Pleasure Island [The Chronicles of Lidir]

by Aran Ashe

  But nothing happened. It had gone very quiet; the only sounds were distant and on deck. Very slowly, her fists uncurled, but she kept her hands in front of her face and looked out through the slits between her fingers. The room was empty of people; the doorway was clear; the floor had scattered broken crates, an upturned barrel and a pulp of cheese and apples matted into the planking. She drew her hands slowly down her cheeks, dropped her head back, rubbed her neck and sighed, but she did not move from the security of the crates. Her heartbeat gradually slowed; she felt tired.

  Above her, the hubbub seemed to be subsiding. There were cries, but no screams or clashes of steel, and now there were banging noises on the side of the ship. She wondered what they might mean. Without taking her eyes from the doorway, she got up very cautiously and edged over the remaining litter to the porthole. But before she even had the chance to look outside, the footfalls came again, very rapidly across the deck, then they started down the stairs. There were muffled voices, shouts. She was trapped. It would take them only seconds to cover the distance along the corridor. This time, there was no door to stay them, and nowhere she could hide. Anya had to decide. Should she make a dash for it and try to get past them? But she was too frightened to move towards the doorway. There was nothing else for it.

  She looked out of the porthole. High above her were the ropes that linked the ships; pirates were clambering back across to their ship and manoeuvring nets of booty; below was the heavy green swell of water surging up to a narrow ledge around the hull. The down-swell made her feel giddy. Then she heard a clank - a rope had snapped and dropped against the hull. She heard a shout. It happened again - the rope dropping - and she realised it had been cut. Then she heard another shout, followed by the skid of feet in the doorway at her back. 'She's here!' But Anya did not stop to listen. She was through the porthole before the intruders had time to step across the threshold.

  She hung on by her hands and allowed her body to drop. But the ledge was narrower and further down than she had judged and her arms were almost wrenched out before her toes could reach it. Pressing her fingertips into the coarse seam of the planking, she began edging sternwards as fast as she could - which was all too slowly. She looked up; all the ropes were cut, but there were none she could reach. The topsail and its broken spars floated forward of where she clung. Below, the surge rose almost to touch her feet, then abruptly dropped to leave an empty chasm. She felt sick. And she had been spotted by the pirates at the opposite rail. They jeered and hooted, waiting for her to fall. She could hear other shouts from directly above her. Her legs felt weak and her fingers ached; she was afraid to move; she was unable to look either up or down now for fear of falling.

  'Anya!' Her heart stopped altogether. It was his voice. 'Hold on!'

  She forced herself to turn her head round and looked back along the hull. How could it be? The faces at the pantry porthole were not pirates at all but the Prince and his lieutenant. They looked battle-weary, but unhurt. 'It is safe now,' the Prince cried. 'Do not move. We will come to get you.'

  So Anya clung there, trembling, her terror allayed at last by tears of sweet relief. She knew that she had only to hold on until she felt those strong arms round her waist, sweeping her back to safety. She closed her eyes as the ship rolled with the deep swell of the sea.

  'Look out!' His cry was almost drowned by the belly-churning grinding noise. Her eyes snapped open; the ships were being pressed together by the swell. They touched in the middle, then began to swing, nose apart, and the point of contact was travelling rapidly towards her. Anya watched in horror as the buffer beam of the larger ship rubbed ever closer at belly height, accompanied by the squealing protests and knocking snaps of slowly tortured timbers. 'Quickly - give me your hand!'

  Somehow, she unfroze, but it was too late. She was in the jaws of a giant, ridged vice and it was closing. Her belly would be squashed to a pulp; her body would be cut in two before she reached him.

  'Jump! Jump across!' She did not understand. The entreaty was echoed from above, from both ships. The pirates watched with fascination. She twisted her head and stared behind her at the ledge of wood that fast approached. Jump!' At the very last second she turned and took a giant upward leap across the space, landed on one knee, almost toppled back again, then grasped the rebate, clawed her way upright and managed to balance, pressing her body hard against the pirate ship's hull. The point of contact reached her, seemed to pause, then very slowly began to pass. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see the vast expanse of moving hull behind her; she could almost feel it as a pressure against her back, preventing her from breathing. She felt light-headed. She heard the debris of the topmast trap, then splinter between the hulls. She felt the judder of grating friction through her feet. Then suddenly, the danger was past. The cheer went up from both ships.

