The Dragon Coin

by Aiden James

  “They are all staring, how rude,” she commented.

  “What did you expect?” I chided her. “How often do you think they see a white girl, let alone one with long hair hanging down and dressed to garner attention? You’re not in Europe now”

  “I love it here,” Juan said, tired of our rhetoric. “The air’s so clean and the women are beautiful.”

  We dutifully followed the Captain, not knowing where we were going. The heat was overpowering, and I quickly understood why the locals were either barefoot or wearing sandals. The women wore little more than a short colored cloth, much to Juan’s delight. I often forgot he was a red-blooded Spaniard, full of passion and easily ignited. I had seen plenty of nakedness in more hedonistic times long ago. Half-naked island women were decidedly mild compared to scenes I once witnessed on a regular basis. Rachel surprisingly took it all in her stride.

  We were taken to a ramshackle hut where two white men knocked back bottles of pure rum and talked loudly. Juan and Rachel were instructed to wait outside while the Captain escorted me in to do what he called a ‘little’ business. “This is Emmanuel Ortiz, a merchant who wants to trade,” was how I was introduced.

  “Goods or money in exchange for what I’m selling?” one asked.

  “Money or gold,” I replied.

  “I have two excellent items, both in perfect condition. They’ll fetch a pretty penny either in the European or new American market.”

  “I need to see the merchandise before I make a decision,” I answered with caution, which seemed to be the best approach.

  He snapped a finger to his associate, who ran off in a clandestine manner. Less than five minutes later, he returned with two young African women, heads bowed and chained by their necks.

  “Less than eighteen years of age, virgins, disease free and strong. They’ll fetch you a good profit as an easy sell to the serious buyer.”

  Shocked by what stood before me, their eyes were like frightened rabbits. Human cargo. “This is not my line of business,” I told him, firmly. “I deal in imports of spices and precious artifacts. I wouldn’t know where to begin with slaves.”

  “You’ll make triple what you make now with one slave, let alone two. A good businessman never lets an opportunity pass by. I was once from England’s shores. Now I make a tidy sum doing this. With many ships coming to port, they’ll be sold by the end of day.”

  Rachel and Juan were waiting patiently outside and, like me, had no choice but to watch as the two girls were dragged away roughly, unsold.

  “Maybe the girls have nothing here. Being a slave in Europe can’t be that awful, we’re civilized,” Rachel said.

  “Either you’re misguided or just wanting to cause an unpleasant conversation, as usual,” I replied angrily.

  “Why not try to dispose of me, Emmanuel? Considering how much you’d like me to disappear, you could sell me off as a slave. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “Because I’ve better things to do, and it wouldn’t resolve the problem of my missing coin, which I’m sure you have tucked away somewhere,” I replied, searching her eyes for a reaction. There was none, only a blank stare.

  “You’ve never knowingly harmed a woman since I’ve know you, I doubt you’d do such a thing as sell one,” Juan said.

  “If I’m pushed further than I’ve ever been, who knows what I’m capable of,” I replied honestly. My intentions weren’t murderous, only determined.

  “How long will we stay?” Juan gave me the impression he didn’t want to leave. The Madagascar paradise had caught his attention.

  “Until the Captain has all he wants and needs. Maybe he’ll set sail for India or the African coast. There’s no telling what his plans are until we’re summoned to leave in days, weeks or months. Who knows and to tell the truth, who cares?” I replied.

  I spent the day exploring the island. Meanwhile, Juan went back to the dock, spending much of his time inside the various rum shops. He missed out on more beautiful white sandy beaches, as well as rocky coves seemingly pristine.

  “Aye, aye, what have we here?” a voice called out.

  “A friendly stranger passing through and meaning no harm,” I replied.

  A figure emerged from behind a tree, bare-chested and clad only in a cloth skirt.

  “The name’s Robert Dalton, formally from Southampton England,” he introduced himself, cordially shaking my hand. “This is my wife, Abida, and my daughter, Frances Annie.”

