Pirate's Wraith, The

by Penelope Marzec

  “Hey, don’t leave me.” Her unease concerning wild animals returned. “What if a panther sneaks up behind me?”

  A smile grew on his lips. His eyes took on a hungry glow as if he considered whether she might make a very nice tidbit for dessert.

  Heat warmed her cheeks. She shouldn’t worry about animals when she had an untethered beast devouring her with his gaze.

  A noisy seabird flew by overhead and diverted his attention. “Keep the fire blazing.”

  “What if someone comes by—or what if a python ...”

  “Flame keeps animals away. Shout if you see someone coming.”

  She watched him walk along the shoreline until he reached the bend. When she could not see him anymore, she fed the fire with driftwood and broken pieces of the raft.

  “What if I am stuck here with him forever?” she mused. As much as she had wanted to have a baby, the prospect of delivering one in the wilderness terrified her.

  Sex on the beach could be a deadly idea.

  She decided to try and piece together some sort of shelter. The activity would help to keep her mind off her current situation. Besides they would need a shelter to keep the wild animals away when the fire died out while they were sleeping.

  She thought about lying next to him in a small space. That could be very dangerous. He had that cannon in his britches. Just remembering what it looked like sent a hot flush spreading all over her body.

  She should build two rooms with a great wall between them. No sense in taking any chances.

  Setting about her task, she realized she should build her shelter further from the water’s edge due to the tide, which meant she would have to move the fire, too.

  The tide came in bringing her more wood. She rejoiced over one perfect, cylindrical piece. It must have been the top of a mast and would serve as an excellent crosspiece to hold up the sail, which would be the roof for her shelter. However, she could not lift the long piece of wood. In her struggle to try to move it, she got a large splinter embedded in her hand.

  Dropping the mast, she tried to pull out the wooden sliver, but it hurt and it would not budge, plus it must have hit a vein because it would not stop bleeding.

  Remembering her first aid instructions, she kept applying pressure. However, the minute she let up on the pressure, the bleeding started again.

  “Great,” she grumbled. “What else could go wrong?”

  Pressing on her wound, she went to the water’s edge to check for more treasures but she could not wander far since she had to continually add more wood to the fire. However, as the sun sank lower in the sky, she saw something large floating in on the tide a long distance away. She could use another log and it looked to be the right size for a crude bench.

  She limped as fast as she could toward it just as a wave spat it out onto the sand.

  Her blood turned to ice as she came closer. It was not a log but a man and probably dead. He wore only a shirt and breeches. He had no shoes or boots on his feet.

  She swallowed the bile in her throat. She ought to make sure he was dead. She knew CPR after all. While the idea of performing CPR on a water-logged stranger had her stomach churning, she knelt on the sand and shoved him over on his back.

  She reeled back in horror and screamed. Though the tissues in his face had swelled in the sea, she recognized him. Christopher Moody had the hilt of a dagger buried deep in his chest.

  * * * *

  Harlan’s heart thundered as he stood on the beach in shock. His first mate had a knife in his heart while Lesley sat beside him with blood on her hands. He raised his face to the sky and swore, but it did no good.

  Moody’s face remained rigid in death. Lesley appeared frozen in place. Harlan shook her until she looked at him.

  “What have you done?” He roared. “You have stabbed him in the heart. You—you with your tales of the future. Moody and his famous flag! What other lies have you told me?”

  Her green eyes widened. “I—I did not kill him. He floated in on the tide. Then I saw the knife ... but he can’t be dead. He can’t. His flag ....”

  He heard the catch in her throat and it pricked his conscience. He stamped away and stared down into his first mate’s horrible mask of death. His reasoned with himself. Surely, Lesley had no reason to kill Moody—especially since it would ruin her own prediction of the future. Though he knew well enough that those who claimed to know the future were often wrong.

  Before she died, Elsbeth had told him he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Yet here he was, marooned on a deserted island with a woman who must be more dangerous than she appeared.

  “Christopher Moody became a pirate and had his own flag. I know that for a fact. Something is wrong.”

  “Your hands are covered in blood.”

  “I have a splinter ... from a mast. I can’t get it out.”

  He took her hand in his and felt a distinctive hum. It disturbed him, but he chose to ignore it. He must be going mad.

  He saw the sharp sliver of wood that lay at the base of her thumb. When he pulled out his dirk, she gasped and fought to yank her hand away from him.

  “It will fester if it is not removed.”

  She went still. Her eyes swam with unshed tears, but she clamped her lips firmly together.

  He worked with care. He hated to mar her fine hand, but he had to cut into her flesh. She did not cry out.

  He pulled out the splinter and wrapped his scarf tightly about her wound.

  “I’ll wash it in the sea.” Her voice quivered.

  He helped her to her feet and watched her stumble toward the water. How could she look so much like Elsbeth and yet be so different?

  Shaking his head, he bent to pull the knife from the dead man’s chest. He studied the weapon. It was Moody’s own dagger.

  Who would have murdered Moody? He had been fearless in battle and more skilled in the use of a sword than most. Still, many in the crew had hated the cruel taskmaster. More than a few times, Harlan had watched Moody’s face light up with delight as he took the lash to a crewmember’s back. Harlan had always suspected Moody of buggery, too, but he could never prove it.

