by Vic Connor
What the hell…?
My crutches pierce the trail’s mud as I come to a halt; Abe and Uitzli almost crush into my back.
I turn around and lock eyes with the pirate.
A steely glint comes to his pupils. “Ya remembers,” he says. It’s not a question.
Memory Unlocked:
The Old Sea Dog (3 of 3)
“You killed my father,” I snarl. “Now, you die.”
I charge, seeking his heart with my rapier.
He moves faster than anybody his size should; faster than anything as heavy as his blade has the right to move. His reach is phenomenal. The wicked edge of his cutlass smashes into my left side, cutting and crushing in equal measure.
He tosses me to the ground like a rag doll. Pain blinds me.
My right crutch falls to the ground as I Quick Draw Hendricks’ pistol and aim between Abe’s eyes.
Scared, Uitzli grabs the pirate’s arm like a rope preventing her from falling into a deep, dark chasm. Behind her, the Noh mask tilts to the left as if glad something mildly interesting may break the monotony of this journey.
The pirate hasn’t moved. Our eyes remain locked.
“It was you,” I say. “The thief we tracked down.”
He nods. “Aye, me lad.”
“Don’t you dare call me ‘your lad!’” I shout. “You hear!?”
He nods.
“You… you killed my father!?”
“Nay, lad. Neither did Crowley.”
“Who the hell is Crowley?”
He looks past me to Juanita. “T’ one t’ witch’s bees stinged t’ death.” His steely eyes lock again with mine. “But it be neither ‘im nor Ol’ Abe who dids yarr old man.”
“Then who?”
“Soulless dog named Wallace. He hired Crowley and Ol’ Abe for help. T’ steal a book, he said. Jus’ muggin’ some rich fellow who has no clue ‘bout which streets in London be safe fer ‘em rich folks t’ walk.
“So we waits for t’ rich fellow, an’ Ol’ Abe grabs ‘im while Crowley saps ‘im in the head. Like other times, see? An’ Wallace, he shoulda be searchin’ for t’ book he wants from t’ rich folk, but…” He slashes his index across his throat. “Wallace pulls a dirk and slashes yarr pa before takin’ t’ book. An’ that be what happened, lad. I swear t’ God Almighty, Crowley an’ Ol’ Abe, we thinks it was jus’ takin’ a book, an’ all.”
“And you expect me to take your word for it?”
“My child,” Juanita says gently behind me, “as far as I can tell, if there is untruth in the pirate’s tale, he is more adept at hiding deception than Lord of Here and Now Himself.”
Uitzli hugs the pirate’s arm tighter. “Tiachkautli…” she pleads.
I hold my pistol at the pirate’s skull. “It was me who shot you in the head. Yes?”
“Aye.” He nods. “An’ ‘twas Ol’ Abe’s cutlass that tossed ya t’ the ground. An’ that slash shoulda be killin’ most men, lad.
“But still alive ya was, an’ ya pulls another gun and shoots Ol’ Abe—” He presses index and middle finger to his forehead covered by the filthy bandana. “—right ‘ere. Ya shoots ‘an kills Ol’ Abe, lad.”
“You don’t seem dead, mate.”
His huge hand pats Uitzli’s head. “Ol’ Abe be only a filthy dog with a dark soul, lad. An’ ya has a God-given right to avenge yarr pa, ya do. Ya coulda leave Ol’ Abe for dead there, an’ no soul coulda say ya dids wrong.” He caresses Uitzli’s moonlight hair. “But our lil’ angel… She takes pity on this ‘ere scurvy dog, and she broughts Ol’ Abe from t’ dead.”
My hand wavers. “I… I remember that part. I remember her healing your wounds… Was it after I shot you?”
He nods. “Aye, lad.”
I look at Uitzli, then back at Abe. “Why?”
She whispers in her ancient tongue. He shrugs, making Uitzli’s tiny frame shake as his huge arm moves up and down. “Ol’ Abe don’t knows, lad. But even a scurvy dog knows who he owes ‘is worthless hide to.” He pats Uitzli’s head again. “An’ good Lord be me witness, no harm will come to this sweet lil’ angel while Ol’ Abe’s heart be a-poundin’.”
