by Rima Jean
Great.
I was distracted suddenly by the smell of the food. My stomach growled loudly as I helped myself to the onion pie, roast beef, fish stew, and fried potatoes. Food had never, ever tasted so good. Davis dug in as well, starved as he was. Meg watched us, amused, and once in a while reminded Davis to slow down. “You don’t want it coming right back up, now, do you?” she’d say with a gentle smile, touching his arm. I’d pause only long enough to glare at the physical contact between them, then would return back to my meal.
When we finally let up our merciless attack on the food, sitting back in our chairs, sated, Meg asked, “So now, Davies, who be the lad?”
Davis sighed contentedly. He looked at me now, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. God, I had missed that look. “His name is Will.” He gave Meg an abbreviated version of what happened, and she stared at us, her eyes like saucers.
“Sweet Jesus! Well, those bastards Taylor and Blaine better not come ‘round ‘ere, I’ll say that much!” She turned her attention to me, her eyes scanning my face. I looked down, trying to hide under the brim of my hat. Women were so much more perceptive than men, and her studious gaze made me nervous.
“Well, gentlemen, can I interest you in a bath, a shave, and some beds to sleep in?” There was a saucy note to her voice, a flirty look in her big blue eyes. “Maybe some company to keep ‘em warm?”
I looked up, wondering if I was hearing correctly. Was she suggesting we…? Both Davis and Meg were looking at me. Meg asked, “How old are you, Will?”
“Sixteen,” I replied in barely a whisper.
She looked back at Davis and fluttered her eyelashes. “What do you say, Davies?”
Davis’ eyes never left my face. He grinned as well. “Aye, a good idea, Meg. What think you, Will?”
I managed to spit out, “I don’t have any money…”
Meg waved her hands. “‘Tis on the house!” she said.
Davis stretched, his arms over his head. “Nothing like the company of a comely lass to make you forget your troubles, eh, lad?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I was in a pickle. Was this inn also a whorehouse? Nice.
Meg stood. “I’ll arrange things, then,” she said, and ran her fingers along Davis’ jaw. As she sauntered off, I tried to keep my food from coming back up. I wasn’t sure which poor girl was going to be given to me, but she was in for an unpleasant surprise. As for Howel Davis… I was fairly certain Meg would see to him herself.
Oh, no. Over my dead body.
I looked at Davis to find he was still watching me, something beyond simple mischief dancing in his eyes. He was challenging me. Was that how I would prove myself to him? By bedding a prostitute? I gazed back at him pleadingly, when suddenly a young woman, no older than seventeen, was practically sitting in my lap, pulling the hat from my head.
“Will, this is Bess,” Meg said by way of introduction. The girl had a pert nose and a splash of freckles on her cheeks, and she smiled at me, her arm around my neck. My food was definitely not going to stay down. I looked at Davis in desperation to find that Meg had made herself comfortable on his lap, nuzzling his ear. Davis himself, however, still looked at me, as if waiting for something.
Bess slipped her hand into the collar of my shirt, and that did it. “Stop!” I hissed, pushing her off of me abruptly. Both Meg and Bess looked at me in surprise, but Davis merely smiled wickedly.
“What ho, lad? Do you not find Bess acceptable?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.
He knows.
I glared at Davis. “You… What…” I sputtered, enraged.
Davis turned calmly to the startled women. “If you please, ladies, I’d like a word with Will here.”
The women moved away, looking over their shoulders at me in puzzlement. I straightened my shirt and returned Davis’ gaze, flustered. “How did you know?”
Davis took a drink from his mug casually. “An Igbo woman in the hold was raving about Sabrina, the Charmed Woman, who knew our fates. I thought… I suspected you were a woman, and when I heard this… I thought it may be you she meant.”
My God, there were voodoo sorceresses running rampant around 1718. The Igbo woman must have been how Blaine knew as well, then. I asked, “Your fates? Jack Blaine’s fate as well?”
“Yes. He was in the hold flaying the ever-loving Christ out of us with his whips when she blurted it.” He looked at me curiously. “Who are you?”