  He pulled off the man’s other clothing. He would give Moody a proper burial but he intended to keep anything that might be of use for there could be no telling how long he and Lesley would be marooned.

  Using a plank, he dug a shallow hole at the edge of the woods. It grew dark, but the moon gave off enough light for him to see. He asked Lesley to join him as he said a few words over the grave.

  “May his soul find rest ...” Harlan’s paused remembering the confrontation with his first mate in his cabin after Moody had assaulted Lesley. He would have killed him then. Now Moody was dead, killed with his own dagger and Harlan stood on a deserted island with only a slight chance of ever being found. Which was the better fate?

  He grabbed the plank to shove the earth back into the grave. “...and peace.”

  Lesley halted him. “That’s it? Not even an ‘Amen?’”

  “Yes, yes. Amen. I will need some rocks.”

  “To mark the grave?”

  “To discourage the animals.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Will they come out at night?”

  “Some are creatures of the night.”

  “Maybe we should sleep in shifts. I’ll take the first watch.” Her lips trembled.

  “There is no need. We have the fire.” His words did not seem to reassure her for she turned her head this way and that, starting at every odd sound.

  “I need help in putting up the roof. If it rains I don’t want to get wet.”

  He nodded, agreeing to the task as soon as he finished piling up rocks on Moody’s grave. She joined him, lifting up smaller rocks though she winced whenever a rock shifted and pressed against the wound on her hand. Other than that, they worked quietly—side by side. He thought about his fate. He might have been alone on the island without any companion. But could he trust this one with her strange talk an
d wild stories of the future?

  When they finished covering the grave, he lifted the mast to the top of her shelter. In securing the ends of the sail to the structure, enough overlap remained of the canvas to serve as a door.

  “It’s more like a curtain.” She made a loop on one end of a rope.

  He heard her soft sigh of disappointment. For a moment, he gave her a speculative gaze and wondered how she would look dressed in a woman’s finery. Yet, he could not envision her in wide skirts and lace. In fact, her simple sailor’s garb heightened his awareness of her lithe form. His blood heated at the thought. “It should afford you some privacy.”

  “It’s big enough for both of us, I think.”

  He battled against a surge of excitement that started his heart hammering in his chest. “Nay. I will sleep out here by the fire.”

  “What about the animals?”

  “I will stab them and eat them for breakfast.” He teased.

  “Sure.” She pouted.

  “Trust me.” He winked at her.

  “How can I trust a pirate?” Despite her question, she rewarded him with a shy smile.

  “I am a man of my word.” A small, needle-like pain stabbed him with that lie. He had been unfailingly conscientious—once, but being honorable had not helped him succeed.

  He sobered as he considered that maybe in her company he would surely lose all his senses, for he would soon speak as she spoke. Perhaps he would begin to believe the strange things she told him and once his guard was down, she would work her sorcery on him.

  * * * *

  After a snack of more mussels, Lesley crawled into her home away from home. Her hand still throbbed along with her ankle. Though exhausted from the day’s activities, sleep did not come easily.

  She wished there was some logical explanation for this strange trip of hers. How had it happened? And why?

  Her sister would miss her and mourn for her. She hated to be the one to cause her sister to grieve. Though they only called each other once a week, Lesley looked forward to the daily updates from her sister in her email or text messages. When they got together, they had so much fun. Even in the worst of times, her sister could make her laugh. Her sister had made her laugh about calling off the wedding with Jim.

  She had not told her sister what happened when she told Jim to move out. In fact, she had never revealed Jim’s abuse to her sister. However, she always knew her sister suspected the truth.

  She closed her eyes and tried to picture her sister in her mind. Maybe she could send her a message—telepathically. She concentrated, scrunching up her face and fisting her hands, but she had no idea as to whether she had gotten through.

  Cell phones made the process of communication so much easier.

  Outside her canvas doorway, Harlan put another piece of driftwood on the fire. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for sleeping either and while she knew it would be best to keep her distance from him, she sure could use some company tonight. She didn’t have anything to distract her from her dismal thoughts—not even a romance novel.

  She crawled out of her crude shelter and plopped down on the sand beside Harlan. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’d like a nice fat juicy steak, smothered in onions and mushrooms, with a big fat potato on the side slathered with sour cream and sprinkled with chives.”

  “Tomorrow we will search for more food.”

  “Like what?”

  “Perhaps some small rodents.”

  “Rats!”

  “They are edible.”

  “Blech. I’ll stick with the mussels.” She could tell he struggled not to smile and she relaxed a bit. Nice to know the guy had a sense of humor, despite his piratical ways. Yes, at first he had accused her of stabbing Moody but she supposed they must have been good buddies before she came along and discovered the first mate was a creep.

  “You know—I’ve given some thought to this thing about Moody’s murder. Isn’t it possible that someone wanted to steal his identity? It’s got to be an easy thing to do in your century. No social security cards to worry about, no driver’s license. So whoever killed him is now claiming to be him. He’ll get himself a ship, design his flag, and three centuries from now nobody will be the wiser.”

  “Do not speak of the future.”

  “Sorry.” She frowned. No, she was not sorry. How could she deny a lifetime spent elsewhere? He would have to accept her at some point. They came from very different backgrounds, but they were here together—alone.

  His silence annoyed her. She glanced up at the twinkling stars in the heavens. “There are so many stars here, more than I ever noticed back home. I suppose I never saw them because the streetlights are too bright. Do you know where we are?”

  He continued to stare into the fire. “Without my sextant I cannot be accurate.”

  “Do you have any idea at all?”

  “We are above the equator.” He placed another piece of wood on the fire.

  “So we’re really, really lost.” It’s not like she hadn’t guessed as much, but knowing it for sure made everything worse. “Why don’t we set up some sort of signal flag so a passing ship will know we’re here?”

  “Our enemies ply these waters, too. We must watch and wait.”

  “What are the odds that we’ll get picked up?”

  “I cannot guess.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “We are alive.”

  She could not be sure of that. She might be in some sort of fugue state. However, when she lifted up her hand it throbbed. If she was unconscious, it shouldn’t hurt—unless she now resided in a very strange portion of hell, but then she supposed she would be suffering a great deal more pain.

  She resolved not to contemplate her impossible situation. While Harlan did not rate as the greatest conversationalist in the world, he provided her only companionship at the moment so she decided to take another stab at getting to know him.

  “Were you born in Lyme?” she asked.

  “No, I was born in England, but my parents came to the colonies when I was very young.”

  “Do you remember the trip?”

  “No, I was but a babe.”

  “What is your first memory as a child?”

  The corner of his mouth tilted upward in a wry grin. “A horse stepped on my foot.”

  “Was it broken?”

  “No, but badly bruised.”

  “Ouch.”

  His forehead furrowed. “What is that ‘ouch’?”

  “It is an expression people use when something hurts.”

  He lifted her still-bandaged hand. His touch sent a swirl of excitement through her along with that ever-present hum of awareness. “Ouch?”

  “Yes, that’s a big ouch.”

  “I am sorry.” He gently placed her hand back on her thigh.

  “It’s okay. You got the splinter out.”

  Again his brow creased. “What is that ‘okay’?”

  “Okay means all right or good.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I am weary of your strange tongue.”

  “It is English—but a dialect. You seem to understand most of the common words I speak.”

  He nodded. Then his soft blue eyes bored into hers and her pulse began to race. “What is your first memory as a child?”

  She smiled with delight. Yes! He intended to make a sincere effort. They could have a real conversation. “I remember going to the airport—”

  She stopped and winced.

  “What is that ‘airport’?”

  “In the future there are flying machines—airplanes. They are faster than ships.”

  “No.” He stood up. “Birds fly. Man cannot build a machine that flies like a bird.”

  Lesley sighed. “The first airplane was flown in North Carolina by the Wright brothers sometime around the beginning of the nineteen hundreds.” She was not sure of the date, but she knew it had to be before the first World War because there were
airplanes used in that conflict.

  “Bibble-babble.” He turned his back to her.

  “Think of it as a story.” She entreated. “Don’t you like stories?”

  “I like poetry.”

  “Can you recite any poems?”

  “Indeed. I have memorized some of Paradise Lost.”

  She suppressed a groan. Epic poems bored her. Still, she asked him to sit and recite the poem.

  Hearing his voice—steady and low—and watching the fire—lulled her into a relaxed state. Her eyes grew heavy and at one point, she realized she had nodded off while leaning against him. She woke up because there was a slight, but incessant hum in her head. Unlike one of her migraines, it did not hurt but she was conscious of it.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lean on you.” She yawned. “I guess I’m ready to go to sleep now.” She turned to crawl into her makeshift shelter when she noticed the phosphorescent glow emanating from the pocket of Harlan’s long coat.

  He frowned, followed her gaze, and swore.

  When she reached out toward the soft luminosity, thin fingers of light leaped out at her. Her fingers tingled and she drew away.

  “You are her.” His hoarse voice chilled her. “You are Elsbeth, come back from death.”

  Fear chilled her. “I am Lesley—from Belford, New Jersey, in 2011.”

  He put his hand in his pocket and drew out the glowing object. “I carved this for Josiah and you took it.”

  Lesley stared in horror at the small wooden horse. “No, I found it in a cradle I bought in an antique store in Delaware.”

  “You lie! I have remembered what I did with it after Josiah died. I threw it into the fire.”

  “That’s ... that’s ... not possible ... unless it is a different horse. Or maybe someone saved it before it burned.” Shoving her fear aside, she reached out and grabbed the horse in his hands. That was like sticking her finger in an electric socket. Hot energy flowed through her and she could not let go.

  The connection was severed only because her fingers shook so badly they could not hold on any longer. She dropped it and so did Harlan.

  As the glowing toy lay on the sand, a vaporous cloud billowed into a swirling plume of shimmering particles. Lesley didn’t breathe. Frozen in terror, she watched as the gleaming bits of effervescence shifted and coalesced into an amorphous form.