Log 12: O’Flaherty’s Comeuppance

(Continued)

“What, in the name of Satan and all the saints he’s burning, have ye done, O’Flaherty?”

That’s what I asked the man, and a right fair question it was. But the man was standing on his pride – or perhaps believed that I was – and he objected to the manner of my speech. Perhaps he had expected laurels on his brow, huzzahs shouted for his triumph. Bah!

…But perhaps I should have spoken him more gently.

His chest swelled and jaw clenched as his brow lowered in anger. “Ye had best not speak so to me, Cap’n. We’re not aboard ship, and this is no’ battle. I be your equal –”

I cut him off with an impolite gesture. “Ah, belay that quartermaster shite, ye bilge-brained mongrel. We have no time for it. Think you this is not battle? We are in the greatest danger of our lives, every second. And you have made it worse, you daft idiot!” Perhaps I regained some of my wits, then, for I hesitated for a moment and then looked around at all the men hearing this. I had not meant to shame O’Flaherty with such a public comeuppance. I beckoned him towards the staircase, and the room above, which I had claimed as my quarters.

But he refused. “Nay, Cap’n,” he spat. “Let all the men hear what ye have to say, and respond as they have a mind to, aye. If this be a proper pirate ship, and we be of the Brotherhood, then all the men aboard have the right.” He stepped closer and asked quietly, “Or do they not, Captain?” Again he spat out my title like a bit of underdone potato.

I recognized this speech. It was this philosophy, what O’Flaherty claimed was the Pirate’s Code, which gave him equal standing on what had been my ship. Before his coming aboard, the men had all been loyal to me as their captain, as knights to their liege lord, as warriors to their clan chief, as it has ever been on Irish ships. O’Flaherty was behind the conceit that the men should choose their leaders, that they should vote, that every man’s voice should be equal; and that the men should choose not only their captain, but also their Quartermaster, equal in authority to the captain in all things but battle. Truth be told, I allowed it because others of my men – Donal Carter, Shane MacManus, Padraig Doyle, my own cousin and gunner’s mate Hugh Moran, and some that did not live to reach these strange shores, Ian Duffy who was my steersman, Albert Donovan and his brother Tiernan, and Colin Fitzpatrick, gods rest their souls – all of them fine sailors and brave warriors – they took his words to heart. Had I not granted O’Flaherty what he sought and let the men vote for their captain and quartermaster, let them write and sign Articles governing our ship and crew, I feared those men would leave the ship, and the heart of my crew would go with them, before the voyage even began. But I did allow it, and they did stay – thankfully choosing me unanimously as captain, which vote having gone otherwise would have occasioned a very different and much less civil conversation about my ship and the owning of her. We had a fine voyage after that day, even with O’Flaherty as Quartermaster and his Code ruling our ship – our ship that had been my ship. And several other fine cruises since then; until now, of course. O’Flaherty’s Code did make the men feel stronger, more as though they chose this life, this ship, and myself as their captain. Men should know that they choose their own destiny, and I could not but approve of that, and the great fondness the men gained for my fair Grace, since all felt some ownership of her.

But here is the truth: the Grace of Ireland is my ship. I commissioned her, I gave her specifics to Master Spaulding, the shipbuilder in Cork; I paid for her with the legacy my family granted me on my twenty-first birthday, with the money I had saved serving on other men’s vessels, leading trade voyages for my mother and our clan, sailing on raids against the British, the Welsh, even the Spanish and the French and the Moors of Algiers. When even that was not enough, I paid with shares in the Grace’s future plunder, on which I made good for two years before the accounts were closed. I captained her on her maiden voyage, when I and my crew – without O’Flaherty and that apish bastard Burke – cruised through the Irish Sea and lightened half a dozen English vessels before we escaped the King’s ships and returned home, safe and sound. I was the sole commander for four years after that, too, and a grand time it was, aye; until O’Flaherty and Burke came aboard with their tales of the Caribbean and the Brotherhood of the Coast, three years ago. It had been near two years since O’Flaherty had convinced us to adopt Articles and cast ballots for the ship’s captain and quartermaster.

It was time I took back command of my ship. Past time.

So I agreed to O’Flaherty’s demands, and gathered all the men into a circle on the beach before the Grace. As they found places to stand or sit in the sand, I saw that they had brought O’Flaherty’s prisoner with them; I ordered that he be allowed to stay and listen, as this concerned him near as much as it did the rest of us. I wanted him to see what manner of men had taken him captive, and into whose hands he should trust his keeping.

As soon as O’Flaherty, who had been a-whispering with Burke, joined me in the center of the circle, I asked him, “Who is the captain of this ship?” and I pointed at the Grace.

“You are,” he said. “But –”

I did not give him the opportunity to but his buts; I stepped to where Ian O’Gallows stood, his thumbs in his belt by his weapons. “Who is the captain of that ship?” I asked him loudly.

“You are, Captain Kane, sir,” he responded sharply, without the breath of hesitation that O’Flaherty had taken. Ian’s eyes roved over the men as he said, “You are captain of the ship and her crew – you and no other man, sir.” This last he directed at O’Flaherty.

Though warmed by his loyalty, I did not give him the gratitude he deserved, but stepped to the man beside Ian in the circle: it was Robert Sweeney, one of the younger men aboard, and one much in awe of O’Flaherty’s tales and in fear of Burke’s chains – though a good and loyal man, for all that. He hesitated a moment, and cleared his throat when I put the question to him, though I believe his hesitation to be due to nervousness rather than mutinous thoughts. He said, “You are, sir.” He cast his eyes down after he said it.

They all responded with those words, as indeed they should. Even Burke, though he stared at me for better than a minute, and sneered when he named me captain of my own vessel. But Burke’s insubordinate nature is no surprise; I was more concerned by the number of other men who hesitated before answering. Some even glanced at O’Flaherty before they gave their response. But give it they all did, all naming me; after Burke’s belabored answer, I stepped smartly back to where O’Flaherty stood with arms crossed and lips pressed tight together with ire. Still I did not allow him time to speak. “There ye have it. I am the captain – I and no other.”

He nodded. “Aye-aye, and aye once more, Nate. But if I were to ask them all who be the Quartermaster of this ship, what then?”

I softened my tone then. I needed O’Flaherty, and Burke, and all the hesitant men. I could not drive them away from me, not now, not here. But when we return to Ireland, and I can find a good, loyal, Irish crew . . . I will not forget who hesitated in answering my question. Not even my cousin Hugh, damn him.”They would say you, Sean,” I answered O’Flaherty. “And they’d be right to do so.”

I turned and addressed the men. “None of us knows where we are. The Dominicans called it Florida, and Miyammy, and America, but all I know is that it is not our beloved Ireland. We are far off the edge of the charts, lads.

“Ye all know, as I do, that the greatest danger we face on a voyage is not the British, and not famine, nor plague, nor even fire in the hold. The greatest danger is losing our way.” I paused then, and a few of the older men nodded. I continued. “If we cannot find our way home, then nothing else has consequence: not our courage, nor our strength, nor the weight of plunder in our holds and our pockets. If we have water, and food, and a fair wind and clear skies – but we do not know where we are nor where we are heading – we have nothing. For the water will run out, and the food; and the clear skies will turn to black storms; and all of these things may be repaired. But without a location and a destination, we will do nothing but wander. What good then the wealth in our purses?” I looked at O’Flaherty. “What good then the code we follow, or the title we claim?”

I turned back to the men. “Now, I’ve been caught in a fog that the sun did not dry up. Of course I have: I’m Irish.” They all laughed at that; no Irish sailor is innocent of fog. “I was caught in one on the Gaelic Tiger, under Silas McNulty, that lasted better than seven days before the wind rose and blew it away. Seven days, becalmed in a gray world without sky, without horizon, without land in sight.” MacTeigue, who had been with me on that voyage, added his voice and memory to mine – as did Donal Carter, I was glad to see, for all that his hesitancy had been second only to Burke’s before he named me captain but moments ago. I went on. “We had no idea how long it would last, no idea how close we may have been to rocks, or to British ships, or to a storm that would put us on the bottom. We had no idea if we were sailing closer to home, or farther away. It seemed the very air had no breath to sustain us, after a while. Every morning, we’d wake and hope to see the sea and sky and sun – and every morning it was naught but more gray. That was the most frightened I’ve ever been at sea, I don’t mind telling you lads.

“Until this voyage. Until this day, right now.” I paused, to let them think on my words. In the usual course of events, I would never admit to my men that I felt any fear, or that I had the least doubt as to our course, our destination, or the wisdom of our actions. But this day was not in the usual course of events. We were off the map in more ways than one, and they knew it. If I said aught else, I’d lose them, too. “We are lost, and badly lost. We do not know our way home, and what’s worse, we do not know how to find our way home. In Irish seas, the compass, or even one glimpse of the sky, could tell us which direction was East, and we could sail to Europe and then from wherever we struck, we could find our way home. But if we sail East now, what will we strike? Is the compass even true, now? Are we even on the seas of the Earth we know? What dangers lie out there – only the British, the French, the Spanish, the Dutch? The Devil’s Lash? Or something more? Be there dragons and demons, Scylla and Charybdis?

“We are in the gravest peril we have ever faced, right now, and every minute until we can point the bow of our ship – our ship – toward home. Graver even than when we had the Sea-Cat hard on our stern.”

I rounded on O’Flaherty once more. “Do ye recall, Sean, whose counsel led us into Hobbes’s trap? Who led to the deaths of thirteen men, the wounding of three more?” I watched him redden, but he held his tongue. I did not. “Aye, and whose plan was it to put the Devil’s Lash right atop us, and killed another sixteen of our brothers?” I hurried past that, as I did not want O’Flaherty reminding them who had ruined that attempted ambush with an unfortunate cry of alarm. “We seem to be in or near the Caribbean, Sean – ye have named the flora and the fauna, and the sands and seas match your tales of the Indies. Do ye know, then, where we are? Can ye lead us to safety?”

A moment’s fierce glare, and then O’Flaherty dropped his gaze to the sand at my feet.

I stepped to him, clasped his shoulder warmly. “Ye be a fine quartermaster, Sean, and the only man I’d want as my second in command.” I felt sure my friend and mate – and true choice for second – Ian O’Gallows would know and forgive this lie. “But you have not been plotting the best course. Not on this voyage.” I pointed at the bewildered man kneeling beside Burke, the one whose help we needed desperately, and whom they had taken hostage and scared witless. “Not this day. Ye should not be in command.” I stepped even closer, my nose a mere handspan from his. “And you are not. We are still in battle, even now, even here: we fight for our very lives. We fight our own ignorance, and our own rash impulses, like the thrashings of a drowning man, which just make him sink all the faster. If we make one wrong step, we will all of us die. That is battle. And so long as we are in battle, your own Code, and our ship’s Articles, signed by every man here and many who have fallen, say that I am in command – I and no other.” My grip on his shoulder turned hard. “Until we are home, you will do what I say, and only what I say. Until we reach Ireland.” I put my other hand on the grip of the pistol in my sash. I whispered, “And if ye say anything right now other than ‘Aye, Captain,’ I’ll spill your heart’s blood on this ground.” I clapped him on the shoulder, stepped back, and waited, hand on my pistol.

“Aye, Captain,” O’Flaherty said loudly. Then he whispered, for my ears alone, “Until Ireland.”

I nodded, and smiled wide. “Until Ireland.”

“UNTIL IRELAND!” Ian roared, and the men all yelled with him. But I saw Carter, and Burke, and Hugh Moran casting glances, one to the other and back. I admit I longed for home, then, with every scrap of me. As if there is not enough to beware, I must needs watch my own men?

There is no greater gift, no more valuable possession, than loyalty.

I dispersed the men back to their tasks and stations then. I was irked to see Burke, Carter, Moran, and O’Flaherty gather and mutter together. But I must convince them, for I cannot control them – they are free men. I will be sure to speak of O’Flaherty’s several mistakes in Carter’s hearing, and wax poetic on the ties of family near my cousin Hugh.

I may have to watch for a chance to put a blade in Burke. Naught else will sway him.

But speaking of O’Flaherty’s mistakes: now I must deal with his latest.

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Log #11: Der Tale of Der Waffenmeister

Ye Olde Tale Of Ye Man Who Wouldeth Be A Pyrate Kyng

by Elliot Schluchzer Waffenmeister

 

When I woke up on that fateful morning, alone and lonesome in my lonely bed, I thought it would be a day like any other.

I was wrong.

Entirely and completely wrong.

Wrong.

But wait! Gentle Reader, let me begin at the beginning. A good place to start, one may perhaps presume, peradventure.

 

Fuck, this is hard. Fuck it: I should just, whatever, say it. What happened.

So I woke up like twenty minutes late or something. I was up late playing Dead Space 2. Oh, not the campaign; I already won that – are you kidding me? What are you, a retard? I beat that shit like three times the first day it was released. Finished on Hard Core. Might have been the first one in Florida, I don’t know, it’s being looked into. But they released new multiplayer maps for Xbox like three weeks ago, and I figure I might write a guide, sell to whoever publishes those, the Dummies or whatever. I guarantee my shit would be better than anyone else they got working on it. I keep my shit locked down tight, you know?

Oh right – my name’s Elliot Schluchzer. Waffenmeister is my handle. It means “Warlord.” You’ve seen it if you’re on XBox Live, all over the leaderboards. Especially CoD. Or on WoW. I’m getting into live action now, the Society for Creative Anachronism, but I just started that like two years ago, so I’m not as known. But I will be: I’m getting into building shit, armor, barding, shields. Maybe siege weapons, if I can find designs good enough for what I’d want to do. I’m good with wood, since that’s my job in the mundane world. I work at Home Depot, mostly in the lumber section. I’m on the table saw a lot. I don’t really like talking to the customers, especially the OJs (Old Jews – Miami’s fuckin filled to the brim with them.), but I like cutting their wood to the size and shape they want. I’m a craftsman, you know? A carpenter, like. At least, maybe a journeyman carpenter. I still work at Home Depot, after all. But I’ll get out of it. I’ll start making furniture or something, maybe carve stuff. Shit I can sell at Ren Faires and pirate festivals. Those guys make bank doing that. Plus there’s, like, acres of chicks at those things, and they all want to be either princesses or saucy tavern wenches, so they either want to get rescued or ravished, or both. I may not look like Prince Charming, but if I got the doubloons, right? I mean, Donald Trump looks like a fuckin gargoyle with a bad toupee, but that dude marries models. And who knows what he’s got going on the side.*

Anyway, I woke up late, so I had to hurry to get to work. That’s okay, it just means I skip the shower this morning. Back in the day they only showered like, once a year, so whatever. I still had time to take a dump and eat breakfast, though I had to eat those shitty generic PopTarts my mom keeps buying, so it was like I was just pushing shit out to make room to put shit in.

Heh. That’s pretty good. Garbage in, garbage out, right? I learned that in my programming class at Miami Dade Community College. I finished almost two semesters there before I dropped out, what, four years ago? Five? Well, in real life it’s, shit in, shit out. Then again, donuts in, Taco Bell in, fuckin pulled-pork Cuban sandwich in, it’s all shit out. So what does it all matter, anyway?

