“The wench then.” That was Mazeley. His quiet, confident voice made her shudder. He seemed so rational, so…normal. And yet he did evil all day long, every day, every night.
The voices dropped away again, so that she couldn’t make out the words. They kept talking, and they were talking about her. She wanted to get farther away, to turn and swim, but felt she should hear more. It would be important to know. Slowly and carefully, she moved in closer.
“Well, I’m glad to hear ye say that, Mr. Mazeley. Rankles me when ye always know. ’Specially when ye don’t.”
“I think we must assume that the Gatemen hold those ships. And even if they don’t, if we take them down the message will be clear.”
“So…attack the rogue tubs regardless, send ’em to the floor with whatever goods they got. Ask no questions; take no prisoners. That’s what ye recommend?”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
“I like it. Wentworth’s dead. So now we bury his ships under a few hundred feet a’ water, Gatemen or no. We find Damrick and the wench, kill ’em ever’ which way over two, three days’ time, draw it out so there’s plenty a’ pain and cryin’ and wailin’, then we hang what’s left of ’em up in Skaelington bay where all can see. And we’re done! Then I can see fit to move on to more interestin’ matters.”
“Aye, sir.”
The footsteps moved off, headed down the docks away from the castle, toward the Shalamon.
“What do we do now?” a voice above her asked. It was a young voice, its owner hardly more than a boy.
“You can do what ye want, but I’m followin’ the Cap’n.” That was an older man, who spoke with a sneer. A group of men shuffled off, their footsteps creaking in the direction of the bay.
Jenta felt she should follow, too, but by the time she made up her mind to do it, they were too far away. She’d never keep up. She looked up through the dock. The rain was still dripping down, but now she noticed something lying on the slats, blocking the light in regular intervals. Cargo, maybe. Boards laid side by side? As she swam underneath one of them, she saw a hand. Then she saw a leather lash around an arm. She gasped, and put a hand to her mouth. These were bodies. This was her crew, the Gatemen killed in the attack on Success.
Her heart pounding, she swam along under them, craning her neck painfully, searching one after the other, treading water, peering up, blinking into the dripping rain, trying to identify the one body that she prayed would not be here. She looked for the hair, the long dark hair that would identify him.
“Oh, Damrick,” she pled aloud in a whisper. “Damrick, Damrick. Please don’t be here.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” a ragged voice said from the seawall behind her.
She spun around, splashing, peering into the darkness. She saw a movement, a hand. Then she saw his face. She swam to him, tried to climb up where he was, taking his hand, his arm, but he winced and shut tight his eyes against the pain. She slid back down into the water. She gently took his left hand in hers. It felt cold and lifeless. She kissed it.
Then she saw his twisted leg. “Damrick, what happened?” She spoke softly, but urgently. She could see him clearly now. He was pale and his lips were blue. The moisture on his face was not all from the rain. She felt his cheeks, his forehead. He was cold. But his eyes were warm.
“Damrick, your leg…”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I meant…never to leave you.”
“Oh, Damrick. You never left me.” She looked around in desperation. “We need to get you out of here, get you some help—”
“No,” he said. “We can’t let them find me. It’s better this way.”
Fear grew in her, then anger. “You can’t give up!”
“He got me, Jenta. The priest was wrong. Conch has won. It’s over.”
Her anger turned back to pain in an instant, a deep stab that shot through her body. She looked at him, watched his eyes. They were as calm as the sea. “Please,” she begged him. “You can’t go now. Not yet.”
He swallowed. It was a painful effort. “I’ve been lying here,” he said with difficulty, “praying. Like my mother did.”
She wanted to say something, to do something. She wanted more than anything to climb up with him, and hold him. But all she could do was hold his hand while her soul was being rent in two.
“I prayed for you,” he said. His breath caught. “And God brought you here.” Light was in his eyes, but it was distant.
“I’m here. I’m here.”
“He helps the helpless. That’s what she always said.” His eyes closed. Then he opened them again. “That’s why He never helped me. Until now.”
“Of course He’s helped you.”
Damrick just shook his head. “It’s not so bad as I thought it would be.” Then he coughed. “I have something to say.”
“I’m listening, Damrick.”