I lower my pistol for a split second, then raise it again to aim right between his eyes. “Tell me how the hell can I trust you after this. How!?”
“Ya not be t’ same after dyin’,” he says, eyes heavy with what appears a mixture of guilt, regret, and dread. “Ya returns from t’ dead yarrself, but ya comes back changed, aye?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even remember who I was before that Aztec priestess resurrected me.”
“Ol’ Abe remembers how he was,” he tells me. “And he ain’t likin’ what he remembers, lad.” He squints to look at my hand holding Hendricks’ pistol. “Ol’ Abe won’t blames ya fer pulling the trigger, lad. But if ya trust one thing, trust this: Ol’ Abe’s dark soul’s been dragged t’ hell—an’ our sweet lil’ angel rescued ‘im.”
Uitzli near-blind eyes search for me; her shy, pearly smile softens the knot I feel inside my chest and makes me lower my weapon.
Damn it.
I don’t like the look of this.
“All I’m saying, boss, is you should spend a little more time reading your candidates’ résumés, lest you end up hiring aides like your pirate friend down there.”
“In my defense,” I argued, “it would appear I read his CV. It’s just that I suffer from resurrection-related amnesia and forgot all about it, so go figure. And for the record—” I brought up Abe’s Character Screen: The information about his involvement in my father’s robbery and killing was flashing as ‘New.’ “—it’s abundantly clear that all info here shows up once we discover it in-game. The same happened with Juanita and her blood-sucking dietary needs. I had to find out the hard way for the system to update her logs.”
“Do you think Abe is telling the truth?”
I shrugged. “Even if he didn’t kill Father, Abe was there, and Father died. The real question is, do I think he’s telling the truth about becoming a changed man after Uitzli saved his life? Did she really save his soul as he claims? I don’t know. He tried to kill me during our fight.”
“You were trying to kill him, too,” she reminded me. “I’m not defending him here, boss. Just saying that in your fight with him, he was acting in self-defense. You shot him in the head.”
“Juanita seems to believe him. And so does Uitzli,” I said, looking at Abe’s huge hand frozen above Uitzli’s milk-white hair. “His tenderness for her is genuine, I’m sure of that.” My avatar couldn’t see the witch’s face, since she was standing behind him. But from the bird’s-eye view, I noticed she was reaching out as if about to touch my shoulder to appease me. “And Juanita may quibble and quarrel with Abe all the time, and they sure don’t agree on theology, but she knows what happened and accepts him as our companion.”
“A meatshield.” Steva smirked. “And a walking blood bag.”
“Handy for transfusions on the field, yeah, when you need to heal a poisoned child.” I scratched my head. “I’m lost here. I really don’t know what to make of this. What do you think?”
She smiled. “You don’t pay me to think, boss. That’s your job. Or, well, your game in this case.”
“Sheesh… Do I have to do everything myself around here?”
“If you want it done well, sir, I’m afraid you do. You know how it works.” She nodded at the coffee table. “Unless you need another espresso!”
I waved my hand. “I’m already as edgy as I want to be with this new backstory.” In the bird’s-eye view below, Abe and Jake continued staring at each other. “From a strategic point of view, and if providing your opinion on available data isn’t too much thinking for you… Had Abe not been in our party, how do you think our past fights would have ended?”
“This one’s easy,” she said. “You’d have had your ass kicked, boss, pardon my saying. Above all, in your early fight against Lieutenant Ramirez, with that dark priest. Without the pi
rate, they’d have overrun you.”
“So it’d be fair to say he’s pulling his weight and risking his neck. All right, let’s hear what he has to say for himself.”
“I want to know everything you know about that book,” I demand. And, before Juanita can intervene, I add, “And, please, nobody start giving me the crap about my memories returning when some higher power says so. I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before, so get yer gob a-flappin’, me mate. Aye?” I glare at Abe as if looks could fry brains.
“Ol’ Abe ain’t much to tells ya, by the God above us’n,” he admits. “Crowley and I be on leave from our ship, t’ Black Ice, back in London. We enjoyed a pint or two in this lil’ pub up in Limehouse when Wallace shows up. In needs o’ some help with a job, Wallace says. We knews which kinds o’ jobs Wallace did, an’ it be a quick coin, so three hours later, well… Ya knows what happened t’ yearr pa, lad, by the blood in me heart.
