by Ron Miller
“I not only vouch for her,” says Basseliniden, suddenly gaining a cutting edge to his voice, “I guarantee your trustworthiness.”
“Ah! Yes, Sir, I understand!” quavers Patooter, his pale face growing paler under a fresh coat of greasy sweat.
“When can we leave?” asks Bronwyn.
“Would dawn tomorrow suit you, ma’am?”
“That’d be fine.”
“Then, if you’d kindly pardon me, I’d best make preparations. Good evening, ma’am, good evening, Mr. Basseliniden, Sir.”
He scuttles off, slipping through the crowd like an avocado pit through wet fingers.
“Are you sure I can trust him?”
“No one can trust him, but you needn’t worry because he trusts me.”
That has the same ominous ring to it that his voice had had when speaking to Patooter a moment earlier. Bronwyn begins to wonder exactly what it is that Basseliniden does for a living.
“I’ve arranged for a room for you for tonight,” he continued. “It’s not much, but it’ll be clean and warm. I left word for you to be awakens just before dawn. I’ll meet you here.”
He starts to rise, but Bronwyn catches his sleeve. There have not been many people whom she has thought to thank for their efforts on her behalf so far. She thinks that perhaps she’d get at least one to her credit.
“I ought to thank you for all your help...”
“There are people who’d never call me a patriot and maybe with good reason. They’re wrong. Therefore I thank you.”
Raising her hand to his lips, he kisses it and with a swirl of black cape vanishes into the crowd. She hears the howl of wind as the outside door opens and shuts.
CHAPTER XI
HOMECOMING
Bronwyn knows she will grow to hate the Upsy Daisy long before the wharves of Glibner are sighted. She hates the look, the smell and the feel of the little boat, and she particularly hates the suggestiveness of its name. She clings to its bulwarks with knuckles white with desperation. Her brain is betraying her. If she won’t allow it to think about the name Upsy Daisy, then it insists on dwelling upon how the ship heaves and tosses.
The Upsy Daisy is a round-bellied little lugger that scoots over the waves like a skipped stone. The wind is nearly gale force. It is from the north, as cold as steel, but all that matters to Bronwyn is that it flings the ship before it like an autumn leaf. Captain Patooter also is pleased and claims that they’ll reach their goal in less than three days, if the wind holds. Bronwyn is pleased only because she now knows from experience that she can go that long without eating.
She had been awakened before dawn by Basseliniden and taken through the streets, in that claustrophobic silence peculiar to the hours before first light, to the docks, where she found the eponymous Upsy Daisy waiting. Although the shore was covered with a thin powdering of snow, and a thick scum of ice floated around the pilings and as far out as she could see, the fjord was yet still free of the pack ice that would eventually impound it for the winter. With scarcely a word passing between anyone, the lugger departed immediately upon her arrival. When she looked back, Basseliniden had disappeared.
The sea flutters and ripples around the boat like a grey banner. Or like a woolen blanket, heavy and lusterless, except where the wind breaks the crests, releasing thick bursts of mist and spume. The sky is dull and fishy, broken only by scraps of ragged, sooty clouds that rush nervously overhead, and merges with the sea at the indistinct horizon. Occasional snowflakes flutter past.
It is a little warmer and a little drier below deck, in the single small cabin the Upsy Daisy boasts, but Bronwyn refuses to consider abandoning her place on deck unless necessity forces her to. Warmer and drier the cabin might be, but only in comparison to the open deck. In reality, the clammy enclosure is not un-like the interior of a fish’s stomach, redolent with a dank ripeness that Bronwyn knows she would not be able to endure while still possessing consciousness. The Upsy Daisy is manned only by Captain Patooter and two other men, neither of whom has been introduced to her. In fact, she is barely aware of them other than as a pair of figures that lackadaisically attend to the ship’s operation. They are repulsive-looking brutes in any case whose lack of interest in the princess is a social omission she is neither anxious nor encouraged to correct. Nevertheless, even if she forewent eating, she would have to sleep at least once before reaching Glibner, which means going into the cabin, Musrum forbid.