  Abida held a small child in her arms, with a dark complexion and fair, curly hair like her father. In need of tobacco for his pipe, Robert asked if I’d bought any goods since coming ashore.

  “I’ll ask Captain Chivers, I’m sure he has plenty to buy.”

  “The biggest scumbag this side of the island coves? I should think not! What would a gentleman like you be doing with the likes of him?”

  “There aren't many ships leaving Europe bound for places such as this. I seized the moment.”

  It turned out Robert was a former pirate who gave up his cutlass for the love of Abida. He confessed to hiding deep in the forest, waiting for his ship to set sail without him. “My heart is here and I’m not the only one. There be hundreds of sailors and pirates alike, scattered all over the island with their women, vowing never to return.”

  “Plenty of women to go round, then?”

  “More than you can imagine!” He laughed. “Being there’s a shortage of men, you can’t help but strike gold. And, they prefer the fair skin men more than their own. We’re at a distinct advantage. Even Mercer the Scottish Missionary has a woman.”

  I was quite interested to meet this Mercer fellow, to see if he were part of the new breed of misguided preachers who naively thought they could bring Christianity to savages, whether they desired it or not.

  “Introduce me to him, and in return I promise you three months’ supply of tobacco at my expense.”

  My generosity worked. Robert guided me to a hut not far from his, where a man with a long grey beard and not much hair sat carving something from wood.

  “Mercer, can I introduce you to Emmanuel. He’s from… where are you from?” asked Robert.

  “I’m from everywhere,” I advised. “And, sir, where do you hail from?”

  “From the lowlands of Scotland, a place called Bo’ness. My mission is to help the poor unfortunates on Madagascar find themselves through God and enlightenment. We’re building a chapel for prayer, would you care it see it?”

  “Sounds delightful.” It was the last thing I wanted to do but I didn’t want to be rude.

  As we walked, I studied him carefully. His beard seemed so out of place in the heat and his hands were soft like a baby’s, a sign he never toiled at anything. I was in the company of an intellectual who delighted in telling me of books he had read and about the one he was writing.

  “Do you ever look to the stars Emmanuel? They tell of more than you might think,” he said.

  “I used to, a long time ago. In the desert on a clear night when all was visible, I would spend hours looking up. But then, I was little more than a young boy.”

  “Shalom my friend, erev tov.”

  “Where did you learn to speak Hebrew?” I asked.

  “No one is ever too old to learn a language or study the stars. I can do your chart if you like. Tell you things about your past and future,” he replied.

  “From the stars?” Was I dealing with a charlatan missionary or a mystic in disguise?

  “Yes my boy, and, if my chart was good enough for King Charles the second then it’s good enough for you.”

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  The Serendipitous Curse of Solomon Brandt

  With Lisa Collicutt

  (Please read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  An explosion shook the ground—maybe the world. Senses returned,
and with them . . . pain.

  A blinding light carried me to the unknown. Commotion circled me, confused me. Searing pain swept though and over my body. Between matted straggles of dark hair, I watched a thick cloud of gray dust settle on the strange scene in front of me. When I tried to move, I felt heavy . . . battered . . . ripped apart.

  People yelled.

  "What the fuck?" said a man wearing a yellow hat, while brushing debris off his chest and arms.

  "Who is this asshole?" said another, picking himself off the ground, holding the same type of hat, his body also covered in dirt.

  With their looks of disgust pinned on me, I realized immediately I was the asshole they spoke of. With all the strength I could muster, I unlatched my fingers from the mane of a white horse I lay upon and straightened.

  Excalibur.

  I didn’t know how I knew the horse's name—I just did. But who was I? Where was I? And why did I feel bashed and beaten?

