by Allyson Bird
“Alex! Wouldn’t you rather be in the drawing room with yer books? He won’t be seen until morning. The ship has to get into Sligo, and then he has to make sure the cargo is safely attended. Then he’ll come to you.”
“I know, Tilda. I know, but you know how I feel about him being out there tonight.”
“Yes, I know accidents have happened, but they will not happen to George—they simply won’t.”
“Accidents?”
“Yes, accidents, nothing more—now be still.”
“But Tilda you’ve heard the stories and you know what happened to me—to us!”
“I know that the night all those things happened to you, you had been drinking that awful rum and that you believed the stories told by Old Griff.”
“And what about the skull?”
“What about it?”
Alex shrugged her shoulders. “Griff said that if the skull was buried in the graveyard—”
Tilda didn’t let her finish. “The skull probably isn’t there now anyway and what if it is? Do you really think that it will make any difference?”
Alex leaned across the table and would not leave it alone. “And can you say that you have never thought of those stories on a night such as this, when the remains of the sailing boats and bodies have been broken and washed up on the shore? The men and boys so pummelled by the rocks that they are beyond recognition?”
Tilda didn’t say anything. She was speechless and had never seen Alex in such a state, not even on the day of her father’s funeral—not ever.
Alex went back to the drawing room but could not be still. The wind howled even louder and she could feel its chill throughout the house in spite of the fire. She picked up half a dozen books or more but could not settle on any. She sat in the armchair next to the window and fancied that she could see a glow from a fire that had been stacked on the beach. In her frustration she could not sit down any longer and paced the room from hearth to window, from window to hearth. With each step, as she drew closer to the window, she thought she could see a fire on the shore.
“No, it can’t be. Please, God, let this ship pass safely.”
Then she could stand it no more. She reached for her cloak, pulled on some stout walking shoes and unbolted the front door. A shovel lay next to the door. She had planned to do this many times but in her fear she had never had the courage to do it. She was determined to find the skull. If she found it, after all these years, she would bury it in Drumcliffe graveyard. Perhaps if it lay on sacred ground the curse would be gone.
She needed no lantern to go down the pathway from Elsinore. She had travelled this way a hundred times before, in her nightmare, down to the wreckers on the beach. Alex descended with difficulty against the icy wind, which flailed a thousand sword-sharp points against her, but still she went on towards the bonfire that she could now see on the shoreline.
There were no wreckers on the beach, just the crashing of the waves against rocks and the stinging sand that had been whipped up by the wind. Alex thought that she could see the green mist shapes of the wreckers appearing. There was no light on the metal man, no lantern to guide any captain. There was no safe passage that night for ships, only the light from Rosses Point to bring the vessels to the rocks and the cannibal pirates.
Head bent against the fierce wind and clutching the shovel in one hand, she made her way down past the sand dunes, where lay the bones of the men from the Spanish Armada, wrecked in a tempest in 1588. Their bones turned to dust and whirling like dervishes also looking for a sacred place to rest.
The fire was too big for her to put out alone so she took a piece of burning wood from the outlying embers and headed to the small cave she had spent the last ten years trying to avoid.
Utterly terrified (but with George in mind), Alex made her way through the narrow gap into the cave. She thrust the torch before her and squeezed through the narrow entrance.
Alex frantically shone the torch this way and that, looking for any trace of the skull or remnants of the old green shawl. She found nothing but a memory of that awful night when George told his story, and the shadows on the wall heralded the forms that were becoming substance on the beach. She sunk to her knees in desperation as the storm heightened and the wind threatened to shatter stone.
“God help us from the wreckers!” she cried. “Forgive us for what we have done; we had no right, no right at all!”
The storm fell silent and then she could hear the sound of metal grinding against metal, as if something was moving that had not moved for many years. She could hear cries and the wailing from outside the cave, and the deep thud of something pounding the sand. Alex dropped the torch and placed her hands over her ears, so dreadful were the screams. At last they stopped.
She picked up the torch and left the small cave. On leaving she tripped and fell over something, finding herself a breath away from the face of a creature not entirely human—or alive—but which had not been entirely dead. She could smell the evil of it. Alex screamed and made a grab for the torch. As she stood up it became apparent that the wreckers had either been pulled limb from putrid limb, or had been pummelled against the rocks by something with great strength. A wrecker’s head had been squashed to a pulp and was surrounded by giant footprints, which led off—back to the water’s edge. The bonfire was no more than a column of smoke that vanished within seconds. Alex felt the bile rise in her throat and she was sick against the rock that she clutched to steady herself. She muttered another prayer and raised her head.
She looked up and out to sea. It was calm now and a vessel was making its way to Sligo harbour. The torch had been lit at the base of the metal man and he stood there defiantly, pointing at the safe passageway between the island and the point. It was then that she knew George would reach a safe harbour.
Author’s Note: “Elsinore House now stands empty and is falling into ruin. It was once the home of the smuggler John Black. William Butler Yeats and his brother Jack, as boys, spent their summers there, in the home of their cousin Henry Middleton.”
