by Amy Rachiele
“She was headed to the corner when she had a bout of dizziness.”
Mr. Overton’s head snaps up. My smile is thin with shame at my deception; a seasoned charlatan I am not. “She?” Mr. Overton speaks softly. I nod my aching head.
“My name is Sybrina.”
Mr. Overton takes charge, calling a woman over. “Please assist this young lady at the chamber pot. She is unwell.” The woman pauses, considering his request and the ambiguity of it. She believes me to be the boy I had professed to be since the beginning. Her brown eyes blink in confusion.
“I am sorry for the delusion. I am Sybrina... I felt traveling alone would be safer if I was deemed male.” The woman’s eyes soften and I remember her. She is the woman whose husband has a nasty gash on his forehead.
“Come, child,” she orders kindly. I use her to steady myself and follow. I am uncomfortable with the breach in my disguise but the sickness coming upon me stifles it.
The aged blanket that covers the chamber pot is slipped back by the woman. I convince her that I am capable of going behind the curtain by myself. I manage, barely.
“Are you a nurse?” the woman inquires, most likely referring to the aid I provided to the others after the storm.
“No, but my father would have preferred that,” I respond.
My chest tightens at the thought of my father. His booming voice echoes in my head. One of the first of many arguments concerning my wishes. “Girls are not doctors! And you, girl, should not be anything but a wife and a mother! Take a husband and forget this foolishness!”
A gentleman from a recess of our home here below sea level takes the bucket after I finish and walks toward the ladder. The kindly woman waits for me and helps me back to my pillar where Michael is waiting. I slump against the column and a bout of dizziness overcomes me. I rest my head in my hands, waiting for the whirling to subside.
“Thank you...” I say through my fingers to the woman. “I am sorry. I don’t know your name.”
“Beatrice.”
“Thank you, Miss Beatrice.” I rub my temples as the headache I woke with intensifies.
“I have an elixir for your head.” I peer up at Miss Beatrice. “I made it myself with dried berries and lavender.” Hesitant to take any medicine without knowing its origin, I ponder how poorly I feel.
“That would be nice. My head is thumping in pain,” I tell her.
Michael rubs a quick small circle on my back in comfort. The contact startles me.
“I’ll be right back.” Beatrice returns carrying a small vial with a dark liquid inside. She kneels beside me and lifts the cold glass bottle to my lips. “Have a sip, child.” My initial reaction is to prepare my palate for a bitter, sour taste but that is not the case; it is sweet and flowery. The elixir feels soothing on my throat. Not confident it will help my head, at least it took the wretched burning in my throat.
“Thank you.” Beatrice’s face is kind; she gestures in answer and goes back to her small area by the wall.
Michael chuckles. “Did you think she was trying to poison you? Your face was comical.” I sigh and lean back.
“I am leery of taking anything. Substances mixed together in the wrong doses can be deadly.”
“You know a lot about healing,” he expresses quizzically.
“I was at Oxford.”
“Oxford?” he queries, amazed. “How is it possible?”
“I was admitted to the classes, laboratories, and examinations,” I rattle off. “But would not be allowed to hold a degree regardless of whether I could keep up with the men.” I know my voice is sour. “Or achieving high marks.”
“That sounds unfair. Although I did not know women were allowed to attend.”
“It cost my father a great deal of money and persuasion to allow my attendance. Other women participated in classes before, but not in the medical field. I am the first.”
“Were you alone then?”
“No. I had a great friend.” A small twinge of melancholy touches me thinking of Joshua.
A few moments pass. We sit and observe the travelers. Very subtly, the ship does a choppy dance. Shouting voices trail down to the lower level from above. The sea, wildly agitated, begins to toss the ship. I groan—another.
“Michael? You better hold on,” I suggest through my foggy head.
“Why?” he asks. As the word leaves his mouth, the ship dips down hard.
