The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Sammy pulled up his breeches, rejoining his friend. Arent gave him a piece of the untouched bird he’d stolen from the dinner table, along with a hunk of bread and a jug of wine.

  “And I think I’ve found a way to make Johannes Wyck tell me why he cut out Bosey’s tongue,” Arent said as they crossed the waist.

  “How?”

  “I have to lose a fight.”

  Sammy swallowed the bread he’d been eating. “Have you ever done that before?”

  “I think it’s like winning, except you fall over at the end.”

  They were close enough now to see the yawl being lowered into the water. It was far larger than it appeared when covered up and had three benches inside, capable of seating three sailors each, with room enough at the prow for another to crouch. Obviously, Crauwels didn’t want to risk that many bodies, because there were only three people climbing down the rope ladder.

  They did not seem happy to be doing it.

  Larme was clucking like a mother hen. “Row to within sighting distance, no closer,” he said to them, genuine concern in his voice. “Take note of its colors and what language you hear being spoken on deck, best you can.”

  It, thought Arent. Larme had called the ship it. Not her, as was usually the case with ships, or even their, in reference to the crew. That was the power the Eighth Lantern already held over them.

  Vos emerged from the compartment under the half deck. In the moonlight, he looked ghastly, like he had too much skin on too little skull.

  “Where’s the governor general?” demanded Crauwels.

  “I couldn’t wake him,” said Vos.

  Sammy prodded Arent’s arm, jerking his chin to the quarterdeck where Lia and Sara were watching with Creesjie. Evidently, the ladies weren’t interested in staying inside for the post-dinner drinks.

  Below them, the yawl hit the water with a soft splash.

  “Captain,” cried Larme. “Look!”

  He was pointing in the direction of the Eighth Lantern. The orange glow had turned blood red.

  A second later, an agonizing scream carved through the air, only to be abruptly cut off.

  Everybody covered their ears, but Arent knew better.

  A scream was a warning.

  You either needed to be running toward it or away from it. Pretending it wasn’t happening wouldn’t help anybody.

  “Arent!” hollered Sara from the quarterdeck. “It came from behind us!”

  He was up the stairs in a few strides, Sammy running after him. Hindered by her dress, Sara followed them to the poop deck. Lia and Creesjie came clattering behind.

  Something squelched under Arent’s feet. He reached down to touch it, but Sammy’s voice stilled him. “It’s blood,” he said, sounding sick. “I can smell it.”

  He’d always been squeamish.

  Pulling open the door to the pens, Arent found every animal dead, their guts spilled across the straw. The poor sow had it the worst, he thought. That must have been what they heard scream.

  Creesjie ran to the railing and vomited, while Sara took a step back in horror.

  “Arent,” she said.

  He turned, expecting her to need comfort, but she was pointing at their feet. Drawn in blood was an eye with a tail.

  “The mark of Old Tom,” whispered Lia, aghast.

  “We were standing twenty paces away,” said Sara, glancing back at where they’d been. “How could something have slaughtered the animals and drawn this mark without us hearing?” She stared at Arent as if hoping he might have the answers she lacked.

  He didn’t. He was as unnerved as she was. For all the years he’d worked with Sammy—­all the impossible things he’d witnessed—­he’d never seen anything on this scale or anything so strange that didn’t immediately explain its purpose. A dead body meant somebody wanted that person dead. A theft meant somebody wanted the thing that was stolen. How it was done may have been bewildering, but at least he’d always understood why it was happening.

  This was different.

  This was chaotic and spiteful. Strange marks and slaughtered animals weren’t clues; they were messages. Whatever was behind this—­whether it was a devil or not—­wanted them to know how powerless they were. How trapped. It wanted them to know how easily it could strike at them. It was trying to frighten them.

  And it was succeeding. Arent’s skin was crawling. He wanted to leap off the boat and swim back to Batavia. He just wasn’t sure how many people he could carry on his back.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” said Lia, clinging to her mother. “This is the first of the unholy miracles. It’s happening exactly as the predikant said it would.”

