Posts Tagged With: Verizon-stone

Log #62: Gratitude and Gifts

The Next Day

Last night my sleep held more rest than I have had for weeks – ever since I first woke in the hospital, severed from my ship. Methinks my sleep will not be entirely peaceful until I regain her, but this past eventide, by the kind agency of the Rosenblums of the Volare, at the least I did sleep aboard a ship. Cradled in salt-scented air, rocked by the night’s gentle waves as soft as moonbeams; aye, ’twas a sumptuous repose. MacManus and I slept athwart the benches on the Volare’s deck, while Kelly snored thunderously in the cabin below – and my pity was with my thanks, on the heads (and the ears) of the Rosenblums, and I know not which is upmost for those kind folk, who cared for my bosun and then slept rocked by his breath. Like a stag in heat, that man blows. Lynch had the right of it: rather than share a cabin with the drums and pipes of Kelly’s slumber, he accepted a bench like mine aboard the Emperor Grable.

Aye – the Grables. A most puzzling clan. I have come to know George Grable and his son; Chester has a flair for the shifting of face and form, of voice and manner, that befits a smuggler or an actor – aye, or a Brother of the Coast. But he hath it not from his father, whose face is as clear as glass whene’er there be somewhat shadowed behind it.

He attempted to make the first contact with the rightful owner of the Verizon-stones; it was agreed that he and I, once I had learned the manner of it by observation of him, would assay the telephone contacts, while Chester, a dab hand with the magic windows, would navigate those waters. But his father George so stammered and quavered through his first parley that we were forced to change our course: he would push buttons and activate the spirits within the stones, and then hand them to me or to Lynch, and we would speak to them what answered the call.

The manner of it was simple enough. These cell-phones could signal the allies and compatriots of their owners; George had a means of reaching first to those closest, the which he called “speed-dial.” Then I would address this person and inquire if the person whose cell-phone I was calling from was in truth connected to the personage to whom I spake, and if said erstwhile ‘phone-owner was currently bereft of this very property. If so, I begged, might I have an introduction to the aggrieved party, that I might return their rightful property? Often the man or woman to whom I spoke would beg time to contact the owner, the which I granted gladly; then would I hand the cell-phone back to Master Grable. The greater part inquired as to how I came into possession of this object; had it not been plundered? To this I replied succinctly: “The men who stole it attempted to rob myself and my companions, as well. We did not permit them. This cell-phone and several others were recovered therefrom, and we seek to ameliorate what harm these dogs inflicted on innocents – innocents such as your friend. Will you help?” ‘Twas most efficacious.

This friend would signal the owner of the Verizon-stone, or grant us a number-set by which we might hail him ourselves, and these owners were most oft overjoyed to hear of our intent, and eager to meet with us in order to receive their property.

This was yestere’en, after I last kept this log. Now this day, which now settles with the sun into the west, to sleep through the night with us all, we made our way through the streets and villages of this mighty city of New York, dispensing cell-phones – and aye, collecting the rewards proffered in exchange: for Master Grable hath not a silver tongue – but he doth have a nose for the gold, as my brethren would say were he one of our number, and joyously would they speak it, too.

Young Chester, who had managed to “unlock” some, though not all, of the magic windows he called lap-tops, used one of the same to plot our course, with the aid of something he called Goo-Gull – most strange. He laid all of our ports of call into a single map, and then called out headings to his father, who manned the wheel.

What did he steer, might one ask? The great white-painted beast-wagon which had been stabled ashore beside the pier, the keys to which Master Grable produced, most fortuitously, as we were steeling ourselves to front Brother Bob and regain our wagon and team for the day’s work. When he produced them and offered the use of the beast-wagon, I thought he acted somewhat abashed; but produce keys he did, and offer to steer, he did, while young Chester sat beside him, magic window alight on the boy’s lap, calling out directions and chattering excitedly the while. The boy is enraptured by this pirate’s tale in which he finds himself.

