Caribbean Sea
image [https://barefootyachts.com/beta/wp-content/uploads/Frigate-Island-e1397247699885.jpg]
Grenada was close. Marie LeFleur could see the island drawing closer.
Not that she’d be particularly welcome there, but she’d be more welcome than she’d been in Port of Spain. As in, no one would try to arrest her the instant she was recognized.
She adjusted the sail on her catboat, trying to coax a tiny bit more speed out of it. Focusing on the sail let her not think about… other things.
Such as the ship chasing her.
Marie had lived on the water nearly her whole adult life. She knew the waves and the wind. A map of the Caribbean was engraved on her soul. She’d chosen the life of a pirate as the lesser of two evils when she was eighteen, and had never regretted it. Not really. Even at the worst of times, she’d always known how to claw her way back to freedom. That was a luxury many of her sisters had never had.
And she’d survived. Marie had outlived most of her enemies, sometimes by killing them herself. Now, at fifty-six, she was honestly surprised she was still alive.
Yes, her crew had forcibly retired her, leaving her with only a lifeboat, her weapons, and an incredibly bad reputation. But she was alive.
A boom behind Marie made her look around. The ship following her was closer than she’d thought it would be. Its two forecannons were aimed at her, smoke coming out of one.
A cannonball splashed into the water on her left. She knew the one after next would hit.
Another boom, and Marie decided to stop running. She’d lived long enough, and a quick death at sea was better than being caught upon reaching Grenada.
She knelt in the bottom of her catboat, bowing her head. She crossed herself, closing her eyes as another boom sounded behind her.
Marie repeated words she'd learned so long ago. “I commend my soul to whatever god will take me.”
The cannonball hit. She yelled as the side of the boat exploded, sending shards of wood everywhere. A long sliver hit her back, slicing open the skin over her ribs. Marie hissed through clenched teeth, annoyed that her jacket was probably ruined.
And then she laughed. She dug her nails into her knees, laughing.
She was about to die, she wanted to die, and she was still annoyed about getting a hole in her jacket.
Another cannonball hit the boat, and it began to sink.
Marie laughed harder, tears falling onto her trousers.
Suddenly her body tingled, and she was covered in blue light. She looked up, still laughing, ready to meet whichever of the gods was real.
Instead she saw a white ceiling with bars of even whiter light going across it. Marie glanced around, finding herself in a windowless room, the stark whiteness putting her on edge.
Frowning, she slowly stood. There was something about this that felt profoundly wrong.
A voice came from nowhere. “Please sit down.”
Marie pulled the pistol off her belt. The powder was wet, but they didn’t know that. “Show yourself,” she ordered.
A faint lilac mist began to fill the room.
“For your comfort, please sit down,” the voice said.
Marie stood tall, sneering. “Show yourself or I’ll destroy this pretty room.”
“You would only succeed in harming yourself,” the voice said. “Please sit down.”
Marie took a step back, switching pistol for cutlass. As she breathed, she noticed the air tasted funny. It tasted like blood and lavender, which only put her more on edge.
“Please sit down.”
“I’ll sit when I die,” she said, her vision going fuzzy. It must have been blood loss.
It didn’t feel like blood loss, though. As her knees buckled she decided it felt more like poison.
Her cutlass hit the ground with a clatter as she passed out.
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Texas desert, USA
image [https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50568809742_0a36d3b667_c.jpg]Peter Lopez walked. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the dreams in his head. They’d even taken his horse.
But that was all right. He could start over. He’d done it before. All he needed was to survive this journey, and he’d be doing just fine come August.
So he walked. He put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, as cacti and desert brush slowly passed by.
Thankfully it was still March. He’d be dead by now for sure if it’d been July. Sure, it was a bit chilly, but good leather boots and a thick Mexican poncho kept him warm.
As he walked, he grew thirsty. He knew enough about plants and wildlife to not go hungry, but no amount of cactus bits would make up for a complete lack of water.
Finally, after two days of solitary walking, Peter collapsed. He lay there for a few seconds, panting, then painfully sat up. He wasn’t going to die like that. That would be… sad.
He crawled to a joshua tree and leaned back against it. Licking parched lips, he pulled his cowboy hat down over his face. Crossing his legs in front of him, Peter laced trembling fingers under his poncho.
There.
Peter smiled, closing his eyes as his heart hammered. This was a good end. And end to be proud of. Just falling asleep against a tree. He’d known many men who would have traded their deaths for his in an instant. He’d killed men who would have traded their deaths for his.
He felt his body tingle, like when a limb went numb. Blue light filtered through his eyelids as the sounds of the desert faded away. Not how he’d imagined death feeling, but who was he to judge? Amazingly enough, he’d never been this close to death before. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and it let him know something was happening. Very convenient.
Suddenly the tree was gone, and he fell flat. His skull hit solid ground; hard enough for him to see stars but not enough for him to pass out.