The Sly Boy Bar and Eatery
In November 1996 a group of divers looking for wrecks in Beaufort Inlet, North Carolina, U.S.A. came across an anchor and cannons. The wreckage is believed to belong to the Queen Anne’s Revenge, the flag ship of Blackbeard. The ship was lost in the vicinity in 1718. Recovery of the wreckage is ongoing today.
The white house on Taylor’s Creek had been converted into The Sly Boy Bar and Eatery. It had been open for just one year and was the fastest food place in town. It looked out onto the Atlantic at Beaufort, North Carolina, and was set amongst water oak and cedars. Tangled vine twisted around the columns like snakes trying to gain entry. Built around seventeen hundred, the property had a double front porch made out of Scottish-heart pine, pegged together by builders that were more accustomed to making ships; and the whole place shook badly when the wind howled in from the Atlantic. Two tall chimneys stood the assault of winter every year, threatening to shatter and hurl their bricks into the angry sea.
Pizzas from oven to table in ten minutes flat—delivered by the sauciest waitresses with enough sass to make sure the place was filled to overflowing with guys, six nights a week.
Wanda headed the team of women, all dressed in short red skirts with white tops that were screaming out for a wet T-shirt contest. Yes, six nights a week, twenty-three varieties of pizza, with extra toppings and the most incredible seafood, if you could wait for it. That was no hardship, with the dozen varieties of beer that the bar advertised. A circular bar stood in the middle of the deck, in the shadow of three rigged masts. Table linen the colour of aquamarine, small star lights set in a midnight blue ceiling, shipwrecked old brandy barrels stove into the sandbanks that edged the deck, and the boarded floor covered in gritty sand. The entire place was literally a shipwreck; a shipwreck from a bad theme park, all plastic and lifeless.
Blowfish and Peeble Danby were cold and hungry. They pulled off on the North Carolina coast road
when they saw The Sly Boy.
“This will be fine. I’m, really, really hungry.”
“You’re always hungry Peeble—there’s no filling you up.”
“Well, let’s see if this place can.”
“Do you think the diving equipment will be all right in the truck?” Blow checked that the tarpaulin was well tied down, concealing the tanks.
“No one is going to run off with those full tanks in a hurry and why would they?” said Peeble.
Blow thought for a moment, looked out to sea at the setting sun, and then followed Peeble into The Sly Boy.
The interior was quite a surprise: the sea-green shimmer of the walls, the cannons on the deck, the shifting sand beneath their feet.
“What the—”
“Hi boys, come on in.”
Wanda showed them to the alcove seating area that lay underneath the overhanging captain’s cabin. She insisted on tablecloths even though the local boys usually ended up dancing on the tables. It was no excuse for poor etiquette on her behalf, she thought. The Sly Boy, unusually empty on Thursday evening, never closed until dawn each morning. And the food was considered to be wholesome and satisfying even though the clientelle were frequently too drunk to appreciate it.
“Here’s the menu and on the board are the specials.” Wanda pointed at the board positioned near the ship’s bell which hung above the bar. Peeble checked it out, squinting to see the list.
SPECIALS
BLUEFISH WITH ALMONDS AND LEMON.
SALMON EN CROUTE—FRENCH STYLE.
SQUID IN INK—NOT FRENCH STYLE BUT SPANISH STYLE.
WE GOT SPECIAL PIZZA USING THE LEFTOVERS FROM THE ABOVE.
WANDA—NOT ON THE MENU; IN CASE YOU ASK.
“Oh, and the rest of the waitresses are not on the menu—before you ask,” Wanda sat on the edge of the table.
“Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” Peeble said.
“Would ya like to know a little about The Sly Boy?”
Blow shrugged, “Sure—why not.”
“Good,” said Wanda. “‘Cuz I’ve got all night. This house once belonged to Blackbeard the pirate,” she began and smiled, revealing something green sticking between her teeth. Blowfish pointed discreetly at his teeth, and then at hers.
“You got somethin’ wrong with your teeth?” she asked, “or you trying to tell me you’re hungry?”
“No, you have something between your teeth and in your hair too. Something, er—green.”
Wanda fiddled in her red hair and yanked. She pulled out a strand of dry seaweed and finally used her little pinkie nail on her teeth.
Blow couldn’t take his eyes off Wanda’s thigh. It looked way too pale and had an odd mottled pattern on the surface of the skin.
“Where was I? Yes, the house—when it was high tide the pirates would have tied their boats to the columns at the front of the house and just stepped right in. Course, the tide came up higher in those days.”
Peeble stared at Blowfish, which meant—like why are we listening to this when we should be eating? There was something else, though; something that was making him squirm uneasily in his seat.
Wanda caught the stare and moved herself along. “Well, I think that fact is interestin’—what d’ya want to order?”
“Can we have a minute?” asked Blow.
“Sure, take your time I’m not in a hurry, we’re open all night. Would you like a beer?”
They chose from the twelve different beers and once her back was turned both of the brothers tried unsuccessfully to suppress their laughter.
“I’m kinda glad Wanda isn’t on the menu,” said Blow.
“Yeah, she ain’t the kind of girl Mom would have approved of.”
