Harry and the Pirates_and Other Tales from the Lost Years

by Brian Lumley

  “—Except I was wrong and it wasn’t!”

  “Black Jake Johnson’s orders for that night had been simple indeed. ‘Stumpy Pete, ye old peg-leg,’ he’d said, ‘in a calm such as this ’un, ye may think that no one’s likely to come creepin’ up on us. And so ye may also think that keepin’ watch is hardly necessary . . . but it is! Ye’ll keep the lanterns lit, both fore and aft; ye’ll keep the rats from the galley, the old Sea Witch from sinkin’, and yereself off the rum, of which everyone knows ye’re too damn fond! Now, have I said enough?’

  “ ‘Aye, Cap’n,’ says Pete, with a snappy salute.

  “ ‘Also,’ Jake goes on, ‘should a wind come up—or even a breeze to stir the sails—ye’ll wake me first, then the rest. Is it understood?’

  “ ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n!’ Another salute, and that was that.

  “But the next mornin’, as dawn broke, its pale light filterin’ through a knothole in the strakes, a wind did indeed come up. The first I knew of it was when the ship groaned and leaned over to leeward a little as a risin’ wind caught us side-on. It was no big blow—no tropical storm, as it were—but enough to swing my hammock about a bit until I sensed the motion.

  “But what was this? No cursin’ from Black Jake Johnson? No hollerin’ or blasphemin’, which there must surely be if he were up and about while all the rest slept on? Ah! But no sooner the thought than the Cap’n’s bull roar:

  “ ‘Where is he? Where’s that peg-leg, Stumpy Pete Parsons? For as Davy Jones is my witness, I’ll have his mahogany fittin’ sharpened to a point and relocated so good and tight that he’ll never sit down on the job again! No, nor anywhere else for that matter! Where are ye, ye idle old sea slug!’

  “Fearin’ Jake’s righteous rage, the rest of the crew were quick from their rest, and I give myself credit that I was just as quick and quicker. Not yet wholly or decently dressed, there I was at the helm, fumblin’ with my buttons and toggles, and at the same time swingin’ the Sea Witch’s prow leeward to help her stop fightin’ the anchor, which I believed had got caught up on the bottom.

  “Meanwhile the wind had come on stronger; young Will Moffat was monkeyin’ up the mainmast to the crow’s-nest; the crew were about their accustomed duties, those who had such, and the rest were waitin’ on Black Jake’s instructions. Which was when someone stumbled across Stumpy Pete Parsons. Except that someone—whose name isn’t important, and in any case I can’t remember it—wouldn’t have known it was Stumpy Pete at all if his peg-leg hadn’t been stickin’ out of the wizened bundle of rags that lay there on the deck: a varnished hardwood limb that rolled free of the loose fittin’s on Pete’s shrivelled leathery stump when the deckhand who’d found him nudged it with the toe of his boot!

  “Well, even Black Jake was dumbstruck when the ship’s sawbones (he’d been a landlubber who’d run off to sea when several of his patients died from his remedies) unwrapped what was left of poor Pete from clothes as brittle as beached, sun-dried seaweed. Only six or seven hours ago this had been a man, albeit a one-legged man, of firm flesh, a sound heart, a full blue beard of which he was proud and a healthy appetite. Yet now—

  “—Stumpy Pete was dead as a doornail, a thing of skin and bones, a veritable husk! His eyes were open but glassy, frozen in some nameless horror; his mouth gaped in a frame of fretted lips, where one or two stained fangs leaned like weathered old tombstones in the dark of that last long yawn; his cheeks were sunken in, as if his final act had been to suck air for a second scream (perhaps because the first one had come out a thin, quaverin’ squawk much like a seabird might make?) and his once-proud beard had been reduced to patchy stubble that the risin’ wind was liftin’ from his parchment face and chin like so much dust!

  “Well, to give Black Jake credit, he made a quick recovery from whatever shock or astonishment he might have felt; in less time than it takes to tell he was up on the after deck shoutin’ over the howlin’ wind: ‘What, are ye not only blind but stupid, the lot of ye? The cable’s taut and the vessel strainin’ like a bloodhound on its leash. So slip the anchor, says I, before the Sea Witch suffers an injury! Jump to it, ye godless lot! And as for this blow’: we’ll go wherever the wind takes us and let the old ship ride it out!’

  “Then he joined me at the helm, and said: ‘Well, Mister. I see you were up and about at least . . . or anyways pretty quick. So then, what d’ye make of all this? I mean Stumpy Pete Parsons bein’ dead and all; that and the way of it. Is this a rum to-do or what, and did ye ever see its like before?’

