Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  It went on like this for months. I never knew where she went, and she would never tell me. When pressed, she’d say: ”it’s for your own good. The less you know, the better.” One day, however, I was sent on an errand with Nicolette to the Hungerford Market. Nicolette had tried to shake me in the crowd, but I was not easily dissuaded. I knew something was going on. I followed Nicolette and found her locked in the arms of Abbot, the son of our parts vendor.

  “Mon dieu, Lily!” Nicolette exclaimed when she spotted me staring at her.

  Angry she had not trusted me with her secret, I ran away from her. When Nicolette finally found me in the crowd, she had tears streaming from her eyes. “Please, please don’t tell them! You don’t understand! Please, Lily. Not now. Not now that I’m…” she fell sobbing into a heap.

  “I would never tell them!” I stammered out angrily. How could she think I would betray her?

  “Lily,” she said then, smoothing the hair away from my face. “Don’t be angry. I just don’t want them to know because Abbot and I are going to run away. You know they would never let me go, but I am going to have a baby. I have to go!”

  She was right. Mr. Oleander might just as well kill her before he let her go, and I told her so.

  “That’s why it must be secret. I am going to leave this Friday before Mr. Oleander takes the ship to Dublin. I can’t bear the thought of a bunch of old fuckers riding me while I’m pregnant with Abbot’s child. I love him, Lily. He is going to marry me. Please, please promise me you will keep it secret,” she said in desperation.

  “Don’t you know how much I love you!” I retorted hotly. “I would never betray you.”

  “Of course…it’s just…I just can’t think straight. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want them to suspect you knew anything. I am afraid for you. What if Mr. Oleander—”

  “Mr. Fletcher won’t allow it.”

  “You mustn’t trust him so much. He has used me from time to time as well. They are both wicked men. You should come away with Abbot and me. Come with us and be a big sister to our baby.”

  Could I really just run off? Wouldn’t they come after us? And didn’t I owe Mr. Fletcher better than that? I thought about Nicolette’s words. I knew Mr. Fletcher had been with Nicolette but always in the privacy of his room. And she was always given something new, a dress, a scarf, something, the next day. He wasn’t like Mr. Oleander.

  Despite her best intentions, things had not gone as Nicolette had planned.

  “Get up, girls! You lazy lot. Up! Good for nothin’ pack of women,” Mr. Oleander had screamed at Nicolette and me. We’d been sleeping in our small room in the Nell’s Yard flat. “Why Fletcher ever loaded us up with a house full of no good whores . . .” Mr. Oleander muttered to himself as he slammed the door behind him. In the main room of the flat, I could hear him slamming his tools around.

  I opened my eyes sleepily and gazed up at the skylight. It was still dark outside. The smell of alcohol emanating from Mr. Oleander lingered in his wake.

  “Oh non,” Nicolette whispered. “Why is he up so early?”

  The terror in her voice snapped me out of my sleepy state. Nicolette had planned to slip away in the morning after Mr. Oleander left to prep the ship. Our usual routine was for Mr. Fletcher, Nicolette, and me to go to the ship about an hour after Mr. Oleander had departed. With Mr. Fletcher in Paris for the weekend to look over a new ship, Mr. Oleander had changed his schedule.

  “Lily! Nicolette! Move it!” Mr. Oleander screamed from the other room.

  “What do I do? What should I do?” Nicolette asked breathlessly. I could see she was starting to panic.

  “Wait. Just wait. Just hold on. Tomorrow. Go tomorrow.”

  The door burst back open. “Lazy whore! Get up!” Mr. Oleander stormed across the room, grabbed Nicolette by the hair, and tossed her out of the bed and onto the floor. “Now move! Our well-to-do clients are already in Dublin and are waiting on a ferry back. We need to be there first thing.”

  I was already pulling on my boots when Mr. Oleander turned in wrath toward me. Seeing I was almost ready, he grunted at me and left.

  Hurriedly, Nicolette dressed and tried to fight back her tears. Her face had gone deathly pale. While her misery was readily apparent, Mr. Oleander had not even noticed. He herded Nicolette and me out onto the foggy London streets all the while cursing about his capricious clients.

