“There must be something we can do,” he blurted, an urgent desperation surging in his veins. He grabbed the cell bars. “We could start a fire. I could steal the keys. I’ll attack the guard, surprise is on my side—”
“No.” James’s voice was firm. “I forbid you to do anything of the sort. They’d be on to you in a moment, even if I did manage to escape. Which, considering my present condition, I don’t see likely.”
Edward shook his head, unwilling to listen. “We’re close to the coast. You could make it ashore, could disappear there. I will just—”
“Edward,” James snapped. Edward fell silent. “Even if we managed that, the commodore would go on a rampage. He would hunt down my men. He’d have you executed for treason. And I….” He worried his lip between his teeth. “My life in exchange is a fair price. I can accept that.”
“But I can’t.” Edward’s hand slammed against the bars. He stood still, made breathless by the sudden revelation. “I… can’t,” he repeated, low this time. He sought James’s eyes, held his gaze, fighting the dull desperation that curled slowly in his stomach. “I can’t let you… I just can’t.”
James moved closer, pressed his body against the bars. He lifted his good hand and placed it on top of Edward’s, sweetly. His touch was warm. His face was pale, too pale. His hair hung in tangles. He was shaking, Edward noticed, a minute trembling.
“Just—stay with me, tonight,” James breathed.
Edward surged forward, reaching between the bars. He took James in his arms and pulled him into a desperate hug. James buried his face in Edward’s shoulder, his left hand clutching Edward’s shirt. They held each other fiercely, the bars that divided them painful like blades.
“It’s not right,” Edward said, feeling angry, powerless tears burn behind his eyes. He pressed kisses to James’s hair, his cheekbones, his eyes, his lips. He could taste salt, tears. He wasn’t sure whose.
James’s fingers pressed to his face, trailed a light caress on his cheek. “Don’t cry,” he murmured.
Edward didn’t care. He held the pirate tighter, pressed their foreheads together, and closed his eyes. He let the tears fall, angry and burning, and just kept whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
A VAST crowd had gathered at the promontory of Gallows Point.
The rain had stopped, and pale, weak sun glistened on wet wood and puddles. A high wooden scaffolding had been erected for the authorities: judges, officials, and the governor sat there, dressed in grand style. This was no ordinary execution. The whole town had gathered to see the great Captain O’Shea led to the gallows.
Edward lowered his head, trying to look inconspicuous as he mingled with the crowd. The commodore had forbidden him from going, ordering the guards to keep him segregated in his cabin. It had been Marcus, dear Marcus, who had slipped him the keys and a hooded cape and distracted the guard as he slipped out.
Edward could see a patrol group run into the square, looking around anxiously. They must have noticed he was missing. Of course, they couldn’t spread panic among the hundreds of people gathered. Edward pulled his hood lower on his face, hunched down, and melted into the crowd.
The chatter of the people died down as a cart approached noisily, coming from the docks. It was flanked by guards on horseback. Edward strained to see.
There he was. James stood, his hands shackled in front of him, chained to the cart. His pale blond hair was tangled, mussed, yet still shone in the weak sunlight. He held his head high, staring straight in front of him with cold blue eyes. His face was battered and bruised, and yet he looked determined and impassive, proud and detached. His lower lip was swollen, cracked. It hadn’t been the night before, when Edward had kissed him. Someone had hit him. And now, now they would… Edward’s chest tightened. Oh, God….
He clutched the knife he’d managed to steal, hidden beneath his dark cloak. He gritted his teeth. He had to do something. He moved, determined to shove his way toward the cart—
“Edward, stop.” A rushed, urgent whisper. Someone wrapped strong arms around him, holding him back. Edward spun around, wild—it was Marcus, dressed in peasant’s clothes, looking rumpled and frantic.
“Let me go,” Edward growled. Marcus just tightened his hold.