  “ ‘Well truth to tell, Cap’n Jake,’ says I, ‘there’s no end of things here that I never saw or heard of before. . . .

  “ ‘Well then,’ says Jake, ‘say on, Mister, say on!’

  “ ‘First off,’ says I, ‘about lightnin’, sperm whales, and what some say is regurgitated in certain strange circumstances. Now then, I’ve never in my life heard anythin’—’

  “ ‘Now you hold fire there, Mister!’ the Cap’n cuts me off, scowls, and quickly goes on to say: ‘Oh, I know what ye’re gettin’ at, aye.’ But then he chuckles—somethin’ mighty rare to hear!—and says, ‘My ambergris story, eh?’

  “ ‘Well, Cap’n,’ says I, ‘I do know a little somethin’ about ambergris, but as for lightnin’-struck whales, I—‘

  “ ‘A yarn made up on the spur of the moment,’ says he, cuttin’ me off again. ‘There I was: Zhadia wailin’ for me to fetch that cloak, dress, or whatever aboard the old Sea Witch, and me bein’ unwillin’ to oblige her—or rather, unwillin’ to be seen obligin’ her! What, Black Jake Johnson hastenin’ to the beck of a mere female—even one as rare as this ’un? Why, if certain of the scum aboard this ship should see that kind of weakness in a man—or any kind of weakness, for that matter—the next thing ye know . . . But there, Mister. I’m sure ye get my drift. So then, that’s that and then there’s the other. In the main it was Pete Parsons I was enquirin’ of; Pete, and what ye might make of the way of his demise?’

  “ ‘Aye,’ I offer a thoughtful nod. ‘Which is where I say we should begin at the beginnin’.’

  “ ‘Eh?’ says Black Jake, frownin’. ‘Explain.’

  “And so I did. ‘It started when that thing fell out of the sky: that splash of queer brilliance, like an oddment left over from a bolt of heavenly—or hellish—golden weave.’

  “ ‘A bolt?’ says the Cap’n, tweakin’ my meanin’. ‘Aye, like a bolt from the blue, eh?’

  “ ‘But no simple shootin’ star such as we’ve seen on many a night,’ says I. ‘No, not this thing that comes spirallin’ down, landin’ with a force that rocks the ship, then ends up floatin’ all serene on the sea until we bring it on board and hang it in the riggin’ . . . which is when the weird of it begins. You saw it for yourself for sure, Cap’n. In your woman’s eyes: the lustin’ after it! And not only Zhadia—with a pretty woman’s need for pretty things—but the crew, too. Not one of them could resist it but must come and ogle the thing, fascinated by it as though it were some real treasure and not just a scrap of some strange golden fabric fashioned in the stars.’

  “ ‘A fascination, aye!’ Jake husked. ‘And for a fact I felt it myself: the queer pull of it. So much so that I was quick to remove Zhadia from its lure. I can’t say why, but I didn’t want her touchin’ it, that’s all. . . .’

  “Now not too long ago the Cap’n had spoken of weakness ‘of any kind’ (for which read fear,) and of his stubborn refusal to display such. Yet I had long known Jake to be not only a shrewd and vigilant man but somethin’ of a superstitious one, too. And it seemed to me as we stood there at the helm that for once his cagey, suspicious nature had surrendered to his credulous side. It had been, however, but a momentary surrender. And now—

  “—Suddenly pullin’ himself together, he searched my face with a penetratin’ gaze, and snapped: ‘Oh, and what of ye, Mister? Didn’t ye feel it too? Or is Cap’n Jake just an old softy, eh? P’raps soft in the head, ye know?’

  “ ‘What, yo
u, soft in your head, Black Jake Johnson?’ says I at once. ‘No, never! Not a bit of it! Oh, I felt it, Cap’n! But sharin’ your own keen interest in such remarkable occurrences—which is all you’re feelin’, I’m certain sure, a consumin’ interest not only in nature but also in the unnatural, and nothin’ to be afeared or ashamed of in that—and bein’ much like yourself attracted but resistant to idle fancies and such, why—’

  “ ‘Enough!’ says Jake. ‘None of yere poxy flattery, Mister! Just tell me what ye think happened here, and quick about it.’

