Sea of Two Suns

by Nicholas McAuliff

  The first mate stood steady and stared at the sea, and his eyes were wild. “Off with the rudder, overboard with the captain!” he said again.

  Hildale laughed a bellowing laugh, sitting down again and pulling down Mr. Tacky by the waist. Without fight the first mate collapsed onto the sand, where he shook and cried.

  “What is this?” whispered Francisco.

  Hildale laughed as he ate.

  “I am captain,” said Hildale. “Mr. Tacky was struck by loosed chains fallen from the riggings during the storm which marooned us so. His brain was jolted like your idiot brother there-”

  Before Hildale’s lips closed the pirate captain stood up and as he ate Hildale’s eyes too flared and locked onto the captain’s eyes.

  “Hoy!” screamed Francisco. “Hoy! For the love of Christ gentlemen, we shall eat a meal in peace. Now your man looks to be in need of help, Hildale.”

  “I can look,” said Lukas. “Sometimes the brain’s swelling can be long lasting. He may yet find relief.”

  Hildale shook his head. “He sleeps often,” he said. “And that relieves his pain.”

  “To find relief only in dreams,” said Francisco. “That sounds like a hellish life.”

  “Indeed, but we do not choose our destiny,” snapped Hildale. His eyes flattened and he broke apart hardtack in frustration. “If we are to suffer from dawn until dusk, so be it, so long as the lord wills it I say!” said Captain Hildale.

  “Aye!” screamed Lukas.

  “Indeed!” yelled Jerimiah as he made the sign of the cross.

  Hildale nodded his head rapidly, crumbs falling from his mouth. He signed the cross without touching hand to head, like he was drawing an upside down “T” in the air.

  “My head,” came a groan from Mr. Tacky. “Always afire,” he groaned, sounding like more like a child than a man. “Even in dreams.”

  “It’s true,” came a bark from another of Hildale’s men. “He suffers nightly! His head pulsates, I can see! And he would welcome relief.”

  Hildale turned and struck the man, bloodying his mouth. “Thank you for this meal,” said the marooned captain. And as he stood so too did his men. “You may look at him, if you like,” he said, pointing to Mr. Tacky who still trembled crying on the sand.

  And without words the marooned captain and his men trailed silently up the dunes. The moonlight lit their silhouettes as the waves lapped at the sand, until they faded into the black.

  “They don’t have the look of scurvy about them,” said the surgeon. “We should check the northside of the island. They are eating. They are not eating well, but they are eating. And more than berries.”

  Plenty of timber,” said Isaac pointing to the blackened ruins of Hildale’s ship. “If only men could eat timber.”

  “Aye,” said the captain. “Look at that pathetic wretch, if you will,” he said, glaring down hatefully at the crying man. “I do not know why you offered.”

  Lukas crawled toward the man, cupping his head in his hands. “Some mercy need still exist in this world,” he said. “Lest we descend back to the savagery from whence we first crawled.”

  “Ha!” balked the pirate captain. “Long as you have liquor in you. Then your spirits are high as the sky,” he said. “Where’s your mercy when your own blood runs afoul?”

  Lukas ignored the captain, inspecting Mr. Tacky’s head in the moonlight. “He does have some swelling, indeed. May be relieved on board, tomorrow, in the light.”

  “That thing isn’t stepping on board,” replied the captain.

  “Then he will die here in the sand,” said the surgeon.

  Mr. Tacky cried under the moon as the surgeon tilted his head this way and that.

  Francisco held the lantern and took off his heavy outer fur. He lifted Mr. Tacky’s head and wiped the sand from it and balled up the fur and placed it under the man’s quivering skull.

  The surgeon’s eyes shot up. “That was kind of you,” he said.

  “Tell me man,” said Francisco.

  Mr. Tacky shivered and looked around, his wet hair over his eyes. The rainy mist sprayed down hard both from the sea and above. Raw fire roared from the cave, from which Captain Hildale’s laugh was heard. From the ship, lights glowed out the forecastle and captain’s quarters. Francisco noticed a jib sail for some reason unfurled and rapping violently in the dark.

  “come, man,” said Francisco.

  “Many moons here,” whispered Mr. Tacky. “Many moons and no food.”

