The Isle of Gold

by Seven Jane

  “Ashrays?” I questioned, assuming I had misheard. “Pardon?”

  “Sea ghosts,” he explained in a wistful voice. “Nocturnal beasties that play with men’s eyes. Can take us with ‘em to the bottom of the sea, they can, right down to the heart of the ocean if they be so wantin’. Them and the other things that live in these waters, they don’t always be friendly to the men of land. The sea takes what it wants, lad, and she don’t be givin’ back other than what we take. Pray you don’t learn that the hard way.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to this, so I said nothing, nor did I dare another nod. I looked for ashrays, but saw only the mist on the water, and once more was glad that Dunn did not know the truth of my sex. Perhaps women’s eyes were not as easily fooled as men’s, or perhaps I was simply too much a land dweller to know anything about what happened when among the world of water.

  He gave me a crook-eyed look, as if there was more he’d intended to say, but he decided against it and shook his head. “Well, come on, Mister Rivers, it’s best we be puttin’ you to work.”

  I half expected him to lead me below deck and deliver me into the hands of the faceless man called Jomo, but Mister Dunn escorted me, much to my surprise, to the captain’s cabin at the far end of the ship instead. He didn’t speak again as he rapped on the thick wooden door once, pulled it open without waiting for a response, and ushered me inside.

  Captain Winters’ cabin was surprisingly warm and richly appointed. The flames of a dozen or more lanterns and candelabras cast flickering light around a large, spacious room that was wrapped in windows that were, in turn, hung with red drapes sporting thick golden tassels. A lovely woven rug covered the floor, which was scratched but had been recently shined, and littered about the room were spoils of previous battles—a few gilded artifacts, barrels and chests that brimmed with sparkling trinkets, and more swords and other pieces of discarded weaponry than I could count. More prominent than these, though, were an abundance of books and maps. Rolled and unfurled alike, they covered almost every surface of the room, many covered in markings and languages unlike any I had ever seen before and all well-worn, as if they had been studied and read a hundred times over.

  Among his research sat Captain Winters, reclined in an ornate wooden chair at the head of a heavy oak desk. His legs were lifted on its surface and his leather boots were crossed carelessly beside a thick, open book that was held open under the weight of a large brass sextant. He looked the same as I had last seen him, although like the other men he had added to his seafaring attire. His simple garments now included a thick leather belt, a wide-breasted brown leather coat, and even more weapons than he had worn the night before, along with a well-stocked baldric of his own. An empty rum bottle rested in his lap and he was twisting a compass in his hands, appearing to be lost deep in thought.

  The captain did not look up as Dunn and I approached his desk, me following a pace behind the other man. “The fuck you want?” Winters demanded when we reached the end of his table.

  Dunn cleared his throat and waved me forward, giving me sideways look as I inched toward the desk. “I’ve found you an apprentice, Captain. Seems to be our new mate, Mister Rivers here, knows how to read.” He said this with particular emphasis on the last.

  Winters lifted his eyes from his compass and fixed me a steely glower, but said nothing. He took one last, lingering look and then snapped it shut. As the case closed I noticed that a portrait of Evangeline was tucked within its hood, her smile striking even in sepia, and I wondered which he had been studying more intently—his charts or her face. Then, he set his boots upon the floor and shifted in his chair, trading the compass for a cigarette that he slipped from a breast pocket of his coat and lifted to pinch between his lips. He leaned forward across the desk and lit its tip with the flame of a dripping candle, and then rested on his elbows as he let smoke unfurl between the crack of his lips. The whole gesture was painfully slow, and deliberate, and disturbingly dispassionate, and I tried not to show my discomfort while I waited for him to ready his response.

  “That so?” he said flatly at last, as if this didn’t interest him in the least.

  I glanced nervously from Dunn to the captain, and cursed how the man seemed to ask questions that sounded like challenges. “A-Aye, Captain,” I stuttered. “I can that.”

  Still glowering, he lifted the sexton and pushed the open text in my direction. “Read, then,” he commanded with another puff of smoky breath.

