Dark Shadows: Angelique's Descent

by Lara Parker

  She climbed down into the darkness. He shut her away and was gone.

  She waited for long minutes, which dragged into uncertain hours. Once again she was hidden, forced to endure the impotence of imprisonment, but finally she had time to think about all that had occurred, and she was tortured by remorse. She had killed her father—she had driven the knife into his breast—an unthinkable crime. She had done it to save herself, but she had run away. Who would believe her now, now that she was completely alone?

  She had no idea whether her father had told her the truth about her mother’s being at Trinité, but she was terrified at the prospect of returning to Saint-Pierre. Several of the planters were aware of her true parentage; the priest also knew. Would she face charges of murder resulting in her execution—hanging—or worse, torture? And yet perhaps no one realized what had happened. If the slaves did revolt, her father’s death might be blamed on the rebellion, and she would be free to pursue her life in Martinique. But how? Where could she go?

  There was another nagging thought in the deeper layers of her mind. Her powers, still so new and unfamiliar, baffled her. Could she really be a sorceress? Sometimes she had been seduced by the ceremony, drawn in by the fervor of the worshipers, and the loas had seemed amazingly real. “I am in fear for your immortal soul,” Father Le Brot had said to her. Was the power she possessed from God, or from the darker side, the side of evil? Was she, as Father Le Brot had warned, the servant of the Devil?

  She could feel him now, down in the hold, with its abominable stench. The darkness was imbued with his presence, and the foul odor was the one she remembered, the stink of rotting flesh. She had only to think of him to feel him hovering, and if she was still and concentrated, his touch became palpable … intimate.

  The moans of the slaves in their chains, woeful and forlorn, were like the music of the huge hollow pipes of the organ in the cathedral in Saint-Pierre—the low sounds, those deeper than hearing that vibrated in the bones. The mournful dirge became his voice—a lament sadder than any human cry, and in the murky air she saw the curve of the hull open and the seawater rush in, rising in a black wave that warped the space, filling it with a roaring sound that broke over her, before it was sucked back into the night.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her heartbeat, quick and high-pitched. Then she heard another, deep and throbbing, within her, as though two hearts beat together. “No,” she breathed, the hair rising on her arms. “Don’t—”

  “Angelique,” he whispered, his voice like a rasp against wood. “Come with me now, come with me.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I saved you.… I was there with you.…”

  He was close to her now, and she felt the cold seawater leaking in through the hull where she sat, spreading beneath her thighs, the freezing fingers traveling under her clothes, creeping up between her legs. She stiffened and waited while he explored her everywhere, circling her waist, pinching her small breasts, caresses stinging with ice, until finally she heard a soft cold sigh.

  “Come with me.…”

  “Tell me who you are…” she whispered back.

  A mirthless, patient laughter that might have been the scraping of the anchor chain echoed by her ear, as he murmured, “But you know who I am. You have always known, my lovely one. So why do you ask? If I give you a name, will you be satisfied?”

  “Yes…”

  “The one who lives for you, longs for you alone, the Horned God.”

  She shivered. “Dark One, leave me.”

  His breath was like Pelée’s suffocating gases, oily, pungent, and she could see him now, as the velvet sea swirled into robes, and his thick arms grasped the staves. His eyes were flaming coals and his skin as smooth as obsidian, but his voice was the rolling pitch of the schooner as the surge crashed upon it.

  “I empowered you. You are my servant now. And again.”

  “That was not you. I did that,” Angelique insisted.

  “How were you able to kill your father?”

  “I felt the power within me. I made that choice.”

  “To use me.”

  “I do know who you are! Evil personified! Begone!”

  The ship creaked and shuddered as though it had struck a sandbar, and the hull shrank back. The shining muscular shape merged with the wooden staves and became the moaning slaves once more, writhing in their chains, whispering: “You can never escape me. I am in your thoughts. Always.”

  * * *

  She was restless now, and her skin had begun to itch. How much longer must she stay in this hole? The wait began to gnaw on her, and she was at the point of pushing open the hatch, when she heard footsteps overhead and voices. At once, her courage deserted her, and she shrank back behind the fat bundles of tobacco with their loamy smell. She could see dawn peeking through the cracks of the planking.