“I want you to live.” He looked her in the eye. “Promise me.”
It was a strange request. His mind was going. “I promise. Damrick, don’t leave.”
He shook his head. “Go back to Mann. My father is in hiding. I’ll tell you where. Go to him.” He coughed again. Blood came from his mouth. She wiped it away. “Do you promise?”
“Damrick…” Tears blinded her, and she cursed them silently. They kept her from seeing the only thing on earth she wanted to see.
He raised his head. “Do you promise?”
She bit her upper lip. The tears streamed now. She nodded. “I will.”
He nodded, and relaxed.
“Damrick, you don’t have to go. Listen, can you hear me?”
He nodded.
“You stay, all right? You just hang on. We’ll both go home to your father. We’ll build a cottage. A cabin. Okay? It’ll be way up in the woods.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see her now. “Far away from the ocean. And we’ll have chickens in the yard out front. Fresh eggs every morning. There’ll be a cow in the pasture. We’ll have milk and cheese. Won’t that be wonderful?”
He smiled, his eyes still closed.
“The days will be warm, all summer long. You’ll shoot squirrels, and deer.” She put her hand against his cheek. “And in the winter, we’ll have a fire in the fireplace, and a big yellow dog asleep in front of it. A lazy old thing that’s good for nothing. And you’ll go out in the snow to cut firewood. And our children will watch from the window.” She paused, her voice cracking. “Our children, Damrick! You have to stay. You have to stay for them.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. He seemed nearer. Closer to her.
She felt hope. “You’ll come back inside with the firewood in your arms, and they’ll run to the door! You’ll set down the wood and pick them up in your arms. Then they’ll take your mittens and your scarf and hang them by the fire. Oh please don’t go, Damrick. Stay with me. Stay with us!”
His smile faded. “Jenta,” he said. He looked at her.
“I’m here.”
“You saved me.”
“No, Damrick. You saved me.”
He shook his head. “I rescued you. But you saved me.”
She couldn’t understand. She’d gotten him killed. Then she realized he was talking about something more. He was talking about the next life. “Oh, God,” she began. And she continued. She prayed aloud, a fierce and aching and damaged prayer, for him, for his soul, for his life…and then for his eternal rest. She hadn’t meant to pray it, but the words just came.
She opened her eyes, and looked into his. She saw firelight there now. She saw it flickering. She felt the glow of a hearth. Great warmth flowed from him. And then she was there, inside that light, inside that warmth. It was the two of them, one flesh, one spirit, and they were home. His hand was warm, his cheeks were ruddy, his eye was sharp and full of mirth. She heard a child laughing. And then he sighed, and the light in his eyes receded. It just pulled back, slowly at first, like a lantern on a departing carriage. She thought, she believed, just for that moment, that she could go with him, that she
could follow where he went. She tried to follow after him, in her heart, in her spirit. She called his name. But the lamplight dwindled quickly. And then it flickered out. His face was gray. His hand was cold. His eyes were silent.
Jenta stayed there in the water, holding her husband’s hand for a very long time. People came and went above. She heard little. After a while she noticed the dock again, the people above, the coldness of the water. A few comments filtered through, spoken about the Gatemen, spoken about Damrick Fellows, spoken about her husband.
“He keeps riling up all those who want to fight the pirates,” one voice said, “and then he gets ’em killed.”
“Yeah. Then he goes gets more.”
“Seems he’s helping the Conch more than anyone else.”
A snort. “Conch’s probably paying him a bundle.”
A laugh, and the footsteps moved on.
The cold suddenly reached deep into Jenta’s bones. She did not want to leave. She wanted to stay, and die with Damrick. More than anything else, she wanted to leave this wretched earth and be with Damrick, where there was light and warmth.
But she had made a promise. Now she knew why he had insisted. He had known. He knew what it would be like for her, when he was gone. And that gave her some comfort. Finally, she let go of his hand. She moved closer, and pulled herself out of the water until she could place her cold lips on his cold cheek. And then she slid back down, under the surface, under the water. Strange, distant echoes sounded, and she couldn’t tell if they came from without, or if they were just the hollow places deep within her, echoes of what was no more. She surfaced.
And then she swam away, under the docks, in the direction of the castle.
