by Ken Altabef
Several chickens ran across his chest, yawking in a frenzied panic.
“Vexed, unvexed. Midnight. Planets and points. Darkness and light. Blood burning, black bile. Lightning in the sky. A deluge. Rejoice!”
The Chrysalid’s voice droned on, its tone rising and falling until all words were the same word. Rejoice!
“I do! I see. Destiny. My destiny. Waiting for me.”
He did see. The message was buried beneath the surface, like a palimpsest in an alien parchment. The beauty of chaos and destruction. The Chrysalid was just a key to a lock. When it comes, such incredible things will spill forth from the other side, ushering in a tidal wave of total destruction. All of civilization—our world entire—will be broken and scattered on the wind.
He saw it all clearly now. The tunnel, the path, was a mosaic, not of stone, but of roiling emotion. Love, hate. Live, die. It was all one and the same, dried leaves fluttering on the breeze. The map of his future. His past—all the hurt and betrayal, those who mocked and discouraged, precious time wasted searching and searching. At last I am here. I am found! Amid this magnificent desolation. I am… here.
A thousand sensations buffeted him at once, stimulating all his senses in the same instant. Oh, if only it could last forever. And why not? A boiling sea of chaos, and him, Meadowlark, at the center of it, lord and master, an immutable godhead. His destiny was there, at the center of the spiral, waiting for him.
“Love me.”
“I do! I loved you before ‘ere we ever met, Mother. I dreamt of you. I’ve been waiting so long, knowing you must appear…” He ripped at his clothes, climaxing again and again as he rolled across the ground amid the flurry of wings and feathers.
“Love me!”
“Yes. Yes!”
Something shoved him over onto his face. Strange. How did she do that?
He rolled over, just in time. The farmer’s son had freed himself. A pitchfork slashed down at Meadowlark’s head. He barely evaded the strike; the points of the pitch kicked up a spray of dirt before his eyes.
Meadowlark sprang to his feet.
“Lousy blight!” screamed the boy.
“Indeed,” replied Meadowlark. If only he had time to instruct this poor whelp in the full meaning of the term. But time was pressing, his mind whirring. He must away. He had more important things to do.
He cartwheeled to the side.
“Fie!” he said, and struck out for the woods.
I must find Theodora. I wonder what would she think of all this?
But, of course, I mustn’t tell.
Chapter 37
Eric gazed into the bonfire on the beach. He’d never before noticed the way fire ate away at the wooden sticks from the bottom up, consuming the source of its own heat. It was remarkably quick. The twigs glowed red and then disappeared right before his eyes. That’s what’s happening to my life, he thought. My whole life.
Draven Ketch sat across from him, lustily devouring half of a roasted rabbit. As the firelight played across the pirate’s craggy face he looked more demon than man. His skin was so dark that when the firelight flickered away it left him only a pair of wild eyes in the night. His unshaven cheeks had sprouted uneven tufts of coarse beard and the hair on his head hung down in matted strands containing various bits of shell, sand and God knew what else.
Ketch kept a spear close to hand. Its point handmade from some animal bone he’d probably found somewhere on the beach. He seemed completely unconcerned that Eric, whose hands were not even bound, might try to fight him. He gobbled his meat with great gusto and smacking noises, but kept one eye on his prisoner just the same. As for the rabbit, Eric wondered if Ketch had crafted some sort of snare or simply pounced on it and strangled it with his bare hands. He seemed capable of anything.
“Now I leave it up to you,” said Ketch. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just put you out of my way before I go to sleep tonight?”
“Kill me, just like that?”
“Definitely. Unless I’ve got good reason to keep you among the livin’, you can consider that little taste of coney your last meal.”
Eric had little appetite for the rabbit, though he’d not eaten all day. Last meal? Had it really come to that? Apparently it had. The threat from Ketch was real. “Well, I didn’t kill you.”
“Heh-hah! You bloody well would’ve, if I hadn’t got away.”
“How did you manage that? The code on the mosaic, I mean. You couldn’t have had more than a few seconds…”
“By lookin’ closely, that’s all. By payin’ attention. Three tiles were just a wee bit grimier than the others. Did you ever think to wash ‘em?”