So I make it to work, and only two minutes late, which wasn’t my fault at all, but only because my fuckin Subaru wouldn’t start. My dad said he was going to take it and get it checked out this last weekend, but did he? Nooooo. Too busy going to temple and mowing the fuckin lawn. I swear, I gotta do every fuckin thing myself. Isn’t it enough that I work full, well, almost full-time? I buy my own stuff, never ask for money. I even kick down for groceries sometimes, when Mom doesn’t buy enough Pringles or Dew or something. Or frozen pizzas – she always buys the wrong kind. It’s all about the Tombstone, baby. I mean, really, I’m their child, they’re supposed to pay for me. If they couldn’t afford me, they shouldn’t have had me. Besides, I’m their only kid, so without me, the family name would die out. They should be grateful to me. Not that I’m looking to have kids any time soon. And dude, not like Schluchzer is a name that needs to live on. The only cool thing about it is it means, like, “sob” in German. So I figure, nobody would take the name “Sob” because they cry a lot, right? You’d take the name if you MADE people fuckin cry. So I think we’re descended from, like, torturers or Nazis or something. Which is badass. Even if we are Jewish.

So yeah, I got to work like two minutes late, three minutes tops. Maybe five. If I had a supervisor who knew what he was doing, it wouldn’t even be a problem. See, a guy who knows what he’s doing knows the most important thing is this: you gotta keep the Man off your back. The key to keeping the Man off your back is knowing when you’re being watched, and when you can just chill out. So at Home Depot, like, there’s a store manager, a guy who wears a suit and stays in the office upstairs. He’s in charge of the floor supervisors, and he’s on the phone all day kissing Corporate ass. So if that guy – in my store it’s a Cubano named Randy Martinez, if you can believe it – if Big Randy knew what he was doing, he’d just keep feeding Corporate a line of bullshit, and then, because Corporate never actually comes to the store, he’d run the store however he wanted, because he knows he’s not being watched. Then, most important, he could let all his employees do whatever they wanted. You should always keep your employees happy. Happy employees work harder, and get shit done faster, so they have more time to just relax after. Then the customers are happy, because the employees are happy, and everything’s perfect. That would be best. It would be so primo if the whole store was just laid back like that. But see, even if it couldn’t all be that sweet – even if Randy is a giant fuckin tool, which he is – then the floor supervisors could do the same thing, only smaller. Because Randy never really comes out on the floor, and when he does, he just wants to know that every customer has been asked if he needs help. So when he comes down from upstairs, which he does, like, once a month or something, he walks around and asks every customer he sees, “Are you being helped? Did someone in an orange apron come by and offer to help you with that?” Okay, so the floor supervisors get reamed – reamed by Randy, hah – if the customers aren’t being helped, yeah. But a floor supervisor who knew what he was doing could handle it, instead of just reaming all of us regular employees out after Randy gets done with them. They’d find a way to distract Randy, or maybe find out in advance when he was going to come down, so we could, like, blitzkrieg the whole store, run down all the aisles asking if anyone needs help. Something, you know, to handle it, just to take the pressure off, keep the Man off our backs, so all us regular people can relax a little bit, and not have to spend all fuckin day walking around in this ass-hot warehouse asking “Do you need any help? Do you need any help?”

Fuck, they want us to help a lot.

So here’s my idea, and I know I’m off topic, but whatever, this is my story, shut the fuck up, okay. You put like an employee mini-lounge – make a permanent display of lounge chairs or something – right by the front doors, and just ask every customer right when he comes in if they want any help. And if they say no, just be all, “Okay, well you know where to find us if you have any questions.” Then they can shop without being hassled by the Orange Apron squad, and all the employees can hang out. Then if Randy comes down from his throne atop Isengard (Not that Randy’s badass enough to be Saruman the White. But maybe he could pull off Wormtongue.) and roams the store, asking people if they’ve been offered help, they all have to say yes. Then we could just relax and play XBox, or something. Then this job would be sweet. If we had a boss who knew what he was doing.

But we have Randy. And Mr. Zuckow.

“You’re late, Elliot. Again.”

And I want to bust out a bo staff and hit him like 35 times in 3 seconds, and then stand over his writhing, crying busted-ass body and be all, “The name’s Waffenmeister, you corporate scum.” But I guess if I could do that, I wouldn’t be fuckin working here, would I?

“Sorry, Mr. Zuckow.” That’s what I say instead.

“Go hit your locker and sweep the section. Then set up the Makita table saw and the scroll saw. You’re giving the demo today, remember. Ten o’clock.”

Fuuuuuuuuck. “Okay.”

See, even if what happened hadn’t happened, I was still wrong when I woke up and thought this would be a regular Monday. Because it’s not: it’s a Demo Day. Fuck my fuckin life.

We do a demo every day, here at Home Depot. Take some of the big, shiny tools out front, and from ten til noon, we have to build shit. Or fix shit. Or turn shit on and off. Or assemble shit. Or take shit apart. And the whole time, the sun’s just beating down on you like Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor. And when you work in lumber, like I do, whenever it’s your turn you have to do woodworking shit, of course, and so you’re sucking sawdust and getting splinters the whole time. Then, when it’s over, you gotta clean shit up. I mean, what the fuck.
But the worst part? It’s the OJs.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fully not anti-Semitic. Fuck, I am Jewish. My dad’s an OJ, so’s my granddad and my uncle Peter. I’m down with the old Jews.

But those guys love to talk. They live for it. And they want to save money by doing their own home repairs, but they don’t know shit about shit. So they ask questions. A neverending stream of questions, question after question after question. “Where do you get that?” “What does that button do?” “Can I get that in pine?” “If I use one of these, can I do the same thing as that?” “How much did you say that is? Oy! What about with a senior discount?” And all you can do with all these questions is smile, and answer every. Single. One. Because when you’re out front doing a demo, every boss in the place is right up your ass, and you better fuckin smile and you better fuckin talk to all the customers, and you better fuckin help em all. Unbelievable.

So all right, this sucks. It’s my turn to do demo day. I spend an hour or so sweeping, and then I start hauling out the saws, and the lumber. I bring out an extra big pile of lumber, so I’ll have plenty to work on and won’t have to go back in for more. I paste on my happy smile, and at 10:00, maybe a minute or two late, I start sawing. I know I’ll have to stop the saws and talk to the OJs, but maybe I can, what is it, minimize that shit: the more I saw, the less I’ll have to talk. Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be a big sale on bagels or something, and they won’t come by today. I can hope, right? Maybe I’ll get lucky. For once.

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is the craziest fucking thing that could ever happen to me.

What happens is my whole life changes, in less than a minute.

So I’m sawing, right? I got this OJ in front of me, and he’s trying to ask me a question but I just keep sawing, and smiling, and trying to pretend I can’t hear him. And then I hear something else. I hear shouting. Loud shouting, not like somebody-got-in-a-fender-bender shouting, but like asteroids-are-falling-from-the-sky-and-blowing-shit-up shouting, the kind of sheer, total volume that goth kids pay bank to hear in concert and all the rest of us avoid at all costs. So I stop sawing, and I turn around to look where the sound’s coming from.

Charging from around the corner, where the Garden Center guys have their tree-and-shrub display, come like ten guys. At first, I think it might be the SCA pulling a joke raid or something, but it only takes maybe two seconds for me to realize: this is not the SCA, and this is not a joke. These guys are nothing like my medieval-reenactment brothers.

These guys are fucking scary.

They’re filthy, blackened with soot and dirt and old bloodstains from head to foot. They are – disfigured is the only word for it: I see fingers missing, eyes missing, parts of noses and whole ears missing. Jesus, that one guy in front, spinning black chains around like some crazy-ass kung fu movie, is missing both his thumbs. And they got scars everywhere, livid red-brown scars, raised ridges and deep trenches in their skin, like they’ve never even seen Neosporin and a Bandaid, let alone a doctor. And they are armed, with cutlasses and battle axes and old flintlock pistols, and I’ve seen replica weapons, I spend a lot of my time with replica weapons, and just by looking at these, I can tell: these are the real fuckin things. And their eyes are wild and crazy, and they are screaming louder than I’ve ever heard a person scream.

And they’re all coming right at me.

I barely have time to back away and say, “No – please!” in a shaky voice when one of them vaults over my table saw and plows into me, putting the haft of his two-handed axe right into my chest, throwing me back five feet into my pile of lumber. That crazy fucker with the chains swings one down into my table saw, and the blade snaps right out of its housing and goes flying like some giant shuriken, and I’d yell Watch out! but I think I’ve had every breath I’ve ever taken in my life knocked out of me, and I won’t be saying anything for quite a while. Chain Guy keeps spinning the other chain in a circle by his left side, and he snarls at the OJ – I mean actually snarls at him, growling like a fuckin dog – and the OJ doesn’t even say a word, he just turns and runs off into the parking lot.

Then this other one, this older one with a gray-streaked beard and the most seriously broken nose I’ve ever seen, he starts barking orders, telling the others to grab as much of my lumber pile as they can carry, starting with the widest planks. And he comes up to me and bends down and smiles at me with brown teeth and he says, “I’d be obliged for the favor of your services, good squire.”

Then somebody puts a bag over my head, and they tie my wrists together. They make me stand up and run, with my hands holding onto somebody’s belt, and somebody else shoving a gun barrel in my back and telling me to stop, and duck, and go faster – or they’d kill me.

And I am so scared. So very scared.

We run, and duck, and hide, and run some more, and it seems like it takes hours, but who knows how long it takes time to pass when you’ve got a bag over your head, and you’ve already pissed yourself, and you know that these guys are terrorists, fuckin Islamic jihadists – though that sounded like an Irish accent, maybe, but whatever, that’s like some ex-IRA guy who’s now a mercenary or some shit – and as soon as you get where you’re going, they’re going to sit you in a chair and cut your fuckin head off and put it on YouTube.

What I’m saying is, you can’t estimate time or distance when you know you’re about to die.

And then, after forever of running and my legs are killing me and my hands are throbbing and burning from the circulation being cut off (and all I can think is “Ligature marks. CSI will find ligature marks on my wrists.”) and I feel like so much sweat has poured out of my head inside this bag that now it must be blood I feel running down my face and neck, and this bag stinks and I can’t breathe and my lungs are collapsing, and ah, God, they’re going to cut my head off – they slow down. I hear some shouting back and forth, and then everything goes quiet, except for me whooping for air and trying to get enough breath to beg for my life. Then they yank the bag off.

The sunlight hurts, at first, but we’re inside a house or something, so it isn’t too bad, and I can breathe. When my eyes adjust and I can blink some of the blood-sweat out of my eyes, I see that I am standing in front of an honest-to-God, no-shit, Jack Sparrow pirate, everything from the tri-corner hat to the sash with the sword and the flintlock pistols in it to the turned-down leather boots. He’s looking at me, and he looks pissed. Pissed on a scale I don’t even want to think about, like not like Mr. Zuckow’s going to yell at me, but more like Captain Jack is actually going to take out those guns and shoot someone in the face; like this guy’s temper already goes to 11, but right now he’s on 26.

He points at me, looks at Gray-Beard, and he says, “What, in the name of Satan and all the saints he’s burning, have ye done, O’Flaherty?”

 

 

*Author’s note: I’d just like to point out that I originally wrote this in 2013. Just sayin’.

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Log #10: A Magic Window and Food from the Pig

Captain’s Log #10

Date: 27th of June

Location: Glass Palace

Conditions: Ominous

 

I can no longer trust O’Flaherty.

I have never warmed to the man; his introduction of the position of Quartermaster, a Caribbean invention with no place on a good Irish ship, and his near-instantaneous assumption of that position, were close enough to mutiny to have him strung to the yardarm and shot in the belly on many another ship. But I always knew that his intentions toward the ship and crew were only for their benefit, and his decisions, while often counter to my own conceits and predilections, and sometimes deserving of the name Rash, still they were ever reasonable.

Until now. Now I can only name him a fool and pray he hasn’t doomed us.

But I must needs tell all.

I must not fail to record Vaughn’s discovery. His investigative methods may deserve to be called foolish and rash as well as O’Flaherty does; I remain unconvinced that he had sufficient reason to go prodding about the magical implements of the Palace and its absent mistress, and as my orders expressly forbade any interaction with any unrecognizable object, Vaughn might be called mutinous as well. But there is nothing of ambition in that man – not for anything but knowledge, any road. If Vaughn crept up behind me on my poop deck and shot me in the back, I know he would have intended it as a scientific experiment: studying the trajectory of the ball, perhaps, or observing the natural reactions of a pirate captain upon being shot in the back. His goal would only be publication in his Royal Society, the approbation of Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke; he would offer me a share of that same recognition as recompense as I lay dying. All he thinks of is science and curiosity and discovery; his presence on this ship owes much to that singularity of purpose, and how it has blinded him to practical considerations in his past. But that is another tale.

This tale begins three turns of the glass after my two expeditions had set off: O’Gallows to the north seeking food, O’Flaherty south-west after lumber and carpenter. I was examining Moran’s gun emplacement – a nice piece of work, that; I gain more confidence in my cousin’s ability and foresight with each task I set him, and of course his loyalty has ever been beyond question – when Lynch came running along the strand, calling out for me with an excitement that bordered on hysteria. I saw at once that though there was some fear in his eyes and in the shivering of his youthful voice, wonder glowed in his smile, and so I ordered him to stop and take deep breaths until I was finished with Moran. Though I did hurry then, to compliment Moran on his work, and order more powder and shot carried out to his emplacement, and I did run back to the Palace with Lynch cleaving to my heels all the way.

As I came into the Palace, I was greeted with a fanfare, a flourish of trumpets fit for a king: as flattering as it was mysterious, if I may say. From whence did it come? We have no horns, nor men who know their playing. As I was about to call out to Vaughn for an explanation, my sight adjusted to the dim interior after the bright sunlight without, and I saw the surgeon, and behind him the reason for Lynch’s wonder.

The magic window was alight.

In it I saw an image of madness: it appeared to be grown men running around in their underclothes, which were as brightly colored as any noblewoman’s ball gown, chasing after a child’s ball, which they kicked, and hit with their foreheads and threw themselves on the ground after. The image kept changing so rapidly that I fast grew dizzy and had to look away, just as I heard a tremendous cheer as if the king had just stepped onto the field, perhaps wearing bright red smallclothes and kicking a ball.

I turned to Vaughn, who was rapt. “Vaughn,” I said, but he did not respond. “Vaughn,” I repeated louder. Nothing. With a crewman I should have struck him or shouted my loudest in his very ear – but my surgeon was a fellow ship’s officer, and more gentleman than all the rest of us. I placed my hand on his arm and said, “Llewellyn?” Then he turned to me.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, Captain.”

“How?” I asked, gesturing at the window, which now showed horses splashing through a mountain stream. He held up the flat, knobbed wand which I had seen in the hands of the sorceress. I grew somewhat irate.  “My orders were clear: nothing mysterious is to   be – “

Vaughn cut me off with an impatient gesture. I swallowed my words. If O’Flaherty’s insubordination and foolishness have been good at all, sure they have taught me patience and forbearance.

The Welshman held out the wand, and I saw there were perhaps three dozen knobbly protrusions, pearly gray projecting from the black wand. As I looked close, I saw that there were words written on the wand beside each protrusion, in white – words and numbers. Vaughn pointed to one knobbly bit at one extreme of the wand: On/Off, it said.

“I pressed that one. None other. Observe.” He pointed the wand at the window and mashed his finger on the protrusion.

The window went dark.

He pressed it again, and the window returned; now it showed a group of people eating something fried in oil, and laughing as they ate.

“It was too clearly labeled to do anything other than what it did. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“You don’t know that, Llewellyn. It could have brought a trap On, or raised an alarm. It could have turned off the very sun, for all you knew.”

He looked at me for a moment. “But it did not.”

As I began to speak again, the fanfare played once more, shattering my thoughts. I turned back to the window. The letters “BBC News” unfurled across the face of the glass, along with a strange sketch or perhaps a carving, a frieze or bas-relief of what might have been the world, but – then it was gone, and a man was telling me, “Welcome back.” He continued on before I could respond, and though he seemed to speak directly to me, his words descended rapidly into madness, nonsense. But as I turned to Vaughn for any clarification his sharp mind might offer me, he pointed wordlessly back to the window.

