A Ship Cursed Part 7

‘Bon,’ he glanced around once more, ‘I must be careful, because what happened to the rest of the crew, c’est horrible.’ He took a draught from his fresh bottle. Then he continued, ‘after the first week of fishing, there was a week or two where we did not catch anything. At the end of this time, the cabin boy, he died.’ He leaned close to me, and whispered, ‘the captain, he was going to bury him at sea, but someone, I think it was the cook, he said “oi, lets eat the bugger.” He was from England. At this, the captain, with some others, argued with the cook and his group.’ He downed half the bottle, and barely able to stay in his chair he pressed on, ‘there was a terrible fight, many on both sides died, but the cook did not. When it was all done, there were more survivors on the cook’s side. The captain was dead. So, the cook won. When we had eaten our fill of the dead, we elected the cook as captain. He selected who would be the next meal. But, I worked in the galley, so I was never picked. At the end, I kill the cook, and the next day, the wind, it started again. But I remember no more.’ Pierre stumbled off, muttering something about le pissoir. I waited patiently, there was only one thing left to ask.

When Pierre returned, I asked, ‘what happened to Sam, the young deckhand?’

‘Ah oui, La Puse, I liked him very much.’ Pierre licked his lips.

A Ship Cursed Part 6

I knew he was reticent for a reason. Tortuga has no law, so what had happened must be something which would cause him to be cast out; a mean feat among those who lived, debauched, and killed on this island. ‘La Joya Del Sol, it was a beautiful ship wasn’t it?’

He gave me a sideways glance and said, ‘Oui. Beautiful, seductive, vite… euuh, she was very fast, but all this hid a coeur noir.’

I leaned closer, ‘a… black heart?’ I guessed, ‘How so?’

‘This ship, she was cursed. We were two weeks into our journey from Tortuga, to raid Barranquilla, when the wind ran out. The food was enough for the trip there. Then after the raid, we would take what food we needed. But we never made it.’ As he said this, he waved the barkeep over and demanded another bottle of wine. ‘After two weeks, the food, it ran out.’

‘But your ship, you said it was becalmed for four months.’

At this, he glanced around nervously, ‘oui, for a week we fished. We caught a few, and ate them, but it was not enough. We were always still hungry.’ He glanced over his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable. Finally I was going to find out what had happened on the ship, and why he had refused to talk to anyone.

‘Personne. You can tell no one. Not a soul.’ he said. He looked at me intently. He had death in his eyes—his own—he was living only because his body demanded him to.

I nodded.

A Ship Cursed Part 5

‘My name is Pierre,’ he said with the slur of a man who’d been down on his luck and at the bottom of bottles for weeks. He was in his mid-twenties, but it was difficult to tell—the stubble, and dark bags under his eyes, and the skin of a seaman made him look old. This man had aged fast in the last few months, faster than a eggs left in the sun.

‘I have a… story, but you’ll not hear it.’ He struggled with the words, and his breath reeking of stale red wine, his teeth dark with it. Slowly, he grinned. His grin was that of one troubled by his past deeds and conflicts.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘I’d really rather not hear a frog speak.’ I motioned to the barkeep for another beer.

He mumbled something, then, ‘I am not a grenouille; because, if I was, I would not have stayed on that maudite ship for four months of hell. I would have swum home, jusqu’à la France.’

I leaned forward, so as to hear him speak. My French is very limited, but I have learned to understand a bit, if I catch it right. I took a long pull on my beer before I said, ‘go on,’ trying to sound encouraging.

‘There was no wind: it stopped, for a whole four months,’

‘Four months?’ I could hardly believe it, it took a conscious effort to stop gawking, ‘but how did you survive?’

‘Non, I will not tell you,’ he said. His hands ran over the rough grain of the bar, until they found his bottle. It was half empty as it went to his lips. When he put it down, there was none left.

