Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  She smiled. “I’ve certainly brought up my share of boys.”

  “I would welcome a boy-child, equally, if Fate should deliver him to us. I should welcome any number of boys or of girls. But, lovely one, if you remain on the Roger…your arms will hold neither.”

  “Captain,” she said, kindly. “This longing is another reason to release you. I lived my time backwards, raising my family when I was a girl. Now I am a woman, and free to indulge in the life I have chosen. A pirate’s life.”

  “Yet, even as a pirate, as my wife you will be protected while here on your Island. Even the commodore admits as much. The tribe’s warriors will no longer hunt you, once it is known that you are not their enemy’s mate. We can build a home here, in the land that you love. We will stay as long as you like, as often as you like, and live under truce in the Clearing, without hostility from the natives.”

  Cecco had described a tempting idyll, and Jill would cherish this dream. But he had also introduced a crucial point. “The natives. Yes, we must speak of them.” Jill paused first, to collect the right words. “Giovanni, I request candor. Tell me of your Indian woman. I won’t ask if she loves you; she cannot help doing so. But, perhaps, you have come to love her?”

  Cecco frowned. “Whatever you have been told of Raven and me, you cannot presume to be true.” He remained quiet for a moment, as he thought of the lonely woman. “She has given me comfort— and only comfort— in my grief.”

  At Cecco’s avowal of fidelity, Jill looked away to hide her reaction. She herself wasn’t certain whether she felt satisfaction for her own sake, or regret for Cecco’s.

  He said, “Raven, also, suffers the loss of a loved one. The Island boy killed her husband, some time ago.”

  Jill’s eyes widened, and she pressed her hand to her heart. Suddenly, she envisioned a silver knife, bright beneath a man’s red blood. In her memory, she hovered with her young sons above the trees, and the boy was boasting of a trophy. The horror that had gripped her that day clutched at her again. “I know,” she murmured. “I was there.” Her hand clenched, as if still surrounding the remembered arrow.

  Cecco’s eyebrows rose. “You were a witness?”

  “Worse. I am guilty, too.”

  “You were only a girl then.”

  “The brave showed his arrow, and Pan dove for him. As the Storyteller, I made Pan what he was. I carry the responsibility of this woman’s— this Raven’s widowhood.”

  “But you retold the boy’s story. You made him more wary of the natives, and less of a threat to them.”

  “I acted too late for Raven. Because of me, Pan robbed her of her lover and provider. Her whole life is altered.” She laid her hand on Cecco’s arm. “Giovanni, I understand now. Our stories have intertwined.” Gazing earnestly into his eyes, she declared, “You must care for this woman. It is fitting that I should give you up, to her.”

  Cecco looked down where Jill touched him, and beheld his wedding band on her finger, glimmering in the starlight. He placed his own next to it, his strong, warm hand upon hers, their rings resting together.

  “Amore, I pledged my life to you.”

  “And when Hook returned to me, I set you free.”

  “Why, then, do you still bear my ring?”

  Jill’s lips opened, but she had no ready answer.

  He nodded, and smiled, his even teeth white against the night’s dusk. “You wear it because you honor our marriage.”

  She cast her gaze down.

  “I am your husband. You will not let me go. Nor will I surrender you.”

  “You asked for my deepest wish. It is for accord between us. Between you, me, and Hook.”

  “This ring on this hand, a hand that touches a lover, proves the fact. You could have put my wedding band away. But no. You love me still.”

  “I love gold. You know of my weakness.”

  “I have found, I think, that I, too, am your weakness.”

  Unwilling to confess it, Jill returned to their task, adopting a more businesslike tone.

  “Captain, our time grows short. We have reached a degree of accord: you will offer your regrets to the commodore; you will make amends to Mr. Smee; and I guarantee Smee’s proper conduct toward me. But my terms demand one more article: that you survive our union. And so, my answer is no. I will not take my place as your wife.”

  “Is this your heart speaking, or your sense of duty?”

  “My desire is in accord with my duty. I remain loyal to Hook.” Her grip tightened on his arm. “But I will not be selfish. You may still father a family.” She said, formally, “I grant you your freedom to follow the new love that offers.”