I closed my eyes. “You won’t believe me.”
“Mayhaps I’ll surprise you.”
I took a deep breath and stared at a mildew stain on the wall straight ahead. “Edward England found me in the sea near New Providence. I had been on a boat that hit a bad storm, and I fell overboard. The year was… 2011.” I slowly turned toward Davis, finding that he leaned forward, watching me intently.
“How now?” he said, his brow furrowed.
I shook my head. “You don’t believe me.”
“No, no,” he said. “Tell me again.” He grinned disarmingly. “Go slowly, now, me brains ain’t working proper yet.”
So I told him the whole story. We must have sat there for over an hour as I tried to explain to him what had happened. He interrupted often with questions and I could see that, like England, he was humoring me even if he didn’t completely believe what I was saying.
“So this book of your friend’s,” he said. “It reveals me fate?”
I knew it would come down to this. I nodded.
“And the fates of England and Taylor and Blaine? Can you tell me what kind of book this be?”
To hell with it, I thought. If I could keep Davis from dying, it would be worth it. Consequences be damned. “It was a book about pirates.” He digested this piece of information, turning the mug between his fingers. I knew I had to convince him that I was from the future, and how better to do it than predict something before it happened? I had prepared myself for this. I leaned forward, whispering. “You’ve heard of Stede Bonnet, the pirate?” Davis nodded. I continued, “It’s the month of October, right? Bonnet will be ambushed on November 8th. He will be found guilty of piracy on November 12. He will beg the governor of Charleston for his life, and his execution will be delayed seven times. Then on December 10th, he will hang at White Point.” Before Davis could speak, I added hurriedly, “And the infamous Blackbeard? He will be killed on November 22, in hand-to-hand combat. His head will be cut off and hung from the bow of his ship.”
Davis stopped playing with the mug and looked at me, a line of concentration between his eyebrows. He was filthy, beaten, and starved, and yet, as I looked at his face, I swear he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
“How of it, Davies?” Meg stood at the table, her arms crossed, eyes on me.
Davis smiled at her, pulling himself from his reverie. “Meg, if it’d be no trouble to you, we’ll take the bath, the shave, and the bed.” He winked. “We’ll hold off on the company for another time.”
It was clear that she was disappointed. And judging by the way she looked at me, she held me fully responsible for Davis’ change of heart. I couldn’t help it: I smiled victoriously at her. She said through her teeth, “Nay, no trouble at all.” In a final attempt to sway him, she ran a hand along the back of his neck as she walked away, but he had already forgotten about her, focusing once more on what I’d told him.
Quietly, he said, “I become a pirate, eh?” He mulled this over for a moment, then looked at me. “And what happens if, knowing this, I choose not to go on the account? I still have free will, don’t I?”
I shook my head. “You’re asking me if we can change the future? I have no idea. But I plan to try.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “Aye? And what do you plan to change?”
I swallowed. “Your fate.” I couldn’t look him in the eyes. “You will become a pirate and… less than a year later… you will be ambushed on Prince Island, off the West African coast. You will be shot and killed.”
When I finally looked at Davis, he was waving Meg over. She rushed to his side, her pretty face hopeful, and he said, “Meg, me love, can we bother you for some strong liquors? I’ll need quite a bit, if you please.” He then looked at me and grinned. “A man can’t hear ‘bout his death without being three sheets in the wind.” His tone was light-hearted, but I saw the sweat glisten on his neck, at the base of his throat.
We both drank – and drank, and drank. Until neither one of us could really stand without swaying, without leaning against something. Our conversation turned to lighter subjects: his childhood in Milford Haven, my childhood in Haiti; the sister he’d adored and lost to smallpox, the grandfather I’d considered a father; the girl he thought he’d marry when he was a boy, the husband and daughter I had left behind in 2011.
The last bit seemed to rouse a keen interest in him. “So you’re married, then? With a child?”
I fished the picture of Sophie from my breeches, pulling it free of the thread. I showed it to him. “This is my little girl.”
