In the Wake of the Kraken

by C. Vandyke

  The captain burned the original o’ the map an’ threw the ashes into the sea. Why, ye ask? Why not keep the original, and let the brothers be ‘is safe-keep? Well, ‘ow can anyone fathom the minds o’ madmen? To reckon with their minds is to dance with the devil, says I. And when ye dance with Old Split-Hoof hisself, ye don’t stop till the music’s ended.

  Anyway, as I was tellin’, the nine brothers, inked with secrets an’ sent off to lands anew, would never speak a word as to the map. Aye, yer a sharp one, sir, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so! Ye’ve spotted the little, stringy end o’ oakum what’s hangin’ off this tale. Aye, ye say, ‘How can you stop a man from telling tales he’s not supposed to? Drink makes a man awful talkative, as ye well know’. Well, ye cut out ‘is tongue, o’ course!

  An’ that’s what old Braddock did. First, cut the little devils out with a bosun’s knife, one by one. Then, burned the stumps with a brandin’ iron to keep em’ sealed. An’ the nine brothers, now mute an’ solemn as the grave, went off into the world. But, before they left, Braddock promised each man that if ‘e did ‘is duty, ‘e’d receive ‘is weight in gold an’ more besides, when next they met. An’ old Braddock, if that was ‘is real name, always kept ‘is word. Or so they say.

  … Not that it mattered much. Soon after, Braddock was killed by privateers, ‘is head cut from ‘is shoulders an’ pickled in brandy to present ‘afore the Admiralty. They say the jar what holds the head is passed ‘round at banquets an’ the like, an’ each new lieutenant takes a sip o’ the brandy to mark ‘is passing into the Admiral’s fleet. Bastards, sir, vicious bastards, the lot o’ them.

  * * *

  Or maybe not. P’raps Braddock never died. Some folks say Braddock was a woman if you can believe it. Daughter o’ a sea captain no less, who sailed the seas till the ripe old age a’ ninety-seven years old. Never caught, lived out ‘er final years peaceful-like on a little cottage outside St. Nicholas. But, I know, sir, ’twas all such a long time gone, the facts o’ the matter gets all tangled, like fishing nets in a gale. Too much work to untie it all, says I. All that matters is that there was a Braddock, an’ there was a map. The rest ‘tis just pretty pictures to tease the mind, like.

  Anyway, as I was sayin ‘afore I drifted, the nine brothers went on their way. They were never t’ meet one another again, or so they ‘ad reckoned it. Some went straight, joined a fishing crew or a merchant’s ship. Another became a treasure diver in Fiddlers Green. One o’ ‘em even captained ‘is own ship, the Rose to Nowhere, an’ was the scourge o’ the Admiralty for many a’ year. They sired no children nor kept a wife amongst ‘em. They were silent, solemn sea-dogs o’ the old times, their skin weathered wi’ brine an’ their eyes ’ard an’ merciless.

  Years passed, men aged an’ died, un’ new ones were drawn into this realm o’ turmoil an’ woe. The tides kept a ’turnin, an’ the winds they blew, sometimes soft as a lover’s kiss, other times harsh as a tyrant’s fist. An’ in the time that passed, the old second-in-command o’ the Midnight Scythe ‘ad made quite the name for his’self. The one I told ye about, the one old Captain Braddock wouldn’t trust wi’ the map? Well, for all ‘is troubles, ‘e ‘ad received a royal pardon in the years gone by! All ‘is past deeds swept away, a pirate no more.

  Some said ’e paid ‘fore ‘is pardon; others say ’e earnt it fightin’ enemies o’ the Queen. It matters not, sir. All that matters was, ‘e was now a free man. An’ soon after that, why ‘e got himself a license that made ‘im a privateer. That’s a one who’d hunt pirates, y’see, sir. The kind o’ man who’d kill an’ butcher those who once ‘e called shipmate. Just another cutthroat in coattails, says I. No royal pardon is enough to clean the shadows from a man’s soul, nor the blood from ‘is hands.

  ‘Is name? Munster, I think ‘twas, sir. I might’n be wrong. Captain Munster, though for the life o’ me I can’t recall the name o’ his ship. The Golden Ass? Or was it the Whore O’ Babylon? It matters not, sir, but listen; Captain Munster knew all about the map. He’d known about it some time. How’d ‘e know? I couldn’t say, sir. Mayhaps, ‘e peeked at the map ‘afore Braddock burnt it. Maybe ‘e tortured it out o’ the mouth o’ some poor sailor, who knew from a mate o’ a mate about the strange silent men an’ their tattoos that bore the names o’ foreign islands an’ reefs? All that matters, sir, is that ‘e knew. And ‘e began to scheme. A wicked, terrible plan that would condemn ‘is soul to a burnin’ eternity.

