“It’s a sad notion,” Isaiah said. “The world needs some wildness in it; people need it too.”
“An outlaw life is no life for a fourteen-year-old girl,” Maude said. “Besides, I’m tired of having to bargain for my life with people who have no damn business telling me what to do. I intend to get custody of my daughter back legally, in public court. I intend to gain my inheritance back, including this house. I’m going to war, Isaiah. I’m getting back the rest of my life.”
Isaiah looked into the fire for a time. “I see my son so eager to become a doctor, so determined, and in the back of my head I worry about all the hatred, and anger, and disgust he’s going to have to face. Even if he’s the best and the brightest in his class, even if he deserves it more than any other fella, he still might never get to do what he loves. I understand wanting to get it all back, Maude, just for yourself, just to say, ‘I own all of me, not you.’ Just be careful. Even though things change, words change, it gets a little better, the people who run this world still see you and I as commodities, not persons. Hell, they may never see us as persons. You go to war with them, Maude, you go to war with their world.”
“I have a strategy,” Maude said. “I’m using all the skills, all the lessons Gran taught me. I’m scouting out the enemy, learning their strengths and weaknesses, marshaling my own forces and gathering my allies. I’ve chosen my general, and when the time comes to battle, it will be on my terms, not theirs.”
They were silent again for several minutes.
“I certainly hope that once you own the estate, you keep the old caretaker on,” Isaiah finally said. Maude reached over and took the old man’s warm, leathery hand.
“It wouldn’t be home without him,” she said.
* * *
Dawn balanced on the crumbling ledge of night. Constance Stapleton awoke fully aware of a presence in her room. She reached instinctively for her throwing knife under her pillow, but it was gone.
“A few months of easy living and you’ve already started getting sloppy,” the voice at the foot of her bed said.
“Mother!” Constance said, jumping up and embracing Maude, holding her tight. Maude kissed her daughter gently on the forehead and cheek. Constance resembled Maude strongly, with long, thick brown hair with a touch of red-gold that fell to her shoulders, a slight build and pale skin. Her mouth was small, with full lips, and her eyes were her father’s—large, brown and full of mischief and intelligence.
“I missed you,” Constance said, not letting go of Maude. “I dreamed you would come, I knew it.”
Maude looked over her daughter’s shoulder and saw the collection of tonic bottles and envelopes of medicinal powders beside the bed. Constance noticed her gaze.
“They are getting worse, the dreams. I … don’t sleep very long, or well, anymore.”
In the year prior to Maude’s father taking Constance from Golgotha, the girl had begun to develop powerful and horrifying prophetic dreams. The dreams were always set in a vast ancient city made of bones upon a great grassy plain, buzzing with insects and sweltering with heat. Maude assumed that the dreams were a side effect of the drastic and supernatural action she had taken to save Constance’s life two years ago.
“The only reason I left with Grandpa was because I dreamed that I had to,” Constance said. “If I don’t follow the dreams or if I try to change them, terrible things happen to the people in them. I’m sorry, Mother, I had to go.”
“I understand, darling,” Maude said softly, pulling Constance back to her. “It’s all right, I’m not angry. I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” Constance said. “Are you here to take me home?”
“Yes,” Maude said, “but not yet. I need you to keep it secret that you have seen me, that you know I’m here. Grandfather Anderton mustn’t know yet.”
Constance nodded.
“I will, Mother,” Constance said. “He won’t know, but the others know we’re here.”
“Others?” Maude asked.
“From my dreams,” Constance said. A strange calm came over her face and her eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment. “They are coming for me, to take me back to the bone city, to Carcosa.”
“No one is taking you away from me ever again,” Maude said. Constance’s eyes cleared, and she clutched her mother tightly. “I promise you that, my sweet girl.”
“They will take you away from me, Mother,” Constance said. “They intend to kill you if you get in their way.”
“Let them try,” Maude said. “Nothing in this world or any other will keep us apart. I swear it, Constance.” Maude led her back to the bed and tucked her in. “Try to rest, darling,” Maude said, kissing her daughter’s forehead. She handed the throwing knife back to Constance, who stuck out her tongue as she took the blade and secured it under her pillow again. “And then four hours of mindfulness training to sharpen those senses, young lady.” They hugged one more time, tightly, so tightly.
