Wilde Stories 2014

by Editred by Steve Berman

  His men neared the crate and lifted their tools to slip the top. Still he did not stop them. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head only the smallest amount, but his mouth twisted into a sneer. Hearing the sound of metal on wood, I took out the rest of my silver, snapping it into a neat pile with my thumb. I laid it on a crate before him, and again looked away while the money disappeared.

  The men slipped the claws of their bars under the lid. It creaked and began to lift. They twisted away and swore again. I smelled rot, sweet and sharp.

  “Stop,” the officer said. His Russian was crisp. “This ship stinks too much to bear. Leave it.” He turned and stumbled away.

  For no reason I understood, dread, not relief, settled in my chest as they left the hold. I stood by the crate, wishing to run after them into the light. Something glinted in the blackness under the lid. My gold. Should I claim it now? I could leave the ship today, rich enough to buy a boat of my own. I reached into the chill of the crate, stretched my fingertips into the darkness—

  “What game are you playing?”

  I jumped back in shock. Petrofsky stepped from the shadows behind the stairs. “What’s in the box?”

  “Nothing. Customs didn’t close it behind them, is all.” I hammered the lid closed with the heel of my hand, and made to leave the hold.

  Petrofsky gripped my arm as I tried to push past him into the light. “I saw you pay the Turk. Baksheesh, eh?”

  I pulled free, but he followed me up on deck.

  “Where’d you get the coin?”

  I turned to face him, my heart knocking so loudly I feared he must hear it. “Captain’s business. Speak to him.”

  Petrofsky grunted, but I kept my eyes cold and still. “When did the captain ever deal with you?” he said.

  It was true. The captain never spoke to the men unless it was to punish. But for that reason I knew Petrofsky would not ask. I stared at him until he turned away. The first mate set us to store provisions in the galley. The ship seemed only half alive with her crew ashore. Petrofsky watched me under half-lowered lids, so I could not sneak back and claim my gold. Halfway up the mast, Olgaren lifted his blond head to the sun, his eyes closed. What dreams played out behind his eyelids? What terrors haunted his sleep at night? Why, if I was so rich, did I care?

  5. HEMOPHILE

  Listen to the cries! Your cargo freeing itself. Did you treat them well? There were two dead in your hold before you even left Albion’s waters. No, no, of course that is not your fault.

  The law is bound to hand them over to you in fit condition to voyage and if it fails in that respect, you are not to blame…

  I could not return to the crate that day. Shore leave had not calmed the rest of the crew. They seemed nervous and constantly scanned the deck for some unnamed threat, leaving me no chance to slip away. Three days passed, and my imagination filled the crate with treasure, enough to buy a ship, a palace, an entire town. The urge to possess my gold grew with every strike of the bell until I could resist no longer.

  That night, with the wind dropped, we anchored in the Grecian Archipelago. The crew slept. I had the midnight watch, and knew this to be my best opportunity. As soon as I was alone, I pushed open the galley door. Olgaren slept, his neck bare in a splash of light from the porthole. I sought not to think about kissing him, failed, and whistled him awake.

  “Take my watch for ten minutes,” I said.

  Olgaren stood, blinking. I felt a wave of heat from his body and smelled the sleepy, dark scent of him as he pushed past me into the open air. He looked out over the rail. A wide, bright moon cast cloud shadows on the sea. Dark slivers of land to larboard. A low easterly offered no challenge to a novice watchman.

  “Only ten minutes,” I said. The faintest scent of rot wafted up from the nearby entrance to the cargo hold.

  Olgaren inhaled. He shivered. The moon reflected in his eyes.

  “Do not go down there,” he said.

  “I was not—” I began.

  “Please. A beast waits below. I dream of him.”

  I scoffed, but Olgaren did not look away. “How will you protect me if you are his?” he said.

  I shook my head. “Protect you?”

  “As you did with Petrofsky and the knife.” His hand strayed to my sleeve. A moment.

  “Take the watch,” I said, a sudden anger making me brusque.

