I did as I was told.
“Keep them closed.”
Directly, I felt something pouring into my palm. It was cool and weighty and sprinkled onto my bare toes.
“Now open your eyes.”
I did and peered at the dark mound in my palm.
Adamiah chuckled.
I sniffed the mound and found myself surprised. “Earth?”
“Yup.” He gestured to the other crates. “About ten tons of it.”
“But why?”
“It seems there ain’t none on Eden. Just sand. Nothing will grow there except the big milk nuts that grow in the palm trees. The folks there need this soil for making a vegetable garden.”
I considered the heap in my palm. It seemed strangely ironical and fitting – like some slantwise metaphor for life – that a man should have so willingly traded his gold for a box of dirt.
I poured the soil back into the crate and followed Adamiah through the crowded room. He held the lantern and its penumbral glow illuminated the various parts of his gift to be delivered to New Eden.
A bunk of lumber. Tools. Bolts of cotton cloth. Barrels of flour and sugar. Ropes. Copper pots. Window panes. And more of the suchlike and whatnot. Enough to fit out a small civilization, which, I suppose, is exactly what the inhabitants of New Eden hoped their southern outpost would become.
“Here we go,” said Adamiah. He held up his lantern so that it lit the deepest reaches of the room. Twenty half-hogs hung from hooks on the ceiling – salted and smoke-cured. They looked quite eerie there in that makeshift catacomb, swinging in the dark like mummies.
“They don’t have no stock animals neither,” said Adamiah. “The soil’s too poor for pasture so nothing can live on the island but goats and chickens. But they ain’t got no goats. The folks there get real hungry for meat.” He took a pin knife from his pocket, stepped forward, and sawed off a strip of pink flesh from a dead pig’s knee. He handed it to me and then cut a piece for himself.
We stood there facing one another, chomping the pork in the cargo hold. It was a tasty change from the rutabagas, biscuits, and goat milk that had been our daily fare.
“Mmmm,” said Adamiah. “Good.”
As I chewed, I found myself absently reading the label painted on a box over Adamiah’s shoulder. The words formed their meaning in my head where they then engaged with the straining faculties I had been using to come up with an answer to my problem of where to sleep.
Hmmm, I considered.
It was than that I formed what, at first blush, seemed like a clever idea.
*****
My plan was neither brilliant nor original. It was, I convinced myself, merely necessary. It was a timeworn strategy, borrowed and somewhat altered from that used by men throughout the ages to make their lady friends more supple and keen. I needed to make Adamiah pliant to my will.
A simple enough scheme, and outwardly quite benign.
I cleared my throat. “Very good meat,” I wheezed, “but very salty. Makes for a powerful thirst.”
Adamiah nodded in agreement.
(Good, I thought. Good.)
Of a sudden, with my best dramatic skill, I made a look of surprise, as if I had just for the first time noticed the crate perched behind his shoulder. I leaned past him and placed my fingers under the words printed thereon, reading them aloud. “Sister Rachel’s Raspberry Cordial.”
“Oh,” said Adamiah. “She’s someone from back in Ohio. Sent that out as a present to the clergy at the mission.”
“Boy,” I said, and smacked my lips. “Raspberries sure do sound delicious, do they not?”
Adamiah agreed that they did indeed.
I waited a moment for him to take my hint, but when he did not, I charged forth on my own.
“Hey now, perhaps we should have a taste of this Sister Rachel’s donation, you know, as a way to quench our thirst and celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Why, your accomplishment, Adamiah.” I slapped his shoulder. “You have studied hard, and are, to my estimation, as fit to lead a truth-hungry flock as any preacher I have known.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely and for sure. I have no doubt you will do a fine job, greatly impress your father-in-law, and make proud your dear Prudence to boot.”
My compliment caused him to blush.
“I overheard the captain speaking with his first mate. They say we are close to our destination. It seems only fitting that we heighten this evening with a little splash of something special.” I patted the box of cordial. “Who knows? Tomorrow we might be in port and not have the chance.”
