Have Imagination, Will Travel

by Adam Carter

  And, with a single thought, Heather Tarne was gone.

  “You’re only delaying the inevitable, old one,” Kiel promised him.

  Old Man Robes set his teeth in a grimace. “This time, monster, you shall meet your end.”

  “We shall see, old man. We shall see when we meet again ... in the next life.”

  END OF PART ONE

  PART TWO

  CAT AND MOUSE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The room was confined and cluttered, with loose slabs of wood lining one corner and lengths of spare rope sitting in another. Several shelves had been nailed to the wooden-slated walls sometime in the past, although these had been crudely attached and two had collapsed so their ends had fallen onto those beneath, spilling their contents across the floor. There was a small tin of paint which had overturned, the paint having dried upon the floor in a single globular mass. Large nails had been hammered into the wall at irregular intervals so that straps and satchels might be hung from them, although many of these had bent out of shape or else been torn away completely. A collection of large barrels filled most of the room, and the lid of one had come loose to reveal its contents as being apples. There was a single step before the door and the entire chamber, the entire cabin, was gently rocking.

  As Heather Tarne looked about herself, it was with eyes which could at last see everything. The detail of the cabin was far in excess of anything she had ever known before, and she could almost believe she actually was out upon the open sea. However, this time there was a great difference.

  This time she remembered everything.

  Tarne knew reality had shifted. Sara Kiel had been the Evil, had killed both Darkthorne and Sparky. Tarne knew this meant she was alone now; alone, with a crazed hunter at her back. Kiel had said something about wanting Tarne’s body, and now that Kiel knew Tarne was her prey, she would stop at nothing to find her. Old Man Robes would hold her back as long as he possibly could, although Tarne knew sooner or later Kiel would enter this world, this reality, and she would find her. Tarne was resolved to escaping before such came to pass, and in order to do that she would have to search for the eyes. The cat’s eyes. She would have to find the eyes and flee to the next reality, else she would shortly be dead.

  And she had to do it before this reality, in which she had so suddenly found herself, turned truly and abysmally bizarre.

  Tarne approached the door, knowing that the sooner she got to know her surroundings, the sooner she would be away from this reality and into the next. She did not know whether she had to continue world-jumping indefinitely, although suspected Old Man Robes would return to her eventually and tell her how she might escape this madness. Until then, she would have to settle for simply surviving.

  The door opened out, not surprisingly, onto the deck of a ship swaying upon the ocean, and she felt the first urges of seasickness. The deck stretched on farther than she had expected, for she had always considered ships to be compact places. This one, however typical of their design it might have been, stretched so far in every direction that she would have been forgiven for believing she was still upon solid ground. Save of course for the fact that the ground was heaving.

  There were people around her, moving about their daily tasks, and she watched them work. There were two men off to her right. They were stripped to the waist and were working together at some form of winch. She saw a boy of no more than eight years scrubbing furiously at the deck several feet from her, a bucket standing beside him, its water sloshing about angrily with the motion of the ship.

  “Hey!”

  Tarne spun about at the sound, and became suddenly aware she might not belong upon the ship. She would have a role to play, but that role could easily have been the one of stowaway. She could see a man staring down at her from atop the cabin from which she had just emerged. There seemed to be some form of platform up there, and he was leaning against a wooden rail as he shouted down.

  “Me?” Tarne asked innocently.

  “Yeah, of course you,” the sailor grunted. He was probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, rough-shaven and beneath the layers of dirt was possibly even fairly handsome. “You know how to run the mast up the mizzen?”

  Tarne wondered what a mizzen was, whether the man was showering her with flowery metaphor, and stumbled over a response before finally replying, “Uh, no.”

  “No,” the sailor confirmed. “So what in heaven’s name are you doing on deck?”

  “I ... uh ... what am I doing on deck?” She paused. “Swaying, I think.”

  “Swaying,” the man said, as though considering the sense to that statement. “Can’t argue with that, I suppose. Well, Captain wants you in his cabin. Told me to come find you. Best not keep him waiting, eh?”

  “Oh. Sure.” At least this meant Tarne was part of the crew, or at least that she was supposed to be on the ship. She looked down at herself then, wondering what she was wearing. Her attire was far from wealthy, and her shirt seemed to blossom at the wrists, as did her trousers about her ankles. She was garbed in white, with a crimson belt and headband, and shoes which were likely made for men. She checked her belt, although there was little of interest attached. A pouch containing some form of dried herb (which smelled far too foul for her to even attempt sniffing a second time), and nothing much else really at all. She was lacking a money pouch and any form of knife, which did not bode well for her. If Kiel turned up, there was every chance she too would have a role within this scenario, and Tarne knew she would have to run rather than fight her. Kiel had killed both Darkthorne and Sparky with a single blow to each, and they were both greater fighters than she.

  Tarne had never got along with Jagrad Darkthorne, had never particularly liked him in fact, although he had not deserved to die, and especially not in that fashion, not after everything they had survived together. And Sparky? Well Sparky had not deserved to die at all. He loved life, loved gambling more, and had never knowingly or intentionally hurt anyone in his life. And now they were both dead, and in the wake of their passing, Tarne was left with a score of questions.