“I’ve been looking for you all over. I knew you’d try something stupid,” Marcus said. He forced Edward to still, sweat beading his forehead from the effort. “What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” Edward strained to turn. The cart had moved on now, toward the scaffolding—and the gallows. A metal cage gleamed there, the cage where they would put his body, to hang at Deadman’s Cay as a warning to his fellow pirates. Edward struggled in Marcus’s hold, dull despair thrumming behind his eyes. “Let me go. Let me….”
“No.” It was all Marcus murmured. He pressed his face to Edward’s hair, his voice low. “I’m not letting you get yourself killed.”
They were close enough to the scaffolding to see the commodore’s face, the hateful smirk on his mouth. He was sitting next to the judge, nodding reverently at everything the old man said. Edward hated him in that moment, hated him with an intensity that should have frightened him.
James was led off the cart and up the wooden steps. He stood, unmoving, his cold eyes on the crowd as the death sentence was read. He wasn’t looking for anyone, Edward realized; he was simply staring straight ahead, cold, determined not to show one instant of weakness. Edward burned with the need to shout, to wave, to make his presence known, so that James would know that he wasn’t alone, that he wasn’t going to die alone.
“Do you have any last words you wish to say?”
Slowly, James’s lips curled up in a grin. He didn’t utter a word.
The executioner exchanged glances with the commodore. The man waved dismissively. “Proceed.”
James’s smirk didn’t fade as he was led onto the trapdoor. Edward struggled again, trying to wrench himself out of Marcus’s hold. But the boy held on with all his strength, reining him in.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, Edward. I’m so sorry….”
Edward had no voice left to protest. He clutched Marcus’s arm, suddenly emptied of all his energy, his knees threatening to give out under him. The executioner slipped the noose around James’s neck, under his chin, tightening it up. Edward couldn’t watch, he couldn’t, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away, frozen in horror and disbelief—
The force of the explosion nearly knocked him to the ground.
A cloud of smoke erupted, filling the square in an instant, dark and bitter. Panic spread within seconds. A chaos of screams erupted as people tried to fall back from the gallows in frantic waves. They trampled one another, burying the astonished guards in a full-blown stampede. Edward and Marcus fought to stand their ground, wiping at their eyes, trying to understand what the hell was going on. Figures seemed to spring from the bowels of the crowd, running and shouting. Swords gleamed, gunshots tore the air, fueling the panic. What looked like a prosperous matron sporting a very unlikely grey beard rushed past them, brandishing two large guns, vomiting bullets into the air and screaming in a hoarse, familiar voice.
“Fergus!” Edward called. But the pirate had already run past them, busy stirring up the mayhem.
“What happened?” Marcus yelled, trying to make himself heard above the noise. Edward didn’t need to answer. The smoke cleared enough for them to see that the authorities’ platform had collapsed, its wooden legs blown to pieces in a flurry of waving legs as the judge and officials tried to climb off each other and get back on their feet. None of them seemed injured. The explosion must have been quite weak, more for pyrotechnic effect.
“It’s the pirates,” Edward cried back, struggling to shove his way toward the gallows, past the rush of people running away. His heartbeat pulsed wildly in his ears. There was hope. There was—
“The lever!” the commodore shouted. He’d regained his feet and was livid, his white wig han
ging messily on his face. “Pull the lever!”
The executioner did.
Edward cried out as the trapdoor opened and James fell. For an instant everything froze as Edward waited in terror for the sickening crack of James’s neck. It didn’t come. James had managed to slip his hands into the noose. He clung to the rope, struggling, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. He was choking.
Edward ran. He shoved his way through the crowd, deaf to Marcus’s shouts. Guards were converging on the collapsed platform. So were the pirates. Swords clashed. Edward swiftly dodged a blade—Fergus appeared between him and the guard in his bearded matron outfit.
“Go, fella!” he shouted. Edward didn’t need encouragement.
He lurched up the steps to the gallows. The very large executioner blocked his way. He careened forward, and all Edward needed was to drop into a crouch. The man tripped over him, and Edward stood, using the man’s knees as a lever, letting him topple over his shoulder and off the gallows. The commodore roared.