  A cool breeze sailed over my skin, alerting me to my nakedness. The light pressure of the wind caused me to grimace out a moan. I tore my gaze from the seemingly confused and angry group of men and looked upon myself. Through the filth covering hard muscle, bright crimson gashes were visible. With a movement that caused me more grief, I brushed dirt-crusted lines of blood off one arm and blinked dust from my eyes.

  Excalibur lifted his head and neighed. Particles of dirt slid down his coat. His action caused sharp pains to shoot into my groins, pressed against the horse's warm back.

  One of the men broke from the agitated group and came closer. He stopped a few feet from me, gave the horse a look of unease, then looked up. A layer of dirt covered his deeply tanned body, and filled in the squint lines around his eyes. "Hey, are you drunk?"

  Was I drunk? After brief consideration, I decided I was not drunk, although I wished I were and this scene was all a bad dream.

  The guy spit to the left of him. "You got a name?"

  The horse gave a soft nicker and turned, facing me in another direction. Instinctively, I flattened my hand out on its neck to calm it. In front of me, near the edge of the debris-littered road, a white ornate sign, framed in gold, hung from two posts. "Welcome Home to Solomon Brandt Estates", written in black script, stuck out at me from inside the frame.

  "The idiot doesn’t know his own name," belted another voice from the crowd.

  "I-I'm . . . Solomon Brandt." The weak rasp of my voice sounded unfamiliar. My seared throat begged for liquid.

  Laughter rang throughout the circle of bystanders that formed around me and Excalibur.

  "Yeah, sure you are. And I'm Abraham fucking Lincoln," said someone else.

  More laughter.

  Their jesting didn't divert my focus, however. My gaze was plastered to the name on the sign. My name. I was certain of it.

  "Hey, Frank, did you call the cops?"

  "Yeah, their on their way.

  The guy called Frank removed his white hat; similar to the yellow ones, and raked a hand through his flaxen hair. "You're gonna pay for the damage to that sewer line, asshole."

  After managing to work a wad of spit, flavoured with dirt and blood, down my parched throat, I turned toward him and answered in a stronger voice. "What is a sewer line?"

  The grin Frank sported was a sign of trouble—I knew that much.

  The muscles in my chest twitched under the lacerations, adding to the sting. Excalibur pawed at the flat, strange-looking ground. Even though I sat upon a horse, I could tell I was a good six inches taller than the guy glaring up at me, and broader. Although the muscles in his arms bulged from whatever he had been doing, I somehow knew I could snuff out his life with one blow in my best form. But I wasn't in good form, and I had to find out why?

  A squeal like nothing I'd ever heard before pierced my eardrums. My mount crouched on its hind legs. With a white-knuckled grip on the horse’s mane, and my knees pressed hard against its sides, I clung to the beast beneath me, as his front hooves lifted and his upper body reared.

  The screeching grew louder, and my heartbeat drummed against my chest wall, as I fought to hang on to Excalibur—my lifeline.

  The crowed parted, and in between them, burst a shiny, white, motorized vehicle, with swirling red and blue lights on top. With a jolt to my entire body, the horse landed on all fours. A man and a woman, wearing some sort of identical uniform, exited the vehicle and swaggered toward me. My gaze drifted over the strange-looking couple, until it landed on a hand gun in a holster fastened to the woman's belt.

  Powerless as I was, my urge to flee the lynch mob suddenly grew stronger. With amused expressions, the uniformed couple stopped a few feet from my mount, closing the gap in the circle. As the man opened his mouth to speak, I leaned forward and spoke low into Excalibur's ear.

  "Run."

  Without hesitation, Excalibur reared once more before lunging at two men, who sprung to the side, creating a tight opening in the circle. The horse dashed between the frantic-looking people, then veered right and jumped a white picket fence.

  The force of the wind stung my skin as Excalibur carried me up an oak-lined driveway toward an enormous white house with a row of huge columns across the front. For a fleeting moment, I felt as if he was taking me home. Familiarity picked away at my brain as we hurtled up the drive closer to the mansion. As familiar as the structure and sweeping grounds seemed, the place also looked foreign, leaving me more confused than ever.

