Time Torn

by Ilse V Rensburg

  “She’s alive!” He cries before voicing the same fact towards me. “You’re alive!” He stares up at the Captain, delighted. “We should inform the crew, sir. Should I sir?”

  I release my knees, my body dropping back into the position it had been in before the bouncing man entered the room. He is a freakish, fast-talking little bugger, but I can’t help but take an immediate liking to him. He is jovial and wild with that strange accent I’d heard before- the one stating I was still alive.

  “Aye Gus.” The Captain nods, and then, as an afterthought he adds, “But try to do so with less... zeal.”

  I watch as he dances from the room on oddly nimble feet.

  A sinking feeling clutches at my heart. I had grown up in a city with bloated crime rates. I’d lived life cautiously up until a few days ago, and all that time I'd had a small inkling of fear trapped at the bottom of my belly.

  Why? Because there is not a single soul alive in Johannesburg who could go through life without becoming part of another crime statistic. It isn’t an estimate or an educated guess but a fact, and right now that fear is pulsing towards my heart because I don't trust strangers, even if they have just saved me from the brink of death.

  The Captain grunts, placing an aged and tarnished pipe between his lips. He pulls an antique chair out from where it has been neatly tucked into a desk that faces a round window with grimy glass panes.

  “If I knew where I was, I’d tell ye lass, but I, like ye, landed here,” he says removing the pipe from his mouth and taking a seat.

  “Landed?” My voice is scratchy, and in my confusion, it comes out high and stretched before I am met with a coughing fit.

  Stuffing tobacco into the pipe the man nods.

  “Where did you land from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Faronade, but we can discuss that later, lass. How are ye feelin’?” He pronounces his ‘r’s’ like ‘arrrs’.

  Faronade sounds completely made up, but then, I’d never really paid attention in Geography maybe it was a small town somewhere that nobody had paid much attention to? With a cringe, I manoeuvre myself into a normal sitting position with my feet on the floor and my arms on my lap. My feet are bare and my skin is smooth and unblemished. It is almost as if the skin I look at now isn’t what I’d had before the bomb.

  Raising my hand, I trail one of my fingers down the length of my arm. It is soft, a little dry and absolutely faultless. It doesn’t escape me that the few splatters of light brown freckles that used to cascade up and down my arms have vanished.

  Discovering this I focus on my nails. At the time of the bomb, I had been wearing blue nail polish. Nail polish that I'd gnawed at with my teeth to the point where all that had been left were stubby chewed leftovers of my nails and traces of blue.

  The fear plummets down to its usual place in my belly and is soon replaced by astonishment. I am looking at the nails I have always dreamed of having. Long, thick and glossy.

  This can’t be my body? I had to have died and been placed inside someone else’s or... Or I am dead and all of my weak mortal imperfections have vanished. I want to get up and inspect the rest of my body but I hold back.

  There is no way I am going to do anything but sit calm and poised in front of this weird man who dresses up like a pirate. So instead I place my hands back down on my lap, noticing that my jeans are torn and faded to such a degree that the colour is gone - they are literally white.

  I don’t want to even know what state my shirt is in, but from the breeze coming through the wood slats that make up the walls of the room, I can tell that it too is ruined.

  “I feel... different. I feel tired and a little sore and somehow, like I’ve changed completely from the person I was before.” It feels like a century has passed since the explosion. For all, I know it could have. I cough, cringing at the burning it causes in my throat, and then I whisper, “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  With a shake of his head, The Captain removes the pipe from his lips.

  Robotically he pinches a clump of mixed brown tobacco out of a circular tin with a lid that has been used so often it has taken on an ombre copper sheen. Stuffing the pipe with the mixture that smells of damp wood chips he says, “I can imagine why ye would think so lass, but nah, as close ta death as ye were, Gus and I got there in time ta make sure ye stayed alive.”

  The smell of the tobacco tickles my nose. I sneeze loudly as the feeling of ice water runs down my spine.

  “Why? What is it that you want from me?”

