by Rima Jean
My God, what had I done?
A jumble of sounds and sensations followed as I was lifted from the boat, placed in a carriage, and, after a brief ride, hauled into a warm, damp room. The space was dark and smelled of rat droppings. It echoed with voices that spoke in both English and Portuguese, and I could both feel and hear the straw against stone beneath my feet. I was let go and immediately crumpled to the floor, lacking the energy to do much of anything.
My hands were unbound and a cup was pressed against my lips, a voice coaxing me to drink. My stomach did somersaults as I swallowed the ale with noisy gulps, afraid the bitter liquid would not stay down. When a piece of crusty bread was placed in my hands, I shook my head, trying to hand it back. There was no way I’d be able to eat feeling the way I did.
“Get the cap’n in here,” a voice said. “She’s refusing to eat.”
I heard clanging, shuffling, and muffled voices before Blaine spoke. “Take the bloody blindfold off her,” he said.
Blurred shapes moved before my eyes as I blinked and rubbed and blinked some more. I saw now that I was in what looked like a prison cell, with its damp stone walls and small, high window. Blaine squatted before me, minus the fancy clothes and parrot. His jaw jutted out and his one-eyed gaze was fierce. He looked very much like the nasty sailor he’d been aboard the Cadogan.
“Now see here, Sabrina,” he said, his voice low and ominous. “Ye’ll be eating some food, or by me blood, Davies will pay with his life.”
I tried to speak and coughed. When it finally came, my voice sounded foreign to me. “I can’t,” I rasped. “My stomach… I’ll be sick.”
As Blaine’s gaze roamed my face suspiciously, there was a clank and the heavy wooden door creaked open. A man, flanked by two armed Portuguese soldiers, stepped inside. My vision shimmered and blurred as I took in the elegant coat, the feathered tricorn hat, the ruffled cravat, the gleaming buttons and buckles. I began to shiver as I took in the visitor’s clean-shaven face and the vile expression upon it.
“Well done, Blaine,” Ned Taylor said, taking in the sight of my misery with relish. “I knew you’d get the job done.”
The feelings that rushed through me at that moment were enhanced by my physical ailments. My heart plummeted to my feet, but part of me was not at all surprised. First Jack Blaine, now Ned Taylor. We were coming full circle. I returned Taylor’s victorious gaze with a feverish one. From within the haze, the words of Sky’s book came back to me:
Taylor went on to pursue an honorable career as a pirate hunter for the new governor of the Bahamas, Woodes Rogers… He was killed when, Jack Blaine, a former shipmate-turned-pirate, captured his ship.
What was happening? God, if only I could snap out of it…
“So you were right,” Taylor continued, his eyes never leaving my face. “Davis took her for his whore. Why he would take her abroad with him is beyond me, however…” He stroked his chin, narrowing his eyes at me. “Nevertheless, we have her now, and if Davis cares for her as much as you say he does, he’ll come for her. And then, my friend, Howel Davis is ours.”
Blaine touched my forehead tentatively, perplexed. I didn’t have the strength to move away. Blaine said, “She’s not eating. She’s nearly insensible. Me thinks she may be suffering from the ague.”
Taylor shrugged. “So? Let Davis come for a corpse for all I care.”
Blaine suddenly turned on Taylor, a murderous look in his eye. “Our agreement, Cap’n Taylor, was that I would help ye lure Davis here and, in return, ye’d not interfere with me piratical endeavors and, as importantly, I got the woman. The lass is mine, and I want her alive.”
I saw Taylor swallow nervously, his throat working under that lacy cravat. He was still scared of Jack Blaine, for all his superiority. He replied, “The woman is not my problem, Blaine, she’s yours. If you desire to keep her alive, then do so, but I haven’t the time for her.”
Blaine still glared at Taylor. “Ye’ll provide me with yer surgeon, if he’s a good one,” he growled.
Taylor cleared his throat. “Fine, I’ll have him called straight away.” Then he narrowed his eyes, his thin eyebrows coming together in puzzlement. “Your fervor for the woman does confound me, Blaine. She’s a fine-looking jade when she’s cleaned up, certainly, but not worth all of this… effort. What do you and Davis find so enchanting in this one?”