Over the man’s shoulder was a map, which after a moment I recognized: it was Ireland, and England there below it. It was home. What was the man saying? Something about Euro – perhaps Europa? Receding, or recessing, and austerity. And – was that “pounds?” British pounds?

Was he speaking of treasure? Perhaps a prophecy?

I opened my mouth to ask Vaughn’s opinion; when there was the snap of a flintlock, the crash of a pistol charge from behind us. The magic window coughed and spat fire, bright white like falling stars flashing across its face and out through the hole that appeared in the middle of it: a hole the size and shape of a pistol ball. The window went black and dead, small plumes of smoke floating up from its broken face.

Vaughn and I turned slowly to the door, from whence the shot had come.

O’Grady lowered his arm, his hand shaking. His eyes bulging from his reddened face, his teeth set in his lower lip, the corners of his mouth flecked with foam: he looked like a madman. I thought, Perhaps madness is why he fired a pistol at his captain’s back.

It was apparent that he intended no more than the destruction of the magic window, and so the pistol which had leapt into my hand went back into my sash. I stepped slow and calm to O’Grady; his eyes flicked back and forth between myself and the magic window he had shot. As I reached out and took the pistol from him, slipping it from his fingers without the slightest resistance, his attention focused on me. He shook his head, slowly.

“It is evil, Captain. Evil. ‘Tis Satan’s work, I’m sure. I’m sure! It must be! I be a good, God-fearin’ man, Captain, and I cannot abide it. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live – ‘”

I cut him off with a blow to his ear, followed by a ringing slap to the other cheek. I will not listen to hypocrites quoting from their holy book, citing scripture to their purpose. I will not hear that statement again, whether it is my father speaking of my mother, or one of my pirates speaking of this fey place. Never again.

O’Grady looked daggers at me for the insult to his honor, but a moment of my own stare wilted him like water poured over stiff canvas. I held my stare while his sank down past my chest, past my belt, down to the ground under my feet. I reached out and tapped him in the chest with his pistol’s barrel, so he would look at my face, and know what I said – the man reads lips. Then I spoke slowly, but quietly, as he could not hear me in any case. “Firing a gun behind your captain’s back may be seen as mutiny, Abram. I could have you hung for it.” I paused, but he said nothing – and so perhaps saved his miserable life, as I was not much in the mood for argument. “Perhaps I should have you hung.”

He shook his head slowly, his face pale but his jaw set. “It’s the Devil’s work, sir. You said it yourself when we arrived here, I know you did. We are in Hell, sir.” His eyes came back up to mine, and they were fierce once more. “It is a test, sir. A test. We must not use what is placed before us. We must not surrender to the illusions of the Tempter! Knowledge was what he offered Adam and Eve, sir! I – ” He faltered and his eyes dropped. “I would not have you fall, Captain.” He snorted a weak laugh. “You’re a good man, sir, despite your name.”

I shook my head. He wasn’t mad, it was the world that had gone mad around him, around us all. He was a good Catholic – which was counter to my own thoughts, my own beliefs, but I could not tell him to give up his God and his Church merely because my own faith followed a different path. How could I know that he wasn’t right, and I the damned fool? He thought he was protecting me.

But I couldn’t let him go without chastisement, or the next man to pull a trigger behind me would not be aiming over my shoulder. I raised his head again with a gesture. “Ten strokes,” I told him, and his jaw clenched. “I’ll lay them on you,” I said, and he relaxed and nodded.

We did it there, to save him the shame of being watched. Vaughn left the room in search of other, less obviously infernal, sources of information. O’Grady took down his shirt, after I retrieved a tarred end of rope, and I gave him ten solid lashes below his shoulderblades. I only drew blood with the last two, and only because no lashing is finished without blood. Then I clapped him on the shoulder, and brought him out to MacTeigue, who was supervising the scraping of the Grace’s keel. MacTeigue nodded at my order without blinking it, handed O’Grady a chisel and told him off to a section of barnacled planking. I returned to the great room and awaited the next arrival. But would it be good news, or another step into madness? How long could we stay here before we all lost our senses?

Fortunately for my nerves, the next return was one of gladness, not madness: we heard a shouted hail from the landward side, and I raced to the front portal to stand beside the men on watch, all of us peering toward the road. O’Gallows came up the path, roaring a hearty greeting, which we returned, gladly. He was flanked by Carter and Sweeney; all three were sweated and red with heat and exertion, but they were hale and grinning for all that – and sweat washes off far easier than does blood, especially one’s own.

Each of them was towing a sort of metal cage on wheels, about the size of a deep wheelbarrow, perhaps a one-man handcart as are used to bring vegetables to market. And their carts were piled high with sacks and bags and boxes. Despite their red brows – and some trouble with the carts, which seemed poorly wheeled and stiff-axled – they raced up to the Palace with whoops and shouts of triumph and glad tidings.

They had brought us food. And such food as we had never seen: the largest, most succulent fruits, of the tree, the vine, and the earth; flour as white and fine as any that ever graced a king’s larder; sacks full of potatoes as large as a man’s fist, some as large as two fists – or one of Kelly’s – and meat, cut and red and dripping blood, that brought hunger roaring up from our throats, and had me roaring for O’Grady to drop his chisel and return to his proper station over the cookfires. He had built a galley on the terrace by the waterpool: he had a half-dozen small cookfires set in rings of stones he had gathered from the beach and the gardens, and over each was suspended one of the fine, shining pots he had found in the Palace’s kitchen. Our own great black cookpot, O’Grady’s favored cooking utensil, was set atop another of the Palace’s devices, though this one was not so unfamiliar: it was a firebox, a low metal frame which could be dragged from one space to another. It was made to hold charcoal or wood in a central space surrounded by a wide metal shelf for setting pots on or warming one’s feet, and thus one could have a fire in a place that wasn’t built for it, as a wooden floor or even the deck of a ship – though an open flame as this was would be sheer folly aboard. The night before, as the men had held their revels around a bonfire on the beach, as proper pirates should, O’Flaherty and I had joined O’Grady at the firebox, commandeering two of the strange Palace chairs – they seemed to be made of metal frames, with woven cloth strips forming the back and seat, but were far too light and more comfortable than any chair my posterior has experienced heretofore – and warming our feet and our wine mugs on the metal shelf. It made for a fine, if a quiet, celebration.

And speaking of celebration, there was one conspicuous absence from the bounty which O’Gallows had retrieved. “Had they no spirits?” I asked him, once the lack had been noted and bewailed by the men as they unloaded the carts under O’Grady’s direction.

Ian shook his head. “No, they had shelves of the stuff, wine and ale and whiskey, shelves a full five paces long and an arm deep – stacked three high. “Twas enough for a full voyage and a happy crew the whole way. But the proprietor was most adamant that we were not to have any – not a drop.” He scratched his head, then his beard; then he looked at his fingernails, his hands; then ran his palms over his vest front and his trews.

“What is it, man? Were ye hurt – are you checking for wounds?” I queried.

He shook his head again, frowning. “No. Tell me, Nate – do I seem over-filthy to you? Do I look the beggar?”

I stepped back and looked him over from bow to stern. “Well, I’ll say I’ve seen you cleaner than now, and closer-shaven. But I’ve seen ye a damn sight dirtier, too – and even then your rig is far too quality to be a beggar’s. Perhaps I’d mistake ye for a highwayman who stole the clothes, but you and the togs strike me as having been in the same dirt at the same time.” I looked him in the eye. “Why do ye ask?”

He hawked and spat, and accepted with grateful thanks a mug of clean water that Lynch handed him. After he’d drained the cool draught, he told me of their quest.

“We found the Piggly Wiggly easily enough – yon Dominicans gave a true bearing, and might have earned a small reward, aye?” I nodded, and he went on. “Once we made it to the town and the right street, we should have had trouble missing it: ’tis a building the size of a fort, or a good large meeting hall or church, painted white with a sign as tall as a man, shouting out ‘PIGGLY WIGGLY’ in bright red letters.” I started a laugh, and Ian grinned. “Aye, Nate – and not a pig in sight, not live nor dead.” He shrugged.

“We garnered many a stare on our way through town, though it were still early enough for the townsfolk to be about their breakfasts and suchlike, rather than out on the streets. I have not seen streets like those before: every one paved with hard stone, but not a cobble to be seen; it makes no sense at all. And the wagon-beasts – everywhere! All colors, all sizes, some honking like geese, some blowing foul-smelling smoke out their arses. I swear I heard music coming from a few, but it was never a song nor an instrument I could recognize, and I didn’t want to draw too much attention by staring and asking foolish questions, as Vaughn would.

“But there were signs naming the streets at every corner, and so we found our way, sure enough. I left Sweeney outside with the arms, so they’d know we meant no harm – I didn’t see a single sword nor flintlock on the way through town, not one, though aye, there were few people on the streets for the number of houses and structures. Carter and I went into the Pig – ’twas unguarded and unlocked – and we were hailed, right friendly, as we stood there with our jaws on the floor. Nate – ” he grabbed my arm, his eyes wide – “I swear to Christ and our two damned fathers that you’ve never seen nor heard of so much food in one place. What we have here isn’t a hundredth of it, not one tenth of one hundredth. That place could fill the holds of a dozen ships the size of the Grace, and still host a royal procession.

“Any road, we were greeted, as I said, and I asked to see the proprietor – called him the manager, the lad did who spoke to me. And he brought the man out, a wee bespectacled merchant with a fat belly and a bald head, just as you’d expect in a store with enough food for an army. He asked what he could do for us, and I showed him the jewels we had from the Palace, here – two fine rings with gemstones and a gold chain, ye recall, worth a hundred pieces of eight, easy. I offered to trade for meat and fruit, wheat and beans, salt, and rum, of course. I mentioned rum since that’s what O’Flaherty says they drink in these Caribbees, aye?

“But when I said that last, he looked up at me sharpish – he had been shaking his head slow, his face right befuddled. He looks me up and down, as you just did when I asked you to. And then he says – he had a strange accent, one I’ve never heard, a bit English but flatter and harder – he says, ‘I know what it’s like to be down on my luck. Did you steal these?’ Well, I looked properly offended, told him they were family heirlooms, meant to be worn by my sister at her wedding, but we’d just lost the lass to a fever and we were going to try our luck with a trading voyage, and needed supply. He weighed and measured me like a prize sheep at market, and then he nods and says, ‘I should send you to a pawn shop, but they’d cheat you worse than I ever could, and who knows where you’d spend cash money?'”

“What’s a pawn shop?” I interrupted him.

Ian shrugged. “I did not ask. So then he looked the gold over, and he says, ‘So does a thousand sound right for these?'”

I am sure my mouth dropped open. “A thousand pieces of eight, did he mean? Or copper pennies?”

Ian pointed at the piles of food. “Nate, there’s a hundredweight of that flour there. Have you ever seen finer? What would that cost, back home? My own mother would trade me for the bread that stuff will make, even in O’Grady’s hands. And the fruits? Here – eat this!”

One bite of the apple he handed me then, and I forgot that there were no spirits in the pile. Well, almost. “So why did ye not get the grog?”

Ian shrugged again. “The man refused when I asked. Said he’d see me fed, but would not put me in the gutter. ‘Tis why I asked if I look overmuch like a beggar. I thought it better at the time to keep my mouth shut and bring back the food. We can find liquor elsewhere – or we can go back to the Piggly Wiggly and be more impolite when we ask.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye did right, man, as ever. I always know I can trust ye.” I sighed then, and looked toward the road. “If only I could say the same for every man of the Grace.”

And as if I had wished it so, that was the moment O’Flaherty returned, bringing danger back with him, clutched tight in his fool’s hands. By the gods, if he’d been lads with me back in Ireland, not only would he have cheered me on through my ride on King Henry, but he would have demanded the next go, and called for my uncle to come watch. The stupid bastard.

What am I to do with him? What am I to do with what he brought back from Home Dee-Poe?

I wish Ian had gotten rum. I need a drink.

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Information. And More Questions.

Captain’s Log

Date: 26th of June

Location: Coast of Florida, America, near Miyammy (20 mi. south)

Conditions: Landbound until repairs completed. The Grace cannot sail.

 

The condition of the ship is more dire than I suspected. O’Gallows momentarily patched the hole and saved the ship, but he could not have fixed the loosened planks around it. They near sprang off the ship with the barest tug. I think if that storm had lasted one hour more, my sweet ship would be at the bottom even now.

The scraping proceeds apace, and we are cleaning out the water barrels and refilling them. The palace’s supplies are meager, at best; we will empty the larder within a day or two. We must find a source of food and good timber for our repairs. If our information may be trusted, then all we need may be within reach.

It is now the morning after the battle, such as it was. I tried to use my sextant after dawn, and got a reading of 25 Degrees North, but I do not know if the sun and horizon are the same, and therefore my measurements are suspect. I have no chart to mark our position on, in any case, and thus cannot guess at our longitude. All our information must be suspect until we have a source of knowledge which we can trust. I am not familiar with this feeling: in Ireland, in Irish seas, I am the fountainhead of knowledge, or my men are; long familiarity grants us all the surety we need. Of course we know where we are: we recognize that spit of land over there, and the stars overhead, or the shape of the winds and currents. One does not need to question what one knows of home: the mere fact that it is home is proof. This is a feeling, most joyful, that I did not recognize until it was lost to me.

Last night, after we careened the Grace and made her fast, we celebrated our survival: we emptied the whiskey stores aboard and found a few good bottles in the Palace. One called Tequila was most popular. O’Flaherty and I sampled the wine selection, finding it more than adequate to our needs.

It was a grand celebration. For all the men we lost, still our musicians survived, being my cousin Liam Finlay, and Arthur Gallagher and Roger Desmond, playing the flute, fiddle, and drums. They played many a fine air – “Roger the Cavalier,” “Sail On, Sail on, Sailor Laddie,” “The Roving Exile,” and “Willie was a Wanton Wag” among them. They trilled everything from country jigs and reels, to the melancholy songs of the hills of Ireland. Many eyes were damp at that: we all long for home, and the drunker we got, the more we longed and the easier we wept. But Ian O’Gallows, our shanty-man, leapt up as the night grew most engloomed, and sang us a rousing hornpipe, while Kelly and Lynch danced, to much laughter and loud roars of approval. Somehow the great brute’s feet proved near as quick as the slender boy’s, and at the finish, Kelly made a step of his hands, which Lynch leapt off from, and Kelly tossed him a full man’s height above his own into the air. Lynch turned two full flips and landed on his feet with a royal flourish, to great approbation. I cannot think when those two have found time to practice the move, but sure it was well polished before this night, when Kelly was already too far gone in the whiskey to have planned anything beyond putting down his feet and then picking them up again – and indeed, when the dance was done, even that sequence proved troubling for the man, who stumbled and fell back into his seat by the fire. Ah, but Lynch’s eyes were sparkling with joy as he bowed for our cheers and cries; he’ll be a right champion with the ladies, if we find any worth the wooing.

Vaughn had examined our few injuries: Kelly’s head, which he declared as rock-hard as ever and his brains no more addled than before; O’Finnegan had a cut on his cheek near his eye from a shard of glass or metal from the wagon-beast; the prisoner, Juan, had a broken ankle which Vaughn set and bound for him. After seeing to those, Vaughn explored and examined every inch of the palace, busily scribbling away in his notebook as he went. I must remember to ask him to share his notes for this recollection of our voyage; I think the man’s observations would be most useful.

The prisoner, though forthcoming, has not been entirely helpful. As often as not, my questions confused him. I know not if the cause is his shabby command of the English tongue, or if he is an imbecile. Perhaps both.