  At that moment she heard the grinding of the anchor chain and the wheeze of the winch. The water throbbed beneath the hull, and she could hear shouts over the sounds of pulleys whining and canvas cracking in the wind. The ship was under way! The schooner lifted, hovered, and crashed as it plowed the waves, and she felt her heart beat with excitement. Where were they going? Where was Cesaire?

  When she thought she could bear the suspense no longer, the hatch jerked open and Cesaire flung himself down at her side. He carried a small lantern. She was glad to see that he had found himself short pants and a jersey, but the best part was he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Cesaire! Finally! What’s happening?”

  “We goin’ to sea!” he cried. “Gal, we gots such a good fortune.”

  “To sea … but where?”

  “To the big island—Hispaniola! To the finest city—Port-au-Prince! And there, we grow fat and rich!”

  “How long a voyage is it?”

  “Ten days—two weeks.”

  “But why? I thought we were going to stay in the harbor until morning. What happened?” She beat her thighs with her two fists. “Oh, I hate it that I must stay down here with no way to tell what is going on. Can’t I please go on deck?”

  “That’s just it! You can! You can come up. There be just one little thing.”

  “What?”

  “We gots to cut your hair. They sees you’s a girl, they puts us both ashore on the firs’ li’l deserted island we come to.”

  “Cut my hair? But how can I cut it?”

  “With this!” And he brandished a sailor’s cutlass. Instantly, she pulled off the cap and let the golden ringlets fall below her shoulders. Taking up a lock, Cesaire sawed it until it came loose in his hand. He tossed it in her lap and started on another. The whole time he jabbered with irrepressible excitement.

  “I jes’ been atop the mainmast, raising the top gallant. Lord, it be the finest little schooner you ever did see!”

  “Tell me everything that happened. You were gone all night. Did you find the captain?”

  “I did! It were one close call, but I save myself with my intelligence! An’ my fine climbing!”

  “Oh, no. Did you risk your life again, Cesaire?”

  “Firs’ I sneak down the deck and listen through the porthole to the captain’s cabin. I hear him say to his other officers slaves be settin’ fire to Saint-Pierre and they lose the trade. They can’t come in the harbor with the ’bacco they has on board, so they decides to take off to the other side o’ the Caribbean. They wants more slaves than the ones they already gots. They argues and argues about it, an’ they finally decides to set sail.”

  “When did you talk to the captain?” Angelique asked, as she saw another lock of hair fall into her lap. Cesaire bent over her and sawed away.

  “Owoooo, that be the scary part. I’s crouched there by the window, drinkin’ it all in, and thinkin’ what’s the bes’ plan, when along come a sailor and grab me by the ear! ‘What you doin’, boy,’ he cry out like he got hisself a wild goat, an’ he mean to roast him on a stick. I says, ‘I gots permission to come aboa
rd, sir,’ and he say, ‘From who?’ an’ I says, ‘The capt’n.’ So’s he drag me, naked as a jaybird, down the ladder and into the captain’s quarters! He tell the captain I be’s a stowaway!”

  “Oh-h-h-h, no. What do they do to stowaways?” Angelique interrupted.

  “Well, he was about to t’row me overboard ’til I sing out ‘I be mos’ happy to climb the mast and rerig that torn royal, Capt’n!’ I don’ know if they be a torn sail or not, but I figures I take that chance ’cause … well, they always is! He didn’t believe I could climb all the way to the top, an’ he say black boys afraid of heights, so I says, ‘Gimme the try!’ and first light they all comes out to see me climb, or to see me fall, more like it, since it be such a fine sport. They don’t know I gots the number for that!” Cesaire laughed, rocking back on his heels.

  “Why didn’t you come and tell me?”

  “They keep me locked up down there, ’til mornin’, so’s I can’t get back to you.”