“On t’ way back t’ the Limehouse we keeps tellin’ Wallace that slittin’ throats ain’t the job we signs up fer. He says he be the one who dids the slittin’, so it ain’t our problem. An’ hurry, he says, ‘cos the client wants the book an’ don’t likes waiting. So we reaches the pub an’ we meets ‘im.”
“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “Barboza.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Nay, lad,” he says, “Barboza, he woulda not come a mile to t’ likes of the Limehouse. Nay. It be yarr friend t’ Moorish fella who deals with ‘em barnacles like us’n.
“We gives ‘im t’ book, an’ this be all that Ol’ Abe can tells ya. It be huge, bigger than yarr chest, heavy, old an’ black as sin. An’ ‘em letters on t’ cover, thems be no letters any God-fearing Christian can read, let me tell ya. By the Holy Eternal, lad.” He crossed himself passionately. “That’s all Ol’ Abe knows.
“The Moor asks if we handled it all, an’ Wallace says we took care, an’ the Moor takes the book and gives Wallace a fat purse. By the powers, we gets our coin, and the Moor, he leaves.
“An’ that’s when—” he taps his nose “—Ol’ Abe be sniffin’ trouble’s a-comin’ our way. Like ‘em big fat clouds before t’ storm, by Flint’s bones! Wallace says job be done, now be ale time. But Crowley, he knows to trust me nose, so we follows the Moor with ‘is book. Night be foggy as hell, but us’n sea dogs has no problem, an’ fog hides us’n, so t’ followin’ be easy. An’ we follows the Moor all t’ way to this mansion in Chiswick.
“So we goes back t’ the Limehouse pub, an’ Wallace, he gets drunk as he said he would, but still not too drunk. He knows t’ mansion an’ the owner—a rich Spaniard called Barboza. An’ tells us not t’ worry, all be fine, all be fine.
“But me nose says otherwise ‘bout this Barboza and ‘is Moor, so rather than stayin’ at t’ pub and gettin’ drunk, Crowley an’ me nose go back t’ the Black Ice. An’ good thing we dids, ‘cos next mornin’ Wallace’s body shows up in an alley behind t’ pub, throat slit ear to ear.
“Jus’ like he dids to yarr pa, lad, if that be any comfort to ya.
“Crowley an’ Ol’ Abe, we knows we must leave London that mornin’ if we wants to breathe tomorrow. The Black Ice, she ain’t leaving for three more days, so Crowley an’ Ol’ Abe finds us a ship, the Queen Annur that sets sail with t’ tide an’ needs extra hands.
“Turns out, the Queen Annur comes t’ the Aztec Seas, but we wants t’ get away from London, so we jumps ship. After this, me lad… Long story short, Crowley an Ol’ Abe runs with Henry Morgan’s crew ‘till good Ol’ Henry retires an’ becomes the big Kahuna o’ Jamaica. Then we do this and that till ya tracks us down an’ shows up, along with t’ witch an’ our sweet lil’ angel. Ya finds Crowley an’ Ol’ Abe when we be lookin’ fer a ship in Rocabella, and ya now remembers what happened there.” He taps his own forehead.
“After our sweet lil’ angel heals this ‘ere scurvy dog, Ol’ Abe gaves ya t’ name ya were lookin’ fer. An’ after ya gets the name—” he looks at Juanita behind me “—ya gives Ol’ Abe a chance t’ repay t’ damage done to ya, an’ t’ debt owed t’ our sweet lil’ angel.” He casts his eyes down toward the pistol I still hold in my right hand. “Won’t blame ya if ya change yarr mind ‘bout what company ya wants t’ keep. But that’s Ol’ Abe’s story, damn me gizzards.”
Quite a story, indeed…
…Hendricks’ pistol weighs my hand down. It’s cold, and hard, and heavy.
“So, what shall we do, young Jake?”
[Raise pistol] You killed my father. Prepare to die.
[Dismiss Abe] Unlike Father, you get to live. But get out of my sight.
[Let Abe stay] Something tells me you still have some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is over.
Behind Abe, the black onyx beads study me with slight amusement.