No, he hadn’t. The smuggler’s tunnel hadn’t been used in decades. But as young boys he and his brother Hake had used it often and in those carefree days dirty hands were the rule.
“I wasn’t going to kill you,” Eric said.
“Bloody well would’ve.”
“No. Not without a trial. That’s the difference.”
Ketch clapped his greasy hands together. “Alrighty, then. If it’s a trial you’re wantin’, I’ll give you a pirate’s trial. Three questions, your grace. First question: Have you any gold or silver in your pockets?”
“Not at the moment.”
Ketch nodded. “Second question: Have you any valuables I can carry off under one arm?”
“You know I don’t.”
“That’s two strikes against you already.” Ketch leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. “I have to tell, it’s lookin’ a bit grim for you, your grace…”
“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m not royal.”
Ketch smiled, showing a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “You won’t have to worry about it much longer.”
“The third question?”
“There’s only one more possible question. Will you help me escape?”
This one Eric couldn’t answer right away. Honor demanded that he refuse. To aid such a despicable scoundrel was out of the question. Even more than that, he was duty bound to bring this man to the authorities. But that was old thinking. That was the thought process of a man who was a nobleman and respectable land owner holding wealth and title. He was none of those things now. Now he was as much a vagabond as this foul pirate.
“What’s this?” said Ketch. “Do I sense hesitation? Duty? Honor? A noble thought, self-destructive as it might be. So I’m goin’ to do you a favor. Make this a real trial. I’m goin’ to offer a witness for the defense. What d’you say?”
“I don’t want to play any more games.”
“It’s no game,” said the pirate with true menace in his voice. He took one last bite of the rabbit haunch. “You should know something about me. I’m your witness! Now where should I start? Martinique. Have you ever been?”
“No.” Eric took a tepid bite of the rabbit haunch. So long as the pirate was talking, he wasn’t killing.
“A beautiful place,” said Ketch. “Truly beautiful. So green and lush. There’s a mountain near the bay. It’s green. You understand? It’s just green. Turquoise water. Nothin’ but blue sky. And the women. None better. Mmmm, the French are a pain in the ass but besides that it’s paradise on earth, my friend. There’ve got to be a couple snakes in any garden, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Right. Only a few French, so it wasn’t too bad, I mean, if you could stand the smell. Hard work though, swingin’ a hoe all day. I didn’t mind the work. You get into a nice rhythm ‘tween your back and arms after a few hours. There were six of us workin’ that farm. We used to sing all day. All day long. Singin’ and singin’. You ever work all day, hoein’ sugar cane in the pourin’ rain? No? I didn’t think so.”
“I don’t farm.”
“Of course not. You own everythin’ round here except the breathin’. Or I might say, used to own all that before they threw you over. Who did it? That musclebound ape Fitzroy March?”
“He’s dead.”
Ketch shrugged. “Won�
�t be missed. Well, what do you expect? He knocked out two of my best teeth.”
“You were talking about Martinique.”
“So I was. Hoein’ sugar cane. I was a free man, you understand. Mssr. Toulon owned the farm, but he wasn’t my master. He was a good friend. He paid me in little silver coins with Louie the Fifteenth’s smilin’ face stamped on ‘em. A good friend. Right up until they killed him.
“I was drunk when it happened, missed the whole damn thing. A ship came into port. A big, well-armed brigantine flyin’ French colors. Six cannons on each side. The next thing I knew I was press-ganged into the French merchant marine. The Captain was a man by the name of Labrea, a wealthy man who owned a full quarter share of the ship and cargo. A quarter of the ship, but he owns all the men, you understand. He owns ’em, body and soul. I didn’t take to it very well, got into a row with some of the others. Captain strung me up and whipped half the skin off my back. The first time. Second time I spent a month in the hold, sittin’ in my own filth. You ever spend a week shackled to a beam half under water? I didn’t think so.