“I love you, Mother,” Constance said.
“I love you, dear,” Maude said. “I’ll be back for you, remember that. Merry Christmas, darling.”
“Merry Christmas, Mother.”
Even the arriving dawn did not see Maude leave.
5
The Eight of Cups
The middle of the Atlantic Ocean
June 26, 1721
The main deck of the Lough Sheelin was quiet except for the sounds of the waves lapping against the hull, the snoring of the sleeping crew and the occasional coughs or hoarse whispers of the men who were awake, crewing the ship and manning the midwatch. The ocean sky was clear of clouds, and the stars were scattered from horizon to horizon. The voyage since leaving Jamaica had been uneventful.
The Lough Sheelin was a brig out of Ireland. She had been doing the run between the West Indies and the slave coast of Western Africa for several years now. She had been light on crew when she arrived at Port Royal but had gotten underway with a full complement of sixteen men—well, fifteen men and Anne Bonny.
Anne, still disguised and traveling under the name Andrew Cormac, rose from her sleeping spot on the deck as quietly as she could. Anne had deliberately chosen a spot closer to the rails and farther back toward the poop deck, because she knew what she had planned for tonight.
“Who’s there? Cormac, that you?” one of the watchmen called.
“Aye,” Anne replied, “takin’ a piss.” Anne moved toward the rail and back, out of view of the watch and still hidden from the helmsman as well. She feigned staggering a bit, cussed, and rapped on the side of the captain’s cabin as she did. She made a show of pretending to piss, but what she really wanted to do was free her breasts from the tight cloth binding them. She was making milk to feed her absent boy, and her chest ached in protest at being pinned down. She tried to ignore the sensation and continued acting like she was relieving herself over the rail, in case someone was spying, but she was pretty sure no one was. On a ship, if you kept your tongue, did your job well and didn’t stir the pot, everyone left you be.
On cue, she heard the door to the captain’s cabin creak open, then the thud of boots on the deck. “You there,” a voice with an Irish brogue said, “Cormac, isn’t it?”
“Aye, Captain,” Anne replied, fastening up her trousers and turning.
Captain Will Curran was slight of build, but he made up for it with fierce hazel eyes that could stare down a pirate twice his size. His hair was brown. His cheeks were covered in pox scars that he hid as best he could behind a scrub of beard. “You told me you’ve some knowledge of the merchants we’ll be dealing with in Badagry, yes?”
“Aye, sir,” Anne said.
“Step in here a moment,” Curran said. “I want to discuss a few things with you.”
“But, Captain, we’ve only got a few more hours of shut-eye, could it wait till…”
“It cannot, Mr. Cormac. Now, if you please,” the captain said. He retreated into his cabin. Anne spat over the rail, cussed under her breath, f
ollowed him in and shut the door.
The cabin was lit by a small brass oil lamp of a fashion from the Holy Lands in the East that sat on the table in the room. The table was covered with charts, parchment, an inkwell and quills, the remains of the captain’s dinner, a half-full bottle of wine and Curran’s sextant.
“What the hell was all that?” Curran asked, dropping into his armchair. Anne snatched up the bottle of wine off the table.
“You know a single Jack Tar who wouldn’t bitch a bit about the captain keeping him from forty winks, and I’ll show you a lad soon to be marked as shark bait, and I don’t need that, Willy.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle with her teeth and drank deeply from the bottle. “As it is, they’re liable to think you’re giving poor old Andy a good runnin’ through.”
Curran leaned forward in his chair. “If the crew knows I brought a woman on board, Annie, I’m the one looking at trouble.” Anne laughed and sat in the other chair.
“Hell, Willy, they find out who I am, they’re gonna make me the sodding cap’n.” She took another drink and continued. “I think a few of the old salts might suspect me but not enough to make a sound about it. Besides, we’re less than two weeks from port. Then we part company until you get me home to Charleston.”
