Sea Witch (Sea Witch Voyages)

by Helen Hollick

  “When you can stand up without falling over, Captain Acorne, you can be on your way. The thanks are appreciated; payment is neither wanted nor expected.”

  Jenna snorted disapproval. “It is expected for us to live on thin air, however.”

  Glancing at her Jesamiah glowered. “I am not sure I wish to stay where I am not welcome.” He paused, trying to think of a tactful thing to say. “Not with people I do not know. Us pirates tend to not trust strangers.” He tried a faint smile. “A peculiarity that also goes with the gold teeth and the earring.”

  Removing the bandaging from his arm, Tiola flicked her gaze up to meet his. “Jenna is a dear but she is also a natural pessimist. If you were not welcome, Surr, I would not have brought you here.” She paused as she peeled away the final layer of the dressing.

  To purge the wound of impurity she had used a proven remedy, a mixture of marsh mallow leaves and cayenne pepper steeped together in hot water and linseed oil. Set in place beneath a wool pad and changed regularly she rarely had problems with wounds turning putrid.

  Her healing was different from that of the physicians and apothecaries. Contrary to what they believed, she knew for certain the four humours did nothing to affect the health of body and mind, had nothing to do with the state of a wound or an ache in the belly. She insisted on meticulous cleanliness, thought the deliberate letting of more blood foolish. Ideas and practices she wisely kept to herself.

  A faint staining of blood and pus clung to the old dressing, the wounds looking ugly, swollen and bruised, but not smelling unpleasant and no longer fire-hot to the touch. “This is healing well despite the angry appearance.” She met his eyes again. “I am not a stranger Jesamiah, my name is Tiola.”

  Jenna snorted indignation for the proprieties of correctness. “Miss Oldstagh to the likes of you.”

  Tiola’s smile broadened, her dark eyes shining. “Tiola will do, I am well satisfied with my name.”

  Wincing as she set a fresh, hot poultice to his arm Jesamiah searched his memory. Where had they met? Surely he would have remembered her? She was too pretty to forget.

  “I am a witch,” Tiola stated blandly, riding over his silence. Finishing her bandaging she took the bowl Jenna proffered, dipped a wooden spoon into the broth and fed it to Jesamiah. “What you would call a white witch, of course. I am not permitted to do harm, even to shameless pirates. A pirate, in fact, is probably more dangerous than am I.” She talked as if she were speaking of something as ordinary as the direction of the wind, although he realised she was teasing him.

  Swallowing the good-tasting broth Jesamiah grinned, playing along with her. “Too pretty to be a witch.”

  “I thank you for the compliment, though I am sure it is not deserved,” Tiola responded still spooning. “White witches are not obliged to boast the appearance of hook-nosed hags, and we use only helpful spells – even those we keep to a minimum. We perform on high days and holy days. The occasional Saturday.”

  Jesamiah responded to her absurdity, although beneath the frivolity he had an uncomfortable feeling, somewhere among all this nonsense she was being serious. Where, where had he seen her before?

  The broth was good but the tiredness was creeping up on him, he could manage no more than half the bowl. Understanding, Tiola did not press him to eat, left him to sleep. He lay a while, watching her move about the room, listening to the murmur of her voice talking to the other woman, Jenna. She, Jesamiah was not certain of, a harridan to be sidestepped where possible. Tiola though…Ah, he could get to like her. Get to like her a lot. Where had he heard her voice? He felt sleep overhauling him, blinked it aside, the puzzle annoying him.

  She was talking to Jenna, recounting something that had happened: “Then the imp said, ‘What fer ye b’wantin’ t’take that blatherer’s word ‘afore mine, Surr? Tedn’t fair, tedn’t proper’ and hit him, square on the nose!”

  He remembered! Cornish! Her accent was Cornish! Suddenly everything came flooding into his mind as if a great wave had creamed in across his senses and then washed out again taking all the clogging muck and debris with it, leaving the inside of his head clean and alert.

  “My God!” he exclaimed, awkwardly shuffling to sit up. He was full awake again his heart beating fast, a mixture of excitement and lurching panic. “You were on the Christina Giselle. We met here, in Cape Town!”

