chapter three

There is one merchant ship in the docks scheduled to return to England. His Majesty’s ship was a sad old thing with sagging sails and termite eaten decks. For a while I watch as the crewmen load bags of rice, tobacco, and dried fish onto the ship. When night begins to fall, I pull the hood of my cloak over my head, imitating the men loading cargo. I pull a bag rice over my shoulder, boarded the ship like a champ, and unceremoniously dumped it onto the decks. Stealthily, I creep below the deck, and find a dark corner in the quarters where nobody would pay much mind to a small boy, or the disguise as one, as they had too many to count.

A success! The ship begins to sway, heaving itself onto the heavy Atlantic waves. For the next few weeks, I hide away during the day, only sneaking out to steal food under the cover of the night. When I was lucky, there would be leftover crumbs left from dinner—some stew or meat—and then for days where I was not, I would run my blade over the bags of rice and chew the raw grains to fill my belly. All in all, I survived like a rodent, leading to several unlikely acquaintances. There was even one I particularly liked, and named Theros, who shared my keenness for the occasional fish.

It is about my fifth week on the ship that I notice something is amiss. For the past week, the ship has been travelling southeast, the winds heavy with foreboding gloom. “Theros,” I hiss for the little gray rat. On many occasions, I’ve found my ability to commune with animals quite useful. I hear the little scurry of his paws, before he peeks his little head through a small hole in the wall. “Yes?” he pips, and nibbles at the edges of the hole.

“Is this ship not destined for England?” For a while, he continues his gnawing, ignoring my inquiry. Until I present to him a crumb of bread I had left over, and he leers at it greedily. “No, no,” he squeaks, then narrows his beady eyes. “Give me, give me.” I quirk an eyebrow, and wave it over his face tauntingly. “And you’ll tell me?” He nods his head repeatedly, then snatches the crumb greedily when I hold it out on my palm.

“The ship is bound for Barcelona.”

“By Zeus!” I curse, and even Theros gives me the stink eye, not appreciative at the prospect of being smitten. But I had no care for possibility of invoking a godly wrath—there were worse things to fear. Instead of the English channel, we were headed towards the ports of Spain, and that meant something even more terrifying—we were travelling straight into the Mediterranean.

-

The monsters that lurked in the Mediterranean depths were creatures that incited terror. When gods created their hideous monster, the harbouring seas were their preferred dumpsite—dare their unsightliness tarnish their divine sight. Our stories are full of them, from half-avian women with fatal songs to six-headed creatures all weaponed with mouths full of fanged teeth.

I had no fighting experience, nor received any prior training—the art of combat was entirely a stranger. With the exception of hunting small prey for sustenance, true to my soul, I have never wielded my blade against any opposition. This troubles me, enfeebles me, as I know inevitably that I will confront trials in my journey that will necessitate fighting for my survival. It frightens me that it could start at sea, and end at sea altogether. And the dagger, slick against my thigh, feels heavy at once.

“Why are you afraid?” Theros asks on our sixth week. We had grown oddly comfortable with each other. In daylight, we expedite our long hours with each other’s presence, obscured away in the nooks of the berth. He gnaws on a grain of corn now, belly-up on my lap. I had begun to suspect that he was no ordinary rat at all.

“Why are you not afraid?” I retort.

“Because,” he says absently. “I’ve made this journey six times. Mostly unscathed. And I’m just a rat.”

“Really?” His words pique my interest. “So you’ve never encountered any monsters at sea?” I ponder this momentarily. It is quite possible the years have put many ancient creatures to rest. In this era of modernity, faith has repositioned to more tangible things, perhaps that absence of faith will safeguard the passage of this ship. Monsters, in the fullness of time, fed more on fear than flesh.

“Well, I’ve met pirates.” He says contemplatively. “They are quite monstrous in their own way.”

