The sound of the church door opening interrupted Grim Mary's train of thought. A woman's footsteps clacked on the tiles, getting closer, and then the sound came of the curtain on the other side of the confessional being drawn. Through the latticework grill, Grim Mary saw a figure settle back on the seat. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
"I bet you have."
"Father?" Uncertainty filled the Spanish slut's voice.
"You better start praying. I'd send you to meet your maker, but I reckon you're heading for the other place. So, tell Old Nick that Grim Mary is sending him another one. I won't—"
More footsteps sounded. Harder, heavier, running footsteps, and surprisingly close at hand. Whoever they belonged to must have crept up stealthily before making a final rush. Grim Mary reached for her dagger, but she was out of time. The curtain was flung back and the muzzle of a pistol was shoved in her face. "Quite right. You won't."
Grim Mary stared up into the face of the young priest. Or was it? A long time had passed since she last attended a service, and she had not been a Catholic, but surely priests shaved the tops of their heads. Why had she not picked up on it before?
The curtain in the adjoining cubicle also opened and Spanish Rosa stepped out, a dagger in her hand. "Good timing, John."
"You're the mark she was with two days ago." Grim Mary made the guess.
"I'm also a member of His Majesty's Army, and you're under arrest." The soldier with the gun stepped back. "Now you can come out of there, lie face down on the floor, and put your hands behind your back."
For a moment, Grim Mary was tempted to refuse. Let him shoot her, but that was to give up all hope. Maybe her crew would be able to rescue her. Maybe they could bribe or intimidate the judge. It was a weak hope, but better than none at all.
The whore pulled a length of rope from her sleeve. She talked to her accomplice while binding Grim Mary's hands. "The wagon's out the back?"
"Yes. As you thought, the Mother Superior was willing to take a few risks to see one who so disgraces her sex brought to justice."
"Where's the other slut, who set me up?" Grim Mary spat out the question.
"Who?"
"Peaches."
"Oh, her," the Spanish whore answered. "She wasn't in on it. I knew she was in the room next door. I also know she's stupid and she hates me. We just had to raise our voices for the bits we wanted her to hear. She was too dense to realize we were feeding it to her."
"You knew I'd try to get you here?"
"Of course. Someone like you wouldn't let it drop. You couldn't get me in the brothel. There was a slight risk you'd attack me in the street on the way here. But I thought you'd want the time and privacy to make me sorry for daring to plot against you. You're predictable in your viciousness." She stood up and addressed her companion. "She's secure. Let's go."
The soldier grabbed Grim Mary's shoulder and hauled her upright. "Now, remember, I get my reward, regardless of whether I hand you in dead or alive, or with a bullet in the kneecap. So, don't try anything."
Grim Mary stared into the soldier's eyes. A shadow of the triumph and excitement she knew so well were there. Weak and diluted maybe, but the soldier was feeling that familiar thrill of power. And for herself? A cold, sick pit was growing in her guts. Her throat tightened. Her heart was thumping. Was this how her victims felt? She tried to smile. She knew that if somehow she made it through, she was going to enjoy seeing the fear in their eyes even more than before.
As she was led to the rear of the church, Grim Mary clung to the thought. It would give her strength in the days ahead.
The small space at the rear of the convent justified the name "garden" mainly because of the weeds growing around the base of the single tree. However, it was a calm spot for reflection. Rosa sat down on a bench in the shade and looked up at the blue sky, between the patchwork of leaves and branches.
Grim Mary had been hanged the day before. Rosa had stood at the front of the cheering, laughing crowd, watching the dreaded pirate captain do the hangman's dance. Had it made her feel any better? Rosa smiled sadly. Maybe not right at that moment. If anything, it had ripped open the wounds on her heart. Yet, now she could start to truly heal. She could lay the memory of her father and brother to rest, and go forward without the raw sense of loss and pain. If only she could decide where she wanted to go. What options did she have?
A nun appeared at the entrance to the garden. "A young man is here to see you, a soldier."
"Who is it?"
