Blaggard's Moon

by George Bryan Polivka

  “He was searching for the map, no doubt.”

  “Did ye give it to him? When he found ye on the farm?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be alive.”

  “Well, I’m glad ye didn’t then.” Delaney said it with a full heart.

  “Thank you, Smith Delaney. But I don’t have it. He and his men ransacked our house, and tore up all the farm buildings. They shot our dogs and the cow, then burned everything that would burn.”

  Delaney nodded. It was the way of pirates. Delaney hadn’t gone with Belisar on that particular mission; it was just Blue Garvey and Spinner Sleeve and a couple of others. But word was, they’d done all they could to get her to talk about where the map was, or short of that, where the gold was. They would have even shot Didrick Fellows if he’d been home, but he’d gone to Mann to sell some sheep.

  “Glad they didn’t hurt the two of ye,” Delaney said at last.

  She seemed to think that was an unusual thing to say. “Thank you, Mr. Delaney. But the only reason they didn’t hurt me, or Autumn, was that I told them if they did I’d never say a word and they’d be without their treasure.”

  “So they took ye with ’em.”

  “I’m sure your captain has something horrible planned for us.”

  Delaney couldn’t argue with her there. “So there’s no map?” Delaney asked.

  She looked at him with that sly look again. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

  “Really? Where is it?” he asked.

  She laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, or a very loud one. But it was enough. Delaney heard with his own ears the reason so many men had been drawn by that sound, even from across a room. “Smith Delaney, I’ll tell you what. If you’ll help me escape, I will tell you.”

  This sobered him up. “Ma’am, I can’t do that. I’m sworn to the service of Belisar the Whale, and if you tell me where the gold is, I’ll just have to tell him.”

  She shook her head. “A loyal man.”

  “I am that.”

  “And honest.”

  “Honest?”

  “Yes. You could have made me promises, heard my story, and then gone to tell Belisar everything. That’s what a loyal but dishonest man would do.”

  “He would?” Delaney didn’t say it, but he thought that mostly he didn’t do that because he didn’t think of it.

  Just then the little girl stirred. She raised her head, and sleep was in her eyes. She sat up and rubbed them with chubby, delicate little hands. “Where are we, Mama?”

  “On a ship. Still on a ship.”

  Autumn looked at Delaney. “Are you a bad man?”

  Delaney’s mouth dropped open. Those little eyes, so sweet and innocent, and trained on him with a question that seemed like bright sunlight shining down a well. “I’m not gonna hurt ye, if that’s what yer asking.”

  “Is he bad, Mama?” Autumn asked, turning to the authoritative source.

  “We don’t know yet,” Jenta said simply.

  Autumn looked at Lemmer. “Is he bad?”

  “We don’t know. He’s asleep.”

  “Should I sing a lullabye?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think you should.”

  The little girl stood up and walked toward Delaney. Putting her little hands on the rusted iron bars, and her face between them, she looked up at Delaney with blue eyes shining, little white speckles in the blue parts, and began to sing the song.

  A true lang time,

  A lang true la

  And down the silver path to a rushing sea,

  Where moons hang golden under boughs of green,

  A lang true la, ’tis true,

  And the true heart weeps

  As her song she sings,

  A true lang time for you…

  He was dumbfounded. It was the voice from his dream. The dream he’d had in Mumtown. He never thought he’d actually hear it, but there it was. And the song…it was the same song. Even more beautiful, more haunting than he’d dreamed it. Had he dreamed it into being? Or had he dreamed of what was to come?

  The girl kept singing, verses he hadn’t heard before…

  Oh, carry my burthen, and carry her true,

  For she steers for the south and the east

  And the few,

  A lang true la,

  The drum and the yew,

  A true lang time, my sweet.

  A true lang time and we shall meet

  On the silver path to the rushing sea

  Where moons hang golden, and boughs are green,

  A lang true la, ’tis true.

  ’Tis true, and lang, and lang true la,

  A lang true la, and you.

