spectacles he wore. “Well, Mister Kane,” he said slowly.

Lord Kane,” I interrupted him. In for a penny, in for a pound, so they do say.

He coughed dryly into his fist. “Excuse me, of course. Lord Kane. You should be aware, er, sir, that the American health care system is quite different from the British system you’re used to. Primarily in the matter of cost.”

I waved my hand impatiently. “Bah! Money is not a concern, I say. It matters not to me – bother me not with your pounds and shillings and pence, I – “

As I preparing to wax rhapsodic on the matter of my supposed immunity to Mammon, he flipped through the papers in the folio, and then put his finger on one and interrupted me (Clearly he has no experience with nobility; lucky to still have his head and whole skin, I should say.), saying, “Your current amount owed is just under 85,000 dollars. Lord Kane.”

Into the dead silence that followed this pronouncement, while my mind reeled – by Lucifer’s ballocks, Master MacNally asked less than a fifth that for freeing all of my men from the Florida gaol! – Sanderson looked at me again and then added a second blow while I reeled: “The balances on your companions’ accounts are considerably higher, as both required the aid of surgical specialists, as I recall.”

Were I but myself at this moment, I would have swallowed my tongue and spat fire at this highway robbery – and this man’s name is Toby, the very word the English use for such iniquity! – but Lord Kane must care nothing for amounts, no matter how exorbitant; he must not haggle like a merchant. And so, to cover my discomfiture, I put my hand to my head as though my wound pained me, and then waved him off again, repeating that money was no matter, that the Kanes ever paid their debts. I dismissed him, peremptorily, and ordered him out so I could rest. Sanderson closed his mouth – as tight as his pursestrings, I wager – bowed over his folio, and left the room, muttering about telephone calls he would make.

By Saint Patrick, what bloody money-grubbing bastard has been allowed to run rampant over the medics here? Who permits this pillaging? Have they no king, no chieftain, no man of honor to defend holy justice? I recall what I was paid for my service as the Enchantress’s maid-man; how would a working man ever earn enough to pay such a debt as this place would load onto my shoulders? Let alone a sick man, in need of such care? It was the sort of thing I might expect in my Ireland, the Ireland held firmly under a conqueror’s bootheel, and pillaged by foreign soldiers every single day; but I had thought that these people were free citizens under a sovereign state. But it seems they are in truth ruled by these avaricious doctors – or else by the functionaries who keep the books, by Sanderson and his High-Toby ilk. ‘Tis madness. Sheer madness.

And so, it seems, we will not be staying in this hospital. My lies may have earned us two days, perhaps three, but before such time passes and Sanderson returns, we must be gone from here.

I must rest, now. I will need my strength later.

25th August

I bid farewell to Margaret this morning – and in a fit of foolishness, bid her give my fond regards to her lovely and charming grand-daughter. To no good purpose, as I do not expect to see them ever again in this life. Still, she has my regard, and it is no ill thing for her to know it. Lynch, MacManus and I had laid out much of our plan, this yesternight, after I rolled Lynch’s chair down to Shane’s room and informed them of the exorbitant wealth I had purported but in fact lacked, and our need, therefore, to flee.

This afternoon, then, Lynch and I must explore these halls. I know the route we must follow to escape the building entirely, but before then, we will need uniforms for myself and for Lynch, and ordinary clothes for MacManus. We will pretend to be in service here, Lynch and I, like that simpleton attending Margaret when first she and I met, and we will claim to any interrogatories that we are taking Master MacManus for some fresh air out of doors. Lynch is sure that he can walk, though not far; he will lean on the chair as he rolls it, for support, and I will help when I can.

We must find, too, some means to disguise this stone sheath on my arm.. I have asked the doctor, and it must not come off for at minimum another fortnight, or my arm will be too weak to be of any use to me. Then, with the quiet confusion of the hours before dawn to conceal our disappearance, we hope to walk right out of St. Vincent’s hospital, and seek out my ship and our shipmates, if they still be free, and if we can find them.

Clio. Setting.

Damn it all.