I began by asking who he was and why he had come. The Palace maid, Flora, was indeed his sister; the man who had arrived in the same wagon-beast as he, who had held the headstrong Juan back and thus saved his life, was their younger brother, Ignacio; the family name was Lopez. The other four men – three, now – were friends of theirs from what he called the Neighborhood, which I took to be the name of his village. He became rather strident, insisting that we faced future vicissitudes owing to the death of the man in the blue head-scarf, shot by MacManus; he said that the Latin lions would come looking for “payback.” This was his word for “vengeance,” it seemed, or perhaps “justice.” I know not if he speaks of a military unit, perhaps picked troops, or of some other group of men; he was not clear on the point, merely referring repeatedly to Latin lions. He said these seven came to the Palace because Flora called them, on her telleffono, which I could not make sense of. She must have some means of signaling which we had not seen, and they did not wish to reveal; I ensured that we had a close watch kept for further attempted incursions, by lions or men, and resolved to discuss it with Vaughn.

I asked Juan Lopez where we were, and he responded with “Matheson Preserve,” though he could not tell me who Matheson is or was, nor what was preserved or preserving. He said we were about twenty miles south of a place called Miyammy, a city, but when I asked for the latitude, he was flustered. I asked if he and his companions were Spaniards, and he answered affirmatively, but only after a longish and suspicious pause. Then he added “We’re Dominican.” I presumed that to mean they adhere to a certain church; certainly a Popish one, if they are Spaniards. When I asked what country this Miyammy owed allegiance to, he said, “America.” But when I said, “The British Colonies?” as simple confirmation, he became more confused. Finally he asked if I referred to Bermuda, or the British Virgin Islands (At which name some of the men in range of hearing grew quite intrigued); he said these two locales were far away, that one would have to “fly” there.

I inquired as to the local strength of the Royal Navy or the Armada, hoping to ascertain whether England or Spain held greater sway in these contested waters; his only response was a shrug and a shake of his head. Then Ignacio, his brother, volunteered the intelligence that there was a naval base by Fort Lauderdale, to the north, but he knew nothing of royal ships near Miyammy. I asked if there were marines, or other troops nearby, but they were puzzled once more. Then one of the others stated that there was a National Guards barracks in Miyammy; I took that to mean we were within a day’s ride of a military troop. We must repair the Grace and leave here soon, therefore. As soon as it is manageable.

As to the repairs, I pressed the prisoners for information regarding the location of supplies, both foodstuffs and good seasoned timber, as well as a carpenter we could hire. Strangely, they did not know of a local carpenter, though when I asked if they were recent arrivals, they claimed to have lived here for all of their lives, but for Flora, who had recently come from “the D.R.” But one of the others spoke up, saying we could find timber at a place called Home Dee-Poe; he said they would have a carpenter there, or at least someone with some expertise. I presume there are many carpenters in this Miyammy, but that is apparently where the troops are, as well, and thus is to be avoided. I pressed for detailed instructions on how we could find this Home Dee-Poe, and also a store which held foodstuffs, which they insisted on referring to as Piggly Wiggly. I presume the locals hereabouts raise hogs as their favored livestock. Perhaps they wallow in the swamps to escape the sun’s heat.

Today we will divide once more. I will send O’Gallows, Carter, and Sweeney to this Piggly Wiggly; they will carry some of the valuables from the Glass Palace to trade for foodstuffs. Moran is organizing a battery on the strand guarding the cove, and we have fortified the landward entrance of the Palace. I will send O’Flaherty, Burke, and eight more to this Home Dee-Poe (Perhaps it is Homme de Poe? Are there Frenchmen in this place?), where they will have to find a carpenter and hire his services without giving away our nature or current vulnerable position, convince him to return with them, and bring whatever supplies he will need to fix our ship. I will remain here and consult with Vaughn; I can no longer put off the satisfaction of my curiosity. I must know where we are, and how we came here.

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Log 8: Counterattack

“Have any of you heard of a heathen god called – Verizon?”

All shook their heads. I stepped close to the shivering woman. “Do you understand me? Do you speak English?” Do you even speak the tongue of Man, I wanted to ask, but I could not tell: was this in truth Faerie-Land? She was plain to look at, no great beauty in her face and form, and if the only magic she could summon to defend herself was prayer to a piece of glass the size of my palm, then this could not be the land under the hill, as O’Flaherty’s objects had implied. But then, how could this palace be explained? This wealth, lying about unguarded but by a single terrified woman? What were those beastly machines outside? The magic mirror-wall that showed lands that were not those without these walls? The cabinet of light?

She nodded in answer to my question, but said, “See,” which made no sense to me. Perhaps she was simple, or deranged. I held the plaque out to her. “What is this? Who is Verizon?”

She looked at the plaque, then at me, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Tell Eff-oh know,” she said slowly, and then ran a string of words together, not a one of which I understood. Her tone was pleading, terrified; whatever she was, whatever she was saying, she was surely no threat to us.

I ignored her as she kept babbling, and turned to MacTeigue. “Go check on Kelly. Try to secure the door we came through. Stand guard there, the two of you.” Then to O’Flaherty: “Leave me three others to guard, and take the rest back to the Grace. Sail her to the cove, and we’ll beach her and careen.” He nodded, told off Lynch, Burke, and MacManus to remain, and led the others out the landward door and over the north wall.

I crouched down by the still-gobbling woman. “Stop,” I said, and when she did not, I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. I hoped she was not hysterical; I did not want to strike her. She stopped her babbling and met my gaze, thought she shivered and shook, and worried her lip with her teeth. Speaking slowly and clearly, I said, “Be there anyone else here?”

After a moment she shook her head. She started babbling again, but another shake made her stop. “Are there guards? Soldiers? Any men?” She frowned, seeming not to understand, but then she shook her head again. “No men? No guards?”

“No,” she said. “No pole lease.”

I frowned, and looked to Lynch and Burke, who now stood close by. “No palace?” I asked them. “Is that what she said?” They shrugged.
This was profiting us nothing. We needed to secure our position. I held the plaque out to the woman, and she reached up her hand for it; then I dropped it and stamped my heel down. It shattered most satisfactorily, and she flinched away. I grabbed her chin and turned her to face me. “Verizon cannot hear you now,” I told her. I straightened and turned to Burke. “Watch her. Don’t hurt her – she may be a hostage for us, if there are troops about.” He nodded, and rattled his chains menacingly at her; she shrank back from his grotesque leer, but did not move away or try to escape him.

I turned to Lynch. “Go up top. Try to reach the roof, or a parapet. See what you can see from –”
“Captain!” I was interrupted. It was MacManus, still guarding the landward door. I beckoned Lynch to follow, and strode to where MacManus crouched by the open portal, a loaded musket in his hands. He was peering out with one eye, all else concealed behind the doorframe. “Aye?” I asked.

“We have guests,” he said, and nodded outdoors. I moved to the other side of the doorway and looked out, but I could hear it now; a single glance showed me what my ears had already discerned.

Another beast-wagon, this one white, came roaring up the path, raising a cloud of dust as it growled and snarled. It came to a halt with a shrill screech as soon as it spied the corpse of its fellow. The sides of the wagon opened, and two men stepped out.

“Ready arms,” I told my men, and we three took aim.

Then a second beast, a black one, came growling down the road and stopped by the first; four men emerged from this one – all armed.

I tapped Lynch on the shoulder where he crouched beneath me beside the doorway. “Get MacTeigue. Tell Burke to bring the woman up here, under control.” Lynch nodded and scampered off.

“See any powder?” I asked MacManus.

He nodded, but did not lower his aim. “Aye, the one in the blue head-scarf has a pistol.” He blinked. “I think ’tis a pistol, any road.”

“Him first, aye?”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” he confirmed, and cocked back the flintlock.

The men gathered around the wreckage of the green wagon-beast, looking furious but bewildered. The spoke rapidly and loudly, gesturing to the house, the carcass, and each other; they spoke the same tongue as the woman. All were of the same race, it seemed: the same skin and hair and eyes. The one with the blue scarf carried a strange but unmistakable pistol; the others had but knives and bludgeons. We had a clear advantage, then, though we were outnumbered.

Just then Lynch and MacTeigue scurried up behind. Lynch took a position under a window to MacManus’s right, and readied his pistols; I was glad to see his hands were steady despite his youth.

“Kelly is recovered. He will hold the sea-side,” MacTeigue told me, and relief spread through me. This might have been a threat: the man with the pistol could hold us here – I had to assume he had other pistols, perhaps strapped to the beast in something like saddle-scabbards – while the others crept in the back and engaged us hand to hand; but I would pit Kelly against all the rest, even if he didn’t have an axe and a cutlass, and a narrow doorway to stand in. With those, I knew the only way into the house was through the four of us here.

Or perhaps to shatter one of the many wide windows and reach our unguarded flank. Gods, this was the barest, most vulnerable keep I have ever struck. I knew that we must handle this here, face to face: we could not bear a siege.

“Ready with the hostage, Captain,” I heard Burke growl. I turned and saw that he had his chains wrapped around her, one pinioning her elbows to her sides, the other about her throat. One pull of his arms would snap her neck – and the look in her eyes showed that she knew it.

“All right,” I said. “Stand her in the doorway, Burke. Stay behind her lest they fire. MacManus – if that pistol comes up, the man goes down. Lynch, Owen, stand ready if they charge.” All of them nodded and grunted assent, and prepared themselves. I called out, “Drop your arms!” and nodded to Burke. He shoved the woman out into the doorway, pulling back on the chain about her throat just as she called out “Juan!”

“Flora!” came the answering cry, and then more in that foreign tongue – Spanish, I thought now, if I had heard their names aright. That made sense if we were in the Indies, but then nothing else made sense with that. I glanced around the edge of the open portal and saw that all held still, that one of the two from the first wagon held back the other, who pulled toward Burke and the woman, his manner showing the desperation of either a brother or a lover.

The man with the pistol raised it and snarled, “You motherf–” A shot boomed, a puff of black smoke from MacManus’s flintlock, and the man flew back, his pistol falling to the ground – fortunately not discharging when it fell – with his life’s blood as it poured from the hole in his chest. MacManus swung the musket around and handed it to Lynch, who gave over one of his ready pistols without missing a step; he had spent a full year as a powder monkey, hauling charge and shot for the big guns, and reloading muskets and pistols for the men, and though he had proven himself capable of standing on the firing line, still old habits live long and grip hard, especially in the heat of battle. In moments the flintlock was leaning against the wall ready to MacManus’s hand, and Lynch was back under the window with his second pistol ready, a naked dagger in his left hand.

The effect of MacManus’s marksmanship was most salutary: all the men dropped their weapons and raised their hands – all but the first two, who still struggled together, one to reach the woman, the other to keep him alive instead, as MacTeigue and I planted our aim on his breast.

“If you want to live, stand still!” I shouted.

“Let her go, you son of a bitch!” the man in front shouted in response. His address to me clearly showed his failure to comprehend his circumstances.

I took up a more cheerful tone while I explained to him. “Ye have little room to stand on demands, boyo. Perhaps ye should do as I say, and hope to earn some of my goodwill.” I noted the rearguard were beginning to sidle back to their dragon-wagon. I did not want them raising an alarm, returning with more men – especially not once the Grace was beached and vulnerable. “Shane,” I murmured to MacManus,”did ye learn how to kill those metal beasts?”

He blinked. “Anything what takes punishment like that’ll no’ work so very well afters,” he muttered back. “But the feet are soft.”

“And the eyes,” Burke growled from the doorway where he still held the woman immobile, between himself and the men outside.

“Aye, and the eyes – the round bits in front,” MacManus whispered.

“Kill it, then – the one in the rear, the black one. All on my mark.” I took aim. “Left foot is mine.”

“Right foot,” called Lynch, easing one eye up over the sill.

“Left eye,” said MacTeigue.

“Let her go, you bastards! FLORA!”

“Fire.

Four shots barked as one, and the front of the black wagon-beast exploded with a crash of glass and a harsh sibilance; a thin plume of vapor spurted from the foot where my ball struck home, and a thicker spurt of steam from the middle of the metal grate where the beast’s nose should be, which must have been MacManus’s target. Lynch cursed; he had missed. The rest of us chuckled and tossed our guns to him to reload.

Once again, our gunnery was effective. The three in back stopped creeping away, and the two before stopped struggling and were still. The white beast-wagon did nothing at all; perhaps after all, they did not live.

“Down on your knees, my fine lads – don’t believe we’re out of shot in here. Or that you will fare any better than yon metal beast – for rest assured, the next pull of the trigger will spill your guts on the ground. You’re of no use to us, dead or alive, so all’s the same, to my way of thinking. Dead’s quieter.”
MacTeigue made a thoughtful noise and then said loudly, “Aye, but messier. They’ll bleed all over the stonework, if we shoot them now.” I glanced over at my cousin, and he winked. I had to hold back a laugh.

“Aye, ’tis a fair point,” I said. “You gentle souls – take five slow steps back. Any of you who does not move will cost this sweet lass a finger – move too quick, and it will be her neck.”

They stepped back smart enough, but stopped at five steps.

“Lynch – go bring Kelly up here, and take his station.” The youth scurried away on my whisper. I tapped MacTeigue, and we stepped out to flank Burke, pistols aimed at the foremost two. MacManus, his iron reloaded by the nimble fingers of Lynch, could bring down all of the other three in mere moments.

But whatever else these asses were, whether human or Fae, colonists or slaves or Spaniards, they were not fighting men. They charged into unknown danger like daft fools, and then surrendered as quick as chastised children confronted by an irate sire.

I looked at the lead fool, the angriest one. “On your knees, there, lad. Or my bosun will snap her neck.” I clapped Burke on the shoulder, and he grinned his hideous grin.

The fool frowned, but he went to his knees. Docile as a lamb, they were: all the other four knelt as well. I noticed they could not take their eyes off of their dead companion; had they never seen a man shot before?

“Captain,” Kelly rumbled from behind me.

“Kelly – find something to bind them with.”

“Aye.”

“Owen – go gather their arms. Bring me that pistola.”

MacTeigue stepped out cautiously, swinging well wide of the choleric one so the man would not be tempted to try for MacTeigue’s pistol. He took the strange pistol from the ground beside the dead man’s hand, and tucked it into his sash. He gathered up the knives and clubs the others had dropped, and cast them into the shrubs ten paces away. As he returned to me, Kelly emerged, tearing strips of cloth off of what might be a curtain, or a bedsheet, perhaps.

“Start with him,” I said, gesturing with my barrel before I stuck it into my sash and took the strange weapon MacTeigue brought me. “Don’t be gentle.”

At the word, Kelly stomped on the angry fool’s ankle, twisted back and under him, and there was a crunch. Then Kelly’s great hamfist clouted the fool on the side of his neck, and he collapsed like a sack of grain.

“Juan!” the woman called out tearfully, and Burke pulled the chain taut around her throat, stopping any other syllables short of her lips. Kelly ignored her, as well as the other front man, the one who had held the angry Juan back from his fool’s charge, and who now cursed Kelly from the sole of his feet to the crown of his head and back to his ancestors. Kelly rolled the stunned Juan onto his belly, pinioned his arms and lashed him securely. Then he stepped to the cursing one and waited for the man’s breath to run out. Then he called out to me, “Gentle or no?”

“‘Tis his choice,” I replied. Kelly curled his paw into a fist under the fool’s nose, and rumbled in a voice like thunder, “Smell ye that, aye? If ye think it smells bad now, just think of the stench after I reach into your belly and tear out your liver and lights to bait me hooks with.”

The fool’s dark skin faded pale, and he quieted, his eyes locked on Kelly’s huge, scarred – and surely odoriferous – fist. He placed his hands behind his back, wrists crossed, and hung his head.

