by Steve Goble
“Praying might be a good idea for us all, Jim.” Spider ran out, followed by Odin.
“The ruse worked, Odin. Everyone is scattering. Head toward your post, but tack to the barn when you can,” Spider whispered. “Once they scatter, we go in and find Hob. If he’s alive, he’s in one of those rooms upstairs. If Gold Peter and Simon get in our way, well, so be it. All the rest of the men are scattered. So we find Hob. And then we are done with this goddamned place.”
Odin’s lone eye gleamed. “Almost as much fighting here as on the old ships,” he said. “Ha!”
“Is your leg still troubling you?”
“No. The pain has passed, Spider John. I am fine.”
They parted company, and Spider headed toward the south wall. He spotted an oak that looked easy enough to climb and decided to make all the years of climbing ratlines and maneuvering his way across yardarms pay off. Soon, he was high enough to see the house and had a commanding view of the surrounding grounds.
Half-Jim was out front, pacing as well as a one-legged man with a crutch could pace. He had two guns in the weapon belt across his shoulder, and the leather holster mounted on the crutch held a third gun. To complete his small arsenal, he had a goddamned farm sickle, a small one, tucked into his belt behind his back.
“I know a better place for that sickle, Half-Jim,” Spider muttered. He paid no attention to Fawkes’ men rushing to their stations, not even sparing a longing glance at Ruth as she rushed toward the south wall, but he winced when he saw Michael run into the barn and shut the doors. He had forgotten all about the giant and the way he snuck away at times, and had said nothing much at all to Odin about him. If Michael was involved in the killings, and if Odin had already reached the barn . . .
He need not have worried. Odin waved from behind a large oak not far from the barn. Spider waved back and dropped from his perch. He took a roundabout path to meet his friend.
“That is one big bastard,” Odin said, pointing toward the barn.
“Aye. Half-Jim is near the front entrance,” Spider said. “I am guessing he’s got no one in the house except Gold Peter and Simon, judging from all the lads I saw dashing about on the grounds. I say we go in through the kitchen, give Missus Fitch a nice story to keep her quiet, and we go find Hob. If we have to kill anyone on the way, try to do it quiet.”
“Aye,” Odin said, grinning. The old man dearly loved action.
“I mean it.”
“Aye.”
“Well, then,” Spider said, glancing across the grounds. “Here we go.”
He dashed across the open ground toward the kitchen, then put his back to the wall next to the door. Odin, limping less than previously, took up a similar position on the other side.
Spider listened intently, then signaled Odin to remain quiet. He could hear Mrs. Fitch working inside.
“I will talk our way past her,” Spider whispered. “Follow me.”
Spider lifted the latch and stepped inside. “Missus Fitch, did no one tell you there are prowlers on the grounds?”
“Aye, sir, there is a ruckus. Mister Fawkes, he has the men out searching.” She piled diced potatoes into a massive kettle atop the stove, dropping them quickly and pulling her hands away from the steam. “It seems the normal state of things here, does it not? Always hiding from one raid or another, or the men fighting one another, or some other ruckus. I am sick of it, John! I shan’t hide away anymore! I have my chores. I cannot abide a constant uproar of battle. I just . . . All this just . . .”
“Aye,” Spider said. “We have our chores, too. Thought we’d head upstairs for a lookout, it’ll be like perching in a crow’s nest, won’t it, Odin?”
“Aye,” the one-eyed man answered. “Ought to see well from there, no doubt.”
“Damn,” said a man, and Spider at once recognized the refined voice of Ambrose Oakes. A glance behind him confirmed it; the bloated man entered the kitchen, mopping his florid face with a towel. “That boy has turned for the worse, Missus Fitch, so this is a horrible time for this new assault. I tire of it! It cannot be helped, I suppose. I must do my work as you must do yours, interlopers be damned.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fitch replied.
“It is good you are here, boys,” the man said, nodding toward Spider and Odin. “Peter and Simon are preparing the laboratory now, and you two can help me get the patient there. It will save precious time. Hasten!” He grabbed a stack of towels and turned away, bellowing excitedly. “Missus Fitch, I will be in there with the lad for God knows how long. Pass the word to Mister Fawkes that we must not be disturbed!”
