by otis duane
Halfway across the open deck, a sonic concussion threw him backwards, off his feet, and landed him hard on his back. Bloodied and dazed, he groaned and slowly rolled over as an exploding swarm of splinters blasted over him. Crawling over to the main mast, a trickle of blood steadily dripped down the side of his face.
Keep it together Will, he thought to himself, while a ringing noise echoed through his head.
Placing one hand in front of the other, the wobbly captain eventually made it behind the thick-timbered mast, where he took refuge and shook his head.
As the cobwebs cleared out of his mind, he slowly regained his bearings and rubbed the side of his throbbing cheek. It felt as though someone had cracked him in the jaw when his fingertips rubbed over a patch of embedded splinters.
Wincing, he thought to himself.
Enough is enough! Time to take this fight to these savages.
Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Darcy jumped to his feet and thrust his cutlass into the air.
“FIRE!” he screamed aloud to his battery crews.
Seeing the captain in the thick of the battle, his cowering gun crews drew confidence from his audacity and leapt to their feet too.
“Eat this!” screeched one of the gunners as he touched his torch to the back of his cannon.
On the other ship, he could see the whites of the pirates’ eyes as the fiery shrapnel ripped through their ranks.
In seconds, the Lexington’s cannons roared to life and relentlessly fired salvo after salvo across the watery divide. Within moments there wasn’t one pirate left standing as the slave galley’s shredded sails burned and flapped in the wind.
“Target their masts!” Fairfield barked to his own gun crews below deck as they too hammered away.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh was all they heard as their first few cannonballs missed their mark and zoomed harmlessly over the corsair ship and out to open sea.
“Keep firing!” he ordered.
Looking down the line of gun batteries, the lieutenant watched as one cannon after the other recoiled backwards but still none had scored a direct hit.
“Powder boy!” Mr. Burnham called out to a skinny 12-year-old boy who was heading his way.
“Hurry!” the first mate urged, waving him on, as the dirty-faced lad bit down on his lip, shuffling his bare feet ever faster across the deck. In his arms he was cradling a 20-pound cannonball.
“Here sonny,” Burnham said, taking the heavy shot from him.
Rolling it into the gun’s muzzle, the first mate quickly packed it down with his plunger and then ran behind the gun where he knelt down. Squinting his eye, he feverishly twisted the gun’s rear elevation wheel as he sighted in the cannon.
“Four … three … two…” he counted down to himself as the pirate’s main mast slowly moved into his gun sight.
“One,” he whispered and then touched his torch to the firing port and jumped to the side. Spewing out a fiery funnel of flames, it violently recoiled back and narrowly missed clipping his knee.
Meanwhile, over on the pirate galley the mast exploded in half as it teetered over and crashed down onto the deck.
“Nice shot!” the lieutenant hollered down the line to him as the others cheered.
~*~
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Captain Darcy called out across the topside deck.
A few more sporadic shots rang out before the Lexington’s guns fell silent. The ravaged pirates fired a couple of more shots back at them, but their ship had been decimated. They’d make for easy pickings for the next warship in the convoy.
Whistling up to the bridge, Captain Darcy shouted, “Helmsman, break contact!”
“Aye-aye captain!” Gerhard replied, cranking on the ship’s rudder wheel.
~*~
Darcy and his crew watched on, as behind them the Birmingham pulled up alongside the incapacitated ship. As planned, the ship’s fodder squad cried out and quickly bound over onto the pirate ship. A brief gun battle and clash of swords ensued but then all fell quiet.
A few more minutes passed when they heard a couple of errant gun shots ring out across the seascape.
One Lexington sailor, looking over to his shipmate, grinned as they other nodded back to him. They both knew the Birmingham sailors were commencing with some high seas justice of their own.
Although naval regulations strictly forbade the execution of prisoners without due process, no one was going to stand up for this scum. Pirates were bad enough, but these slavers were the worst. For them, mercy would be in short supply out here.
~*~
Soon a pair of flares burst high above the Birmingham, signaling they’d taken command of the slave ship.
Meanwhile the Lexington sailed on to disable the next two pirate ships, with neither one putting up much of a fight. Each of the ships were seemingly only manned by skeleton crews with their topside decks stacked high with crates. In all likelihood their lower decks were jammed full of captive slaves, but the royal navy flagship didn’t have time to stop and check. There was one more corsair boat to chase down and they were in hot pursuit.
~*~
As the streams of hemp smoke rose up from his beard, the last pirate ship’s captain, Hussein Gliv, crossed his massive arms, and stared off into the distance at the fast-approaching Lexington.
“What’re we gonna do?” asked one of his corsairs in a worried tone, but the captain didn’t reply.
“Master Hussein!” the pirate pressed, rudely raising his voice as he seized ahold of the captain’s forearm.
Turning his attention to him, Gliv frowned and quickly withdrew his dagger from his belt. Stepping into the much-smaller corsair, the psychopath plunged his blade into the man’s gut and sneered at him as he slit open his belly.
Laughing, Gliv then shoved him down to the deck, as the pirate clenched ahold of his stomach. Staring at his squirming victim, he tauntingly licked the blood from his double-edged blade and then spat on him.