“Ay!” he complained, flinching. “…The hell?”
“Apologies,” an odd voice said. “Please remain still.”
Peter lifted the hat off his face. He stared up at a white ceiling with bars of light going across it. Odder than that, the air smelled metallic and flowery. He wanted to sit up and look around, but was too tired. Too close to death.
But he wasn’t dead yet.
An insect or something bit him on the arm as he let his hat fall back over his eyes.
He couldn’t let his last words be a curse. His mama would be very disappointed. More importantly, the saint he was named after would be disappointed. And he wanted to make a good impression at the Pearly Gates; Lord knew he’d done enough to not be let in.
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Peter swallowed hard as his thoughts grew hazy. “Santa Maria… Colita de rana…”
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London, England
image [https://www.tenement.org/wp-content/uploads/london.jpg]
Sophie Cadbury, second daughter to the Duke of Cadbury, had not been invited to the Countess of Danescourt’s ball.
This had been on purpose. Countess Danescourt was open in her dislike of Sophie, mostly because Sophie was prettier than Eliza Danescourt, and had received five offers of marriage to Eliza’s measly one. The fact that the one offer had come from Sylvester, Sophie’s older brother, hadn’t helped. Countess Danescourt firmly believed the Cadbury family was, as a whole, out to make a mockery of her.
This was untrue. Sylvester honestly imagined himself in love with a girl he’d met twice at parties and once in the park. Their mother hoped a wife would convince Sylvester to stop gambling, and was willing to dote on Eliza more than Countess Danescourt did. Their father, who hated London and never went near the place, barely knew the Danescourt family existed. The same could be said of Sophie’s other siblings.
Sophie, though, was willing to mock her. And by “mock”, she meant “steal from”.
She walked behind the big house to where drivers and other servants had gathered. The men were having a party of their own, drinking cheap beer and enjoying music that came from inside the house. A few looked her way as she approached, smiling politely.
“Can we help you, miss?” an older man asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m going to climb through that window and rob the lady’s apartment. Would you mind terribly not alerting the police?”
Dead silence.
And then the entire group erupted with laughter.
“We won’t alert nobody, but if someone passes by and sees you we ain’t standing up for you, neither,” the older man said, once he got his breath back.
“Hold on, hold on,” a younger man with a thin moustache said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, miss, but I ain’t breaking the law cuz you asked nicely.”
“I’ve heard the lady has an enormous earring collection, made of every gem imaginable,” Sophie said. “I’m mostly interested in necklaces myself; perhaps one earring for each of you? I’m sorry, how many men are there here?”
A teenager climbed halfway up a gutter and counted twenty-four men.
“Oh, I’ve seen Countess Danescourt wear twelve pairs of earrings in a week, all with diamonds,” Sophie told them. “Would everyone here be happy with one earring each in exchange for pretending I don’t exist for the next hour?”
The group decided this was fair, and Sophie gave them a small curtsey before walking to the wall.
The Duchess’ window was on the second floor. Sophie pulled a meat hook and rope out of her purse, judging the distance. Focusing, she swung the hook around a few times, letting it gain speed before she let the rope fly. To her relief, the hook landed perfectly first time. She turned to her audience.
“Terribly sorry, but would you all mind not watching?” she called. “Rather defeats the purpose of no one telling the police I’m breaking in if someone passes by and sees you all staring at me.”
The men agreed this was logical, and went back to drinking.
Taking a deep breath, Sophie unbuttoned the belt and hoop of her dark green skirt and stepped out, leaving her in a pair of navy blue trousers. By itself, in the dark, the skirt resembled a bush. Leaving it there, Sophie grabbed the rope and scaled the wall.
She was through the window in half a minute.
The room was dark, not a candle or lamp to be had. This was expected. Sophie closed her eyes and counted to ten. When her eyes opened, they’d adjusted to the darkness.
Smiling as the sounds of a waltz came from below, she walked to the ornate dressing table and opened an enormous jewelry box.
Thousands of pounds in gems glittered back at her. Without checking if they were real or not, Sophie put twelve pairs of earrings into a pocket and everything else into her purse. Looking around, she spotted a closet door.
No lady in her right mind kept all her jewelry together. Most of it, yes. But the extremely expensive things, the items inherited from great-grandmothers which were worn when meeting the Queen, the sets that would be seriously missed… Those were kept elsewhere. Usually hidden in boxes at the back of a closet, between old shawls and out-of-fashion dresses that might be remade someday.
Sophie lit a match as she opened the closet door, looking up at hatboxes and down at bandboxes. Using a single finger, she lifted each of the hatboxes. One felt distinctly heavier than the others.
Pulling it down, she slid the top off and looked in at a pretty straw bonnet. Lifting the bonnet, she found a lace shawl. Under the shawl…
Diamonds. Dozens of them, set in gold, with flawless rubies to accent them.