  From across the room Tiola dipped her head. “Ais.”

  “But,” his face chiselled into a frown of bewilderment. “But the set-to with the horse? I assumed you to be a child.”

  As he had been meant to so assume. “I shall soon be sixteen,” she stated. Indicating her short stature and flat bust, offered an easy explanation, “Perhaps you were confused because there is not much of me?”

  “Hell’s balls,” he cursed again. Then a thought sent a second race of unease hurtling through him. “I heard you, you called out when the Salvation went down.”

  He faltered, licked his lips, the uncertainty growing into alarm. “How did you do that?” Another thought which he instantly shoved aside. Why did you do that? Said, “And how did you know I was out there, bleeding to death?”

  Uneasily he answered his own question. Witch.

  Logic told him it was all coincidence. Fate. Being in the right place at the right time. Witches were old women accused of making magic by people who were too stupid to understand sense, even if it leapt up and bit their backsides. Witches belonged with fairies, ogres, goblins and mermaids.

  Ah. He had seen a mermaid. True, it had been a black, wrinkle-faced heavily whiskered crone, lolling on a mist-shrouded rock. Not the blonde-haired beauty that he had been led to believe were mermaids; he had clearly seen her tail as she had slid into the sea. Supposed even mermaids eventually grew old and tired-looking. Just his luck to see one of the decrepit ones.

  Rue had insisted it had been a seal. What did Rue know? Frenchmen had nothing but lead for souls.

  “You really are a witch?” he asked, uncertain, beginning to doze again.

  Sleep, the natural healer, enfolding him as if it were a mist creeping in over the surface of the sea. Deadening sound so he did not hear her say, very quietly in her Cornish burr, “Ais.”

  Twenty Four

  His back stiff, Jesamiah stretched, trying to ease cramped muscles and find a more comfortable position. From the angle of the sunlight he figured it must be the mid hours of the forenoon, about five bells, ten-thirty. He had slept sound all night, then. His arm was throbbing, felt heavy, like a sodden anchor cable. His shoulder, his ribs, everything else ached, too, but he was healing, could put up with it. He shifted again, grimaced. He needed to relieve himself. The woman, the old besom Jenna, without glancing in his direction left the room, a shopping basket in her hand. Tiola was sitting by the window, reading, unaware he was awake.

  This was embarrassing, would be more embarrassing to soak the bed. “Er, I’m sorry love, I really need to, um, pump ship. Visit the heads.”

  She looked up immediately her face lighting into a quick, comprehending smile. “I do not want you out of bed you are not strong yet, but there is no need to make things difficult. Here,” she pulled the sheet back, “Swing your legs over – no do not get up, you will faint again as you did yesterday; sit on the edge.” She retrieved the chamber pot from beneath the bed, placed it strategically and smiled at him. Jesamiah felt his stomach lurch. By God she was pretty.

  “That alright? Can you manage?”

  He nodded, “I think so.”

  “Call me when you are done.” Flashing another smile she twirled away, her skirts swishing, leaving behind a cloud of her natural perfume. Disappearing into Jenna’s bedchamber, the smaller room beyond the stairway curtain, Jesamiah was unaware she discreetly listened to the sound his urine made, ensuring that he did indeed, manage. She waited a moment longer when he had finished, returned as she heard the bed creak and the mattress rustle. Amused, noticed he was modestly covering his nakedness with the sheet.


  Without a word she retrieved the utensil and left the room, examining the urine when out of his sight to ensure it was the correct pale yellow colour not rusted brown or spotted with blood. At the bottom of the wooden stairs, she dipped a finger in, tasted to ensure no unnatural sweetness. Crossing the courtyard to empty the pot down the stink of the cesspit, she sang a jaunty tune learnt from Kisty. A song of Africa, full of life and rhythm, her voice floating upward as she ascended the stairs again, hitting the high long notes with perfect pitch, her fingers clicking the beat as the last few lines increased in tempo and key.

  “You seem happy?” Jesamiah remarked, questioning.

  “Why would I not be luvver? You are on the mend. It is satisfying to know there will not be another grave in the churchyard just yet.” She fell serious, “You lost a lot of blood. Another handful of minutes and you may not have survived.”