  “As you will,” he replied. “I will not beg you.”

  I turned away. “Whistle if you hear anyone.”

  “As you will.”

  I spat over the rail but the sour taste did not leave my mouth.

  Then the clean desire for gold overwhelmed the fog of anger and confusion. I took the steps down into the hold with relief, despite the stench.

  I had half a tallow candle in my pocket, but now that the gloom surrounded me I did not dare light it, as only thin planks separated the far end of the hold from the crew’s quarters, and I fancied I could hear the murmuring of conversation from where I stood. The hold darkened as a cloud covered the moon. The hairs rose on my arms. I fought not to shiver.

  I remembered Olgaren’s words: A beast waits below. He was a superstitious fool, but even so fear feathered the back of my neck.

  I moved silently, despite my thundering heart, counting crates until I reached the box that held my gold. It was damp and chill beneath my fingers. Should I risk my flint to check the marking?

  I did not dare. Instead I waited until the moon returned and the hold brightened about me. This was the correct crate.

  I felt some of my fear fade. It was a work of moments to find the loosened board and force it upwards again. The sweet, high scent of rot surrounded me and my gorge rose. What could this crate contain? Almost I turned away, but the thought of my gold held me still. A faint red glow brightened in the darkness of the crate, as of a pipe’s ember seen far away. My heart lurched. Rubies? Treasure to be sure. I leaned forward. Another light kindled beside the first. They brightened.

  Eyes, I thought. Eyes! Before I could fall away in terror, a hand burst from the crate and gripped my throat. Stinking soil filled my mouth and eyes but I could not choke. I clawed at the arm that held me. Knotted muscles flexed, taut as iron, under filthy, black cloth. As I fought to breathe, the moon slid behind a cloud.

  The hold went black. Boards creaked, then lifted free, and a cold air licked my face. The eyes approached. They did not blink. Fire boiled through cracks in the iris, tinting the entire eye crimson, lit from within.

  A deeper darkness sparkled black in my vision as I began to lose consciousness. Then the moonlight returned. If I had the breath to scream, I would have split the main mast with my terror. The old man from Varna Quay grinned at me and his mouth was laced with fangs. Flesh hung loose on his bones. He looked older, dead already, but a mad vitality burned in those red eyes.

  “Good prey,” he said in a voice dry as a broken board. “You came.” He loosed his hand from my throat.

  I took a roaring breath to scream for help. The old man, the monster, lunged at me, his mouth wide, and his teeth pierced my neck in a spike of pain. And then…

  …everything changed.

  When a man is taken by another, the pain of the assault turns to richest pleasure in an instant. My fear turned to shocked excitement, my agony to a sensual burn. My limbs weakened further. I would have fallen but for the kiss at my neck that pinned me upright. Waves of gooseflesh rippled across the small of my back, up my thighs, down my arms. The monster called my blood to him like a lover and I felt it flow from me, felt his body swell against mine. When he drew back, his teeth scraped against some tendon deep in my throat. The pain brought clarity and I saw him anew.

  Years had fallen from his form; he looked younger than when he had stood on Varna Quay. Tall and dark, with high cheekbones and full lips. “Sweet,” he said. He frowned. “You do not struggle. Do you…want this?”

  At the distaste I read on his face, any last remnant of fear turned to anger. “No.” My voice,
though, wavered and I struggled still to breathe. “I want my gold.”

  He hissed, and I thought he would kill me until I realised he was laughing.

  “Ahh, single-minded men.” He pulled me close. “Not a one will survive this voyage. You will not disembark alive. But…” He licked his lips. “You may do so…vampir.”

  I gulped. The word had no meaning to me, and, in my confusion, only the steady glint of gold stayed true. “And rich.”

  “Gold will not interest you after you drink of my blood,” he said. “You will have other wants.”

  I wanted both to run for help and to have him bite me again. But under both those desires, that from a younger age burned brightest. I wanted that soft, heavy metal in my palm. I lifted my open hand.

