by Jack Dann
So it is that a man makes his decisions and lives by them, and then ultimately dies by them. Nothing will return my soldiers to any world that I have ever visited, nothing will right the deaths I have caused through my actions, and nothing will truly ease the pains in my heart. I can only tell my story, as I have done in these, my last days, in the hope that someone may one day read it and take something from its pages.
Tomorrow I will, with the aid of my most loyal friends Tagón and Halin, climb the slopes to the Boca D’oro a final time. There I will attach this account I have so painstakingly written to an arrow, and when the smoke clears over the golden lake and the entrada appears, I will aim my crossbow at the vision. And, God willing, if my aim is true, my tale will arc unscathed over the gilded fires as they rain their seering treasures upon its pages and reach the blue skies of New Spain.
This translation was made directly from the original fragments archived in the Museo Nacional de Arqueologia, Antropologia e Historia del Perú in Lima. I can confirm the other studies of the originals which have stated that many of the pages are flecked with droplets of gold.
Translator’s note
AFTERWORD
I’ve often wondered what sort of damage the Spanish conquistadors would have done if they had found their way into a new world beyond the New World. ‘Conquist’ started as a quest for hidden dwarf treasure by a people with a ruthless lust for gold and an unquestioning sense of piety and duty. Somehow the story ended up more than this.
— Dirk Strasser
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THE LAST GREAT HOUSE
OF ISLA TORTUGA
PETER M. BALL
PETER M. BALL grew up on Australia’s Gold Coast, which gave him a chance to see the allure of the unreal in vivid neon colours. He did a creative writing degree with the goal of becoming a poet, but realised he’d much rather be writing speculative fiction. He attended Clarion South in 2007, continues to work on a PhD in Gothic Speculative Fiction, and works as a writing tutor at Griffith University.
Here is a heart-stopping story of coming-of-age, of perversion, enslavement, and the pale and beautiful twice-born dead who can transform you forever…
She enters my name as Tobias Truman. I watch her ink the delicate curve of the capitals, the ostrich-feather quill dancing as she writes. My name is entered below Mr Drummond’s, his below the Captain; two of the three marked with the swooping X that denotes status as paying guest, a true patron of the house rather than tag-along visitor.
The Madam ends with a final flourish that leaves the quill poised above a well of ink. Her needle-sharp eyes study me, peering through the thick veil of her lashes. I fidget beneath her gaze until she smiles and turns towards the Captain with a raised eyebrow.
‘And the boy?’
The Captain spins on his unsteady legs, stares at me through the haze of rum and ruin that accompanies him whenever we put ashore. He considers the question for a few moments, mocking finger to his pursed lips, the barest hint of a smile visible through the tangled mane of his beard.
‘The boy? What do you say, Benjamin? Should we give the boy his first tumble?’
Mr Drummond scowls. He is a bookish man, despite his first-mate’s bluster. Short and straight as a ramrod, still every bit a schoolmaster despite his years at sea. He gives the Captain a short nod, neat and efficient.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘Let the lad sample the wares, if he’s fool enough to agree.’
I am. Fool enough to agree, fool enough to seek this out, fool enough to abandon my London name and London comforts for the Black Swallow and a cabin boy’s berth. Fool enough to risk my secrets, just to see the last of the Old Houses in action.
I’m fool enough, and I tell them so.
‘Please, Captain.’
There is a pause then, an empty lull that I’ve learned to recognise as the first sign of a coming storm. I can feel a thrill of fear run down my back, the hair on my neck standing to attention. The Captain’s smile grows slowly, like the shoals of a hidden reef coming into view too late.
Mr Drummond’s face a grim mask, concealing the clumsy knot of desire and loathing. Taciturn, is Mr Drummond, and a pederast at the best of times. He has sought to take my innocence for the last year, despite the Captain’s orders to the contrary.
The Madam waits patiently, the nib of her pen paused above the ledger. A bead of ink swells on the tip. I may not have the Madam’s experience, but I have always been a quick study. I understand my place in this struggle, my role as a sharp knife used to tease the flesh of Ben Drummond’s throat.
The Mate has thought our struggle beneath the Captain’s notice. Ben Drummond has rarely needed to practise such subtlety; the buggery of cabin boys is common enough, even aboard respectable vessels. Had I set sail on another ship, under the command of any other captain, the question of my first tumble would have been decided long since and its tragic consequences already played out, for better or for worse.
I have been lucky with the Black Swallow, with her crew and her captain. Luckier than I deserve, fool that I am, so far from home in my thirteenth year. I force myself to affect excitement, an eagerness to see what lies beyond the velvet curtains. My stomach churns, a queasy roil worse than the sickness that plagued my first day on open water.
The Captain shifts his gaze between Mr Drummond and me, leering as he fishes coins from their hiding place beneath his shirt.
‘For the boy,’ he says, dropping a tarnished gold disk onto the Madam’s creaking table. The Madam palms the coin, adds a flourishing X beside my name. Mr Drummond’s eyes draw deep into his skull.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘For the boy. May the whores treat him gentle on this special night.’