“Isn’t it liquor?”
“Oh, no,” I laughed. “It is just raspberry juice. There is not enough alcohol in it to pickle a wart, only just the slightest dash to preserve the integrity of its fruitful goodness.”
Adamiah studied the box and scratched his jaw.
I stood by with a smile.
“Well. It sure does sound good.”
“Just a sip,” I assured him. “To applaud your graduation and wash the salt off our tongues.”
“All right, then. Just a sip.”
THAT FIRST BOTTLE WENT down smoothly; we were both greatly astonished to find it so speedily drained.
“It is deceptive.” I held the decanter to one eye and peered down into its emptiness. “Sister Rachel’s jugs do not hold as much on the inside as their ample size would suggest from the outside.”
Adamiah burped. “Nope.”
I looked at him and frowned. “I am certainly reluctant to over-indulge, but shall we open one more? I feel you have barely wetted your whistle.”
“Well…”
“And I meant to make a toast.”
We had found a pair of china cups in the cargo, and Adamiah considered the one he held in his hand. A wreath of pink roses was painted all around its rim. He put it to his face and worked his tongue into its depths, lapping up the last drops of purple punch. Then he looked at me and grinned. “Maybe just one more.”
I pried the cork from another bottle and reloaded our cups. Then, bracing myself against a crate, I lifted my cup to the sky.
“Here’s to Adamiah Linklater,” I solemnly intoned. “God’s newest shepherd and gospeler. May the Almighty take careful care to guide and protect you as you embark on your evangelistic journey. May He see fit to grant you a favorable ration of His grace. And may you usher many a pagan soul to salvation while vanquishing a fair measure of humanity’s overall evil in the process. You are a good man, Adamiah. Worthy. Intrepid. Humblish. And now, arguably, well learnt. Here is to you.”
We clinked our cups and downed the nectar.
Then we smiled at one another, sucking our tongues while steadying ourselves against the cradle-like rocking of the ship.
A general warmth suffused my being.
Adamiah reached over and filled my cup once more, and then his own. He held his drink aloft. “And here’s to you, Hoper Newfangler. The best friend and teacherer a man could ever hope to find.”
I do not know whether Adamiah’s speech was truly as splendid as I felt it to be, or if it could be blamed on those first few droplets of raspberry seeping into my blood, but something in me was moved to a sentimentality that caught me off my guard. He had called me friend. Best friend, to be precise. No one had ever done that before.
A maudlin tightness seized my chest.
“Well,” I murmured. I took the bottle and topped off our cups, slopping a bit over the side so that it dripped onto the floor. “And let us not forget our soft-curved objective.” I raised my cup. “Here is to lovely Prudence! May she prove a graceful companion, eagerly bend to an upright husbandry, and suckle many a manly fulfillment!”
We drank to her.
We chewed salt pork.
And then one of us opened another bottle.
*****
After a while, I regarded Adamiah sideways, assessing to what degree my innocent companion
was succumbing to the drink’s crafty undercurrent. He appeared to be swaying and was generally blurry to look at. Ah-ha, I chuckled to myself, my plan is working. With each swallow of Rachel’s tasty distillate, he was becoming drunkier and drunkier. The only problem I was having now was that I could not for the life of me remember why I had wanted to get him in such a condition.
Oh well, I thought. Perhaps it will come to me. It could not be so important anyways. And besides, we are having a good time.
“Here’s to Prudence’s smile!” said Adamiah.
“And to the sugared lips which form that smile!”
“And here’s to her voice!”
“And to the slender throat whence that voice is born!”
We continued on like that, with Adamiah praising the finest qualities of his winsome muse, while I elaborated with some likewise reverence for the body part in which that quality was housed.
“And here’s to hers beauty!”
“And to the snowy skin that enfolds that beauty!”
“Here’s to hers goodness!”