“Aye, sir,” Mrs. Fitch replied.
Spider’s heart did a beat to quarters in his chest. Could the boy Oakes referred to be Hob? Was this rescue effort too late?
He followed on the heels of Ambrose Oakes, with Odin in tow. Oakes tried to bolt up the stairs, though he was not built for such action.
“We must act before he expires,” Oakes said. “Before the final moment.”
“What boy is this, sir?” Spider stayed close behind Oakes.
“The Irish lad, Bram by name. He hasn’t long to live, it seems.”
And I doubt preventing his death is your goal, Spider thought. The name Bram gave Spider no real comfort; it would not surprise him at all if Hob had used a false name. The lad had seen Spider use an alias many, many times, as it was habitual for many pirates.
Spider gulped. “Blond fellow, strong?”
Oakes paused at the top of the steps and looked confused. “Dark, he is. And thin. Thinner now than when he came here.”
“Ah,” Spider said, trying to hide his relief. “Thought I saw a young blond lad about.”
Oakes shook his head violently. “We dawdle, and we must not. A soul is at stake. Come!”
He led them past his laboratory, where Gold Peter could be seen arranging buckets and dangling a leather hose on the end of the table Spider had occupied previously. The other table had been wiped up, but still was stained red, as was the floor beneath it. Simon stoked the fireplace.
Spider and Odin followed Oakes to the end of the corridor, which intersected with another perpendicular hall. Turning left, Oakes removed a key from a vest pocket.
Odin peeked through a barred window that looked out onto the back of the grounds, and the barn. “None of the men seem to be close,” he muttered in Spider’s ear.
Spider was less worried about Fawkes and his crew than he was about listening for Hob’s voice. He imagined he might hear it over the drumming of their footsteps in the hall.
“The boy is in here,” Oakes said, halting by a door on his left. Like all the other doors, this one was of good solid oak and very damned sturdy.
Oakes turned the key in the lock. “Bring him to the laboratory, quickly! And fear not what you see, there is no contagion!” Oakes raced toward his laboratory. “Hasten!”
Spider went into the room. He’d seen forecastles more elegantly furnished. This room had a single cot along one wall and a small trunk along the opposite wall. A lone window, barred like all the others, looked out over a courtyard.
The cot’s occupant was perhaps fifteen years of age, but too dark and skinny to be Hob. He curled up on the cot like a dog, precariously, and nearly fell to the floor when Spider crouched beside him. Heat rose from the lad’s face and sweat dripped from his limp hair. He moaned softly.
“Bram,” Spider said. He tried to lift the young man to his feet, but the fellow’s legs were slack as rope.
“Poor man. Odin, grab his blanket. We shall roll him onto that and carry him.”
“Aye,” Odin said, stepping forward. As he did so, he kicked something on the floor that rolled away in a wide arc.
Spider picked it up. It was a wooden cup. A sniff told him it had recently held rum.
“Missus Fitch sent this up with Daphne, like I told you,” Spider said. “A cup of rum. She said it was medicine for him.”
“Medicine? Ha!”
“Aye,” S
pider said. “Poison, I am sure of it.”
“Why give him poison? Isn’t Oakes supposed to treat people?”
“I think the man has another purpose entirely. I think . . .”
“Spider John! Odin! May God damn you! Bring the lad here before he expires!”
Spider winced. “We’d better heed Oakes. Roll Bram onto the blanket!”
Once they had their ill cargo in hand and were headed toward the laboratory, Spider whispered. “If I am right, you may soon see what Oakes is up to, and why he had Fawkes fetch him some smugglers, and why they keep digging new graves here.”
Oakes was waiting outside the laboratory door. “Does he live yet?”
“Aye,” Spider said.
“Good! Get him on the table!”
They did as ordered, and Oakes nearly shoved them aside. Simon stacked towels on a side table and arranged the glue pot and other items. Gold Peter held small coils of rope.