“I played nice after that. My job was to trim the jibsails. That’s risky work up there among the masts but I was good at it. When we got to Africa they unloaded the ship and we took on new cargo. I watched as a hundred and fifty slaves loaded on. I should’ve known. But in those days I hadn’t experience enough to recognize the slave deck down in the hold. It’s the low ceilin’ that gives it away, you know. I spent a good bit of time down there, as I’ve said.
“My skin was as dark as any of the captives, but a free man and a slave are two different things to the merchant marines. The main difference bein’ I could help ’em sail the ship. So I trimmed the jibs and took the occasional beatin’. Captain didn’t like me any better on the way back, either. Someone on board always winds up the goat, you understand. Oh he liked to kick me in the balls. Right in the balls. Anytime at all. Hah! I cut his off him, halfway back to Europe.
“After we seized the ship, they put me in charge. I was the Captain now, hah-heh, but I wasn’t free. Not yet. We still had all those slaves pent up in the hold. I wanted to cut ’em loose, I really did, but they were worth a lot of money. A whole lot of money. I didn’t care about the money but the men would’ve killed me certain. So I had a choice. I was free to do what was right and die, or I could live. Die free or live.
“So I watched ’em hauled away when we got to Nantes, just as I’d watched ’em loaded on at the ivory coast. They all had names, you know. They all had stories. I never knew any of ’em. They used to sing sometimes, down in that hold. You ever hear slaves singin’—no, of course not. Well, I never traded slaves again. Not again. But I’ll be damned for what I did to those men. And women. And children.
“I died that day, standin’ on the dock, watchin’ them go. So that’s the story of how I killed for the first time and how I died the first time too. The rest of it doesn’t really matter. A life lived on the rough. A lot of thievin’ and grape shot flyin’ through the air, some killin’, a fair bit of wenchin’, a lot of drinkin’. Living free, if you count runnin’ and hidin’ as being free. I don’t. Not really. Not when it comes down to it.”
Ketch went quiet and gazed down at his dinner. A dangerous look crossed his eyes.
“That’s my testimony,” he added, snapping the rabbit bone between his fingers, “if it please the court.”
Eric wasn’t impressed by the pirate’s display of false humility. “How’s this supposed to help? You really expect me to believe you’re just a misunderstood and unfortunate fellow? That there’s a good heart underneath all that salt crust?”
“Don’t ever think that,” said Ketch. “I’d kill you just as soon as look at you. It’s the farm. Weren’t you listenin’? Martinique. That’s where I’m headed. That’s what I want. So you can set your conscience at ease, your grace. There won’t be any blood on your hands. You get the same choice I had when they press-ganged me. Do what you think is right and die—die free. Or live. The same choice I had when I watched those slaves shuffle down the pier in chains. Die free or live?”
Eric took a bite of his rabbit. Hidden behind his back, his other hand closed around a fistful of sand.
“Goin’ to throw that sand in my face?” asked Ketch. “Not a very Lordly thing to do, I don’t think. Believe me, squire, I’ve seen every dirty trick in the book. Seen too much. Too damned much. You know what the savages do in Borneo? They file down the knuckles on their fightin’ hand. The bones! File ‘em down to sharp points so that when they make a fist the bones push through the skin. Heh? Punch you with that—tears your face half off.”
He’s a madman, thought Eric. An absolute madman. Surely Ketch was making that up. But looking closely, when the pirate tilted his face a bit, there were a row of ragged scars on his chin, four of them in line.
Here goes nothing, thought Eric. He flung the fistful of sand in the pirate’s face.
Ketch turned his head just in time. And when he turned back one eye was closed tight, the other half-shut and glaring at him, crusted with sand.
“Come on then,” he said.
Eric Jumped to his feet and Ketch did the same. Eric was trained not to underestimate his opponents, and assumed the pirate was a crafty fighter. He was, at all times, as tense and dangerous as a caged animal.
Eric raised his fists in a basic stance—left arm halfway extended, right arm tucked tightly back and ready to spring. Fitzroy March had always had a keen interest in prizefighting and had instructed him in both Broughton's pugilism and bare-knuckle fighting. Ketch put his hands up as well but stood with knees too straight, leaning forward not back. The pirate’s lack of skill was already apparent.