Blaine’s muscles tensed, his fists clenched, and his voice became lower. “ ‘Tis none of yer affair, me interest in the woman. I fancy her for me strumpet, perhaps, and ye’ll keep yer pointy nose out of me business, Ned Taylor.”
Taylor took a step back, and I could see he was battling within himself on how to react – on the one hand, he was, from all appearances, a pirate hunter and had the law on his side; on the other hand, he was terrified of Jack Blaine, his former shipmate, for he knew all too well what Blaine was capable of.
“Very well,” Taylor said, trying to sound haughty. He turned to leave, and the soldiers stepped aside to let him out.
Blaine turned back to me angrily. “Ye’ll not die on me, lass, not until ye’ve told me what I need to know,” he muttered. “I’ll fetch the surgeon and be back.”
Then I was alone, huddled in a corner and shivering, my teeth chattering. The fever gave me the sensation of still being on a ship, of waves rolling beneath me. I could feel the delirium taking over me, and a whimper escaped my lips. Of course I would get sick now of all times, when having my wits about me was critical. As the fever washed over me, my mind focused on only a single image, a single face, a single pair of laughing blue eyes.
Howel Davis was in danger, and I had put him there.
Time escaped me as I lay in that dark cell, my face pressed against the dirty stone floor, my bones aching and my flesh crawling. I didn’t even have the energy to wave away a fly when it landed on my face, or to move away when a rat scurried past my head, its little feet scraping against the stones. But as I listened to indistinct sounds and voices and wondered if they were real or imagined, my fever-addled brain began to piece things together. Thoughts floated through my mind, thoughts that I had dismissed before in frustration. Sky’s book… time travel… changing history… parallel universes… A ball of dread was building in my gut as the thoughts finally made sense, as the concepts were finally linked together by a single thread.
Me.
I suddenly felt sharp pain, and returned to reality in a hurry. I hadn’t sensed the surgeon enter, but there he was, kneeling beside me, a lancet in his hand. A tourniquet had been tied around my arm, and my blood was trickling from me. “No!” I said as fiercely as I could muster. I tried to move, but the mere pressing of the surgeon’s arm kept me from going anywhere, I was so weak.
“We must rid your body of corrupt humors,” the surgeon said firmly. “Hold still.”
Sweet Jesus. I was going to bleed to death. I gazed blankly up at the stained ceiling. I suspected I had malaria, but how would I explain to this guy what I needed? Chances were he didn’t have any Cinchona bark on him, and even if he had access to some, he would hardly take medical advice from a filthy woman locked up in some prison…
I swallowed dust, my mouth parched and foul-tasting, and turned my head toward the surgeon. His stern face blurred before my eyes, and I could feel myself fading quickly. I swallowed again and asked hoarsely, “Where am I?”
The surgeon’s eyes darted nervously to the cell’s door and back. He was young, probably no older than twenty-one, and his English was a bit more schooled, a bit higher class. “I do not believe you are to be privy to that information,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Please,” I managed to say. “I’ll be dead soon anyway.”
He paused, blinked, and nodded quickly. “Ponta da Mina, in Santo António.”
I was struggling now, trying to process the surgeon’s words. “Santo António?” I echoed, what little blood I had left in my body pulsing in my ears, faster and faster.
“Yes,” he replied. “The
main town of Príncipe.”
I knew what he would say before he said it, and I heard someone scream, someone… me. Everything shattered into fragments, perfectly symmetrical pieces of colored light, and then dissolved to black.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I was in and out of consciousness, both states blurring together in a hell I will never forget. When I would come to, I’d hear my voice, cracked and desperate, begging to die. Sometimes I would see the surgeon’s concerned face, other times it was Blaine’s furious one. I think I may have even smiled at him, for the joke was on him – if he killed Howel, then I would die as well, and my knowledge of Blaine’s destiny would die with me.