“Aye, and that’s well,” Kelly rumbled. “I prefer gentle, I do.”

“‘Tis not what your last whore said!” called MacTeigue, in great good humor now that the battle was done, and won. MacManus and Burke guffawed at this.

Kelly was unperturbed. “So ye had occasion to speak to your sister, then?” he asked, and then all of us laughed, MacTeigue as well.

The other three chose gentle as well, and before long we had all of them inside, seated with their backs to the wall. Juan had awakened, but his anger was mollified when I had Burke remove his chains from the throat of the maid Flora, and had her trussed and seated by Juan’s side. He still was not cheerful, as Kelly had seemingly cracked his ankle, but he answered my questions fair enough, and in English, without my having to threaten the lass more than twice.

I learned all I could from him, and had just ordered Kelly and Burke to lay them out in one of the chambers and lock them in when a cry from Lynch at the seaward door brought light and joy fully into my heart.

“Captain!” he called. “Sails ahoy! ‘Tis the Grace, Captain! She comes!”

I sent MacTeigue out to join MacManus watching to landward, and then Lynch and I stepped out onto the terrace to welcome our ship and our companions.

I still do not know where we are. But for now: we are safe.

 

*****

Ahoy, me hearties: this chapter is the end of the first part of Damnation Kane’s adventures. These eight chapters will soon be collected into a short e-book which will be available for purchase. The book will include three bonus chapters that will not appear anywhere else — so be sure to get a copy! More information will be forthcoming. In the meantime, the adventures will continue with the next log one week from today.

Thank you, so very much, for reading. I hope you’re enjoying the story. Comments and suggestions are always welcome.

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Log #7: Assault on the Palace of Glass

Captain’s Log #7

Date: 26th of June, 1678

Location: Careened on beach at Glass Palace Cove

Conditions: Safe at last. In need of repairs.

 

Though I intend this log to serve as something of a sailor’s tale, a written record of our fantastic voyage, I must first and foremost keep the records of this ship. Thus: we have taken the Glass Palace, with a minimum of casualties but with more chaos than might be wished; the Grace of Ireland is drawn up on the beach before us, securely lashed, and is being scraped and cleaned. We must find the means to repair the hole in her, and the weakened planks and joins, and then she will be seaworthy once more. Until then, we have food and water, a clear view of the approach of enemies, by land or by sea. We are secure.

I did not foresee this outcome when I crouched in the shrubbery by Lynch, and heard his report that the palace was no longer devoid of inhabitants. I paused long enough to offer a brief string of my most pungent curses, a supplication to the gods of Ireland and a tribute to the patron deities of buccaneers. Then I took one pistol from Lynch, matched his aim, and pressed for details.

“‘Tis a woman – only one, Captain. But I don’t know if she will call out the guards, or what horrible things may come at her beck if she be an enchantress. She came in another of those growling beasts, which now waits at rest to landward.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. The men can never see their captain unsure or indecisive; it saps their courage when they need it most. “Come. The time for watching is done.”

We moved quickly back over the wall to where the men waited, and then I laid out my battle plan, with Lynch’s help describing the terrain and the targets. When all knew their bidden tasks, Lynch led us back over the wall, and at a creep through the shrubbery until we could spy the beast-wagon Lynch had seen the woman arriving in. It was a dingy green, long and low to the ground, and looked not unlike a great serpent; I feared it may prove as deadly and insidious, as well. O’Flaherty’s eyes widened when he saw it, but he nodded, his jaw firm, when I whispered, “Ye will be ready, aye?”

“Aye,” he whispered back, and directed his men to their stations and tasks. I nodded and left, with Lynch, MacTeigue, and Kelly following.

We crouched in the shrubbery, as close as we could come to the seaward door – the incredible glass portal through which we had first seen the Faerie Queen. The curtains, which I had mistaken for rippled metal, were closed once more, which suited our purposes admirably. I took a second pistol from Kelly, whose main task involved only his boarding-axe and the strength of his great bear-like frame, half a head taller than I and twice as wide, with arms and legs like tree trunks. With only one eye, as well, the man would not be performing any feats of marksmanship, which were better left to Lynch, MacTeigue, and I, the three men aboard most likely to hit any chosen target howsoever small. I pointed at the place we would strike, and then we waited.

It was not long, no more than half a minute, before we heard a roar from O’Flaherty, followed by the crash and thunder of muskets as the lads fired a broadside at their target. We were out and running, swift and silent as foxes, our eyes racing over the palace windows and walls, seeking any spying eye in hopes we could put a ball in it before the alarm was raised on this side. But anyone’s attention could not but be drawn to landward, as the first roar of the guns was followed by a bellow not far quieter, as Burke led a charge from the bushes. We heard the crash of his chains against metal, and the shattering of glass; a strange bugling sound arose, and was followed by the discharge of more flintlocks.

On the seaward side, we made it to the terrace and paused to wait for Kelly. The great brute was still half in his cups from the whiskey that O’Grady feeds him with his morning biscuit (Aye, I know of it, though they believe themselves surreptitious. A captain knows his crew and his ship, else he doesn’t live long enough to learn. Kelly’s wound festered, for all Vaughn could do, and the pain of it near drove him mad. Too, O’Grady became cook when he traded his man’s leg for one of wood, and threw in his hearing, as well, when the cannon he was manning held a spark and detonated the charge even as it was rammed home – while O’Grady’s face was laid alongside it so could examine the carriage, which was cracked. The cannon fired, the carriage failed; O’Grady became deaf and lame, and a cook instead of a gunner’s mate – a life of biscuit and porridge, of darkness in the galley rather than glory on the cannons, and of pity rather than honor. He knows that Kelly fears the same loss, that our best fighter will be reduced for the loss of an eye, and his shadow will shrink under him; and so there is whiskey in his water-mug. A clever man might note that I have allowed this to continue. He might see, as well, who I chose to lead the charge.). Though Kelly could move as softly as Lynch, MacTeigue, and I, he was not as fleet of foot, and so as we three drew to a halt on the terrace, he was still in the open. I looked back and saw his eye wildly spinning in its socket, and sweat streaming down his face, his mouth open in a grimace of anguish. He was terrified of what he saw, of the palace, the beast-wagon, the glass wall he ran toward, all of it impossible – and yet his captain asked him to throw himself directly into it. His gaze fell on mine for the briefest instant, and then he snapped his teeth together and roared through them like a snarling bull. He quickened his steps and lowered his shoulder, obviously intending, with all the cleverness of a man on the edge of panic – and of a drunk with something to prove – to burst bodily through the glass, rather than hack through the door’s latch, as I had ordered. I barely had time to call his name before he was on the terrace and past me, his face turned away and eye tight shut as he threw his formidable weight into his bull rush, a man-shaped avalanche thrown at a mere pane of glass.

All that mass of man hit the Faerie glass: and bounced. His head flew into the portal with a thrum like a hawser when a sail snaps tight in high wind, and he flew back onto the terrace as fast as he had run across it, unconscious and limp. The three of us stood dumbfounded, looking as one from Kelly, to the glass door, back to Kelly. Back to the door.

The bloody thing wasn’t even cracked.

“Sod this,” MacTeigue snarled, and aimed one of his pistols at the center of the door. A good man, he paused long enough to flicker his eyes at me; I nodded – we had already raised too much hullabaloo, and we must get inside immediately – and he fired.

The glass cracked, at least. But it did not shatter. Rather the lead ball did, and the shards stuck in the glass pane like flies caught in a spider’s web.

Bloody enchanted faeries and their bloody enchanted glass.

I could still hear the hurly-burly from O’Flaherty’s men, and so hope was not lost for my plan. I dropped my own pistols and swept up the axe from where Kelly had dropped it. My strongest swing, straight at the point where MacTeigue’s ball had cracked it, was enough to craze the glass from edge to edge; a second swing, thus heartened by apparent success, finally shattered it entire. A blast of cool air washed over me, and I shivered. Only with wonder that the palace could be cool inside while the sun burned down so fiercely: surely no more than that. I retrieved my pistols, and led the way in, ignoring Lynch as he muttered, “If the cursed glass be that strong, what will it take to shatter the guards?”

As we stepped through into the cool shade of the palace’s interior – which smelled of fruit and flowers and exotic spices – I saw a head vanish behind a closing door. “Owen!” I shouted, pointing MacTeigue at the door; he nodded and raced to it, bursting the latch with his shoulder – fortunately with more success than Kelly had found with the enchanted glass – and was gone in pursuit. Lynch and I swept our eyes around the room, saw no hazard, and leapt through the doorway into the next chamber, the which we had never clapped eyes on before. It was a dining-hall, and a well-appointed one at first glance. But we sought guards, not crockery and wall-hangings, and we moved on. A swinging door led to a dimly lit hallway – though to be sure, the entire palace was brighter than any Irish house I had stepped into; ’twas dim now in the main because of the bright sunlight dazzling our eyes but moments before – the air growing ever cooler as we moved deeper into the palace. I feared we might encounter true winter at its heart, walls rimed white, snow drifting from the ceiling; and I tried to quell the racing of my heart at the thought.

The hallway widened, opening into a greeting-room of some sort, though my knowledge of palatial architecture is somewhat limited. Light shone down through great windows set in the ceiling, thirty feet above us; a broad staircase led up and the walls beyond opened up into rooms, one on either side. Straight ahead was a door that looked like the portal we had seen the Faerie Queen emerge from with her pink traveling boxes: our goal. “‘Ware guards!” I shouted to Lynch, who dropped to one knee and spun to cover my back, while I raced to the door to let in our fellows. I grasped the handle and pulled, but it would not open; I took a moment to calm myself, and then examined the latches, of which there were several, though no bar. I turned one lock and detached a thin chain – but it was not until I turned the handle that the door opened. I shook my head. “We’re not in Ireland any more,” I muttered as I threw the door wide and stepped out to see what had befallen my men.

As I live and breathe, I swear I do not know what I saw then. Mayhap it was an artifice, a mechanical of some sort, broken and shattered to pieces by axe and cutlass and swinging chain. Mayhap it was a dragon lying slain before me, pierced by many holes from musket and pistol, its dark blood oozing out and soaking the ground beneath it; a stench like whale oil and turpentine filled the air. But I do know that whatever it was, it was now quite properly destroyed: shattered glass and bits of metal were scattered far and wide, and five full-grown men were jumping up and down on top of it and yelling curses and assorted maritime foulnesses while my bosun and quartermaster looked on like proud parents at a Mayday dance.

I will not say which of the two was the mother. Not decide if that title is the greater insult, or the implication that the other would marry such a hideous brute.

It did not matter. The time for noisy distraction was over. Clearly nothing had emerged from the barn-shed, and no unexpected patrol had charged down the road. Now we had to secure the palace. A roar of “AVAST!” was enough to halt the hornpipe of destruction being pounded out atop the wagon-beast’s carcass, and a curt wave of my hand brought the men rushing in, though I plucked MacManus by the sleeve and told him off to keep a watch on the road that led up to the palace door. To the others I called, “Spread out and search for enemies! No plunder yet! Lynch, Moran, Burke – upstairs.” I was relieved to hear Burke murmur a most respectful “Aye, Captain,” as he came through the door past me, and he took the lead up the stairs, flanked and covered by Lynch’s pistols and Moran’s blunderbuss. The man becomes calm and tractable only after he is allowed to destroy something utterly – then and only then is he a model subordinate.

“Christ in Heaven,” O’Flaherty murmured as he came in and surveyed the interior of the palace. “No wonder you thought this was Faerie-Land.” He reached out and touched a mirror on the wall, the smoothest and finest I had ever seen, and with a silver frame that would pay for a month’s supply for the Grace and her crew even without the perfect glass it surrounded. “Who lives in such wealth but a royal?” he asked.

“We do,” I replied. I gestured outside at the pitiful wreckage he and the men had left. “‘Tis surely dead now, but did it live?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “I know not. When we fired the first volley, it hissed at us, and seemed to lower one shoulder, as a bull will when it turns to charge. We didn’t have the time to determine what it meant: Burke ran to it and had its eyes with his chains, in one fell crossing-stroke.” He turned to look out at the remains. He frowned. “We fired again, and it let out a trumpeting – did ye hear it?”

I nodded. “Aye. That was the beast?”

“Aye, but it lasted only a moment. Perhaps ’twas its death cry, or perhaps it called for help. I know not.” He shook his head again, a man with a memory he would throw aside if he could. “I know it made my blood run cold, and the men’s, as well. If Burke hadn’t charged, and lived, I think we all might have broken and run. But courage prevailed, even if a mad thrashing was all we had thought for in our bewildered heads. Sure and it made a grand noise when the boys were atop it, though. Did it serve? Ye seem unblooded; were ye undetected?”

“Aye, all well.” I looked back inside; my men were gathering back in the hallway, weapons lowered, all looking mystified and befuddled. “There’s nobody here, Captain,” Carter called out, and Sweeney grunted agreement. Burke appeared at the top of the stairs. “Not a bloody damn soul,” he growled.

“Well, and there is one,” MacTeigue called out as he came from the shadowed end of the hall. He had a woman by one arm, his pistol in the other hand; he cast her down at our feet. She fell to her knees with a cry, and then crouched there, shivering and weeping, her eyes huge as she looked around at us. She wore a drab grey-blue dress with a white apron; her skirt was too short for decency, though quite a bit longer than what the Faerie Queen had flaunted about in. She was youngish, with dark hair and eyes, and brown skin, though not so brown as a Moor or an African. Perhaps she was a Turk? Of course, if she were Fae, how could a man know what her coloring signified?

MacTeigue reached into his sash and withdrew a small object, which he held out to me. “She was praying into this,” he said. “I did not know the tongue – perhaps Italian or Spanish, from the sound of it. She held it thus,” and he pressed the object to his cheek, near his ear. Then he gave it to me.

It was a small plaque, rectangular and flat, the size of my palm. It was made of some strange material, not as hard as metal or fired pottery, warmer to the touch than stone. Perhaps bone? But it was black. It lacked grain, and so was not wood – unless perhaps it was lacquered in some way. On one side a piece of glass was inset, with a tiny picture painted on it – or under it? there were words and numbers that made no sense to me, though I knew the script.

“She was praying into it?” I asked.

MacTeigue nodded. “She was kneeling in a closet, speaking fast and low, rocking back and forth. Looked like praying to me.”

I looked at the glass plaque. “Have any of you heard of a heathen god called – Verizon?”

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Captain’s Log #6: Observations and Discoveries

Captain’s Log #6

Date: 25th of June. Noon.

Location: At anchor in cove, but not for much longer.

Conditions: Sun’s heat nigh overwhelming. But is it a human sun?

 

I sat with Lynch and looked at nothing, in all directions. I looked at the beach, the cove, the trees; I looked at the glass palace, the magical objects inside. I looked at no living soul, anywhere but for the boy next to me.

I knew then that we must seize this palace, wresting it from the grip of its sorceress-succubus-queen. But how? My mind sailed back through a hundred stories of Faerie-Land, the tales that accompany any Irish boy on the path to manhood; none told of any man conquering a Faerie keep. I knew clever ways to escape their clutches, involving wagers and games of chance or skill; but never had I heard of a man taking possession of a Faerie home.

But what choice had we? We must have shelter, and fresh food, and the Grace must have that beach. Perhaps O’Flaherty will find a place better suited, but if not, we have no time to creep along the coast in search of a more accommodating anchorage. So be it: we will treat this as a ship to be grappled and boarded, her captain’s disposition and the secrets of her hold unknown to us, and cause for caution, but not cowardice.