The general manner of our encounters with the owners of Verizon-stones was thus: we would arrive at a destination chosen by young Chester’s magic Goo-Gull – betimes ‘twould be a house, and recognizable; at times a tall tower, the which the Grables referred to as “apartments,” though as I understood it, these mighty keeps were the homes of many and many, and all sleeping right atop and beside each other, as at an inn on a crowded crossroads; such a situation does not put people “apart,” and thus I took to calling them Togetherments – and we would stop the beast-wagon, rummage through the sack of cell-phones for one labeled according to Chester’s reckoning as attached to this domicile, and then he and I would exit. A house we would approach directly; a Togetherment would call for the press of a button. At some smaller Togetherments, only slightly larger than the richest man’s city dwelling in my Ireland, there would be but four or six buttons – which for some daft reason he could not explain to me (any more than he could explain why they were called “buttons” when they clearly hold no clothing together; though at least there is somewhat of a resemblance in this name), young Chester continually referred to as “bells” or “doorbells.” Clearly they were not affixed to any doors, and just as clearly, the sound they made was more akin to the croak of a dying crow, or perhaps a young boar divided from its mother. Sure and there was nothing of bells about those buttons. And little of buttons.

Any road, the Togetherment buttons would summon a voice, inquiring as to our business. It struck me as passing rude that these people cannot even be bothered to open a door and greet a guest, invite him to share at least a modicum of one’s hospitality. In my mind, an open and welcoming home is a place of pride and the receiver as well as the giver of blessings, whether of the Lord – for the Bible teaches hospitality, does it not? – or of Dame Fortune; but here, and now, these people do not even greet a man with a humble blessing or a Well-met, sir; no, ’twas oft only an impatient-sounding “Yes?”

If these people do not enjoy each other’s company, why do they live so close? On a ship we live in one another’s pockets from necessity; but here, I passed through hundreds of miles of land that was all but empty. Why do these people not live there, with some peace and quiet away from the people they seemingly loathe? Why do they choose a life that does not bring them joy?

Could it be that they do not choose? Is this land so tyrannical, these people so lacking in natural liberty, that they cannot, any of them, choose the manner in which they live? Or could they be so ignorant they do not know that better exists?

Perhaps it is but my ignorance at hand, here, and I should not sit in judgment.

‘Tis hard, though, when they be so clearly wrong.

Aye: stay the course, man.

The “bell” would “ring,” and the somewhat irate “Yes?” issue forth. I spoke first, controlling my temper and my desire to correct their want of manners, and identified myself as sire of Chester; I would inform them that my erstwhile son would like to return something of theirs. Then Chester would interrupt – by the third iteration, we had our timing set, and we wove around each other as do shipmates singing chanteys as they weigh anchor and set sails – and call out, “We have your phone!” He pitched his voice high, so as to seem young; he opened his eyes wider, too, to improve the deception. I would then repeat the lad’s words, and beg entry, which was granted nigh invariably. When so, we would climb some flights of stairs, or stand in a strange doored box called an “elevator” for some moments. (I do not comprehend these “elevators.” I press a button, a door opens; I stand within, press another button, the door closes. There is some sense of motion, not unlike standing on a deck when a wave rocks the ship, but nothing like riding up and down swells in a clean wind, and nothing like the living motion of a horse; nor yet the jarring of a wagon crossing over ruts. Ah! Now it comes to me that it is akin to riding in a beast-wagon: perhaps these elevators are similar. Some displacement must occur, for when the doors open anew, the vista without is changed, generally from one corridor to a somewhat darker corridor. Bah. Americalish magic. Though I would wager that I would be more unsettled by this had I not been transported across 300 years by my Druid mother and an enchanted ship.) Then we would arrive at another door, on which I was to rap with my knuckles; the door would open, and the wide-eyed youth with me would thrust forward a Verizon-stone, the words “Is this yours?” bursting forth from between his teeth, though he knew full well that it was, having aided in bringing this prey to ground.

