Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  “Aye. The red locks are mine, but I bless Lily for the rest.” Smee lowered his lilting voice. “And Lelaneh, have you more of that herb tea you sent along before we sailed?”

  “I made up a packet as soon as I heard your cannons.” She produced a pouch from under her shawl and gave it to him, revealing a morsel more of copper skin.

  “The lady sends her thanks. You’ve no idea…”

  “But yes. I do.” She smiled at Smee’s discomfiture and exchanged a knowing glance with Lily. “And so, also, do the women of the tribe. But now that I am an Outcast of the Clearing, only the most daring among them venture to visit me, when they have need of my medicines.”

  Feigning indifference, Smee tucked the packet away. “The lady herself will be visiting you soon. She wrote a lovely story for the children— happy endings for all of them. And here, Lelaneh, the golden pair is for you, from himself.”

  Lelaneh fingered the earrings, her voice inviting. “Please give your commodore my gratitude. You, too, may collect my appreciation, a little later, when you are free.”

  Lily giggled and, clearing his throat, Smee found it necessary to shift his lower regions. But no one would be free for a while; bouncing beams of lantern light could be seen now, like fireflies, in the forest. The voices had started vague, but grown steadily more distinct. The parrot beat its wings and screeched again, dancing along its branch while a rowdy sea chantey swelled to fullness. As the men neared the Clearing, they bellowed it out, their different accents rich with anticipation, and caring not a whit for stealth. Safety lay in numbers, even in the perilous woods of the Neverland, and numbers there were of hardy seamen. Some sported the gaudy shirts customary aboard the Roger, others the French blue of her mate. Soon more earrings glinted in the firelight, above weapons and tattoos. Ponytailed, pigtailed, clean-shaven or bearded, the pirates entered the Clearing, snapping branches and rustling leaves, and the ladies laughed at them— rule breakers, even on dry land.

  No rules interfered tonight. The roasts rotated on their spits, turned by the skilled bronzed arms of the twins and dripping fat to sizzle and hiss in the fire. Bottles changed hands as often as the women. Pipes, drums, and song filled the air; the bonfire flung up its arms in pagan dance.

  One more theft in this gathering of thieves would hardly be noticed. Drawn like a mongrel to the feast, the ragged remains of a cabin boy lurked on the periphery. His clothing, caked with dried mud, blended with the night. He kept downwind, hiding the rancid smell he’d acquired from his dwelling place. Gnawing hungrily at discarded bones still warm from the roasting, David crouched outside the ring of logs, watching for his opening. And when the moment was ripe, a blanket slid from the circle. A bottle, when reached for, went missing. Even a French blue jacket found its way to the shadows.

  Stealing glimpses too, David witnessed the degenerates at their orgy— the men, the women— some couples sinuous in silhouette before the fire, black shapes that fascinated him, exhaling gasps and sighs. Some appeared vivid in the firelight, more and more of their warm skins bared to glisten in it. But all were touching, kissing, laughing, dancing. David, also, felt the heat of the flames, the cool sweat breaking out on his brow. He breathed, too— more heavily every second— and knew now what he’d never learned at sea. David opened his eyes, a thief himself, prostrate in the darkness, and the true meaning of shore leave surprised him, in a rush of stolen pleasure.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  In the commodore’s quarters, the morning sea shifted the tapestries of the four-posted bed. At the windows, too, curtains swayed, still closed on their three sides of the luxurious cabin, yet the fragrance of the Island, lush with green growth, wafted within. The commodore himself, although a prickly growth of whiskers darkened his neck, was as fully dressed as his single hand could accomplish. The collar of his shirt would have to wait to be tied. It lay open above his waistcoat now, to reveal a V of black fringe beneath his throat. His long coat and his breeches boasted a burgundy hue, complementing the lady’s garment of scarlet that waited on the daybed. Jill’s two hands had readied the clothing the night before, laying out his suit, smoothing the folds of her frock. Hook had watched her as, in the absence of Mr. Smee, Jill brushed her own hair before retiring, the golden sheen of its strands shining like treasure. He had run his few fingers through that treasure, then locked her up safely, hoarding her behind his cabin door. Behind the bed curtains.