"He gave his name as John Cooper."
"Where is he?"
"I'll bring him here, if you wish."
"Please."
The dragoon's uniform suited John even more than the civilian male attire. Rosa was amused to feel her stomach perform a little hop at the sight. I can be so predictable. The sergeant's stripes on the shoulder of John's uniform were obviously new, the yellow a few shades brighter than that embroidering her cuff s. Rosa stood to greet her. "You got your promotion."
"Yes, thanks to you."
"And I got my revenge, thanks to you."
"I'd heard you were staying here. You're not going back to The Golden Fleece?"
"I doubt they would have me. But, no, I don't wish to continue with that line of work."
"So, what are your plans?"
"I'm not sure." Rosa sighed, but then considered John, who was staring down at her feet, even more bashful than normal. Why should the subject of an ex-whore's future make the soldier so anxious? "Why do you ask?"
"It's just, now I'm a sergeant, I've got my own quarters. I was thinking I'd get some privacy, but it seems I need to find a housekeeper." She swallowed visibly. "Well, wife was what they said, but obviously, I can't do that."
"Obviously." If John detected the teasing edge that Rosa put on the word, she gave no sign.
"And I was wondering, if you had nowhere else to go, since you know I'm a woman, and I feel I owe you, but it wouldn't . . ."
Rosa smiled. John really was adorable when she looked so shy and off-balance. "So, do you want me to be your housekeeper or your wife?" John looked up from her feet, clearly startled. "You'd pretend to be my wife?"
Pretend. Now there was an interesting word to play with. "If you like. You might be surprised at how good a pretence I could make of it."
"I wouldn't want you to—"
But I would want to. Rosa kept the thought to herself and stepped closer. She slid her arms around John's neck and pulled her head down for a kiss. John froze in statue-like rigidity, but at least she did not pull away. When at last Rosa stepped back. John's face was bright red.
"If people—and, er—you do that . . . they might—yes—I guess . . . fool them. It's um . . ."
Rosa's smile broadened. She really has no clue. She'll learn.
The Furies
Rajan Khanna
The Furies came upon us in the light of a clear morning.
We were out of Tortuga, heading west with a good wind, our stomachs full for the time being, our eyes eager for any prize. The Mandrake was riding low in the water, heavy with loot. To be truthful, we were feeling a bit proud of ourselves, from the captain down to the lowliest deck hand.
She came in like a whisper of silk. I didn't know her then, but the Harpy was aptly named, a fierce, predatory ship. Upon her prow was no maiden of the sea, but a demon succubus, crowned with horns above a cruel, fanged mouth. Gazing upon it, I felt that she would devour us, swallowing us into some hellfire abyss.
She flew the Jolly Roger, and the black fabric flapped in the strong wind. Two horns had been added to the top of the skull like their demon patroness.
It seemed the deck of the Mandrake turned from content silence to hasty chaos in but a moment. As soon as we sighted the Harpy, we knew she was coming to attack us. The captain barked out orders, and the ship creaked as it was called upon to move to a better position.
The crack of the cannon reverberated in the space between the two ships. Their chain shot r
ipped through our masts with a great splintering sound, sending shredded wood hurtling across the deck.
That was when the fear gripped me, sliding one hand into my bowels, squeezing. They had caught us unawares. It was all happening too fast. I am ashamed to say that I did not hold my post. I was meant to be manning the cannon below decks, and yet I could not tear my eyes from that demon ship, I could not force my jellied limbs to obey my commands and find the means to strike back at them. I felt like my body had lost its rigidity and all my organs and bits were floating around within me. Even my skeleton would not hold me straight.
It was soon evident that they sought not to sink us. They were coming to board us, to strip us of the booty we'd worked so hard to obtain. Something about this granted me some solidity once more. Something about this straightened my spine. I'd spent far too many years pinching from the trash of other folk to think of doing so once again. I drew my cutlass and prepared for battle.