Davis shook his head, trying to clear it, as he examined the picture. “Damn me eyes,” he muttered. After a long while, he handed it back to me and said, “Begging your pardon, Sabrina, but I think I’ve had all I can handle this night.” He smiled, but it was clear that he’d shut down. I had thrown a bit too much at him at once. I couldn’t help it – I wanted him to know. I wanted him to prevent it – all of it.
Thrilled at hearing the sound of my name on his lips, I nodded mutely. We rose and stumbled up the stairs of the inn to our respective rooms. Before bidding him good night, I said, “Howel, I have one last question.”
Davis turned and looked at me, his eyes unable to focus. “Aye, if I can answer it,” he slurred.
“You said you knew I was a woman before… before the Igbo woman told you.” I made a fist, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms as I asked, “How… When did you realize…?”
Davis whistled playfully, leaning against the doorframe. “In the shrouds. When you nearly fell.” He grinned widely. “I thought either you were a lass, or I was a buggerer.”
All I remember after that exchange was that I floated into the room and blissfully sank into the most wonderful sleep I’d had in a long, long time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bath. Oh, glorious bath. How I have missed you.
I didn’t want to get out of the tub, it was so wonderful. As promised, Meg had provided us with tubs, clean water, and soap. I sank into the hot water with a sigh of delight. I scrubbed my skin raw and lathered up my hair no fewer than three times. I considered using a straight razor to shave my legs and armpits – which, I am unhappy to report, resembled those of a sixteen-year-old boy – but decided against it, since I still planned to masquerade as a boy.
But before I went back into my boy’s clothes, I wanted to put Meg and all those other floozies in their places. I may not have had their impressive racks, but I had good genes and the benefits of twenty-first century health and beauty care. I slipped into the aquamarine gown and laced myself up as best I could without assistance. It was rumpled and beginning to smell, but it would have to do. I gazed at my reflection in a metal plate – mirrors were a luxury in the eighteenth century, and only the very rich had them – and was relieved to see that I didn’t look as bad as I had feared. I still had the bruise on my cheek, and my eyebrows were unruly, but my skin, oddly enough, had never looked so… luminescent. My eyes were bright, my cheeks and lips had a natural rosiness to them, and I looked… good. How so very odd.
I walked out of my room and noticed that Howel’s door was open and his room empty, so I went down the stairs where some patrons were dining. I spotted Howel sitting with Meg in a corner, and she was leaning into him, her thick hair over one shoulder. He sat naturally, that ever-present good nature in his eyes, and I wondered if he had ever had an awkward social moment in his life. He’d bathed and shaved, and even though his face was a bit thinner than when I first met him, I was struck by how well he cleaned up.
As I approached, they both turned to look at me. I suddenly realized that neither one of them recognized me; Howel stared like a man appreciating an attractive woman he’d never seen before, and Meg stared like a woman suspiciously eyeing her competition. I stopped at their table and grinned. “Good morning,” I said.
Howel’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open. A delicious warmth crept through me, flushing my cheeks. He said, “Sabrina?” I must have been grinning like an idiot at this point, but I couldn’t stop. He muttered, “Holy Jesus.”
Meg looked from me to him, confused and becoming increasingly angry. “Who’s Sabrina?” Then, the realization of who I was finally dawning on her, she stood and said, “I don’t know what you two are about, but it’s sick!” She stormed off, leaving us to gaze at each other.
Howel rose and gestured to the chair Meg had been sitting in. “Will you have some tea?” We sat and as he poured me some tea, I gazed at him from under my eyelashes. A smile pulled at his lips as he said, “You were a pretty lad, but you’re a beauty of a woman!” I felt the heat flood my face and the air leave my lungs. The way he said it, though – like a man admiring a piece of art, not like one overcome by desire. It bothered me.
He tilted his head to the side, considering me. “What do you plan to do now, lass?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I have nowhere to go. I suppose I could go back to Nassau, try and find a way back to 2011, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it would be in vain. There’s no reasonable way for me to ever get back.” I didn’t say that my plans were, without a doubt, to follow him to the ends of the earth. I added, “There’s also the minor issue of Jack Blaine. He knows who I am, and has threatened to hunt me down when the time came.”