Whistling softly, a habit her mother abhorred, she reverently pulled the jewelry set out of the box and slid everything into a secret pocket. Setting the lace and hat back in the box, she slid the top back on and put it in its place just as the waltz ended. Indistinct chatter grew louder as Sophie walked to the window.
Climbing back out was always where she had the most trouble. She was frowning at the meat hook when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Panicking, Sophie grabbed the windowsill and swung herself over. As the door opened, she quickly took the rope and dropped out of sight.
With a crack the wood of the window frame broke, setting the hook free. Sophie yelped as she dropped, clutching the useless rope. She closed her eyes, knowing it would hurt when she hit the ground.
A strange blue glow surrounded her, and instead of sharp pain she felt pins and needles in every muscle. Suddenly both things ended, and she landed softly on a smooth floor.
Sophie opened one eye, then the other, then scrambled to her feet. She was in a perfectly square room, all sides made of some kind of smooth white… something. It almost felt like glass, but sounded more like wood when she knocked on a wall. Two long round bars on the ceiling emitted bright light. There were odd creases in the walls, one of which she suspected made a door.
A voice came from the ceiling. “Please sit down.” The voice was male, with an American accent, but it sounded like someone talking through a trumpet.
Sophie looked at the bag of stolen jewelry in her hand and shrugged. She knocked on the door. “Hello? Might I ask where I am?”
A pause, then the voice spoke again. “Please sit down for your comfort.”
Looking up, she saw a faint mist was now coming from the ceiling around the lights. It reached her, and the smell reminded her of cheap French potpourri.
“I’m sorry, but there aren’t any chairs,” Sophie said.
“Please sit on the floor for your comfort,” the voice told her.
“...Very well,” she said, settling on the floor.
Having nothing better to do, she pulled a bracelet out of her pocket and clasped it around her wrist.
She was still admiring it when she fell asleep.
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Satsuma Domain, Japan
image [https://travelpast50.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/sakurajima-volcano-kagoshima-japan.jpg]Miyamoto Razan, proud samurai of the daimyo Shimazu Narioki, hated sweet potatoes. What had begun as a mild dislike for the root as a child was now a deep-seated loathing of them.
Why didn’t he like them? He did not know. No one knew. They had many uses, and could be cooked in a number of good recipes.
But after being paid with them, instead of rice like a normal samurai, for two and a half years, Razan was done. He couldn’t take it any more.
And so he began a journey up Sakurajima volcano with his weekly payment of sweet potatoes on his back.
He hoped this journey would awaken something in him spiritually. Perhaps he would meet some strange being that would only let him live if he handed over the sweet potatoes, and this would make him realize they had value. Or he’d get to the summit and be struck with an overwhelming hunger. In his starving state, sweet potatoes would taste good for the first time in his life.
Then again, if not, he’d throw the cursed things into the volcano and feel satisfaction at seeing them completely and utterly destroyed.
It took him a day and a quarter to reach the summit. He spent that time meditating; reflecting on the beauty of nature at first, and all the life choices that had brought him here at the end. Few of those choices were truly regrettable. He realized the problem was not that he was being paid in sweet potatoes, but that he personally did not like to eat them. Or smell them. Or even look at them.
He resolved to better himself, and accept sweet potatoes as a part of his life.
…After throwing this box into the volcano.
Razan looked down at glowing red magma, smelling sulfur. It was closer than he’d imagined it would be, and much hotter.
With a grunt, he lifted the box of sweet potatoes onto his shoulder and tossed it in.
There wasn’t a splash when the box hit, like something touching water. It acted more like when something was pressed down into uncooked rice. The individual potatoes burst into flames and quickly died, while the wooden box sank as it turned to charcoal.
A plume of smoke rose to Razan, making him dizzy when he smelled it. The air smelled vile, noxious, and faintly of sweet potato.
He stumbled back, covering his face with a sleeve as he coughed. Whatever lived in the volcano apparently didn’t like sweet potatoes, either.
The ground jolted, sending him forwards again. His arms flailed as he reached for something, but there was nothing to grab. Off-balance and dizzy from the fumes, Razan fell off the edge.
He closed his eyes, knowing at least his death would be quick.
The red glow became blue, and his body tingled from fear. He landed. To his surprise, he didn’t land on molten rock, but on a smooth white surface. Ivory? Pure jade? Either way, extremely expensive.
He’d been saved. By some unknown being, for an unknown purpose.
“Please sit.” The words came from nowhere and everywhere; surely it belonged to a divine being.
Razan moved onto his knees and bowed, pressing his forehead against the smooth white surface. He would hold himself like this until the being gave him more instructions. Summoning years of training, he didn’t even look around. If he saw something, it might be disrespectful.
He had to admit, the air here smelled much better than the air in the volcano. It was much cooler, too; the floral scent calmed and refreshed him. He closed his eyes as he waited.
Within seconds he was asleep.