  While Sparky seemed oblivious to the truth (whatever the truth was), Darkthorne had appeared to have known something more than he had ever said, as though he had been trapped in these reality shifts for some time. Tarne was under the impression that Darkthorne had been an old hand at this. It would have accounted for the insanity into which Darkthorne had fallen, for such shifting of lives on so often a basis was surely enough to drive anyone over the edge.

  Tarne headed for the captain’s cabin, deciding not to waste any further time, then suddenly realised she had no idea where this might be located. Unlike her previous existences, she had come to this one sound of mind, and as such her brain was not filled with the clutter of another’s life. She could ask directions, she considered, but that would have seemed a tad silly on board such a confined space (for it may have been large, but even a large ship was still a confined space). Her only alternative, it seemed, was to wait for the captain to start shouting at her, and then focus in upon that direction.

  She sighed. “Life was so much simpler in ignorance.”

  Tarne walked for several moments before encountering another sailor, who was carrying some form of wooden beam across his shoulders. “Uh, hi,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. “Have you seen the captain about anywhere?”

  The sailor inclined his head towards the direction in which she had been headed. “Should be in his cabin.”

  Tarne hurried on, forgetting even to thank the man. She had no real reason to want to find the captain, except that if he wanted to see her, surely then she would find sanctuary, for she would be safer in his presence should Kiel turn up. A sudden frightening thought entered her mind then that the captain might actually have been Kiel, and she fought with her memories without success to determine whether anyone had thus far mentioned the captain’s sex.

  Tarne eventually found the cabin in question and rapped anxious knuckles upon
the ancient wood. A stern, gruff voice bade her enter, and she gingerly pushed open the door. Revealed to her was a fair-sized, dimly lit room. There was a cot against one wall, several small paintings hanging from others, and a table central to the cabin, upon which there rested a crude map of what she assumed to be the local area. There were three men within the cabin, and none of them turned to her as she entered. One was tall, sporting a thin moustache and smart dress. The second was a heavily built man of African origins, wearing torn black trousers and a metal baldric in place of a shirt. Attached to this was an array of knives, and upon his back he held a thin-bladed sword. The final man was garbed in a black coat and scruffy shirt and trousers. His beard was jet black and wild, and Tarne noticed that one of his eyes was a glass ball.

  This last man was pounding a fist continually upon the map. “The strait’s too narrow, damn you,” he raged. “If we take that course we’d run aground. An’ so close to the coast we’d ‘ave the eyes a the law all over us like salt over a wound.”

  “My dear captain,” the tall, well-dressed man intoned in a most proper fashion, “I do believe you are allowing yourself to forget just who is financing this expedition.”

  “Expedition nothin’,” the captain spat (literally). “Ya want the Scorpion taken because her holds overflow with gold, so don’t take that tone with me, Darius.”

  “The Red Scorpion is too far ahead for us to consider any alternative route,” the man named Darius commented somewhat angrily. “We have already lost precious time because your men insisted we beach that we might take on board some of the local women.”

  “My boys need motivatin’, Lord Peterson,” the captain grinned, revealing a row of black-and-yellow teeth. He chewed something vile and Tarne did not even want to guess what it was. “Now they’re willin’ ta take risks on yer behalf, they is. Gots to keep the boys happy, has we.”

  “If we had not stopped,” Lord Darius Peterson declared, “we would not now need for your men to be taking those risks.”

  “No sense in arguin’ ‘bout what’s past, Darius. Jus’ move on ta the future, do we. An’ close that door, girl; there a draft gettin’ in.”

  Tarne obeyed with a sudden jump of fear.

  “Captain,” she stammered, “you wanted to see me?”

  “If I wanted to see ye, girlie, I would a turned to look at ya. If I wanted to hear ya, I would a asked ya to talk. I didn’t ask neither, so shut it.”

  “My apologies, Captain.”

  “Don’t presume, girlie. Now we had us a little accident with one a the candles, so clear it up.”

  “Yes, Captain. I endeavour to be of service.”

  “Ooh,” the captain said, turning to regard her. “You endeavour to be a service do ya, girlie? You been talkin’ to mah galley slaves again, Darius? Ya been teachin’ ‘em the fancy talk a ya London, England?”

  “I speak with all who shall listen, Silus,” Peterson told him.

  “Well just make sure ya don’t go givin’ the slaves none a that godly yarnin’, ya hear? I gots myself enough problems on this boat without ya turnin’ half ma slaves inta God-damn Chrischans.” He grinned. “No offence on the God-damn part.”

  The men delved then into talk of their purpose, and Tarne, forgotten, moved across to where she could see the mess the candle had made. Thankfully, candle wax hardened as it cooled, so she was able to scrape the wax from the wooden floorboards which were already thick with dirt anyway. The wax had removed some of that dirt, and she reflected that the whole cabin could have done with a good clean.