  “Lucky you were there then, eh?”

  “It was not luck.”

  He grinned. “Ah yes, you are a witch.” He did not believe a word of it. He was a sailor, recognised a yarn when told one. Witches turned people into frogs, curdled the milk, that sort of thing.

  The answering smile was enigmatic. Beautiful. But a witch? Yet…Yet, she was casting a spell on him. Not the sort that would turn his skin green and make him hop and croak, this was a more subtle magic. Something affecting his heart. Or his brain or – elsewhere. He shrugged. He was either falling in love or turning into a moon-mad fool. Perhaps both? The one did often go with the other, or so he had heard tell.

  Through the following days he watched her, sometimes openly, more often surreptitiously through half closed eyes, when she thought him asleep. Nothing showed him that she was anything more than a young, very pretty woman who knew what she was doing when it came to healing. But her presence was comforting, pleasant. He trusted her implicitly. Why was that? There was something so familiar, so right about her.

  Was this love he was beginning to feel? Or desire? Hard to tell, he had never been in love before. Lust, he knew about. If nothing else, this prickle of wanting in his nether regions showed he was getting better.

  She allowed him to get up now, to make his way down the stairs to the seat of ease when he needed it, going carefully, for his head sometimes swam as if he were drunk. She did not exactly escort him there and back, but always watched, waiting, sitting at the bottom of the stairs at first, having to take his arm to help him return, exhausted, to bed. Another good thing, he had his breeches to wear now, no more covering himself with a sheet. That had amused him; he had not thought of himself as a man embarrassed about nakedness, but with her? Aye, he was glad to be wearing his breeches. Another confusing sign of this unfamiliar malady called love?

  He did not sleep so often now the stitches were removed – in the name of all the oceans, how that had hurt! Torture he could probably endure. Stitches buried beneath healing scabs being cut out, no. He had tried not to yell; halfway through had given up the trying and screeched. Agreed with Tiola. Aye, he was a whimpering baby.

  The scars on his arm were nasty, some of them stubbornly remaining red and angry. She continued to smear thick, sweet-smelling paste under the bandaging, insisted he rest. He tried reading; she had an interesting collection of books, among them Woodes Roger’s new and arrogant publication of his circumnavigational expedition. The title page carried a dedication, To my admirer, Mistress Jenna Pendeen, and her young ward. Conceited ass.

  Jesamiah could not concentrate, finding his thoughts insisted on returning to that night, desperately trying to remember. Aloette, who had betrayed him, was not worth remembering. The girl with her arms supporting him in the darkness of a passageway, her mouth over his? Who was she? He was certain it had been Tiola, although he could only recall the sour expression of a straggle-haired, street slut. Had he imagined it all? Embellished what had happened as unconsciousness had enveloped him? Tiola was not a prostitute – although he had briefly wondered when he first realised this room was situated above a brothel. In high indignation the black girl, Kisty, had put him right.

  He had met her on one of his first independent journeys down the stairs into the courtyard. “You work here too?” he had asked, nudging his head towards the open back door to the ground floor, deliberately adding, “With Miss Oldstagh?”

  “Miss Tiola? She don’t work for Miss Bella, she’m special, she’m our healer. She done fixed my broke arm,” and Kisty had proudly waggled the limb to prove it. “Hurt something bad it did, but she healed me. Like she’m healing you.” Then she had realised what he had meant and her eyes had widened, her mouth rounding into outrage.

  “You think I go with men? And Miss Tiola? For shame on you! She be a lady!” And Kisty had flounced away, her head high, shoulder’s squared with pride.

  The twenty-first: seventeen days since the fourth of December and he was healing well, no more bandages; the hurt was more of a persistent ache, a dragging uncomfortable pull with the muscles stiff and complaining, scabs itching. Tiola was sitting as she often did, beside the open window, her head bent over her sewing, finishing the making of a replacement shirt for him. The one he wore was old and a little tight across the shoulders, a shirt she had found him. He had been asleep, dozing in the lumpy, horsehair chair, but Tiola’s quiet singing had awoken him. The disapproving Jenna, to his relief, was nowhere in sight.