In the general, we met with success. I would act the part of a proud Da; I confess I ruffled the boy’s hair a time or two, in pursuit of my role. We would make much – more than was deserved – of the boy’s cleverness and honorable intent in seeking out the true owners of the cell-phone; if the recipient pursued it, I would make some shadowed reference to the manner by which I came to possess it: somewhat in the drift of, I and my several cousins and siblings (the elder Grable had intimated that, myself being tangibly, audibly Irish, this would not be glanced at askew; this made me question my people’s reputation in this time, but it proved correct) had tripped to the deceit with these would-be charitable fellows collecting for victims of The Bitch Irene; there had followed something of a donnybrook, ending in the recovery of loot. Et voila. Those who were charmed by the lad gave dollar-papers to him in reward; those who smiled at the thought of a sound pummeling chastisement of the mongrels what had pillaged them handed the money to me. All but one Verizon-stone was returned fitly; for that one, the owner shrugged and told young Chester, “Keep it. I bought a newer one.” On our way back down the stairs, Chester proffered the cell-phone in question to me, saying, “Do you want it?” I was fair loath even to lay a finger on it, and responded, “Do you not?” But the boy shook his head, and with a somber mien but a glint in his eye said, “There were two others that I couldn’t find the owners at all, so I figured they were mine now. Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

I laughed at that, loud and long, and clapped the boy on the shoulder. I have not heard a more apt motto for a rover such as myself. The boy would make a fine pirate. I took the stone from him, giving it in turn to Lynch, who seems both intrigued by the trinket and capable, with Chester’s help, of making it answer to his call.

This day has made me wonder a thing I have not in many a year – aye, not since my Genevra died, and I wed myself to the sea. I wonder thus: how would I stand as a father? Having had none of my own, I do not know the manner of it, though it seems I can counterfeit the part sufficiently to earn gold. But in truth: could I be a Da?

What would my sons be? Would they be true men, or would my corrupted blood out in them, and they take the fashion of Lord Blackwell?

Would my lassies be bonny?

Ha – that would depend on the mother, I trust.

Ah: and on the thought of fathers, one more chance of this day must I record. We did anchor at midday, purchasing sausage-bridies for our supper – the which all the Americalish called “hot dogs,” prompting just a bit of consternation in Kelly, who had to be reassured that these meat-pies were not in fact dog meat, but rather beef ground fine – and I found a moment alone with the elder Grable. I gave him my thanks for piloting the beast-wagon for us, and he did blush at it and look abashed. Said I, “I noticed that you did – hesitate, in producing yon wagon. Did you not?”

Grable sighed, and then nodded. It needed more than one attempt, but at the last, he spoke his confession manfully: “Yea, I was sort of – telling myself it was all right not to mention it to you. It wasn’t really yours, after all, or Ian’s – I mean, he stole it from thieves. And then I told myself that he gave it to me. Or at least, he gave me the van, and the phones, and I thought, if I gave you the phones, then I could – you know – ”

“Keep the wagon,” I finished for him, mortaring in the gap in his speech.

“Yea.” He nodded. He would not meet my eyes.

“Is not the wagon of more value than the phones?”

His shoulders sagged like a sail when the wind dies, and he roughed his hands together as though they had something unclean on them that he would remove by this chafing. He did not speak for a span of breaths; I held my tongue and let his conscience devil him as it would.

Aye: in truth, I thought the wagon were his. I certainly had no claim to it, other than an Englishman’s claim – my man had taken it in battle, and thus it was mine as wergild. ‘Tis much how the English kings held sovereignty o’er the free peoples of Ireland, aye, and of Scotland and Wales and many another place. But I have rights only to what is given to me and what I win by mine own efforts. The Grace of Ireland is mine, for I paid for her with my well-earned gold. When I take another man’s ship, either he gives me what value he hauls, or else I take it in battle. I share equally with my men whose strong backs and arms have allowed me the capture and the victory; they do agree to grant me an extra share for the maintenance of the ship that keeps and sustains us all. ‘Tis all the efforts of each separate man, or else gifts freely given.

Well. Perhaps not freely given. Bah. What do I care of the right of it? This is the way of the world, and I have pulled this thread overlong.

The wagon was Ian’s, who took it in battle. He gave it and the phones to Master Grable, and were it me to whom O’Gallows had given such prizes, I know well they would have stayed mine, come Hell or high water, or Ian himself to reclaim his property. So I thought no less of Grable for his wish to retain the greater prize. But if his conscience wished to give all the plunder to me, well. How can I stand betwixt a man and what he thinks is the right?