-

The last week of our nautical travels—our eighth—we wake drowsily to the a uproarious churn of the ship. Disoriented, I grope the walls, seeking balance as the ship swayed against the discordant swells of the sea. The motion is sickening. I hear the boys, young footsoldiers, in the cabin scamper up from the floors to attention. Amongst the panicked cries and prattling, I catch the unintelligible resounding voice of command. Something is wrong. Then, in a rowdy, inefficient shuffle, the boys pile themselves up the stairs in a unsystematic mess toward the decks.

“What’s happening,” I groan, still bleary from sleep. Theros races along the walls, squealing with distress. It unsettles me, a biting anxiety swims low in my stomach. Something is very wrong.

“Theros, what it is?” I hiss. “Tell me what is wrong.”

Above us, the ceiling shakes, provoking dust. I hear the wrathful thunder of footsteps racing across the ship.

He stops for a moment, his gleaming eyes finding mine in the dark room. I observe the expression on his face, haunted by echoes. One I recognize it quickly.

“Pirates, you said?”

Men with a greed for riches. Mortal men. Fallible men. I knew the ship harboured weapons of new technology, fed with gunpowder. Seen its destruction to mortal flesh.

We will survive this.

I sigh when Theros tries to climb up my leg, roused by the racket. His paws tickle my shin.

"Calm down, we'll endure this quietly." I murmur. I pick him up by the scruff and nudge him on my shoulder. He peeks his head from under my hair through the opening of the cloak, settled for now.

My eyes scour the dark quarters, lit only by the flicker of an affixed lamp and the moon's light that lanced through sparse wooden boards of the ceiling. Bunks where the boys slept lined the whole of the room, where mould climbed through the damped wood and would creep between their toes as they dreamt. It was endlessly wet with sea. I was so sick of the smell and the humidity that clung to my skin. But it would be safe here for now, empty, and certainly absent of treasure, not even loose pennies. The boys made sure of that. Their socks lined with copper.

I climb into the lower bunk of a bed where the light did not reach, curling into myself. For a long while, we listen intently to the activity above. We could hear the boys dragging the oars, their rhythmic breaths of exertion, turning the boat away. Then the sound of ropes unwinding. Finally, "cut the lights!" someone would scream. And then it became very dark at once as every light on the ship was extinguished, save the one below deck.

The silence stretches over minutes, and then it would several more.

"Do you think they were simply passing?" Theros asks quietly.

"I don't know."

"Do you think we're safe now?"

"I don't kno-"

Just as the word passes through my mouth, something large rams into the side of the ship. A scream escapes. Was it me or the rat? It tilts the floor into wall, wood splintering. And rows and rows of beds begin to fall into each other like dominoes come undone. I feel my body slide over the mattress, and think, déjà vu. Gritting my teeth, I hold onto the bedsheets until my knuckles turn blue and my nails pierce through the fabric. My arms cry, muscles straining to carry my weight. The ship is tipping to its side, forced by another, I watch as a trickle of sea trickles through the break in the walls—still holding, but perhaps not long. No, no, no, no...

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Above us, men curse their gods. Several bodies are thrown overboard, their screams dying as they did. Silently, I mourn them. Heart in my throat.

Oddly, the pushing against the ship rescinds, allowing the ship to right itself. I share a brief, collective sigh of relief as I find the ground again in parallel with the sky. I would hear several other men die horrible deaths as everything rearranges itself. May his god rest his soul, I whisper for the orthodox men.

Something is on fire. I catch the familiar scent immediately. The Achilles heel of a vessel crafted of lumber. Smoke would swathe the entrance of the cabin soon.

Change of plans, I decide.

“We cannot stay down here.” I say, beginning to crawl over the beds. There is no worse feeling than entrapment, which the fire would ensure. Then we would die. It is how the stories go.

Theros fumes. “This is no time for jokes.”

“I am not joking.”