  Hook gazed upon her again, then moved to the desk to turn the glass and set the sands sifting downward. He’d grant her another hour’s rest, while the Island prepared for their first day’s adventure. After a harrowing voyage, Hook and Jill were at leisure. Today a visit to the Clearing, a stroll in the Fairy Glade; tomorrow, perhaps, a picnic at the waterfall.

  A rapping sounded. Hook squinted at a seam of light between the drapes; Mr. Smee couldn’t have returned so early. And Smee would use his key. Hook strode over the Oriental carpets to throw the bolt and open the door, widely at first, then, upon identifying his company, he narrowed the opening. “Captain Cecco.”

  “Commodore. I give you good morning.” Cecco’s face as he bowed appeared guarded but determined. His dark hair was tied back with a leather lace, his strong chin shaved smooth. As always, his bare arms jingled with bracelets; loops of gold adorned his ears. He had donned his gypsy regalia as well: a heavy mesh of coins crowned his forehead, draped over a crimson kerchief, and a necklace thick with linked medallions circled his throat. His Mediterranean accent fell pleasantly, but not too softly to carry within the commodore’s quarters. “I have come to call upon Signora Cecco.”

  “Your wife is sleeping.” A note of satisfaction seeped into the velvet voice. Above almost anything, Hook prized victory. “In my bed.”

  Cecco maintained his pleasant expression. Showing offense to his superior would get him nowhere. “As I am aware. But I will be happy to awaken her.” Setting one boot inside the opening, he smiled, showing even white teeth. He hadn’t become a captain through timidity.

  Hook looked askance at Cecco’s boot. A lesser man would lie dying by now, savaged by the claw. But this offender was Captain Cecco, the man who, in Hook’s recent absence, had preserved the Roger, raked in a fortune, defended Jill…and married her. The lady’s husband was a worthy officer, deserving of lenience.

  Limited lenience. Hook stood tall. “What is the nature of your business, Captain?”

  “No business. Only pleasure.”

  Hook stepped forward, compelling Cecco backward onto the companionway. With his claw, Hook gestured toward the land. “We have arrived, after much tribulation, at the Island. You have leave to seek your pleasure ashore.”

  “If the signora will join me there, I will be able to do so.” The lethal look in the commodore’s eyes gave warning. Cecco had pushed too far. He shrugged. “My apologies, Commodore. As you can appreciate, our lady’s loveliness has a way of steering a man into perilous waters. In truth, I seek only a word with her, for the moment.”

  “I have shown my appreciation for your service to the Roger, and for your— temporary— care of my lady. You received your rewards.”

  “It is as you say. But I am not satisfied.” Cecco’s brown eyes brooded as he cast them down and splayed his fingers to stare at the band of gold there. He clenched his fist. “I am a married man, with no rights to my wife.”

  “You agreed to her terms.”

  “Yes. I agreed. And yet I cannot turn my back on her.”

  “I advise you not to turn your back, Captain. On your commodore.”

  Cecco’s ear heard the threat in the smooth-as-silver voice. His eye caught the hook’s glare in the sun. “Surely we can come to terms, Commodore, some kind of peace. You love her; you understand. Red-Handed Jill is your soul.” He placed his hand on his chest. “She is my heart, as well.”

  “I have never thought of dividing my soul with you, Captain. Still less my woman.”

  “But…with your first mate?” Cecco’s eyes tightened. His dus
ky hand moved to rest, ever so lightly, upon the knife in his belt. That knife had earned him his notoriety and set a bounty on his head. Not long ago, that blade almost murdered Mr. Smee.

  “My mate, like you, has demonstrated his loyalty. Unlike you, Mr. Smee does not presume upon my gratitude.” Hook jerked his chin toward the Island. “All the pleasures of the Neverland await you, Captain. I suggest you enjoy them, while you are healthy enough to do so.” Stepping back, he began to close the door.

  “All the pleasures?” Cecco shook his head. “All but the one I most desire.” Then, as if his wish had been granted, his gypsy smile lit up his face. “Madam!”

