by Brian Lumley
He quickly drew back from that kind of morbid reverie. He’d had living friends, too. Well, a few. Jimmy Collins, from their school days in Harden Colliery—who remained a friend even now, and still very much alive at that—and Brenda, of course. Good old Jimmy was in Harden still, but as for Brenda and the child: their whereabouts remained a mystery.
And though this time Harry’s thoughts were no longer of the morbid kind, again he pulled back from them. For reverie, nostalgia, and wallowing in regrets—wondering where all the time and his youth had gone, and oh so quickly . . . more quickly than for most men, for his body was older than his mind—this kind of introspection wasn’t like him at all.
No, it was simply that he was here again, so close to where it had all started. Here where his parapsychological powers had finally matured, been mastered, and used during missions first of personal revenge, next in an outright war against the human spawn of monstrous beings from a world in a parallel universe: a world of vampires!
Since when . . . since when . . . he’d lost so much! Not least his wife and child. And yet . . . and yet—
—Damn it to hell!
For once again the Necroscope had shied from such memories. And perhaps it was best that he shut them out. In just a day or two he’d be heading home again, to Edinburgh and his new love—or at least to someone he hoped he could love—because despite that he was his own man for a lot of the time, for a great deal of it he was also Bonnie Jean’s “wee man”! And B.J. had her way of—but how to say it?—of “retrieving” him, of calling him home at a moment’s notice. Not to mention her other ways, which made Harry forget everything but her sweet mouth and body. . . .
So, if he was going to listen to this story that the pirate seemed so eager to tell him, he might as well do it now because there was no telling how long he would be here. First, however, he would prefer to get a little closer to his new contact among the Great Majority.
And so: “Pirate,” he said. “Do you want to say something to me, let me know which plot is yours?”
I’m over here, Harry, said that one. And the Necroscope had no difficulty following his deadspeak instructions, the “sound” of the pirate’s incorporeal voice, along rain-puddled paths and through rank upon rank of headstones—some fairly new but most of them old, lichened, and occasionally leaning—to a plot in a weed-grown corner whose only marker was a raised, badly chipped slab of mottled marble that bore no name, dates, or information of any sort. And:
“Pirate,” said Harry. “I don’t know if it was ever meant to be like this, but time hasn’t done your resting place any great favours! No name and nothing else—not that I can see—not on this old slab.”
My name? the other replied. You’d like to know my name? I’d consider that an honour: to have the Necroscope callin’ such as me by name! I’m Billy Browen, pronounced “Brown” without the e. To my shipmates I was Billy Brown of Penzance Town . . . that is, of course, among other things. They had a way with curse words, those old sea dogs! And Harry sensed a throaty chuckle, despite that there was no longer a throat to issue it.
Billy Browen: Harry found the other’s name oddly familiar. But no, it was simply that it rang so typically “piratical” in his ears (or more properly in his mind). And checking that the pirate’s slab was dry and clean, using his overcoat tails for a cushion as he seated himself, he said: “You speak with a degree of authority—with intelligence, and not just that of a common sailor or swaggering pirate—if you’ll excuse the coarse negligence of my words. So that wouldn’t by any chance be ‘Captain’ Billy Browen, would it?”
What, a Cap’n? Me? Billy’s deadspeak conveyed his astonishment. Now that’s very flatterin’, Harry, but it does elevate me above my station. For while I did have a little learnin’ behind me, still I never made more than first mate—which was a deal better than deckhand; even a step or two up from Petty Officer—if such military soundin’ rankings are applicable in respect of freebooters—but in any case and for all the alleged perks of secondary command, I wasn’t much better off than a lackey or back-scratchin’ personal watchdog to some of the worst Cap’ns a man ever served under! Oh yes, and just now and then to a handful of the very finest. Aye, for there’s good ’uns and bad ’uns in every occupation, Necroscope, and that’s includin’ piracy. . . .
Then after a pause, apparently curious in his own right, he continued: So then, you took Billy Browen for a Cap’n, did you, Harry? What, like Henry Morgan, or Blackbeard, perhaps? Oh, and by the way, I served under canvas with both of ’em from time to time! Or maybe you were simply hintin’ that you know a thing or two—this, that, and the other—about us buccaneers, eh?