Eric stepped lightly side to side. Ketch stepped boldly forward and took a swing. Eric ducked under, came up sharp and sent three blinding punches to the pirate’s face. The latter two hit full on and when Eric pulled his hand back it was streaked with Ketch’s blood. The pirate stood dazed for a few seconds, blood running from a break in the skin at the bridge of his nose.
Ketch changed his stance, his arms all out of order, going places they shouldn’t. He’s already lost all focus and technique, thought Eric. This is almost too easy.
Eric circled around a bit just to mix things up a little, then rushed in for another barrage. His first jab was met by the side of Ketch’s forearm, knocking his arm up and away. His wrist clasped Eric’s and yanked down. Before Eric knew what was happening, Ketch had brought his chin down to meet his up-rushing knee. His teeth clacked shut, clipping his tongue. His arm was forced round behind his back in a painful twist, his leg swept out from under him, and he went face-first into the sand.
Ketch chuckled. “The Chinese call that wushu. Never been to the Orient myself, you understand. But we did have a mate on the Bloody Hand, showed me a few things.”
Eric spat out a mouthful of sand.
“Seein’ as you’re down there anyway,” said Ketch, “how’s about you lick my boots clean?”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, so we’re back to that, are we?”
Ketch allowed Eric to stand and they went at it again. Eric took a more guarded stance this time, both arms tucked close. He had no intention of letting Ketch grab him again. In fact his new plan was to maneuver the man round so that he might get his hands on the spear, which was stuck upright in the ground behind the pirate. Ketch seemed to have forgotten it was there
Eric launched a few jabs in combination but did not land any of them. Ketch’s new fighting style seemed to rely on his adversary first creating an opening with a sloppy attack. Eric was determined not to do so.
Once he had maneuvered Ketch out of the way Eric grabbed for the spear. He held it midshaft with the intention to step in close and rake the point across the pirate’s belly.
Ketch took a half-step backward. At last, thought Eric, I’ve gotten the Raven to retreat. Not bad.
“Give it up, Ketch.”
“I can’t. I need y
ou to help get me off this island.”
“I’ll be happy to oblige, just so long as you’re in chains.”
Eric slashed at the pirate, aiming low, but the point did not connect. I gave him a chance. I’d prefer to subdue him, but if I have to kill him I will.
Ketch let his guard down for a moment and Eric dashed forward. This time he stabbed the point of the makeshift spear straight on. Ketch could not avoid it, but instead he struck the shaft just below the tip, redirecting its energy downward. The lower half of the spear swung upward, hitting Eric in his own stomach and stopping him cold. Ketch struck him on the side of the neck and Eric saw stars. Ketch followed with a quick punch in the stomach, revisiting the sore spot the spear haft had caused, and another nudge behind the knees and Eric went down again. Ketch dove on top of him with his full weight, pinning him once again face-down on the beach.
Eric noticed a gleam out of the corner of his eye and felt a knife point at the back of his neck. Did he have that knife hidden all along? Eric wondered. He might have used it earlier.
“Now, pray tell. Will you help me escape?”
Eric took a deep breath. “Of course.”
Chapter 38
“Ow!” Theodora hissed.
A wooden splinter had stung her forearm. The sudden stab of pain almost caused her to drop her glamour, but she held fast. Maintaining the illusion of Lady Grayson was the last thing she really wanted to be burdened with just now. She wished she could finally drop it once and for all. My marriage is over and still I must cling to this disguise. I don’t want to die as a human; if it comes down to that, I want to be myself at the end.
“Be a little more careful, can’t you?” she remarked to one of the two men attacking the chapel’s altar. Her ‘cousin’ looked up at her. This young faery was either not yet adept at mimicking the human face and skin tone or had simply chosen to mock his human hosts. He wore a comical parody of a face with an oversized nose, a slobbering mouth and large jug-ears sticking out the sides. His stiff shock of orange hair looked like something one would find sticking out of a scarecrow’s head. He smirked at Theodora without bothering to apologize, and then continued ripping up the base of the altar with his pickaxe, sending more scraps of wood and gilt trim flying every which way.