“Erosh! Adnon!” Gliv called out over his shoulder, beckoning two of his dreadlocked pirates.
Running over to him, like Gliv, they too were shirtless with blackened tiger stripes painted across their bare chests and had strands of burning hemp in their long beards.
“Throw this shark bait over the side,” he ordered with a crazed look in his eye.
The pirates knew better than to argue with him and picked up their fallen comrade.
“No, please. I beg you!” the bloodied man pleaded as they lifted him up and tossed him over the side.
Grinning ear-to-ear, Gliv went back to waving the streams of hemp smoke up into his nostrils.
“Anything else Master Gliv?” one of them asked him.
Snapping his finger, he pointed at his henchmen and said, “Bring me up some slaves from the hole.”
Turning to his comrade, the pirate smirked and then the two of them hastily disappeared down a nearby hatch.
“We’ll see what this English captain is made of,” Gliv said to himself, closing his eyes as he drew in a deep breath.
Chapter 7 - The Ancient Witch
8th Century BC ~ Mt. Olympus ~ Ancient Greece
In the Dorian family, their mystical blood lineage ran only through the female bloodline. The males had no proclivity for the magic, and no one really had any idea why. It had just been that way for as long as anyone could remember.
Tradition held it was the matriarch’s responsibility to mentor her daughters in Dorian witchcraft. And growing up, Tilda’s mother had done just that, but had also taught her to use their magic benevolently.
“Just as everything in the universe has two sides, a yin and a yang, so too does our magic,” she would explain. She had gone to great lengths to warn Tilda to steer clear of their magic’s darker, shadowy side. “Though tempting as it may be, grave consequences await those with a malevolent heart,” her mother would say.
Tilda heeded her mother’s warning and only worked in the light of their Dorian magic. And, like her m
other before her, Tilda began teaching her own daughters the magic at an early age. Just as importantly, she taught them when not to use it.
“Our magic is to heal mankind, not to become its scourge,” she often reminded her three girls.
They were all exceptionally talented witches, each with their own specialty. Erika was an intuitive fortune teller who could gaze into one’s eyes and read their soul. The middle girl, Elena, was a passionate romantic and especially drawn to brewing love and courtship potions. Whereas, Adriana was a gentle soul, whose calling was to heal the sick.
Though the girls were trained in all facets of the magic, there was one secret Tilda had never revealed to them. It was her most guarded one of all. She was a Dorian Gypsy Queen and the secret keeper of an ancient mystical relic called the Gypsy Queen Skull.
The skull itself was an object so powerful that it could breach the very fabric of space and time itself. According to its legend, it was fired in the furnace of the Sun and was forged by a god’s hammer on Mercury. It was believed to have been inhabited with the life force of a celestial being. Some even said it was the entrapped soul of a fallen Greek god.
~*~
To know the story of Tilda’s Dorian ancestors is to know the skull and the Gypsy Queen’s role.
Originally, the Dorians were a family coven of witches in ancient Greece who wandered the rugged countryside selling their esoteric services. They acted as healers, mediums, seers, and even sorceresses, who practiced both white and black magic.
As masters of spirit conjuring, spell casting, fortune telling and communicating with the dead, they were received with mixed feelings. To some, they were blessed shamanic miracle workers, while others viewed them as doing the work of the evil one.
As time passed, the Dorian coven grew weary of the Law of Three. It was a phenomenon they’d come to learn all too well. The law stated whatever energy one puts into the universe would eventually return to them threefold. Many Dorian witches and their patrons suffered unspeakable tragedies until the coven forbade the use of their black magic altogether.
Generations of Dorians thereafter worked exclusively in the white light of their magic and became exceptionally powerful. So great was their reputation that people traveled from all corners of the ancient world to seek their help. Word of their profound magical powers was so widespread that the Dorians eventually even weaved their way into Greek lore itself.
~*~
According to the legend, in the eighth century BC, Zelia Dorian, who at the time was the coven’s matriarch, was sitting against a pine tree when a crow began to circle overhead. The ebony bird squawked as he lazily spiraled down toward her, magically morphing into a black cat just as he landed next to her.
“Oh my goodness!” Zelia blurted out, recoiling some.
The cat, crouching down, swished his long white-tipped tail back and forth as he intently watched her.
If it would have been anyone else sitting there, they would’ve run away screaming, but not Zelia. A master witch of her caliber knew better. She understood the mystical creature was there for a reason. What that reason was would have to wait though. For now the crouching cat never once broke eye contact as he cautiously slinked his way over to her. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and sweetly greeted him.
“Well hello there, my little friend.”
Upon hearing her soft tone, he blinked his eyes and replied with a deep, throaty meow.
“Mrrrow.”
Taking a couple of more steps toward her, the large black cat brushed up against her leg as she reached down and stroked his back.
After a few more drive-by rubbings, he began to purr loudly and flopped over onto his back, allowing her to scratch his underbelly.
Soon, the two of them became fast friends.
~*~
“Soooo, you hungry?” Zelia asked him, as she dug around in her knapsack looking for a treat for him. He seemed to want to help in the search by curiously poking his head into the sack as well.