First, then: information. Lynch and I consulted and then split to walk the perimeter of the palace; Lynch took the landward side, as the lad cannot swim, and I went out to the strand and the sea. I gave him my pistols and powder, and cautioned him to run from all ills; he assured me he would. Good lad, that Balthazar Lynch. I watched him go, as quiet as a church mouse in his deck-rough bare feet, even slung about with enough killing implements to board a ship by himself, and then I started on my path. I do not hesitate to admit that I crawled on my belly away from that domicile: the last thing I wished was to draw the Faerie Queen’s attention.

I made it safe to the deeper brush, and then I rose to a crouch and made my way rapidly out along the strand. It was an easy enough trek, the underbrush thin, only clumps of tall grass and more of those puff-ball shrubs, with trees spreading their canopy overhead. I slowed as I neared the end of the strand, as I could readily imagine a watchtower out here; there could not be a better place to ensure early warning of attack or storm, or from whence to signal passing ships. But there was none. Perhaps they do not need this in Faerie-Land. I determined I would place men here, should our design succeed. I looked back to the north, but could not make out the Grace, hidden by a curve of the shore and treetops taller than her masts. I was gladdened by this, for we do not seek attention.

Then into the water and across the cove. I kept my stroke small, so that only my head would be visible from shore, and the burning sun still not far above the horizon would prevent any vigorous scrutiny. The water, ah! It was as warm as any bath, and a clear blue that I had never seen, not even in the purest mountain stream of my Ireland, though I have heard as much from transported men such as my quartermaster. Still, one always expects exaggeration in a seaman’s tales, so this confirmation was a surprise. A most welcome one, after three months aboard ship without bathing.

It was a matter of minutes to cross the cove, through the gentle chop, and under the calls of seabirds; with every breath, this Faerie-Land seemed more of a paradise. I knew of the temptatious nature of the dwellers Underhill, however, and I hardened my soul against the beauties and comforts around me. We will not stay here, not against our will, nor with it. Men do not belong in this place. We will take what we need, and we will depart for familiar shores. I swear it.

I emerged, dripping, and moved slowly up the beach on the southron side, crawling like a serpent until I was hidden once more from the palace’s sight by shrubbery. I made my way along, observing all I could of that Fae place, though what I saw, I could not understand.

When I had gone an hundred paces inland, I heard a rustle nearby and tensed for confrontation, but ’twas only Lynch. We withdrew somewhat from the glass palace – there was another wall, identical to the first, blocking the southern approach; we crouched close, though we did not look at each other as we spoke, but kept an eye both to the palace and to the wall, alert for sentries walking its length.

Lynch confirmed my own strange findings. This palace appeared to hold no guards at all, not a single man-at-arms, nor even a maidservant that we had seen. There were no guardroom, no watchtowers anywhere; Lynch had described a pleasant path leading right to the door, without moat or gate to bar the way! Stranger still: we found no garden, no livestock, no fishing smack or nets, not even a well or a rubbish heap or a privy – though Lynch confessed he had seen many objects and structures he could not surely identify.

Perhaps the Faerie Queen does not need guards. And perhaps she does not need servants beyond her own magic. Does she not need to eat? Do the Faerie Lands not produce food as we know it, grown from earth and water and sunlight? Too, would she not wish for a retinue, for companions to while away the lonely hours? If this sorceress’s existence be naught but solitude, silence broken only by the crash of waves, then all the beauty of this place comes to nothing. I will take my bonny ship and my salty lads, with thanks.

Lynch led me back the way he had come, so I could see some of these strangenesses myself. He showed me the door, with its welcoming path; there was a large shed, perhaps a barn, connected to the palace by another path – stones set in the even ground, bordered with a strip of tiny pebbles – but still, there were no animal sounds nor smells, and I saw neither fodder nor dung.

We were moving around to the far side of the barn-shed when the palace door opened and we held still, moving only enough to observe. The sorceress herself emerged, now dressed in clothing only slightly less strange than before: a thin skirt that met no standard of decency I have known; it covered less than a slip or nightdress, and her coat ended mere inches below her waist. Her shoes were like slippers, but her heels were raised on spikes; she wore a strange mask that covered only her eyes with a strip of dark, hard material, stone or metal, I could not say, but she could apparently see through it, somehow. She walked to the barn-shed, carrying a cloth bag of some kind behind her shoulder, the bag as wide as her shoulders and hanging behind nearly to her knees, flat and flexible as a cloak; in her other hand she held a case with a handle on top. She raised the hand that held the case – was it leather? Perhaps hardened, to hold the boxy shape? Or leather-clad wood? – and pointed at the barn-shed; there arose a rumbling noise from the far side, as of a small herd of cattle moving within; but no cattle  emerged.

I heard a bird’s chirp from inside the barn, and then sounds like heavy doors opening and closing. The sorceress returned to her palace and swiftly emerged again with two more boxes, even larger and heavier than the first two; so massy she must drag them along the ground, though quick and smooth as if she were carrying only milkpails or a posy of daisies. Surely any wooden chest of that size would be far too heavy for a woman to carry – but she is Fae. Who can say what is heavy to her, or what strange otherworldy material makes up the substance of her possessions? And they could not be wood nor leather, not of any animal I have known: both of the boxes were a pink so bright it hurt the eyes to see.

This time she set down her burden, closed the door of her palace and locked it with a key too small to see – or perhaps it was but the touch of her elfin hand – and then dragged her chests to the barn again. More heavy doors closing, and then from within we heard a rumble like the growling of some great slavering beast: we readied our weapons, sure she was setting loose a pack of Faerie hounds, or perhaps bears, wolves, lions.

I do not know what came out of that barn. It was shaped something like a wagon, and the sorceress sat within it, only her head and shoulders above the raised sides, and she was blocked on one side by a window affixed to the wagon. But the wagon was bright red, and it shone and gleamed in the sun; it had wheels, but the wheels had no spokes. There was a metal grill on the side facing us as it moved out of the barn, with two round protuberances that could have been eyes, but I saw no signs of life in that thing.

And the greatest mystery of all: if it was a wagon, there were no beasts drawing it. It moved of its own accord, though I do not doubt it was guided by the sorceress’s Fae will.

She drew away from the barn, paused, and I heard the same rumbling and clattering from the far side of the barn as the sorceress had caused with the wafture of her hand; perhaps it was a door closing as magically as the glass door of her palace had opened to the sea? Then the wagon she rode in rumbled and growled, and then moved away and out of our sight, blocked by the barn-shed we crouched beside. And we were left alone, beside the unguarded palace of a Faerie Queen.

We waited, still as calm water, for a hundred breaths. Then, when nothing else moved, we thought her gone, for now. I set Lynch by the door to keep watch for her return, after first leading me back to the north wall, closer to the Grace; I gave him the strictest instructions not to go inside, not to leave the shelter of the trees, but just to watch. Then I scaled the wall, again with the help of a close-growing tree and with no more difficulty than before, and then made my way back to my ship. I cannot describe the warm rush of joy I felt in my breast upon setting my foot once more on the Grace’s deck; this ship is my home in these strange waters, as well as my steed for traversing them, and I do love her so.

I reported only our current status to O’Gallows, gave him orders to keep watch for O’Flaherty’s return, and then retired to my cabin to set this down in my log. I am starting to believe this document is an important one: perhaps when we return to Ireland, I will carry the records of the only trip men made Underhill and back again since the days of yore.

We will make it back again. This I swear.

The glass has turned twice since I returned to the Grace, and O’Flaherty and Carter are now here, as well. I do not know what to make of their report, but I set it down here, while they refresh themselves and ready the men for the assault.

The first words out of O’Flaherty’s mouth once my cabin door had closed behind him were: “‘Tis paradise, Nate! This be the pirate’s dream, sure it is!”

“Aye,” I said. “But such is the way of this place: to seem like every glorious wonder a man ever clapped eyes on. But it is a trap, sure as you stand there before me.”

He frowned and then his brows raised with surprise. “Ye know where we are? Did ye find a landmark, or a guide?”

“We are Underhill,” I told him then, “in Faerie-Land.” I had said nothing to the men of my discoveries, nor to Ian; I wanted O’Flaherty’s opinion and any further evidence he could provide, so I could prove my sanity when I told the crew. And though I like the man not at all, and trust him but little more, I cannot fault the mind hidden behind that unpleasant face.

That face frowned again – ’twas the ugliest sight I had seen yet on this day of wonders, and it made me smile to place its scarred, filthy lumpen grotesquerie beside my memory of the Faerie Queen’s ethereal loveliness in my mind’s eye – and O’Flaherty sat himself on my sea chest. “What did ye find?” he asked. “Where is Lynch?”

Though it rankled to have to report first, as it rankled to have him make so familiar in my cabin, I reminded myself that he and I are of equal rank, according to our ship’s Articles, signed by every man aboard, and by me. So I told him of the cove and its beach, and of the palace of magical wonders, and especially its beauteous mistress. I confess I waxed somewhat poetic in describing her, since I was looking at his hairy, warty brow as I did so, which afforded me some amusement; though I kept that hidden, of course.

But when I had finished, O’Flaherty shook his head. “I do not think we are in the land of the Fair Folk,” he said to me. “The one we found was far from fair.” And he pulled from inside his shirt the three objects that rest on the shelf before my eyes as I write this. As I stare at them now, I must agree with him: the Fae would not have such things. This is the stuff of men.

But then what did I see at that glass palace?

Was it not real? Were my eyes deceived?

I know not.

_____________________________________________________________________________

O’Flaherty and Carter had trekked north, their experience identical to mine and Lynch’s, but lasting somewhat longer in the swampy act; their slog through mangrove and mud and biting insect was closer to two hours than one. But finally, the trees thinned for them as well, and they saw – the pirate’s paradise, as O’Flaherty said.

“Ships,” he told me. “Ships and boats of every size, from dinghies and wherries to craft as large as the Grace, and greater still, curse me for a liar else. There must have been a thousand of them, tied to piers and docks and quays. And not a single cannon among ’em.”

I scoffed at this, of course, but he assured me: he and Carter had explored carefully. He had even managed to creep up and peer into one of the smaller boats, and there was not a single piece aboard. Not a firing port, not a barrel of powder, not a cannonball stack, as far as the eye could see.

“‘Twas a fishing fleet, then. Was it not?” I asked him.

He scowled and nodded. “Aye, there were fisherman’s boats, right enough. I saw poles and lines, and a few nets. Some were pleasure boats, as the fine bloody folk use for boating on the Thames or the bloody Shannon, and a few were little more than small boys’ coracles. But Nate, there were masted ships like I’ve never seen before – and some even larger, without masts or sails at all, stab my liver! Perhaps they be galleys, as the heathen Moors row, but I saw no oars, nor ports nor benches. And I looked, smite my eyes if I didn’t.”

I nodded. “Aye – they are Faerie craft, no doubt, and moved by the Fair People’s magic, just like that wagon I saw that spirited away the Sorceress.”

O’Flaherty paused to consider. “Aye,” he said finally. “Perhaps.” He pushed the three objects into my hands. “But I think no Faerie magic made these.”

He had a bottle, a wine bottle with paper somehow glued to it. “Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill,” it proclaimed. I took off the top, after a few moments tugging at it before I found it had to be twisted off – and what glass blower could thread his work so a cap could be screwed on? – and sniffed. That smell was enough to convince me O’Flaherty had reason in what he said, though the glass palace in my memory still held sway over my thoughts. Perhaps a taste of the dregs left in the bottle would have convinced me entirely, but I couldn’t stand to put my tongue to the test. There was also some tobacco, tiny cigars wrapped in paper and enclosed in a paper box marked “CAMEL.” I broke one up into my pipe and lit it; it tasted strange, but still allowed me a sweet smoke, and at my urging, O’Flaherty joined me.

Then we looked at the third object.

I don’t know how to describe it. It was made of paper, but bound like a book or a pamphlet, with tiny slivers of bent metal, and it lacked a cover of leather or wood or cloth and the paper was unlike any I have ever seen: it was slick, and it shone under the light. The paper was covered with images far more than words, and such images! If they were portraits, then the greatest artists of history are mere children flinging paint around like morning porridge by the spoonful compared to the genius who painted that; but for the size, and the object in my hand, I would have thought I looked on living flesh.

Lots of living flesh. Every inch of living flesh, in fact.

I have known men who owned portraits of women. I have known many men who carried locks of hair or small swatches of cloth to remind them of a woman’s scent, the softness of her skin. Of course I have known boys who drew or carved the shape of a woman in secret, as a canvas to paint the dreams of love upon.

But this.

They were nude. Bare as any babe, but no childish shapes were these! Breasts of every sort, legs and arses and . . . and . . . EVERYTHING! Pages and pages of – EVERYTHING! I know not who this “Bare Bitches” is, whose name adorned every page and must thus be the artist behind these images (nor do I know why he bears a dog’s name), but I long to meet and talk with him. If he owns a brothel, with such ravishing beauty there, so much smooth and willing flesh, then I know where my men will spend every coin we plunder, and every one they can beg and borrow, too.

O’Flaherty had found these things, the bottle, the tobacco, the wondrous pamphlet, on a man he had discovered unconscious under a tree by the shipyard. “Sure and he was drowned in that wine, for you could smell it from ten paces away – though it might have been swallowed up in the stench of the man himself, damn my nose.” Somewhat familiar with the look and behavior of a drunkard, O’Flaherty and Carter had not hesitated in searching the snoring man’s filthy garments for booty or information. I asked if they had found any coin, and O’Flaherty said no, but the shifting of his gaze when he said it told me otherwise. I said nothing then, but kept it in mind: should our conflict ever come to a head, this would be the knife hidden in my sleeve. O’Flaherty had signed the Articles, too – had in fact introduced the idea to the men, along with the existence of his position and the insistence on every man voting on each decision affecting the ship and crew, all ideas garnered from his time cruising in the Indies – and the penalty for holding back loot from the company was as clear as the water on these shores.

But information was the most vital booty that O’Flaherty brought back. Now we know that the coast to the north is no good to us, being nothing but swamp to the edge of the shipyard that, though it might give us rich pickings in future, offers no safe haven for the wounded Grace and her exhausted, depleted crew. And now we know that, though none of us can possibly say where we are, nor what manner of people live on these shores – nor can I explain the magical place that Lynch and I saw, nor give a name to the woman who ruled it, be she human sorceress or Faerie Queen – still we are in a world of men. Men who drink, and smoke, and lust. O’Flaherty has shown that to my satisfaction.

Perhaps I should not dread a face-to-face encounter with that sorceress, after all. She did eat and drink like a woman; perhaps she is no more than she seems. I am sure to have the chance to find out, once we have taken her palace for our own.

O’Gallows will remain. It should be me, while he and O’Flaherty lead the assault, but I am needed to lead the way to the glass palace and Lynch. To make Ian’s task easier, I will take both O’Flaherty and Burke with me, along with Moran, Carter, McTeigue, MacManus, O’Finnegan, Sweeney, and Ó Duibhdabhoireann – the last only so Ian will not have to call out his name shouting orders. The man’s Christian name, Ceallachan, is not far simpler; though he responds to Kelly when the rum doesn’t make him forget. He lost an eye to a splinter when the Lash’s men fired on us, and hasn’t been the same man since.

That leaves Ian, Surgeon Vaughn, and O’Grady, the cook, along with Murphy, Finlay, Gallagher, Rearden, Fitzpatrick, Doyle, and O’Neill. ‘Tis enough to move the Grace down the shore to the cove, though not if there are any trials or terribulations. But our first assault is likely to be enough, I judge, if the glass palace holds no dangerous secrets that could bar our way – or spill our blood. If there be complications, then some of us will surely escape to carry word and warning; together with the Grace’s cannon, they should carry the day. And if none of us come out of the palace alive – if I do not come out of there alive – then I find I care not what comes of the rest of them here with my ship. Ian says we should simply bring the Grace with all hands aboard, for a frontal assault on the beach; I hope it will not be necessary to risk the ship in any but the uttermost need.