  Once ‘e knew Braddock was gone (though it was always a matter o’ much confusion as to where ‘e went, or if ‘e was gone at all), Munster marked the spots where last the nine brothers had made for port an’ the names o’ the ships they sailed on. And over nine years, ‘e tracked ‘em an’ hounded ‘em, an’ each brother met their end in fashions I don’t much care to report, sir. But by the eighth year, ‘e had eight pieces o’ the map. It ‘twere a bloody quilt at first, but Munster dried it with smoke an’ coated it wi’ wax an’ stitched it with the finest silk until it gleamed an’ glistened.

  You see, the eighth brother ‘ad put up quite a resistance, sir, if you catch my meanin’. Munster found ‘im drinking in a tavern somewhere Newport way, as ‘e was fixin’ to join a whalin’ crew northward. They ‘ad fought like wild dogs in the street, bitin’ an’ scratchin’ till they was both bloody an’ raw. Captain Munster, the bastard, tore the flesh from the dead brother’s bones with ‘is bare hands! Once he’d beaten the man’s head into a pulp on the cobblestones o’ Newport, a’corse. And this little flap o’ skin with the map inked on it (just above the dead man’s liver), Munster pocketed it an’ ran back to ‘is ship, red as the devil his ’self. Sorry, sir, I said I wouldn’t tell ye too much regardin’ their ends. Must mind my manners.

  It ‘twas toward the end o’ the ninth year, an’ Munster heard news o’ the last brother. The man was now workin’ as a bosun’s second mate on an Admiralty ship. Can you conceive o’ it, sir? An old, swarthy buccaneer with no tongue, striding about the decks o’ a frigate? It beggars belief. It truly does. Anyway, Munster found this ship the brother was on, the Royal Peregrine, an’ soon ’e set about the last act o’ ‘is wicked plan.

  Under false pretences an’ the like, Munster ’ad begged an audience wi’ the ship’s captain, passing ‘imself off as a ‘Lieutenant’ Munster o’ the Admiralty. So, dressed in fine regalia an’ a lieutenant’s hat, ‘e stepped aboard the Peregrine when it was next at port. An’ at once, ‘e set to talkin’ an’ congratulatin’ the ship’s captain about how fine a ship it was. Oh, they got on famously, these old salts o’ the sea; by the passin’ o’ the midday sun, they were like brothers in arms. Finally, the captain o’ the Peregrine invited Munster to stay awhile longer an’ eat at the captain’s table with ’im. Munster accepted, though all the time ‘e was aboard the ship, ‘e kept an eye out for the ninth brother. An’ sure enough, ‘e spotted the last o’ the nine mendin’ ‘oles in the jib-sail down by the prow.

  Old ‘e was now, the ninth brother, ‘is face lined an’ cracked as driftwood, though ‘is eyes were bright as a new penny. An’ the old brother, ‘e recognised the privateer Munster alright. E’d known him as the shifty-eyed, snake-tongued bastard first mate o’ Braddock, an’ soon enough, he’d heard tell o’ Munster’s savage acts an’ the killin’ o’ ‘is kin. An’ when their eyes met, they knew that one must kill the other. So, without provocation, the last o’ the nine rose from ‘is spot by the prow. An’ ‘e came runnin’ across the deck like a man possessed, swinging a caulking iron in ‘is hand. He struck Munster hard, sir, right across the chops in front o’ the whole crew. An’ I don’t mind tellin’ ye, sir, that the blow the old man fetched Munster across ‘is face almost took the privateer’s nose clean off.

  It were done in view o’ the midshipman an’ his mate, who set upon the old man, an’ soon they clapped ‘im in irons. Striking an officer ‘tis a hangin’ offence, sir. Terrible thing to do, an’ in front o’ the crew an’ all. The ship’s surgeon was summoned to tend to
Munster’s wounds, an’ the ninth brother was locked down in the brig till they could fetch a rope to hang ‘im with. An’ down in the dark, the ninth brother grinned to ‘imself, for ‘e knew what would come next.