The captain has a small alcove separated from the main cabin by a curtain, which he has promised to his passenger. Within is a hammock. Since she plans to sleep fully dressed, she has no fear about her skin touching any of the repellent surfaces. The network hammock gives every indication of, when not in use for sleeping, being used in some capacity intimately concerned with fishing.
Bronwyn finds herself thinking more and more about the mysterious Basseliniden, or Bassel, as he insists she call him. He had entered into and departed from her life too quickly to be fully absorbed. Of everyone she has met during her adventure, especially those who have given her aid, he seemed to be the least motivated. Within minutes of being introduced, he had accepted her as a passenger in his snowboat; he procured her passage on the Upsy Daisy and clearly bullied Patooter into taking her on a voyage that the captain obviously would have never otherwise considered. Any reward Patooter expects from her can scarcely repay the danger and difficulty he has taken upon himself. It is evident that the captain fears Basseliniden for some reason; it was obvious to her that fear and cupidity in fairly equal amounts had brought him and his ugly crew out into the winter sea. Whatever power it is that Basseliniden possesses over Captain Patooter, and apparently the rest of Hasselt-on-the-Dootlen, she is grateful for it. If she ever meets him again, she decides, there will surely be opportunity to discover his mystery.
The first day and a half goes quickly enough, however boring the time might be. They had rounded Cape Despair during the night, showing, whether Bronwyn is aware of it or not, exceptional seamanship on the part of Captain Patooter. The sea between that point of land and the Grand Bank that lay not far to the east is shallow and strewn with ragged reefs that has sawn the bottoms out of a hundred unlucky or careless ships. At night and in bad weather it took either iron nerves or brazen stupidity to enter those waters. After rounding the Cape, they had turned south-southwest toward the entrance to Stuckney Bay. Once again Patooter assures the princess that if the gale-like wind holds, they will be at Glibner late the next day. In spite of that good news, the latter part of that day and that evening provides something new for Bronwyn to worry about.
Patooter’s two crewmen are as repulsive examples of genetic black humor as she has ever seen. Individually they would be repellent; together she finds them a little frightening. All the more so since she continually discovers them leering at her, a habit that seems to increase its incidence as the voyage progresses. She tries to avoid the men as much as possible, but there are few places in the small lugger where she can hope to be out of their way for more than a few minutes. In fact, she has no real way of knowing whether or not their presence near her is legitimate or invented. She doesn’t want to complain to the captain: he gives her little more confidence than his men does.
That night, when she finally forces herself to retire to the fetid alcove allotted to her, noises on the deck above her head keep her awake. It is an argument, and a violent one. Evidently Patooter doesn’t have the control over his men she thinks he ought to have, or hopes he has. Through the thick planks and over the normal ship’s noises, there are only a few words or phrases that came through distinctly and those are mostly curses. However, once she hears the captain’s voice shout, “You’ll have his wrath down upon you like the horny fist of Musrum!”
There is not much more said after that, but she remains awake the rest of the night.
The next morning, she resumes her place at the bulwark. Through the mists to the north she can catch occasional glimpses of land. They appears to be p
assing the mouth of a large river, which means that they must be well within the bay. If so, then the captain is right and she will be in Glibner by nightfall, if not sooner.
She has gone below only long enough to fetch some biscuits and return to the deck to eat. No one else had been in the cabin. As she eats, watching the ghostly grey cliffs slip past, it occurs to her that she has not yet seen the captain that morning. The two crewmen are as usual altogether too present, she glances to one side and sure enough, there they are, standard leer and all. But now she begins to wonder in earnest. Where is the captain? The lugger is a small craft; she knows it possesses a hold ‘an empty one, she has heard Patooter complain) and the small cabin below deck; above there is only the booth-like pilothouse near the stern. The latter is glazed on four sides and it is clear the captain is not in it. In fact, the tiller is unattended; it has been lashed in place by a loop thrown over one of its handles. Unless Patooter is for some reason in the hold, where can he have gotten to?