Edward’s knife gleamed, and James fell through the trapdoor, crumpling on the ground beneath the gallows, the rope neatly sliced. Edward jumped down, landing in a crouch beside the slumped pirate. James was coughing, wheezing, trying weakly to loosen the noose around his neck. Edward did it for him, yanked at the rope with hands that were surprisingly not trembling.
“James. James,” he called urgently. James was holding his hands to his throat. Edward grabbed his wrists, sliced through the rope that bound them. “Can you walk? Can you….”
“Yes,” James croaked, his voice a harsh, ruined whisper. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbled—Edward caught him before he fell. He looked confused, dizzy. Edward grabbed his arm and placed it around his own shoulders.
They emerged from under the gallows. The crowd had dispersed now, and they were in full sight. Edward found himself staring straight at the Commodore, who stood very still on the ruined platform, surrounded by bustling aristocrats.
“Traitor!” Orwell yelled. Edward swallowed hard. He turned his back on the man and set off as quickly as possible, carrying James’s weight as best he could.
Pirates and guards were still quarreling in the square, but it was clear who had won. A pair of officials ran past Edward, their weapons gone. Fergus materialized after them, waving his gun. It clicked empty, and he smashed it on the head of a guard who stepped in their path.
“This way!” he yelled, gesturing for Edward to follow him. “Run, fella, run!”
Edward didn’t stop to think of what he was leaving behind. His whole damn life. James leaned heavily against him, gasping, doing his best to keep up with the pace. That was all that mattered—the man in his arms, his warm weight. Anything else was irrelevant.
Edward ran.
THE Cassandra forged ahead on a strong, stern wind. They were headed southeast, toward Tortuga. The navy would steer clear of the island.
The night was lit up by the warm light of a dozen lanterns. The pirates had gathered on deck and sang and laughed loudly over a barrel of rum to celebrate the return of their captain. James sat with them, still pale and bruised, his throat marred by angry red marks. He was smiling, though, his eyes and hair gleaming in the lantern’s light, letting the men fuss over him.
Edward kept aside, content with listening to the festive voices. He didn’t feel like taking part in the general merriment. He was happy, of course, but… heavy thoughts stirred in his mind. He stared down at the dark sea, sloshing quietly as the Cassandra slit seamlessly through it, as he felt something clench in his chest. He hadn’t seen Marcus, who’d remained back, lost somewhere in the crowd. He hadn’t even had the chance to thank him for saving his life.
“So that’s where you are,” a rough, low voice said. Edward turned to see James standing in front of him, a small, sheepish smile on his lips. The lights of the banquet behind him made his hair shine in the darkness. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Edward swallowed. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” James rasped. He self-consciously rubbed a hand over his throat. “Sorry about the voice.”
“All I care about is that you’re safe. That you are… here,” Edward replied. Here with me.
“That’s thanks to you,” James said. The smile was quick to fade from his eyes. “You sacrificed everything to save me. Your reputation, your future… everything you were.” His arms were tightly crossed over his chest.
Edward was taken aback by such an open display of vulnerability. But after what James had been through that day… without thinking he stepped forward, rested his hand on the captain’s cheek.
“I’m glad,” he said. He sought the captain’s eyes, held his gaze. He wished he was able to explain just how much. To be able to see you—to touch you—to hear your voice. To know you are still in this world, that I can still kiss your lips, run my fingers through your hair. That I can still see your infuriating smile…. But all he could say was, “You… you’re worth the price.”
James closed his eyes, then leaned into Edward’s touch. He pressed his lips to Edward’s hand, his wrist. The night’s quiet was broken by the shouts and songs of the pirates, the soft splashing of the waves. Wind swept James’s blond hair over his face. Edward pushed it to the side, let his fingers linger on the pale locks. He’d sacrificed his whole life, yes. A life he wasn’t even sure he wanted anymore.
He pulled James in his arms, pressed a kiss to his hair, his temple. James looked up at him then, fingers trailing along the corner of his jaw. His eyes seemed to have absorbed the deep blue of the night sky.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Edward tilted his head down to capture James’s mouth in a kiss.
