Lore
A Pirate’s Charm
Chad T. Douglas
Table of Contents
Roll the Bones I
Lucia II
Blackheart Reprise III
I
Roll the Bones
Storm and Sea danced a slow and foreboding dance, waves and clouds crashing inland with secret speed. Some of the more superstitious folk in Bridgetown that night would have said it was an ill Mama Dlo who was tossing Sea about, making her restless and wild. Some would say they heard Papa Bois blowing on his horn, but they could not say why. Was a man lurking about in the dark streets who had thoughts of killing? No, the folk would have said, but the circumstances and the sounds of the night were speaking to the island and whispering to those who knew how to interpret the signs. Most people did not pay Molly Bishop any mind as she walked swiftly past their homes, vaulted their fences, crept through their yards, slipped between the alleys and skirted past the dense and scrubby shore trees. Some people noticed but not a soul cared too much about the attractive, young foreigner, where she was headed, or why. But Mama Dlo and Papa Bois had their eyes on Molly Bishop that night—at least, some folks would say.
Sea sighed and blew her humid breath inland, cooling the tropical air, hushing the insects and forcing most of the locals indoors. In a small shack near the woods, a young woman was covering her fruits and moving them further inside her house, where the rain and rodents would not touch them. No one had come to buy anything during the day, and it had been that way for a long time. Still, the young woman remained hopeful, thinking that soon people would forget their qualms and at least come and inspect her goods, purchase some of her sewing, maybe take a fruit or two. The folk in the nearest port were afraid of her aging father—a man who did not speak to anyone but the spirits, such as Mama Dlo and Papa Bois. People called him a crazy old wizard. They accused him of making deals with the devil. The young woman knew it was not true; her father hadn’t spoken or gone outside in years, let alone conjured devils or raised his hand to do any more than call a dragonfly close so that it might land on his bony fingers.
Sea breathed another long sigh and sent an especially chilly breeze flying through the door of the shack, just as Molly Bishop came along. The young woman listened to the way the breeze upset her wind chimes—reeds and pebbles on strings—and stood as her father began to stir. He said nothing but pointed out the door. The young woman interpreted it in the only way she could: Look there, daughter, see if that stranger is tired or needs something to eat.
The young woman hurried outside, shivering and squinting through the dark. She held out a candle, guarding it from the wind with a cupped hand. “Hello? You there, girl! You need shelter? The storm is on its way!” she called out to Molly.
Her body protesting the bitter air, Molly decided she had no other choice in the matter. Guarded and wary, she approached the woman quietly.
The young woman was surprised at how little effort it took to persuade the stranger to come anywhere near her home. A part of her was happy; maybe the people had forgotten about the old gossip and rumors and she could expect visitors more often now. At the same time, a part of her reasoned that the stranger was not from town. Perhaps she was lost and knew no better. Regardless, the young woman was determined to try to prove her hospitality and repair her father’s reputation. Maybe the stranger would tell all the people in the port about her generosity, and the threats and shame would end.
She led Molly inside and scavenged through her house for a sturdy box. Bringing it to Molly and offering it as a chair, the young woman smiled and placed it on the floor for her guest. She offered Molly a fruit from her baskets and realized she had nothing to say, having long forgotten how to properly converse. Instead, she held out the fruit and smiled with every bit of sincerity she could bring to bear.
Hesitant, Molly politely took what was offered to her, trying to hide her discomfort, not sure what to make of her current situation. Without removing the bag she had looped around her neck and under her arm, she fidgeted nervously on her makeshift seat and fiddled with the fruit in her hands. “Thank you,” she mumbled softly.
Another gust filled the house, blowing a stack of woven baskets over and upsetting the wind chimes. The young woman heard her father moving about. Looking into the next room, she saw he had set himself up against the wall and was beckoning to her. Come in, come in, bring the guest, I must speak to her.
Sensing her father’s mute urgency, the young woman stood, motioning for Molly to come with her and sit in the next room. She knew the stranger had no reason to trust her, but if her father was making such a fuss, he was concerned, and the ancestors were telling him something important.
“Is something wrong?” Molly asked, startled by the woman’s abrupt change in composure. Without waiting for a reply, she stood and followed the woman, full of curiosity. This woman was kind enough to allow me into her home—perhaps there is no reason for concern, Molly thought. She shivered, knowing she would much rather be hidden in a small keeping such as this than be wandering the streets exposed and alone.
The old man in the room waited until his daughter and Molly were seated and the breeze had settled before gathering up small items around him on the floor. He was truly a man who had seen more than his years. The skin on his arms and face clung weakly but stubbornly to the old bones beneath. The wrinkles around his eyes were as numerous and intricate as any of the patterns his young daughter could sew into a rug. His expression was distant, and yet it felt as though his thoughts filled the room, floating about like dandelion fluff. The old man scooped up a small pile of animal bones and a few pebbles, took a breath, and cast the handful to the dirt floor before him.
The young woman gasped upon hearing words come from her father’s mouth for the first time in many years.
Slowly he spoke in a hoarse, heavy accent that creaked and cracked like driftwood baking in the Caribbean sun.
