Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  Yet Tiola had said there was no one judgmental God, that the rituals of religion only smudged the edges of unanswerable questions. There seemed to be a lot of those of late. Unanswerable questions.

  Standing there in the quiet of the cemetery with only the wind for company Jesamiah recalled the rest of the conversation. A discussion that would have had them burnt at the stake as heretics were anyone to have overheard. They had made love and were lying together in their small bed aboard the Sea Witch, curled within each other, the sweat drying on their naked bodies, the throb of pleasure gradually fading. He had no idea, now, what had started it; some remark he had made. But he remembered her answer. Word for word.

  “Existence began when the first spark of energy destroyed the void of Nothingness. At the Dawn of Time,” she had said, “the power of that energy was so great that after a while and a while many, many life forms came to be, in this world and in others. Some thrived, most did not. A few developed the ability to think and remember, some, humans for instance, expanded the process of instinctive thinking into speech and a conscience; the ability to reason, to plan ahead and to know right from wrong.”

  “Though some have different ideas of what is right and what is wrong,” Jesamiah had interrupted.

  She had agreed. “Not all Life is what you perceive it to be. There are the Immortals of Light – the Old Ones of Wisdom with our various gifts of Craft, and the Elementals of the trees, of the wind, air, earth, fire and water – the rain and the rivers, and in the seas where Tethys rules. She is benign for the most part, but has her rages, tempers and cruelties. Then there are the Other Folk, the Spirits who keep themselves hidden for they are shy and peaceful; and angels and daemons who either quietly protect or feed on hatred for their own miserable purpose. There are those of the night who are not bad or good, but merely predators who drink blood to exist.”

  He had interrupted her again, nibbling at her neck with his teeth, had teased, “Vampires!”

  “Of a sort,” she had laughed, batting him away. “Though they would take offence at that derogatory term. They are no more evil than is a tiger or a wolf. Many life forms feed on the kill, but it is the reason of the killing that dictates the quality of the life. To kill to survive or for defence is one thing. To kill with hatred, to destroy for no purpose, is another.”

  Jesamiah squatted beside his father’s grave. He killed. He took life without a thought, although usually it was only when someone was threatening his life. But then, if he had not initiated the attack in the first place…A curious thing, this game of life and death.

  He had said, “And you are a witch?”

  “Witches – Earth Witch, House Witch, Hedge, White, Green – we are all the same. We are called ‘witch’ from the Old Language. Wicca, means wise. We have our gifts of Craft, our special abilities, but many in the past, and probably into the future, were persecuted by the human bigots who feared them.”

  Removing his hat, Jesamiah bowed his head a moment as he recalled her tears. She had lain in his arms, quietly weeping for those who had died horribly, accused of serving the Devil, though not one who called herself witch would knowingly cause harm, she had said.

  “What of Black Witches then?” he had asked.

  “Witches are not devil worshippers, Jesamiah. Outside the religions of Abraham the Devil does not exist. He is a creation of mankind, used to terrorise the innocent into believing what they are told. No true witch will cause harm, for what is sent out in anger or spite returns three-fold.”

  She had shown what she meant. Had pointed her finger at the window and as she pointed, tipped her hand slightly so he could see. “One finger pointing outward, three pointing back.”

  He tried it again, pointed at his father’s grave. One out. Three back. It was a moral worth remembering. What she had said next, though, had been worrying.

  “But there is a Dark Power, a negative energy of malevolence. A void of hopeless despair that gorges on emotions such as lust, greed and hatred, and destroys everything its presence touches. The Dark can turn a witch as well as a human. To counter the Dark Power, the Old Ones of Wisdom, with our knowledge of Craft, surrounded ourselves with the protection of the Light and became the Guardians of Earth. For the good of all, with harm to none.”

  Jesamiah knew there was more she had not said, a lot, lot more. More that she would never say, but she had partially answered one question that humans were not supposed to know, beyond their own limiting beliefs.

  “What of ghosts? Is there another life beyond this? When I die will we still be together? Is there a Heaven, Tiola? A Hell?”

