The Shadow of Nisi Pote

by H C Storrer

  “The captain is indisposed, Mr. Davies.” Truth be told, the captain was passed out drunk and had been so ever since he’d given the order to set sail.

  “Best I should check on ’im,” Bill muttered to himself.

  Jack took a step towards Bill and jabbed his finger into his chest, the force of the shadow knocking the man back a step. “Perhaps you should focus on your stewardship and worry less about mine,” he growled through clenched teeth. Jack didn’t need his bos’n interfering.

  Bill recoiled at Jack’s venom. “I didn’ mean nuffin by it, Sir.” He turned, shaken, and went below deck, mumbling something about checking on the cannons.

  Jack took a moment to straighten his tailored coat as the shadow pulsed with disappointment at not being let loose. With the crew bustling about, Jack turned to Gags. “You have the helm. Keep us straight for now. I’ll return shortly.”

  “Aye, Sir.” He kept his eyes forward.

  Quickly, Jack stole down from the bridge and gave a quick rap on the captain’s door then entered. Benning lay in a slobbering heap on his rack, an empty bottle rolling back and forth with the pitching of the ship. The captain didn’t look as if he was in the deepest of sleep, but his eyes were welded shut. Jack couldn’t risk missing the opportunity. He and Talker had both tried to complete the task several times, but Sampson had never left his captain’s side. It required nearly an act of Parliament to convince the steward to lay below and help the cook prepare a meal for the crew. Hovering to avoid making any sound, Jack glided to Benning’s cabinet and let the shadow unlock the door. Carefully, he lifted the lid to the honey pot, poured in the contents of his tiny envelope, and gave it a stir with the honey dipper until the white powder dissolved.

  “Ahem.”

  Jack turned at a cough as he closed the door behind him. Benning was sitting upright, staring out the window with tears streaming down his face. Bill was standing at the entrance, a steaming cup in his hand, studying Jack with a curious look on his face. “What’s in that pouch?”

  Benning, startled at the sound, wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. “What in the blazes are you two doing in my quarters?”

  “Beg’n yer pardon, Cap’n. I was just bringin you a spot of tea. Sampson says it always makes you feel right as rain.” Bill stepped forward, offering the cup, keeping a wary eye on Jack. “Should I get you some sugar for that?”

  “Where the devil is Sampson?” Benning coughed again to clear his throat.

  “A gentleman only uses honey for his tea.” Jack corrected Bill with ill-concealed contempt in his voice as he reached back into the cabinet, retrieved the honey, and brought it to Benning. “Sampson is assisting the cook with supper. I’m told they are elbow deep making a fine feast for the crew. Nothing like a hot meal for good luck, Sir.”

  Bill looked on with concern as the captain drizzled a good helping of the golden liquid into the steaming tea but held his tongue.

  Nodding with understanding at Jack’s words, Benning lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. “Well don’t make a ‘abit of it. He’s my steward after all.” He stared back out the window. “Where are we?”

  “We have just left Port Royal, Sir. We are making our way to the closest point on Sergeant Pierce’s map,” Jack explained, then turned to Bill. “You are excused, Mr. Davies.”

  “No, no. He can stay. I would like ’is input on something.” The Captain stumbled from his bed and began sifting through the charts on his table. “There! We should start at the farthest point, taking this route.” Finding his bearings on a large map, he made a wide arch around Hispaniola and then Cuba.

  “Sir, that would be a waste of time. It will take more than a week to get there via that route when it’s only a day or so to sail to here.” Jack argued. “That path will take us further away from Rogers.”

  Benning was taking shallow breaths as he looked to Bill, a wild pleading in his eyes. “What say you, Bos’n?”

  “Lieutenant Peter’s route is more direct, but your route will give our boys a chance to get some extra training.” Bill finished his statement as if it were a question.