A Ship Cursed Part 4

During this time, some of the residents and I searched the vessel, and while there was evidence that there had been fighting on deck, below was very clean. The galley, other than the dishes, was spotless. There were no crumbs anywhere. This didn’t surprise us, because the young man had obviously not eaten in a long time. But what was odd was the total lack of spices: no salt, no pepper, none of the local herbs. All of these had been packed-so the supplier of the ship claimed. So where had they gone? Later, we found the empty bags that had held the salt, pepper, and the other spices. There had not been enough food on board for the crew to have used all the spices. This was most curious.

Since that day, no one has entered the ship, what weapons there were-the cannon, swords, and rifles-had been left to rot. The ship truly was cursed, indeed, everyone who boarded the ship with me that day has gone to sea, never to return.

Pierre claimed he was from Toulon, but his English was bad and my French only extends to telling thieves where to put it. He could have been saying anything. He didn’t much talk about the La Joya Del Sol, and if I’d ask him he’d retort with, “Va te faire foutre!” I haven’t a clue what it meant, but by his tone, and the accompanying gestures, there was little left to the imagination. Apparently, he was put into service by the Spanish as a dishwasher in the galley.

One day, I came home and he was gone. He had stolen several gold coins. I didn’t see him again for several months. I had not yet heard the rest of his story- and that of my son- so I looked for him everyday. This is what he told me, when I finally found him.

A Ship Cursed Part 3

‘Maman.’ He was alive! I ran to his side.

He tried to raise his head, ‘shhh. Quiet, don’t move young man.’

‘Maman.’ Just then I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me. It was the doctor.

‘Henry, what seems to be the matter with… oh, I see,’ the doctor knelt next to me. He looked through his bag, and found a tube of honey which he mixed with water. Slowly, he let the parched man drink. ‘Not too much now.’

After tending to his other wounds the doctor asked if the man could stay with me. I wanted to learn what had happened, to the ship, and to my son, also, I had liked the ship’s elected captain, and wanted to know what had happened to him, besides which I didn’t go out much and had little to do, so I agreed. It would be good to talk to another sailor, once he was able. The doctor gave me instructions on how to care for him, and strict directives not to give him too much food or water: for fear of it bursting his stomach.

The man slept for the next few days, then as the weeks went by he slowly gained strength. ‘How are you doing,’ I said, as I sat down on the chair by the bed.

‘Va te faire foutre,’ he said.

‘Do you speak English?’

‘Euh, oui, a little bit,’ he had a heavy accent.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Pierre.’ He was still weak, and I could see he was getting tired already.

A Ship Cursed Part 2

As it bore down on me I thought of what I owed, and what I was owed. But at the last instant the ship swerved; narrowly avoiding the docks, it careened into the beach, and the hull shattered. Wood splinters flew every which way.

The man was thrown to the deck. I sent my apprentice to fetch the doctor. I ran to the side of the ship, climbed up to and swung over the railing. I landed on the slopped deck and stumbled—I’m not as young as I once was. I saw that there had been fighting on the deck, and hoped the man at the helm was my son, that he had not died in the battle. The hull and masts were, or had been before the beaching, in good condition. There was no sign of any treasure either. This ship had seen a second mutiny. But where was everyone? Where was my son? Even if the man at the helm was the only survivor, he was in no condition to have cleaned the deck of bodies.

‘Sam?’ I called, hoping he was below, or was the man on the bridge, and would answer me. The only sound that answered was the creak of the masts in the wind, and the wiping of sails that billowed, cocked half way to the wind.

My knee was sore; it had been a long time since I had done much of anything and the climb to the deck had been long. It shook as I climbed the stairs to the bridge: remembering the old injury, from my days raiding the Spanish Main. I had settled in Tortuga with the first English colonists, about 15 years ago, on a handsome sum as compensation for my injury. The Spanish had come and gone, fighting all the way. As I topped the stairs, I saw him. He was thinner than I had thought was possible. Most devastatingly though-he was not my son.