  “Come to Dublin. Can’t they just take a fucking Irish ship back? Come to Dublin. Of all the weekends for Fletcher to go to Paris,” Mr. Oleander muttered angrily. I noticed that Mr. Oleander staggered as he walked. He was either still drunk or drunk already. I wasn’t sure which.

  Nicolette and I followed Mr. Oleander through the fog toward the airship towers. The flickering lights of the gaslamps cast long shadows on the nearly empty streets. Besides the other servants and tradesmen already at work, the rest of London was still in bed.

  I tried to choke back the terror that had my heart slamming in my chest. I hated being alone with Mr. Oleander in the first place, but now I could feel a storm brewing. With Mr. Fletcher gone, it was up to me to pilot the ship across the Irish Sea. It was not a difficult trip, but my hands shook. I cast a glance at Nicolette. All the blood had drained from her face. I feared she would faint. I feared even more that Mr. Oleander would finally realize that something was wrong. Though I was filled with dread, I went through the motions regardless.

  Once we were aboard the Iphigenia, I set about prepping the ship and tried not to draw attention to the fact that Nicolette was curled up against the bulwark crying. We debarked, and soon were flying over the summer country. After we passed over the coast of Wales, Mr. Oleander came out of the galley to check the balloon.

  “Get changed,” he barked at Nicolette.

  Nicolette was standing at the rail looking out at the water. I’d feared she was going to throw herself overboard. When she did not move, Mr. Oleander crossed the deck toward her. They stood side by side, just like Sal and Celeste stood before me, when it all happened.

  “I told you to get changed,” Mr. Oleander bellowed at Nicolette.

  “Non,” she finally replied.

  My whole body froze. It was as if we, aloft and gliding over the Irish Sea, were the only people in the world. It was early morning. The sun had barely risen. Only the first of the sea birds had taken flight. The world was quiet. With only the wind and balloon burner making sound, Nicolette’s “non” carried on the breeze.

  “What did you say?” I could hear the anger in Mr. Oleander’s voice.

  I wanted to call out to Nicolette, to encourage her. She just had to wait a little while longer. But I knew I should stay silent: hold the wheel, keep the ship steady, try not to draw attention to myself.

  “I told you no, you creepy old bugger,” she replied.

  He hit her so hard I heard her nose snap when it broke.

  Nicolette suppressed a yelp as blood came spraying out. He grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the rail, leaning her over the water. When he did, her obviously pregnant stomach protruded pronouncedly. I saw him take in the sight. He pulled her back.

  “So you went and got my baby in your belly after all,” he said, his hand reaching toward her stomach.

  She slapped his hand away. “What makes you think you have life in that old, dead stump of yours? You’ve been pounding me for years with no results. You’re just a dried up old tool.”

  A lump rose in my throat, and I wanted to scream out to her to be quiet, but I could not speak.

  “One of our clients? No, not that. Got yourself a young man, did you?” Mr. Oleander asked. His words were low and calm, making the danger all too apparent.

  “I’m done with you. When we get back to London, this is over,” she said.

  “And what makes you think I’ll let you go?” Mr. Oleander replied.

  “You can’t stop me. I’m not a slave.”

  “You’re no slave, you are right about that, by God. But I ca
n stop you,” he said, and with a hard shove, he pushed Nicolette into the sea.

  I suppressed a scream and ran to the side of the Iphigenia in time to see Nicolette hit the water below. She smashed into the waves with such impact that it no doubt knocked her unconscious. She floated for a moment on the waves but then her clothes, made heavy by the water, began to pull her under. Her blonde hair fanned out like a halo around her as the waves pulled her down. I saw her face, clear and pale as the moon, slip from the light and fall under the dark waves. Moments later, she was gone.

  Mr. Oleander and I stood alone on the deck of the Iphigenia, both of us watching the murdered girl simply disappear.

  I looked away from the water. Gazing upward, I noticed there was a star in the morning sky. I took a deep breath, knowing Mr. Oleander had turned his eyes to me, and went back to the wheel of the ship. I checked the coordinates then turned the wheel, piloting the ship northward toward Dublin. I said nothing, only held the wheel, because I knew my life depended on it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Lily?” Sal’s voice broke in. From his tone, I could tell it was not the first time he’d said my name.