  “Too right!” Benning jumped aboard Bill’s remarks as if it were a lifeboat. “It’s settled. Make sure the ship is, well, shipshape. Moreover, have Sergeant Pierce increase his men’s drills. You are dismissed.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” Jack’s voice was menacing as Bill tried to scamper off when they shut the captain’s door behind them. Reaching out with the shadow, Jack grasped him by the collar and pulled him back. “We’s gonna have some words, you and I,” he growled. With ease, Jack lifted Bill off the ground and shoved him roughly up the steps. “Eye’s forward!” he barked at Gags who was still at the helm, then proceeded to the stern of the ship. Once there, he gripped Bill by the throat and held him over the aft of the boat. “What did I tell you?” The shadow, thrumming with glee, filled Jack’s voice with trumpeting menace, then began to offer its own suggestions to Jack’s mind. ‘Let go, cut him. No wait, fly to the sun then drop him!’ Jack shook off the noise in his head like the nuisance of a fly. “I’ll do this my way!” he chided the shadow aloud.

  Bill stared at Jack, blinking as if he was insane. Jack pulled him back and tossed him to the deck at his feet. “I have spent too much time and effort to get us here. Nathan Rogers will die by my hand. Soon. No amount of stalling by you or the captain will stop it!”

  “You’re mad!” Bill croaked out, rubbing his throat. “What’s this pirate to you?”

  Jack knelt down to look Bill in the eyes. “Do you remember when you and Sam found me, beaten close to death?” Bill nodded. “This pirate did that to me, and worse. He’s a murdering curr. The man thrashed me daily for years, and in the end he killed my mother. If anyone’s got the right to put him down, it’s me. Got that?”

  “But the captain—”

  “I’ve given you your one warning, Bill. You leave Captain Benning to me. Just do your job and stay out of my way.”

  “Your eyes! Theys glowi’n!” Bill’s face turned to a mask of fear.

  Jack stood quickly and shook his head. He was close to losing control, to being consumed by the shadow, he could feel it. “Keep quiet and just do your job,” Jack repeated himself as he stormed off.

  ***

  It was more than a few evenings later, the glow from the torches of Havana just visible off the port side, that Talker made his way up to Jack. “Bill’s been talking to some of the boys, Cap’n. With the Benning falling ill these past few days, ‘ee suspe’ts a dir’y ’and in all this. You was right to ’ave me keep an eye on ’im.”

  “We’re close, Talker. We can’t afford to have a mutiny on our hands.” Jack spit into the dark. Turning, he was met by Talker’s sardonic glance and he conceded, “Right, well, another mutiny on our hands. The captain is the most pig-headed coward I have… I doubt even an order issued from the admiralty would get him to relent command.”

  “Well,” Talker sniffed loud, “the problem now, is the bos’n.”

  “Right. Do you need help?”

  “Naw, Cap’n, I can ’andle ol’ Bill.” Talker gave a wink and walked off whistling his tune.

  It wasn’t more than four hours later a cry rang out. “Man overboard!” The deck filled quickly as men rushed from their berthing below. “Get a head count!” Jack barked as he came from his own quarters, strapping his gladius to his hip. Minutes passed. “Tis Bos’n Davies, Sir!”

  “What happened!” Jack feigned shock.

  “It was just before first watch, Lieutenant,” a member of the dogwatch spoke up.

  Jack remembered him as one of the younger boys when they were running the streets.

  “Higgs, is it?”

  “Yes, Sir. I was tired, but I saw ’im stagger to the side, like ’ee was drunk. Me an Tom tried to get to ’im, but he just groaned and slipped over.”

  Jack peered in the abyss and watched the dark water rush past the hull. “Has there been any sight? Any sound?”

&nbs
p; “No, Sir.” Another spoke from the netting midway up the mast. “Nuffin.”

  “What is the meaning of this!” Captain Benning stood wedged in the doorway of his quarters, his nightgown stretched past his knees. The pale moonlight made his already sickly form appear worse.

  Jack stepped forward. “It’s Mr. Davies, Captain. It appears he’s gotten into the ship’s rum rations and fell overboard, drunk.”

  “The bos’n? Any sign of him.”

  “No, Sir. Nary a peep.”

  “In the gloom of night, well, it would be nigh impossible to make a search,” Jack added.

  “Blast! He was a good man and a fine sailor. I assumed he would have been able to control himself.” Benning’s knees wobbled, and Jack rushed forward to catch him.