I find my footing on the swaying ground, then frown as seawater feeds into a growing pool around my feet. Quickly, I pull a (repulsively sticky) bedsheet from the mattress and cram it into the fissure in the wall. A temporary fix, but not the most pressing issue at hand.

“You can’t fight!” Theros squawks in my ear.

I clamber up the stairwell. Through the opening, I hear the beginnings of a battle. The sound of swords unsheathing, and men screaming, the sound of bloodlust. For a second, I pause, doubt laces my thoughts. The flesh around my teeth grow numb. The only veil of peace held by a flimsy wooden latch.

An illusion only, I remind myself.

“I thought that you would fight in my stead.”

“And I thought that you weren’t making jokes!”

I push open the latch. And reality dawns quicker than a candle flame doused out by the wind. The voices are coherent now. Voices become faces of young buys with blood on their face and wild eyes. Some carry swords that shake in their arms and others, wooden bats, and torn pipes. The world is red-tinted from the wrath of a fire started at the side of the boat, where a lamp had shattered and kerosene dripped. Several boys are trying to smother it with blankets, their skin blistering already. My body stiffens at the sight.

A cavort of billowing red silk ensnares my attention. The pirates, they adorn a symbolic headscarf around their hair. Seven, no, eight of them. They wear loose, crudely cut culottes, ragged shirts. Some sport thick coats that glittered in the light—gilded they were. Wealthy pirates.

Eight men against thirty, though most of them adolescent and some dead. The odds are in our favour. I like that. I pull my dagger from beneath my trousers. If I scoot along the rim of the ship, evading the battles where there were four boys on top one pirate, I could realistically reach the back of the boat discrete, where several crates of supplies that were stacked had come apart. It would make a decent hiding space, and it was only a quarter the length of the ship to reach it.

I push myself through the opening in the floor, kicking the latch door close behind me. But just as I take my first step, I am whisked away. I feel Theros convulse on my shoulder.

A calloused hand had snagged the collar of my cloak, seizing me in my path. “Quién coño eres tú?” The man barks. I look up at a terse, dirty face, further defiled by long wiry unkempt whiskers that sprout from his cheeks. A man of the ship crew. “I said: who the fuck are you?” he urges irately. I feel a blossom of annoyance at his unbecoming timing, and point silently at the raging horde of men behind him. Are you serious?

Begrudgingly, he pushes me away to re-join his mates, roaring something incoherent. But I feel little relief. Tense, I duck past bodies to the find the side of the ship against my palm. I begin walking stealthily towards my destination. My hands are damp, slippery against wood and metal. I shift my dagger absently, trying to focus, not to breathe nor walk too heavy. I become a shadow, a distant mirage in the peripheries of a battle, dissociating from the bloodshed.

I am a traveller of one great purpose, until of course, several heavy bodies plow into mine. My spine arches backwards, my body nearly teetering off the edge of the ship. Theros screams.

It is only, the weight of the fallen boys pressing my legs, that preserves my sense of stability. With great force, I haul my body forward, spine aching. The hood of my cloak had fallen back, revealing my hair. I pull it back up quickly, but it seems, the enemy before me has caught a glimpse of it.

The pirate is a tall thing. Dirty and unwashed like most sea men, but oddly his skin is pale, like the face of the moon, and unmarred. It is a strange thing. Like he has not seen the sun for many moons. His eyes are foul, an amber like tawdry whiskey, bleeding into jaundiced sclera. There is something unnatural about his appearance I cannot place. But urgency overtakes me when he holds out his long curved knife.

“A slave girl!” He delights with glee.

I find the weight on my feet unconscious. Nudging them off, I hold my dagger before me. Do not touch me, I say with my eyes, although my hands tremor and I know he sees it all.

“A stupid one it seems.” Stupid, I am tired of the word. I swing my dagger. It is as if he did not expect it. It splits his shirt, drawing a thin umbra line across his chest. A colour tinged darker than red. I almost stare, but I have angered a jolly beast. He lurches at me.