  “ ‘Well you heard what the sawbones said, Cap’n Jake,’ says I. ‘How Stumpy Pete would have lived a lot longer if he’d liked apples as well as he liked rum. A bad case of scurvy is what it was; the worst case ever, which caught up with Pete very sudden like. Very sudden, aye. Scurvy, Cap’n! Or at least, that’s what the sawbones says.’

  “And in a while, starin’ through thoughtful, narrowed eyes far across the ruffled sea, Jake slowly nods and says: ‘Scurvy, ye say? Well, p’raps, Mister. But I’m sure ye must have noticed where the peg-leg was found, lyin’ stiff as a board on the deck? Directly under that thing hangin’ in the riggin’, that’s where! And do ye recall yestereve, how it was grown a mite dull? Well, just look at it now, will ye.’ He nods again, seemingly directin’ my gaze fore and amidships.

  “But before I can look proper, the Cap’n catches my elbow and says, ‘Listen, Mister. Ye started off talkin’ about weirdness and things ye never saw nor heard of before. Well, I have to agree there’s somethin’ weird here. In fact I’d have the men jettison yon thing—a shroud for Peg-leg Pete in the dampness of the deeps, which is where that poor bugger’s bound—except I fancy it may have some real value; and anyway I won’t be seen to be the least bit leery of it. Hell’s teeth, I’m not leery of it—nor anythin’ else, for that matter!—but this so-called “pirates crew” of mine just might be. So no more talk of weirdness, ghosties, ghoulies, and such. The pegleg’s no great loss, truth be told, but we don’t want anyone else jumpin’ ship. Now ye’d best hurry on down and chivvy that bunch of gawpin’ fools up a bit, get them workin’ again, attendin’ to the Sea Witch’s welfare, before their lazy feet take root in the plankin’! Off ye go.’

  “Havin’ said his all, and with another nod amidships—his eyes reflectin’ a certain golden glimmer—Black Jake let go my elbow and shoved me in that direction. So off I went, down onto the deck amidships, fightin’ the blow along the way.

  “And there it was, with a handful of crewmen just standin’ there, starin’ up at it where it whipped in the wind. Except it didn’t really whip and snap, not like a sail’s canvas, but sort of floated there all languid like despite the rush and bluster. As for yestereve’s dullness, as remarked upon by the Cap’n: not any longer. Because for all that the day was overcast and spray flyin’ from a surgin’ prow, that sky-cloth shone like burnished metal: for a fact, like precious gold!

  “Indeed it seemed renewed, revitalised. Ah, but then—as I came upon a second small knot of crewmen where they mumbled a few words over Stumpy Pete’s wrapped corpse before launchin’ it to a watery grave—I looked again at that glowin’ thing, speculatin’ at the cost of its newfound brilliance. . . .

  “Then, turnin’ from the rail, it happened I glanced in the direction of Black Jake and Zhadia’s cabin situated under the after-deck. The door was somewhat ajar and there she stood, half-hidden from view in the shadows of the cabin, gazin’ out across the deck. Aye, and what was Zhadia’s gaze rapt upon but the sky-cloth’s golden glow, its shimmerin’ warp and weave as it wafted so lazy like on the wind. Except . . . now the strangest thing of all, for I saw how the sky-cloth ignored the wind; it failed to fly leeward of the blow but instead seemed attracted to Zhadia; it wafted diagonally or side-on, appearin’ to drift towards her! And I suddenly found myself thinkin’ a crazy thought: how if it hadn’t been made fast in the riggin’ it might have attempted to fly right into Zhadia’s eager arms!

  “But just then Zhadia saw me lookin’; she retreated out of sight, reluctantly I thought, and closed the door. And as quick as you like with Zhadia’s exit, the sky-cloth quit its hypnotic weavin’ and fell into formless folds, for all its lustre like a lifeless rag hangin’ there in the riggin’. . . .”

  The atmosphere in the Hartlepool graveyard had grown heavy now, full of the oppressiveness of air that is usually the harbinger of bad weather. It might almost seem that the tropical storm of the dead pirate’s tale had somehow conjured or evoked this one; but no, for Harry had anticipated its coming ever since leaving the old stone harbour in the antique town’s most northerly quarter. And now that Billy Browen had chosen this moment to pause, perhaps to reassess, readjust his story’s pace and progress, so the Necroscope found himself presented with the ideal opportunity to take stock of more mundane things—

  —Which took him but a moment, until:

  “Billy,” he said, “I fear that if I remain here any longer I’m going to get wet. As it is I’m all cramped up, and if I die of pneumonia you’ll never get the tale told, now will you?” And as if to illustrate his complaints he grunted, “Uh!” as he made the effort to rise and straighten up . . . which happened to coincide with the first of the heavy raindrops, one of which landed inside his collar. Then, as he stretched himself and flexed the muscles of his legs to ease the cramps:

  Now, now, Harry! the ex-pirate chided. Don’t you know it’s bad luck to talk of dyin’—not to mention in very bad taste—especially if you’re talkin’ to someone who’s already dead?