A Ship Cursed Part 1

La Joya Del Sol was a three mast monstrosity, the pride of the Queen of Spain for over fifty years, then the unthinkable happened: the crew mutinied. As the harbour master for the only pirate haven in the Caribbean, the sight of a Spanish Galleon sent shivers down my spine, I was sure I would die. It was not until they weighed anchor that I began to suspect that something was different about this ship. Its colours were not those of the Spainish Kingdom, they were bones of white on a black field. But, what I felt was that it was not that the crew was lucky to be free of the yoke of military service, but that the ship was cursed. My son, Sam, was fifteen and had always dreamt of following me to the sea. He joined on with the new pirates as a deckhand. I had taught him all I knew of ship craft, and the crew was glad to have him. They set sail shortly afterwards, my son and 200 others aboard, hunting for treasure.

* * *

When next the La Joya Del Sol sailed into the harbour of Tortuga in front of a dark storm with every sheet of canvas stretched taught before the wind. It was months late, there was no one on deck, except for the lone man at the helm. The ship was moving too fast for the harbour, at least 10 knots; it was going to strike the docks. There was no way of stopping it.

The ship bore down on the docks, which it would smash through and in to my office. Needless to say I was frozen with fear. This was the second time it had hove to in Tortuga’s harbour, and it was, again, looking as though it would end in my death.

Dusk, Part 2

As she continued walking she heard soft footsteps behind her, and as she turned she saw Gregory, a young boy who lived down the street. He was hunched in on himself and looked furtively about as he hurried along. Still looking at his feet while walking, he put his finger to his lips, and as she was about to speak, whispered, "shhh, they remember."

"What," she whispered back, "do they remember."

"Blood." Gregory said, glancing from side to side, nervous.

Francis made to speak, but could not. So he continued, "ancient blood spilled in this valley. Over a thousand years past, and they remember, and come remembering the feast past."

In the silence that followed, even the sound of flapping wings ceased. "Whose blood?"

He raised his head, and with a deep seeded fear in his eyes said, "the blood of gods, sacrificed to themselves by their worshipers. A right of incredible power, giving all who eat of the flesh, immortality."

A single crow cawed, Gregory flinched and mewed as though struck.

Quietly, Francis said, “There are no gods, Gregory. I’m sure they are on their way to their nests.”

“No. They remember because…” The rest of his words were drowned by the screams of tens of thousands of crows, and the sounds of their furiously flapping wings. Gregory turned and ran as murder upon murder of crows descended on him. His screams reached Francis over the near deafening noise, “Because they were there!” As each bird landed, it struck with its beak, and took flight again, dripping gore, red on the pavement.

Dusk, Part 1

A quarter of an hour before dusk, Francis was startled by a crow swooping low over her head as she walked home. It flew to a tree a few hundred meters on, and joined its brethren there. Though there were no leaves--spring not yet having come--the sky behind was totally obscured by wings and feathers, as over a thousand birds competed for space on the branches. Something that Francis could not put her finger on was deeply disturbing about the scene. As she stood and watched the crows jostling for position on the tree, she glance upward at motion in the corner of her field of vision.

The sky was full of crows. There was a word for a group of crows, she struggled to recall what it was. She walked past the first tree and saw that most were filled near to bursting with crows. All of them were so full that the crows were shoulder to shoulder. A solid mass of black, a silent mass of black: not a single bird cawed, crooned, or clicked. Francis shivered. There must have been a hundred thousand crows, and not one made a noise.

"Murder" she muttered, "a murder of crows. But how many crows is that? Surely a single mob of crows flying together would be one murder?" As Francis looked around, she could distinguish tens of groups of crows, each technically their own murder by her rubric. “Tens of murders, then. Unless the collective noun for crows is recursive. Which gives ‘a murder of murders.’” Francis felt a chill down her spine, despite feeling warm in her coat.