  It was too dim in the cabin to easily make out the fine, swirling script on the faded parchment pages. Without daring a look at the captain, I picked up a candle on the edge of the table and held it in the space between the book and my face, careful not to let any wax spill onto the pages. The book appeared to be old, and although it was thick and heavy it was delicate, and I dared not spoil it as much for its sake as mine. Such ancient texts were lovely things.

  I studied the words, clearly an English translation by way of their uneven cadence and grammar although I could not be sure of the original language. The clumsy passage spoke of the journey of a Venetian navigator named Cabot who had, in the year of 1480, led an expedition to find the mystical island of Bracile, an island believed to be the same as Odysseus’ Ogygia. The island itself was described as one that was cloaked but for one day every two years, when it would became visible, as if it had been birthed magically from the depths of the sea. During this brief time the island could be seen but not reached, as it existed only in a mist between the sky and the sea, somewhere the passage described awkwardly as “inside the ocean’s heart.” Further, it was rumored to be under the guard of a terrible creature of unknown design. Beneath the slanted text the page included a rough illustration of a small, circular-shaped island—labeled "Illa de bracile"—just southwest of Ireland, far out on the western edge of Europe. It featured a thin river that ran east to west across its middle, ending at a small cove in the center of the island.

  “It’s the story of an island,” I said, trying to force my voice to sound steady and assertive in my translation as I passed an unsure finger beneath each word, confirming again the tale I had read. “An enchanted island, called Bracile née Ogygia, that appears only once every two years and can only be reach—”

  Before I could finish, Winters abruptly slammed the volume shut and pulled it back across the table, his palm heavy against its cover. He righted himself, and then stood, the swift motions causing the empty bottle to drop from his lap and roll violently across the floor. With one palm still flat on the book and the other on the tabletop, he spat the cigarette away and stared at me for the space of two terrified heartbeats, his nostrils flaring with angry breath. He breathed fumes and then, with a grunt that must have meant something to Dunn, set his eyes on the man beside me and jerked his head backward toward the corner of the cabin. A canvas hammock was hung there, currently occupied by another stack of dusty texts. Then, Winters snatched an empty flagon from the table and, with it clenched tightly in his fist, swung around the desk and stomped out of the room without a backward glance, which apparently was his usual method of exit.

  “That’s settled then,” said Dunn with a breath of relief. His pinched features relaxed as he raked long, knobby fingers through the white tufts of his hair.

  I looked at him incredulously. “What’s that, then? I don’t know what to make of what’s just happened.” I gestured at the path of fury left by the captain. “He asked me to read it, didn’t he? But then is angry that I did?” My own questions startled me in their candidness, but so much was my confusion that it was impossible to hold them at bay.

  Dunn looked like he might say something useful, and then instead he said, sharply, “The captain be a complicated man, Mister Rivers, and you’ll do well not to be forgettin’ it. Now, that hammock will be your bed, and you’ll keep wit’ the captain and help him with deciphering these texts and whatever else he asks of you.” He paused for a moment, and then lowered his voice and took a step closer towar
d me. “Listen, lad, I’ve been knowin’ Erik Winters for a long time and there’s a good man in him, but ain’t one of us seen the likes of him these past few years. I’m not even sure he’s still in there, though for the sake of us all I hope he be. Be that as it may, he’ll treat ye fairly so long as ye don’t be givin’ him any trouble. Read, write, make your mark on his charts, and do your best to keep to yourself. You wanted to join his crew—this be your lot.”

  My confusion mingled with fear and excitement to form an incomprehensible cocktail of emotion. I had, of course, wanted to get closer to the captain, but had not expected to be in such tight company, and had never anticipated that it would happen so immediately—or that he would live up so readily to his reputation. Now that I’d found myself there I was terrified and thrilled, and more than a little sick from the conflicted blend of both.