  The song went on, but Delaney was lost. He was lost in those eyes, in that voice, and in not knowing whether he dreamed or was awake. He was down in that well with the sun shining bright above, and couldn’t seem to climb up out of it. There was beauty here he had never known, and sadness, and longing, but it felt like perhaps he had known it all once, long ago. It was the beauty of a lullabye, sung from behind the cold iron bars of this world.

  Finally the girl finished her song, and looked up at him. “My mama taught it to me. Would you like me teach it to you?”

  Delaney had nothing to say. So Autumn turned to her mother and put a hand on a hip. “He’s not a bad man, Mama. He’s just afraid.”

  “Come here, Autumn,” she said. And the girl ran to her mother, and jumped up on her lap.

  “If you change your mind, Mr. Delaney,” Jenta told him, “you let me know.”

  Delaney looked at her and nodded. They said not another word for the rest of the shift. Somewhere in there, though, as his mind clarified itself, he realized that Jenta’s last comment was meant to be about setting her free in exchange for the map to Conch’s gold, and not about her daughter’s offer, which was to teach him that song. He didn’t know which offer was more troubling.

  Delaney was never so glad to finish a watch as he was on that night. “Don’t talk to her,” he intoned to the man who relieved him. “She’s dangerous.”

  Their destination became a matter of great speculation and much debate, though this time without the flying fists and the flashing knives. But the farther they traveled south with Jenta and Autumn aboard, the easier it became to guess. Perhaps Belisar had not found Conch’s map, but in tearing the ship apart and putting her back together, he had certainly pored through all of Conch Imbry’s papers, and read the Captain’s log in great detail, and with great interest. There, everyone agreed, he would have learned all about the Hants. He would have learned, there or elsewhere, that Conch had kept his very own Hant, the chieftain he’d installed in that ruined castle outside Skaelington. That was a man who could make any man talk. Or, they surmised, any woman. But as Skaelington was off limits now, a shining example of ruthless liberty from the influence of pirates, there might be another option. And their heading certainly tended to confirm it.

  Not many aboard had been to the Forests of Sule. Some had. A very few could tell of the time they’d traveled there to cut the trees and stack the lumber of the night-oak, from which the Shalamon would be built. As the sun rose and set, and the ship’s course remained true, the speculation gave way to certainty. A certain amount of dread crept into conversations. Belisar would do anything, go anywhere, for a shot at the legendary hoard of coins amassed by Conch Imbry. He’d risk anything, including all their lives.

  The drums stopped.

  Delaney sat up straight and looked around him. There were no sounds. Even the bullfrogs had quit croaking. He peered down into the black water below him, but could see nothing. He waved his arms around, then stuck out his toes. “Where are you, boys?”

  No Chompers surfaced.

  Swallowing hard, he pulled his feet up under him. His knees creaked and his muscles ached. But nothing else happened. He peered around at the reeds that surrounded the pond, but they were black and still. For an instant, just an instant, it seemed that he’d imagined everything, that none of it wa
s real. That he’d been dreaming the whole thing, all of it: the Chompers, the Hants, the drums, everything.

  He put a hand, palm down, on top of the post under his buttocks, and flipped himself around again, and shinnied down. The post rocked unsteadily, but his grip was sure. With his toes about two feet from the surface, he leaned out and peered down again. And there they were, his little fishies, roiling the water, their big front teeth agape, little bear traps intent on sailor meat. He sighed, content. “I was worried about ye,” he told them affectionately. “But yer all good to go. You jus’ hang tight, now, and old Delaney will feed ye soon enough.” And he climbed back up the shaft and took his accustomed seat.

  It was odd. He felt ready to die. But when it came to it, it turned out he really didn’t want to die. It was the pain, he told himself, not so much the actual dying, that caused the fear. Who wanted to go through all that, having bones extracted? Had to be like having a tooth pulled, which he’d had done more than once. Just thinking of it made his jaw ache—the surgeon grabbing on with a pair of pliers, and two or three men holding him down…even being drunk as a skunk, which was the only civilized way to do it, it was like they were ripping out his skull through his jaw. Having all his bones pulled out, all at once, that had to be the same. Probably worse.