  “The soul is eternal, it is only the shell it inhabits, the body, that dies. Some spirits move on, others remain behind or find a way to return,” she had said. “If they have reason to do so.”

  And for the rest, she had stayed silent.

  With a sigh, Jesamiah pushed himself to his feet. He remembered every word but understood little of it. He turned his attention to his father’s carefully tended grave. At its head, a white marble stone giving name and dates:

  Cpt. Charles Mereno

  1643 – 1707

  Nothing else. No mention that he had been a father, grandfather, husband. Idly, Jesamiah traced the lettering with his fingers. He had been four and sixty years of age. Not a young man, but what age was that to die? Old Toby Turner was in his sixties, or so he said, though Jesamiah often thought it a gross exaggeration. His joints creaked, he had lost most of his teeth and could not hear too well – but then none of them could. It was the guns, being so close to the cannon when they fired, that impaired a seaman’s hearing. Were he still alive Charles Mereno would be five and seventy now.

  Charles Mereno. Only that had not been his real name. His real name had been St Croix. Charles St Croix. So much deception, so many untruths. Lies.

  “Why?” he cried aloud with bitterness. “Why did you not tell me he was not my brother? Why did I have to believe he was your eldest son? I thought I had no choice, I had to do as he said because I was the youngest. And because no one believed my mother was your legal wife. For all those years I thought I was the by-blow brat. And I suffered for it. I so suffered for it.”

  “Maybe your father also regrets the lie.”

  Jesamiah spun around at the voice behind him, cuffing with his sling at the frustrated tears that had started to trickle down his cheeks, his dagger coming into his other hand, the blade glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.

  Embarrassment made him snap the words sharper than he intended. “Who the fok are you?” He had not realised he had been speaking aloud. Was shamed by his public display of raw emotion.

  “I watched you sail in the other day. Recognised the ship. Sea Witch. She is a credit to you; a fine vessel.” The man stood a few yards beyond the far side of the fence, his face in shadow for the sun was directly behind him and his felt hat, sporting a blue feather, was pulled low.

  Squinting against the dazzle, Jesamiah could not see him clearly. He caught the impression of grey hair, a trimmed beard and moustache, wrinkled skin and gnarled hands. The clothing was well cut and of good quality, not the garments of a man in want. There was something familiar about him: something that did not sit quite right.

  “Do I know you? Are you a neighbour?”

  “I know your father…”

  Jesamiah swore, interrupted; “Knew him well enough to be saying what he may or may not have regretted, did you?”

  “No, you do not understand. I am…” The man hesitated, as if he were about to say something else; let it pass.

  Sheathing the dagger, Jesamiah placed his fingers on the butt of the pistol thrust through his waist belt. “I can shoot with either hand, do not let this sling fool you. Who are you?”

  The man raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Your father.”

  Jesamiah jumped in, misunderstanding for a second time. “I don’t want to know about my father. I asked for your name!” He aimed the pistol, his thumb on
the hammer. “Come forward so I can see your face. Now.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw one of the black houseboys running up the hill. A summons. The ball.

  “I loathed my father,” Jesamiah snapped. “If you intend to try and change my mind on that, forget it. If he was here I’d spit on him for the misery he brought me.” To prove his point he spat on the grave.

  “He loved you.”

  “No. He did not. He abandoned me.”

  “He wanted you to learn how to defend yourself. How to survive.”

  “He had no time for me.”

  “Yet he sailed with you to places along the coast and to the Caribbean. He taught you to shoot. Ensured you could read and write, speak different languages. Taught you to navigate, and about ships and the sea.”

  “And how would you be knowing that?”

  “I know it. As I also know how proud he was of you. And still…”

  “Proud?” Jesamiah’s fists clenched. “What was he proud of? The fact that I could endure misery and torture without a whimper?”

  The boy was hopping from one bare foot to the other behind him. “Please Sir, Master, Mr Finch says you come. Says bath ready.”

  “Tell him to go pleasure himself.”