  “Back to bed, Captain. I suggest you lot get back to your racks. Tomorrow we start hunting pirates!” Jack added to the crew, who cheered approval then began to disperse. His eyes locking with Talker, he gave a tiny but curt nod as he closed the captain’s door.

  Jack made his way back to the captain’s bed and laid the trembling Benning down, the exertion of standing almost too much. “To think it will be the calor that gets me.” Benning groaned, then hacked and belched.

  “No, you’ll pull through.” That knowledge burned Jack’s thoughts. “Just keep a stiff upper lip.”

  “I know Malaria when I sees it, Lieutenant. I am done for. I should ’ave died with the lads on the Faversham. It’s all been a waste since,” he reminisced.

  The mere mention of the Faversham shook Jack to his core. Even the coward placing the name on his lips somehow sullied the memory. Benning had suffered, to be sure, but Jack had as well. Suffering had made Jack strong, aware. His difficulties had yet to run a yellow streak up his back. Lost in his contemplation, Jack nodded as he fluffed a small down pillow “Truth be told, Sir...” Jack stood over the captain, hesitating.

  Oblivious, Benning let his eyes close in respite. “Find an excuse, any excuse, Jack.”

  “Sir?”

  “Give up this blasted chase. Let the pirate be before he sends you and the crew to see old Hobb. Head back to England and your Anna.”

  The words like fire upon his mind, Jack gritted his teeth and fell forward upon the weak man, smothering his face with the soft down of the pillow. Benning struggled in vain, grasping at the murderous wrists that bound him. As the dying man flailed, Jack hissed, “Truth be told, Sir, the courageous lieutenant I knew did die that day on the Faversham. As to the cowardly Captain Benning, well… he died quite suddenly in this bed.”

  Glowing through the Lieutenant’s eyes, the shadow’s strength was more than the mortal Captain Benning could fight. Struggling to pull himself free of the death grip that bound him, Benning tore at Jack’s arms and wrists until slowly the captain’s fingers slackened when all at once his arms fell entirely limp.

  Chapter 46

  “I don’t want you to go, Jack,” Anna pleaded. “I’ve already lost you once. I don’t think I could go through that again.”

  Jack could feel the moisture of her tears on the pillow as he held her close. “I know, my love, I know. It won’t be like last time. You’ve seen what I can do now.” He sighed contently as he breathed in the scent of her hair. “Anna Whitechapel—”

  “It’s Peters now,” she said sniffling.

  “Too right.” Jack softly kissed her forehead. “Too right you are. Although it would be a lie if I said I wasn’t a touch insulted that you think the scoundrel will be able to do more than breathe on me.” He pulled back to read her face, mock pain furrowing his brow.

  Avoiding his gaze, she spoke quietly, twisting the emerald ring about his thumb. “I ‘ave seen what you can do. Promise me you will never take this off.”

  Sobering from his teasing, Jack held her head in his hands. “I could no sooner cut you from my life than remove this ring.” Anna’s thin upper lip stretched coyly across her cheeks. “There’s my girl.” He put a finger under her chin and kissed her gently once more.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The sharp thumping brought Jack up quickly from his sleep. It had been more a memory than a dream and that only exasperated the longing in his heart for Anna.

  His door thumped with force again.

  “Enter.” Jack sat up as Sampson and Sergeant Pierce rushed into his small quarters, their faces somber. Concern in his eyes, Jack looked them both over. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s the cap’n, sir. ‘E’es passed.” Sampson’s eyes were red and puffy from crying.

  “No!” Jack jumped out of bed.

  “I’m afraid so.” Pierce nodded. “Sampson went to bring him his morning tea and found him, cold as stone.”

  Sampson flinched.

  “Sorry, chap,” Pierce consoled.

  “Does the crew know?” Jack ran a hand through his hair.

  “No, only… seaman… Talker, was it?” Pierce looked at Sampson, who nodded. “He was coming off of watch when he ran into Sampson here. We told him to keep quiet until the acting captain assessed the situation.”

  Jack’s head shot towards Sergeant Pierce. “What did you say?”

  “Well, you’re the highest-ranking officer, the only other officer, for that matter. I’m not sure how it all exactly goes, but I assume you will take command for the rest of the voyage.”