  She balanced awkwardly, waiting for the ships to steady. But they carried on moving apart. The chasm opened up behind her and quickly widened. She turned her head and saw her Prince, immobile at the porthole, his arms outstretched towards her. He could not save her now. Nobody could. Then she heard the weighted rumble of the swell. She gasped and held on for her life as she watched the slow broad wave approach. It rose, freezing, up her legs, then waned, then surged again up her body, up inside her jacket, sucking her breath away with the shocking cold. It kept rising, over her shoulders, over her head, and squirted up her nose. She fought against the urge to cough and the urge to let go, though the water lifted her as if she were weightless, tugged her gently, silently, as the bubbles streamed round her face, then slowly lowered her. Suddenly, she could hear and splutter and cough and breathe, but her body just got heavier and heavier as if it were weighted down with stones. The muscles in her arms screamed out for mercy; the tendons in her wrists felt like burning strands of wire. The sea sucked slowly down her body, then, as her feet found the ledge again, reluctantly released her, leaving the saturated tunic sleeved tightly to her skin and the water cascading down her body to her boots. Her head was pulled back by her copper hair - no longer tied, but drawn down by the weight of the water into a smooth straight fan across her shoulders. There were gasps of delight from the pirates up above.

  'Why, it's a girl!' The astonished cry was from a pockmarked pirate at the rail.

  'No ... What say ye, Spragg?' came the quick reply. 'Stuck upon the hull like that, I thought it were a limpet!' The ship erupted in guffaws of laughter - with the speaker bellowing louder than the rest and slapping the spotty one heartily on the back.

  Nobody cared about Anya's plight - about the fact that she might easily have drowned. Looking up, she was enveloped by a slowly creeping fear - far more chilling than the sea - as she divined the wicked intent that lurked behind all those sparkling, laughing eyes.

  A gaunt, grey-whiskered pirate pointed a crooked finger: 'But look at her - dressed like a cabin squirt. Why?'

  'Hmmm ... I wonder now. She's got to be a valuable one to be set in that disguise.' Anya bit her lip. Then the man suddenly thumped his fist upon the rail and cried: 'Quick, Spragg. Get Travix. And tell the captain.' He nodded towards the other ship, drifting slowly away: riddled with holes and with her topmast gone, she looked a sorry sight. 'We can forget that leaking bucket and her jelly-bellied crew, for it's a mackerel to a maggot that we've got our prize - down here!'

  For a second or two, the pirates stared at each other, then stared at Anya. Spragg hadn't moved. Then suddenly one of them lifted his leg astride the rail. 'Forget Travix. This one's our prize. Come on, lads - let's give our guest a pirate's welcome. Pipe the girl aboard!'

  [3]

  A Severed Lip

  Rough hands grasped her sleeves and collar, hauled her dripping body up the side of the ship and dragged her over the rail. She was lifted to shoulder height on a forest of strong, eager arms and passed from hand to hand - above the sea of pigtailed, grinning, flap-eared faces with breath that spoke of rancid fish and tainted meat - and deposited, kicking def
iantly, in the well below the quarterdeck. They tried to take hold of her flailing arms and feet.

  'Get back,' cried she. 'Unhand me!' Brave woman, brave words. She was on her back, hemmed in by a tight double circle of leering pirates. A pool of water welled from her saturated clothes.

  'Undress the girl, more like!' came the quip, spurring a renewed attack and more wild kicking. Then someone intervened.

  'Now calm down.' He spread his arms and held the others back. 'Don't rush her. Can't you see the girl's upset? Take it gently. She hasn't got to know us yet.'

  'Oh then, let me introduce myself ...' The quipster began undoing his belt.