  “All right then,” was all I could finally manage, along with a small nod. I couldn’t help but feel a measure of certain doom, and wished I were back caulking the deck, fingers and back be damned. I might even prefer for company of the formidable Jomo if it was safer than being locked away with Winters. Still, if there was a man who could lead us to Evangeline Dahl and the mysteries that kept her company—and what might contain the answers to my questions—it was Erik Winters.

  “Mind ye keep your wits about, Mister Rivers,” the older man counseled in a softer voice. He rested one hand upon my shoulder in a fatherly manner and pushed a thin woolen blanket inside my arm with the other. “In here ye be safe from the likes of them outside, but don’t let that fool you. The one you should really be afraid of is the one you’re locked in here with.”

  V

  When I awoke the next morning, it was in my new hammock in the captain’s cabin of the Riptide. My former hammock in the kitchen’s brothel had been scratchy and uncomfortable—and often so chilled by the incoming breeze from the open windows that my sleep was fitful and uneven—but the canvas of my new bed was soft from wear and it rocked gently with the motion of the ship in a room warmed by a candlelight. I had fallen asleep quickly and rather recklessly, too exh austed from the day’s excitement and labor to conceal myself as I had intended with nothing but the thin blanket to cover me, and slept more soundly than I would have expected. Luckily, my new residence in the captain’s quarters afforded me more privacy than I would have had otherwise, and so any clue to my secret womanhood had mercifully gone unnoticed while I slept. I lay still for a few more moments, enjoying the easy rocking and the dull hum of movement on the deck outside of the cabin. Then the realization of my surroundings slammed into me and my eyes snapped open eyes with a start. I jerked so suddenly that the steady rolling of the hammock swung off kilter and I nearly tipped out of it. I gripped my hands against the edges and willed the swing to still.

  I might have had more privacy in this room than I would have had elsewhere on the ship, but that certainly did not mean that I was secluded—and, alone or not, the captain’s cabin of a pirate ship was not the place to indulge myself. Dunn’s words of caution the night before echoed in my mind. None of these men onboard were my confidant, not even the quartermaster or the handsome ship’s boatswain that had distracted my thoughts and been so amiable toward me. I might have been sailing alongside the dozens of men who crewed the Riptide, but this was a journey that I took on my own.

  I held my breath as I blinked the sleep out of my vision, ignoring my eyes’ burning protests as I forced them open despite the glow of filtered light that flooded the sweeping windows of the cabin. Some had opened their curtains wide to the morning sun. Every fiber of my body was red hot with alert, but I strained to remain as still as a corpse so that I might get my bearings without being discovered. The room was still and quiet and my eyes immediately found the captain’s chair. I had not expected him to be there, and yet there he sat, at work at his desk and hunched over a pile of documents. I wasn’t sure when he had returned, or if he had slept at all, nor where, so deep had my own slumber been. I silently cursed myself for being so careless. Were my true identity to be discovered I could not think of a worse place for it to happen than alone with the captain within his quarters. For that, both he and I might suffer the crew’s response. Since Bartholomew Roberts, the pirate captain known as Black Bart, had penned the articles of the Pirate Code, women had been forbidden from sailing aboard pirate’s ships under the penalty of death. Of course, there were some notorious seafaring women who ignored this entirely, and others braver than I that challenged the rule openly. Still, I was unsure how such a thing might be handled onboard the Riptide, and while Mistress Dahl would likely warrant an exception, even if simply because none would dare challenge Winters, there was little hope that I would as well. I was no one.

  While I waited for my heartbeat to return to its normal speed, I used my vantage point from behind to examine the man without the weight of his gaze on me. He looked much the same as he had when I’d see him the night before, layers of linen and leather, sinewy flesh bulging from underneath tight-fitting cloth that tapered downward from his thick, broad shoulders. He’d removed the coat and baldric, and his wavy auburn hair spilled down his back in windblown tangles that were held together at the middle with a piece of twine. A pile of weapons sat beside him—a pistol inches from his fingers atop the desk, a cutlass leaned against his knee—and a half empty cask of red wine waited within his reach. I could hear the scratching sound of a quill on parchment.

  “You’re awake then,” he said suddenly without turning around. His gravelly voice boomed in the small open room, and it was so startling that I nearly flipped myself from my hammock again. I hadn’t thought I’d made a sound that would have given me away, but he must have sensed my waking like a wild animal could scent its prey, perhaps by a rise in heart rhythm or a change in breathing. My slowing heartbeat accelerated once more. When I didn’t answer he cast an impatient look over his shoulder. One icy blue eye speared me across the few feet of cabin between us.

  I realized with a start that his comment had not been an idle observation, but a call to duty. It was an order to get out of my bed and to work. I was obliged to obey though I was surprised he’d allowed me the luxury of waking naturally. It did not seem a fitting way for a captain’s apprentice to behave, and a wave of anxiety washed over me. “Aye,” I confirmed in a voice hoarse from sleep. The sound was barely more than a whisper. I cleared my throat. “Aye, I’m awake, Captain.”

  With this, Winters’ eye returned to his papers and I righted myself in the hammock, swinging my legs over the edge of the canvas and adjusting the brim of my hat as low as I thought reasonable. I smoothed back loose hairs behind my ears and then pulled my boots back into their proper place on my feet before I stood, re-tucking loose bits of clothing. I double checked that the journal was still concealed safely in my jacket, and tested the reach of my blade, just in case I should need it—not that it would do me much good, but it was reassuring to feel its cold steel just the same. Rubbing my sore hands across my face, I plucked out bits of sleep that had dried in the corners of my eyes with scabby fingertips. I wished I had a basin to wash in, but thought better of inquiring about one.

  The captain didn’t bother to look at me as I rounded the desk and stood before him. Instead, of all the questions I had expected he might ask of me, he chose the one I’d least anticipated, asking it directly with no preamble whatsoever. “What do you know of Evangeline Dahl?” he demanded as he resettled his quill in its pot of ink and took up the wine, drinking deeply as I fumbled for a reply. When he returned the cask to the table, it was nearly empty and I was still searching for an answer.

  “I know only that she was the proprietress of the tavern on Isla Perla, The Goodnight Mermaid,” I began, speaking slowly and taking care to select the right words. I paused, but he added nothing, and so I kept talking, filling the silence with the minimal information I had and thought safe to say aloud. “I know she vanished from that island two summers ago, and that you’ve been searching for
her ever since, but that is the extent of it.”

  The captain lifted his quill again from the ink pot and, eyes still on the paper in front of him, consulted the book he had shown me last night before drawing a new mark on a map. “She didn’t vanish,” he said, his voice reducing to a growl as it landed on the last word. He drew another line, measured it with the compass that held Mistress Dahl’s portrait, and then sat back from his work. “She was taken.”

  “Taken, sir?”

  He rolled his eyes upward, managing to make me feel small beneath his gaze though he was seated below me. “Yes,” he said. His words were so sharp they might have been a blade.

  “My apologies, Captain,” I offered, my thoughts still clouded and slow from sleep. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “She was taken,” he repeated, a rumble of new frustration clipping the end of each word as he paused pointedly between them. “Stolen by the gods of the sea. But I will find her,” he slammed his fist on the table, setting the quill to roll off its edge unnoticed, and fixed me with eyes so frozen that they would never melt, “I will take her back. And when I have, even the gods will pay for what they have stolen from me. You, Mister Rivers, will assist me in all things that I require, or you will join the dead at the bottom of the world. Is that clear?” The last three words bit into the air in turn, each punctuated with a snap so there could be no mistaking the threat that loomed in them.

  I swallowed down a lump that had risen in my throat and nodded in agreement, now fully awake. There was nothing else I could have said or done but agree. Besides, I, too, would have fought the gods of the sea to have Mistress Dahl returned, as well as to force from them the answers that I so desperately craved. At least in this Winters and I wore in accordance, and he needn’t concern himself with that, but apparently he had no intention of doing so. Already he had produced a new quill and returned to his charts, seeming to forget about me altogether.