The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  Livingston realized his mistake too late; he had not intended to place Nathan under scrutiny. "The words came from Gregory, not Nathan."

  "The smart one whispers," Griffith drawled, "the stupid one talks. You know this."

  "Everyone talks eventually."

  "Indeed," Griffith said with a light smile that lacked its usual affability. "I should hope they don't talk through the dead." He embellished a shiver. "That would be most unsettling."

  Livingston saw that his ruse, no matter how subtle its execution, was failing him. Frustration flushed into his cheeks, and his following words were loud and forceful. "What is it you plan with your share, eh? It's no secret that you hoard your earnings!"

  Griffith recoiled, but he would not give to anger, no matter how badly Livingston wanted him to. "I take no more than my fair share of plunder. What I do with it is my business, as it is with any member of this crew."

  "When the elected captain deserts his ship for a whore, it becomes my business."

  Griffith appeared too stunned for retort. There they stood in awkward silence for what seemed a minute or more. For a brief moment, Livingston wondered if he had been too hasty. He clenched his teeth and cursed his faltering resolve where his friend was concerned. He was not a man of apology and doubt.

  "Anything else you wish to say?" Griffith finally asked.

  "Yes," Livingston growled. "What kept you in your cabin all night? Surely not the loving arms of Katherine Lindsay? You reek of murder and sex."

  "I would think the aromas complimentary."

  "Then your nose is plugged."

  "A man is immune to his own scent," Griffith replied, and abruptly swiveled and made for the exit.

  GRIFFITH

  His skin sizzled as the flames lapped at his arms and legs, and he wobbled about the bed in a frantic attempt to roll away, but his back seemed weighted to the mattress by some unseen force. The wall of fire parted at his feet, and there he expected to find his escape route, but she blocked it. Her hair spewed flame at the roots and her obsidian claws lengthened as she reached for him. She arched her back and heaved her chest in a great, guttural laugh that was worse to his ears than the fire upon his skin. Her laughter died abruptly and she fixed her terrible gaze on him. She bent over and crawled onto the bed, shoulder blades slinking up and down in a rhythmic motion, one after the other, like a stalking cat.

  Her skin was no longer colored ivory, as it had been in the previous incarnation of the nightmare; it was now a deep, blood red. She loosed a frenetic set of skittering giggles as she crawled on top of him. The fires chewed at his skin, but that searing pain was second to the horror of her looking down on him, and the infinite blackness in her eyes, which now reflected nothing. Though he was lying on his back, it felt as though he was dangling at the edge of a great precipice. She closed on him until there was nothing but the empty void of her eyes, and the fire about him was whisked away by an icy wind that struck the warmth from him as swiftly as diving into North Atlantic waters on a winter day. The ice struck bone first and spread throughout every muscle and vein until finally it assailed his heart. He longed for the fires that only seconds ago threatened to devour his flesh.

  He plummeted into nothingness, and in that impenetrable, infinite blackness he eventually came to the alleviating realization that he was dreaming. He had fallen for too long, and fear gradually gave to reason. He attempted to jar himself awake, slapping at his face and pinching his arms, but he kept falling. When it seemed he would never stop plummeting and he had given completely to despair, a thin blurry line parted the blackness and opened into a massive oval that revealed to him a dark brown world carved with dozens of indistinct lines. He blinked until the lines formed the woodwork of the cabin ceiling.

  He was awake.

  He felt his skin. It was neither cold nor hot. He felt the sheets at his waist. They were not on fire. He tilted his head and found Katherine Lindsay naked in the bed next to him. She was no longer a terrible host of fire, but beautiful and peaceful in her sleep, with a faint smile etched into the creases of her lips, induced of fairer dreams than his. She lay flat on her back with her breasts pointed upward, steadily rising and falling with each shallow breath. He placed a hand atop her chest. She rolled against him and groaned happily. Her eyes were narrow slits that barely saw. Her hand wandered beneath the sheets and felt between his legs. She pressed herself against him. He was instantly aroused.