The figure that stood on the deck of the Harpy was not what I was expecting. It was like something from a dream. Or a nightmare. It stood tall, proud, and confident, a long, scarlet coat gracing its shoulders. A curly wig hung down about the face, but the face was covered, hidden behind a lacquered mask that seemed to mirror the face of the devil himself. It leered at me—indeed, at all of us—as if we were its playthings, and the mouth underneath the mustache and beard was both sensuous and hungry. Others stood beside this figure, likewise masked. Some had cruel, painted faces with open maws, others were decorated with hideous markings. I had never seen anything like them.
They assembled on deck like a troupe of pantomimes, and then they swept across, armed, and the clang of metal on metal was in the air. The enemy pirates seemed to dance as they twirled and cut and jousted, while we jerked and hacked and stabbed. Their composure, their fluidity, only served to unsettle me all the more, and my cutlass felt heavy in my hands.
I had little time to think, however, when one of the Harpy's crew came for me. This pirate wore a mask that resembled the face of a cat, but far more terrible. The Mandrake had once had a cat, a good ratter we called Opal, but this was no domestic animal, this was a fierce predator, with slitted eyes and exposed fangs. I raised the cutlass in defense. The air smelled of the sea, blood, and my own sweat. My enemy's sword rang against my own, sending a shock up my arm at the contact. I drew back as I parried the blows. The enemy sword seemed bright and firm, while mine had seen far better days. It flicked out to cut my thigh, and I almost dropped my guard. The wound stung, and I pulled back farther, my resolve failing. I don't know what happened next. I remember the sky pitching about me, and the enemy cutlass coming for my face, and then nothing.
I should have been dead. I thought I was, until I became aware of my own breath. I was surrounded by darkness and the creaking of a ship. It wasn't the Mandrake, of that I was sure. Every ship has its own rhythm, its own collection of sounds and smells. I knew the Mandrake so well that I was deaf to its song. This ship, however, was a stranger to me.
I seemed to be in a cell of some kind. Scaled iron bars held me in place. I could see nothing, but the room smelled of mold and lamp oil. I wondered how many of my shipmates were there with me. I called out. "Anyone there? It's me, Michael." There was no answer beyond the groaning of the ship and there was no change in my condition until I heard a door thrown open and a soft light entered the room. Two of the masked pirates came to the door of my cell. "You, what is your name?" one asked. The voice was high and raspy. It was the devil I'd seen on the deck of the Mandrake. In the dim light of the lantern, the face seemed even more sinister, and I knew that it guarded many secrets, many plans and schemes. Enough to rival Satan himself. "Michael," I said. "Do you want to live, Michael?" the devil asked. "Yes."
"Then you will do as I say," he said. The face of the pirate next to him was that of a painted jester or clown. The frozen smile and red cheeks scared me, I'm not ashamed to say. They were mocking, and far too intense to be natural. "This is Harlequin," the devil said. "Harlequin will bring to you some of the plunder from your ship. You will tell Harlequin where each item came from and how you came by it. You will do this truthfully and without obstacle, or you will die. Do you understand?" I nodded, unable to find my tongue.
"We will start tomorrow. Truthfully and without obstacle. Do not forget." And with that, they were gone. I felt myself sag back against the metal bars. That night I dreamt of leering faces and ships that swallowed souls.
Harlequin spoke like a dandy, though at times he tried not to. I could understand why. The company of other men was something that was tolerated at sea, but only as a necessity. Pirates were rough men—and dandies did not last long.
He came to me in his mask and wig and hat, and I wondered at the formality. The air in the brig was close and it must have been uncomfortable for him. He started to bring in the loot from our ship, showing me pieces, asking me from whence they came. I did my best to answer.
After an hour of this, or so I judged, I asked what had happened to the Mandrake.
"We left it adrift," Harlequin said. "We had no need of the ship."
"And the crew?"
"Most of them were put to the sword, sacrificed," he said. I felt myself deflate. "You grieve for them?"
"They were the only family I have ever truly known."
Harlequin said nothing and turned back to the chest full of booty.