“Oh, I’ve known several pirates in my time,” the Necroscope answered. “Or at least I’ve heard of them and even observed one or two at their work—or maybe I should say their art? And you know something, Billy Browen? It just so happens they were Captains all! Let’s see now: off the top of my head there was Errol Flynn, who was known as ‘Captain Blood.’ And Burt Lancaster . . . he was of a purple hue, if memory serves. Then there was a very flamboyant Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. from . . . oh, from a long time ago, though not nearly as far back as you.”
I never have heard of a single one of ’em! said Billy. So I reckon you’re right and I was well before their time. And then, hearing the Necroscope’s chuckle, and sensing the broad grin on his face: But there, you’re havin’ me on, right?
Harry could almost see the other’s frown of disapproval and was instantly contrite. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “But I’m truly sorry, Billy, if I appear to have taken advantage of your situation. I was just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Those names I spouted: they were real men but unreal pirates. Just actors who played the parts of pirates for the entertainment of others. It was all costumes, ketchup, and plastic swords, if you see what I mean.” And because his words were deadspeak he knew that indeed the other would “see” exactly what he meant, which he did. And:
Well bless my soul! Billy’s amazement was made plain by the volume of his ethereal thoughts, momentarily lowered to no more than deadspeak whispers. Who of my old gang would have believed it, eh? Movin’ pictures larger than life, on canvases as big as mainsails! How things have changed . . . how they’ve moved on!
“But not you, Billy,” Harry answered quietly, thoughtfully. “And you know, there’s a general rule about that sort of thing? I mean, how long dead people are required to linger down there: how long they wait it out in the ground, before they’re allowed to—”
But: Hey! Billy cut in. I was a pirate, Harry! As such I’ve done things I can’t say I’m proud of . . . as part of a crew, you understand. But in the cut and thrust of things: well, it happens I was there! And never a plastic sword to mention, and damn few crushed tomatoes—er, ketchup?—either! So condemn me if you will, Necroscope, but that’s who I am and that’s the way it was. And anyway, let’s face it, I have a long time to go before my years under this slab will equal the Viking Erik Haroldson’s where he’s soakin’ in bilge, seaweed, and crab shit in yon harbour—if ever! Which I suspect is because there’s bad ’uns and there’s bad ’uns, of which I was by no means the worst!
With a slow nod of his head the Necroscope allowed him that and said, “I’m not judging you, Billy. Who am I to do that anyway? Maybe I shouldn’t have judged Scarhelm either; perhaps, in one way or another, the teeming dead judge themselves. It could be some kind of—I don’t know—posthumous guilt thing? Maybe that’s what kept my old friend Henry Thomas Buckfast down there all this time, because he knew he deserved it! But in any case, I’m glad for him; I’m glad to see he’s finally moved on.”
And now there’s me, eh, Harry? And I’ve got tales of my own to tell. P’raps not as titillatin’ as Mr. Buckfast’s, but interestin’, I can guarantee you that. And not a little dauntin’, if you’re of a delicate disposition, or your nerves aren’t much to speak of. Not that that would apply to such as you, of course—not to a man whose forte l
ies in conversin’ with corpses!
Harry nodded knowingly, perhaps even wonderingly, and said, “You’re just dying to get something off your chest, aren’t you, Billy?”
What, my “dead man’s chest”? said the other with a chuckle. Well of course! For who but a dead man can tell you the secrets of Davy Jones’ locker, eh? And I’m just dyin’ to tell them, am I? Well, so says Harry Keogh! But ah, no! (A shake of an incorporeal head.) I’m not dyin’ to do anythin’, not any longer. For dyin’ is somethin’ that men can do but once, and Billy Browen’s already had his go!
Following this up with a second deadspeak chuckle—however short-lived, before sensing his statement refuted in the Necroscope’s metaphysical mind, and at once recognising his perfectly understandable gaffe—the exanimate pirate corrected himself:
Er . . . by which I meant most men, of course! Most of us die but once. . . .