Spider cast a glance at Ben, but the bird seemed to be sleeping. “This boy was strong when he came here,” the philosopher said, taking up the mask-and-hose gadget Spider had seen him use during the amputation. “I believe I will succeed this time. I do!”
Spider pointed to a small jar on the floor beside the table, and his finger traced the path of the hose that protruded from its cork and up through Oakes’ hands and on to the mask he had just placed on Bram’s face. Odin watched the maneuver but looked baffled.
Simon left the room, as Gold Peter secured the lad to the table. The man had obviously learned his ropes well at sea and made short work of it. “He’s snug, sir. No need to worry about spasms or such.”
“Thank you, Peter. Join Simon, watch from the windows and shout if any intruders come our way. Spider John, Odin, go find Mister Fawkes and get your orders. I can handle what needs to be done here.”
“I wish to remain,” Spider said. “This fascinates me.”
Frightens me near to shitting, I should say.
Odin scowled at Spider.
Oakes turned briefly toward the two shipmates. “Truly?”
“Aye, sir. What I saw before makes me curious.”
“Curiosity! So few men have it, I dare say. It is surprising and refreshing to find it in one of your sort. Very well, you may remain. Odin, go aid Mister Fawkes.”
Odin shot Spider a quick glance. Spider tapped a pistol, nodded at Odin, and the one-eyed man exited the room.
“He breathes yet,” Oakes said. “All is well.” Then the man grinned. “Do you know what I do here, Spider John? The aim of this?”
“You want to catch his soul.”
Oakes looked stunned, then laughed. “By God, you’ve a brain, indeed! Yes, man! Yes!”
Spider checked his weapons once Oakes turned his attention back to Bram. “What will you do with it?”
“Why, we advance knowledge, Spider John. What use is intellect if we do not use it to grow our garden of knowledge?”
Spider backed away and leaned against the table where the other man had died, the one who’d lost a leg. Spider felt the stickiness of the man’s blood beneath his hands.
Oakes placed his hands on the mask, holding it firmly to Bram’s face. “Can’t let it escape, can I?”
Spider looked at the corked jars arrayed on the shelf. “Are those souls?”
“Possibly. Those are unconfirmed previous attempts,” Oakes said. “It is gruesome work, I confess, but true advancement comes at the end of much toil. I do not know that I succeeded. But there may be souls in them. You see,” he glanced over his shoulder, “souls seem to be invisible. A true hindrance to detection, let me admit. But I may defeat it yet, so long as I increase my supply. I must take advantage of every opportunity fate delivers into my hands.”
Odin crept into the room while Oakes was diverted by his conversation with Spider. The old man’s lips formed silent words: “Kill him now.” Then he silently moved behind the other table and hid.
Bram’s chest still rose and fell, but slowly.
“I started with collections of blood,” Oakes said, softly. It was almost as if he was talking to himself. He turned back to the dying man. “At the moment of death, blood was collected into a jar. ‘For the life of all flesh is the blood thereof.’ Aye? Do you know that verse? And another: ‘but by his own blood he entered in once into the holy place.’ Blood, I thought. Blood. Might the blood be the very place where the soul resides? Was that the key? It seemed likely.”
Oakes checked the fitting of the hose into the mask and stared hard at the lad’s face. “So, some of those jars contain blood, and perhaps souls. I’ve attempted to verify the presence of the soul. I’ve boiled some of the blood, to see if a soul separated from it. I’ve swirled it. I’ve filtered it. But, thus far, to no avail. Thus far. But I shall persist.”
Spider rested a hand on the butt of a gun.
“That jar,” Oakes said, pointing toward his desk. “Contains marrow. Scooped from the amputated leg of that wretch. It was a sudden thought, and perhaps I had it too late, the man being too far along the road to hell, but the marrow might yet yield interesting results.”
Spider remembered the scraping sound he’d heard during the amputation and winced.
Oakes continued, apparently unaware of how ghastly this all sounded. “And I can perfect my techniques for future attempts, of course. I am always learning, Spider John. Always.”
Dear God, let me find Hob alive!