  Tarne learned a lot through her eavesdropping. The captain’s name was Silus Shawe, and he was some form of pirate and his ship was named the Sharpoon. The large African man, Mbana, was the first mate. The third man, the well-dressed one, was Lord Darius Peterson, and he seemed to be some form of preacher from England. So far as Tarne could understand things, Peterson had hired the Sharpoon that he might track another ship, by the name of the Red Scorpion. The Red Scorpion had stolen much gold from the coffers of the church, and Peterson was anxious to retrieve it. He had bartered a split with the pirate captain, although Tarne was under the impression Captain Shawe had no intention of keeping his word. She could not believe Peterson was stupid enough not to have seen this, although reasoned perhaps his faith was blind and he saw inherent goodness within all folk.

  None of the men had mentioned Sara Kiel, however. She was somewhat surprised to learn the two ships were not called the Bastelle and the Princess Aurellia, although it seemed without Darkthorne’s influence things would be very different for her henceforth.

  “You still here, girlie?” the captain barked, snapping her out of her reverie.

  “I thought you might need something else, Captain,” she said.

  “Yer a slave, girlie. Yer not supposed ta think. Now git.”

  Tarne scampered from the cabin, quite thankful to reappear on the deck. She took in a lungful of the fine sea air and moved to the side the ship. There was land in sight, and while she knew the distance was likely very deceptive, she expected she might be able to swim to it if she tried. Kiel would sooner or later appear on the ship, and Tarne wanted to be as far from her as possible.

  But then would she be upon the ship at all? The world was not real, she was forced to remind herself, for despite the salt of the air and the heat of the sun, she knew it was all make-believe; likely even all conjured by the mind of Sara Kiel. That meant Tarne would not be able to run indefinitely, because in Kiel’s world Tarne was but a player.

  “Thinking of making a swim for it?” a voice said, and Tarne turned guiltily to find the preacher standing behind her. She smiled sheepishly, offering a shrug without words. Peterson returned the smile and moved to stand beside her, looking out to the distant land. “I’m often tempted to do the same myself. Sometimes I realise just what a bad deal I made when I came to Silus for help.”

  “Then you know he’s conning you?”

  Peterson shrugged. “He’s a dangerous man, but he’s the only man with a ship fast enough to catch the Red Scorpion.”

  “The authorities don’t have fast ships?”

  “If they did, vessels like the Scorpion and the Sharpoon wouldn’t be out here any more, would they?”

  “I concede the point.”

  Peterson chuckled softly. “You talk well for a village girl.”

  “Who says I’m a village girl?”

  “You were taken in the last village. Mud huts and straw roofs, I was told.”

  “I think maybe sailors have active imaginations.”

  “Are you Christian?”

  “I ... uh ... I’m not sure.” It was the truth, Tarne reflected. She had spent so much time living lives which were not her own, she could recall nothing of her real existence.

  “You need a little faith, my daughter.”

  “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

  Peterson frowned. “You do seem troubled, girl. I wonder what troubles might be had by a slave.”

  “Heather,” she said. “My name is Heather Tarne.”

  “Heather.” Peterson played the name about his mouth for a while. “It certainly doesn’t fit with the names of the others brought back on the raid.”

  “Well, maybe I was just passing through,” she grumbled. “In the wrong place at the wrong time. Look, why don’t we both just make a swim for it? Can’t be too far away, that land.”

  “It isn’t. If you’re a strong swimmer, you could even make it.”

  “Really?”

  “Except you won’t.”

  “Because you’ll stop me?” she guessed.

  Peterson looked across the ocean, “I came to Captain Shawe because he was the only means by which I could recover my property. I knew he was dangerous and I knew I was going to get stung if I joined with him, but I had no other option. If you feel you have no other option, then leap into the water and swim; but there are jellyfish in these waters. Your death would prove agonising, but at least you would be free. If
you believe you have no other option then do so, but only when you have nowhere else to turn.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder and said, “I held out for as long as I could before making my deal with the Devil. Now I only pray for another option.”

  Tarne was left by the side of the ship, gazing into the calm, deadly waters. “Wait.”

  The preacher stopped.

  “Father Peterson ... do you think you might be able to show me an alternative?”

  Peterson smiled and said, “I believe I can try, young one.”

  And Tarne went with him, for with Peterson beside her, at least she would have someone to help protect her when Sara Kiel finally did arrive.

  *

  Over the next few days, Tarne learned everything she could about the ship, including names and positions and some general nautical terms. She stayed as close as she could to Father Peterson, who seemed intent on drumming a modicum of Christianity into her. She was thankful for his protection, for she knew that she had been taken during a raid by Shawe’s men, and so long as she feigned interest in the preacher’s words, she would not be touched by any of the mariners. Captain Shawe seemed to have allowed a slight leeway for Father Peterson, no doubt because he was the living map to their riches.

  “Who’s the captain of the Red Scorpion?” Tarne asked one day, still not entirely convinced the answer wasn’t Sara Kiel.

  “Sir Phileas Mayhew,” Peterson said. “He was a respectable nobleman back in England, a man of some esteem even amongst his enemies, in fact. His friends loved him for his generosity and his enemies hated him for his unpredictability, but he was always fair and usually gentle.”

  “He was respectable, yet he stole your gold?” Tarne questioned.