  “No food?” said Francisco. “Why not break down the whale that lays beached yonder,” he said, pointing towards the opposite shore that yesterday held the decaying carcass.

  “No food,” Mr. Tacky whispered.

  “I used to be a whaleman,” said Francisco. “All of us could have her butchered and rendered in a day.”

  “Not for us,” said Mr. Tacky. “Captain says so.”

  “What?”

  Mr. Tacky shivered again and shook his head, his eyes frantic like those of a lost dog.

  “Come, man!” urged Francisco. “Look at me!”

  And the eyes of Mr. Tacky looked at Francisco, and at once the Mexican regretted his tone.

  “Not for us!” Tacky screamed. “Not meat of the whale flesh. Not for us!”

  Francisco narrowed his eyes. “Do the Barbarys sail here? Do they demand tribute? That’s their island of silver, that’s what this is,” said the Mexican as if coming to a revelation.

  “No Pirates, no men!” yelled Mr. Tacky.

  Francisco sighed and shook his head. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You ought to sail back with us. Keep that between us, ya hear? Tell none of your brothers. You must choose. And especially don’t utter a word to Captain Hildale.”

  Mr. Tacky’s eyes welled up.

  “What in God’s name happened here?” uttered Francisco.

  “Not for us,” answered Mr. Tacky. “Not for us.”

  Francisco sighed again. “Goodnight, my friend,” said he.

  The surgeon picked up Mr. Tacky like a child and carried him toward the dunes. A towering silhouette holding an emaciated man, his stick legs draping down and his cries still audible as they disappeared toward the blackness that was inland.

  Under the crags petrels whined with the new day. A handful of rainbow-colored Eiders skirted here and there.

  Inside the cave sat neat rows of oaken barrels, all sealed. Near were also countless jars and flasks filled with milky opaque liquid, once exposed when the Mexican pried their lids.

  “All of this oil,” whispered Francisco. “We could make a fortune. We could be gone in the night with most of it. Perhaps this our silver haul, Captain.”

  The pirate captain offered no words as his eyes too skirted the barrels. Nearly a dozen barrels, all neatly stacked in rows. The two pried open the remaining lids, their hands on an iron bar together and their eyes radiating amber.

  Francisco gasped. “Such a voyage they had. Such a bounty. Such a loss. Ambergris, even maybe, should it not be rancid. Who knows what have they in these jars,” he said, squatting down and inspecting the jars below.

  “This man will be the death of us,” said the captain. “He means to kill us after last night.”

  “What has got into you?” asked Francisco. He dropped the iron bar.

  “Check the other cave while they scavenge on the far side,” replied the captain. “Herb says there are ducks but they won’t touch them. If Hildale finds us he will kill us and his men will attack. Work fast. I’ll muster the crew.”

  “Aye captain.”

  Francisco felt the sand sink beneath him. Above was only black, from which stalagmites reached down like icicle bones. He saw a dim yellow light, not of wax, in fact the light did not even look like a flame but more of a yellow orb which pulsated dully evermore.

  Whale oil, he thought.

  Upon a rocky shelf the lamp sat, next to which lay a wooden bowl filled with some sort of shrunken and dried minnows, next to which sat
a faded book bound in brittle yarn.

  “The log,” said the Mexican. For a moment he thought of leaving the cave, for he shuddered as his fingers untied the yarn. He shuddered as the first page opened, it felt like a crumbling leaf in his hands.

  Captain Hildale of the Queen’s Destiny - Northwest by North. November. The year of our lord, eighteen and twenty-nine. Seas were still today. Skies as well. God be thanks. Mr. Tacky spotted a Right Whale off starboard a while after noontime. Awfully close, in fact the men thought it a turtle, at first. As such large turtles of the sea were said to sometimes skirt under and about the hull. Whale rendered next day-and-one-half, under the moon and sun, as was the way. The tryworks warmed the men’s bones, in the least, as we continue northwest. I have oft been tempted to abandon the whale and find the damned passage. Perhaps destiny brought us this far north. Perhaps whaling was not my lot.

  “Five years,” said Francisco. His voice echoed from the black walls as if the elements heard his awe.