“There is a wolf,” he said. “You chase ‘im, an’ he chases you, but you have never met before.” The old man scooped up the items delicately, smoothing the dirt on the floor, then cast his handful to the ground again, studying them with tired eyes. “The wolf, he took something that belongs to you, and you want it back,” the old man continued, squinting. He picked up the bones and pebbles and cast them again.
Molly studied the old man carefully. How did he know she was looking for anyone? She listened intently.
“Your mother will lead the wolf to you, and your sister waits for you in a garden of stone.” The old man blinked slowly, looking up and listening to the breeze, then cast the bones again. “You will fall in love. The Octopus will steal it away, but a black bird will bring it back to you.”
Molly frowned and turned her gaze to the floor. The old man knew nothing. Yes, she was looking for someone, but that had been a lucky guess—a fortune teller’s intuition. Molly’s mother, however, was long gone. The cruel and ultimately fatal tribulations of childbirth made sure they’d never meet, and as for her sister—well, Molly had no siblings. The rest, the Octopus and the black bird, those simply meant nothing at all, and nothing, especially a bird, was going to raise the dead, be it her true love or anyone else.
Again the man scooped the bones and cast them down. Molly sat quietly and let him finish. As much as she’d have liked to stop him there, she couldn’t bring herself to be rude to her hosts.
“You will…” the man stopped, as his attention shifted. He reached into his shirt at the collar and fingered a small, violet gem hanging from a string about his neck. It shone in the candlelight like nothing Molly had ever
seen. “Fly away, child, they are coming,” the old man said, his hands shaking like twigs in a squall.
Startled and confused, Molly saw something change in the old man’s eyes, putting her on edge; there was urgency in his face that she knew would not be wise to ignore. His warning was not part of her fortune. Struggling to collect her thoughts and her nerves, Molly stood on rubbery legs. Breathless, she fled from the house and was gone.
Molly sped through the soggy streets of Bridgetown, rain pelting down in torrents upon her heaving form. She grasped her cloak tightly around her shoulders and dared not look back. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew her pursuers were close. Skirting around a corner and into a crowded tavern, Molly squinted as orange light spilled upon her from the windows and through the rain. The inn was rollicking. Townsfolk drank and sang and cackled happily as they waited out the heavy downpour. Molly used the atmosphere to her advantage, pulling her hood over her head, blending in with the figures around her. Drunken calls and laughs disoriented Molly. Had someone called her name? Was a greasy looking woman in the corner just glancing her way, or pointing her out to the dark man clutching her fair shoulder? Molly caught sight of black jackets and gloves. They had followed her, one coming from the back and one from the front.
“Excuse me sir, may I trouble you for some company?” Molly asked a stranger, grabbing the inebriated young man’s hand, taking his drink and batting her eyelashes. He grinned dumbly at her.
“Of course.” The man seized her forcefully around the waist and led her to the door, squeezing past the crowd.
Molly cringed, but she was close to safety. She could escape.
Her escort walked her out the door and into the pouring rain. “Now, where are we headed, lass?” The man leaned against Molly, though she wrinkled her nose in disgust. His breath was sour and burned her eyes. She quickly stepped away, leaving the drunken man to fall flat on his face with a surprised yelp. By the time Molly was nearly out of sight, the darkness had caught up with her again. Black figures spotted her from the inn doorway and were conspiring to cut her off. Molly had to escape, but her legs were barely strong enough now to carry her through the mud-laden streets. Her hair stuck to her face, and her clothes weighed her down. She followed what little light the lamp posts provided down to the docks where a ship, the Nymphe Colère sat achored in Deep Water Harbour. Her face brightened with hope.
“That’s the last of it, Cap’n!” A sailor called out as he boarded the ship, rolling a barrel up the gangway and humming to himself.
“Good! Prepare to weigh anchor!” cried someone else.
Molly’s heart raced, and her eyes widened in fear. She let herself up the gangway without a second thought. “Wait! Please!”
“And who are you?” The bearded sailor handling the barrel turned to her, blocking her path onto the ship and eyeballing her vexedly but interestedly.
“Please, sir! I need to get off the island. It’s of utmost importance that I board this vessel.” Molly glanced back nervously. It wouldn’t be for too long …
“What’s the matter?” The captain of the Nymphe Colère—a young, handsome man with a short, normally-golden, now-rain-soaked beard and long hair tied up under a tricorn hat—approached the pair with a handful of rope. “Mr. White, I asked for this ship to sail an hour ago, and yet here you stand in idle conversation with a strange girl!” The captain shoved the coil of rope into White’s arms and scowled at him. “If you owe her money, settle it now,” he growled.
“What?” Molly squeaked, “I never!”
“And pray that I am in a better mood when we review your pay tomorrow evening!” he barked at the sailor and ignored Molly, who was offended by being taken for a prostitute.
The captain hopped up onto the railing of the ship, untied another rope from its cleat and looped it around his elbow. “You, girl!” he addressed Molly for the first time, “What business do you have here? Not hoping to steal away in my stores, I’m sure.” His dark blue eyes bore down on her.