Later

We have it. The attendants arrive in clothes suitable for wear in the city streets, and then re-dress themselves in hospitallers’ uniforms. There is a chamber, at the end of a hall that crosses ours, where they effect this change and then store their unused clothing. We watched two women enter wearing the blue livery of the staff here, and then depart in ordinary habiliments; at the same time, a man made the reverse transformation. There are two doors to two chambers, it seems, dividing the sexes and preserving propriety; I cannot be sure as I was prevented from entering. We will endeavor to go there undetected this night, and obtain such apparel as we need.

Later

I cannot sleep. I know I must, I need rest so that I might have all of my faculties and all of my strength, as I must not merely captain this journey, but also lend my good right arm to my companions, a shoulder to lean on and a hand to help, perhaps even an arm to shield. But I have no good arm left me.

This reminds me: I must find armament for us. La policia may pursue us, and I feel sure that the accountman Sanderson will have strongarms at his disposal, and will likely set them on our trail, considering the clink they say we owe, the which we will not, of course, be paying. I must be ready. I must be strong. I must sleep.

I cannot.

My mind will not be still. I find myself pondering the possibilities, and dithering. Me! I am Damnation Kane, captain of the Irish rover the Grace of Ireland, and master of the manly and barbarous scalawags what crew her. I am not this indecisive namby-pamby who fears to be caught on the spot without a plan formulated already. I have no need to predict and counterbalance every contingency: I will face what comes when it comes, and confront it, and conquer it! Who is this coward that occupies my mind? Who made my hands tremble when questioned – without a single threat, without one instant of torture either implied or applied – by a pair of fat, aged West English policias? Who keeps me from my rest now?

Who am I become? Am I not me? Am I not Damnation Kane, dread pirate of the Irish seas?

I know not what to do. And that, too, is not me.

Perhaps the blow to my head has addled my wits. Perhaps the long time abed and away from my ship has stolen the strength from me, has cooled the fires of my blood. Perhaps the medicaments, the potions and infusions and tinctures, and perhaps the limp and tasteless food, have all served to weaken my heart and mind.

Bah. Perhaps I just need a drink.

It matters not. Whatever fear I feel, however I may lack rest – on the morrow, I depart. Then we will see if I am who I should be, and if I can do what must be done.

Then we will see if I am still Damnation Kane.

Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Log 42: Draughts

Log

The Twentieth of August in the Year 2011

My exploration met with success! Today I did find gardens, which I am permitted – though it sore chafes me to admit I am liable to be permitted anything, rather than taking whatever I want; but still I am not hale – to wander. The heat of the noon sun is oppressive, but the light falling on my flesh is most welcome, most invigorating. At last, I have cast off this feeling of entrapment, of entombment, in this place with its ever-white walls, unpierced by sight of azure sky, its air that whispers through grates rather than singing through open windows with Nature’s breath.

It has also greatly advantaged me that at last the good doctors have removed my ivies; the visit to MacManus had been made doubly awkward, and vexatious, by the necessity of hauling along my chirping fluid-filled ivy box, which at the least is on a wheeled stand and thus can be rolled (and used as some manner of support, should one be struck by a wave of weakness and wish to avoid shaming one’s self by falling to the floor like an inveterate drunkard) as one walks. But still and all, I am most cheered thus to be rid of its aid and its incessant chirruping and tugging at my limbs, tethered to it by ivy strands rooted in my flesh. Extricating these from mine extremities in a fit of pique was entirely inadvisable; and made of me a most compliant and complacent patient thereafter.

I had, as well, an amusing encounter. These gardens without the hospital are reached through a pair of heavy glass doors, which took some strength to open; I surmise it to be some form of test of one’s recovery, that if one is incapable of passing through this portal, then one should remain abed. But just without, a reward: a wooden bench, most comfortous, and which affords a splendidly pleasing view; it is flanked by large and vigorous flowering plants, the blossoms of which flood the air with a perfume as lovely as ever met my senses.