  The boy bit his lip, flinched away at the sharp retort.

  Closing his eyes, Jesamiah stood, head tilted backwards, breathing in the warm air, staring at the cloudless blue sky. The smell of the river filled his senses, the sun-heated earth, the pervading aroma of tobacco. He put the pistol away, removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

  “All right, boy, I ain’t Master Mereno, I don’t hit boys, slaves or women. Well, not unless they deserve it. Run along and tell Finch I will be there in a minute.” He turned to speak to the man. “You ain’t told me your name.”

  But he had gone. No one was there. No one stood on the far side of the fence.

  No one was in sight.

  Twenty Eight

  “If thee were t’ask my opinion I’d say thee were a madman. What? Give all this up for a creakin’ leakin’ hulk of a boat?”

  “Just pour the water, Finch, I’ve got soap in my eyes.” Mad? Of course he was mad. Hearing voices that were not Tiola, seeing men who were not there? He was turning bloody madder than those poor sods in Bedlam!

  “I mean all these rooms – a copper-lined bathtub. What we got aboard ship, eh? The deck and pumped sea water.”

  “You know damned well I’ve a tin bath aboard the Sea Witch. And she don’t leak. Not normally.” Jesamiah shut his eyes as Finch poured a jug of hot water over his head, washing away most of the soap. A second jug soon followed.

  “An’ linen sheets. Real beds. A kitchen that don’t ‘ave a stove that goes up and bloody down all the soddin’ time.”

  “I get the idea Finch. You prefer it here. If you want to stay and be Mrs Mereno’s houseboy that’s fine by me. I’ll find someone else to moan at me aboard Sea Witch shall I?”

  Finch held out a towel, sniffed grumpily as Jesamiah stepped from the water.

  “All I’m tryin’ t’say is you’re intendin’ t’take Miss Tiola as wife. Where you goin’ t’expect ‘er t’live then, eh? Aboard a ship? In that cabin o’ yours? An’ what about when the bairns come along? Shipboard ain’t no place for littl’ns. Whereas this great big ‘ouse…”

  “Yes, yes, I take your point. Can we drop the subject please?” Irritably, Jesamiah snatched the towel and began to dry himself.

  “That one downstairs, she ain’t got no right to this place. Nor ‘as that cock-proud fop of ‘ers. You want t’watch that Samuel Trent. From what I ‘ear ‘e’s always ‘ere. An’ ‘e don’t go ‘ome at night neither.” Finch tapped the side of his nose, indicating he was revealing a great secret.

  Jesamiah did not believe a word of it. All the same, he said, “Good. That means she won’t be expecting me to pleasure her.”

  Walking into the bedroom, he eyed the clothes Finch had laid out on the bed; stockings, white breeches, fine linen shirt and an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat. “If you think I’m stepping into Phillipe’s garments you can think again. I want them burnt.”

  “They ain’t ‘is. These were yer father’s. Mrs Mereno told me to ‘elp m’self; everythin’s still there in ‘is room. Ain’t been touched. Put away proper they were, folded nice and strewn with the right ‘erbs t’keep the moth out.” He lifted the coat, brushed at some fluff, said proudly, “Come up right ‘andsome they ‘ave.”

  Hesitating, Jesamiah eyed the clothes. He had thought the waistcoat looked familiar. He remembered his mother embroidering it. Tentative, he peered closer, studied the intricate pattern. A swirl of oak leaves on a dark green background interspersed with tiny gold-thread acorns. Stupidly, a lump cluttered his throat. She had made it for Papa to wear on a special occasion; he could not remember what it was, but he clearly recalled watching them both leave the house and climb into the waiting carriage. Mama had been wearing a matching gown in the same contrasting shades of green. It had rustled as she walked across the wide hallway and out the front door, her heeled shoes tapping on the tiles. Papa had opened the door for her and bowed low. Jesamiah, peeking from the stairs, had heard him say how beautiful she looked. Where had Phillipe been? He could not remember that either, although he did remember running for one of the old oak trees and climbing up high into the canopy to watch the carriage rumble away down the drive. He had sat in that tree all night awaiting their return. And Phillipe, trying to find him, had shouted angrily. The idiot had taken several years to discover Jesamiah’s secret refuge in that old oak, a hiding place like the king had used to elude his enemies. Papa had told him that story. Told of how Charles II had eventually escaped to France – or Spain, Holland, or wherever it had been. That part of the tale he could not recall, only the bit where a king had hidden in the sheltering foliage of an oak tree.