  You see, sir, the ninth brother was now an honest man an’ a brave one too. He served ‘is captain an’ his crew well an’ was loved by many aboard ship. There was talk that the visitin’ lieutenant ‘ad provoked ‘im, an’ murmurin’ amongst the men that they would mutiny if the old man was to hang for ‘is crime. An’ the captain, well, ‘e was merciful, in ‘is own way. An’ in this mercy, ‘e decided that fifty lashes o’ the cat would be punishment enough. (Munster knew nothing o’ this, for ‘e supposed they’d hang the old bastard from the mainsail an’ dump the corpse o’er the side. E’d pay the ship’s surgeon to cut the skin from the old man’s back before they wrapped ‘is shroud, an’ soon Munster would be back aboard ‘is own vessel with the final piece). Though Munster whined an’ groaned as the surgeon stitched back ‘is nose, ‘e couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought o’ this final act o’ vindication. Little did ‘e know, sir, o’ what ‘twere to come.

  An’ ye must know what comes next, sir. The next mornin’, they stripped the old brother down to ‘is britches an’ tied him to the mast. The last portion o’ the map was plain to see across ‘is broad, achin’ back (though only Munster knew o’ its true meanin’). The captain called the crew on deck an’ read out the charge: ‘striking an Admiralty officer with intent to wound. The punishment, fifty lashes given.’

  * * *

  As Munster turned white as a sheet, knowin’ ‘is prize was all but lost, the ship’s captain handed ‘im a cat o’ nine tails. Captain tells him, ‘It’s only right that you administers the first blow’, seeing as ’e’s the one who suffered the insult. An’ Lieutenant Munster, ‘e doesn’t know where to look nor what to think. He’s only passin’ as a lieutenant, see? If ‘e lets on that he’s nought but a filthy, money-grubbing privateer, ’e’ll hang for impersonatin’ an officer aboard ship. So, all ‘e could do, is nod, all solemn like, an’ strike the first blow.

  Munster drew first blood an’ stepped back by the captain’s side, as soon each man aboard the ship took a hand in the flogging. An’ little by little, inch by inch, the tattoo on the old man’s shoulder became a bloody welt. A mess o’ red, carved off ‘is hide until ‘twere nothin’ but raw skin an’ bone beneath. An’ the old man, ‘e said nothin’, nor cried out neither. ’E just stared at the privateer Munster from o’er ’is shoulder while Munster watched as ‘is chance at glory was snatched away, with each rise an’ fall o’ the cat o’ nine tails.

  An’ so, Munster never got ‘is portion o’ the map. The old man died, as old men are oft to do, though there was no retribution for ’is passin’. It were an honest death, all things considerin’. An’ that was the end to it, sir. Munster spent ‘is days ravin’ an’ ragin’ an’ tore the rest o’ the map to ribbons. Ah, you ask a fair question, sir. Why not be satisfied wi’ the pieces ‘e had? What could drive a man to such despair, to ‘ave but one missing piece o’ a map? A man with even one portion o’ the Map of Ages would be a rich man if ‘e ’ad a mind to seekin’ it.

  For ye see, sir, The missing part showed the way to a place no man ‘as ever seen, not before or since. A gateway, ye might say. One that leads to parts foreign an’ strange. Like a whirlpool without end. A bottomless gully into which a man can only descend, fallin’ for an eternity into the dark, before ‘e appears in a place ‘e cannot fathom nor ‘scribe to any natural laws o’ meanin’.

  My father was an educated man. ’E passed a little of ‘is knowledge on to me, though it did little to improve my circumstances, such as they were, such as they are. ’E had some strange notions, ‘e did. Thoughts that would get a man brought ‘afore the judge an’ the church, so blasphemous they were. He said that the world, as we see a’fore us, is but a plate stacked upon plates, all in an endless variety. And each o’ these ‘worlds’, as ‘e called em’, they were unawares o’ the other, though they were separated only by a scrap o’ stardust and a twinkle o’ twilight dreaming. And if a man ‘ad the notion and the skill o’ navigatin’, ’e could journey between em, as you would walk between the doorways o’ a mansion ‘ouse. I grew up in one o’ them, sir, if you can believe it. A mansion, I mean. It was quite beautiful. We ‘ad all sorts o’ visitors: governors, royals, great thinkers an’ artists from all corners o’ the world. I ‘ad seen and ‘eard more than most do in a lifetime ‘afore I could even write my own name.

  I do remember once, sir, him takin’ me on ‘is knee like, and tellin’ me about time. ’E said to me, the common man thinks that time is like sand in an hourglass, flowin’ one way, one grain at a time, all in the same direction. But a wise man, ‘e knows that time is more like a river. It ebbs and runs with strange eddies that sometimes move in opposition to the force o’ its waters. And from that river, you ’ave banks, streams and little rivulets that go off on their own merry way, diversions and breaks in the flow o’ time. My father said to me that in these places, you could find all o’ man’s could-have-beens and never-weres.