  Holding course North by Northwest. December, the year of our lord, eighteen and twenty-nine. Uneventful seas today. A squall spotted off starboard at 3 P.M. and God be thanks it amounted to nothing. I am pleased in Mr. Tacky’s performance as first mate. He was born of low farmhands and stutters when he speaks. Yet even lower men must be elevated from time to time. His friendship with the one they call Goldenbeard disturbs me. The man disturbs me. His manner, his presence. If I could throw him overboard without invoking a mutiny, it would be done.

  “Hildale,” whispered Francisco. Francisco flipped through the logbook where coordinates, course and dates became sparse.

  He is a damned foremast hand. He will learn who his betters are or he will be flogged again in the morn. Twelve lashes and the man laughed where others would scream. Now all look up to him. This is how a mutiny cultivates, like a baby squall swelling.

  Land spotted W. by N. distance uncertain - January, the year of our lord, if that is what it really is, eighteen and thirty. Perhaps I should call this the year of the devil. My bones tell me I shan’t live to see aught thirty-one. The men work with the speed of molasses and become lively only in the evening. The giant livens their spirits with tales as they drink their drink. Thus I have taken the men’s grog for a fortnight. Save for Mr. Tacky and Mr. Bohesion, the only two who eat in my quarters while the rest stare mesmerized at the fool as he tells his ramblings of earth and the sea and the blood of the sea and other nonsense in the fo’c’sle. Even the officers admire him.

  With shaking hands Francisco flipped the page, part of which crumbled into dusty parchment.

  Rough seas today and winds the same. West by North holding course. Sails shortened and to that order the bane of my existence laughed, though he followed it. He will be the death of me. That and a rat found in the galley. Had come about because the drunkard cook left a wedge of cheese out on the board while they reveled. I cannot punish him for that. If there be rats, let them be drawn out and killed. Lest they skirt the bulkheads as they do in the edges of the hearth at home.

  Candles were forbade due to the uncooperative tides. Yet I heard from the blacksmith that Hildale lit four anyway, as he told his tales. The blacksmith. Perhaps he should replace Mr. Tacky. What have the seas come to? When I was a youth any vessel of repute was filled with better-born men. Not like now. Scarcely can criminals and thieves fill the deck. Lucky are we if a press gang throws half a dozen beggars on board the morning of sail! Oh, what a world. God save the Queen.

  Same year. Same course. Air turns frigid. Sometime after 5 P.M. the blond bearded one smiled at me when I ordered him in irons and without chow. And only the blacksmith obeyed. I am going to have him dragged under the keel tomorrow ere we drop anchor off what I believe to be Baffin Island. That will break him or in the least freeze him as it does any man, giant or not. Let the others witness his deconstruction.

  Francisco sighed and turned the page. He felt a weariness set upon him and he turned and vomited. He looked toward the cave entrance but there was nothing save the blinding white of the sun streaming in from which all became black and saturated the Mexican with shadows. He turned the page and dried blood caked and fell to the deck.

  Farewell, Blacksmith! was the next entry. There was no course, date or year. Near the entry was a smiling face drawn in blood.

  Etched into the book was the rough outline of a man surrounded by a writhing sea. On what looked like the waves, he held a hammer as he was embraced above and by the sea, as if from the sky too. The etching was drawn in dried blood. Francisco slammed the book, then opened it again.

  Sun in the sky today! Ah, perhaps we have found Avalon. Mr. Tacky and the men crave meat. Alas, so do I. Not for me to say, nor hear. I tire but I am filled again in the evening, under the moon! Filled with vigor for the days to come!

  Francisco turned the crusted pages with narrowed eyes. Mostly scribbles of dried blood. The rolling sea, other seas of red blood. The sky drawn to look like an upside-down sea looming down. Figures kneeling upon the dunes. As if a child drew it.

  January the twelfth, methinks! The year of our lord, Eighteen and thirty-one! Three Eskimo whalers landed ashore. And they spoke to our own Eskimo, in only their tongues! They were angry beings. Yes. Only a name I learned from them that would remain. We shall eat again, it seems.

  A final page: Eholg! Have I understood what you wrought? Finally, under so many moons, have I understood your lesson? How many moons have we sailed upon this northern island? Perhaps I should call you my brother!

  “Captain!” yelled Francisco as he jogged down the dunes which spilled sandy shards downward with him.

  “Speak!” replied the Captain.

  The crew gathered supplies near the shore. The remnants of their two-day old fire scattered around them. Behind a sail unfurled on The Roc as if Simon anticipated what was.

  “We need to weigh anchor and make full sail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Hildale is a deckhand, not Hildale. He murdered Captain Hildale over five years ago. He murdered the blacksmith, I think.

  “Ah!” said the captain. “A surprise,” he said. “What did you see?”

  “The logbook.”

  “Did you bring it hither,” said Isaac?

  “No, you dullard,” said Francisco. “He means to kill us and eat us, I think.”

  The captain stepped into his first mate. “He can fucking try,” he said. “That would ease our lot. I have eaten the flesh of men ere. Perhaps we’ll shit them out upon these black stones.”

  Isaac felt his eyes burn into the pirate, but none other made any acknowledgment of the prior statement. “Most men would not utter that, Captain.”

  “Write about it, you pretentious prick,” said the captain. “Flesh is flesh. Men taste as pork, albeit a bit sweeter be it stewed right.”

  “Pork!” Julius screamed.

  “Captain,” said Francisco. “I’d rather not see his wrath.”

  “And what of my wrath?”

  “I’ve seen that, but Hildale doesn’t need liquor to get his blood up. Leave them forsaken as they are. They are of no aid to us, nor will they aid us in finding the island. Let us sail.”

  The captain peered up towards the dunes and toward the larger cave where Hildale and his retinue stayed. “We will kill them all, gather what meager supplies we can. Then continue. North by West.”

  Miska barked aggressively. Julius patted the dog as flintlocks were loaded and knives unsheathed. The hunter loaded and primed the elephant gun, using one hand to brace its heavy wooden stock in the sand.

  The crew stood ready with gun and blade, in front of them lumbered the hunter, who donned heavy furs and the elephant gun which was taller than he.

  “Be ready,” said the captain.

  And as the men entered the cave, whale oil light scattered from stone and flesh.

  It illuminated all of their faces, mostly Hildale’s face and beard. He stood and watched as the men ate, their faces bloodied like that of
a snow bear after an arctic kill.

  Two wooden torches burned upward around a raised stone slab, and on the slab was a bisected Mr. Tacky. His legs and arms sat in place where they would be but were sliced at the shoulder and hips. His eyes were gone, his mouth wide, and his flanks were open, exposing his broken ribs. The emaciated crew all ate as they sat on the cold ground. They looked at the Roc’s crew at the entrance as a child might when caught with forbidden sweets.

  Hildale stood above the other men and eyed the crew of The Roc. His eyes were flat, and no grin ran across his face as it usually had.

  A moment passed for what felt to Isaac far too long.

  The writer whisked out of the cave as the elephant gun’s roar sprang out. In his peripheral he saw a herd of men charging the pirate captain and his crew.

  No words came but in the form of fireworks and the smells of gunpowder and sulfur outweighed that of cooked human flesh. The elephant gun rang out again.

  Isaac’s ears rang fiercely as he stumbled to the cave’s entrance, then back into the cave, where several scattered corpses lie atop the sand. The cooked corpse had fallen from the slab and lie among them as well.

  “Where is he!” screamed the captain.

  “He ran before I could get another shot,” yelled the hunter as he laboriously loaded the enormous rifle.

  “Here, Captain!” came a shout from the dark.

  And the imposter Hildale’s arm clasped tightly around the pirate captain’s neck as he held an iron shank to the lower right flank.

  “This is madness,” said Francisco. “Let him go. Sail back with us and we will forget whatever the hell you have been doing here.”

  Hildale’s eyes were pure white. His remaining living men moaned on the ground, filled with shrapnel and lead ball. “I am the captain,” he said. “I am!” and he squeezed harder around the pirate captain’s neck.

  The veins on the pirate’s neck bulged bluely, and he bit down onto Hildale’s forearm, but it was like biting steel.

  With his flintlock Francisco pistol whipped the imposter about the head and the pirate threw the giant over one shoulder as all ran from the deathly cave.