“Well, she ain’t the kind of girl Mom would have approved of for you. She never cared who I shacked up with. You were always her favourite.”
“That’s not true Blow, she loved both of us and you know it.”
“I know that when I became a diver she didn’t think it was real work and when you became a diver too, she worried about you, but not about me.”
“That’s bullshit Blow, before she died—”
“Before she died she asked for you.”
“I’m the oldest—I was around longer, and when are you going to put all this grieving behind you? It’s time to move on.”
Blow brought his fist down hard on the table. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll stop grieving when I’m good and ready.”
“Suit yourself, but you ain’t never going to get laid thinking about your mom all the time. It ain’t natural.”
At this point Wanda stepped in. “Seems to me you boys should be thinkin’ about eatin’ somethin’ right about now.”
Blow glared at her and then looked hard at the specials.
“What kinds of fresh fish do you have?”
“We have sea bass, amberjack, silver snapper, red snapper, trigger fish, and bluefish. The red snapper is brought in and we feed them up in tanks—like pets.”
“Since when do you feed pets to customers?”
Wanda gave Blow a wry smile and took a deep breath.
“We’ll take the bluefish and fries,” said Peeble quickly.
They were both still arguing about the last days of their mother’s life when Wanda brought the two fish dishes. What raced through Blow’s mind, was that he wished his mother had loved him more. What raced through Peeble’s mind, was that he wished he’d got laid more, and obviously not by his mother.
Served whole and staring up at him Peeble toyed with his fish. It did look good. Blow watched Peeble cut into it, as he began to pick at his.
“I’ve gone off it now, Peeb, I think,”
Peeble cut into the bluefish and then he thrust the plate over to his brother. “I think I have too—look at that!”
Blow turned the plate around and lifted up the side of the fish, expecting something none too wholesome inside. He found something none too wholesome inside all right. The fish hadn’t been filleted.
“Whoa, what the hell is that doing there?”
A little blackened, but still identifiable by the nail (which actually did look a little like a sliced almond), was a finger. Even more macabre, the finger was still wearing a gold ring.
Blow backed his chair away and made for the men’s room. Peeble shook his head and beckoned Wanda over. Speechless he pointed at the finger on his plate.
“Sorry about that. I keep tellin’ Clara to fillet them, but she keeps on servin’ them up like that. You can’t go wrong with the pizza, though. Of course, the meal will be on the house. D’ya want another?”
Before he could think of a reply (and wondering what Clara could use instead of olives for a pizza, which didn’t really bear thinking about) Wanda whisked the plate away, and returned with two more beers.
“I hear you goin’ divin’?”
Peeble wondered how she knew that. Had Blow been shooting off his mouth again?
“Up the coast a little.”
“There’s somethin’ I want you to do for me.”
“What’s that?”
Peeble quite liked the proximity of her mouth to his ear. He could smell sweet apple on her breath. Wanda whispered, “If you don’t want your brother to end up all chewed up by blue crabs or somethin’ else, I’d listen if I was you. In fact, perhaps I’d better take you to your brother.”
Peeble looked about and was surprised to find all the waitresses staring at him. He stood up. There must have been about a dozen waitresses and he found it odd that he hadn’t taken much notice of them before. Two waitresses came up behind him and gently pushed him forward. He had no idea what was going on but he needed to play along to find out what the hell they had done with Blow.
Wanda led him along the sandy decking over to the far side of the room and to a door half hidden by fishing nets. Next to the door was an enormous figurehead of a mermaid that had once adorned the prow of a far better ship than the lurid Sly Boy. The mermaid stared down
on him with a smile akin to a poor copy of the Mona Lisa’s smile. The door led down to a dimly lit cellar. Wanda picked up something that glinted in the half-light. She was holding a blunderbuss and, what’s more, it was pointed in Peeble’s direction.
He backed off but the two waitresses pushed him forwards after Wanda. She picked up a torch and led him down a long passageway that must have gone on for five hundred feet or more, before they came to the end. Peeble could see bright moonlight reflecting on water.
Wanda pointed the gun to one side of him. “Over there.”
Peeble looked anxiously around for his brother. Wanda’s torch fell upon Blow’s face. He was chained to the rocks with the tide lapping up around his feet. Peeble could see the glistening backs of turtles in the water a few feet away and he knew that blue crabs would soon be all over the place.
“I’ll take him down in a minute. But if you don’t do what I ask, your brother will be out here tomorrow night, food for the turtles and the blue crabs.”
“I could just call the cops.”
“If you did, he would be dead before they could get to him. I’d see to that.”
“What do you want?” Peeble asked.
“Somethin’ no one else has succeeded in gettin’.”
“And that is?”
“Why, Blackbeard’s treasure—you could say it’s ours anyway. He owes us.”
“Why don’t you get it?”
“Oh, we would, but it’s too far out for us.”
“But Blackbeard’s treasure is supposed to be lost off Portsmouth, New Hampshire. What makes you think it’s here in North Carolina?”
“It’s here all right, just out of reach. But you can bring it to us. Other divers have almost succeeded.”