  “I’m sorry. What is it, love?”

  “Wine,” he said with a laugh, pushing a glass toward me.

  I pulled off my goggles. The sun was already setting. I looked across the deck of the Bacchus. Celeste raised her glass to me in toast then took a drink. I took the cup from Sal.

  “The crew says we will near Malta within the hour,” he said, taking a drink from his goblet. “Ah, as I suspected. On the Bacchus, they have good wine. Drink, my Lily, it will clear your head,” he said then, eyeing me with perception that made me uncomfortable.

  I locked the wheel and took a deep drink, swishing the dark red wine in my mouth. The dry flavor of the grapes, with undertones of cedar and lavender, crept up my nose.

  “Are you all right?” Sal asked me.

  “Do you remember a boy named Abbot? A parts vendor? Bradley’s son.”

  “I think so.”

  “Whatever happened to him?”

  “Hmm, yes, I remember,” Sal said taking a sip of his wine. “He died. Bradley closed his stall for a week. The boy became a sailor and was drowned at sea. Why?”

  “I just remembered him…from before.” It grieved me to know his fate. It was like the ocean had taken their little family. Having barely escaped the water myself, I shuddered. I tried to shift my attention away. “Have you ever been to Malta?” I asked Sal.

  “Oh yes, many times,” he said as he swirled the wine around in his cup. “Interesting place,” he added with a grin then drained the glass.

  “Very interesting,” I said with a smirk as I took a long drink. Indeed, how many times had I woken up in Malta not knowing how I’d gotten there? One of my best memories was of waking up on board a yacht docked in Malta with Byron at my side. We played near the tranquil and startlingly azure waters of the Blue Lagoon until Byron’s fans became too overwhelming. Byron did like attention, but only when he wanted.

  The airship towers came into view just as the sun was beginning to set. They were situated around St. Mary’s Tower, a stone fortress turned sailors’ port on the small Maltese isle of Comino. The scene below the towers was raucous. Loud, cheerful voices rose upward into the night’s sky. From the fireworks exploding in the air to the tall bonfires burning along the beach, it seemed that nothing about Malta had changed.

  I piloted the Bacchus into port on the most distant tower. Most of the air docks were already occupied, and in the water below, boats of every fashion were anchored all around the island. Roni’s crew checked in with the stationmaster. We would spend the night in Malta and leave for Kos in the morning.

  “Let’s get into trouble,” I told Sal after the Bacchus had been anchored.

  “While I couldn’t agree more, we must be careful in case someone recognizes you,” Sal said.

  I looked below. The platform around the tower, the stairs leading to it, and the tower rooftop was bustling with people and excitement. I was itching for a drink, a smoke, and a nice dark corner for Sal and I to play in. “Fuck it,” I said. “By the time news travels anywhere, we’ll be gone.” I tossed on my cap.

  Sal smiled. “Lead the way.”

  Celeste, however, was apprehensive. “I’ll stay aboard,” she said. “I’d rather not show my face here just now,” she added, looking up from a book she’d been reading. “Are you certain you should go?”

  I shrugged. It was only one night, and nothing in life was certain. And it was Malta.

  As Sal and I debarked, Celeste followed us to the side of the ship. “Please be careful, Lily. And do come back,” she added with a knowing smile.

  “I’ll do my best,” I replied, and we headed down to St. Mary’s Tower.

  Malta was just as I’d left it. The stairs leading to the tower were packed with people. Common whores were displaying their tits and almost everything else, a group of Persian men with billowing pants were smoking hookah, and spice vendors, gun traders, and even pirates—of both the air and sea—were everywhere we looked. Sal and I went into the massive stone tower.

  Constructed by the Knights of St. John, St. Mary’s was originally a military watchtower. It was the only structure on the isle of Comino, a small archipelago between the two larger islands of Malta. It had four proper tower spires on the cardinal corners, and its roof was still mounted with canons. While Malta was now under British rule, the military had little use for the traders’ port of Comino and kept instead to the main isle of Malta. Something told me that I was not likely to see any aged antiquities collectors.