Cold water floods the floor; clothes, lanterns, and other personal effects shuffle across, strewn throughout the sea water ending at the very tip of the room in a heap, reminiscent of a garbage pile. Three deep bobs and the ship tips the other way sending everything back across.
Standing, I grab Michael and help him to attach himself to the post that we slept against last evening. He is having difficulty due to only having the use of one good arm. I hug the pillar and wrap my other arm around Michael, sandwiching us together. I am weaker than normal due to this oncoming ailment. It’s an effort to keep myself in place. Michael notices my struggle and yells above the chaos.
“I’m going to wrap my leg around you!”
I nod in understanding with the wood against my cheek. Michael swings his leg behind me, grabbing me at the knees. Pinning ourselves, we ride out the storm. Shivering from the freezing water that has soaked my clothes and shoes, I pray that this ends. Barely able to hold on any longer, a despairing, tired part of me wants to let go, flail around, going wherever the storm forces me—and just give up.
My hand begins to slip; the jostling and dampness is too much. I’m losing my hold. Dread replaces the part of me that wants to give up. The deceptive inkling dies. With renewed vigor, I stretch myself to capacity and reconnect to the pillar, thinking of Michael’s safety as well as my own. As if it was never there, the jarring wanes. The restless ship quiets down and the water begins to flow away, leaving behind a cacophony of debris that the passengers quickly move to sort. My taut, aching muscles relax, but my head is pounding with such fury, I am having trouble standing.
Michael stabilizes me and I find my purchase. I glance around at everyone looking for injuries. It seems as though this storm didn’t bring about the injuries of last time. The people had prepared for another tempest. I sit out of necessity and the damp boards seep into my pants.
Chapter 6
Elijah:
She is unwell and I pace my cabin with my healing injury making my immortal steps slow. I wanted to go to her, but alas I couldn’t. The young man, Michael, never left her side. I experienced every jolt of her body, every cough, every uncomfortable position. It sickens me to be in this state waiting to be cast again into the nothingness that my immortal body forces upon me. I am bereaved to think that her oncoming sickness could provide a fatal outcome. The effect of my immortal stasis sending me into unconsciousness is coming. Living so many years as vampire I know the signs. I hope and pray that she can withstand what’s coming her way.
I think back on my times lying in death’s sleep, her face shining brightly as in a dream. She is wearing taffeta and lace. Her feminine form perfection in her womanly dress.
A cadence breaks me from my thoughts of her. A deep rambling is muffled on the air. Evening has fallen, and I pull aside the window dressing and look out of my cabin. On the main deck, I watch the crew by torchlight pulling the riggings and lowering the sails. Another squall must be making its way to us. I hope it is only a storm. The crew is chanting a beloved sea shanty.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!
For the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow
And it’s time for us to leave her.
Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
She shipped it green and none went by.
And it’s time for us to leave her.
Fare thee well, Sybrina, until I may awaken. I fear something always comes back from the sea.
Sybrina:
I am back on the crates with the book so cherished by the crew that it is treated as though it holds the answers to the stars. It is wrapped tightly with a soft cloth shrouding it from the elements of the harsh sea. Gently, I unwrap it and hold it tightly in my hands.
My head aches and I feel the beginnings of a fever setting into my skull. I am unwell but do not wish to disappoint those who have waited patiently all day to hear the story. Slowly but surely, the seamen make their way over from a little crevice here or there, spread out across the vessel. The cook is wiping his hands on a ragged cloth as he makes his way to us. The forms of these seafaring men range from gangly and small to rippling with muscle. Some are barefoot, while others wear worn-out boots. Mouse skips childishly toward me with mischief in his eyes.
“Hello.” I smile, regaling in the delight of seeing him. His demeanor and disposition are so different from our first meeting. He leans over my shoulder to examine the pages I am ready to read with a boyish exuberance.
“Good evening. I hope you had a most productive day,” I remark cordially. Mouse grins at me like he has swallowed a secret and inclines closer to me.
“I did... miss.” He emphasizes the word and steps back to gauge my reaction. I nod in a subtle response. I clear my raw throat.