And so with sharpened swords and axes, charged locks, loaded rifles and pistols, we will fill the ship’s boat with men. We determined to row down the coastline to the strand, rather than slog through the mangroves; though we will land on the near side of the wall rather than the palace side; I do not wish to creep with ten sea-legged tars through that thin underbrush, all within sight of the palace. For myself and a few of the lads I brought aboard from my own village – Moran and McTeigue, both kin, McTeigue my own mother’s brother’s son – I know we have hunted ‘cross heath and over moor, through forest and stream and bog, and sure we could move without any more sound than an Irish deer in a spring meadow, once we stiffened our knees on land once more. But the others? Burke could not be silent if he were three days dead, and I doubt rotting in his grave would improve his smell, either, which would reveal his presence and ours as readily as the clanking of his damned manacles. Perhaps I should not bring him along. But that mad bastard of an Englishman is the bloodiest savage I have ever seen in a fight, and we do not know what we may face. Perhaps the very stones will rise up. Maybe the grounds are sown with dragon’s teeth, as Jason and his Argonauts faced, soldiers springing from the earth itself. We will have need of Burke and his swinging chains. And should he take a mortal hurt in the fight, well.

I will wish ill on no man. I do hope to take the palace without shot fired or blood spilled.

We go now. Gods be with their beloved Gaelic rogues.

_____________________________________________________________________________

O, blessed be the angels of Ireland that look over their proud, bonny sons, even in this other world! Christ and Dagda, blessed St. Brendan and Patrick, too: why can you not draw back that curtain of fear that lays over all struggles of blood and iron, that terror that has put more men in the ground than any plague, any famine, any tyrant in the annals of history? Is bravery not enough? Strength, celerity, skill with arms? Must we overcome the madness of fear, as well?

Ah, I know very well whence came the cause of this hurly-burly I have just waded through: ’tis just that my men are not soldiers. They are pirates. And pirates fight with boiling blood and roaring curses, the hack and slash of the cutlass and the blast of the thrice-charged blunderbuss; we do not know the discipline of Cromwell’s New Model Army, and would spit on it if given the chance. But I would never wish to be faced with the sight of my men charging at me with red eyes and shining swords: ’tis a braw sight, to be sure, even from amongst ’em. But ’tis a mad sight, as well. Gods damn me, what a brou-ha-ha that was.

We rowed through the calm, placid water, like one of O’Flaherty’s bloody fine folk in a pleasure craft on the Thames. We came to the strand, we landed and found the wall; I crossed, leaving the men ready at a word to swarm over and bring wrack and ruin along. I found Lynch, waiting, soaked in sweat but with his powder dry and his hand steady: he had my pistols drawn and primed, both aimed at the palace’s glass walls, where we first saw the sorceress queen. He saw me come, signaled with a tip of one barrel before he leveled his aim once more. I made my way to him, thanked him for his alertness, and asked for his report.

“The palace, Captain,” he said, then cleared his dry throat with a soft rumble. “The Palace is not empty.”

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Log #5: The Glass Palace

Captain’s Log #5

Date: 25th of June. Dawn.

Location: At anchor in cove. Still afloat.

Conditions: The sun shines, and hope blooms in those golden rays.

We live. I say again: the fairest sight of all is the sun’s rise on a new day, arriving like an unexpected guest who bears good tidings.

The storm broke and fled in the night, though in truth it should have spelled our doom before it did. For our survival this dawn, we must give thanks to the capricious gods, and to my mate and friend, Ian O’Gallows. (A name he bears half for his father, a Scotch gallowglass, a mercenary who came to Ireland to fill his pouch with gold fighting in our wars, and instead found himself filling the pouch of a comely Irish maid, one of such spirited blood and poetic temperament that she loved the man but never bothered to know his name beyond, “Ah, Love!” The other half-measure of the name O’Gallows is the just reward for Ian’s meritorious service in a lifelong quest to end on that renowned apparatus, made holy by the blood of so many Irish kings. And the shite of an even greater number of English rogues, as Ian says it true.)

The seas found the hole in the Grace’s hull at last. Ian was at the watch and heard a report from the men at the larboard pumps that they could no longer keep pace with the water in the bilge. Ian went below to inspect, and found water pouring in through the wound in our lovely lady’s skin. He went to the carpenter’s closet, near abandoned since McLoughlin’s death on Irish seas, and found a short plank end, a great handful of long nails, and a hammer. He held the plank in place with his feet, his back braced against the deck and muscles straining against the might of the seas, while Roger Desmond nailed the board in place with enough iron to charge a cannon. It was nothing like a proper patch, but it held back the water enough to let the pumps keep us afloat.

Now with the dawn we are at last headed ashore. I will take Lynch and explore on foot to the south, and O’Flaherty and Carter will head north. We seek a strand where we can beach the ship without fear of intrusion. We seek also for civilization, and knowledge of our whereabouts – but always, the ship’s health comes first.

_____________________________________________________________________________

I have returned. I do not know what is uppermost in my mind, in my heart: the dread I feel, or the wonder. For the nonce, it is perplexity, bewilderment, and confustication. WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE WE?

We took the boat to the shore, found a bare patch between trees – and such strange trees! Standing aloft on roots like a cathedral’s buttresses, growing right from the sea, with salt crystals visible on their tangled roots. O’Flaherty calls them mangroves. He was transported to the Indies where he turned pirate before returning to Ireland, so I take his word on matters of local knowledge now. Though I don’t know why: wherever we are, it is not the sugar plantations of the Caribbean. I do not believe O’Flaherty has ever seen these shores any more than I have. Nonetheless, we tied the boat to one and spent some minutes regaining our land legs, learning the uncertainty of the land around these mangrove trees, which is softer even than a peat bog, though perhaps not quite as odoriferous, and then we were off.

Lynch and I slogged through mangrove bog for a mile or so before the ground came solid to our step. We knew to use the mud to keep off the insects, or we would have lost more blood to them than we ever have to the English. But the stench was most unpleasant, as was the heat, even in the trees’ shade.

Not half a mile after the bog turned to good earth and the mangroves made way for proper trees, we came to a wall. I cannot say how that sight heartened me: we were not lost, we were not doomed to wander in the wilderness until my ship sank and we starved for our ignorance. A wall meant men, and with men we had a fighting chance. That’s all an Irishman needs.

The wall was six feet high, with broken glass embedded in the top. A fine piece of masonry, too, as good as any cathedral wall I have seen. The surface was covered with a plaster smooth as a shaved and sanded plank, the extent slightly curved but the top straight and level as the horizon. But trees grew within a pace of it, so its defensive value was somewhat less than its craftsmanship. Lynch scurried over it with no more difficulty than he had climbing the rigging, and though my days as a mast-monkey were far behind me, still I had not much more trouble. The woods continued on the other side for a dozen paces, and then cleared. We paused at the edge to take stock.

That’s when we saw the house.

House? Fah. ‘Tis a palace the likes of which no man has ever laid eyes on, I warrant.

There were brief gardens with plants unknown to me or Lynch; puffed shapes like immense dent-de-lion gone to seed, and tall trees with nary a branch on slender trunks but for a crown of great leaves, bright green and serrate, bursting out of the top, many times the height of a man – they might make fine masts, perhaps, though they may be too flexible. Then a terrace of some sort, with a columned portico or promenade – Christ and Dagda, I have not the words for it. I have never seen architecture like it.

It was the size of a vast cathedral, a king’s palace: thirty or forty feet high, an hundred feet across – nay, more. It lacked ornament: not a single piece of statuary, no mural nor frieze, not even a curved band of stone. I’d call it a Puritan’s proclivities that stripped it bare, knowing that humorless race landed on the New World’s shores and live there still, but no: ’twas the edifice itself that served as decoration, that gloried the eye and honored the wizard who built it.

The walls shimmered and shone as we approached cautiously through the gardens. I noticed there were no crops, no edibles, and surmised we must be on the far side from the kitchens. I told Lynch through signs to ‘ware guards on the parapets, but we saw not a soul. As we drew closer, the risen sun gleamed from the walls, which had a strange appearance: smoother even than the wall we had crossed, yet rippled, and the sunlight reflected from the surface. I surmised they were solid steel, as I have seen such metal forged so that light ripples on its surface like that of a pond teeming with fish and fragments of wind. This wall curved, as well, and I wondered if the people dwelling here could not lay a straight line.

But then before our eyes, the wall changed. What I had taken for ripples of forged steel was in truth a curtain, a curtain than now drew away, moved by no hand. Why did this curtain wall gleam in the sun, you ask?

Because the curtain was inside of a wall made of glass.

I could not fathom it, at first. ‘Twas Lynch, crouched beside me, whispering, “Glass! ‘Tis made of glass!” that set the truth in my ‘mazed mind. I know not how to imagine a wall made of glass, without flaw, without blemish, without frame, ten feet high and a hundred feet wide, without saying that it must be magic. This was a sorceror’s palace, I thought then.

And then, within the glass – though the eye did not pause for an instant at its surface, clear as the mountain air – we saw the master of this palace, and I corrected myself: this was the palace of a sorceress. Her robe – silk, I thought, though I have never seen it on a person, only on a bolt liberated from an English trader; sure it was not the rough-dyed homespun I have seen on most colleens at home – that robe revealed more of her curves than it concealed, and lovely curves they were, indeed. I glanced at Lynch to be sure he was not entranced or inflamed by this first sight of a woman in nigh three months, but he was glancing at me to determine the same, and so we looked back at the marvels before us.

She stood at the window for a moment, staring out at the sun on the water, a delicate half-smile on her face – a face as lovely as the rest of her, a face to bring out the poet in any Irishman – and then she turned and walked across a wide room, a reception hall, perhaps, though I saw no table large enough to seat a proper company of men. There were low couches and chairs, rich carpets; the floors were of some pale stone, and as smooth as the glass wall I saw them through.

The sorceress went to a wall of cabinets, and produced a miracle. She grasped a handle, pulled the cabinet open – and light shone forth from within, brighter than any lantern I have seen! Within the cabinet, and affixed to the inside of the door, there were what appeared to be foodstuffs, though the room was so wide that I could not make out all the details; too, I was dazzled by that light: surely she did not keep a candle burning inside a closed cabinet! But then, no candle ever shone like that.

She removed a bottle of some kind, and a smaller handful. Another cabinet, which I could not see into, and then she poured, with her back to us. She turned and we saw she was drinking a golden fluid from a clear glass cup; in her hand she held something that might be fruit, though I did not know its shape. It looked to me like a golden sausage. But I watched her peel it and eat it raw, so a fruit it must have been.

But what can I know of this? Perhaps she devoured the severed finger of a demon before my eyes. Or perhaps it was . . . some other part.

She put down the glass of golden nectar and took up a strange object: only just larger than her hand, slim and long and flat, covered in knobbly protrusions. She waved it at the wall, and then I knew it was her sorceress’s wand, for the wall opened, of its own accord, revealing a great mirror in a black frame. She waved the wand again, and the mirror showed images – but not images, for they moved. They moved! It was a window of some kind, revealing not the other side of the palace’s grounds, but showing other places and people, like a scrying pool or some such wizardry. As Lynch and I watched, it changed a dozen times, revealing a man’s face, then three people gathered around a strange object I did not know, then a map with strange names written on it – alas, she waved her wand and the map disappeared before I could discern any useful details; but I will swear the words were in a script I recognized, even if I could not see what words they spelled out. Then it was a woman with a metal rod pressed to her wide open mouth – was she singing? – and then a jeweled pendant, surrounded by words, like the illuminated page of a monk’s manuscript. I made out the number 29.99, before the mirror’s magic showed two faces – no, it was one face, but shown twice, side-by-side. But perhaps it was not the same face, for the one on the left was older, more blemished than the right side face. Mother and daughter, perhaps?

The sorceress stepped closer to the mirror then, and gazed at it; it was now that she ate her golden sausage-fruit and drank her golden nectar. She dropped the peel – the skin? – and the empty glass onto a wide shelf beside the cabinets full of light, and then took up her wand again and waved it at the wall of glass. And the wall opened.

Two doors, framed in some strange, smooth white stone but made of glass, swung wide without a hand to move them. Lynch and I froze, knowing the slightest movement might draw the sorceress’s attention to us. I know his fondest wish now was the same as mine: we had seen enough, and now we wanted nothing but her departure, so that we could return to the safety of our ship and our friends. But she did not leave: she came out onto the terrace, no more than thirty feet from where we crouched behind shrubbery. Then she took off her robe.

I will not speak of what I saw then; it would be ungallant. Suffice to say that I am not innocent of women, that I have known the fond caresses of more than a few generous and loving lasses; but never had I hoped to see so much bared flesh outside of a bed. What garment she did wear was little more than paint on her skin; certainly it hid no more from our sight than it did from the gods.

She walked across the terrace, away from us – I can close my eyes and see every single step, so closely did I observe her every swaying, undulating movement – and then dove into a pond that we had not noticed hitherto. She swam – better than any man I have ever seen, and more than a few fish, as well – across and back, across and back, a score of times. Then she emerged once more, taking up a small blanket to dry herself, an operation I observed just as carefully, especially when she bent to rub the blanket down her smooth leg – but I blush to continue.

She went inside, closing the glass doors, this time by hand. She disappeared through a doorway, granting Lynch’s and my wish of minutes before – though I confess my wish had become somewhat different by that point.

When we spoke, when we had recovered our wits enough to whisper, Lynch asked, “Is she a temptress demon, Captain? A succubus?”

I shook my head, but not because I knew him to be wrong. “She may be. Though I think this land too fair to be infernal. Look you.” I pointed to the ocean, visible to our left; before the glass palace was the perfect cove, ideal for our purposes. A wide, flat expanse of white sand that we could draw the ship upon, a spit of land dense with trees and shrubs to hide us from the view of passing ships, should such exist in this strange place (We have seen none). Stout trees to anchor lines for drawing the Grace out of the water, and lashing her safe against the tide’s caprices. And overlooking all, this glass palace, with a pond of clear water to drink and magical cabinets full of food, howsoever strange.

“Hell would not have such perfection laid before us,” I told Lynch. “Not without a legion of demons, armed and belligerent, to keep us from it.”

No, I had realized, as we watched the beautiful sorceress emerge from her magical, impossible palace, where we were and what we were seeing. “She is no devil,” I told Lynch. “She is a Faerie Queen.

“We are Underhill, in the Land of the Fae.”

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Log #4: The Chase, Part II

Captain’s Log #4

Date: 24th of June, 1678. Evening, or so: twilight hidden by storm clouds.

Location: Unknown

Conditions: Thunder and Lightning. Very very frightening. Wind and waves high, but ebbing.

 

For two months, Hobbes’s ship never left us. We made what repairs we could, but our mainmast yard was damaged beyond repair by chainshot, and we had no way to replace it. Perhaps something could have been found, but McLoughlin, our carpenter, had been killed by a musket-ball, and no one else had any particular skill at woodcraft. We tried to hoist more sails, to lighten our load, to make better use of the wind – but all was for naught. We sailed dark in the night and took unexpected turns in the blackness; but somehow, whenever we tried such tactics, the sun would rise and show sails behind us, sometimes far away, but always visible. And they always gave chase, eventually closing what gap we had opened, never coming close enough to enter battle.

I do not believe I truly slept for those two months. I cannot even be sure it was two months; I missed days in this log, and no man aboard kept his own calendar. Even Vaughn, the surgeon and an educated man, stayed below with his books, as ever; the sailing of the ship means no more to him than the pulling of a plow concerns a field mouse: occasionally he is disturbed by it. The passing of time follows that same path for him, unnoticed and unmourned. Perhaps he has the right of it.