“Any end’s a good end,” Delaney said out loud to the air, wiping away a tear. He hadn’t cried listening to Ham, that night in the forecastle when he’d told that story. He’d only felt the sting of shame. Now he looked for his fish, suddenly wanting their company more than anything. But he could only see one or two, pale below the dark surface of the pond. He spoke to them anyway. “That’s how it is when ye’ve made the right choices. Any end’s good when ye’ve done right.” He shook his head at their inattentiveness. “You little boys don’t know about that. But it’s true.”
Delaney hadn’t made the right choices. Not nearly. But he hoped he could make a few now, at least in his mind and his heart. He hoped he could face his end as Damrick had. He knew no one would hold his hand or spin him yarns of comfort or pray for his soul. But then, he deserved none of that, either. He’d done nothing in his life to earn such things.
Now that he was thinking on it, now that he was looking straight at it without flinching, Delaney knew exactly what he had done. And he knew what it meant. He had sworn allegiance to a pirate, and within minutes of the vow he had killed a good, good man. A weak man, to be sure. But one who had been bad, and then turned good. Within minutes more, he had shot at, perhaps killed, some of the best men there ever were, better men than Delaney had ever known, far better than he had dreamed of being himself. Damrick Fellows. Murk. Stock. Lye Mogene.
He looked around at the tall grasses, and they rustled. He heard low voices, mutterings. How long had this activity been going on? He didn’t care. “I never knowed it,” he said aloud. “I never knowed what I done, ye cursed Hants!”
The reeds went quiet.
But the sense that he could justify himself on any point evaporated with the echoes of his words. He was a stupid, blundering imbecile, wandering from bad to worse, doing things that had consequences he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, and pretended he could ignore. Not knowing wasn’t an excuse. It was just more proof he deserved to be condemned. His stupidity was in his soul, not in his mind.
Delaney sniffed, wiped the corner of his eye. Damrick died right. Avery died right. Just as they should have, somehow, even though it was unjust and they didn’t deserve it. And now the image, the memory, rolled back. Not Ham’s story, but the actual event. The memory he’d kept at bay, at all costs, never to let back into his mind. The one he knew was always there, always waiting, waiting to condemn him. It looped around his ankle and pulled him down.
And there it was.
“I’m sorry, young fella,” Delaney said to Wentworth. As he said it, his mouth went as dry as a hot summer wind. Conch’s pistol hung like an anchor at the end of his arm. The sun beat down, but he could feel the humidity of the storm brewing, moving in. A crow squawked, flapped its lazy wings upward. And the sickly man’s head came up, slowly, his eyes like lanterns in the dark, searching, searching, finding Delaney. They were not accusing. They were soft and distant and thoughtful. Mournful. Like a man who’d seen too much.
The pistol was a lump of hot iron in his hand. The sweat of his palm made it slippery, too. The thing was far too heavy to hold, much too heavy to raise up. But Delaney did it anyway. “If I don’t, ye see, I’ll get shot, too,” he explained to the quiet man. “And then, well, someone else’ll jus’ shoot ye anyway.”
Wentworth cocked his head just slightly, as though listening to something. Then for no reason Delaney could fathom, he said, “I forgive you.”
It was a stab, a sword that flashed straight into Delaney’s chest, cutting him deep. It made him want to do anything else in the world but pull that trigger.
“Time’s a wastin’,” Conch rumbled from behind. The voice cast a shadow of death across Delaney.
Wentworth lowered his head, and he prayed. Delaney couldn’t make out the words, but saw the lips move. Delaney heard. He knew this time what it was.
The sweat of his palm, the slipperiness of the pistol butt, the weight of the weapon, the stubbornness of the trigger, the wobble of the barrel as it tried, tried so hard to move away from the matted hair on that dry, dusty scalp…these were things Delaney recalled vividly. He remembered them just that way, right before the flash and the crash and the blood and the thump of the body hitting the earth, emptied of spirit.
Now the drums began. Distant, rhythmic, but with offbeats that countered the main beats, giving them an eerie sound. Delaney listened, and a chill ran through him. They were not up close, where the rustling was. But they made that image, that flash of powder and the body slumping away from him, come to his mind over and over again, like they were calling it up inside him. Over and over. They kept doing it for a while, a long while. And then they stopped.