  He thought of the priest, Carter Dent, and how horribly carved up he’d gotten. That might be even worse, Delaney thought, but he didn’t know for sure. That Hant had poisoned him, just for good measure. They said the Hant had given the poison because it made everything hurt worse. Just the opposite of whiskey or rye or rum. It had made images come into the priest’s head, too, scary images, while it made every little touch feel like a red-hot knife blade.

  That poor priest.

  And poor Jenta. She had not agreed to talk, though Belisar had given her chance after chance. And so he’d taken her to the Hants.

  Delaney remembered how the Shalamon arrived in port, at Sule City.

  “Looks like a bunch a’ mud huts on a beach,” Delaney noted, peering over the port rail.

  “They’re havin’ fun over there,” Mutter noted back, pointing across the deck to the one other ship at anchor here, a small topsail schooner with a Nearing Vast flag. It was named the Flying Ringby. Her crew did seem to be enjoying themselves immensely, swimming in the water, swinging wide over it on halyards and then letting loose with a great bellowing, turning somersaults and landing, usually, on their backs or bellies with an enormous splash and a horrendous slap, much to the delight of all onlookers.

  “Just stopped to refill some water barrels, I reckon.” And Delaney wished that was the only reason the Shalamon was here as well.

  There was plenty of fresh water, for Sule City sat at the mouth of the River Lambent, which the locals called Arbetoh, “The Path.” This river was called that, they quickly learned, because it was the only road that led anywhere. No man or group of men could manage to trek through these forests, thick and tangled as they were.

  “Get the skiff and the shallop ready!” Belisar ordered. “Mr. Garvey, you’ll come along with me. I want Spinner Sleeve, Lemmer Harps, and Smith Delaney as well. Load up ten days’ rations.”

  “What about the prisoners?” Blue asked.

  “They’re coming with us,” Belisar answered. He ignored the slavering grin of his first mate, Blue, wiped beaded sweat from his own forehead with an already wet handkerchief, and then turned his great bulk toward the shore. “I’ll need to make a deal with one or two of these natives to guide us. Mr. Sleeve, you come with me for protection.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Most of the crew were quite content to stay aboard, and so they were extra-eager to help load the two boats for the journey upriver. Belisar returned from shore in less than an hour, reporting success, though he did not bring the guides back with him. After inspecting the boats, he ordered them away.

  The shallop was little more than a rowboat, and was lowered with the Captain and the two prisoners in it. Belisar, drenched in sweat, sat with a wineskin on his lap, taking frequent drinks. The skiff was even smaller than the shallop, and though it was winched down from the davit arms, too, when empty it was light enough that two men could lower it with almost any weight of line, hand over hand.

  The other men in the party climbed down the mooring lines and into the boats. With the Captain in the stern of the shallop, Delaney sat beside Blue Garvey, and each took an oar. The two prisoners sat in the prow. Lemmer and Sleeve took the skiff.

  Their two guides joined them on the water, paddling up in little one-man pods that skimmed around the surface like dragonflies. They used ingenious paddles, a single shaft with a blade at each end. Delaney was amazed at their skill with these boats, but even more amazed that one of them managed this at a very advanced age. Old and withered, he looked like he wouldn’t last another day. But he could paddle that little pod like nobody’s business, just as well as the other native, who was young and fit.

  Even with the lightest boats they had, it was slow going up the river. They made good progress while the river was wide, but before nightfall they had faced a catalog of difficulties: unruly bugs of various unpleasant descriptions, piranha, snakes, rapids, and of course, heat. Once they even had to shoot a big cat out of a tree. The thing roamed back and forth up in the branches overhead, just daring anyone to paddle underneath. Blue took it down with one shot, and then they all watched as the piranha turned it into a boiling feeding frenzy. They’d have stripped it down to bones, too, except that a big croc came along and snapped it up, as though the fish had been just so many gnats.