  'Shut up, you witless gawk. Get him out of the way.' But the rescuer's voice turned oily. His hands began to dance and his grimy fingernails clawed the air as he tried to coax: 'Shh ... Now, my dearie, we're your friends. In those wet things, why, you'll catch your death of cold. Here, let Luggins help you.' The dancing fingers reached for Anya's jacket. She spat on them, then kicked him in the shin, sending him hopping to the howls of laughter.

  'It seems she knows you well enough already ...'

  Someone caught her wrist and twisted it and the next time that she kicked, they were ready. Two of them grabbed her feet, pulled her boots off, dragged her up and held her by the ankles. She took hold of the nearer assailant's leg and bit it at the knee. His breeches tasted musty. He screamed and dropped her. Anya twisted as she fell and her shoulder broke her fall. She tried to drag herself away, but there was no escaping. She was held face down by hands pressing heavily between her shoulders and pinning her to the deck. The pirate's full weight descended; he sat upon her, trapping her upper back between his knees. She could hardly breathe - her ribs were being crushed - but she kept kicking, though she hit no one and her toes kept stubbing against the floor. He wrenched her face to one side and forced her cheek against the planking. Then his face moved closer. Even with her eyes shut, she couldn't get away from this nightmare: her wet things now felt hot and clammy; she could smell the staleness on his breath; her chin was held in an iron grip and a cracked dry thumb was pushing deep into her cheek.

  And still she would not give up; she would never give way to these creatures. She pressed her knees into the deck to try to lift the dead weight from her back, to try to throw him. But that only made her more vulnerable. Other hands slipped beneath, around her waist and grasped her tunic bottoms. The hands tugged, the wet waistband clung to her at first, then slipped and dug into her back above her bottom. At her belly, she felt the cloth drawn tight, the stitching beginning to strain, then giving, then loudly ripping. A roaring cheer went up. Her hips gyrated wildly to try to throw the maulers off. Her arms, trapped above the elbows by the pirate's knees, could not move. Her hands waved ineffectually as the ripping continued, accompanied by the cheering, and the breeches were stripped off her buttocks, down her legs and to her ankles. The wet skin of her thighs and buttocks turned to gooseflesh.

  And now, against the catcalls and the whistles of the mob, she was defenceless. She could not stop the pirates spreading her legs, still fastened by the rags wrapped round her ankles, then bending her knees outwards, scraping them across the deck - hurting her. But worse than the pain were the tears. She had fought against them from the start and now she had lost. These men, cruel though they were, had not defeated her. They never could. She was defeated by her own tears, which connived with these hardened hearts to deliver them greater satisfaction. They trickled down her face to wet the rough cruel hand that held her yet more tightly through those tears. Her ankles were forced up, to make her bottom lift. Callused fingers rubbed her legs, the backs of her open thighs, the cheeks of her buttocks, then parted them.

  'Look out, lads! Travix!' Suddenly, her assailants lost their nerve. The brave attack miraculously melted away at the very mention of that name. The hands released Anya's face, her legs were straightened, the weight was lifted from her back and the cowards edged away.

  Anya lay on her front, her body trembling, her tears welling silently. The tunic top was still in place; the remains of the bottoms were tangled round her ankles. Her shoulders ached; she felt as if her ribs were cracked. Her knees throbbed as if her skin was rubbed away and bleeding.

  'Turn her over.'

  Anya abruptly stopped trembling and her eyes opened wide, for it was a woman's voice she had heard - very clear and strong, decisive, yet not harsh.

  A seaboot prised her shoulder from the deck and rolled her limp body over. Immediately, in reflex, she closed her eyes again and crossed her hands to cover the joins of her thighs, for the jacket was very short. She could feel the cool pool of water against the small of her back and the skin hairs prickling as the moisture began to evaporate from the out-swell of her belly.

  For a while, nothing happened. She listened as she tried to fit a picture to the name she had heard - Travix. Then she heard footfalls, slow deliberate footfalls, close by. Her hands tightened defensively below her belly, for now her mind had formed the picture. She thought she heard a sigh. Then the voice came again and this time it had a cynical edge: the picture had been right. 'Modesty and mettle so delicately balanced ...' The toe of a different boot - velvet - slipped along her thigh. 'Innocence so sweet to test ... But will you not open your eyes?'