“And to the garden gate behind which that goodness blooms!”
On and on like that, and so forth.
At one point, Adamiah became so moved that he could not contain himself and he flung his cup at the wall, shattering it to shards.
He looked at me, wide eyed.
“Uh-oh!”
And then he laughed.
I laughed too, and then hurled my own cup at the wall. It was surprisingly pleasing to do, somewhat soothing a frustration in my person that I had not even known was there.
After that, we forewent cups and each drank straight from our own bottle.
“Say, friend,” I said. “Let me have your locket.”
Adamiah handed me his precious keepsake.
I pulled my sailor shirt over my head, and then, bare of torso, looped the chain around my neck.
Adamiah studied me curiously. He narrowed his gaze and pointed at my heart. “What’s that?”
I looked down awkwardly at the tattoo on my chest. “Oh,” I said. “I try to forget that is there.”
He bent forward. “A teardrop?”
“No. A drop of rain. A sad and unscapable reminder of another life.”
He pressed his fingertip against my skin and traced its outline.
I watched his face as he concentrated. Then I shook my head.
“Give me your shirt and jacket,” I said.
He leaned back and scowled.
“Is for your final lesson.”
He looked unsure but agreed.
We each one donned the other’s shirt.
“Now trousers.”
We swapped out our pants. Then we swayed and studied one another; he wore my sailor garb, and I his white linen suit.
“There,” I said. “You be me for a while, and I be you.”
Adamiah giggled. As he tipped back to quaff his beverage, the momentum overcame him and he fell onto his rear end. A portion of the elixir spilled out. He gathered himself into a kneeling position and strained his neck down to see the purple stain on the front of his – my – shirt.
“Poo!” he said. And then giggled some more before taking another drink.
“Stay there,” I suggested. “And pay attention.” I stepped up onto a squat box, balancing with my arms out so that I was elevated to an imposing position above him. I peered down from on high. “It thinks seems to me, Adamiah, you have not had a show in how to preach. If you are ever to believable you needs see how’s it done.”
He giggled again, but more quietly.
“Watch,” I belched, “and learn.” I took another swigger of Rachel to lubricate my throat muscle.
I swept my arm to the imaginary congregation gathered before me. “Oh, ye wretched souls!” I thundered. “Hear me now as I speak the good God’s words so that ye might shake your wicked habits and find your way to paradise.”
Adamiah twisted round to look at the crates stacked behind him, apparently believing that a real-life church had there materialized, replete with salvation-hungry brethren. Then he turned back and giggled.
“Very verily, I say unto you…” I regarded the bottle in my hand. “Wine… is a mocker! And strong drinks is for fools!”
“Hear, hear!” answered my disciple.
“No, Adamiah.” I held up my finger. “Say Amen.”
“Amen!”
“Or Halloojah.”
“Hoo-yah!”
“Good,” I said. “Good.”
Adamiah lay down on his side and watched me, snuggling his bottle to his chest like it was a well-loved baby-doll.
“The devil is ever-where!” I pointed into the various corners of the room. “He hides in the sea. He hides in blue sky. He tricks us to eat forbid fruit from the garden. Sometimes the fruit is a raspberry. Sometimes a … a… a goaty girl!”
“Amen.”
“We must be careful! And do no sinnin’.”
The room tipped right then, and I fell from my pulpit and tumbled onto the floor next to Adamiah. My empty bottle rolled away and banged against a crate.
“Fall of man,” I laughed.
Adamiah gurgled and snored in reply.
“Whoa,” I muttered, and held my head. “That Rachel kicks like a mule.”
I gazed up, trying to fix my eyes on something stationary, but everything was undulating and moving around. The sides of pork swayed in rhythm with each other, like a choir of mutes. Their macabre shadows danced on the ceiling.
I sighed.
Cloud creaked.
I rolled onto my side and watched Adamiah.
His eyes were closed, and a tranquil smile curved up the corners of his mouth like a cherub’s bow.