  “I’d like to seen how that cat planned to kill us without gettin’ et herself,” Delaney said aloud. No one responded; they just kept paddling upstream.

  That silent pause was unusual because for most of the trip, little Autumn kept up a steady stream of questions and comments. “That’s a really big bird, Mama. What’s it called?” “Why is the water so brown?” “Is that the mosquito’s nose?” “Why do those men have such little boats?” “Look at that tree, Mama. It’s all bent over. Is it an old man tree?” And of course, “Where are we going?” and “How long till we get there?”

  Jenta did her best to answer all the questions, and to keep her daughter calm. This wasn’t too difficult; it was all an adventure to Autumn. Jenta didn’t once seem afraid, and Delaney watched her closely. Now and then her sadness came through, though, in a sigh or a longing look. Then Autumn would ask, “What’s the matter, Mama?” And she’d put a little hand on her mother’s cheek.

  “It’s all right, baby,” Jenta would say with a smile. “The world is a hard place sometimes.”

  “Not for me,” Autumn would say cheerfully. And then she’d sing. It wasn’t always the same song. She had several songs. But all of them were haunting to Delaney. All were young and innocent, and all out of place here, echoing through canyon walls or absorbed into the rain and mist, or just rolling out over the gurgling river.

  They slept in the boats, the crewmen taking turns guarding the prisoners and their own lives. The guides didn’t seem too worried about anything, stretching out on shore with a rock for a pillow and a long knife by their sides.

  On the second night, though, Delaney was on watch when Jenta stirred. He was looking at her face, pale in the starlight and the small sliver of moon overhead. In the rippling shadows she could have been any woman, and he thought of Maybelle Cuddy. Her little boy would be what, ten or eleven by now? He had lost count. Maybe older.

  Then Jenta spoke. “Save my girl, Delaney.”

  Delaney whipped around, looked at Captain Whatney. But the Whale was sound asleep in the stern, sawing away peacefully. He turned back to Jenta. “I wish I could, ma’am.”

  “Then do.”

  “I cain’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, lots a’ reasons. But mostly, I’m a pirate now.” He didn’t know why he added that final word.

  She was silent. “Damrick saved me.” She waited
a while, then said, “I didn’t even want to be saved. I didn’t think it was possible. But it was. He loved me when I didn’t love him. When I didn’t love myself. When I’d given up on everything, that’s when he redeemed me.”

  Delaney was miserable. “Ma’am, why are ye telling me all this?”

  “I know you can’t save my life, Mr. Delaney. If I die, I will be with Damrick. But she’s so young. Save her. Protect her. Please.”

  Delaney just looked up into the sky. Then he looked back down. “You go back to sleep, ma’am.”

  “If you can’t save her,” she said after a pause, “…please be sure she dies quickly, and without pain.”

  Delaney was sure that a more sorrowful sentence had never been spoken on earth.

  After three nights and four days, they arrived. The place where the guides stopped looked no different from any other stretch of the Arbetoh, the Path, as far as Delaney could tell. He wondered how on earth these guides could pick it out. But they were utterly confident, and so everyone pulled their boats up onto shore. The younger guide stayed with the boats, while the old man led them through the dense, wet forest.

  “If this is a path,” Delaney said to Sleeve, “it’s doing a good job of disguisin’ itself as a forest.” They had to hack through vines and thick-stemmed, scaly plants that Delaney was sure were growing fast enough he could see them coming back soon as they were chopped. But after a few hundred yards, they arrived at the camp just as night was falling.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE HANTS

  “HUMMA COM NOOMDUM,” the man who was certainly the leader of the tribe said. He had the painted skull permanently tattooed on his face, though it looked so fresh it almost glistened. And he had so many sticks and briars poking out of his backpack, or what looked like a backpack, he might well have been mistaken for a hedgehog.

  “You not welcome here,” the old man translated.