  “What’s an unholy miracle?” asked Arent.

  “Kers warned us that there would be three of them,” said Sara. “They’re meant to convince us of Old Tom’s power, so more people accept his bargains. Each one will bear his mark.”

  “Why only three?”

  “Because after that, anybody who didn’t bargain is slaughtered by those who did.”

  Finally shaking off his shock, Captain Crauwels called down to the yawl. “Get over to that lantern double quick. I want—­”

  “It’s too late, Captain,” said Vos. “It’s already gone.”

  Crauwels looked past him.

  Where the red glow had been, there was now only darkness.

  41

  After collecting a lantern from the waist, Sammy returned to the animal pens and gestured impatiently for Arent’s flint pouch. As Sammy searched for a spark, Captain Crauwels gripped Larme by the shoulder.

  “Get a couple of cabin boys up here with mops,” he said. “Have them clean all this up.”

  His calmness seemed vulgar considering what lay before them.

  “Hold that order,” demanded van Schooten, sobered by the shock. “We can’t risk anybody seeing this. The ship will tear itself apart in panic.”

  “Ain’t no secrets on an Indiaman,” argued Crauwels, casting his gaze toward the rigging. “You mark me, there are eyes up there. This news will be halfway across the ship already.”

  “Maybe they saw what happened,” suggested Sammy, finally putting spark to the lantern’s wick, its light leaping out across the deck.

  “We know what happened!” said van Schooten, on the verge of hysteria. “We can see what happened! That damn ship killed them. It glowed red, and it butchered them. And it’ll be after us next.”

  “Larme, get up that rigging,” said Crauwels. “Drag whoever you find down here. We’ve got questions for them.” He nudged the sow’s body with his foot. “And fetch me the predikant and the cook when you’re done. I want this meat blessed, then properly butchered and salted.” Catching van Schooten’s incredulous stare, he shrugged. “Dark forces be damned, I’ll not waste good meat. We’re short of supplies as it is.”

  Arent felt a hand on his arm and turned around to see Sara cradling Lia against her breast. The girl was wracked by deep sobs. Of Creesjie and Vos, there was no sign. They must have left in the commotion, he realized.

  “I’m taking Lia back to her cabin,” said Sara. “Can we talk afterward?”

  Arent nodded, then returned his attention to Sammy, who had crawled so far into the pens, only his arse remained outside.

  “Okay, thief taker,” said Crauwels, addressing Sammy. “What do you make of all this?”

  “I find it curious that the porthole the leper appeared at that first night is directly below us,” said Sammy from inside the pens. “Did you ever find its rags?”

  “Had the ship upside down, but we didn’t find a thing.”

  “You can’t still believe this is a knave playing games?” interrupted van Schooten. “The lantern turned red the moment the yawl hit the water. The animals were slaughtered seconds after that.” He pointed to the sow. “We heard this poor cr
eature scream. Unless somebody jumped over the edge, there’s no way anybody could have done that and fled without us seeing. And if they had, we’d have heard the splash.”

  Sammy wriggled back into the night, holding two objects on the end of a stick.

  “What did you find?” asked Crauwels, squinting.

  The problematary held them up to the light, revealing a scrap of bloodied bandage and a rosary.

  “So it was the leper,” proclaimed van Schooten. “Those are its bandages. It must have dropped the rosary when it attacked the animals.”

  “Hmm,” said Sammy doubtfully as he inspected the rosary. “This was the property of a rich man who fell into poverty. He was well traveled and devout. A predikant, perhaps?”