Curran nodded. “As long as you bring me back enough of this fortune you’re headed off after to justify me waiting about and not filling my hold up with slaves.”
“Slaving is foul work, Willy,” she said. “You ain’t got the heart for it. Besides, have I ever broke my word?”
“Too often to count,” Curran replied. Anne burped softly and handed him the empty bottle. “But you always show back up and make it good, so, I’m willing to stretch my neck out a bit for you, Annie.” Curran’s eyes brightened a bit. He focused a moment too long on her face, and then his gaze ran over her body.
“Don’t go thinking about stretching anything else out but your neck, m’lad,” Anne said. “This is business. I passed a soddin’ baby outta my hat not too long ago, and it felt like a peggin’ cannonball, so the last thing on my mind right now is basket-making.”
“Aye,” he said, sitting up in his chair. “Just business, Annie.” He pointed to the odd box in the corner, next to his own chest. “Now what about this cursed thing you needed to get at that required this whole duplicity in the first place?”
Anne knelt by the chest. The box had frayed rope handles on either side, and the wood was old and worm-eaten in some places. The whole thing was painted in strange, simple symbols. There were spirals, a legion of monstrous silhouettes made up of different parts of animals and tiny stick-people with spears raised against the horrors. There were other symbols, too, a wide circle made of what looked like, perhaps, femur bones, and a silhouette of exaggerated femininity that seemed to be guardian of the circle and the warrior figures. An angry sky figure, fist raised and rays of light emanating from his featureless face, looked down on the pictograph. The imagery was thin in its lines, and Anne felt a faint but painful pressure behind her eyes if she concentrated on the images for too long.
“Why do you say cursed?” Anne asked as she examined the worn bronze clasps that held the box shut.
“Because,” Curran said, “sometimes at night, I swear I hear … sounds coming from that box, voices speaking in some tongue that makes me ill to try to listen to. Growls, like great beasts, hissing like a serpent and … laughter, children’s laughter.”
Anne looked over to Curran. She had known this man through squall, mutiny and battle. He didn’t scare easily. Curran swallowed. “What is this thing, Annie?”
“The map to our gold,” she said, snapping the clasp on the box open and lifting the lid. The ancient hinges groaned like they were in pain as the chest gave up its secrets.
The interior of the box was also covered in strange pictographs. The box looked like it was about half full of sand. She carefully slid her hand into the powder. It was cool to the touch and it felt like it had larger particles in it, like fragments of shell.
“What’s in there?” Curran asked, bringing the lamp closer to chase away the shadows. Anne could now see the substance was gray, as was her hand. The disturbed dust raised a small cloud that remained within the confines of the box. Anne carefully examined her covered hand and sniffed furtively at it, wrinkling up her nose.
“I think it’s bone dust,” she said. “A few chips, but mostly very fine.”
“Bones!” Curran muttered and crossed himself. “What manner of necromancy have you brought onto my ship, woman?”
Anne ignored him. She slid her hand back into the box and began to root through the grisly material. Her hand caught the edge of something solid and vaguely cylindrical. The ship rose a bit, and the hull creaked. It felt like the Lough Sheelin was hitting a rough patch of water.
She lifted a bone from the dust; it looked to be a human femur. It was painted with the same odd symbols as appeared on the box. Curran uttered a curse to himself under his breath. She examined the bone more closely. It was old, chipped and yellow. A cut line ran around the circumference of one end of the bone, just below the flared and knobby ball-like head. Anne carefully took the head and pulled it away from the rest of the femur. There was a pop, and the end came off, like the seal on a message case. The lamp’s flame flared then fluttered, almost going out. The large aft windows in the cabin began to shudder and hum as a great wind shook them. Curran frowned at the change in the weather. Anne pulled the tightly wrapped cloth within the bone case free. As she did something fell from the case. It dropped into Anne’s palm. It was a ruby, roughly the size of a single pea.
The ship lifted then dropped with a loud crack as the waves slapped the hull. Anne clutched the ruby tight and steadied herself against the odd box. Curran stood, bracing himself on the bulkhead. “What the blazes! I think we’ve hit a blow,” he said. There was insistent thudding on the cabin door.