As I sat, enjoying my time in the sun (and I did vow that I would roll Lynch’s chair out here on the morrow; on this day, he slept), I heard a rattle-scratch at the door, which was astern of my left shoulder. I turned to look, and beheld two figures at the portal, visible through the glass. One was a youth in the livery of the hospital and apparently in its employ – though I question his actual capacity for such employment – who stood idle before one of the heavy doors, his hands drawn up before his face like a nearly-blind deacon holding his Scriptures, and in the boy’s hands was one of the Verizon-stones that I have seen frequently since our arrival here. This was obviously one of the god Verizon’s most devout worshipers, as he did not look away for an instant, so enraptured was he by the face of his god.

The other personage, clearly a fellow sufferer come here for succour, was an elder woman, her hair white as thistle-down, her face a map of the passage of many and many a year, but her back straight and her eyes clear. She pushed lightly at the heavy door as I watched, the which did make the rattle-scratch sound I had heard; then she turned and stared at the youth, clearly waiting for him to break the chains of inhuman stupidity that kept him from realizing: not only was she a lady of some dignity, not only was she a grandmother and deserving of great respect, but she was a weak and injured patient of his employer, and obviously he had been assigned to see to her needs. Yet there he stood, unmoving but for his thumbs, which caressed the Verizon-stone as obsessively as a friar with his rosary.

I made to rise and carry out the fool’s proper duty, but ere I could do more than stand, the lady threw up her hands and shoved her way through the portal – showing an impressive vigor for her age and condition. The lad, still without looking up – his hair, which fell foolishly before his eyes, may have served as a second barrier to observation of the world, just after his ape-like imbecility – stepped to the side and then quickly through the door which the lady had opened.

Shaking my head and gritting my teeth, still I must first offer the lady some courtesy, as it was so sorely lacking from other quarters. I bowed to her, and gestured to the bench beside me.

The boy sat down. “Let me know if you need anything, okay, Mrs. F.,” he mumbled.

The cast on my left wrist, it obtains, is a fair club: it made a most satisfying thump on the back of the imbecile’s head. He cried out and at last – for a wonder – looked up. I struck down at his god, then, and sent it rattling across the ground – broken into pieces, I saw with no small satisfaction. “Hey!” he yelled, stretching his hands out toward his broken stone, like a child deprived of its sugar-sop.

“Aye, the lady doth need something, in truth,” I growled at him. “She needs to be treated with due reverence, and some semblance of manners. But not nearly so much as you need a drubbing for manners’ lack.”

He opened his mouth to protest, surely, but then a toss of his head cleared the hair from his vision – and perhaps the shaking of his rattling-dry walnut of a head cleared some of the cobwebs from his brain, what little there be of that organ – and he saw my expression. His mouth closed and he slunk off to retrieve his broken stone, which he proceeded to manipulate mournfully, clearly unable to return it to its proper shape. I shook my head once more, muttering a Gaelic imprecation, but I wished to help the lady more than I wished to beat the lad. Though ’twas a slim margin, in truth.

“Please, Madame, I beg thee to join me. This pleasant garden lacks but gentle company – a dearth I vow thou canst most ably fill.” With a flourish, I bowed the lady to the bench, where she sat after placing her dainty, wizened hand in mine and murmuring a delicate thanks for my humble assistance.

“Nay, milady, thou hast my gratitude for thy fair presence, which doth make this good garden all the more lovely.”

The lady arched a brow at me and then laughed. “Well, aren’t you the honey-tongued devil,” she said.

I bowed my head at the compliment. “‘Tis only meet to whisper sweet words into this well-perfumed air, and only a gentle manner should greet such a rare and beauteous lady as yourself.”

She snorted (in a most unladylike manner, though to say true, it made me glad, for though I can don a semblance of manners, ’tis not to my comfort, who am happiest with my salty brethren and the buxom tavern-wenches who keep us company) and said, “Too bad I have to be followed around by Justin Beeber over there, then. Though his manners are about what I expect from his generation, in this country, at least.” She shook her head at him – I would swear she spat! – and then turned to me. “You’re from Ireland, unless my ears have finally gone on me. I thought I heard you use a touch of the Gaelic to that hairy dullard.”

