The Isle of Gold

by Seven Jane

  She laughed softly as I completed my memorization of her unearthly form. The sound tittered about the echoing chamber like a bubbling brook if the water had been too cold to support life. “Welcome, Merrin Jones,” the echo of her voice said as it arrived where I waited on the bed.

  “Who are you?” I asked of her back, although I had a guess. There was only one woman born of the sea who could have matched her description, although she had been called by many names in stories as old as the sea itself and it was impossible to tell which one may have been the first, or correct. “And where am I?”

  “A friend,” she replied lightly, her voice lilting in a way that made me uneasy but not fearful. “And you are safe, dear. There is no need to be troubled here. I mean you no harm.” Her voice might have warmed on the last part, but the heat was fleeting.

  With a flick of her wrist she sat the mirror down on the table, baring a surface inlaid with mother of pearl and a perfect, crisp sand dollar. Her long, slender fingers lay atop the mirror’s face, lovingly stroking the outline of the sand dollar, but still she made no move to face me.

  Despite her assurances of friendship and peace, I pushed my feet to the edge of the bed and slid with them until my toes touched the cool stone of the floor. I pulled myself upright, enjoying the sensation of the curls swinging against my back as I sat lightly on the edge, wishing I were in my familiar clothing, even if it were so much less lovely. There were knives in the worn folds of the garments, and it would not be an easy thing to defend myself in a shift, even it was such a lovely one that I hated to be rid of.

  “You’re Mélusine.” It was a statement, not a question, although it was one I spoke tentatively and without accusation. I was not sure how one should address a goddess.

  She sighed and there was sadness in it. “No,” she said, and her voice sounded like cold crystal. “I am not.”

  “Then who are you?” I asked, but she answered only with silence. It hung in the air between us. “Why am I here?” I questioned. Then, remembering the storm … “What has happened to the ship? Where are the others of my crew?” Each of my questions grew louder, and more adamant, and I could feel the urgency of them in my chest as each was left just as unanswered as the one before.

  There was a rustling of silk and a sound like rushing water, and the woman stood without turning. Around the narrow pinch of her waist I could see that she held something in her hands in front of her. She bent her long, perfect neck so that her face was lowered when she turned to me. I noticed two things at once. First, was that even though she faced me, her gaze was hidden by a thick ribbon of red lace the same color of her gown. All I could see of her face was its shape: a long, narrow nose like a downward arrow over a strong jaw with the slightest hint of a dimple in the chin, and the curve of smirking, deep red lips. The mask complicated her beauty, but did not diminish it, and her smile would have been pleasant had it not been for the concealing effect of the lace, which made it alternatively cruel and kind depending on the blink of the chamber’s candlelight as she slid toward me over the limestone floor.

  The second thing I noticed was the thing she held clasped in front of her, a round edge of its worn leather brim grasped in each of her long-fingered hands. She was in possession of my hat, the same one I’d seen blow away and be lost into the storm.

  “Charybdis.” Like Winters, I named the storm.

  She laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and extended the hat in one hand toward me. “No, dear,” she cooed dismissively. “She lost her form a long time ago.” She held the hat in her outstretched arm, waiting for me to take it, but I was hesitant. I reached forward, but then my hand stalled halfway between us, afraid to touch her or take anything from her hand. She tittered coldly again, and this time it was unmistakably a frightening sound. The expression of her face remained hidden behind the lace, but I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that her eyes were cruel above the smile she wore while she spoke, making otherwise kind words completely sinister. “Don’t worry, dear, I won’t bite.”

  Said the snake to Eve.

  My hat toppled out of her fingers and into mine, and I held it tightly, like it was a protective shield. A satisfied chitter came from behind her still-smirking red lips, and the strange being turned her back to me again and began to glide back to her vanity. I could not see if she had feet to carry her beneath the flowing red silk, but it didn’t seem that she did.

  “I just wanted to see you … just once. For now,” she said in clipped words spoken over her shoulder as she moved farther and farther away. Her voice had stopped pretending to be human and the tendrils of her gown waved good-bye over the curve of her skin as if they were floating in water. Her face seemed frozen as she cast one final backward glance at me, the image of her faltering slightly, and then she gave a tight, unpleasant smile before leaving me with her final words: “You have your father’s eyes, Merrin Jones.”

  My eyes snapped open to the sounds of men yelling and the ship swaying violently beneath me, jarred from the tranquility of what had obviously been a dream by sensations that were becoming all too common. I thought, at first, that we were still in the storm, but then my hands gripped the edges of my hammock as it swung abruptly and then slowed to a stop. The familiar view of the captain’s cabin filled my sight, and the feeling of my scratchy clothes and limp, sea-hardened hair brought me great comfort. My body relaxed in the wrap of my bed, and for a moment I thought that maybe I had dreamt it all—the frozen sea, the ashrays that walked amongst the men on deck, the cetone chamber and the strange, beguiling woman—but I knew I hadn’t. Such idle fantasies were the stuff of those who could only stare at the water and imagine its secrets, but did not belong to those who had lived them. The memories of these were now as much a part of me as every other I possessed.