  He let me go. I slumped against the crate in which he stood.

  Now was my chance to flee, but my legs trembled just to hold me upright. Reaching into the soil at his waist, he lifted out not gold, but a double handful of dark loam.

  “Take this,” he said. “Leave a trail from here to the deck and thence to the captain’s cabin.”

  Filled with disappointment, I frowned. “Why?”

  He hissed. “I should kill you now.”

  I folded my arms and did not take the soil. I do not think I was truly sane.

  The monster sighed, though he seemed amused. “A ship is of the sea,” he said. “I am of the land.”

  I shook my head.

  “I cannot walk the naked boards. A ship is of the sea,” he repeated. “I need land beneath my feet. My native land, where my body lay…in death.”

  In the silence, a voice in my head screamed at me to run, but his eyes held me fixed. “Spread the soil. Free me to walk the ship and I will give you what you desire. Take it.” The last of the humour left his voice and I trembled to obey.

  I took the soil. Our hands did not touch.

  “You will keep my presence a secret.” His eyes glowed brighter. “Send a man down to me unknowing, tomorrow night, and I shall be pleased.”

  I lifted my chin. “I…will try.”

  “Good.” He turned from me and sank back down into the blackness of the crate, leaving me gasping and alone.

  I pressed the planks of the lid down flat and took my handful of soil, leaving a thin trail along the hold and up the side of the steps to the deck as the monster had instructed. The cool, sweet, night air shocked me into one last moment of clarity. Olgaren stood at the wheel. I held the soil in my cupped hands, and could not look away from him. He shook his head. I saw sorrow in his eyes.

  More, I saw myself. Self-disgust rippled in my gut. I had brought the monster aboard. I was his slave.

  I staggered to the rail. Perhaps I would have thrown myself over, but I slipped and the soil fell from my hands and pattered into the sea. I wiped my hands on my trousers. I feared they would never feel clean again.

  “Amramoff, are you—”

  I turned to Olgaren and fell into his arms. I trembled like a child. He held me until I calmed.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

  But how could it? I already burned to return and collect more soil to finish my task. Worse, tomorrow night I had to send a man down to the hold. With the calm in Olgaren’s arms rose a stupor, filling my mind like fog. I cannot remember waking the next man on watch, nor returning to my bunk….

  6. ANTHROPOPHILE

  You left Portsmouth, what? Four days ago. Already prisoners have fresh whip cuts. Already I smell them on your loins. You have used them, more than one, and more than once. I fear you are losing my good opinion. Pray that your story redeems you…

  And now I lose the straight line through my tale. I remember little and only in brief snatches. The monster’s kiss had loosened my mind. I spoke and worked as hard as the next man, but was asleep. Only near Olgaren did voices rise to shriek warnings within me, so I avoided him as we threaded the Hellenic Isles and made our way westward…

  Midnight. Rain patters on deck, though the wind is light. I shake drops from my hair and make my way to where Petrofsky shelters at the prow under a stretch of sailcloth.

  “Nothing to report?” I ask.

  “All well.” He turns to leave for his bunk.

  “Wait.” Under the lantern’s glow, I show him the warm glint of my golden coin. “There’s more. Down below. Enough to share.”

  His eyes gleam.

  Dawn. The Demeter rings to the sound of booted feet and calls of alarm, but Petrofsky cannot be found. Olgaren grips my arm, so tight he leaves bruises, but I will not meet his eye. I shake him free and my terrors subside until he requests to speak to the captain….

  Dawn again. The sea is rising. Slabs of turquoise water shatter across our bows. We search the ship again, this time for stowaways. In the hold, I see black soil rubbed between the planks. I do not think I did it myself. The ship is declared clean and something inside me breaks. I laugh and laugh and cannot stop.