I bowed my head once more. “Aye, milady. I find my mother tongue to be unmatched in the application of vigorous insult. And if I may, I am Damnation Kane, of the Ireland of old.”

She held out her hand, and I took it and brushed a kiss across her knuckles – gnarled they were, but her grip was strong. “Margaret Boyle Flanagan, born in Dublin but raised on these barbaric shores. A pleasure, Mister Kane.”

“Nay, the pleasure is mine, milady, especially knowing thou to be of the right and proper blood.” I winked and placed another kiss on her hand, and she laughed. A proper laugh, too, full-throated and honest. A tavern-wench’s laugh.

“Tell me, Mister Kane. Do you play draughts?”

This was a good day.

 

Log August 22nd

This place, this hospital, has at last become hospitable. Though the food remains questionable – ample in quality but sorely lacking in savor – all else is grown most comfortable. La policia did return to question me once more, but the same application of hand to head and furrowing of heavy brow did foist them off once more. I feigned to remember a detail or two, selecting the most apt of MacManus’s tale; ’tis to be hoped they will be satisfied with this narrative, and be off to find an imagined ship and imagined enemies, and leave us in peace. The medicaments given me by the doctors have greatly eased the pain of my wounds, and my strength returns rapidly; the bedchamber and washroom adjacent are small, but adequate to my needs, and clean and well-maintained by the staff, who are numerous and generally quite solicitous. Now that I am ambulatory and can visit my companions at will, and with access to the gardens and my newfound and most delightful friend Margaret Flanagan – I find these accommodations most satisfactory. We will stay here, I think, until our hurts are well healed.

Margaret (as she insists I call her) is a woman of grace and gentility – though not, I must hasten to add, in the manner of one of those insufferable noblewomen, haughty and priggish. We have spent much of the last two days in company in the gardens; we found the means to play draughts, and with this and with conversation were thus occupied for many hours, though the time seemed far shorter, in our tranquil and enchanting amusement. Between games we walk through the gardens, her hand on my arm for support, and talk endlessly. I had her cackling like a hencoop over the exploits of my young self; particularly the occasion when my cousin Colin and I determined to set a trap for a giant, an endeavor that ended with a sheep bleating piteously, a-dangle from a tree limb with a rope about its middle, and Colin’s Da flat on his back in a mudpuddle, as Colin and I hied for the hills. Margaret, in turn, sang me a ribald song about a Scotsman which I must learn to heart so I may sing it for O’Gallows, that half-Scotch bastard.

Aye: with Margaret and the gardens to fill my days, and restful sleep o’nights, I find myself – happy.

 

August the 23rd

Today I met with Lynch and MacManus. I had woken in the night from a dream of the Grace, and bethought myself to read again the letter I have from Vaughn. This sparked my curiosity, when I read of how my companions held clues to the whereabouts of our beloved ship – or rather, the means to ascertain such knowledge. I called Lynch to come to MacManus’s room, and we discussed the matter.

They had clues, indeed, but none of us knows the meaning of them. Lynch had been told two words, which had been repeated often enough to root them well in his fevered memory, though the lad knew but the syllables and not the sense: the word “setting,” and the name Clio. I wonder if my educated friend Llewellyn meant to refer to the Muse of history. Or perhaps it is the name of a person, or an establishment hereabouts; I recall seeing taverns and eateries with similar names in Florida, while we sojourned there.

MacManus, who had maintained control of his faculties despite his wounds, had been given directions. He had been told, by Vaughn, to return to the point where they had docked the Grace – an old and unused pier in a quiet harbor not far from here – and then proceed, with his back to the ocean, for 100 paces, there to turn left and walk 30 more. Simple enough, but as these instructions had been withheld until after arrival at this hospital of St. Vincent, MacManus had no idea where they would lead. I hope then when we stand at that spot as directed, the words given Lynch will reveal their meaning, as well.

But this can all wait for another time. I must eat, and then sleep, and then – draughts!

Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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