“I refuse to be defeated, and I realize I might go down many wrong paths before I reach my goal. After the blood attempts failed, I reasoned anew. If not the blood, then perhaps the breath! Perhaps that is where the soul abides! Does not the Bible speak of the breath of life, Spider John? And so now I collect their very last breaths, in hopes that their souls ride upon them. And I weigh the contents of these jars.” He nodded toward a scale on the table between shelves. “I weigh them before and after, but perhaps souls have no weight. I mingle the contents with gasses, heavy and light. I heat the jars, and peer into them with lenses, shine light through them with prisms, but alas! The souls elude me. Thus far!”
He glanced over his shoulder. “But I shall not give up!”
Spider gulped. “I think harvesting souls is for the Lord, and the devil. Not for a man.”
Oakes spat. “Why gift a man with intelligence if he is not to probe God’s secrets?” He returned his attention to Bram.
“He will die soon,” Oakes said. “But he is strong, and young, so he holds on. I select such as him with purpose, deeming their souls to be likewise young and strong, and more likely to survive my processes, and perhaps more vibrant as well, to aid detection. Your devilish friend Odin, though, he gives me pause! To have lived so long in a violent trade. Perhaps his soul is made of sterner stuff than those of these young ruffians!”
Good luck getting a soul out of Odin, you bloody goddamned devil. Spider had heard enough. He drew a gun and placed the end of the barrel at the back of the man’s head.
“Lift your hands in the air.”
Oakes complied, slowly. “What is this?”
“I am looking for a friend. I believe him to be here. And he had better not be in one of those graves.”
Oakes froze.
“I’ll be damned,” Odin said, rising and drawing two pistols. “The devil bought my soul a long time ago, you son of a whore. Ha!”
“This is important work, men,” Oakes said. “Think of it. If we can capture the soul, we might yet store it away, repair the body from whence it came, restore it . . .”
“Madness,” Spider said. “Dead men don’t come back.”
“Headless Blackbeard swam around his ship three times before he sank, he did!”
“Not now, Odin.” Spider drew his second gun. “Oakes, this is madness.”
“This is inspiration, Spider John! This is learning!”
Spider shook his head. “There is only one soul I wish to salvage. A young man named Hob, blond and strong, just the type you’ve been killing. You h
ad best pray you have not already buried him, because the only thing that will keep me from killing you is knowing that Hob lives. Is he here?”
Oakes sneered over his shoulder. “So you came here under false pretenses?”
Spider pressed the gun hard against the fat man’s skull. “Is he here?”
An odd cadence of thumps outside the room told Spider that Half-Jim Fawkes was approaching, as rapidly as possible for a onelegged man on a crutch.
“Fawkes!”
The rhythmic thumps quickened at Oakes’ cry. Spider wrapped the man’s neck in his left arm, squeezing tightly, then pressed the gun in his right hand hard against the mad philosopher’s temple. Oakes struggled ineffectively.
Ben leapt from his corner perch, cawing madly. Odin shot at the damned bird, which vanished through the door in a black streak. Wind from the bird’s wings stirred the smoke from Odin’s gun.
Fawkes appeared a moment later, blinking in the smoke and ducking the bird. The crutch fell behind him, and he leaned against the doorframe, gun in hand.
“I’ll kill him, Fawkes,” Spider said. “Don’t think I bluff.”
“And I’ll kill him,” Fawkes said, aiming his flintlock at Odin.
Odin lifted his other gun and fired. Wood splintered near Fawkes’ face. Fawkes fired in return, and the brimstone tang of burnt powder filled the air.
Spider turned so that the gun in his left hand aimed at the door, but kept his left arm locked around his captive’s throat. Spider pulled the trigger, but the goddamned gun merely sputtered.
Fire erupted in Spider’s leg. He glanced down to see a scalpel plunged into his thigh. Oakes had grabbed it from the table while Spider was distracted.
Next, Fawkes lunged into the room and Spider, Oakes, and the one-legged pirate all fell in a heap. Spider’s head collided with something hard, and his right-hand gun fired impotently into the air. Oakes rolled away, and Fawkes reached toward the hearth.
The next thing Spider saw was Fawkes lifting a coal shovel above his head. The last thing he saw was the shovel’s blade descending on his face.