  When we rounded the side, leaving the cool shade of the oaks behind, an expanse of well trimmed lawn, with paths laid out in rose bushes, lay before me. The sun beat down on my exposed skin as Excalibur galloped through the floral-lined labyrinth, as if he knew exactly where he traveled to.

  Shouts from the mob carried across the breeze then diminished altogether as we neared the woods edging the back field. But Excalibur didn’t slow until we were well hidden amongst the moss-covered trees in the dense forest. I loosened my grip on the mane and straightened, flexing my cramped fingers.

  The inside of my thighs chafed against the horse's hide, and I was sure by the bouncing I received on our escape, my most sensitive areas would be blue and blistered. But despite the agony, I remained on my mount, for I knew nothing else.

  A canopy of twisted branches shaded us from the sun as Excalibur wove his way through the old forest. Before long a chill settled over me, awakening wounds, transforming misery to new heights. But the unbearable thirst soon overpowered all other conditions that assailed my body, awakening my sense of survival. There had to be a water hole, a puddle, somewhere in this damp, mossy shelter.

  With little strength left, I hunched over the horse, closed my eyes and focused on the sounds surrounding me. Overhead, the canopy of leaves rustled softly, and then stilled altogether. Small birds chirped somewhere in the distance, and sticks snapped beneath the weight of the stallion. These things, along with my raspy breathing, and a low snort now and then from Excalibur, kept me company.

  The sweet scent of honeysuckle and magnolia carried through the forest and settled under my nose. Although their perfume blended together in the air, I could distinctly pick each apart, as if embedded in a memory. A warm lull blanketed me, tranquilizing my body and spirit.

  Maybe the end was at hand—my last few breaths.

  As I flitted in and out of consciousness, hoping death would soon take me; darkness crept in, ripping away the blanket of comfort, and seeping into each of my wounds like salt. Moaning hurt my throat. The dark shadow stretched over the forest, bringing with it, raw coldness; its musty, earthy scent swallowing all that was good. My goosbumped skin came alive, and I knew death had averted me once again.

  And that made me angry.

  Despite my parched throat and the agony I knew yelling would cause, I lifted my head in the air, pulling the veins in my neck, and forced out a noise that sounded like something in between a roar and a growl. Feeling more satisfied than I had imagined, I repositioned my grip on the mane and dug my heels into the hor
se's sides.

  Excalibur picked up speed, weaving through the trees that I could barely make out traveling this speed. But the darkness traveled with us. If I didn't know better, I would think dusk had fallen upon us—in a hurry. But by the position of the sun in the sky before we entered the woods, it could be much past midday.

  As we rode through darkened forest, my wounds sizzled and bled as if sharp tree limbs raked over my skin reopening them. Trails of blood ran down my body, accumulating on the white fur I sat on.

  Just when I thought I would go insane, we broke into a rocky clearing and back under the afternoon sun, leaving the mysterious shadow, and all its foreboding behind. The bleeding stopped, along with the latest batch of pain. I tilted my face towards the bright globe in the sky, set my shoulders back, puffed out my chest, and took a deep breath, feeling the welcomed warmth wrap around my body. When I checked over my shoulder, the forest behind me seemed as tranquil as when we had entered it. But although the darkness had disappeared, I felt the evil lurking nearby, waiting for its chance to swallow me.

  I swept my gaze over the new terrain. Nothing about the clearing looked familiar. But something had to stick out. I had to belong somewhere. I couldn't have just appeared on a horse in the middle of a street I never saw before, half dead, and with no memory of my identity, no memories of anything before an hour ago.

  My gaze fell to the back of the horse's head, the spot between his tall pointed ears. "Who am I?" I said, patting one side of his regal neck. "You know, don't you, boy?"

  Excalibur replied with a soft nicker.

  "I'm Solomon," I answered back with a nod. "Solomon Brandt."