There is laughter then, laughter from both men; Mr Drummond’s heaving cackle joining with the Captain’s booming roar. A cold chill settles into my gut as the tension between them eases, the same chill I get when the Swallow is becalmed and laying fallow in the water.
There are times when it’s better to weather the storm and see where it takes you, but I have heard the stories about the Old Houses and I know them better than any man aboard the Swallow. I have connived my way here, using Mr Drummond’s hunger as best I can, but I find myself suddenly afraid of what lies beyond.
The Captain claps my shoulder, pushing me towards the tattered velvet curtain. I draw a deep breath and step across the threshold, into the House of Pale Flowers, last of the great, Old Houses of Isla Tortuga, ready to find the twice-born whore who will transform Toby Truman forever.
The Madam leads us along the cobwebbed hall, along the floorboards that have been worn smooth with the rolling gait of a hundred thousand sailors, past the walls lined with the yellowed skulls of the dead. The Captain walks beside her, exaggerating his drunken stumble. Occasionally he reaches out, rubbing the cranium of an old friend, staining his fingers with bitter oil and dust. Mr Drummond walks by my side, a quick march with a stiff back, eyes focused on the door at the far end, gazing down the impossible length of the hallway.
It’s the noise that surprises me as we walk, the raucous roar of a drunken crowd dancing and singing to the quick beat of a rolling shanty. Something about the noise seems strangely inappropriate, given the stories that surround the Old Houses; every tale tells of the silent ladies, unable to utter a single word on pain of death, quiet as the graves they were rescued from, even in the throes of passion. It seems sacrilege to engage in such revels in their presence, an insult to their sacrifices, even if their customers have never put much faith in God or the church.
It was different once, if you believe the stories. They say the Old Houses were sacred places, the home of lost secrets and forbidden loves, everything a pirate needed to warm his waterlogged heart.
‘You’ve picked a good night,’ the Madam says, pausing before the oak door that ends the hallway. ‘There is only a small crowd; if you’ll amuse yourselves in the parlour for a time, our girls will be with you shortly.’
Then
she pushes the door open and the roar of the parlour is doubled; it hits us like a cannon’s retort, impossibly loud and stung with a sudden flash, of heat. The parlour stinks of pipe smoke and hot blood, the broken voices of seafaring men singing along with an off-key piano.
I once heard a crewman call this place the last great house of ill-repute, his voice full of quiet reverence, but I see little to revere in the human flotsam that litters this room. They litter the overstuffed divans and driftwood tables, with grey-fleshed girls limping on twisted legs or serving drinks with an arm that has been broken and poorly set before healing.
A dead girl emerges from the throng, ready to lead us to the table. Her left eye is missing; the flesh around the empty cavity an angry and puckered scar. She holds forward three fingers, then waves her hand to indicate we should follow.
As she turns, I can see the clumsy stitching that has repaired a wound to the back of her skull. It looks deep; like the aftermath of an axe-blow or the crushing weight of an iron belaying pin. The stitches hold the black flesh closed, barely concealing the rot at the seam.
Mr Drummond strides past me, following her as she cuts through the crowd of flesh. I hesitate for a moment, hands on my ears, trying not to breath in the scent of unwashed sailors and death. The weight of the Captain’s arm settles across my shoulders, his thin lips drawing close to my ears.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘They use the broken girls as waitresses; the pretty ones are kept for the back rooms.’
I nod. The Captain offers me a wide grin, his first genuine smile of the evening.
‘Come,’ he says, hot breath tickling my ears. ‘First we’ll drink, then we’ll make merry. You’ll forget that they’re dead soon enough.’
He guides me into the throng with a steady hand. We move carefully through the press of bodies, pausing so the captain can greet old friends he finds among the crowd. Mr Drummond has ordered by the time we reach the table, the waitress depositing three copper mugs filled with the Captain’s favoured concoction of rum and gunpowder.
‘To your health,’ the Captain says. He throws his head back and takes a long draught.
Mr Drummond doesn’t drink at first, simply sits with his back to the wall, eyes darting as he sweeps the crowd for familiar faces. He is a cautious man, hiding his nerves behind a scowl, always searching for those that would do him harm.
The Captain deposits me in a seat by the wall, the seat closest to Ben Drummond and his eyes of cold flint. Deposits me here with a quick wink and a leer of pure joy, a leer that assures me I have little choice in my position. His game continues, until he says otherwise. It’s closer to Mr Drummond than I’ve been in a year, closer than I’d want to be under normal circumstances.
I stoop in my seat, a clammy sense of fear in the pit of my stomach.
Mr Drummond leans his skinny weight onto the scarred driftwood of the tabletop. He steeples his fingers, holding them before his mouth, a lingering gesture from his days as a man of learning.
‘Relax,’ he says, soft enough that the Captain can barely hear. ‘You’ve got nothing to tear from me, not here.’
I nod, once, but it does little to quell the nerves. There have been incidences aplenty aboard the Swallow, despite the Captain’s close watch, too many close calls for me to take Mr Drummond at his word. He makes a rough gurgle in the depths of his throat, a sound that’s almost a sigh, and he turns his cold eyes towards me.