“Cap’n, Cap’n, come quickly, sir!” the hoarse voice on the other side of the door shouted above the rising din of waves crashing. Curran snuffed out the lamp, grabbed his coat, and threw open the cabin door. Anne stuffed the cloth and the ruby into her shirt and followed him out.
The sound of the storm was everywhere. The crew was racing about, doing their jobs, battening down the hatches as massive cresting waves crashed onto the deck. Other men frantically prepared to furl the sails, in anticipation of the captain’s orders to ahull, drop anchor and wait out the storm. The crewmen who had drawn the odious duty of being bilge rats hurried below deck to make sure the Lough Sheelin didn’t take on too much water. A few men clutched the rails, praying or making hand gestures to ward off evil.
Curran reached the conn and grabbed the grim-faced helmsmen by the shoulder. “Where the hell did all this come from? Why didn’t we get a warning? I swear, if Hennessy was drunk again on watch, I’ll shoot him myse—”
“No sir!” the helmsman shouted as a massive wave spilled over the rails. One of the men who had been praying screamed. The wave, like a massive claw, ripped him from the deck. In an instant, he was gone. “There was no warning, sir. Hennessy is dead—a wave took him out of the crow. No clouds, no front. The sea was smooth as you please … then, it just rose up all about us, sir. Ain’t natural, Captain, not one bit.”
Anne had rushed to the main deck to see if she could spot any of the men overboard, but there was nothing but another black foaming wave rising above the deck, peaking, falling with a roar. She hugged the rail tightly, locking her arms as the ocean tried its damnedest to claim her. There were seconds she was under the cold, salty water, feeling it pull at her, trying to pry her loose. Then she was breathing air again. Her nose stung from the salty froth, but she was alive. She spit at the dark waves. “Not today, your majesty, not bloody today!”
There were screams and shouting behind her. She turned to see several more of the crew were gone, claimed by the storm. She looked skyward, expecting to see brooding storm clouds muscling the stars from the sky; i
nstead what she saw didn’t seem possible. There was a darkness blotting out many of the stars, but it wasn’t clouds. It took her mind a moment to process what the shape looked like, what it was moving like. In that moment, she understood why the sailors had been frozen in fear, praying.
The dark shadow blocking the starry sky was the ocean itself, raised up, looming over the Lough Sheelin, and taking the form of a woman, a giant figure made of seawater.
“What sea devil is this?” Curran shouted. “Step lively! Gilfoy, man the swivel gun!”
“What’s grapeshot gonna do against that giant, Cap’n?” the terrified crewman asked as he and his powder monkey on the gun crew staggered over to the small cannon and hefted it, its fork-like mount and a small cask of powder toward the starboard rail the creature was facing.
“Just do it!” the captain barked. A massive hand made of water slapped against the hull, and the whole ship tipped, almost capsizing onto its side. Anne saw the water giant’s other hand greedily pulling shouting, begging, horrified men from the main deck.
“Mmuommiriiiiii!” the giant bellowed in a distorted voice made out of thunder and fury.
The Lough Sheelin righted herself, and Anne let go of the rail. She had seen water spirits before in her more bizarre travels, but never something like this. “Mmuommiriiiiii!” the thing called out again and raised a fist the size of the ship’s main deck to bring down on the vessel. The cry the spirit let loose sounded oddly familiar to some part of Anne’s mind, Mmuommiri … what the hell? Where did you hear it? Think, think, damn you.
“Dear Lord preserve us!” she heard one of Gilfoy’s gun crew call out as a massive fist of seawater smashed into the hull at the waterline. The world became dark and muted as Anne went below the water again. The sea clawed at her throat and lungs; she felt the slippery wooden deck under her feet give way and she was floating in the black water, feeling the ocean steal her heat as it stole her breath. With all her will, all her fading strength, Anne flailed out for anything to hang onto. Her fingers found and clutched a halyard line. Her heart thudded in her ears, like drums.
The Queen of Swords Page 6