  She was lazy in her movements and he saw the opportunity to make a play for her lips, which she had been strangely stubborn to avoid in the past. He kissed her forehead and then her cheek and then started for her lips. She swiveled her head and his mouth found her neck instead. Even half-awake she denied him fulfillment of this simple yet oddly enticing desire, which had become all the more attractive as he gradually realized he was being deprived of it.

  And then she was on top of him, grinding furiously, her hair spilling about his face, lips just out of reach. He clutched her swaying hips, digging his fingernails in until she winced. As he neared climax, she rolled off of him and seized his manhood, holding it firmly in place without further motion. The orgasm was virtually nonexistent, with only a few drops of his seed dribbling down her hand. He choked back rage.

  She fell asleep before he could regain himself and chastise her. He wondered if she had ever really been awake. He turned over and desperately tried to finish what she had started, but it was no good. He remained flaccid and frustrated.

  For the remainder of the night he was unable to sleep, for their lovemaking had been too disappointing to expunge the memory of his nightmare.

  He dressed early that morning, but decided to leave his boots. He wanted to feel the air on his toes. When he ventured outdoors the sky was dark purple and the air possessed a fresh chill that would not persist beyond sunrise. Bright stars dotted the sky, but they faded as they neared the eastern horizon where the purple surrendered to a bluish radiance. There he saw the pointed sail of a small, single-masted ship, fine on the starboard bow. The few crewmen who were awake gathered round as Griffith took out his scope and viewed the distant ship. "She's closing fast," he said to no one in particular. "A sloop, I think. No other would be capable of such speed."

  "Pirates," said one of the crew, for a sloop in these waters was a large indication.

  "Bound from Nassau," wagered another.

  "Should we tell 'em that we already took the treasure?"

  The ensuing laughter stirred the pirates that had been sleeping on the deck. "What's all that noise?" one of them grumbled as he sat up.

  "Who cares?" replied another. "Unless it's another galleon bursting with treasure, stow it and let me sleep."

  When the sloop was near enough she hailed Harbinger under a tattered black flag with a white skull and crossed cutlasses. It was not long before she was passing on Harbinger's starboard side, with her short and lowly captain stretched over the bulwark, yelling, "Reverse course or yield your careers! Better you should make for Tortuga!"

  When Griffith implored an explanation, the man tossed over a rolled parchment. The sloop's stern passed before the captains could exchange further words.

  "What ship be that?" said Livingston as he ascended to the quarterdeck.

  "Didn’t get the name," Griffith muttered as he unrolled the parchment. "They were in a hurry." Livingston and a few others stared over his shoulder. It was the last thing he expected to see: a royal proclamation from King George himself. Griffith had difficulty understanding the true implications beneath the long, tricky words. At great length he came to its meaning.

  "Damn King George!" exclaimed one of the leering pirates who apparently knew how to read and had also just figured out what the parchment meant.

  "When the sun comes up," Griffith said grimly, "the light won't render this nonsense any less impossible to read. From what I gather, Nassau is in British hands."

  The pirates muttered various curses.

  "According to this proclamation
," Griffith announced as he turned to the gathering crowd, "King George will grant us pardon if we surrender ourselves willingly to the new governor of Nassau."

  "Old Sawney?" laughed a pirate.

  "I’m afraid not," said Griffith. "This new governor is very real, and likely a good deal saner."

  "Sawney’s real! Saw him, I did!"

  "Shuttup!" Livingston spat. He seemed the most disturbed by this news. "They'll take our plunder. That's the price of our surrender."

  "There's time to decide," Griffith said. "But for now I'd suggest we alter our present course. Should this parchment have found us a month ago or more, I might have been inclined to accept its terms. As it stands, the offer is sound, but not with the fortune what rests in our hold."

  "We make for an island," suggested Livingston, "and stow our fortunes there."

  Griffith was nodding his agreement before Livingston had finished his sentence; he already knew what the quartermaster intended. "And then we return to Nassau," he added, "and gladly accept this fool governor's pardon."

  "And when things is settled," said Livingston with a growing smile, "we return for our treasure."