“I’ve got a family on that boat,” he said, his hands still wiping at one another, his gaze fixed on the ground at his feet, a thousand miles beyond the horizon. “Four kids. I told them this was a vacation, a big adventure – we’ll sail the ocean blue! All summer! What I didn’t tell them is that we don’t have a home to go back to at the end of summer.” He looked – not to me, but past me, then; I saw that he had the eyes of a father. I have seen them before, in men worn down to the ends of their bones, who have given all they have and then robbed themselves to give more – because behind those eyes are their children, and their children are in need. It is a look beyond mere fatigue, and far beyond worry or fear; it is a deadness, held up by love: it is a look that says this man would gladly lie down and let the Earth cover him – except he has children, and they need food.

Aye. Perhaps it is best I do not have sons.

Grable went on. “I lost my job a year ago. We lost the house in June. This boat and the clothes on our backs are all we have left.”

“I have known men with far less,” I said, gently, but in truth, what need had this man for this maudlin self-sorrow? He had a ship. And she was a fine craft, despite her addlepated name.

He nodded. “I know. But we can’t live on the boat. Not any more. The kids have to be back in school – already should have been. And we can’t stay in this harbor – the harbormaster’s been looking the other way with the fees, because of the storm, but he won’t do that forever. So I’ll have to sell the boat and find us an apartment to rent. But New York rents – they’ll kill us quick. There’s no way I’ll make enough starting out, even if I find a job. I was hoping we could sail somewhere, somewhere else, somewhere cheaper, but I don’t know how to navigate. And if we’d been out in the water when Irene hit, we’d all be dead.” He sighed. “I was hoping that I could sell the van and get some leeway. Or even, I don’t know, keep it – it would help with work.” He shrugged, and then to my surprise he spoke in French. C’est la vie,” he said, and sighed again. I had thought these Americalish had no interest in the tongues and manners of other peoples; those to whom I have spoken have barely heard of Ireland, most of them, and not one in fifty knows that ’tis the mark of Erin on my speech, not the damned King’s English.

Grable went on. “I am glad it’s going to help you guys, though. And Ian, and Llewellyn and everyone.” He met my gaze, at last. “You’re stand up guys. All of you. I’m glad Chester got to know you.”

So ’twas then that I cursed his name, spat in his eye, robbed him blind, and took his wife to be my molly and his children to swab my deck. Aye – sounds like, does it not? How, after that speech, could I do other than I did then?

“Ye can keep the wagon, man,” I said, and clapped him on the shoulder when his jaw dropped agape. “I and mine have no use for the vile-smelling thing. Consider it your wages, you and the lad, for the fine service ye’ve done us this day, and yester.” I reached into my shirt to withdraw a respectable wad of dollar-papers. Grable swallowed twice, his eyes shining, and then thanked me, quietly and manfully.

Aye – I did wonder if ’twas a machination: had he tugged at my heartstrings – already tuned and ready by the mere fact of my Irish blood – hoping for my pity and subsequent largesse? He knew that none of us could handle the infernal thing. I thought back over his words – and an idea came to me then.

“I’ll offer ye a bargain,” says I. Grable tore his eyes away from the beast-wagon, his mind from the calculations and aspirations I had no doubt were whirling within his brain-case. But I had seen that his gaze rested as much on his son, laughing with Lynch and Kelly over a flock of gray-and-white birds that sought bits of Kelly’s luncheon, as they did on his new prize, and I have no doubt as well that those calculations and aspirations were of the father’s sort, not the trickster’s.

When he turned to me now, I cast out my line. “Ye know that we have places we must go, and tasks before us. But the gods willing, we will win the day – and then we shall be as free as birds, and ready to repay good service rendered us.” I paused, and after a moment, Grable urged me on, having sighted my bait. Now for the hook.

“If ye are willing to pilot this wagon for us southwards to Charleston, not only can ye take yon carriage with ye – but after we have taken back what is ours, I and my men will come back here and sail your ship wheresoe’er ye wish it.”

His eyes widened – but his mouth pursed.

A tug on the line was required.

“And if ye’ll teach one of us the manner of managing these wagons – we’ll take it in turn to show ye the way to steer by stars and sextant, and lay your own course. The world’s seas will all be yours – and the beast-wagon, too.”