“If this were real life, I’d be furious and would want Abe dead. Not sure I’d have the guts to kill him myself, though.”
Sveta kept quiet, her silence stressing that even though she was as good a sounding board as one could dream to have, these choices were mine to make.
“But, this being a game and all, let’s be pragmatic,” I continued, as though talking to myself. “We need a meatshield, and he can take a beating. And he can cut through common foes like a hot knife through butter. As you said, we’d be dead by now without him. I mean, how does our situation improve if we kill or dismiss him? What would the upside be?”
“I can see none, boss,” she agreed, “as long as you don’t fear the pirate betraying you at some stage. Not having to worry about a knife stuck in your back would be the reason to get rid of him.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Uitzli spared his life. He seems to feel guilty about Father’s death—”
“—And,” Sveta added, “if what he says is true, then Barboza tried to kill him back in London to cover his tracks after they murdered your Father.”
“Hmm. That’s a good point. Actually, a superb one. Does our pirate hold a grudge against Barboza for backstabbing them like that? I know I would…”
She remained quiet.
“All right.” I sighed. “Please be a dear, Svetty dear, and remind me to trust the pirate only as far as I can throw him.”
“Sure thing, sir! Would you like to measure the throwing distance in meters, or would you prefer feet?”
“I’m afraid it will be millimeters. Fractions of, even.”
“I think they call them nanometers, boss.”
“I understood thinking wasn’t part of your job description, Svetty dear?”
“Always willing to go the extra mile, boss, you know me!” She winked. With a straight face, she added, “Good luck down there.”
I holster Hendricks’ pistol back into my belt and say to Abe, “Something tells me you still have a part to play, for good or ill, before this is over.”
“God Almighty be me with—”
“Stop,” I interrupt. “Actions speak louder than words. Your actions killed my father. So keep quiet, keep your oaths to yourself, and keep showing us we can trust you. Understood?”
He looks down at his boots and nods gravely. “Aye, aye, lad. Jake says, Ol’ Abe does.”
31
Chop Chop
By mid-afternoon, we are on the northern half of Isla Hermosa, more or less midway between Villarica and Tepetlacotli. We must have come through here the first day I logged in the game, but the jungle path and the trees and bushes surrounding us look almost the same everywhere.
The clump of hills huddled in the center of the island stand to our south.
As we study our options to reach them, I ask, “They’re, what, five miles from here?”
“Thems be closer t’ four, lad.”
“But we will have to travel straight across the jungle to reach the hills,” Juanita explains. “No trail or path will take us there.”
“Four miles through tangled vines and thick foliage,” I say. “Piece of cake. Abe, me mate… Jake says it be a good time fer yer cutla
ss to do some cuttin’ and choppin’.”
He glances at the tangled wall of dense vegetation before us. “This ain’t be jus’ some, lad. This be plenty o’ choppin’…”
“Well, then,” I advise, staring at him, “ye better hurry, aye? Chop chop, mate. Get a-goin’.”
To his credit, rather than grumbling or complaining, he nods grimly and does as I ask. With an unexpected tenderness in his coarse hands, he leads Uitzli to grab my arm instead of his. He ties his bandana tighter across his forehead, rolls up his sleeves, and puts his massive cutlass to work against the undergrowth.
Abe’s strength seems brutal and his cutlass’ sharp edge appears immune to dullness no matter how many trunks and branches it cuts through. The pirate denies any sign of exhaustion. Sweat drenches him from head to toe, with beads of perspiration pouring out of his every pore, yet he never pauses or slows down his steady rhythm of slashing and cutting and chopping, followed by a staccato of curses whenever a vine dares offer more resistance to his savage blows.
He seems to know every foul word in the English language, as well as dozens of insults in an obscure sailor slang likely lost to modern times because I’ve never heard them before.
Morbidly fascinated, I join in his cursing and swearing, parroting what he says when I don’t understand the words and from time to time throwing in a few modern insults I don’t think I’ve ever dared to say aloud.
“Not bad, lad,” says Abe. He takes a moment to dry his forehead with the bandana, although the cloth is soaking wet and doesn’t do much. “Fer a cabin boy, but gotta start somewhere…”
Skill Unlocked!
Taunts: Cabin Boy