“Shall we begin?”
About twenty minutes and a chapter, I am spent. My energy is gone. It must be apparent to the crew. Mr. Tinker takes the book from me with a hearty thank you. “I note a malady comin’ upon ya,” Mr. Tinker whispers when he is close. I signal with a nod. Quietly, the crew mingles and disperses, going back to whatever their charge may be this early evening, leaving topside desolate.
Mouse escorts me to the ladder that will take me back down into the hull of the ship to sleep among my fellow passengers. We are alone under the night sky, the deck vacant. I close my eyes and take some cleansing breaths of the fresh sea air before my seclusion below. My joints ache and my head feels thick; a feverish ailment has befallen me, there is no doubt.
“You there!” My eyes pop open and I look around, knowing all too well the voice that spoke the words. “You there, I say!” Mouse casts a fearful and pleading gaze as our eyes meet. “Mr. Rufus! Come forth!” A scrabbling Rufus makes his way to us. It is unseemly to discern a hardy man flounder. “Throw that lad in the brig!” My eyes go wide in panic as Mouse swings around to face Captain Stokes, who is on his perch above the main deck.
“Captain?!” Mouse questions in disbelief.
With an obscene gesture the captain probably wouldn’t have done had he known I am a woman, he threatens, “I would watch your tongue, Mouse, or you’ll find yourself beside the lad!” He is an icy shield with no remorse.
Mouse’s mouth opens and closes as he thinks better of challenging the captain. He beholds me with sorry eyes. I am stunned by the captain’s declaration and wonder what I could have done to warrant arrest aboard the ship. Rufus approaches me slowly and sadly, pained by his duty.
“Might I know the charges set against me for punishment?” My question instigates a vicious cough that I cannot suppress. My whole body jolts violently with each bout. Mouse steadies me and finds his voice
“Captain, he is unwell. I was just escorting him below.” Mouse attempts to soften the cold man.
A scowl coats his face as he spits out, “Ye might have thought of that before you and the crew allowed the lad to break my rules. The passengers stay below.”
I don’t believe the reason for the captain’s vehemence. He has witnessed me on the deck before and has not shown this kind of discord.
A hand slips under my arm, and I am led to a trap door in the floor that I have never seen. The lid swings back and a putrid smell bursts out into the sea air. I cover my nose with my free hand and wince.
The stench thickens and is horrifically more powerful as I descend the ladder to the depths below. Lanterns line the walls and the glass encasings are crusted with dirt and grime making the light dim. I walk forward with my hand covering my mouth and nose. I turn my head when I hear a boot scrape the floor. A man is sitting on the ground behind iron bars. Long gray hair and a beard cover his head. His clothes are tattered and worn in a way that is more of rot than overuse.
Rufus stops us at a cell at the far end, away from the prisoner. He turns me toward him and places his hand upon my arm in a soothing gesture.
“Sorry. I will inform Mr. Tinker immediately of what has happened.” His attempt to comfort me with a smile is lost in the worry he cannot hide.
I nod and step in the iron cage. The clang of the metal door when it shuts makes me think of an aboveground tomb like I have seen in England; only I’m not dead—yet.
I rest my head against the iron cage that makes up my new accommodations. I don’t even try to fight back the tears as they come. The bucket in the corner with decomposing feces is what sets off my despair. There is no blanket to use to keep warm or to cover myself at the loo. I glance over at the man, jailed like me, and he is staring off into nothingness. From this distance, he could pass for a mummified corpse—protruding skeletal features and leathered skin.
My ailment rears its ugly head again now that my brain has caught up with the sharp reality that has befallen me. Pain behind my eyes, raw throat, and aches travel up and down my bones. I curl in on myself in an attempt to keep away the damp cold. I recollect on how I ended up here and it sends me into exhaustion. Instead, I try to focus my mind to a happier time.