“Little friend.”
He looked like a youngster enjoying a happy dream.
A silver strand of drool leaked from his lips and pooled on the plank beneath his cheek.
That is when I remembered –
“Hey, Adamiah,” I said, and tried to snap my fingers. “Would you mind if I sleep on your floor?”
I WAS ROUSED BY a crash of thunder!
A crackle in my brain!
And a godawful screech!
I flicked open my eyes to utter darkness, instantaneously terrified, unable to immediately recall just where I was, or who.
An invisible floor pushed upward beneath my shoulder blades, and then violently dropped away. I tossed against the corner of something hard and felt my ribs snap.
“Ahh!”
I lay there stunned and panicked, trying to decide which one of my nemeses was so maliciously kicking me about.
That’s when I heard the unmistakable clatter of a bottle rolling over wood.
“Oh!” I remembered. “I am in the hold!”
The floor heaved and trembled.
“And Cloud is in distress!”
I squirmed to my feet and squinted into the surrounding gloom.
What was where?
Which was why?
I was significantly dizzied; I could see nothing.
“Adamiah!” I called. “Adamiah!”
But I was answered with naught but scraping and banging and the groan of straining timbers.
I felt my way, hugging my fractured bones, reaching out with a hand and slapping at the crates in the darkness. The boxes formed a confusing maze and I was its blind and bleary captive. The ship pitched and shuddered as the sea beat against its walls. The blackness through which I struggled was viscid as ink.
Everything listed.
Again, and again.
In one instant the floor was pressing into my soles, in the next it was falling away. I fought to keep my balance as Cloud moaned with her own effort of staying right side up.
A surge of water washed around my ankles. I splashed forward, groping.
Some of the crates had busted open and their contents were strewn asunder. I kicked through what felt to be a pile of fish – slippery Bibles.
Then I felt myself
stepping into mud. Even from within my distress, it was a vivid and unambiguous sensation. For the slimmest part of an instant, I recalled playing as a toddler in a rainy garden.
At last, a flash of light leaked in along the edge of a door. A concussion of thunder pounded in my ears. I made for the exit, clutching at its latch, but then stopped short and turned once more to the room.
“Adamiah!” I called into the darkness. “Adamiah – Friend – are you there?”
I waited.
He did not answer.
So I put my shoulder to the door and pushed on through.
*****
A wavering light spilled down through the open hatch. I stumbled toward it, crawling the last stretch on my hands and knees. I clambered two steps up, and then a prodigious gush poured down from above and knocked me onto my back. Seawater dumped through the hatch, hammering me into the floor. Once it subsided, I rolled onto an elbow and puked up a revolting chowder of pork and salt raspberries. My convulsions caused pain to jab all through my side. I wanted nothing more than to just lie there and breathe, but I felt pressured to get myself out of that hold, as it felt like a certain deathtrap.
I scrabbled up the steps.
Above decks was pandemonium.
Cloud was in the travails of a dry cyclone – rainless – full of lightning and high wind. The air smelled wrongful, peculiar, otherworldly – touched with electricality and smoke.
Shards of burning cloth filled the air. Red-hot lengths of rope corkscrewed out over the waves like flaming serpents. The sails were ripping apart with fire, flailing wildly against the black velvet sky. A man dangled from a yardarm, his ankle twisted in a coil. He swung head down, distantly screaming, until the rope burnt through and he plummeted to the raging sea.
The distorted shadows of the crew scrambled about the decks like the disembodied damned. They struggled uselessly with lines and tackle.
I braced against a wall, thinking what to do.
Cloud’s bow lifted and lifted up and up into the roaring wind where it paused, teetered like a toy, and then plunged downward into a trough between the waves. The bowsprit stabbed into the sea. The ship’s forward motion stopped at once, sending me somersaulting down the deck.
Cloud seemed to be standing on her nose.
Fortuna and the Scapegrace Page 14