  Jesamiah’s fingers went to where his acorn earring should have been; he toyed with the plain gold hoop instead. Mama had always said that oak trees and acorns were important to Papa. He had never discovered why.

  Who was that man he had met by the grave? The voice had been so familiar. The build, the stance. He could think of only one person who looked, sounded, like that.

  No! That was nonsense! Silly nonsense!

  Stroking the exquisite embroidery, Jesamiah had another thought. His grandfather had been a Cavalier – a Royalist, fighting in the West Country of England against Cromwell’s Parliamentarians. That much Jesamiah knew. Nothing more. Was it possible that Papa had also served a Royalist cause as one of Charles II’s men? He had sailed with Henry Morgan, a King’s Man, so why not?

  Handing the waistcoat back to Finch, Jesamiah began to dress. Grandfather? He had never considered his grandfather before. He knew of Mama’s father because she had sometimes spoken of him; on those wistful days when the rain fell or the river mist lingered. Her father had disowned her, had declared her dead for marrying a sea-rogue. She must have loved her husband very much to defy her father – her entire family. She had younger sisters, an elder brother. Papa had never spoken of his parentage, beyond saying his mother had been French and once, when he had been overly drunk, that he had well-to-do connections in Devonshire, England. Where Grandfather had fought? Papa had been base-born, that much Jesamiah knew. Charles had not known the man who had sired him until he was almost a man grown. That, also, Jesamiah knew, but not much more. He started speculating, idle, random thoughts wandering through his mind. Was that why Papa had not been a good father? Because he had no memory of his own childhood pleasures to draw upon? But no, there had been a stepfather, St Croix, who had given Charles his name. Jesamiah let that trail of thought go, only to have another drift in.

  Who was that stranger by the grave? Had he been conjuring images; hallucinating? Or had the man really been there? And what of that previous time? Beside Bath Town Creek. The man who had made him get up? He shook his head, baffled. Perhaps he was going mad. He had to be, to put
up with this latest nonsense Finch was insisting on.

  “If you think I’m wearing that wig, Finch, think again. I’m content with my own hair.”

  The article in question was a full-bottomed, white-powdered affair with a centre parting and masses of curls which would cascade to the shoulders when worn.

  “An’ show us all up? Every gentleman wears a peruke, an’ this’n is human hair. Very expensive.” Lovingly Finch held it up, riffled his fingers through the curls. A moth flew out and powder showered onto the floor.

  “I do not care if it cost a king’s ransom and is human, horse, goat, cow, calf or a fox’s brush, I ain’t wearin’ it. It’s old-fashioned. I’ll tie my own hair back.”

  Finch made a rude noise through his lips, helped Jesamiah into the coat that perfectly matched the waistcoat for style and colour – an elegant, dark green velvet. Normally, Jesamiah did not incline towards green, he would not have it aboard ship, but this was a pleasing, rich, colour. He quite liked it. And anyway, he was not aboard ship

  Impassive, he wondered why his father’s clothes had remained in the house, but then, clothes were often kept and re-sewn to fit the latest fashion, and these were costly fabrics. Even though they smelt of must and stale cedarwood.

  Tempted to wear his own familiar cutlass, Jesamiah put it down at Finch’s tutting, buckled on a thinner rapier. That too had been his father’s, he assumed. It had a silver hilt and a family crest engraved into the scabbard, but it was rubbed and worn, he could not clearly make out the design. A handsome weapon but utterly useless for fighting. Still, he would not be doing any fighting. Not at a ball.