It was worth the price, indeed.
CORNELIA GREY is a student halfway through her creative writing degree with a penchant for fine arts and the blues. Born and raised in the hills of Northern Italy, where she collected her share of poetry and narrative prizes, she is now based in London, and she is thoroughly enjoying the cultural melting pot that is the City.
Her interests vary from painting to photography, from sewing to acting; when writing, she favors curious, surreal poems and short stories involving handsome young men seducing each other. She loves collecting people’s stories and re-discovering lost tales that deserve to be told.
Her days are full and hectic: she reads, goes to flea markets, galleries, and the theater, and of course spends most of her time writing. When she’s at home, she likes to curl up with a book and the classic cup of tea and leaves chestnuts in the garden for the squirrel that comes around from time to time.
Visit her blog at http://corneliagrey.blogspot.com/. You can contact Cornelia at [email protected].
PETER AND THE
LOST BOYS
JUAN KENOBI
“A PIÑA colada,” I said, stretching my torso toward the bartender and trying my best to avoid dragging my denim jacket onto the tray overflowing with maraschino cherries, olives, and lemon and lime slices.
“Can you squeeze through, matey?”
The man to my left leaned back from his barstool, tugging on his full-length leather coat. Almost skimming his knee with my annoying jacket, I turned to give him a smile.
“Thanks! Um, just barely,” I replied. “I didn’t think it would get this crowded in the afternoon.” I looked around and cringed at the tangle of bodies that seemed to surround me.
“Normally, it’s not. But it being such a warm and sunny day, I guess some guys can’t resist packing into a dark bar. And it is the weekend, after all.”
“I was just in the neighborhood for a quick errand, but I guess you’re right,” I said as the bartender handed me my drink. I handed him a five, gave the man in the leather coat a perfunctory toast, and took a sip. I licked the cream off my lips as inconspicuously as I could.
“It looks like you’re a rum drinker too!” he said.
I chuckled. “Well, I don’t know if this really counts as a rum drink. I just like
the pineapple juice and the coconut cream, even though it looks a little froufrou.” I stirred the drink with my straw, grateful there was no tiny pink umbrella.
The man held up his tumbler as if to study it in the light. “This here is what’s called a bolero. It’s rum with Calvados and vermouth.” He winked at me, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. A few drops of liquor still sparkled on his salt-and-pepper moustache and beard, which were fastidiously trimmed in a disarming Van Dyke-like style. The hair on his head, however, was incongruously abundant, with almost girlish curls that would look somewhat effeminate if not for the rugged features of his face—a slightly sunburnt complexion with crinkles around his steel blue eyes, a prominent nose, full red lips, and a stern jaw. As I glanced down his black leather coat, I couldn’t help but notice its unusual cut—almost like a trenchcoat reaching past his knees but styled with a decidedly European flair, with a long row of brass buttons running down one side and large lapels etched with a floral design in indigo. As he held up his drink, I could see the same decoration on his cuffs, soaked, I assumed, with traces of rum and Calvados. Although he adopted a look that was radically different from the denim and T-shirt combo that made up my weekend wardrobe, I couldn’t help but be captivated by his intriguing mixture of styles, sort of Regency meets ex-biker.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Peter. And yours?”
“My friends call me Kap. Pleased to meet you, Peter.” As he extended his arm for a handshake, I could see a large blue anchor tattooed on his wrist.
“You don’t see much of that anymore,” I remarked. “I mean, traditional nautical tattoos—anchors, mermaids, seahorses. Now what you see are Japanese koi, Tahitian designs, more tribal stuff.”
“Well, I kind of have a tribe of my own, you might say.” He took another swig, then nodded. “Yep, a tribe of my own.”
Oh, I wondered. What does he mean? I peered at the vest that he wore under his coat, which appeared to be made of blood red brocade with gold embroidery. The collar of a white linen shirt poked its way beneath his bearded neck, and resting underneath was a leather necklace from which dangled an assortment of small shells and shiny beads. A few looked like miniature skulls.
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