  An hour after the sun rose, Griffith and Livingston briefed the crew on the situation and informed them of their plan. A vote was called and the response was unanimous, though not without minor reluctance from several men who were not yet clear on the issue.

  Griffith returned to his cabin. His bare heel slid into something wet and clumpy. He raised his foot and found it smeared in cat shit. He shook his head and scanned the room for the beast. "Shits everywhere but its litter," he growled.

  While Katherine slept, he cleaned his foot and looked over charts of the area. He found an island marked by a small blotch of ink. Harbinger had happened across the island a few years prior and Griffith had dotted its coordinates on the chart in case he might someday use it as a cache.

  He sat back in his chair and regarded Katherine Lindsay, who remained asleep in the bed with the morning light glowing on her soft skin. He closed his eyes and imagined that the two of them were not in a cabin on a ship, but in a large house on an expansive hill that overlooked the sea. And outside, instead of the coarse banter of pirates, he heard the festive laughter of children.

  Exhausted from a restless night, he fell asleep in his chair with a smile on his face, and his imaginings carried into his dreams. And for that long and rejuvenating rest he knew nothing of fire-haired demons or British governors and their treacherous pardons.

  THATCHER

  The Englishman named Norton, who had accepted the loss of his arm without a trace of fuss, was dying from a slow infection. Thatcher found him in a secluded partition of the hold talking to a pig. Though the pig never responded with anything more than an oink, Norton reacted as though his every remark was met and countered by the beast. "Is that so, Mr. Pig?" he said. "Well let's see what Mr. Thatcher has to say about that, shall we?" He extended a bottle of rum with the one arm he had. "What do you have to say about that, Mr. Thatcher? Eh? I say, 'one more drink, vicar!'" He took a hefty swig, but more rum spilled down his shirt than into his mouth.

  "I might be of help," said Thatcher, "if I knew what the discussion was about."

  "Of course," Norton replied. "Mr. Pig here insists I have every reason to live, however I'm more than certain my death is at hand. You must know the terrible pain I'm in, you being a doctor and all."

  The pig gave another oink.

  "Of course he is!" Norton bellowed at the animal. "Are you daft or what are you? Anyways, it's rude to interrupt. Not everything I say I'm saying at you, you know." And then he fixed a stern eye on the pig until he was convinced that it would offer no further opposition. "Aye, that's right," he said. "Anyways, what was I saying? The pain is awful, it is. It goes forever on and it won't stop short of my death, so I figure I'll end it right off. But that's not so easily accomplished as it is spoken, you know."

  "I know," said Thatcher.

  The pirate started to cry. "Truly I wish I could do it. I've tried and failed every time, as you can guess, seeing as I'm not dead. I've asked Mr. Pig to help me with it, and though he thinks ill of killing, he agreed. Only problem being his stumpy hands can’t handle a pistol. I think he knew all along it would never work, and that’s the only reason he agreed." Norton's shoulders started to shudder and his chest started to heave. He lowered his head lost himself in tears. "Oh God," he moaned. "Oh God, oh God." Tears etched white trails through the dirt on his cheeks. His eyes widened as they met Thatcher's. "Seeing your face now, I know it's hopeless. You look on me as one who stands over a grave. Oh God."

  Norton dropped the bottle of rum and frantically felt about his waist with shaky fingers until he found his pistol. "Here she is!" he exclaimed with a grin that contrasted his tears. And then he thrust the weapon at Thatcher. "You do it!"

  Thatcher held up his hands and shook his head. "You put that down," he insisted. "I will do no such thing. Not while there's life still in you."

  "Call this life?" the man screamed, throwing the weapon. The pistol smacked Thatcher in the head, and he stumbled onto his rear. "You're no different than Mr. Pig! I can hardly tell the two of you apart! Get away from me, fat man!"

  Thatcher sat up and plucked the pistol from the ground. He held it at an awkward angle. "I've never touched one of these."

  Norton turned over, putting his stump to the wall, and curled into a ball. "Hooray for you," he said.