Voices in my head screamed at me, laughed wildly at me. I was on Prince Island, the place of Howel Davis’ death. I was the reason he would come here, the reason he would die. I had been desperately trying to prevent this, and here I was, the very cause of it. How utterly ironic. How so very “Greek tragedy.” If it weren’t so tragic, I might have been able to cry.
I had been written into history, unbeknownst to me. For nearly a year I had wondered if I could change history, when, in fact, I’d been a part of it all along. Our fates were set, and struggle as we might, we were merely along for the ride.
At some point while I moaned and rocked, nearly insensible, I was placed on a straw-filled mattress and covered with a blanket. I began having lucid moments, moments in which I felt the need to get up, get out, stop what was happening. I would look around and beg for help, for mercy, for Howel Davis’ life. During one such moment of clarity, Ned Taylor came to me. At first I thought I was imagining him, but his smell – the smell of fear – told me this was real. Murderous hatred filled me, and though I knew I was too febrile to do anything, I used the only weapon at my disposal and spoke: “You will pay for this, Ned Taylor. If you hurt Howel Davis, you will pay with your life.”
He was dressed as finely as when I had seen him last, not a hair out of place. He smiled malevolently at me, but glanced over his shoulder just the same before saying, “Who are you, that you think you can threaten me? I hold your life – and the life of your lover – in my hands.” He opened and closed his fists, as though he were crushing us. “I merely came to inform you that within a glass, Howel Davis will be dead.”
Then he was still alive. Then there was still a chance, albeit a small one, to save him. I swallowed. No one knew about Howel’s Rovers of the Sea fate except the two of us. Why hadn’t I told Sam? Then someone else could stop him… I twisted my head from side to side in anguish, and I could see Taylor smiling, enjoying every second of his pending victory.
I uttered, “You will pay with your life, you son of a bitch!”
Taylor stepped closer, laughed. “I hear you can tell a man’s fortune, that you are from the future. I hear ‘tis the reason Blaine desires you so. What an ass he is, believing such foolishness! You are nothing but a – ”
He stopped, tilted his head warily, looking at my hand, which I held outstretched to him. I had torn the threads binding the now worn, crumpled photo from my breeches and showed it to him: my final, desperate attempt at stopping him. He stepped forward and took Sophie’s picture from me, bringing it close to his face, examining it. I watched his eyes widen with wonder, then fear.
“You will believe me now, Ned Taylor,” I said. “I will warn you again. Touch a hair on Howel’s head and you will die.”
“ ‘Tis nothing but trickery,” Taylor growled, but I saw the doubt in his face, lurking behind his haughty facade.
The door to the cell was opening behind Taylor, slowly. I blinked and tried to sit up, but to no avail. I could feel the fever returning, the fire consuming me again. As Ned Taylor inspected the photo, his high brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, Jack Blaine had stepped in and was coming up softly behind him.
A part of me thought Blaine was just going to catch Taylor off guard, to bully him into keeping his mouth shut. Perhaps it was the fever that led me to this naive conclusion, perhaps it was that I had underestimated Jack Blaine’s savagery. But before I had a chance to muster up the energy to say anything, much less warn Taylor of Blaine’s presence, Blaine had looped a rope around Taylor’s neck. Taylor jerked, his eyes suddenly bulging in his face, his hands at the rope that choked him. Sophie’s photo fluttered to the floor, and as the two men struggled fiercely, it became lost underfoot in the straw.
I breathed hard, watching as Blaine slowly killed Taylor. My body was wrapped in pulsing heat, my thoughts occurring to me at a sluggish pace. My brain was like that piece of crap Packard Bell from the early ’90s that my parents still owned. Think, Sabrina. If I manage to scream, Blaine will be stopped. If I keep quiet, Taylor will die. If Taylor dies, maybe, just maybe, I can convince Blaine to spare Howel Davis.
The future may be set in stone, but I was compelled to act. Even though I knew that every choice I made would inevitably lead to Howel’s death, I did not know what those choices were, and I could not let that stop me from doing something. Now, my choice was hardly an easy one – Jack Blaine or Ned Taylor. Pick your poison, Sabrina.
And quickly.