The corners of his mouth turned up, and I knew I had my man. This was a man in love with the sea; ’twas but his family that held him ashore. But it spoke well of him that he stayed dry for them, and despite his yearning for the wind and the waves. All I offered him was his heart’s wish; how could he say nay?

He had but two more questions – could his boy Chester come along? and Would we pay for fuel for the beast? I answered both in the affirmative, and thus was our bargain struck.

And now, ’tis night, and the moon shines down on me on the deck of the Volare, its light the means by which I keep this log. We have 430 dollar-papers, and we have transportation to Charleston. We have a cell-phone of our own, and soon we will be able to steer a beast-wagon for ourselves.

I pray our course remains so straight and true.

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Categories: Book II, Captain's Log | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Log #61: Debts and Assets

Log

I made it but a handful of steps nearer to the Volare when I was hailed anew, once more by name.

“Captain Kane?”

On this occasion, the call came from the second sailing ship on this pier, the Emperor Grable. A man was just stepping down from its gangplank, one arm raised and his hand cautiously a-wave as he peered at me, his head thrust slightly forward in the way of one who seeks notice but fears rebuke.

“Should I ever enter the trades, I should not need to hang a shingle; everyone knows my name already!” I muttered mannerlessly through my frown. I was still discomposed by the dispute with Brother Bob. Aye, well: more by the thought that that unfrocked pedant might be in the right, and the fates of all of my men and my ship all hang from the web of my lies, my crimes, my failures. But I gave myself a vigorous shake, as a sail snapping full of wind after coming about, and I cast aside these doubts and aspersions. It matters not who is to blame: it matters what is to be done. And whatever is required to see my men and my ship safe, I will do it.

I faced the man as he approached and bowed to him so he would not take umbrage at my initial discourtesy. “Aye, good sir. Captain Damnation Kane am I, of the Grace of Ireland, may she be blessed wheresoever she be.”

He nodded and looked more at ease, his head drawing back over his shoulders, and he thrust out a hand, the which I took with all respect due to a fellow ship’s captain, and all the warmth I felt for another salty dog o’ the sea. “Everett Grable,” he said. “That’s my lady there – the Emperor Grable.”

I nodded. “Aye, she is a lovely craft, indeed. Are you her namesake, sir?”

He smiled and waved a hand. “No – that was my father. I’m afraid he was a little – full of himself. But he taught me to sail on her, and it didn’t seem right to change the name after he died.”

I shook my head vigorously at that. “No, indeed! ‘Tis the worst sort of luck to change a ship’s name. It confuses her, you see, and she’ll not hearken to you at all, after.”

Captain Grable frowned, but then shrugged. Aye – just let him try it, and he’d see. Changing a name, taking away an identity built by miles and years, by storms and suns, by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, merely for the pleasure or convenience of another – ’tis not only confusing, but ’tis a terrible insult. When I write my bosun’s name in this log, I fashion it Kelly, but ’tis only because the writing of Ceallachan Ó Duibhdabhoireann gives one the wrist-cramp. When I address the man, I say Ceallachan. Aye, now that I consider it, mayhap this business of names lies close to my own heart: I served under a captain that refused to use my given name for the cursedness of it, and refused to use my family name for I was a raw hand, and a youth of barely nineteen summers; he addressed me – when he did so at all – as Nathaniel. And whene’er he did so, it ground my teeth together, and I wanted to shout: my mother gave me my name, to remind me of my father – of my enemies, and my vengeance so long deferred. I will wear it, and proudly, until I bring mine enemies to that very same state. And who are you to change it? To take away my revenge, my pride? Damn you, then, sir. I curse you with my name.

Aye. I know the worth and weight of a given name.

Though to tell true, I did think that Captain Grable had already somewhat of troublousness with the name of his ship; why anyone would lump a lovely and graceful lass like that with a masculine name like “Emperor” was a mystification to me. For a ship, any ship, is a woman, plain as the dawning sun at sea: they are beautiful, and they are graceful (Except when they are not – and sure there are a few tubs waddling about the seas what will make a man wince and turn away, grateful she isn’t his to come home to. But even those, to the men that love them, have beauty enough. My thrust is that no man is beautiful, and no man is graceful. Women are. Ships are.) and they will not listen to their captains for one instant unless you bring them gifts and coddle them and then ask politely for what you wish. The Empress Grable – now that, ’tis a name for a ship.