  He could not understand the words of the song for it was in a language he was unfamiliar with; it had a rhythmical lilt, similar to the swaying of a ship making way in a calm sea. The steady rise and fall of the deck beneath your feet, the wind sighing, friendly, among the rigging. He stood, stretched, found the ache in his shoulder and down his arm was receding. He scratched at one of the itching scabs as he walked across to stand behind her, watched her finish a cuff.

  “It’s a good song,” he said reaching for a rum bottle on the shelf behind her. Holding it in the crook of his arm he unstoppered it, drank. The fire of the liquor tasting so very good after almost three weeks of doing without. “I do not recognise the language, although I have a good ear for foreign speaking.” He took an inspired guess, “Cornish is it?”

  “Ais. I was born in Cornwall, along the coast from Falmouth. My mother’s people have lived there since time began, though my grandfather was a Devon man.”

  “A long way from the heat and stink of Cape Town.” He hooked a stool forward sat opposite her, took another large swallow. “When I was a boy my father offered to send me to England for an education. I agreed to go, to escape my brother, but my mother refused to allow it, saying English tutors were notorious drunkards and buggerers.” He tipped the rum bottle to his mouth again. “I was too naive to know precisely what she meant.” He chuckled, added, “I thought it a good word. I often called my brother a bugger after that. Although I had my backside whipped when mother heard me use it.”

  “And you are not a drunkard?” Tiola asked with a faint smile which broadened as he frowned. She leant forward, tapped the bottle meaningfully with her fingernail.

  Understanding, he grinned at her, “Aye well, I might like m’rum, but I don’t do the buggerin’ bit!”

  Obliging him with a laugh Tiola said, “Long way from an education in England to ending up on the Sweet Trade?”

  He sidestepped the subject. “A long way and a long story. What was the song?” He grinned, half mischief, half mocking. “A spell?”

  “No, just a song. I do not perform spells. It was about a sailor who loved his ship more than his wife.”

  “Ah.” He drank again. “For some of us, wives do not come into it, we love our ships more than our lives.” When she made no answer added, “You do not approve. Of sailors? Or pirates?”

  She bit off a thread and began on the second cuff. “What you do is your business, for your conscience. Not mine.”

  “You disapprove.” He snorted, derisive. “You sound like Jenna.”

  “I do not approve of killing for no reason, no.”

  “What if I w
as to tell you I kill only those trying to kill me first?”

  “I would not believe you.”

  More rum. “My ship is my kingdom, my world. On a ship, as a pirate, I am master. She is my woman, my life, my love, everything. Unlike a woman you can trust a ship. You know what she’s thinking, what she’s going to do a moment before she does it. Ships do not betray or hurt you.” There was bitterness there, squeezing from behind his words. “The sea, a ship, together they mean freedom. Freedom to do what I want, go where I want with no one to say I can or cannot do it. Land is commitment and rules and stupid laws. The only law at sea for a pirate is the swell of the ocean and the voice of the wind.”

  “And the fact that piracy is wrong? Does it not concern you? Stealing, murder, rape, are they not immoral?”

  He was indignant. “I have never raped any woman!”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she responded tartly, although her tone implied she again did not believe him. “You might not have done so, there is many a pirate who has.” Thought cynically, or a father.

  In hot defence Jesamiah stated, “Not in my crew!” Relented, it was not true. There had recently been a man who did not follow orders. Jesamiah had tipped him overboard, not holding with his conduct regarding a female on a brigantine they had boarded. The man had stated she was a black slave, assumed he could do as he pleased with servants and slaves, black or white. Jesamiah had disagreed and when the sailor had pulled a knife, shark bait was the result.

  “Laws are not always right, sweetheart,” Jesamiah said pragmatically. “Is it right to send a man to rot in gaol for poaching a rabbit to feed starving children? To send a child to the colonies as a slave for the stealing of a loaf of bread? Nor am I one of those men who believe in flogging a woman because she has committed adultery. Laws are made by rich men who sit on their fat backsides and have no idea what it is to feel hunger gnawing at their bellies. And who enjoy leering at a semi-naked young woman as her skin is flayed from her back.” He spoke with sincerity, the anger evident.