  “I follow only one love.”

  “An unlucky love. Cannot you see? Tonight it led you to mutiny.”

  “Now you know how sincerely I want you.”

  “Another incident will be fatal. I forbid you to die for me.”

  Cecco only shook his head, and sighed.

  As Hook commanded, Jill had examined the contingencies with Cecco, considered all ramifications. Yet her husband remained blind to his peril. To reason with him was useless. She must find another way to sway his resolve, or his constancy could kill him. Truth had always served her before; she had wielded it as her weapon and her shield. Perhaps, instead, like the hourglass, it was time to turn her honesty on end. Jill had never lied to Cecco. Surely he would believe any story she told him.

  But, like all dissemblers, she must pay a price for dishonesty. She would be forced to forsake her wish for harmony. How greatly would she suffer for this sacrifice? What would be the consequences for Cecco, and for Hook? Her thoughts churned rapidly. She frowned, and she reached her conclusion: better discord than death.

  The lie tasted like brass on her tongue. “Captain, I have done with you. Follow whomever you please.”

  “I follow she who wears my wedding band.”

  She shrugged. “I wear a keepsake, no more.”

  “You tell the world of our union.”

  “I show off my winnings.”

  “Both of us won, and the rings on our fingers encircle our hearts.”

  “It pleased my pride, all these months, to make you believe so.”

  He no longer smiled.

  In the silence that fell between them, they heard Nibs scuff the sand. When they turned his way, his tall frame faced the woods again, and he was tightening his kerchief. Their gazes returned to one another’s. Jill’s heart spilled over with concern for her husband, while she worked her ploy to save him. In distorting the truth, she believed she’d found the way to protect him, from Hook, from her, and from himself.

  “Giovanni.” It was a drastic strategy, but effective. “In our intimacy, you challenged me to win your jewelry from you. I earned the right to wear your gold. This ring—” She waved her fingers before his face. “This is just another trinket.” Hook’s advice filled her head. Yield to the man one last time…“Or no, not just a trinket,”…then slip your knife beneath his ribs. She drew nearer. She began to smile again, a coy smile, engaging him. It was difficult. It was necessary.

  His brown eyes clung to her, in his former, familiar way. Encouraged, he leaned closer. Close enough for the blow.

  “I wear my trophy, for all the world to see.” She tipped her head to an arrogant angle, and she smirked at him. She set her red hand, proprietorially, upon his jaw. “I won you. I keep you. And as I lie in my lover’s bed, I still hold you in my hand.”

  “How do you dare—”

  “It is amusement that keeps Hook from killing you.”

  Cecco stared as her words dug into him. Then he batted her hand from his face. He stood. He looked down on Jill. The love light vanished from his eyes, and he glared at her.

  “If I did not know Red-Handed Jill to be truthful, I would name you a liar.”

  “It’s the truth. You know my greed for prizes.”

  “The Storyteller weaves another tale!”

  “You feed my vanity. If my tale
keeps you alive, it also keeps me satisfied.”

  “Like your hands, your face now wears two colors.”

  Jill aimed her final strike, and pitched it perfectly. She sneered at her husband, and jeered, “Take Raven, Giovanni. A woman who needs you.”

  She saw his fists clench. Only once, ever, had he struck her; it was when he’d believed she had betrayed him. Betrayal was the gift she gave him now. She didn’t flinch, but she had not forgotten this man’s effect upon her— and, unlike the beginning of their parley, this time she prepared for the force of his passion.

  But he did not strike. He stood up straight, a pillar of dignity. He turned on his heel, and marched toward the boats. He ignored his own craft, which lay overturned with its several oars beneath it. He chose the skiff that was ready to float, and shoved it into the sea. Within moments, his powerful arms were stroking a furrow toward his ship. Although he faced the Island, his eyes remained averted from Jill. She saw his armbands glinting in the light of the cold, stark moon.