  Anya had to force herself to do it. The ragged crew had moved back. Above her stood three people who looked very different from the pirates - the woman, Travix, in a closely fitting suit of blue, and two men, standing one to each side of her but slightly behind, clad in moleskins and sleeveless leather shirts. The men's arms were folded. Each had the same stance and the slightly glazed, indifferent look of guards. They were young - about as old as Anya - but Travix must have been a few years older. She held her head a little to one side and lifted her chin, so she was forced - or she chose - to look obliquely down at Anya. Her lip appeared drawn up very slightly at the side away from Anya. As Anya waited for her to speak again, Travix's gaze lifted. Her eyes were a clear ice blue. They impaled a short fat crewman who still held one of Anya's boots. Uncertainly, he lowered his body by bending his knees until the boot touched the deck beside Anya's feet. Then he released it, straightened and backed away in tiny shuffling movements. Travix's gaze returned to Anya. The woman seemed to be assessing her from head to toe.

  Anya in turn tried to fathom this person. She was tall - or perhaps it only appeared that way, for the crew stood before her with shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. Her hair was shoulder length, blonde, thick and straight, like filaments of pale gold wire, drawn back and tied with a black ribbon. In her left earlobe was a single gold ring. Seeing that earring reminded Anya of her Prince. Beneath Travix's collar was a scarf. Her hands, on her hips, were slim, but the nails were short, like a man's. She had pale eyebrows and her cheeks were weather-reddened. As the woman's head turned, Anya's breath caught. Travix's face was scarred; there was a curving pale red line down her right cheek and a fine furrow across her upper lip. The lip lifted in a faint half-smile, and the woman's eyes narrowed - as though she were mocking Anya's discomfiture at seeing this disfigurement. Her teeth were pure white, and very slightly crooked below the line of the cut.

  Anya winced, for though the severed lip was long ago healed, she was imagining it happening - the sword slash cutting across the cheek, the blue steel slitting it, then slipping against the cut flesh of the lip, then grating shrilly against the teeth, before being drawn sharply away. For some reason - something about Travix's look perhaps - she imagined that cut being delivered not in the heat of battle but in coldblooded punishment. In her mind's eye, she could see the lip lifting afterwards to a mocking smile, the pure white teeth flooding red with blood, then the tongue licking out to taste and test the raw-nerved pulpy slit. It sent a peculiar shiver through Anya's belly.

  Travix had not failed to notice; now she looked down to where Anya's hands still crossed below her belly. The lip curled once again to that same disdainful smile. Anya coloured. The blue eyes flashed
at her. Suddenly annoyed, afraid - of the eyes, of the peculiar feeling that had touched her belly, and of the premonition of wicked sensuality that now inveigled her mind - Anya spat the words out:

  'Who are you? What do you want of me?'

  There were murmurs from the men. Anya bit her lip. She ought to have bitten her tongue. Travix slowly looked round at all the faces. She did not look at Anya as she spoke. It was as if she were intent upon preventing this insubordination from spreading to the crew.

  'Ah - the Princess of Lidir, I presume.' There were uneasy chuckles from the men. Now Travix did look at Anya and Anya turned bright red. 'For you see, my dear, I judge you not by your manners - nor yet by your frippery -' her velvet booted toe touched the ragged trousers wrapped round Anya's ankles; the chuckles turned to laughter -' but by the disquiet your hasty defection appears to have provoked.' She turned; the men quickly moved aside as if her gaze had cut a swath through them. She took several paces towards the rail, then said slowly, almost to herself, her voice tinged momentarily with a faint note of uncertainty: 'Even now, your puny ship would try to follow.' Then she turned sharply on her heel and strode back to confront Anya. Her lip curled again in a twisted smile: 'But your pigeons made a tasty pie - as you will too, I am sure.' Anya's eyes widened in fear as she recalled the doves, sent to warn of her return.