I was silent, horrified, as Taylor crumpled, his face purple, his eyes locked on me. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, Taylor stopped struggling and slumped to the floor. Blaine released his grip and stood, looking no more put out than if he had killed a mosquito. He lifted Sophie’s photo from the ground and dusted it off, then squinted at me. “Ye see what ye had me do, lass? Now, why’d ye have to go and do that?”
“I don’t have the time or the energy to banter with you,” I replied, a bead of sweat running down my nose, my eyes fixed on the corpse that was just moments ago, Ned Taylor. “They’ll hang you for sure now.”
Blaine smiled – an ugly, sinister smile if ever I saw one. “I’ve enough allegiance from Taylor’s men that I can take the fort.” He considered for a moment. “But then, you would know that it ain’t me time yet, eh? The Devil will have me soul, but not yet.”
Here was my chance. “Jack Blaine,” I said, leaning against the wall, trying to stand. “If you spare Howel Davis, I will tell you your future. If you don’t, I will die with him, and my knowledge with me.”
He crossed his arms on his chest. “How will I know what ye say is truth?”
“How will I know you won’t kill Howel?” I retorted.
Blaine was silent, absently nudging at Taylor’s body with his foot. I winced. “Aye, then,” he said. “Ye have me word I’ll spare Davies. I’ve nothing against ‘im – ‘twas Taylor that wanted ‘im dead.”
I tried to think, rubbing my eyes with my filthy palms, the fever sounding a high-pitched alarm in my ears. Did I have a choice, at this point? I only had one card to play, and I wasn’t certain Blaine wouldn’t kill me as well after I had given him the advantage. “I want to know he’s still alive before I tell you anything.”
“He’s alive,” Blaine said, his eyes twinkling with malice. “Ye have me word –”
“Your word is shit,” I hissed. “You know it, and I know it. And I don’t know as much as you seem to think I know.”
“I want more than the date of me death from you,” he said. “I want everything ye are. If sparing Davis’ll keep ye alive, then so be it.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “You will be captured in March of 1720, hung and gibbeted in Jamaica.”
Blaine smiled as if none of this was surprising to him, as if he’d prepared himself for it. “And tell me, lass, is Davies to die on this day? Ye would know it better than me, ‘tis certain, that.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him dully. “Not if you keep your word,” I said, unconvinced. I would die trying to change history, even though I no longer thought it could be done.
Blaine tucked the rope he’d used to kill Taylor into the waist of his breeches. He’d heard my doubt. “Aye, of course.” He smiled. “I’ll be off, then.” Blaine glanced at Taylor’s body a last time. “I
’ll leave Ned here to keep ye company for a time.”
I heard the door slam shut and Blaine’s laugh echo eerily down the hall. As I glanced fearfully at Ned Taylor’s blank, staring eyes and contorted body, I became grateful that the fever would send me, once again, into oblivion.
For if it didn’t, this experience most certainly would.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I thought I was dead.
The darkness rarely receded now, and the line between reality and illusion was gone. I thought I looked at Ned Taylor’s body, only to find that it was Howel Davis. The body shuddered and twisted and the flesh melted from its bones, like in a horror flick. I imagined that I screamed, but no sound came from me.
Somewhere in the haze between life and death, a sweet dream. Howel Davis came into the cell, his face contorted with worry. Without a word, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me hurriedly into the light.
So real. I rubbed my face against his damp shirt, taking in his scent…
But this was not him. It was not his smell, not his touch, not his heartbeat. And yet it was so very real. I came back to life, if only for a moment. I could suddenly hear the roaring, feel the jostling as whoever held me jogged, and for once I knew it wasn’t merely in my head. I opened my eyes to see pandemonium, an inferno curling around us, the flames reaching for us. I didn’t have the presence of mind to be afraid – I was just curious, wondering if I had finally arrived in Hell. The man who held me breathed hard, gripping me tightly against him as he dodged the fire, his sweat running from his neck onto my hands, my face. The smoke burned my lungs, and I coughed.
His voice boomed in his chest, against my ear. As we moved away from the fiery chaos, I peered hesitantly into his face, at his wide, flaring nostrils and tightly grit white teeth. “John Roberts,” I heard myself croak.