  Van Schooten started, alarmed. “How did—­”

  “The holes in the wooden beads are much too large for the string that threads them, and if you look inside, you’ll see the scratches caused by metal links. These beads once hung on a chain. Most metal rosaries are owned by the rich and have metal beads, often with jewels, so this began life as something far grander. Those beads were more than likely sold and replaced by cheaper alternatives as the owner fell into hardship, then finally the metal chain went, replaced by string. A poor person would have sold the metal rosary immediately or bought a cheap one with the proceeds. Poverty came upon them slowly. But see how smooth the wooden beads are. They’ve been worn by repeated rubbing as the prayers were spoken, indicating devoutness. And the beads are made from different woods. At a glance, I can see hard and soft woods from a variety of trees across the Provinces, Germany, and France. As I said, they were well traveled.” Coming out of his reverie, he looked at their astonished faces. “Our entire civilization is built from wood, stone, and a few types of metal,” he explained. “If you can identify them, you’d be surprised at how evident many things become. Who normally tends the animals, Captain Crauwels?”

  “Cabin boys for the most part,” he stammered, awed by the display. “Steward comes up some nights and feeds them any scraps left over from dinner.”

  “Can you ask whether any of them were bandaged or have lost a rosary?”

  “This is ludicrous,” exclaimed van Schooten, throwing his hands up in the air. “The truth is obvious, and yet you won’t have it.”

  Sammy ignored him and continued his conversation with the captain. “Who knows the ship’s route back to Amsterdam?”

  “I plot it once I’ve got the stars above me,” Crauwels said proudly. “The other ships take their lead from us, best they can.”

  “You’re not worried about becoming separated?”

  “Ain’t no way to keep a convoy together for eight months. Wind and waves won’t allow it. Even in calm weather, we have to keep our distance for safety. Two ships carried on without us this evening, and we’ll lose the others eventually. There’s no help for it.”

  “And yet our mysterious pursuer keeps finding us,” said Sammy, glaring at the spot in the darkness where the Eighth Lantern had disappeared. “It’s an impressive feat.”

  “It’s devilry,” repeated van Schooten stubbornly. “And I’ll not stand by and let it consume us. Captain, I’m ordering you to return us to Batavia at first light.”

  Crauwels fixed his jaw for an argument, but it was instinct rather than good sense. With a sigh, he relented. “Aye, I reckon that’s the best way. I’ll put a message out to the fleet at dawn, but we’ll need the governor general’s wave.”

  “You’ll have it,” said van Schooten, departing.

  As they settled the details, Arent pulled Sammy away. “We don’t need to seek for the owner of this rosary,” he said under his breath. “I already know who it belongs to.”

  “That’s marvelous!” exclaimed Sammy. “Did you see somebody holding it?”

  “Yes,” said Arent. “My father. The day he disappeared.”

  42

  Creesjie Jens sniffed her pomander, trying to banish the memory of the slaughtered animals. It was the blood that tormented her. Not the sight but the smell. It was in her hair and on her skin. She felt it trickling down her dress, even though she hadn’t touched it. It was as if she’d bathed in it.

  “You’re shivering,” said Vos solicitously.

  “It’s shock,” said Creesjie, descending the staircase onto the quarterdeck. “I’ve never been that close to death before.”

  She’d left to attend the governor general, as was her duty, only to find Vos trailing behind her silently. This was the first time he’d spoken, and as usual, she found his presence hugely discomfiting.

  “May I speak to you about a personal matter?” he asked in that same bland tone he used for everything else.

  He really was made of cogs and springs, she thought. After everything they’d just seen, he spoke as if they were taking a promenade. Why couldn’t he see that she was upset and wanted to be left alone?

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m—­”

  “I’m about to come into a sum that will change my position quite considerably,” he interrupted, watching her face for a reaction.

  “How?” responded Creesjie, short of anything better to say.

  “I have been making plans for some time,” he said. “And they’ll come to fruition when we reach Amsterdam. Using my newfound wealth, I intend on pressing my suitability to become the next governor general of Batavia to the Gentlemen 17. I’m counting on Jan Haan’s support, of course.”

  She stared at him, bludgeoned by this new information. “Why are you telling me this, Vos?”