The edges of his blade is serrated, teeth of an animal, it almost catches me in the arm if I had not turned to instincts and ducked away. I almost trip over the body of the boy, but find more space around me where the border of the boat did not trap me. Turning to the pirate once again, I feel a tingling current charge through me.

When he swipes at me again, I careen away clumsily. I realize he is the cat and I am its plaything, he is baiting me, taunting me with his fat paw. His smile tells me all. They look almost sharp in the low light—feral. I wonder if the lights are playing tricks.

He cuts me in a new blow, this time, nicking the thigh, then again in the arm. Non-fatal strikes. He will not kill me, I think, but keep. But a fear shudders through me, and I huddle into the shadows, afraid he will find my ichor, which is gold like the seams of his coat, and find a new treasure. But he does not seem to notice, and I would not the pain. I am too focused, and because I realize, that I will not be able to beat him.

When he barrels himself into me, I am not prepared. His body propels into mine, and I fall. Harshly, into the floor, bruising my back. He suffocates me with his weight, his body compressing my lungs. Air is scarce all of a sudden, scarcer when he pressed the length of his forearm into my throat. I see stars.

“Theros,” I gasp weakly. “Th-theros.”

I feel my shoulder loosen. The pirate glowers at me with his yellow eyes. “Wh-” His words become of a bellow of pain. And then I find air again. Regaining sight, I see the large gray rat against the juncture of his neck, biting hard. Distracted, the pirate had reared back, lifting his chest.

It is now, I think. I raise the arm with my dagger, come loose of his grasp, and in a quick movement, draw the edge across his throat. For a second, I watch his eyes widen with his wound, which gapes like a toothy smile across his pallid skin. And then a thick waterfall of blood pours from the laceration in one ceaseless surge, almost black in colour, saturating my clothes. It is hot, and flecks of iron find my tongue.

His body falls. Is he dead? I do not find out. Time does not permit. I push and push and push until my body finds freedom. Then I crawl away and leap from his body. It does not follow mine. Theros perches on his back, nose twitching. Quicky, I cradle him to my body, giving thanks.

I do not run away as I should have, instead, I cannot look away from the pool of blood that gathers beneath the pirate’s body. Until, I have to, because a shattering explosion sounds across the boat, shaking me from my skin.

Near me, a man cocks his pistol. It is the man that had grabbed me. A relief buds within me almost instantly. The men have found the firearms. A pirate’s body a few meters away falls backwards, his shirt in tatters and a circle of shrapnel in his chest.

The fighting stops. It has become a battle between guns and knives.

The pirates begin to edge away. Boys limp toward the men with guns, and I amongst them. We hide behind their protection, and we follow as they herd the pirates backwards.

Slowly, the pirates release their knives, its clattering on the floors the only noise onboard. They raise their arms, a sign of defeat. Their eyes feral, transfixed, as the men reloaded their guns.

One of the boys whispers. “It is over, they are retreating.”

“Retreat?” Theros says darkly into my ear. “No, they should blast them all overboard.”

No, but they do not retreat.

Instead, cornered at the head of the ship, they begin to unwind their head scarves. But the men do not shoot. Why? I find their eyes enchanted, their arms becoming slack. I survey the men and the boys alike, fallen under a curious spell.

The pirates. Their eyes are a little different. Perhaps it is the moon in a different position. They are tawny and incandescent. Their ugliness, glamoured away. Seemingly almost…beautiful in an unearthly way.

Silk unravels beneath thin lithe fingers, falling away into the sea in a capricious dance. At first, they appear to have long knotted dark hair that tumble down their backs, like cirri of sea weeds come loose from their scalps. But then, one thick tendril at a time…they rise, arching against the sea wind like the yawn of a blooming flower.

A deathly halo come alive.

In the moonlight, they appear to glitter, like tiny opalescent shells—no, scales.

And then, when it’s all too late, a hundred pairs of beacon eyes begin to glow in the dark.