  Who can say, sir? Is there an eddie in this flow o’ times’ passin’, a shaded brook where my family is still alive? A reversal in the flow o’ things, or a change in fortunes where all our tragedies become triumph? A time where thieves and rebels did not force their way into my home an’ burn down all my family ‘ad sought to build? All our collected legacy set alight that terrible night with a lick o’ flame. It t’was a tragedy, sir, and now I am all that is left o’ a once-proud house.

  They said, whoever they be, that my father held a copy o’ the map. In the great library of our house, rumour ’ad it there was a secret door that led to a vault hidden deep in the very bowels o’ the earth. And in this vault, there was a safe, and in that safe, there was the map. Complete at last, perhaps by some devilry, with all nine scraps o’ meat dried and bound together. They said the map ’ad driven my father mad. That it was he who burned down our home, killed my mother and poor sister, before walking into the infernal flames, laughing as ’e burned like a heretic at the stake.

  Liars, sir, all bastard, lying, snake-mouthed, split-brained stirrers o’ other men’s shite an’ bile! My father claimed no map in ‘is possession, an’ indeed not the Map of Ages. ‘Tis is a fiction, sir, told by those whose brains are rotten an’ full o’ worms. But ‘tis all behind me, sir, and I live my life outside the shadow o’ my family’s passin’.

  I wandered this broad earth many a year since that day o’ the flames, and soon my talk became vulgar an’ full o’ rough edges an’ curses. Finally, I took to drink, as those afflicted with tragedy be inclined. Though I was a poor seaman, I worked aw’ile and then became a worse stevedore an’ finally a pitiful lighthouse keeper.

  Jack o’ the lantern, ‘twas what they called me, sir. Aye, but that was long ago. I was keeper o’ that old lighthouse on Isla De luz, ‘afore the darkness came, and the island was filled wit’ strange faces and whisperin’s. So I left soon as I could. And now I stand before ye, the last son o’ the Delacroix line, beggin’ men for drinks an’ sleepin’ in street-filth. Ah, ’ow fortune's’ wheel doth turn, sir! Mark me as an example to ye, that ill-luck can befall even those o’ noble blood.

  * * *

  Another drink, sir? … Thank ye, yer too generous, indulgin’ an old fool such as I. Ah, but sir, I couldn't accept another. I ‘ave no more stories left to tell. They are all the same, in the end. ‘Tis always a map, a ship, a captain, an’ a fire that consumes all. I could tell ye a dirty joke or two, but my heart is growin’ ’eavy now, an’ I feel my mirth is startin’ to sour.

  Yer purse, sir? No, sir, I cannot. I know not what ye seek. And if I did, well, my memory ‘tis such a fog. I was a small boy, sir when it ‘appened. My father never allowed me in the library. An’ even if I did see it, I wouldn’t recall its finer details. It would be like findin’ meanin’ in a dream to go back so far into mine own
recollectin’. The map was never there, sir. I’m sure I never saw it.

  But perhaps… if ye were to buy me another few jars o’ ale and maybe a fine coat such as yers, I could set my mind to rememberin’. But, o’ course, it would all just be stories, like, and no certainty o’ them bein’ true. But, memories, like time, do flow in mysterious ways.

  A new coat, a pair o’ boots, an’ enough ale to drown in? Aye, sir, I’d be agreeable to that. Very agreeable indeed. Now, sir, you sit an’ listen. And I’ll tell ye a story, o’ a map, and fire, and a doorway that leads beyond the edge o’ the world.

  Heart of Storms

  Darby Cupid

  Terry’s scream rattles through the room of misted bottles and musty crates, his noxious breath permeating my senses as I twist the knife sticking through his bloodied hand.

  “You bitch!” he gasps.

  Reaching across the table, I fist the front of his shirt and haul him forward, trying to ignore the stench reeking from the yellowed stumps masquerading as teeth jutting from his gums. “Tell me where to find him!”

  “He’s dead!” he squeals, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes onto his ruddy cheeks. “Everyone knows Braddock is dead. My mate Steve told me he actually saw his head pickled in a jar.”

  I exhale, shoving Terry back onto his chair where he slumps with a whimper. “If he’s dead, why did I overhear that he’s recruiting for new crew members?”

  “I don’t know,” Terry pleads. “I swear it.”

  Frustration hot and heavy in my chest, I tear the blade from his hand and wipe it on his sleeve. Amongst the bric-a-brac, potions and junk, Gaslamp Goods has a reputation for being a place to buy and sell information, and the main reason is Terry. If he knew anything, he would have told me. Of course, I could have tried to pay for the information, but money is scarce and therefore a last resort. I shove back my chair and stomp from the shop, squinting at the sudden brightness of the outdoors. Terry’s whimpers fade behind the creaking door.