  “Well, did you do it? Did you climb to the top?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “Aw, gal, what you say? You know me. I coulda shinned up there so easy it make their mouths gape open and the wind fly in. But I does my best to give ’em a good show. When I gets to the top, I rerigs the mail royal, then, when they all got their necks crooked back watchin’, I loose my grip and drop! I lan’ on the cross brace, and just barely catch it, with one hand! Aw, it all make-believe, but it work good! They all so staggered, the captain say I can stay aboard.”

  “But what about me? How long do I have to stay down here in the dark? I can’t bear it anymore!”

  “Take it easy, gal, I do good for you, too. I tell him there be another boy like me hidden in the hold, and he laugh and smack me on the ear, whap! like that, and say I be the most insolent fellow he know! Then one of the young officers chime in and say they needs a boy in the galley, and he say yes that be so, let us meet this other lad who must be as reckless as you! He say, once we under way, come see him in his quarters. There! You look good. Put the cap back on so’s your hair not look so spiky.”

  Cesaire and Angelique climbed out on the raked deck, and she blinked at the sight of the dawn. The ship was alive with sailors, some in the rigging and some at the lines, calling out and pulling hard. A couple of the men gave them a glance but, for the most part, ignored them, involved in the work of setting the sails and steering the ship. They were already so far from Martinique that she could see the top of Dominica on the far horizon, and the shining Caribbean stretched before them, with the sun rising to the right and the wind at their stern. All the sails were full and drawing, and the officer she supposed must be the captain was standing on the bridge looking down at the wheel, his hand on his hip and his blue jacket unbuttoned at the collar.

  A moment later, she stood before him, filthy and barefoot, her cap pulled over her chopped hair and her head bowed.

  “So, lad, the two of you have decided to stow away aboard my ship. You know that is a crime, do you not?” Angelique was afraid to look up and too terrified to speak. She merely nodded and continued to stare at the deck. “I would take you back to Saint-Pierre,” he continued, “and turn you over to the authorities, were it not for the infernal rebellion. God knows where I would find the militia. Look behind you.”

  She turned to see, and, sure enough, several dark plumes of smoke rose from the hills above the harbor. So, they had done it! The maroons had staged a revolt, and slaves had set fire to Saint-Pierre. Her heart skipped a beat. Had they destroyed the plantation? Was Thais all right? She hoped if her mother was there somewhere that she was safe.

  “Now see here, boy,” the captain continued. “I had some lucrative arrangement to pick up planters and their families for safekeeping, but I have decided not to risk it with my cargo, so we are off with the morning tide and as you can see, already halfway through the channel, the wind on our helm. I should toss you into the sea, but you are in luck. We need a scrub in the galley. What say you to that? Is it agreeable?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Angelique under her breath. She stole a look at the captain. He was a tall man with a full gray beard and deep wrinkles around his eyes. She caught sight of his right hand, which was missing the three middle fingers, and he crooked the claw of thumb and pinkie around the hilt of a sword.

  “Very well. Work hard and help Cook, do as he says, give him no trouble, and you’ll have a safe voyage, and a free one as well I might say, to Hispaniola. What I do with you once we are there depends upon your performance during the next ten days. Off with you, now!” He nodded to Cesaire. “This young monkey will show you the way. There are pots to scrub, I’m sure, and salt pork to pound thin. And we’ll have our tea on deck. Wait a minute! What do you say to me, lad?”

  “Thank you, sir,” she managed.

  The captain narrowed his eyes at her, and answered, “Humph!”

  She scurried after Cesaire.

  “Hurry up,” Cesaire whispered, “b’fore he change his mind.”

  They ran past a group of younger officers, standing by the rail and looking back at Martinique, gesturing toward the fires. One young man, tall and well formed, with brown curly hair, glanced in her direction. At that moment the boat crashed into the trough of a huge wave, and the deck shuddered. Cesaire grabbed Angelique by the arm to steady her, but she cried out, lost her balance, and fell, sliding smack into a pair of legs.

  “Oh, so sorry, sir!”