  Silently, Jill had stolen to Hook’s side. The sunlight nestled in her hair. Her sky-blue dressing gown draped her body with a soft brocade, outlining the curves of her femininity. A gemstone bracelet sparkled on her ankle. On her toes gleamed silver rings. Fresh and welcoming as the new day, her smile shone upon Captain Cecco.

  “Giovanni! Good morning.” Her clear voice did not falter, but spoke out unashamed. Offering her left hand, she allowed Cecco to clasp it. His grip was as fervent as she remembered it; so also was his kiss upon her fingers. Immediately it drew the memory of other kisses, deeper intimacies. Her heart skipped a beat as she savored his familiar touch, only to sink in sorrow. How much more did his own heart feel upon this contact? Only just restraining herself from squeezing his hand, Jill inclined her head instead, managing to preserve her composure. As Cecco’s smoky eyes clung to her, she slipped her hand away and turned to her commodore. Her fingers slid up the embroidery of his waistcoat. Her tone grew intimate.

  “Hook. Good morning to you, too.” Deliberately, Jill took Hook’s face between her hands, and the man she called husband ceased to smile. Lurching back a step, he spied her blood-red palm as she engaged her lover, stroking the trim whiskers of his beard. Petite as she was, she had to arch her neck to look into the commodore’s eyes— eyes of deep, dark blue that exactly matched her own. Her voice softened with seduction as she uttered to Hook his own endearment, “My love…” It was the most delicate of blows, but one aimed, with precision, to bore into in a festering wound. Captain Cecco sucked in his breath.

  “Jill.” Hook allowed her to draw his face down to hers, and she kissed him. As he responded, their embrace grew in intensity and when the lovers pulled apart to look again, Captain Cecco was striding over the deck, hailing a sailor and gesturing toward the gangway. They saw the leather vest that concealed the cut of the cat-o’-nine-tails on his back. They observed the golden armbands that dazzled with morning sun. But neither Hook nor Jill divined the tidbit with which Cecco fed his starving heart.

  For the captain of Red Lady had seen something, too, a sight that raised his sodden spirit. In the weeks since their parting, Jill hadn’t allowed him near enough to be sure. But just now, one stolen meeting informed him. Despite the fact that Jill declined today to extend to him her crimson hand, the signal that meant she welcomed his embraces, Cecco suspected that the most desirable woman on the Seven Seas did, indeed, harbor him in her heart. She had staged a display of her affection for Commodore Hook, a performance that carved as skillfully at her husband’s gut as his notorious knife. As ever, she was faithful to the loyalty she’d sworn, first, to Hook. But although Red-Handed Jill lived in the commodore’s quarters, even though she slept in the commodore’s arms and granted to him all the pleasures her Giovanni remembered and relived night after night in his dreams, she remained, in whatever degree, Signora Cecco. Whether or not she was aware of her gesture, Cecco’s gypsy eye was drawn to shining metals. He had plundered meaning among her adornments.

  Cecco turned for a last look at his ideal woman. Framed by the gilding of the magnificent companionway, standing sky-blue and burgundy in the quarters he once called his own, his Jill and her lethal lover watched him. Cecco snatched the cable Hook’s sailor swung to him and, kissing his fingertips, he sent a farewell flying to his wife. Then he leapt across the waves to board his own vessel, anticipating a day his lovely one might beg release from her oath and join him, joyfully, there. Knowingly or not, she had revealed to Cecco a hidden treasure: the knowledge that, on the fourth finger of her precious hand, Red-Handed Jill, still, wore his wedding band.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jill didn’t perceive how Cecco buoyed his sunken heart. She felt a sting of moisture beneath her eyelids. The sunshine diminished, the door clicked closed, and a warm, strong arm supported her. The touch of Hook’s fine linen handkerchief swabbed the tears of her grief. Then, perversely, came the pang of being understood— transparent— in the most private of moments. When close to her like this, the commodore read her heart as easily as one of her stories. Even if she chose to do so, Jill could hide nothing from his perception. Like Pygmalion’s, her art had created him. Captain Cecco claimed her hand; only Hook held her soul.

  “Hook.”

  “My love?” He always allowed her the courtesy, the illusion, that words might be necessary.

  But she said nothing. Leaning upon him, she dragged a knuckle along her dampened cheekbone.