  Sal and I went in search of the Arabian opium vendors. The arched hallways of the massive stone building were congested. We could buy almost anything, from elaborate wood carvings to delicacies from every corner of the world, from colorful silk scarves from the east to tobacco from the west. The sharp smell of animal urine burned my nose as we passed cages full of monkeys. They shrieked at us. In one dimly lit alcove, I spot a group of air pirates standing around a comrade being tattooed by a Moorish ink artist. Women with alluring eyes outlined with charcoal peered at us from above their veils as their hands worked busily shifting Maltese cumin and other rare spices into bags and vials. As expected, tinkers hawked their wares; a myriad of vibration and crystal powered instruments were on display. To my surprise, Sal only eyed the items and kept moving.

  The opium vendors kept a room in the corner of the tower. The smell of burning opium made them easy to find. When we entered, we were immediately seated under a private, draped canopy. There were at least a dozen such satin tents in the room, the drapes for which were suspended from the ceiling. All the tents opened toward the center of the room. We sat on satin pillows and watched a topless woman do a belly dance while she held a snake around her shoulders and balanced a sword on her head.

  “Dance like that for me. Please,” Sal said jokingly.

  “I don’t have a snake,” I replied with a laugh.

  “I’ll buy one for you. I saw a basket of them in the hallway.”

  We both laughed.

  In another corner, two old men played enchanting rhythmic music on long-necked stringed instruments. In the hallway just outside the room, I spotted a man moving slowly along, his metal leg, a tinkered contraption attached where his knee should have been, clacked as he stepped. Sal eyed him with curiosity.

  Soon they brought us a decanter of vinum opii, a wine made of distilled opium syrup, sugar, cloves, and other herbs. For me, it was like an appetizer. We drank the wine and let its effects sink in. Shortly after, a man wearing a white satin turban brought a tray on which he had a syringe and vile of refined and extracted opium: morphine. Sal, whose use was not as frequent as mine, in fact, I think I brought out the worst in him, passed. I, on the other hand, motioned for the man to proceed. After wiping my skin with alcohol, he stuck me with the syringe. At first the morphine burned, but then a warm sensation took over, and I smil
ed from ear to ear. At once, Nicolette and everything else was forgotten. This was what I had wanted.

  I leaned back against Sal, who, on second thought, asked the man to bring him an opium pipe. Sal’s hand slid down the front of my shirt, and he sat stroking my breasts, fingering my nipples. As we watched the woman dance, my body began to feel heavy. I imagined I was sinking into Sal, our bodies becoming one.

  Time had become a complete blur. Before I knew it, Sal had finished his pipe. I didn’t even remember the vendor bringing it to him. Sal settled our bill and led us back outside.

  “Let’s go to the beach,” he said.

  I was glad that Sal was more sober than me. Comino, while it had a winding path to the beach below, also had very tall cliffs. One misstep would lead you to a rocky death. What seemed like moments later, Sal and I were standing knee-deep in the Blue Lagoon. I was feeling too high to fear the water. Besides, there were other couples in the water, other shadows pressed against one another in the darkness. I was completely naked. I splashed water at Sal; he picked me up and carried me to the beach. Soon we were making love in the moonlight, the waves lapping at our feet. Sitting on top of him, I could see Sal’s eyes on me. My thighs, covered in sand, burned when our skin was pressed together. I leaned over and kissed him deeply.

  “I love you, Sal,” I whispered to him. “We should be together.”

  “Yes, we should. I love you too,” he replied and kissed me tenderly, “so very much.”

  We lay on the beach until the buzz started to wear off. After, we got dressed and headed back to St. Mary’s for a drink. On the rooftop, one could always find good liquor and good music. When we reached the roof, we headed for the bar where Sal ordered us absinthe.

  “Chasing the green fairy again, eh Stargazer?” a voice called from behind me.

  When I turned around, I found Edward Trelawny, a close associate of Byron and me, standing there.

  “Well, Edward Trelawny. I thought you were in Greece,” I said. Clearly, Trelawny was no more sober than me. His black curls were wildly out of place, and his clothing was a disheveled mess. He struggled to stand upright.