There are men in this world who believe that ships – and women – may be captained, and controlled, with anger and with brute strength – with a blow, rather than a kiss. Too often, such men are allowed to live, and to wield that heavy hand so oft as they wish. Such a man is my father. Such a man is Nicholas Hobbes. And he has my Grace. I shudder to think of what he will do to her.

But I take some solace in this: ships know who they are. They know their captains, too. I had no doubt that my Grace would sail but reluctantly, peevishly, shrewish in the extreme, for the thieves and liars that had taken her from me – and who, if Kelly was right, had planted the figurehead of another ship on her bow. Ha! She would be most deeply outraged at that insult, I was sure.

Howsoever, ’twas my duty, now, to rescue her from her captors. I needed to confer with my men, and determine our next steps, and so I took the liberty of inviting Captain Grable aboard the Volare, to continue our conversation there, if he had aught to add – and he did, for he accepted, and we made our way aboard and belowdecks.

Once there, I called all to order and put it to them: how would we find the Grace? I first asked for a list of our assets and advantages, which I began myself: it seemed, from Kelly’s account, that Hobbes and his Shadowman/Houndman had need of me; but they did not know where I was. They did not know that Kelly had survived and brought to me news of their actions, and of their apparent destination, this Bermuda Triangle. Thus, we had both time and surprise on our side – time as they could not carry out their plans until they found me, and surprise because we would find them first.

Then Captain Grable contributed to our conversation and to our list of assets: he went above and hailed his son, Chester; when the boy had dashed over from the Emperor Grable, he and his father made us a kind gift: they returned the swag which my men had given to them, the which comprised a large cloth sack filled with Verizon Stones and magic windows, these items so precious to the Americalish people. At first, I was adrift without words, and I fear my initial protestations of gratitude were somewhat lacking in sincerity; in truth, following my tribulations aboard the dragon-train, I wished for nothing but the destruction of all Verizon-Stones, all magic windows, every cursed one. But spying my ill-mannered hesitancy, Captain Grable explained: these objects would be of greatest value to their original owners, the which, if we could discover them, would be likely to show their gratitude for the return of their infernal mechanicals in the form of currency. For that, I had no hesitancy. I expressed my confusion as to how we would find the owners; were the items branded, or sealed, perhaps? Or was there a central authority with a list of identifying marks for magic windows? The Grables, per and fils, eyed me askance, and then offered an explanation that I could not fathom at all. Somewhat to do with charging and then checking contacts and calling to inquire if any items had been lost. Though I could not comprehend, they seemed most sure of the efficacy of this proposed solution, and I bowed to their greater knowledge.

I was silenced, then, by Mistress Rosenblum, for that kind lady rose, went to a small shelf, and withdrew from a drawer a pistola and a quantity of dollar-papers, which she attempted to press on me, saying that my men had given them to her, and she wished to return them. I did endeavor to refuse – for how could she return to me that which had never been mine to claim? And how could I accept this kindness from her without returning already that which she gave me in hospitality, and succor of my men? – but her insistence was most – insistent. Thus, I thanked her as effusively as I could, and accepted.

And there ended our advantages. Our defects and weaknesses began: we had no ship and no crew, and no way to follow the Grace to her destination, nor means of regaining control of her should we find means to arrive there. We had no real concept of what Hobbes and the Shadowman intended with her, though we let ourselves roam in speculation: perhaps they meant to carry on where Shluxer and O’Flaherty had been prevented, and sail these shores, this time, as a pirate craft; with the Sea-Cat gone, such a turn would bring their thoughts naturally to my Grace, the stealing of which would also serve to avenge Hobbes’s own loss at my hand. But for the sake of vengeance, I saw the matter more likely following this course: the object of that vengeance was myself, and holding the Grace was the surest way to draw me to them.

Talking of this leeched the peace from me, and I rose and paced, casting about the cabin of the Volare for somewhat to soothe me; but nothing could. All I could think was: they have my ship. I cannot follow. I cannot take her back from them. They have my ship. Around my head went these words, as around the cabin went my stride, and in neither case was there progress.