Behind my house was a swing Father made for Paul and me. We would push each other as high as possible, taking turns. The older we became the more daring our feats. Paul would stand atop the swing seat, and I would push him with all my might. He would swing up into the small branches of the maple tree and try to grasp their leaves. “Higher, Sybrina!” he would yell, until mother came to scold him. I remember the happiness and it makes the loss all the more greater...
“Sybrina, trade me your aggie,” Paul says.
I childishly scoff at his request, “No...unless you play me for keepsies.” I cross my arms across my chest, taking a stand.
“Keepsies! Aww, come on. You know you always win. Mother won’t buy me any more marbles.” Paul’s large brown eyes plead with me to trade my aggie. My steel softens, and I can’t deny my brother. If not for Paul and his protective nature, life at school would be difficult. It started in primary school, the teasing and cutting jokes. Paul would not stand for it, no matter how serious or large the offender. Paul defended my aptitude for studies. When other brothers would pull their sister’s hair or run miles ahead of them to avoid walking home together, Paul never did. I miss him so much....
The jostling and noise wake me as the ship bucks against the waves that crash against it, pulling me back to the now. My eyes open to the bleakness of my surroundings. My cheeks are streaked with dried tears; I cried in my sleep.
I do not know how long I slept but the sea is angry, in a fit of rage. I sense its change of color as it slams into the bow, white instead of greenish blue. It turns the same color my father’s hands did when he would slam his tightly clenched fists down in anger at an idea or outraged at a conceived injustice. I cling to the black wrought iron bars before me, slouched against them sick with fever. I try to go back and think of happy thoughts. More happy times with my brother, or the fun games Joshua and I played between university classes.
But alas, I am losing myself to the sickness; stars dance before my eyes. Spasms of pain run through my head, and I am hot but cannot stop shivering. Fainting is imminent. Blackness closes in on my sight even though my eyes are open—then I am gone.
Elijah:
I would have crawled to her if circumstances required it. Once my reasoning returned, I knew something was not right. If not for my keen sense of hearing and the boisterous disagreement of the crew, I would have missed it.
Sybrina below in prison.
I sense her fever and it is worse than I feared. Scathing wrath consumes me, stealing my restrained disposition, caring
not who may see me. I flee my cabin and traverse across the deck within seconds. Puddles of water and tossed ship wares cover the deck. A great storm must have traveled by during my deathless sleep. Sailors are lifting shattered barrels and tidying loose stores.
I rip open the wooden flap that leads to the brig and its iron hinges snap. I jump down, landing spryly, the vile air assaulting my senses. I scan the area and see her slumped against a cage door. My strides carry me to her within seconds to see her typically rosy cheeks are pale milk. Her eyes are closed not in sleep, but in a deeply unconscious state. The hand-hewn lock rests against the metal cell, and I break it with my bare hands. Carefully, I open the door so as to not let her fall, steadying her. Reaching down, I lift her into my arms and my whole being registers the contact. I cradle her and the need to protect her seizes me like never before. My immortal breath pants in fear. And, having lost my contained discipline, I raise my arm by her head, lightly placing a soft kiss to her hot temple. What if I am too late?
With a much gentler gait than I used to get here, I make my way to my chamber, the daylight revealing the detrimental state of her pallor. Watchful eyes are on me, but I continue with purpose. Sailors going about their tasks stop to watch me carry an unresponsive Sybrina.
“Minister!” rings sharply from above, and I look up at the captain. “Care to tell me what ye are doing with my prisoner?” His eyes flash with anger, but mine flash with raging violence.
“No,” I challenge, unaffected by his tone, and continue toward my destination, keeping my composure from morphing into a reckless display of temper.
“Minister!” the Captain yells more loudly, fury coating his address. “Minister!”
My flaring eyes shoot to his as he leans over the balustrade. I’m not sure what mortals see when a vampire casts its wrath upon them, but it silences the befuddled old sailor immediately.
The captain is used to proper obedience from those around him, especially the clergy that accompany his voyages. But I am neither part of the clergy nor beholden to his rule or any other human’s.