Molly turned her face down, hiding her eyes behind her thick, dark hair. “N-no, sir! I am indeed in urgent need of transportation. I have little money, but I can offer my help and labor as payment. I’m afraid that’s all I have. I’ll do whatever you will have me do…” she trailed off, wincing and immediately scolding herself for her poor choice of words, “…B-but I must leave this island as quickly as possible! Please!”
“Sir, she can’t be much trouble, can she?” White asked, looking up at the captain hopefully.
“Mr. White, I did not ask your opinion. Besides, I have all I need to sail with. That’s precisely the reason I am anxious to leave port, so if you please, sir, stop wasting time. And you, girl,” he turned to Molly, “get off my gangway.”
“Please, sir!” Molly begged the captain, pouting and employing her charm again. Perhaps it would save her neck twice that night.
“You …” The captain began to speak. His eyes narrowed and a gleam of curiosity flashed across them. His lips parted as he studied Molly’s face. Behind his dark blue eyes, she knew, his mind was at work.
Molly glanced over her shoulder once more, peering through the softening rain for signs of movement. Her face hardened when she turned to the captain again, determination lending her some gall. She had either to make her way on deck or face the dangers that awaited her on the island. She picked the former, running up the gangway past Mr. White and onto the main deck.
“Do I…know you?” The captain mumbled to himself as he watched the girl shove White out of her way and scurry past. He made no effort to stop her. A group of men in black were approaching quickly from the dock. One of them stopped and pointed up at Molly, signaling the others to come. They headed up the ramp.
The captain snapped out of his trance and sneered, running to the top of the gangway. Booting White down the ramp, he forced the men in black backward. White’s tumbling body bowled them over, toppling them into the waves beneath the docks. White stood and staggered forward as the captain pulled the gangway up and out of reach.
“Wait, Captain! Wait!” shouted White as he tried to reach the ship.
“You’ve squandered enough of my valuable time, Mr. White, and your place on my crew manifest has just been forfeited. So kind of you to help that poor young lady. Goodbye.” The crew turned the capstan with great heaves, and as soon as the anchor was up, the Nymphe Colère drifted away from the dock as more of the men in coats arrived. Several of them drew pistols, firing stray shots at anyone who didn’t take cover. The captain turned away from the railing and moved back to the quarterdeck. “Mr. Hobbs, full sail, please. Get us away from port, now,” he commanded the helmsman.
Hair and clothes sticking to her body, Molly shivered and patted herself with some old, dry rags she had found. Mud was beginning to set in her clothes and kept her from moving much. She stared off into the distance where the island she once called a refuge slowly disappeared from view. Bridgetown and all of Barbados was gone in no time at all. The crew tended to the sails and rigging, positioning them to catch optimal gusts of stormy breeze. The captain paced about the deck, barking stern orders, relaxing only when the ship was safely hidden in the dark of the night. He gave Hobbs a few instructions before searching for his new stowaway.
“Thank you,” Molly said gratefully to a man in the galley as he handed her a pewter cup filled with boiled water. The burly man grunted in response before turning to the next person waiting. Molly kept her eyes down as she headed back topside. She didn’t want to make eye contact with any of the other crew members. She was only an extra on board. She was also a woman, and for that reason she preferred remaining invisible. On the main deck again, Molly’s eyes searched the night for the ship’s captain. The bright moon shone on the planks and made them white as spilled milk, revealing a path for her as she made her way over to a quartet of salt barrels. Taking a seat atop one of them, Molly sipped her water as she looked out to sea. What she wouldn’t have given for wine, or brandy. Oh,
to have been able to have a glass of brandy after the evening she’d had!
A bewitching breeze had followed the ship—that, or some magical presence had been there to begin with and Molly had only sensed it after the storm breeze had subsided. A pair of boots clip-clopped against the deck and their owner appeared before her. The captain, dressed in a clean, loose cotton shirt and baggy tanned pants, tamed by a thick leather belt with a large brass buckle, folded his arms and stood akimbo, haunting the half-shadows gathered about the foremast. Tucked into his belt, two long-barreled pistols winked at her, and at his side hung an even longer and grimmer saber, nicked and jagged like the grin of a crocodile. He examined her in a curious manner and said nothing, but acted as though he were debating with himself.
Molly looked up at him from under her eyelashes, keeping her head low. She felt awkward under his penetrating stare, unsure of what to say or do. What could she, after so rudely stowing herself onboard? She cleared her throat, trying to dispel the silence that hogged the air between her and the captain. It was a moment before she could find the simple words: “Thank you.”
“Orange?” he asked, presenting her with a small fruit. His tone was friendly but didn’t exactly acknowledge her thanks.
Molly’s eyebrows rose in question and she stared at the orange, trying to decide whether the captain was being serious. She managed a small smile and accepted the odd token.
“Um … thank you, once again,” she said.
“Who were your friends back there?” he asked. Long strands of dark blond hair fell against his sun-bronzed face as the deck teetered.
Molly fiddled with the orange in her hand for a moment before replying. “I would tell you if I knew exactly.”
“Hmm.” The captain turned and walked up to the bow. “They seemed interested in you.”
“That’s the reason I needed to get off the island.”
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 1