  His anger was audible in the clunk of the tholepins, and in the swift swirl of water. She had injured Cecco. She had wounded him, gravely. She felt the agony she caused him seeping, bleeding within her. It sapped the very lifeblood from her heart. Yet, as the hourglass emptied, Jill was assured of the one fact that mattered: the parley had succeeded. Her red hand lay open on her lap, empty, and her husband’s life belonged only to him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Cecco did what he’d never believed he would do. He strained at the oars, pulling with all his very substantial might, desirous to put distance between himself and his Jill. He loved her, and he loathed her.

  Neverbay rocked peacefully tonight, in contrast to the storm within his breast. His motions sent him speeding toward the Red Lady. With his thoughts in turmoil, he paid no attention to his surroundings. His mind was too full of her words. His heart was too full of betrayal.

  Though he did not watch as Jill’s form diminished in the moonlight— for once, did not want to watch her— he saw her as clearly as if she sat on the bench right in front of his face. Halfway to the ships, still she plagued him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, cursing her, and when he opened them again, his overburdened heart nearly stopped from shock.

  He saw Jill herself rising from the stern, throwing off a wrap that had hidden her. Wraithlike, with her back to the sharp, sinking moon, the woman sat up to face him. A whiff of Jill’s light, exotic perfume wafted his way.

  “Madre de Dio!” he exclaimed. He dropped the oars and sketched his gypsy banishing sign, down from his forehead and across his chest, believing for this instant that the Jill he’d just deserted, a Jill he’d never known, a duplicitous Jill, had taken on a demon’s powers, and materialized here, in his boat, to torment him.

  And then he realized what had happened, and he wished with every sliver of his shattered heart that the demon were here with him, instead.

  Mrs. Hanover knelt in the stern, gazing at him, her mouth open, her eyes wide with trepidation. It was clear to Cecco that the girl was just as stunned to see him as he was to find her. She wore a yellow tunic, patterned upon Jill’s. Her hair was twisted into Jill’s elegant knot. With her pregnancy, her slender figure was enhanced to a woman’s fullness. And, the most powerful factor at work upon Cecco’s vulnerability, the perfume that maddened his intellect, arose from his own skin, the only part of Jill that she’d left in his arms.

  When Cecco’s astonishment wore off, he plucked up the oars again, and his fury came flooding back, redoubled. “Girl,” he warned, “you chose the wrong hour to throw yourself in my way.” The knife in his belt reflected a shard of the hard, cool moon.

  Mrs. Hanover continued to gape at Captain Cecco. This night had brought several surprises. Much earlier, she successfully made her way from the Clearing to Neverbay. Yulunga had admonished her with tales of man-eating beasts in the woods, but she learned, to her relief, that the sounds of the revelry kept the predators at a distance. Once near the festivities, she had intended to creep toward the beach, waiting for her chance to climb aboard a boat and head for the Red Lady. But she’d been delayed by the presence of sentinels, and by the goings-on at the party, both amorous and angry.

  Carefully, she’d picked her path through the forest bordering the bay, avoiding the lookouts’ range of vision. As she drew nearer to the shore, feeling the way with her toes before each step, seeking soft, safe earth and avoiding noise, she found she needed to beware of more eyes than the sentinels’. Although it slowed her progress, the intrigue of Red Fawn and Flambard had captivated Mrs. Hanover. In the darkness of the woods, she’d spied on the couple’s lovemaking, the merry music muted at this distance and the orange glow of the bonfire behind them.

  Her eagerness to meet Pierre-Jean mounted with the lovers’ ardor. Afterward, the couple forgot to collect the shawl on which they’d lain, and Mrs. Hanover appropriated it in case she was glimpsed. In the darkness, she might be perceived as one of the pirates’ women. She’d worn only her shift thus far, stimulated by her near-nakedness in the brisk evening air, and wishing to avoid tearing her new garments in the brush. After the twosome retreated, she had unrolled her bundle and donned her tunic, protecting it with the shawl, then she resumed her vigil for an opportunity to climb into one of the pirates’ boats.

  Later, the fight and excitement piqued her interest again. But when Mr. Noodler heard the noise and grabbed up the torch to desert his post, Mrs. Hanover snatched her chance to slip to the shore unnoticed, and she’d picked a boat, huddled in the stern, and covered herself with the shawl. She’d chosen the smaller of the two craft lying upright, assuming the next shift of watchmen would soon row it toward the Red Lady.