  “I guess I never thought about it.” Truthfully, he had thought about it a great deal, since Talker had taken to calling him Cap’n. He liked the way the title sounded sounded—really liked it. “It can hold. For now, we must give Captain Benning his full rights. He was an officer to the crown and deserves to be treated as such. Call the crew to quarters, Sergeant.”

  ***

  “Latavius!” Tristan zipped into the chapel, his voice echoing in the emptiness. The study behind the chapel looked to have been uninhabited as well. Frustrated, Tristan darted up a small flight of stairs and past a series of doors, coming to a stop outside the one with light leaking from the crack along the bottom. Hesitantly, he pushed it open. “Latavius?”

  “Enter,” a soft, crackling voice said. John smiled at Tristan. “Are you the angel sent to retrieve me?”

  “No—” The room was sparse. No more than a bed, table, and chair with a flickering solitary candle lighting the room dimly. Tristan came to a stop in front of the frail priest, who was laid out under a blanket. “I couldn’t have been gone for very long.” He was shocked at how sickly Latavius looked. Tristan popped to a larger size. “Do you not recognize me? I am Tristan, the fairy of Pan.”

  “Of course, of course.” A wash of confusion was replaced with realization. “Jack didn’t return the ring. Did he?”

  “No. He tricked me. I… Jack has said a lot of things, but I fear not all of them were his words. He tricked me, all of us. He sent me back to Nisi Poté alone. I discovered that before he returned,” Tristan choked back a sob, “the fairy council and most of the fairy folk tried to stop him. They’re dead. Burnt alive. I have to put a stop to them, to the shadow.”

  John’s face filled with sadness. “I know the boy well, he couldn’t have done such a thing. It was that ring. I told him it could bring nothing but pain.”

  “The power in the ring is corrupting. I fear what else it will do through him. How long has it been since I was last here?” Tristan had spent far too many rotations of the sun flying the sloop over open sea before he discovered that he needed to go up instead of across. His gold dust was almost depleted.

  “Months,” John replied.

  Tristan finally understood what time was but, shrugged off the answer—he still didn’t know what months were. “Where is he, Latavius. I must get that ring back before there is no chance at redemption.”

  “I don’t know. No one tells me anything anymore,” John said, trying to set his mind right. “Go to Anna. She will know.”

  “Anna? Right, his ghost faced girl. Where can I find her?”

  “His wife. They own a home in the St. James distri
ct. Go to her, stop them before it’s too late.”

  “With all my power,” Tristan said, holding his fist over his heart. John smiled at the words and returned the Roman salute as the fairy vanished in a flash of gold. Minutes passed as John gazed at his ceiling, his hand clasping the crucifix on his chest. With a great deal of effort, the old priest sat up and shuffled to the table. “I have tried, heaven knows I have tried,” John grunted as he pulled a small chest from under the desk. He had spent lifetimes trying to keep this future at bay and with all those years, he now wished for more time. Unlocking the case, John pulled a leather-bound book from its depths and laid it on the table, the obsidian stone embedded on its cover glimmering in the feeble light. With a sigh he pulled a quill and bottle of ink close and with his remaining strength, John scratched upon the parchment the only words that would allow his soul rest.

  ***

  “Who is banging on me door at this ungodly hour!” Anna still had months left in her pregnancy, but she was already suffering from swollen ankles that made her waddle like a duck. She shuffled to the door and in disgust jerked it open, the sun dipping on the horizon making her squint. It wasn’t as late as she assumed—she must have just been tired. I’m always tired, she thought.

  “I beg your pardon, madam; would this be the home of Mr. Jack Peters?” The cloaked figure spoke with a lilting, musical quality to his voice.

  “I’m the one that should apologize. Being pregnant is no excuse for poor manners.” Sighing, she ran her hands over her small bump and down her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Yes. This is Mr. Peters’ residence. Might I ask who is callin’?”

  “Just a friend. Is he in?” the figure sidestepped the question cautiously.

  “No. Where are me manners, do come in.” She held the door open wide. “I’m sorry, I need to get off of my feet.” Tristan followed her into the parlor, a maid quickly bringing her mistress a fresh cup of tea. “Thank you, Rachel, would you also provide for our guest?”