  As if alive, the walls creak and sway around the two of us. The movement has my stomach doing backflips. I blink, glancing down at the table before us.

  The Captain has taken a break from filling his pipe, it now rests on the desk beside the shabby tin.

  I flick my eyes from him, feeling self-conscious. My gaze lingers on the multiplying folds of his forehead before I turn my chin to the side and study a particular grain on a scuffed mahogany floorboard. It, like the others in the room, appears to have lost its shine years before.

  “Do folk leave each other to die around these parts?” He asks.

  I shrug. My mind rifling through all the questions I feel I need to ask this man. In the end, I pick three. “Who are you? What was that stuff you gave me? And what do you mean that I was close to death?”

  Sitting back in the antique chair he places his discoloured pipe between his lips, his frown relaxing. Tilting his head, he twists behind him to light the pipe with the sputtering flame of a half-burned out candle I hadn’t noticed before. I now realize it’s the reason the room has a Victorian-esque ambience of flickering yellow light. I'm impressed by how dreadfully close to burning his curly and voluminous beard he gets, especially when a breeze sails through the open window extending the flames.

  I breathe in expecting to smell the bitter fumes of singed hair, but the room still smells of stale smoke and brine. He returns to face me, the candle still burning. I wonder why he keeps it close to the window when it is so easy to blow out. His eyes follow mine and he grins.

  “It can’t go out,” he says, his hand waving across the blinking flame. “It will burn for another thousand days before it burns out.”

  I inch forward on my seat, peering at the candle. “How?”

  The Captain shrugs. “It’s a form of base magic, ye can get them anywhere.”

  “Base magic?”

  Grunting he rubs his chin. “Now Lass, why should I answer all yer questions when ye can’t even thank a man for saving yer life?”

  Immediately I feel the heat of my infamous blush rise to the apples of my cheeks. “I'm sorry. I am thankful. I just don’t know if I believe it or not. Magical candles and a pirate, if that’s what you are? A few moments ago, I was on the verge of being blown apart by an atom bomb. I shouldn’t be alive.” My tone is soft and low as I reply.

  The Captain coughs in mid-draw of his pipe resulting in an expulsion of thick smog-like smoke that reeks of sweaty socks.

  “Fair enough lass.” He rasps, pulling the pipe from his mouth and coughing into the side of his fist. “What’s an atom bomb?”

  Pausing, I lick the top of my lip. My eyes widen at the unexpected feeling of full lips. This cannot be my body! Quickly I suck in my lower lip. I probably look insane but I have never experienced this before. My lips have always seemed more like a tyre that has lost air and no matter how much Zambuck I smother them with, they are left just as dry as soon as the layer of green goop is gone.

  Feeling considerably dazed I lock eyes with the Captain. What is it he had asked? It takes a few seconds before the thought returns to me. “A nuclear warhead, like a bomb... You know? Just that, well, it’s nuclear.”

  His pipe taps against his teeth as he places it back in his mouth. Moving forward, his elbows on his knees he replies, “I know about bombs lass, but I ain’t sure what ye mean by atom bombs.”

  I frown. “How can you not know what an atomic bomb is?”


  His next words exhale with a puff of smoke. “In case it ain’t obvious, lass, I’m not from these parts.”

  I groan. I'm sluggish and slow and I don't enjoy it. Of course, he isn’t from around here. No man had dressed in scuffed leather boots, tight breeches and a billowy shirt since Victorian times, unless of course, they were going horse riding in which case the billowy shirt was reserved for the cover of a romance novel. Or, as I had thought before, he was part of a cosplay.

  “So where are you from?”

  The pirate’s eyes crinkle as he smirks, the pipe balancing precariously at the edge of his mouth. “Faronade, Lass.”

  “Yes, but where is that? Somewhere in Europe? North America?”

  He shakes his head. “Faronade is an island off the coast of Lenanal.”

  I frown at him, lost.

  “Erthe?”

  “This is Earth and I’ve never heard of either of those places in my life.”

  “How about I tell ye how I came ta be in these parts instead, lass?”