‘Relax, Toby Truman,’ he says. ‘There are darker pleasures in this world than you can offer, and plenty here to satiate even my appetites. The Old Houses are dangerous enough without worrying about me. Save your trembling for something that deserves it.’
There are stories aplenty about Ben Drummond, tales as dark and unfriendly as any you’ve heard over a midsummer campfire. They say he tutored a governor’s child once, before his appetites forced him to take to the sea. They say he’s been banished from ship after ship, cast off for deeds that even a buccaneer crew could not sanction. They say a great deal, these stories I’ve heard, and they imply much that is worse.
But the stories of the Old Houses are darker still, and the stories about the Pale Flower are often darkest of them all, so I choose to believe him, just this once. I let myself relax, let myself lean back into the rickety comfort of my chair and sip my drink while the Captain’s order fills the table with rum and brandy and pipes filled with opium and fine tobacco.
The Captain breathes a white plume into the air, exhaling smoke like a contented dragon as we watch the crowd thin and disappear into the back rooms of the bordello. He has his boot propped on the driftwood table, a wooden cup dangling lazily from his fingers.
I take my time and study the crowd, watching even the bravest sailor flinch when he’s forced to address one of the silent waitresses. They are mangled creatures, the victims of violent deaths, brought back with hurried stitching and missing parts. Mournful, misshapen creatures; women who have been destroyed by their deal with the black spirits that sponsor the Old Houses.
There are few men who are truly comfortable here, though the Old Houses have been pirate dens since the first buccaneer set foot upon the shore. They flinch and they look away, unwilling to deal with the walking dead regardless of their anxious glances towards the curtains and the whores’ boudoirs. They are men who are plagued by fear, drinking and dancing only to escape the inevitable. It isn’t long before I wonder why they’ve come.
Only the Captain seems truly at home. He revels in the promise of debauchery, in the willing violation of the natural order that the Pale Flower represents.
Mr Drummond does not revel, though he hides it well. His face is old leather, stretched across the skull, perfect for hiding the minutia of expression. He drinks cautiously, refusing the Captain’s offer to share a pipe, stays alert to the impending possibilities of the evening. His drinks are pushed to my corner of the table, pushed across with quiet gestures he believes the Captain does not notice.
‘Drink,’ Mr Drummond tells me. ‘It will help with your nerves.’
I drink a little, choking on the angry tang of rum. I keep my eyes on the serving girls, on their horrific wounds and scars, on the heavy curtains that occasionally part and allow one of the throng access to the back rooms and the ladies who dwell there. On the grimace of fear and confusion that flashes across each patron’s face, as though unsure exactly why they’re taking the next step.
‘Captain,’ I say. ‘They look afraid.’
The Captain is drunk now, truly drunk rather than some feigned act. He roars with laughter.
‘Of course they’re afraid,’ the Captain says, his roar cutting through the crowd like a shark’s fin. ‘They don’t know the secret. There is an art to loving an Old House harlot. Don’t you agree, Mr Drummond?’
Mr Drummond gives a short, crowing laugh.
‘He doesn’t believe me,’ the Captain says.
‘It would appear not, Captain.’
The Captain’s lip curls into a sly smile, his eyes shining through the smoke haze.
‘That’s Ben’s choice,’ he says. ‘His to make, despite the danger.’
‘Danger, Captain?’ Mr Drummond says.
‘Danger,’ the Captain says. ‘Though not the type you’d think. True, there is always danger when sleeping with a woman, no matter who she may be. But the ladies of the Old Houses are different, they get beneath your skin. The memory of them gnaws at you during the lonely nights at sea, nibbling away your soul until there’s nothing left. Therein lies the art; learning to love them while the opportunity presents itself, then letting the memory go before it destroys you.’
Mr Drummond scowls, thick brows meeting above his hooked nose.
‘Love, Captain?’ he says. ‘Love is the stuff of poetry and children’s tales, not the base currency of the Old Houses. Where does one find love here, among the dead?’
The Captain smiles, touches a finger to the side of his nose.
‘Love is inescapable, Mr Drummond, even
in the Old Houses. For we are creatures married to the sea, unfit for loving ordinary women. The ladies are dead and reborn, unfit for loving an ordinary man. We are all outcasts in the eyes of god, so we love each other as best we can. It may not be the love of your poems and fairy tales, I’ll grant you that, but what they offer us is true enough for my purposes.’
‘You’re a romantic.’
‘Who isn’t, these days? We all bear the mark of romance, though we hide it like the first signs of plague.’ The Captain peers at us from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘Take note, young Toby, Mr Drummond may doubt me, but he hasn’t yet said that I’m wrong.’
Mr Drummond snorts, taking a long draught from his cup. He places it, empty, on the table.
‘Misguided,’ he says. ‘But not wrong. It was different, once, before the Frenchman and his army of street-whores.’
He stands and inclines his head, calling our attention to the curtain leading into the rear rooms. The Madam is waiting there. I can make out a cluster of girls behind her, pale and regal, resplendent in shimmering gowns and their necklaces of silver and gold. Overdressed for harlots, but the Old Houses have always known that women and wealth go hand in hand when it comes to raising a pirate’s ardour.