“Let’s see. Aw, here it is,” she said, pulling out a bundle of cloth. Wrapped inside it was a wedge of Muenster cheese, a rare delicacy given to her by a foreigner from Gaul, whom she’d recently healed.
Breaking off a small chunk of it, she held it in her fingers as her furry new companion inspected it with a few discerning sniffs. Giving it a few good licks with his coarse tongue, he then sunk his teeth into it and quickly devoured it.
“Mrrrow,” he said, looking up to Zelia for more.
“Hmmmm, so what shall I call you?” she asked herself, feeding him another couple of wedges as she pet him.
Much to her amusement, he lifted his head and meowed for even more of the cheese. Seeing how it was smeared all over his whiskers she giggled and snapped her fingers.
“That’s it! Muenster Cheese... How’s that sound?”
Her new friend responded with a hearty purr and licked his chops clean as she smiled and scratched his head.
~*~
Afterwards, he groomed himself and then curled up in her lap and soon they both drifted off into a peaceful morning slumber.
~*~
A couple of hours later, Zelia awoke to see Muenster sitting a few feet away, watching her with his intense yellow eyes. Looking curiously at him for a moment, she then panned down to her lap to see a dead mouse sitting there. Although a little startled at first by his gift, she knew it was given with good intentions and could only grin back at him.
“Why, thank you. But I was thinking more of a pear for lunch,” she said kindly.
Delicately picking up the rodent by its tail, she then laid it on the ground in front of him.
“Bon appétit,” she said to him as his eager eyes grew wide.
~*~
After lunch, the two of them went for a stroll in the forest when they happened upon a large rock outcropping, where she stopped and sat down.
“So, just who exactly sent you?”
In response, Muenster simply stared up at the sky for some time and then back down to her.
Moments later, a swirling gust of wind began to blow as a storm cloud quickly rolled in overhead, darkening the midday sky. The weather had turned bad so quickly Zelia didn’t have time to seek shelter. Instead, all she could do was shield her eyes from the flying dust and debris when a thunderous lightning bolt struck a nearby tree.
“Oh My!” she screamed out and flinched away.
Wiping the dirt out of her eyes, she turned back to see Muenster sniffing a smoldering limb that had fallen out of the tree. It was roughly five feet long and relatively straight with a bristle of pine needles on one end. Making his way back to its patch of needles, he began to carefully knead them with his front paws into a sort of nest. Taking his perch on it, he meowed and the limb slowly began to levitate.
“Oh my,” Zelia said, perking her eyebrows up. “That’s not something you see every day,” she said, cocking her head to the side as the branch and black cat pulled up next to her.
“Mrrrow,” he meowed, inviting her onboard for a ride.
Like before, most people would have run for the hills, but not Zelia. She knew whoever had sent these two must possess incredibly powerful magic. And that thought alone, only intrigued her more.
“So where to?” she casually inquired, mounting the branch.
~*~
Slowly rising up through the trees, she looked around with her mouth open wide.
Reaching treetop level, the magical branch suddenly took off, picking up speed as it zoomed over the forest. The rush of wind in her face was so strong she had to squint to see ahead.
As the minutes passed and they flew down into a neighboring valley, her hands began to throb from holding onto the branch so tightly. Loosening her grip some, she relaxed her shoulders and looked all around.
“Amazing,” she said aloud with a smile. “Simply amazing.”
~*~
As the day wore on, the wonder never ceased, especially when they raced over a pond, stirring
up a flock of geese. Running across the water, the large birds took flight en masse and flew up alongside them.
Minutes later, gliding over a steep hillside, a shepherd minding his flock spotted them and dropped his crook. Standing frozen with his mouth agape, Zelia could only smile and wave back. Seeing a woman and a black cat flying on a stick with a flock of geese in tow must have been a quite a shock to him.
A few more miles and one by one the geese eventually tipped their wings to them and trailed off into another direction.
“See you, be safe!” the good witch cheerfully said, waving goodbye to them.
The limb continued their journey, flying high over the various mountain ranges and zooming over the many open fields. Then, without warning, it took an unexpected sharp turn and dove down into an unforeseen gorge.
“No, no, no!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs.
“Pull up! … Pull up!” she screamed, white-knuckling the branch.
Muenster, too, yowled out loud and dug his claws into the limb as it spiraled down out of control, freefalling toward a raging river at the bottom of the gorge.
Tightly squeezing her eyes shut, Zelia grimaced, awaiting the imminent impact. But at the very last second the branch seemed to defy gravity and pulled up, zipping down over the roaring rapids instead.
So close were they to the river’s surface that Zelia’s legs and Muenster’s tail actually dipped down into the turbulent waters just beneath them.
Leveling out, Zelia let out a huge sigh of relief, but Muenster was less forgiving. Angrily clawing into the branch’s needles, he gnawed off some of its bark as payback for the unwelcomed thrill ride.
~*~
A few miles further down the canyon, Zelia spotted a beautiful waterfall in the distance. Its bottom was obscured by a thick, lingering moisture cloud with a colorful rainbow emanating up from it. Nearing it, she could hear the roar of its cascading water growing louder by the moment.