But for two months, the wind never slackened or changed and no storms came; there was enough rain and enough fishing to keep us alive, but we saw no other sails and never lost sight of the Sea-Cat. It was enough to drive us all mad, the months of waiting, imagining our fate yet hoping for a reprieve – a reprieve that did not need to be as miraculous as the one I had hoped for as a lad, awaiting my mother’s return: all we needed now was for Hobbes to give up the chase. Who were we? One Irish pirate vessel, perhaps with some small repute due our success in the English shipping lanes, but no Henry Morgan, no Francis Drake. Why did he not give up?

Someday I will have Hobbes at my mercy. I will ask him then.

It may have been madness that brought us so close to our doom, at the end. Certain if it was not madness, ’twas folly. I took ill, of course, for no man can stay upright under that strain for that long. When I did, ’twas left to my mate, Ian O’Gallows, to carry out my wishes. But he found himself pressed on two sides by the ship’s quartermaster, Sean O’Flaherty, and the bosun, Edmund Burke, a brute of an Englishman allowed aboard my ship only for the sake of O’Flaherty’s patronage, and the need to keep peace between myself and the man elected by my crew to be my equal in all things but battle. O’Flaherty chafed under the fact that we were on the eve of battle every hour of two months, and thus my word was law throughout; so when I lay insensate in my cabin, he seized his moment. With Burke at his side, they overruled Ian and commanded the men themselves. Perhaps Ian allowed it to happen, and if so, I cannot fault him; though their course was folly, it was a possibility that called to us all for those months, and may have become inevitable even had I stayed at the helm to the bitter end.

They slowed the ship and prepared for battle.

I regained myself in the night, and staggered out of my cabin to see what I had transpired during my incapacity. O’Flaherty had command, with Duffy at the helm; it was a cloudy night, and we were running silent and dark, so that I almost stumbled over them in the darkness as I moved blearily toward the dim light of the hooded lantern standing at O’Flaherty’s feet. They greeted me, somewhat warily, I think now, though I saw nothing amiss at the time. O’Flaherty told me how long I had been below – the better part of two days – and our approximate position, though we had sailed off the edge of our charts more than a month ago, and were navigating mostly by legend and hearsay about the length of a cruise from Ireland to the English colonies of the New World, where so many Irishmen suffered in chains after Devil Cromwell came to our shores. They assumed we were somewhere east of the Carolinas, but did not know how far away from the shore – perhaps as much as a thousand miles. They thought we might be close to the island called Baramundi, or perhaps it was Bermuda – they could not recall the name.

I began to examine what I could discern of the distribution of our sails, and grew alarmed as I realized that sails had been reefed: my ship had been slowed. It was then that the most peculiar sight ever to light my eyes came to pass. I realized that the rigging was growing far easier to discern; that there was, in fact, light in the darkness. It was a blue light, unlike any illumination I had heretofore experienced, and as I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear away any lingering phantoms of sleep, I found that the hair on my arms, and on my neck, was standing erect. Then I knew what it was, this light, from many stories told by old sea-dogs around tavern tables: it was the fire of St. Elmo, seen by one mariner in a thousand but boasted of by every man jack who sails the sea.

Imagine my wonder as I observed my ship, every inch of her glowing like a falling star, growing bright enough to see, and then to read by. It was a sublime beauty, a moment out of time: a waking dream that brought joy to my heart, a heart which had felt no goodness for weeks, aa heart which was filled with nothing but a rising dread and falling hopes.

And then imagine my horror as I turned to look at O’Flaherty and Duffy behind me, and saw the same eldritch fire crawling over the sails and lines and rails of the Sea-Cat, the scourged lady at her bow almost near enough to spit on. “To arms!” I cried. “To arms, and ‘ware boarders! All men on deck!”

O’Flaherty attempted to forestall me, but it was too late. My awaking at the wrong moment, my awareness of the enemy ship at the same moment, thanks to a mysterious wonder of the sea – it had to have been fate, or the caprice of the gods, that saw fit to ruin the plans of O’Flaherty. I do not know if I should regret it.

For the moment my voice was raised, the hatch burst open and the men came boiling out, wide awake, armed to the teeth and ready to kill Englishmen. For indeed, O’Flaherty and Burke had intended to bring our pursuers to the fray, and, hoping surprise would balance their greater numbers, had hidden the men belowdecks until Hobbes’s men had grappled and boarded us, thinking our boys foolishly asleep, and thus boarding with false confidence instead of battle-ready wills. Perhaps it would have worked, if the timing had come together properly.

But now it was ruined. For the men rushed above yelling, and the English spotted us and veered off our stern just long enough to fire on us with grape shot and muskets. My men went down like mown hay before the scythe. I fell, as well, wounded in the arm and lightly across my scalp, a minor gash that bled more than it harmed, though it was enough to stun me for a moment as my blood and the blood of my men pooled on the deck of my ship.

Then the blue fire of St. Elmo flared like lightning, turning as white as moonlight and as brilliant as the sun on the waves. There was a clap of thunder, and the deck reeled beneath us. “Rogue wave!” rose the cry, and perhaps it was. The light turned a color I have never seen, a lurid brilliance tinged with darkness: as if a rainbow bled its life’s blood on our eyes. I heard the screaming of a ban-sidhe rise far off and then fly at us at great speed, arriving with a tumult and crash as of a cannonade. The deck bounced once more, the light flashed, and then all was still. All was silent.

The sun broke the horizon then, and we saw that the ship had turned, and the sun was rising before us, a line of dark storm clouds just above her bright face, like the angry brows of a goddess scorned. The seas were calmed, but for the three-foot chop; no sign of the rogue wave that had tossed us moments before.

And no sign of the Devil’s Lash. The cry went up as we realized, and we rushed from rail to rail, like children following a soldier’s parade through town. But there was nothing, no ship, no sails in sight. There was a brief cheer, quickly lost in confusion; and then I set men to tasks, seeing to the wounded and the dead, turning the ship about to sail due west and seek landfall and safety from the coming storm. It was not an hour before we spied land ahead, and a matter of half a day before we could make out the trees along the shore. So much for O’Flaherty’s navigation. Perhaps it was Duffy’s, but he fell in the fusillade, so I will not speak ill of the dead.

Thus came we here. The storm is upon us now, and my strength flags again, my eyes heavy, my hand numb and shaking on the quill. I must rest. Perhaps I will wake in Hell. Perhaps I am there now.

But if I am in Hell, where is the Devil’s Lash?

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Captain’s Log #3: The Chase

Captain’s Log #3

Date: 24th of June, 1678. Noon.

Location: Unknown

Conditions: Anchored and slowly sinking in the storm. But alone.

Inspection complete, so much as possible in storm. Leak worsening, water coming over the rail with every fifth wave. Meal of rotting biscuit and raw fish. Most eager to make landfall, but bloody storm continues.

 

Returning to my narrative.

Thus began the most hellish, gods-cursed time I have known in my eight-and-twenty years. I have known battle, as sailor and as captain; I have been deprived; I have been ill. God’s teeth, I’m Irish, born of an English rapist in the time of Devil Cromwell. I have known suffering before.

But sea battles are short, a matter of hours at most, and frequently the fighting itself a mere pocketful of minutes. ‘Tis the sailing, the tacking, the wearing, the coming about and bearing into the wind, that swallows the sand in the glass. A hurly-burly ashore is measured in heartbeats and footfalls, and quickish ones at that.

Growing up Irish under English tyranny took longer, but ’twas never all bad. I had my mother’s love, and the love of my sept and clan, who forgave me my English blood for the sake of the love they carried for my mother, love which ran hot in their blood and burned deep in their bones. And aye, we went hungry at times, when the English stole our crop or our catch; there was illness, as there ever is; I bore the shame of bowing to English soldiers as they beat and chastised my kin. But there was always revenge to look forward to, with the English. And always, hungry days, sick days, every day, there was music, and ale, and my mother’s laugh, as high and rich as the lark’s call. She acted as chieftain, in those days when the English had ripped out our heritage and broken the lines of battle chiefs and Gaelic kings. She would call the sept together whenever food ran short: first she would plan for the next day, when every man would go to the boats to take what we could from the sea, and every woman and girl would find roots and nuts and watercress; anything we could put in our bellies. Then once the plans were set and everyone knew his task, and we all knew that the morrow would bring some sustenance for us – at least enough to keep a space between belly and backbone – then we would sing and dance, and drink, if there were ale or whiskey to be had. Mad Cousin Diarmuid would even share out his mead, though no one else could taste that foul Northman’s brew without your tongue curdling up in your mouth, poisoned with sweetness. But we’d drink it, right enough, and we’d forget our hunger and our anger and our despair. And my mother would laugh. Our suffering would ease, at least for a while.

But this Hell that I and my men have lived for the last two months: it never stopped. It never went away. That pox-hollowed, malformed, gods-rotted shite-kettle has sailed after us for two months. It never left our sight.

The wind was perfect, the seas and skies calm but for an occasional summer squall that refreshed like a good Irish rain, and kindly topped our water barrels for us. The wind never failed, never changed direction; it blew from the northeast as if it were going home after a battle, and we sailed before it as though the gods called us on.

Surely the devil was giving chase.

That first dawn was the worst. We saw the galleon turn away and give up the chase as night fell on the day of the battle; as darkness overtook us, we were sure the brig would fall off, as well. ‘Twas a hard night, filled with the stink of powder and smoke and the pall of blood, as Surgeon Vaughn wielded the knives and the saws and the hot irons of his trade. Three men succumbed to their wounds that night, and the rest of us felt every inch of our hurts as the fever of battle drew down and left us cold and empty as the grave. I found that I had taken a splinter to the shoulder-blade, but had not known it in the madness of battle; ’twas a simple wound, sewn up ably by young Lynch, who wields a fine needle. ‘Twas the first time I had bled on the decks of the Grace, as we have never been boarded, but the stains of my blood were not the only ones on her planks that day. Those who could, slept, but most sat awake, mending sail or splicing line, hoping that busy hands could stop the screams of Vaughn’s surgery from reaching our ears. It did not work.

And then morning dawned, and our spirits lifted even as the darkness did. There is no more beautiful sight than the sun rising on a new day that you never expected to see.

I bear witness to this: there is no uglier sight than the sails of your enemy seen in that same dawn’s rosy glow.

That whore’s bastard did not fall off with darkness, and he hadn’t given up in the night. He had followed us, without burning a single lamp, never changing his course. We had slowed some, sure that we were alone; I was glad now that I had not given the order to reef the sails so we could tend to our wounded men and ship. The gods’ mercy had stayed my command, and so we sailed through the night, and lived.

He was close enough to fire, had he bow chasers, but he did not; instead he had a figurehead that could be made out clearly in the bright dawn light, without a glass. And that statue put more fear into us than any cannon would have. No cry went up when the sun’s rays revealed that ship, a mere three hundred yards away; we all saw it about the same time, the only signal needed a pointed finger and a growing silence that called out louder than any bosun’s roar. And as we all looked out on it, our eyes, sad and reddened with smoke and exhaustion, all drew to the figurehead: it was the shape of a beautiful woman, bare-breasted, with her hands raised over her head; on her face was a look of anguish, and across her sides and hips were the marks of a whip, red stripes painted and carved into the wood, where her skin was cruelly torn.

We knew of that figurehead, as every Irish rover did. A few whispered to those whose eyesight was too blurred with age or injury or lack of sleep: “‘Tis the Lash! The Devil’s Lash!”

Even among the English, there is but one captain cruel enough to adorn his very ship with the marks of his favorite device. The man christened with not one, but two of the Devil’s own names: Captain Nicholas Hobbes.

I ask you, how can that be? Did his mother – if he had one, if he was not spawned from a blood pool under a headsman’s block – did she never hear the boys down the lane damning each other to Old Hob for a bloody nose or a splash into a puddle? Did no carriage driver threaten the wrath of Splitfoot Nick on a slug-paced oxcart blocking the road? Did she not think of the man her son would become if she added Nick to the nigh-curst surname she already had fitted out for the bawling babe? Why not just call him Lucifer’s Spawn Hobbes and call it a day? If you’re bound and determined to do aught you shouldn’t, then be sure you do it with a whole heart and not a half-measure, as my mother taught me. Mayhap Fucking Bastard Hobbes would suit the man better, at that.

Any road, it was he: Captain Nicholas Hobbes of the Sea-Cat. Better known as the Devil’s Lash, when not in polite company – nor in society impolite enough to curse him as he deserves. He is perhaps the most feared and most reviled privateer captain who sails under English colors; certainly he is the most feared and hated on this ship of mine. His tenacity is legendary – and not exaggerated, I assure you – and matched only by his cruelty. It is said that every man aboard was pressed into service by Hobbes himself, and his equally heinous mates Stuart and Sinclair – one the first mate and one the bosun, but the two so alike and both such brutes that no one knows which is which, nor who is who. Sailor’s lore is sure only that those two savages are the only ones who would willingly sail on that ship, even when this profession of ours includes the foulest, basest dregs of humanity as can be dredged from under the tables in the stinking hells and poxy brothels in the most benighted ports on this green and glowing Earth.

Well. The sun rose, the ship was spotted and named for what she was, the vessel of Hellspawn. The order was given to lower all sails once more and crowd the canvas, and we pulled away from the Sea-Cat. But we did not lose Hobbes. He never fell below the horizon, and no fortunate fog bank arose; of course there was no land to hide us from his sight, or even to make landfall and disperse, leaving our ship but saving our lives. There was nothing but ocean ahead, and the Sea-Cat and her whipped lady behind, all that day.

And the next day. And the next.

When I was nine years old, I spent two weeks with my uncle Seamus while my mother traveled to Dublin to bear witness between a family of our clan, the O’Learys of Knocknagroagh, and the Englishmen who had despoiled their land and robbed them of their meager possessions. Not a day passed after her departure before I got it into my head that I could, and should, use our bull, King Henry (My mother named all our animals after Englishmen. She found them to be fitting appellations.) as my steed as I reenacted the exploits of Finn MacCool. Suffice it to say that King Henry, while he seemed at first amenable to taking on the role, eventually objected strenuously to my direction. He broke the fence of his paddock, shattered the chicken coop, trampled half a dozen of our chickens and my mother’s favorite cat, Guinevere. He also broke my leg, which was certainly the least important bit of destruction, as he also broke his own, and Uncle Seamus was finally forced to kill the sad beast. As I was lamed and, at first, unconscious, Uncle Seamus could not thrash me properly for the deed when his blood was still high; and so he determined a course that would cause me far more torment: he declared that my punishment would wait until my mother returned home and learned of what I had done.

Those two weeks, which stretched almost to three as my mother was delayed in Dublin, had been the longest of my life. Trapped indoors by my broken leg, denied any pastime apart from meditation on my crime and my impending doom, by the end I had concocted such torments that I nearly swooned with terror when my mother came into the room, having been informed by Seamus that I had somewhat to tell her. Perhaps she knew that I would have done myself more misery than she could inflict, and so she did not have me go out to the yard and eat the mouldering remains of King Henry’s dungheap, nor did she coat me in chicken offal and set her three remaining cats on me, two of the gentler thoughts I had crafted in her absence.

No: she took me to meet my father.

But that is a tale for another day; I lack the strength to set my pen to the deeds of a second English bastard. All I will say is that those three weeks of waiting, imagining what my mother would do to me but always hoping for some miraculous reprieve, were the worst agony I had known. Until Nicholas Hobbes chased my ship across the breadth of the Atlantic Ocean.

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