  “A loving wife you are, Jill. Administering torture to ensure your husband’s survival.”

  “To ensure you both.”

  “Such devotion.” Hook raised an eyebrow. “An admirable ruthlessness.”

  “Like your own.” Jill’s jaw set in determination. “I will do what I must— whatever I must— to keep you from killing one another.”

  “Defying destiny?”

  “I learned from you. When one cannot escape one’s chains, one must embrace them.”

  “I hardly embraced the good doctor’s chains, Jill. Nor his daughter’s charms. Let us say that I worked within them.”

  “And I work within my own. I decided on the day you returned from the dead, the day we reclaimed one another. I cannot be a wife. But I will not be a widow.”

  “Yet your method of preserving your husband may drive him to hasten his demise. Be warned, my love.” Hook’s features grew stern. “He knocked at doom’s door this morning.”

  “Please, Hook—”

  “He dared even to threaten Mr. Smee.”

  “He speaks rashly, but I won’t allow him to harm Mr. Smee.”

  “No, Jill. I will not allow harm to Smee.”

  “Surely he wouldn’t be so reckless. He is simply distracted with heartbreak.”

  “Your affection cannot change his jealous nature.”

  “But the circumstances will change. We lie in the best possible port for him. Giovanni— Captain Cecco— is sure to find consolation here.”

  “My dear. I myself can attest that among its innumerable species, the Island nurtured only one flower as flawless as yourself. No. You would do better to yield to the man one last time…then slip your knife beneath his ribs.”

  Shocked, Jill pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Hook’s expression, so loving as he complimented her, had grown as cold as his reasoning. Turning away, she felt the prodding of her honesty, which, as ever, she was unable to ignore. She considered, then lowered her hand and faced him again. “That strategy, I believe, is exactly the one I just executed.”

  Hook surrounded her with his arms, he pressed his chin against her temple. “As you remember, I once suffered from the curse of solitude.”

  “Aye. I remember.” She knew his story too well. It was a story she herself had begun.

  He breathed deeply, scenting the sea in her hair. Whatever pain she had put him through, Jill was his jewel, beyond price. “Now that I have won you, I shall never submit to my former state of loneliness.”

  Jill sheltered in the fortress of his arms. She anticipated the sentence that was forming, like a thunderhead, and she dreaded it. The thought was abstract, but once captured in speech it might never be banished. Knowing how often her own words came true, she had refused to utter it. Yet, like her commodore, Jill possessed plenty of courage; she armed herself to face the facts.

  Hook laid them bare. “You are
afflicted now, my love, with a curse of your own.”

  “I haven’t wanted to admit it.”

  “Our advantage lies in confronting the difficulty. It would seem, Jill, that before we set your other husband adrift— our dear, departed surgeon— the act of wedding him cursed you splendidly. Not with the plague of loneliness, but with an excess of…” he bent his head to speak it in her ear, “…alliance.”

  Touched by truth, she didn’t deny her emotion. Her shoulders shuddered within his hold.

  “Be comforted,” Hook said. “Even now your vengeance is at work. As one of your husbands, Doctor Hanover lives tormented.” Her lover smiled, half-way, as he held her. “With all respect, my pirate queen, marriage to Red-Handed Jill brings an anguish all its own. I thank the Powers that I do not suffer from it.”

  With an artful smile, Jill dabbed her nose with his handkerchief. “Perhaps one day you shall. I may just decide to take another husband. After all, why stop at two?”

  “Before committing, I shall await the outcome of your current alliances.”

  Jill looked down at the costly carpets. With his humor, Hook had roused her from her sadness, but only for a moment. He was shrewd enough not to allow her to forget her trouble, her curse. “Alliance,” she repeated. And, submerged beneath that notion, a spectre threatened to rise, like a waterlogged corpse, to the surface of her consciousness. Bleary and bloated, it was a horror substantial enough to demand consideration. And although Jill sensed that Hook discerned her apprehension, that he wished her to deal with it, she had managed to push all thought of the rendezvous with her other husband away— a year away. She rested her head on her lover’s velvet chest and felt the tickle of his beard at her forehead.