  Now, the sea cove was gone and I was relieved to be in familiar surroundings, but unsure of how I had come to be in the captain’s quarters. My last memory was of the storm, and Tom Birch’s unconscious body sheltered beneath mine as we braced for the impact of the maelstrom’s fury.

  Tom.

  What had become of him, and the rest of the men? It made no sense that we had survived the storm, but it was apparent we had. As the haze of sleep cleared and the remnants of the dream faded, I could make out the men’s voices more clearly, funneling in through the cracks in the walls above board. They were yelling, not in panic or in manner intended to build confidence for oncoming battle, but in a sound that sounded almost merry, like celebration. Grey sunshine, the result of an overcast sky, filtered in through the edges of the curtains hanging over the cabin’s sprawling windows. The burden of night and storm had passed. The ship stalled and then heaved sharply to one side, like she, too, was resting herself, and then all was still. I could hear the sound of men’s voices in agreeable chorus, and then the scuttling sounds that suggested that each man had claimed for himself a piece of the deck to rest and drink and gamble in a well-earned reprieve after the past night’s adventure.

  Over my months at sea I had perfected the ability to rise upward from the folds of the hammock without allowing it to sway awkwardly, and as I sat forward to see the room fully the first thing my eyes landed on was Tom’s long, lean body on the other end of the cabin. His skin was ashen, and his long limbs draped limply over the edges of a makeshift cot brought up from the crew’s quarters. At first I thought him to be surely dead, but then I saw the shallow rise and set of his chest, lifting and falling with short, uneven breaths. Anchored in place beside him was the squat lump that belonged to Mister Horace Clarke, the ship’s doctor. He attended to Tom in quick, fidgeting movements—snaps of fingers and jerks of wrists—that had a distinctly rodent-like quality to them, befitting of the round little hoarder who existed almost entirely in his little cowardly hole of seclusion, joined only with the company of his medical instruments and bibelots and whatever stores of his private pantry he had left. I guessed this could not have been much; of late he and Jomo had regarded each other with
suspicion whenever they crossed paths, like neither fully trusted the other not to steal the precious remaining bits of food aboard the ship.

  When his gaze met mine, his beady eyes were leveled over Tom’s sleeping form and drilling into me with such intensity that they might catch fire and burn like sunlight pointed through glass. There was obvious accusation in them, and disgust. Most pirates, I knew, even those who were more lax in their adherence to Bartholomew Robert’s pirate’s code that decreed penalty of death to those caught sailing with women, still believed it mighty bad luck to have a woman onboard, even if she were a member of the crew. Worse still, in our circumstance, men like the ship’s doctor might not only consider my presence a consequence of poor luck, but the reason for it. It had been my name called when we plunged headfirst into the storm.

  He glared at me until I had no choice but to acknowledge it, swallowing his distrust as I met his stare. Then, satisfied that he had made his distaste for me known, he returned his eyes to his charge, fussing with bandages and ointments that seemed unnecessary. There were no obvious wounds on Tom’s body, no justification for the condition in which he lay. He looked like he was only sleeping, and if it had not been for his unnatural color I would have guessed he’d wake any moment. “You be needing anything, missus?” Mister Clarke asked in a raspy voice that cracked painfully on missus, as if it carried a sour taste, and I realized with a start that he was addressing me.

  The thought occurred that perhaps I should apologize, or introduce myself, but I had sailed with the man for months and still did not feel like I owed him anything. “No,” I decided, both in response to Mister Clarke’s question and to the possibility of a new introduction. Nothing I could say would erase the look in his eyes anyway. “How is Mister Birch?”

  The doctor grunted in a manner that did not inspire confidence. He ran a bloated hand stemmed with sausage-fingers over the bald slick of his thinning hair and shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t rightly know,” he admitted with an exasperated tone. “Man’s just stuck in sleep. Pulse is beating, but it’s weak and faster than it aught to be. Can’t find nothing else wrong with him. I tried bleeding him, tried resuscitating him … hell, I tried every damn thing I can think to try.” He shrugged, then sunk his palms into his knees and pushed himself upright. “Best to keep him comfortable and see if he wakes up on his own, I guess. I’ve done all I can for him.”

  “If’?” The word stuck in my throat as I digested the horrors of what he’d done to Tom’s unaware form—bleeding and bandaging and covering it in foul smelling ointments. Even for a pirate’s crew, the doctor’s methods were crude.

  Clarke glared at me at again, not even trying to hide the scorn in his eyes. “Tom Birch be one of the most respectable men onboard this ship, too damned good for the life of a pirate if I’m being honest. It be a damn shame if he be lost to this place.”