  Nodding, Harry answered, “You know, you’re probably right? But since speaking to the dead is my lot there’s not much I can do about it. Anyway, it hasn’t hurt me so far.” And heaven only knows I’ve done enough of it! Which was a thought Harry kept to himself, though not for any reason that came easily to mind.

  On the far side of the graveyard the caretaker was locking heavy iron gates. In the deepening gloom of a dreary, worsening evening he’d failed to observe that the usually neglected cemetery had a visitor. The Necroscope had noticed him, however, and now to maintain his advantage he turned up his collar and stepped back into the shade of the trees.

  Then as the rain came on in earnest, he spoke again to the ex-pirate, this time in Billy Browen’s own deadspeak mode. It’s time I was off, Billy. But I’ll admit you’ve got me interested. So weather permitting I’ll return some time tomorrow, or if not then as soon as possible. And that’s a promise.

  Excellent! came the other’s deadspeak sigh—once again of gratitude, or possibly inordinate relief?—I’m already lookin’ forward to it . . . er, Harry?

  But as the wind whipped the trees and the leaden raindrops came squalling down, spattering like a myriad miniature eggs on the slabs and markers, the ex-pirate’s words went unheard, lost to the deadspeak aether. For the Necroscope was no longer listening, indeed he was no longer there. . . .

  Early the next morning, waking up alone in his lonely, rambling old house standing well off the beaten track near the hamlet of Bonnyrig, some miles from Edinburgh, Harry found himself with a headache; which was unusual for the Necroscope. It was also unusual that he was alone and “at home.” For during this phase of his life a lot of his time—and in fact almost every night—was spent with Bonnie Jean Mirlu at her place in the city. B.J. was away right now, however, paying a visit to a relative or an old friend of the family whom Harry had heard her refer to only as “Auld John,” in a place called Inverdruie “up north;” a fact which one of the girls B.J. employed as a hostess or barmaid in her Edinburgh wine bar had passed on to him by telephone only a minute or two after he had exited the Möbius Continuum into his living room on the previous evening.

  Now, on reflection, and with B.J. in mind, the Necroscope reconsidered the frequency of his headaches and their possible cause or origin. For while just a moment ago he had misrepresented his current condition as “unusual”—which, for as long as he could remember, was exactly what such migraines had used t
o be—the truth of it was that since B.J.’s advent headaches and inexplicable periods of forgetfulness and absentmindedness had become not so much unusual as prevalent!

  Suddenly realising that he was at cross-purposes with himself, Harry shrugged irritably. Oh, she was definitely one deep and mysterious lady, this Bonnie Jean! So perhaps his migraines came from trying to fathom the unfathomable, comprehend the unknowable and tame the completely untameable? For after all, who else but B. J. Mirlu would have the sheer gall, the impertinence to refer to the cold vampire killer and Necroscope, Harry Keogh, as her “wee man,” and order him home like a little boy who had stayed out too late at night? Which, on several occasions, she had done! And these were orders with which Harry had willingly complied, at that!

  Of course, B.J. wasn’t aware of his . . . but his what? His secret identity, like Lois Lane with Clark Kent? She was privy to as little of Harry’s metaphysical talents and previous life as he to hers; but he felt fairly sure that even if she suspected he was somehow different or special it wouldn’t change anything very much, because he was that much under her spell—and she knew it! But still Harry fancied (however erroneously) that this “spell” he was under was no supernatural thing. No, it was her incredible sensuality that attracted him, or which—while he continued to deny the reality of it—more properly held him fast, besotted and in thrall; simply that rather than some dark and esoteric magic. And he smiled as he wondered:

  Can too much sex give a man migraines?

  On the other hand—as another sharp, stabbing pain struck him in his temple, banishing his smile and causing him to wince—on the other hand, it was ridiculous to even jokingly ascribe blame for this current headache to B. J. Mirlu when it was plain that its source was something else entirely. . . .

  It had been there ever since he’d woken up—perhaps even before that—as part of a dream. Now, while toasting bread and making himself a pot of coffee, a frown creased the Necroscope’s forehead as he attempted to bring that dream back into focus: