The Isle of Gold

by Seven Jane

  As the appetite for my own pursuits lingered in my mind, a sound gurgled forth from my stomach, signaling another kind of hunger. It was an embarrassing consequence of life—that one must continually worry over such simple things as food. I prayed silently that Winters hadn’t heard it, though I suspected if he could hear me pretending to sleep he would hear that telltale rumble as well. He could probably hear my thoughts, too. Luckily they were fixated now on a longing for some biscuits and fruit.

  Winters loosed a deep sigh and leaned back in his seat, studying me with something akin to pity on face—the same way one might look at a suffering dog. “When’s the last time you ate, boy?” he asked. From anyone else such words of concern might have sounded warm and welcoming, but from him they were just as cold as his previous warning, although they’d lost some of their normal hostility.

  “Night before last at the tavern,” I responded sheepishly. “Mister Dunn provided me with bits of bread and a tank of ale.” In truth, I had been so consumed yesterday in preparing to make way that I had forgotten to eat.

  Winters rolled his eyes and pushed the nearly empty flagon of wine toward me, giving a permissive nod to drink. I watched as the thick red fluid sloshed against its own container in a way that was eerily similar to the feeling happening my stomach, and struggled not to gag. The thought of wine on an empty stomach was almost sickening enough to diminish my appetite all together.

  An amusing face must have accompanied this thought because the captain’s mouth unexpectedly propelled its left corner upward in a tight, uncharacteristic smirk that might have broken a lesser man’s face. His hand reached for the wine and he swilled the remainder of it, and then laughed so good-naturedly that the sound was more frightening than any he’d made so far. He clapped one palm heavily against the tabletop and waved the empty bottle toward the door of the cabin with the other. In the blink of an eye his face had hardened once more to its normal impassive glower. The transition was so quick and imperceptible that I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing. “Go on then.” He waved the bottle again, all hints of laughter passed. He pulled a small red bead, no larger than a bullet, from his pocket and tossed it to me across the table. I caught it easily. “For the cook,” he explained, although I wasn’t sure what it meant. “Be back within the hour.”

  I nodded gratefully and excused myself, stealing one last brief glance at the good man that Dunn had said had once been the captain as I stepped out of the cabin and into the milieu of the deck beyond.

  The first person I saw when I moved out into the sunlight was Tom Birch, who was sitting at a makeshift table formed from two half-rotted wooden crates that had been stacked atop each other. His legs were so long that even bent at the knee they stood taller than the combined height of the crates, and he had to hunker down over the table as he sat, shirtless in the hot sun and peeling the skin from an apple with a small dagger. Boatswains, I knew, were largely responsible for overseeing the majority of activities to keep the ship afloat, but currently he was holding a wedge of the fruit in one hand and wearing eyes wide with surprise while a coil of rope sat forgotten at his feet. I stepped out of the cabin’s door and closed it softly behind me.

  “Oi, what’s that then?” he asked by way of greeting, waving the dagger in the direction of the captain’s office. His curious eyes landed on me, and I stared at the apple to avoid melting into them. “Was that the captain I heard,” his voice dropped conspiratorially and he whipped his head around to make sure no one was listening before whispering the last word, “laughing?”

  “Aye,” I confirmed, glad I’d finally been asked something I could answer. I bravely met his eyes. “And at my expense at that,” I said, pressing my hand against my stomach as it rumbled again. Tom cocked an eyebrow at the noise though he was polite enough not to comment. “What does it matter to you?”

  He slid the fruit into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, the dagger left to dangle loosely between his long fingers. “Doesn’t much really, I guess,” he replied after swallowing. “Just I can’t remember the last time I heard that. Don’t think he’s so much as taken a breath without scowling in at least a year.” He sliced another chunk of apple from the rind and stuffed it into his mouth, squinting up at me in the sunlight. “Maybe more.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I quipped, feeling embarrassed. I hoped my reputation on the ship did not become that of the comic relief. That might be worse than being found a woman. At least then they’d kill me quickly and not make me yearn for it.

  Tom nodded amiably, then stood, stretched, and tossed the apple core overboard where it landed with a dull thud on the top of the water and sank. He wiped both sides of the dagger against the thigh of his pants—a movement I watched with a completely different type of hunger than the one banging around noisily in my stomach—before tucking it into the wide waistband of his belt. “Come on then,” he said, turning to walk away. “I’ll show you down to the galley.”

  My thoughts immediately turned to Jomo and I almost protested, but my stomach twisted painfully against my insides and so I followed safely in Tom’s shadow as he led me down into the belly of the ship.

  While I avoided studying the man’s muscular backside, Tom led me down through the tween decks of the ship and into the cargo hold, and then navigated us smoothly through stairwells and short halls as we made our way through the ship’s pantry. Soon we reached the galley nestled into the bow of the ship’s hull. Descending into the interior of the ship had not been as dark as I had expected with sunlight pouring through the grating between decks. Flickering wax candles cased in lanterns were stationed on shelves and tables adding light into the corners. With most of the crew either busy above deck or sleeping in their quarters, the lower decks were surprisingly empty save for a few men here and there who were tending to tasks in the hold. It was a good thing, too, as the recently stocked belly of the Riptide was full with supplies. Stacks of wooden crates and barrels, some standing and some laid on their sides, lined the walls and cluttered the floors where sacks of flour and thick coils of rope hadn’t already taken up residence. Baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables hung below hooks jammed full of fish and other slabs of meat; kegs of rum stood at the ready with taps already hammed in their husks. A goat, tied to a post, napped in a bed of straw. A short milking stool lay at her feet, and nearby a small wire cage was crammed full with nesting hens while others pecked around the floor, hunting for bits of loose grain. Fresh and plentiful now, I knew that these stores would soon be depleted and we would subsist on little more than hardtack and salted meats.

  The ceilings of the decks were shorter than those in the captain’s quarters, but still taller than I’d anticipated, though more than once the tall boatswain had to duck to avoid hitting his head while I followed quietly behind him. He was at least three hands higher than me, perhaps more. Likewise, these rooms below deck were not like what I’d seen above. They were cramped, dingy, and unkempt, and had largely gone to ruin—not like the tidy, spacious room at the back of the ship that belonged to the captain. Long wooden tables stretched between the pantry and the galley, flanked by wooden benches for seating.

  When at last we reached the kitchen and my sights set on Jomo, I was glad that I had Tom Birch’s company to soften the introduction. The portly, soft-bellied man I’d seen on the docks yesterday couldn’t have been more of an opposite to the terrifying vision of a man before me now—nor would I have been able to conjure anything the likes of this man even if I had spent a hundred nights dreaming of monsters. He was garbed simply and in a similar fashion to the rest of the men onboard, in layers of linen and leather, and his neck was embellished with length upon length of necklaces strung with various bits of beads and bone and feather, but where the man I’d witnessed in the harbor had been thick and fair-skinned, Jomo was midnight made flesh. He was slim and muscular with broad shoulders and a narrow, tapering waist, and covered in skin so dark that it was of a black so dense it might have been sculpt
ed from ink. It was not the color of his skin that startled me—no, nothing quite so superficial as that. I had seen many darker hues color the skin of the peoples on Isla Perla, from burnt olive complexions to dark, mud brown, and rich, gleaming ebony. They were a mixed and dynamic people of lovely colors and even lovelier heritages. My own dear Claudette wore skin the color of whipped, delicious caramel that was several shades darker than my own. Pirate vessels, too, were diverse lots, crewed with men of every color and nation, although many still held the same prejudices as other white men and were known to treat runaway slaves or peoples of coastal Africa no more kindly than just another commodity in their stolen prizes. This man, though, with his hands buried deep within the stomach cavity of a large fish, looked like no runaway slave or coastal native that I had ever set eyes on before.

  The coarse black hair at the crown of his head was braided tightly against his scalp, the remainder shaved away completely to expose long, raised scars that ran the length of his face. There were seven in total, each beginning at the top of his head and raking in concentric lines that ended at the edge of his jaw. A smaller set, four atop four, formed a hash mark above the steep cliff of his brow, and another line—this one fresher and noticeably thinner, ran diagonally across the bridge of his nose. A small, hook-shaped scar, oddly similar to the one on the captain’s eye, decorated the top of his unmarked eye. He wore no less than a dozen silver hoops in each of his ears, another in his nose, and a series of small, raised circles adorned his upper lip. More scars ran the length of his collar and disappeared beneath his clothing, which I noticed now was more colorful than was customary, dyed in shades of crimson and sunshine.

  “Jomo, this is Mister Rivers,” Tom introduced me with a wave of his hand to the exotic creature gutting the dead fish as he rummaged about for something else to eat. He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly like the man were hard of hearing, or prone to startling. “He is the captain’s new apprentice, just come onboard in Isla Perla.”

  The whites of the man’s eyes flickered in my direction and then returned to his business with the fish. Mine, however, stayed glued to his curious scars as I traced them top to bottom several times over. I had heard of such intricate scarring rituals in the Congo, but had never seen them with my own eyes. They were as striking as they were beautiful, and I had a morbid urge to touch them, trace them with my fingertips. However, I also had an urge to live, so I did not dare.

  “What have you got for grub?” Tom continued jovially, nosing about the room as if we weren’t in the presence of some displaced tribal god. “Lad hasn’t eaten since two nights past. We can’t afford any man to get sick this early in, not when we’ve got plenty of food to go ’round. Right, mate?”

  Jomo grunted, jerking his head toward a table where a pile of uneaten scraps sat awaiting disposal. Among these I saw bits of a crumbling ship biscuit, a chunk of yellow cheese, and a small pile of red grapes. My stomach lurched and I inched toward the table. The cook’s eyes darted quickly back to me and he lurched forward, his fish momentarily forgotten while strands of innards dangled from his hand, which now gripped an unsheathed blade, the business end of which was pointed at me. I noticed a gap in his grip; he was missing a finger.

  “Payment,” he demanded, his throaty voice sawing out words in blunt grumbles that had a strange, songlike quality. He sneered at me and I noticed that the few teeth he had left in his skull had been filed to sharp, carnivorous points.

  My hands flew instinctively to the air in front of my face, palms facing outward in supplication. If I fainted, then perhaps I could blame it on my hunger.

  “Oi,” came Tom’s voice from somewhere behind the cook’s hulking figure. A tanned hand landed lightly on the cook’s shoulder as the boatswain moved between us, his movements echoing that slow and careful manner that he’d spoken with before. He spoke to the air between us, his eyes on the knife that hovered threateningly in the air. “Mister Rivers here ain’t familiar with how we go about business on this ship, Jomo. Are you, Rivers?” This last was directed at me.

  “N-No,” I spluttered, palms still in the air as I swayed uncertainly on my feet.

  “See, that’s right,” Tom went on, nodding as Jomo’s blade stilled and dropped slightly. “No harm done, mate.”

  “Payment,” the dark man repeated. He lifted the dagger again but with some indecision this time.

  “See, Mister Rivers,” Tom explained, still speaking into the air above the knife, “our esteemed cook here has a different sort of arrangement on our ship. He don’t care much for gold, so he takes his wages in other forms. What have you that you can pay him for your meals?”

  I opened my mouth to say that I had nothing and that I would be fine to starve to death, thank you very much, but then I remembered the red bead the captain had given me. I pulled it from my pocket—watching nervously as Jomo’s blade quivered threateningly when my hand disappeared from view—and held it forward in my outstretched palm.

  Immediately Jomo stabbed the blade into the body of the fish and snatched the bead from my hand, turning it over appreciatively in the glow of a nearby lantern. He grunted again—apparently this was the common language used by men like Winters and Jomo—and Tom smiled approvingly at me.

  “Well, Mister Rivers,” he winked, shoving past me as he made his way back to the upper deck, “breakfast is served, mate.”

  I cast one last nervous look at Jomo but found that he was still admiring the red bead. With both hands I stuffed all the food I could into my pockets and hurried in the direction the boatswain had gone.

  VI

  I learned later that the cook, Jomo, had indeed been found aboard a ship that had sailed from the islands off the coast of Africa with over one hundred of his people destined for lives as slaves in the New World. That dreadful ship had been caught and boarded by the Riptide’s men, its crew thrown to the ocean, and its hold emptied of its cargo, which—by the accounts of the men who’d been willing to share the tale—had been a profitable one, something to the tune of fifty tons of iron, twenty pipes of brandy, several bales of linens, and, of course, the stolen children of Africa. Among the men, women, and children still alive in the squalor and stench of filth at the bottom of the ship—which had been pitifully fewer than had originally been brought aboard—had been Jomo, clad in irons and chains like a feral beast. He had been beaten to the edge of death, and driven half mad by the same. In the little communication the Riptide’s men had with the captive passengers the story was told that Jomo had been the leader of their people, and though he’d defended them bravely he’d been no match for the weapons and the sheer numbers of the slavers crew. He’d been kept barely alive for nothing other than as a means to ease the crew’s boredom on the long journey west. His missing finger was a souvenir the slavers’ captain, now buried in the dirt of Davy Jones’ locker, had taken for himself.

  Winters, as savage as he had often shown himself to be, was a man of honor. He did not traffic in the trade of people, and so he had ordered the execution of the slavers and the slaves themselves freed unharmed, even allotting a portion of the ship’s stores to feed and mend them as they returned to Isla Perla. Many of these people had taken up residence with the tribes on the island, some in the employ of Mistress Dahl or the brothel owner, Maurice, while others had found passage on safer ships headed back to their homeland. The captain, however, had taken a special interest in Jomo, and between he, Evangeline, and Brandon Dunn the man had been nourished back to health. His mind had not enjoyed the same recovery as had his body, but nevertheless Winters and Jomo enjoyed a certain friendship. When Winters had invited him to join his crew, Jomo had agreed, sealing the contract in the customary ways of his culture. Now, the two men wore an identical symbol above their left eyes in a mark of brotherhood.

  Stories such as these I learned as the days came and went, passing uneventfully in a quiet rush on calm seas. For my part, I kept to my work as assigned, reading and translating as best I could stack
s of old books and papers that Captain Winters left in unorganized heaps about the cabin whilst he stirred about the ship with a restless anger that left permanent goose bumps in my flesh. Many of the documents were unintelligible and some were waterlogged and useless, but either way I worked through their pages and provided detailed notes to the captain. I also took care to document some of the more interesting passages for myself in my diary, scribbling them in the dark when I was supposed to be asleep. Many of the tales were similar, with small but clear distinctions. All, however, concerned the gods of the sea, and sea witches and fairies that both loved and hated men.

  After our first few encounters my conversations with my captain had become increasingly scarce, sometimes nonexistent, though a kind of companionable silence now existed between us. He did not speak to me of Bracile again, nor did he impart any of his own interpretations of the texts we studied together. If anything, he was even more secretive with his intentions than he had been before—keeping them not only from me but from Mister Dunn as well, a new normal that the older man who had previously been privy to all of the captain’s confidences had not taken to well. I had also noticed on one evening when Winters pulled out his compass that the portrait of Evangeline had been removed, though I later saw it tucked beneath the inkpot on his desk. At times he was ruthlessly enigmatic, prone to violent fits of fury where he would curse and sling pages or empty rum casks or even daggers across the cabin. Other times he was forlorn and melancholy, and would ask me to read aloud to him or regale him with memories of Isla Perla, which inevitably—as I’m sure he knew they would all along—wound their way back to Mistress Dahl. Nonetheless, over the passing weeks I grew to learn his mannerisms, and to anticipate his moods, and so I had come to understand when my attention was required, and when it was best I leave him alone. The latter were far more often.