The remainder of the afternoon goes by without the captain’s presence, and Bronwyn has become seriously concerned; little prickles of apprehension are beginning to coalesce into a knot of dread that finds a quiet place of its own in the pit of her stomach in which to hide and quiver. She has not particularly wanted to consider the possibility, but it has been all too clear for a long time that the captain is no longer on his ship. Had she been less of a civilized creature, she would have listened to her instincts in the first place and later worked out whether they has been justified when she is someplace safe. Which is not a good thought to have has: it serves to remind her that she has no place to run to.
Nevertheless, the crew leaves her scrupulously alone. She finds that inexplicably sinister. In spite of the fact that they keep their distance, their deference is itself blatantly taunting. The Upsy Daisy’s prow is driving into the golden path laid by the lowering sun. The bay is narrowing rapidly. Bronwyn can now see both sides: the cliffs of the north shore and the low plain of the south. Only an hour or two later she becomes aware of a patch of brown haze directly ahead, where the north and south shores met. Speckles of white and thin columns of smoke signals a town, Glibner. The Upsy Daisy is following the south shore closely. The reedy banks are only a quarter of a mile away or less. Small cottages and huts appear in increasing numbers; tall poles festooned with drying nets make them look like stranded boats. Perhaps half a dozen other sailing ships are in the bay, but none are nearer than a mile. They also seem to be headed for Glibner, scurrying like scraps of confetti before the brisk gusts. Bronwyn finds herself looking forward to the wharves with an anxiety that almost makes her nauseous. The premonitory feeling of peril is a palpable fist squeezing her stomach like a miserly artist working out the last daubs of oil from a tube of paint. What she wants more than anything is to turn her back to the Upsy Daisy and its foul crew; it is an immediate desire that has supplanted all other goals, present or future.
The two crewmen begin taking in the sails, and the Upsy Daisy slows to a crawl and then stops dead in the water, bobbing and rolling like a cork in the deep swells. There is no reason for having done this and it is with almost a sense of relief that Bronwyn realizes that her fears are no longer abstract.
The two men come toward her, one from the bow and one from the stern. Bronwyn has but one thought: she dives through the central hatch like a spooked prairie dog. In the rucksack that contains the few possessions remaining to her is the big Minch-Moappa revolver. She is struggling to remove it from the oily rag in which it is wrapped when a stinging blow on her arm makes her spin around, the gun flying from her hand and landing with a heavy clatter on the far side of the cabin. Bronwyn is half reclining where she has fallen onto the deck; above her is the hulking figure of one of the men, his repulsiveness transmuted into horrendousness by the outré lighting effects of the lantern swinging wildly from the ceiling. Shafts of chrome-yellow light sweep up and down his face and figure, the swiftly changing angles of illumination and shadow making his countenance seem to writhe and twist, as if in an agony of indecision about what final shape would ultimately be ugly enough. His enormous shadow dances spasmodically around the room like some frantic audience.
“What do you want?” Bronwyn asks with as much bravado and indignation as she can muster, but the man does not answer.
“Ee’m kemmun doyn,” says the sailor who had remained above, from the open hatch. His almost incomprehensible accent betrays his Fezzooan origin.
“You stay right there,” orders the one who had struck her.
“Ew, kem oon, min!”
“This is my idea, Shitsk, you get ‘er next.”
“Wooll, it layst lit moo vitch!”
“I don’t give a damn what ya do. Just stay outa here.”
“Get out!” orders Bronwyn, but the big man just laughs.
“Patooter was fool enough to take you on as supercargo for the promise of payment...well, I think I’ll just take that payment now.”
“Don’t you dare touch me!” she growls unconvincingly.
Ignoring her, the sailor grasps her by the shoulders in a grip that feels as though his fingers might meet through her flesh like iron pincers. She screams in pain and kicks wildly, but the man simply ignores her, other than to give her a backhanded blow across the face that throws her to the deck again. Tears of pain and anger pour down her cheeks. There is the metallic taste of blood in her mouth, which she really hates. The man picks her up again, and again slaps her face so hard that she falls to the deck once more. His hands and knuckles are as rough as hemp. Ruby beads of blood seep through the abrasions on her cheeks. The sailor kneels on the deck, straddling the princess with her thighs gripped between his own. With one huge hand pressed to her sternum, he pins her to the planking.