  Thatcher looked from the pistol to Norton. He knew that the man had only a week left in him at most, and he knew that it would be the most painful week of the man's life. The request made perfect sense, unfortunately.

  The gun was a simple contraption, and it required no loading; Norton had already taken care of that. Thatcher cocked the hammer back, as he had seen the men do, but he did so with far greater care, for his palms were sweaty. The hammer clicked into place. He clenched the handle with two hands and aimed the weapon at Norton's stomach.

  The dying pirate perked up hopefully, but he frowned when he saw the direction Thatcher was aiming. "Not the belly, you fool! You'll blow my guts out and I reckon that's the only pain worse than the one I feel now. The head. Aim for me head, if you please."

  Thatcher's hands trembled as he raised the barrel. He touched a finger to the cold metal trigger. He struggled to pull the trigger, but it wouldn't budge. He wasn't sure whether his finger was stubborn or the trigger. After a moment, when Thatcher did not fire, a dismal look fell over Norton's face.

  It was then that the trigger relinquished, snapping back suddenly. The flint sparked the frizzen and ignited the powder in the priming pan. The shot cracked so loudly in Thatcher's ears that his eyes squeezed shut involuntarily. He felt something large and hefty brush against his thigh. When he opened his eyes, he saw the pig running to the opposite end of the hold. He turned to look at Norton, but couldn't see through the rising cloud of smoke. He inhaled, taking smoke into his lungs, and started coughing. The gun fell from his grasp.

  And then, as he was recovering, he felt a hand drop on his shoulder. He looked up into the fierce eyes of Edward Livingston. Thatcher expected the man to pounce on him. But he never did. Instead, he said, "By the powers, Thatcher, you've had it." It was the calmness in Livingston's tone that filled Thatcher with dread.

  "The man was dying," Thatcher attempted to explain.

  Livingston only smiled. "You might've saved that shot for yourself, as I can guarantee you far worse."

  Thatcher was relieved when he saw Griffith make his way into the hold along with several others. Griffith was a far more reasonable man than Livingston, and the quartermaster would not murder him in front of the captain.

  "Someone heard a shot," Griffith said. And then he saw Norton’s corpse and frowned. "What's all this?"

  "Thatcher saw fit to murder a crewman," Livingston answered.

  Thatcher laughed nervously. "Murder? He was dying. He asked me to do it. He begged me, in point of fact!"

>   Griffith took on a disconsolate expression that was perhaps worse than Livingston's. "You might've come to me first, Thatcher," he said.

  "I've had it with his stench," Livingston said. He whirled on Thatcher. "Count your days. The first island we come to will be the end of you."

  "No!" Thatcher screamed. He looked past Livingston and pleaded to Griffith with outstretched hands. "Don't desert me!"

  "Desert you?" Livingston laughed, stepping in front of Griffith. "Your quarrel be with me now, Thatcher. You’ve killed one of the crew, and I’ll see you dead for that."

  Thatcher felt dizzy. The walls of the hold seemed to stretch away from him and Livingston seemed to grow as tall as Harbinger's mainmast. Hot beads of sweat streamed down his temples and cheeks.

  Griffith's voice was distant. "He's our surgeon, Edward."

  Livingston's voice was thunderous. "He's a murderer! I see no use for a surgeon what kills his patients!"

  Griffith stepped around Livingston and fixed Thatcher with a piteous gaze that reminded him of Norton's words: "You look on me as one who stands over a grave."

  After Griffith and Livingston left the hold, Thatcher sat in seclusion, attempting to regain control of his body, which was trembling so violently that he thought it might fall apart. His mind spun endlessly with dreadful images, each more gruesome than the last. It was not until he looked on the corpse of Norton that his shivering ceased. The tranquility of Norton's lifeless face cleansed Thatcher's mind of its reeling. It was a face he had seen on many corpses, and until now it had meant nothing to him.

  The shot had carved a clean hole in the center of Norton's forehead. His hair rested in a sticky mass of blood and brain matter, where his skull had ruptured. Thatcher closed Norton's eyes and did not look at him again. Shortly thereafter, several pirates descended into the hold and carried Norton's body aloft.