  “Whoa! What’s this!” he said, then seeing her all in a tangle, he smiled and reached down to give her a hand. As she scrambled to her feet, she looked up. She was dumbfounded when she saw his face. She knew him! To her astonishment, she recognized the boy she had met at Carnival, the boy she had dreamed about and kept alive in her mind for three long years.

  Unconsciously, she reached for her charm, where the moonstone still lay, and she opened her mouth and soundlessly breathed the young officer’s name, “Barnabas.”

  He frowned at her and leaned closer. “What did you say, lad?”

  “Oh … nothing, sir.”

  “I thought you said my name. Do I know you?”

  “N-n-no, sir…”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Cook’s boy, sir.”

  “Ah, yes, that was my recommendation. I worried the captain might throw you in the drink.” He smiled pleasantly. “Still haven’t got your sea legs, I notice.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, see that you stay well below, where you belong. We might catch a squall, and you’ll be swept overboard.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Cesaire tugged at her arm, but the young man held her gaze. She remembered his eyes, dark and merry with mirth, and the flow of freckles across his nose. Familiar as well was his courteous and courtly manner.

  “How old are you now, my boy?” Barnabas asked.

  “Thirteen…”

  “A good age, younger than I was when I first went to sea. And, by the way, you’ve no need to be mortified. My first time out, I clung to the safety line the whole time—for fear of falling on my face, and because I needed the whole span of the ocean to vomit in!” He laughed in a comradely fashion and gave her a smack on the shoulder as if he were sharing a joke, man to man.

  “I don’t get seasick, sir,” she ventured, even though Cesaire was signaling her to hurry.

  “Really? Ah, well, then I envy you, lad. Perhaps, sometime, you will tell me your secret.”

  She turned to descend the ladder to the galley, but he called to her again.

  “Wait a minute, lad!” She looked back. He was staring at her more intently, and his hand went to his mouth. “There is something about you that is familiar. Where are you from?”

  “Martinique, sir.”

  “Yes, but which part?”

  “Basse Pointe.”

  “Hm-m-m-m-m, what is it? Those eyes … blue as wild asters … ah, well, memory plays such tricks. There’s no way I could know you. But b
est luck to you on your first voyage. May you become a fine sailor!”

  Cesaire pulled her into the galley.

  Fifteen

  “Barnabas! Wake up! I need to speak to you!” There was a pounding on his door, and Barnabas was jarred from his reverie. The diary lay in his lap where he had set it down in astonishment at what he had just read.

  “Barnabas! Are you there?” It was Carolyn’s voice.

  He opened the door and found her standing in her robe, her hair disheveled, and a stricken look on her face.

  “Carolyn, what is it?”

  “Oh, Barnabas, it’s Mother. She’s had a fall!”

  “Is she badly hurt?”

  “I don’t know. She woke up in the middle of the night, tried to get out of bed, and when she stood up she was suddenly very dizzy. She said all the blood rushed from her head.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Lying down. Julia’s with her, and she asked me to fetch you. She needs your help.”

  “Of, course, I’ll be happy— I mean. I’ll come immediately. Tell her I’ll be right there.”

  He shut the door and tried to concentrate on finding his slippers. Then he thought better of putting on a robe over his pajamas and decided to dress before going down. His brain was reeling from the journal. That terrible voyage—when he had been so young! The attack of the pirates—ruthless cutthroats, who put him in chains. The one with the scar, who laughed and said they could get good money for a “Collins” if they took him back to Maine alive. The black-hearted villain who wanted to kill him to see if his blood was actually blue. His total certainty that he was going to die. Then, the slip of a boy, filthy from the kitchen, who had set him free! He had never known who he was—the cook’s lad, fleeing for his own life as well—fast as quicksilver—set him free, and was gone!

  He pulled on his trousers and sat on the bed to tie his shoes. Snatched from the jaws of death. The scoundrels who guarded him deathly ill, retching in agony, and incapable of stopping his young rescuer, who was … impossible … too absurd a coincidence to even consider. Had her life and his folded in upon one another, as if there had been some hand of fate at work, before he had ever actually met her, known her, and … desired her…? Incomprehensible!