At last, I was forced to leave. I begged forbearance of my hosts and allies, and made my way above and then down the Volare’s gangplank to the pier. I walked to the end and then stood gazing out at the uneasy waters; the tide was at its turn, and the swells wobbled and fell against one another like men far gone in drink, attempting to make their way homeward. I found myself wishing – aye, even praying – that my Grace could somehow stumble her own way home to me.

Then I found myself gazing at the Emperor Grable. She was a doughty craft, thought I. Sturdy. She rode the larger swells with ease, breasting the smaller ones handily. Perhaps I had been wrong, in thinking her too small and too delicate to make way through open seas. If we had good weather – and too, her single mast meant that four able seamen could sail her . . . and but one man and a boy to defend her . . . and they had womenfolk to worry about . . .

“No, Captain,” spake a voice behind me. I started, sure for a moment that mine own conscience had spoken to me, that some angel or spirit was standing by my shoulder, whispering into my ear. I turned on my heel – and there stood Balthazar Lynch, his jaw set, his gaze steady on mine. He shook his head, and said again, “No, sir. She is not for us. That is not our way.”

I parted my lips to deny, to spout outrage that he could think that I would – but ‘struth, I would. I turned away from his gaze. After a breath, I said, “It is the only way. I cannot just let her go.”

I turned back to him – nay, in truth, I rounded on the lad, looming, my fists clenched. I confess that a part of my soul was truly outraged: outraged that this boy, this stripling, would say his captain Nay. “I will not let that soulless damned bastard take my ship,” I growled at him. “And you did hear that man – we must have a ship. We cannot make the journey to this Triangle without we sail there.”

He shook his head, bending not at all, though my greater height forced his chin up to meet my gaze with his bottomless eyes. “That is not all he said,” he hissed.

I threw up my hands. “Aye – he said we could fly,” I said, my voice mocking. I turned and kicked a stone into the air – and then it fell into the sea, and vanished beneath. That for flying, thought I. I said, “That is a ship, there. And I – I am a pirate!”

I felt Lynch’s hand on my shoulder, and somehow, it eased my tautened limbs, slowed my racing heart. “You are a pirate, aye,” he spoke, his words but a whisper. “And you are a good man. You cannot do this and remain such. You cannot lose your goodness and remain Damnation Kane. My – captain. My friend.”

I felt all the strength go out of me. “So what would you have me do? I cannot fly there for the wishing. We have not the gold to buy our passage aboard the air-planes.”

Lynch made a noise that shared both anger and disgust – but it was not a hopeless sound. He knew something, but he did not want to speak of it. Heartened, I turned to him; he had his back to me, but I grabbed his slender shoulders and turned him back to face me: now he would not meet my gaze. “What?” I asked him. “Speak!”

He sighed and looked up at me. “Must I say it, Nate? Must I?”

I tightened my grip. “What, man! Tell me!”

With a sudden movement, he broke free of my grasp, and took two quick steps away. He stopped and glared angrily at me, his color high, his lips parted over clenched teeth. “You can fly. She will take you.

Meredith,” he said, and her name was a curse he spat at me. He turned then and stalked away, even as I cried out at his glad tidings.

For he was right! My lady, my love – she is a pilot. She has her own craft! And though we had not enough for the purchase of an air-plane cabin – we could find the clink for a berth aboard a dragon-train, I knew. With the hundred dollars from the Rosenblums, and the dollars from the magic windows’ return – aye, we’d find a way. We’d make a way.

I know not why Lynch was so reluctant to speak of this. I am glad he did, for he has given me a new hope.

Now: now I will go and see if the lad Chester has charged his Verizon-stones – perhaps they require powder and fuse? Must they be loaded and primed, like muskets? – and we shall see if I may charm my way into recompense generous enough to pay my way.

My way back to Charleston. And my lady fair.

And then, into the skies: to Bermuda, and the fairest lady of them all. My Grace.

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Log 42: Draughts

Log

The Twentieth of August in the Year 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a good day.

 

Log August 22nd

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

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

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

 

August the 23rd

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

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

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

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

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