  “What—”

  I had more questions for the surly doctor, but before I could ask them he pushed himself heavily out of his seat and stomped out of the cabin without inviting further conversation, pulling the door open roughly and shutting it just as roughly behind him the second his bulk cleared the narrow opening. There was the sound of harsh whispers behind the closed door in voices too low for me to recognize, and then it opened again and Captain Winters entered, followed closely by Jomo, who had apparently shed his role of the ship’s cook and was now robed in a layer of leather and steel like a warrior prepared for battle. I had assumed that the doctor had provided an update on Tom’s condition, but both men passed only quick, unlanding glances in Tom’s direction as they came to me instead. Their swift and direct pace to my bedside was unnerving, and for a moment I feared that I was about pay dearly for my deceitful act as the young sailor Westley Rivers, but then Jomo, the fearsome warrior with eyes made kind by friendship, tipped his head in his usual curt nod, and offered me his hand. The captain, less genteel, fixed me with piercing, resolute eyes.

  There was a sense of anticipation in the air around them, like they’d been waiting for me to wake. I could see it tremble in Jomo’s hand and behind the icy exterior of Winters’ gaze. After a moment of hesitation I accepted Jomo’s proffered hand and allowed myself to be pulled out of the hammock. My feet were unsteady and they wavered beneath me, my knees wobbling and clanging together like a newborn calf as I tried to stand. I would have fallen, but the captain’s hand shot out suddenly and clenched me in a firm, yet surprisingly tender grip and held my arm steadily and patiently as I righted myself. I made a sighing sound of gratitude as the deck became solid beneath me, and Winters retracted his arm with an expressionless face while Jomo kept my hand locked in his grip. I could not decide if there was any emotion in the captain, or if the gesture had been automatic. His eyes remained unchanged as he crossed his arms sternly atop his chest in a position that suggested both curiosity and disapproval, like one a parent might give a misbehaving child before dispensing judgment. His hand on my arm reminded me of the dream I’d just had and I checked my arm again, hoping to see Dunn’s purple fingerprints still blotchy and real on my skin. I found them where they’d last been, but they were no longer the vivid purple of freshly forming bruises, but instead had faded largely to hues of black and yellow, with pale, sickly green edges that indicated they had already matured to their peak and begun to heal.

  “How long have I slept?” I asked incredulously, sliding my hand out of Jomo’s and using it to rub first my forearm and then the sleep from my eyes.

  “Two days,” he answered, again without the pesky inflection of emotion—as if losing days to sleep was no more unusual than was waking up in a vastly different place than the one you remembered last. “Maybe more,” he added in a loose of smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. Its sour scent accosted my nose, which was still full with the powdery scent of lotus. “Hard to tell what’s what now that we aren’t on familiar tides.” He narrowed his eyes into hardened steel and puffed on the length of paper between his thin lips without saying more.

  Bracile.

  “Did we make it?” I asked excitedly, forgetting my concerns about bruises and lost time, even about Tom Birch’s precarious condition. I took a step forward but my knees buckled again, and again a supporting hand reached out to steady me from falling. The movement made me nauseous and my vision swam in front of me. In the blur I could just make out Jomo’s strong, dark arms as they reached forward and then around me as he guided me to the captain’s chair and helped me to sit. After pulling a canteen from the folds of his shirt, he poured water into a mug, and handed it to me. I accepted the water and swallowed it down, but wasn’t certain why the fearsome man was bestowing upon me such royal treatment. It was an unfamiliar and foreign thing to be treated like a lady. I had seen men, even pirates, use such gracious gestures when courting other women on Isla Perla and always thought it must be a lovely feeling to be regarded as something precious, but now applied to me I found that I did not like it. It made me feel uncomfortable, and fragile. I considered noting it, or asking Jomo why he held my hand and helped me situate myself as I could regained control of my body, but thought better of it. Even more taciturn than Winters, Jomo traded in words like they were a valuable commodity and rarely spent more than was necessary. It was likely he wouldn’t provide an answer even if I dared the question. Besides, as I needed his help at the moment I dared not complain. I made a mental note to repay him for his kindness the next time I found something beautiful and red.

  The captain made it clear in his own fashion that he was not interested in answering my questions any more than would Jomo. “You spoke as you slept,” he said instead. “What was it you dreamed?” There was no curiosity in his voice—this was an inquisition, not a request.

  The memory of the strange woman came to mind and I struggled to put it into words. “I dreamt that I was in a strange chamber, one that appeared to have been carved into the belly of a sea cave. There was a woman there—if you could call her that. She certainly manifested as a wo
man, but she … wasn’t.” I shook my head and sipped down another mug of water, then did my best to describe her physically although no words I could think of did her image justice.

  I kept my eyes on locked on Winters as I described her, but they were hard and cold and gave away nothing. “She said she just wanted to see me, and that I had my father’s eyes. Does any of that mean anything to you? Do you know who she might have been?”

  “No,” he said, but I didn’t believe him. He offered no further explanation, but in his countenance I also saw something else—that the dream struck a chord of fear in him.

  He turned on his heel to leave before I could ask, and Jomo’s thick hand wrapped around the top of my arm, urging me to rise. Winters opened the door and glanced backward over his shoulder at me, wearing a look of anticipation mingled with antipathy.

  “Come,” he ordered, and he was clearly not happy about it. “There is someone you should meet.”