  I'm not sure if he's asking permission to tell me or if he is just stating his next move, but whatever the reasoning I respond with a nod, shuffling on the chaise longue eager to finally get the answers to all my questions.

  Plus, I have a feeling that this man doesn't follow the fast-paced lifestyle that I'm used to so I should try and get comfortable for the long tale ahead of me.

  He begins almost immediately. “It was a storm. We were nearing the Illustrious Isles and preparing to make port when it hit in a terrible temper. We were caught in the eye of it. It was like no other storm I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen many, lass. Tempests like that are controlled by the sirens, but this one... This one must have been under the spell of a vicious deity - Clouds as black as the wings of crows, the sky dark as velvet slipping through the fingers of a sorceress.”

  Pausing to inhale from his pipe he continues. The smoke billowing from his nostrils like an oriental dragon.

  “Aye, after that we were surrounded by a wall of ocean five times the size of ma ship! And as it fell ta grasp hungrily at us, we were caged inside a bright sphere of light before it all vanished, as if it had never come ta pass. Ma crew and I spotted land ahead and I gave the order ta make port, but the land was not the Illustrious Iles. I fear we have been transported by strange magic ta a new land. And this is where we found ye.”

  Dazed and enraptured by his storytelling it takes me a minute to register that he has stopped talking. Blinking, the dim light of the room makes it worse especially with the unstable glimmer of the candlelight. I stare intently at him.

  Maybe the bombs affected him with amnesia and now he thinks he's an actual pirate? Otherwise, I'm definitely the one with the concussion.

  Finished with his pipe, he places it so that it rests on its side next to the yellow wax candle. Seemingly unperturbed by my lack of response he continues his anecdote.

  “Of course, when I discovered that we were in a new land I told my crew to stay on board and Gus and I ventured out to survey what we were up against. Gus was tha one that found ye and I saw ye fall from afar. It was hard ta miss the way ye crashed down and that crater ye left in the ground! Ye skin was charred. I was sure ye were a goner, but Gus insisted that we should try ta save ye. Luckily, I have in my possession a potion tha’ can save a soul from the brink of death and so I used it on ye.”

  I swallow as bile rises in my throat and then swallow a second time in an attempt to keep it down. Had he just said my skin was charred?

  A gagging noise erupts from me. I can’t listen to the remainder of his words. I am nauseous and dizzy with horror. I lean my head into my clammy hands, my elbows resting on my knees. The barbequed smell when I came to - it had been the smell of my own flesh.

  The Captains ageing chair groans as his weight is removed from it. “Lass? Ye should lie down. That was the first time I’ve used that potion so I’m not sure of its side effects. Best ye rest for a few hours.”

  Without looking up I know he is making his way towards me. His empty chair’s stubbly legs rock from his abrupt departure before growing silent as all four find support and touch the ground. I pull one of my hands from my face and wave my palm at him. The remaining hand growing wet with slow and silent tears.

  What I say next comes out muffled, “I never imagined the afterlife to be this bizarre. I guess I need to take what I get though. Pirates and all, because you’re a pirate, right? And pirates like you don’t exist anymore. So, the only explanation for this-”

  I lift my face from my wet palm and beckon at my opposite arm.

  “Is that fucking bomb burnt me alive.” I return my face to my cupped hands and sniffle. “I know that I was on the verge of death when you found me and since I’m not in a hospital, and my skin looks like this, and I feel way better than I have ever felt before there cannot be another explanation.” Whimpering, I choke on my next words. “I mean, I could smell my own roasted flesh! If I am alive, I don’t think I can ever eat meat again!”

  I lift my face and drop my hands so that they tangle tightly together in my lap.

  The Captain is seated back in his dining room chair, its back and base covered in indigo and gold brocade. His brown eyes wrinkle at the corners as he lets out a deep throaty laugh, offending me instantly.

  “Lass, I can assure ye that yer as alive as the gulls outside. Ye fell from the sky, ye left a crater in yer wake, but I can tell ye this lass, as absurd as ye think all this is, I have witnessed much worse since I found myself here.”

  Still obstinately taken aback I decide that the best thing for me to do is humour him. It’s not like I am making much progress getting the answers I want anyway. “What do you mean?” I ask, feigning interest as I wipe the tears from my eyes, after all, I’m dead with time to kill.

  “Well, I should warn ye that my crew and I, in times of toil like ta crack open the rum. So ye can imagine our confusion when the light transported us here.” He pauses to grin at me, his teeth remarkably straight and intact for a man who probably hasn’t even heard of dental.

  His chest puffs out. Clearly reminiscing about his crew's drunken exploits as if an alcoholic pirate is a good thing to be. And yet what do I know about pirates? Perhaps drinking rum and passing out is their equivalent of stretchy bracelets to tween queens. If you aren’t doing it you aren’t cool with the clique, or in this case, crew.

  Snapping out of his recollections the pirate Captain shuffles his camel coloured boots back so that they are concealed beneath his chair. “We made port and we then witnessed the people. Odd souls trapezing about in witty attire, women in loose blouses and colourful breeches. All of ‘em were yelling and running about as dry snow fell around ‘em. And just before we found ye Gus and me discovered wee boxes tha’ had tiny people talking inside ‘em and then the picture would change ta smoke in the shape of a mushroom. I’ve seen many oddities lass, but this land is far ta strange for me.” He ends his tale with a swish of an abnormally long matchstick against the side of the sole of his boot.

  As the flame erupts from the end, I glance at the cracked open window behind him. I can’t see much other than aquamarine water and a rosy sunset. I admit it. I am confused.

  The more he speaks the more I believe that he has no idea where he is and that he is really a pirate. I can’t deny that I'd believed in something just as strange moments before the bomb. I mean, I sacrificed my life for scrawled words on canvas. A so-called prophecy gifted by the spirits of the dead, or maybe just a madman's scrawls - I’ll probably never know. So, if I can believe in an obscure prophecy to the point where I died because it instructed me to, then why can’t a pirate from another land or time exist right now?

  “Okay, let’s say I believe you. This potion you gave me, what exactly did it do to me?” I ask, curious.

  A lot has happened to me in the last month. A lot of weird mind-boggling occurrences. I had believed it all because I'd felt that I was entitled to a fantasy life. The kind you read abou
t in novels. My entitlement was and is unwarranted.

  In fact, it's ridiculous and yet it led me here and now it's way too much.

  I should be dead.

  I had been promised death in exchange for the lives of everyone in the world, including my family and friends. So, who has gone back on the deal? Fate or me?

  “As far as I know it restored ye. Yer as good as new, better than when ye were born. ‘Ave ye ever heard of a vampire?”

  Blinking at him I realize that he is serious. Shit. If pirates are real does that mean vampires are too? I nod for him to continue.

  “The potion did what turning ye would have done-"

  My heart jolts and I cut him off, “Whoa! You’re not saying?”

  He shakes his head and waves one of his hands at me.

  “Nah, calm ye rigidly bones lass. Tha’ potion did what turning ye would ‘ave done without the problematic diet and that wee problem of ye heart no longer beating. Ye look the way ye should ‘ave if ye’d never been exposed to the elements or ta ye life.”

  Tentatively I lift my arm and run my fingers along its smooth skin. I gasp. My freckles! The splatter on my nose, they would be gone? The thought makes me feel as if I have lost a little piece of my identity.

  The Captain cocks his head towards me, the candle still burning brightly behind him. “Ye all right lass?”

  I nod, clearing my throat and asking what I believe to be a vital question, “What do you know about the bombs?”

  “I ‘aven’t heard or seen anything regarding bombs lass. Unless ye count the hole ye made in the grey road. Hard as gemstones that path is.”

  Of course, he doesn’t know about the bombs! He's a freaking pirate. Chiding myself internally I press on with another question. “Okay, then what about my friend? Have you seen him? He’s tall and skinny with long dark hair. I’m sure he is just as wounded as I was.”