“Hew! Hew! Dit’s groyt!” cackles the man above him.
“Shut that hatch and shut your face!” shouts the other redundantly, without taking his eyes from his captive.
“Ew, doym oot, Smeen!”
But the heavy hatch slams down in spite of the protest.
With his free hand the man called Smeen clutches a fistful of Bronwyn’s shirtfront and rips it away, exposing one breast.
“Ahrr,” he slobbers. “I thought yer wore them baggy shirts fer a good reason, yer hidin’ a pair o’ right nice pink titties!”
He grabs at her breast as though it were an escaping fish and Bronwyn snarls with the pain.
“You pig!” she chokes. “You crab-brained bastard!”
He releases her breast and reaches lower. Bronwyn gasps in revulsion and indignation. He lowers his face toward hers. His eyes look like cracked marbles; one is significantly larger than the other and neither looks in quite the same direction. His inflamed gums have drawn away from the teeth in advanced periodontitis. The crooked yellow tusks thus exposed make his mouth look like an ashtray full of wet cigarette butts. A sparse beard of piggy bristles is flecked with dried snot and foamy spit. He lowers this loathsome apparition toward Bronwyn’s face, pinning her with one hand while the other gropes with the buttons on her trousers. Never again would she curse their inconvenience.
The sailor weighs two hundred and thirty pounds, over a hundred pounds more than the princess, and this mass alone holds her as helpless as though she were under a dead cow. She feels warm, fetid breath on her face, the man consumed nothing but dried cod and cheap whiskey, and her gorge rises in response. He moves his face away from hers, a momentary relief only, for when she feel his moist, rubbery lips press against her exposed breast she vomits violently. This doesn’t seem to bother the sailor, who simply wipes her face with a rough swipe of his sleeve. He brings his plum-colors lips toward hers in a pucker that her mind perversely compars to a hemorrhoidal rectum. She can’t take her eyes away from a cold sore as large as a pea that dangles from his lower lip. In a blind panic she reaches to push the face away. As before, he disdainfully ignores her defensive efforts. That is, until her thumb finds one of his eyes; she pushes as hard a
s she can. The man howls in pain and grabs her arm but not before something suddenly gives and she feels her thumb plunge in to its first joint; a warm glob of jelly rolls down the back of her hand. The man leaps to his feet with a high-pitched wail. He clutched his ruined face ‘that it can be ruined any further being a moot point), blood freely pouring between his fingers.
“Filthy, damned little bitch,” he finally managed to cry. “Ya damned bloody cunt! I’ll kill yer!”
But Bronwyn is already on her feet and scrambling for her gun. The man swings a foot into her ribs before she can rise with the weapon and she is flung rolling to the deck, but still manages to keep hold of the revolver. There is a big glass bottle in front of her face: five gallons of lantern oil. She strikes at it with the gun and the jug bursts, spraying her with the rancid contents. Ignoring the pain as she scrambles through the broken glass, she grasps the neck of the broken bottle and flings it over her shoulder into the sailor’s face. He curses and dances back a pace or two, leery now of anything approaching his face.
Bronwyn jumps to her feet and rips the swinging lantern free from its cord.
“What th’ hell’re ya think yer gonna do?” the man asks sarcastically. Amazingly, he seems to have forgotten about his horribly wounded eye. Bronwyn can see the unattached muscles writhing within the wet, red socket.
“This!” she hisses, throwing the lantern into the mess of oil that has spread across the deck. The glass globe explodes and instantly a blue flame dances across the film of fuel. A second later, tall yellow flames burst free amid thick black smoke, like some phosphorescent genie throwing aside its cloak.
“Damn y’ to hell!” cries the sailor. “What does ya have t’ do that for?”
He steps through the flames as though they are nothing more than a curtain. Bronwyn raises the big revolver and shoots him in the mouth. The effect is devastating. As the heavy body falls backwards into the fire with a crash that shakes the entire boat, the hatch slides back and the second sailor pushes his face into the cabin.