I said this casually, as if addressing the weather, and Howel startled. “Jack Blaine? He knows you’re a woman?”
“Yeah. I was trying to sneak some food into the hold for you, and I was caught. Taylor and Blaine ripped off my shirt, and, well…” I shrugged sheepishly. “It was kind of apparent that I was a woman. When Blaine found out my name was Sabrina, he made the connection. He kinda bullied me a bit, trying to find out what I knew, but I didn’t tell him a thing.”
Howel became very still, and the expression on his face was one I had never seen before, not on him. It was deadly. He said slowly, “Did they put their hands on you?”
I was thrilled by his reaction. “No. Honestly, they didn’t.”
Howel studied my face. He touched my chin and tilted my head toward him, his expression dark. “What happened to your face, then?”
“Oh, Taylor hit me, but that was before he knew… He still thought I was a boy then,” I answered, the words tumbling hurriedly from my lips, my heart racing. I didn’t want his fingers to leave my skin.
All good things must come to an end. He mumbled, “Son of a bitch,” and moved his hand away. Then he said, “Blaine heard the Igbo woman say Sabrina the Charmed Woman knew our fates, and then he discovered that Will, the pirate lad, was a woman named Sabrina.”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“He’ll hunt you down, he said? Tell me then, Sabrina the Charmed Woman, what becomes of Jack Blaine?”
“He becomes a pirate,” I replied. “A cruel, sadistic one who loves to torture his victims. He will be captured and hanged in 1720.” I thought for a second. “Oh, and he kills Ned Taylor.”
“Ned Taylor? Why would he do that? I thought he and Ned were fellows,” he growled.
I leaned forward. “Because Ned Taylor becomes a pirate hunter. The book didn’t elaborate, but I would guess that Taylor will be on the Slave Coast trying to hunt down Blaine himself. He’ll be defeated and killed.”
Howel’s blue eyes were piercing. “Blaine hasn’t decided to go on the account yet, so he hasn’t discovered how valuable you are to him. Once he realizes what path his life will take, he will come looking for you.”
He was right. We stared
at each other, letting it all sink in. Finally Howel said, “Go back, Sabrina. Go back to your time.”
I shook my head. “I told you, I don’t know how! It’s impossible!”
Howel leaned back in his chair. “Blaine will come for you, lass, mark my word.”
I replied, “I know he will.”
Howel studied his hands, the welts around his wrists. After a moment, he said, “I’d tell you to stay with me, that I’d protect you, but I’ve got to find employment. I haven’t a farthing to my name.”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can still stay with you. I’ve been masquerading as a boy for a while now. I’m quite good at it.”
Howel frowned. “How then? Will you try to find employ with me?”
“Yeah. Aren’t ships always looking for boys to do menial jobs?” I asked.
“Oh, noooooo,” Howel said with a laugh. “I’ll not have you following me onto slave-ships, a pretty little lad who draws troubles like flies ‘round a sugar bowl.”
“I’ll follow you anyway,” I said stubbornly.
Howel sighed. “If you haven’t anywhere to go, and nobody to help you, I suppose it’ll have to be that way.” He smiled. “I promised the pirate England, after all.”
I didn’t like the way he said it, as though I were a burden. I frowned and looked down. “I can be of help to you, too, you know. I’ve told you your future, after all.”
He snorted. “Aye, and little good it does me, if I can’t change it after all.”
I was quiet for a moment, then said, “You can try.”
He smiled. “Aye. And you, Sabrina? What does your future hold?”
I tried to smile. “I have no idea, Howel. No idea.”
I sat on a stoop, watching as Howel Davis made his way through the crowded street toward me. It was a hot day, dusty and bright, and the road smelled of horse manure and smoke. My heart always skipped a beat when he approached me, those gorgeous eyes scanning the crowd for me from under his battered cocked hat. Today, however, he looked particularly downcast, a deep crease between his brows.