  Noon. Dark as night. A storm has blossomed above the Demeter. The ship lists hard to starboard. The captain screams orders while ropes crack and waves sweep the deck. I climb rigging and untie knots and tie them anew and sleep and climb again for an eternity. Lightning illuminates stark moments—

  Flash! Black mud slicks the deck. Ropes and rungs are caked and treacherous. The first mate is screaming, but I cannot hear his words. More men have disappeared. It was not me. It was not me—

  Flash! From the top of the main mast, I see sunlight on the horizon. A strip of blue sky and calm sea. Thunder shakes the mast and I reef the topsail. When I look up, the strip of blue is there, unchanging, five miles ahead. Always five miles ahead.

  The storm races with us. We cannot leave its shadow—

  Flash! Teeth strike and sink deep. I moan in pleasure as the monster drinks of me. He croons and whispers.

  “I love you all,” he says. “You are so sweet.” But he does not give me of himself to drink. “Send them down to me first,” he says.

  I nod and forget to ask about my gold as he draws me close again—

  More men have disappeared. I have not slept for three nights. I weep and shake as Olgaren pins me against the galley wall. He stands braced against the heaving deck. He has found his sea legs.

  He is poised and intent and will not let me free.

  “Wake up, Amramoff.” He bites my ear. “Come back to me.”

  I shake my head and find his lips on mine. His stubble grates my cheek. Our tongues meet. Clarity slaps me like a wave and I cry out at what I have become. “The things I have done, Olgaren!”

  “It was not your will,” he says. “You are a good man.” His mouth silences mine, but breaks away too soon. “I could not trust you otherwise. You will protect me.” Spray plasters his hair to his head. His face shines blue-white in the lightning’s stuttered flare. I see his exhaustion and his fear. I see his faith. It crushes me. Who am I to protect him? I cannot even care for myself. Worse, I am the cause of his suffering, and of this voyage into nightmare.

  “Olgaren, I cannot—”

  He turns within my grasp and pulls my arms closer around him. I feel the hot length of his body through his wet clothes. The back of his neck smells of nutmeg from the galley. I trap the scent against his skin with my lips, to save it from the lashing rain. I do not lower my arms as I feel him reach around and undo the buckle of my belt.

  I take him there, in the heart of the storm, while the Demeter heaves under our feet. The men I like are taller than I, and dark.

  They take their joy from me and I find my own. But here, against the galley wall, I find I am solid, older, a man of weight and purpose. A man I do not know. I am responsible for Olgaren’s pleasure and for his pain. I will not take without giving. I will not hurt him or see him hurt. We move together while the wind shrieks about us, and though the watch might see, I do not care.

  7. NYCTOPHILE

  If you join us, you will open your eyes, and a liquid fire will burn in your veins. It will thre
ad your flesh. Every nerve will sing, and as suddenly—quieten. In the silence you will hear, not your heart, never that, but the heartbeat of the sea. You will know her, will be of her, and her touch upon your skin will tell you of faraway shores and deep currents. The blue depths will call as much as hot, red blood. Poised between both, you will see the balance. The fine line we walk….

  I had the wheel. This was rare, but the last steersman had disappeared the day before. I had not sent him below. The monster was free. I had not seen the captain in days. We no longer anchored at night, but fled where the wind took us. I held us clear of the coast as the sun set, my arms numb with exhaustion. Was that black shore Portugal, France, even Belgium? I am ashamed to say I did not know.

  Venus shone above the darkening horizon. North. We flew north. The sea, still high, was slow in calming, though the storm had broken hours before. Curls of spray swept the deck. From the wheel, I saw two silhouettes take shape at the prow. They leaned together, pulled apart and closed again. Upwind, I could not hear their words.

  I lost concentration on the sea and the Demeter struck a wave with a shudder. The figures staggered. I saw them clearly then.

  “No!”

  The monster ignored my cry. In his grip, Olgaren struggled, then slumped, perhaps unconscious. The beast lifted his limp form to its mouth.

  My heart thrashed in terror, but I could not move. The monster’s hold on me was as strong as ever. To disobey him was unthinkable. But Olgaren needed me. I had promised to protect him. I could not stand by and let him die. Other crewmen remained. Let the beast take them.