"Why did you take me?" I asked, wondering suddenly why my body was not lying bloody and torn with those of my crewmates.
"You were light enough to carry back to the Harpy. And nearest. Let us continue."
The answer satisfied me. I was not important enough to ransom. Therefore, the only possible reason was one of convenience. They needed someone to help catalogue our wealth, and I was the closest and the lightest. Practicality saved me.
That first day, we proceeded through most of the chest, and then Harlequin dragged it away, leaving me once more alone in the darkness. A little later, he returned with some stale bread and grog for me. I chewed the tough, yeasty bread and washed it down with the grog. It was heavy with rum. A rush of warmth clawed through me.
The next day, we began with another chest. The following day, another. Now, I speak of days, but the truth is, I lost conception of normal time without the passage of the sun, moon, and stars to guide me.
On the third day, I asked Harlequin why we were doing what we were doing—combing through the bounty of the Mandrake.
"Because it is necessary," was all he said. In the dim light his fingers were long and graceful. We didn't speak at all after that, aside from the cataloguing. I found that while I couldn't remember some of the individual items, with a little prodding of my memory—in the form of some questioning from Harlequin—much of our plunder had come back to me.
On the fourth day, Harlequin pulled out a silver necklace made of shimmering links with a dark stone at the center. Printed on the stone was a woman with a drawn bow and arrow. The moon was visible behind her. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt a tightening of my chest.
Harlequin noticed my reaction. "Is this precious to you?"
"The person it belonged to was." At the memory, a liquid warmth spread through my stomach.
"Your mother?" Harlequin asked. I didn't respond. But he seemed to take that as truth. He relaxed at the assumption, as if it somehow pleased him. On day five, I was prepared to make my case. I knew that my usefulness at the moment was solely in my knowledge of the Mandrake's loot. Once that task was completed—and it would be soon—I would no longer serve any purpose and I'd be killed, or thrown overboard, or left marooned on a pitiful strip of beach.
"I'm a good sailor," I said, after Harlequin had removed the first few items for the day. "I've been trained as a gunner, and I know how to read charts. I know how to read letters, too. I learned when I was a boy."
"What is this about?"
"You could use me as one of the crew. I'll be a cabin boy, even. I'll swab the deck. You'
d see how valuable I can be."
"And in a fight?"
"I can swing a cutlass and fire a pistol better than most."
"And yet you were taken when we took your ship." Harlequin's painted face seemed to mock me.
"I . . . I faltered. Only because you were so fierce. I cannot imagine a
ship or crew more fearsome than this one. It should not be a problem in the future."
"I will pass your entreaty along," Harlequin said. I heard a smile in his voice. "Now, let us continue."
It was shortly after we finished for the day that the one I call Lucifer— because of the devil mask he wore—came to see me. He carried a lantern, and the light made the features of his mask far more sinister than they had been in the light of day. "I was told that you wish to join the crew," he said in his high rasp.
"Yes," I said. It was far more difficult conversing with him than with Harlequin. "I can be a good member of the crew." It was hard to imagine it, though, even as I said it. Would I have to wear a mask, too? What face would that mask portray?
"There is one thing that you could do to prove yourself worthy," Lucifer said.
"What? Name it."
"Cut off your manhood." I saw then that Harlequin had joined us, as well as a few others, all in their masks—shapes like demons and skulls and deformed grotesqueries.
I was struck dumb for a moment, unable to grasp what he'd said. "What?" I said at last.
"If you truly wish to stay with us, upon this ship, you must cut off your manhood."
"I don't understand," I said.
Lucifer leaned forward until the leering mask was just before mine. Then, he removed it.
Lucifer was a woman.
I must have gasped, and she smiled. Then the others all began to remove their masks, and beneath them all were women's faces.
I had spent most of my life aboard ships and I had heard many times that women were bad luck on them. I had heard stories of men who had snuck them aboard only to lose their whole ships. I had been told of grisly deaths and wicked torments. Yet, here was a whole ship full of them. Suddenly, I understood the masks.
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