  “Because I would like to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “I realize you’re promised to the Duke of Astor, but my research suggests the duke’s accounts are a war away from ruin, and he’s never far from a war.”

  Creesjie could only stare at him. She was being proposed to by an abacus. Oblivious to her bafflement, he pressed his case.

  “The Duke of Astor is a fine match, but what will you do when he dies on the battlefield in three years’ time? You are beautiful, but beauty fades. And when that happens, how will you live, how will you eat, where will your money come from? What I propose is a mutually beneficial marriage. I admire you and would give you rein while you helped me build the career I consider my destiny.”

  “I…I…” Creesjie flailed. She couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t even certain she would recognize them if she did.

  “I thought he was a count?” she said lamely.

  “A mere count would be beneath you.”

  Creesjie’s eyes roamed Vos’s bland face, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “I didn’t realize you had such ambition,” she said, her interest showing itself for the first time.

  “The governor general does not tolerate it, and I’m not fool enough to displease him.”

  “The wealth that you’d require—­”

  “I have made the calculations. I know what I’m asking and what is offered. I could show you the figures, if you’d prefer.”

  They passed awkwardly through the helm into the great cabin. The candelabra had been snuffed and put away, along with all the plates and good cheer. The chairs were stacked, the cabin lit solely by moonlight, the latticed windows carving it into a web of shadow.

  “You understand how dangerous this proposition is,” said Creesjie, lowering her voice. Candlelight snuck beneath the governor general’s door. “I’m only aboard the Saardam because Jan Haan wished it so. He bought my ticket, and he pays my allowance.” Vos frowned slightly, his fingers doing their strange little dance at his side, as if these were not taboos he’d previously considered. “If he discovered you’re attempting to woo me while I’m still his mistress—­”

  “I’m not asking for an answer now, but a promise of your consideration would help me sleep easier,” said Vos.

>   “You have it,” said Creesjie, inclining her head.

  Vos beamed, returned the nod, then disappeared back the way he’d come.

  Creesjie breathed out in relief, his arguments still clattering around her thoughts. It had been a good proposal, she thought. He’d put words around every doubt she’d harbored, then sucked the sting out of them. For the first time since they’d met, she found herself smiling at the memory of him.

  Crossing the room, she arrived at the governor general’s door.

  “Good evening, madam,” said Guard Captain Drecht in that slightly disapproving tone he always adopted with her.

  It was Creesjie’s power to be desired by every man she met, so when she’d first encountered Drecht’s scorn, she’d considered it a challenge. She’d flirted with him, brought him food, invited him to functions, but everything had failed.

  The only thing he’d wanted from Creesjie was a wall building between them.

  Through one of his men, she’d discovered that he had a wife and daughter in Drenthe, both of whom he loved without reservation. Four years since they’d seen each other last, but he’d never taken his pleasure elsewhere. The soldier—­in a disbelieving tone—­had claimed it wasn’t something Drecht boasted of, as he didn’t boast of breathing or being able to speak. It was simply the vow he’d taken.

  And that was where Creesjie’s campaign had ended. Men such as Guard Captain Drecht were rare and dangerous. They would do their duty no matter how much misery it caused them or those around them. His wife was welcome to him.

  Standing aside, Drecht allowed Creesjie inside.

  Once the door shut behind her, Creesjie’s face changed. Abandoning the winsome smile, her eyes became coals.

  As Sara had promised, her draught had put Jan Haan into a deep sleep, his thin chest rising and falling, every rib showing.

  She looked at him distantly, like he was a bluebottle, flapping its last on the window ledge. Whatever strength Haan once commanded had long ago left him, but he disguised the fact with his accomplishments, with his abrupt manner and the willingness of hounds such as Drecht and Vos to acquiesce to his every whim. She tried to imagine what they’d think if they knew why he really summoned her every night. It wasn’t because of his virility or because of his unquenchable appetites.