Delaney sighed. Wentworth had died right. Delaney could have done the same. But he’d killed instead. And now he would die wrong.
Then it hit him. He wasn’t going to die wrong, not at all.
The Blaggard’s Hole. The Kwy Dendaroos. Doorway for the Doomed. The Hants weren’t wrong. Belisar the Whale wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t a penalty that he didn’t deserve. This was exactly what he deserved. This ceremonial, ritual torture, this tearing out of his bones, this complete and utter mortal destruction in the most horrifying way imaginable…it wasn’t a crying shame, inflicted on a poor soul who hadn’t earned such a terrible fate. He wasn’t being unfairly punished for doing a good deed for a little girl. No, he was being judged for all the evil he’d ever done and got away with. Or thought he’d got away with. Every secret, every evil thought, every ugly word.
No, this wasn’t wrong, it was right. It was just.
He sat up straighter. He raised his chin. He suddenly felt, instead of afraid or angry, almost…what was it? Grateful? No, that wasn’t it. But it was something. Somehow, knowing he deserved all this, it made it…easier. No, not easier. Truer! That was it. Sort of.
He looked up at the hole in the canopy. Three bright stars were visible in the deepening blue. And then he knew what this feeling was. He felt worthy. Not worthy of being rescued. No, he felt worthy of damnation. But within that he felt, for the first time in his life, that what he’d done had meant something. It meant something so deep and so profound that God Himself had ordained this end for him. His life had been empty and evil. But it hadn’t been meaningless. A man couldn
’t go around shooting people and stealing and robbing and turning his back on Maybelle Cuddy and the children he was supposed to have, and then just drift away into darkness and nothingness like it hadn’t happened. Like it didn’t matter. No, there was a God after all. A God who saw. A God who judged. A God who cared. There was a God who would clean up the world.
And that was a God Delaney would be proud to get crushed by.
“Come get me, then!” he announced, not to God, and not to the Hants, but to the mermonkeys. “I’m here! God’s will be done, ye pointy-toothed little bone-munchers! Come and get me, I’m yer man!”
He meant it, too.
But they didn’t come.
And after a while the drums didn’t come back, and then the reeds didn’t rustle. And then the feeling faded, and Delaney was left just where he’d been, sitting on his post in his pond, with a crick in his back and a backside that needed a stretch. But he didn’t stretch. He left his mind to wander.
And wander it did…back to a tale where Conch Imbry tasted one last, great victory. Just before the wind shifted on him and drove him toward the shoals.
The men in the forecastle were anxious, their patience worn thin by long interludes of dying love when the great and final battle loomed. Delaney remembered that. And then Ham indulged them. He went on and on, describing every detail, shot by shot. He told how the Shalamon led a flotilla of ships from Mumtown, a small fleet of Cabeebs and pirates promised gold and shares, out into the rain and wind of Cabeeb Bay. He told how they surrounded those three Ryland ships, how the furnaces on the Ayes of Destiny, the Lion’s Pride, and the Blue Horizon glowed red, how cannon boomed and hot shot flew in all directions, tracing and hissing through the rain and the mist. The men saw it all in their minds’ eyes, saw the wind kick up, felt the rain come lashing down, heard cannon and thunder, saw the gunpowder smoke plume out, and get kicked by the wind, and then dissolve into nothing in the rain and the storm.
Delaney listened, too, pulled along, engrossed. Who wouldn’t be? Conch Imbry proved a brilliant, calculating admiral. He directed the small ships into the fray first, bobbing and crashing on the waves, just so he could watch and learn from their destruction. Then, having unlocked the secret of the Gatemen’s success, he trained his long-range guns on the furnaces, only on the furnaces, booming from a distance while the Gatemen wore themselves ragged against a host of quick, light sloops and yachts and catamarans that would not stay still. Whenever an oven was hit square, it roared its flames and coals sky high. Then the fires of hell engulfed their own Gatemen; flying coals and white-hot shrapnel, smoke and brimstone and black grime choking and burning and maiming and killing. And the heat of those coals, now strewn across wooden decks, would hiss and steam but would not be quenched by a little rain.
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