  Surrounded by the stale smell of wood steeped in seawater, she felt contented as she crouched. Yulunga was not yet aware of her escape, and by the time he discovered it, her pleasure with Pierre-Jean would be accomplished. In whatever mood Yulunga received the news of her disobedience, whether he’d be amused or turn wrathful, she’d claim his attention once more. Fear of exposure prickled when she listened to Cecco ordering the next shift from Red Lady to land farther up the beach, but no one looked in the stern of her skiff. Yet, to her consternation, the lookouts had taken the other boat after all, leaving Mrs. Hanover quivering with disappointment.

  Her disappointment didn’t linger. With the coming of the parley, she felt her luck returning. While hidden in the boat, she hadn’t understood the discussion on the beach; she caught snatches of the voices that she recognized to be Jill’s and Cecco’s. And she was pleased at the little knowledge she gleaned. Trouble for Jill always led to opportunity for Mrs. Hanover.

  Now, as her astonishment abated, she climbed over the bench to sit upon it properly. She observed Cecco as he toiled at the oars. His limbs were tense, his movements decisive. The white moon lit his handsome Italian face, and she read his emotion. But even if she hadn’t seen his expression, the cacophony of his jewelry proclaimed his state of mind.

  Excited by the evening’s adventures, Mrs. Hanover delighted in this new development. Try as she might, she had overheard only a few words of the parley on the beach, but the implication was clear. Jill had cast her husband aside in favor of Hook, and, when Cecco resisted, she made a brutal business of her rejection. Mrs. Hanover had always felt uneasy near Cecco. Now, there was a treacherous edge to him that caught in Mrs. Hanover’s hide.

  Quite suddenly, her scheme to tryst with young Pierre-Jean, with the bars of the brig between them, transformed into child’s play. Mrs. Hanover set her sights on a free man, instead. A powerful man. An innamorato whose touch could turn dangerous. This man before her, seething with passion, was bent on vengeance. His intensity was electrifying. All at once, her throat thickened with desire. Anticipation coursed through her womanly precincts, like the arousal she felt when oppressed by her master, Yulunga.

  And to this man, unlike Pierre-Jean, Yulunga had offered the solace of her body. Cecco held license to use Yulunga’
s mistress in any manner he chose. And she could use him. The captain. The gold at his ears, on his arms, and at his throat dazzled her senses. The flesh of his chest, the flow of his muscles as he rowed provoked her craving. Even the sound of him was pleasing. She hadn’t realized before how musically his ornaments fed her ears. Taking him in, Mrs. Hanover licked her generous lips.

  This night might prove fruitful in more ways than one. The smile that came so rarely crept over her mouth. Jill’s husband needed a substitute, and Mrs. Hanover was dressed for the part. Whether he would love her or loathe her didn’t signify. Tonight, whatever the risks, she aimed to do something she’d never believed she would do.

  Mrs. Hanover leaned forward and, softly, laid her hand on his thigh. His leg jerked at her touch, and he scowled. Before he could object, she spoke. Her voice was rough, but the lie came to her lips as readily as breath.

  “Yulunga sent me.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jill sat on the rock where Cecco forsook her, her head drooping. The cushion beside her, where her husband had sworn his devotion, lay vacant. She did not regret her decision to remain with Hook, nor could she lament cutting Cecco free. Yet she knew that the heartache she had inflicted upon Cecco, even justified as it was for his own safety’s sake, would haunt her for her lifetime.

  Tears traveled down her cheeks, cold streaks on her face as the breeze tried to dry them. Within moments of Cecco’s departure, Nibs stole to her side and sat down. His strong arms clasped her, and, comforting, he drew her to his breast.

  Drained by the ordeal, Jill allowed herself to lean against her son. With a corner of her scarf, she dabbed at the tears that blinded her. She relaxed into Nibs’ hold, sighing, and grateful to feel his support. As she rested there against his familiar vest, preparing herself to return to the commodore, she inhaled the Island air once more, drawing strength from it. Mingled with the memorable scents of the shore, she caught a rusty aroma. The soggy smell of the beach reminded her of the sands of the hourglass.