Then, after further gathering his ethereal thoughts: As for wantin’ to tell my story: p’raps it’s somethin’ like that guilt thing you were on about, which I’m tryin’ to erase from my mind. For you see, it’s not just some old buccaneer’s tall story I’ll be relatin’, Harry, but a truly strange mystery of the sea. And bein’ as much involved as anyone, and moreso than most—havin’ witnessed and been part of it from beginnin’ to end—why, even down here in this forgotten grave of mine, still I can feel its echoes vibratin’ down the decades! Which means that I’m as much a part of it as ever, for all that I never wanted to be. . . .
And finally, after a shuddery pause of several seconds:
So yes, I would certainly like to “get it off my chest,” as it were, and somethin’ of a weight off these bony old shoulders too. And if, as I’ve heard it said, a burden shared is a burden halved, then you’ll be doin’ me a service which I won’t be forgettin’ in a hurry. So then, if you’ll just lend an ear, Harry, Billy Browen will be only too pleased to bend it for you.
Knowing the other could sense his every action, the Necroscope smiled a wry smile and said, “Well, it seems you’ve got me hooked, Billy! Which I suspect you knew would be the case.” And settling himself more comfortably on the pirate’s slab, he continued: “So since the sun has just come out, and I’ve an hour or so to spare, why don’t I just sit here awhile and let you tell me your story, eh?”
Sensing the other’s gratitude and perhaps his relief—despite that he tried to keep it and a sudden upsurge of eagerness hidden—the Necroscope shielded his own thoughts and wondered: So then, does Billy have a secret agenda? Or is it just that he truly, badly desires to tell me his story and in so doing—as he’s freely admitted—relieve himself of some personal guilt? As to what he might be feeling guilty about after all this time dead and buried . . . well, we’ll just have to wait and see.
But what difference did it make anyway? With the old pirate cold in his grave, safe beneath a fathom of centuried earth and wormy sod, what harm could there be in it?
And so: “Say on,” said Harry. . . .
“The where and the when of it doesn’t matter too much,” Billy commenced his story, whose words sounded with such clarity in Harry’s mind it was as if they were being spoken into his ear. “In fact, I’ve lain here so long that I’m no longer sure! It’s entirely possible I’d confuse such particulars, aye! Anyway, I sailed with a Cap’n and crew under the Jolly Roger—the skull and crossbones, which marked us for what we were—and likewise under a tropical sun that glittered on an ocean calm as a millpond, where flyin’ fish skipped over the ripples and there was just enough breeze to move the Sea Witch along, however slowly. ‘Which’ wasn’t the vessel’s name, you’ll understand.
“As for the names of my fellows: well, in the main you must excuse my reticence, but old habits and a freebooter’s vows die hard, Necroscope; I no more care to mention ’em to you here and now than I would then to some naval officer or hangin’ judge in a court of law in London, Portsmouth, or Jamaica—not that I’m equatin’ or associatin’ you with such, you’ll understand. But I can at least give my Cap’n a name—if not his real name—and thus make the story easier to tell and easier for you to listen to. So let’s call him . . . oh, how about Black Jake Johnson, eh? I think that’ll suffice, aye.
“Very well, the scene is set: with myself as the 2 I/C, and a crew of hardened pirates, all aboard Cap’n Jake Johnson’s Sea Witch out there on that tropical sea on that very fine day.
“Up in the crow’s-nest a mere squib of a lad had roped himself to the mast where he lolled half-asleep, and Cap’n Jake in his cabin countin’ gold from our last venture, and all the rest of us doin’ as little as possible. Which was when it happened.
“There came a whistle and a roar, and an eruption of ocean maybe four or five fathoms off the port bow. Strong enough that it rocked the ship, hurlin’ spray up onto the deck and over the figurehead, it drenched me to my hide where I stood close in to the prow, holdin’ fast to the rail. But what did it mean? What, a shot across our bows? It seemed the only possibility! We were currently at odds with the Royal Navy and certain other powers, of course, not to mention Black Jake’s feudin’ with a good many rival privateers, so the likelihood—which at first appeared a certainty—was that we’d been taken by surprise and were under attack!
“But up there in the crow’s-nest young Will Moffat was wide awake by now, and already he was shoutin’ down to us that there wasn’t a single ship—neither friend nor foe—in sight. And scannin’ the horizon all about on this exceptionally clear day, we could each and every one see that Will was absolutely right.
“Now, Black Jake was an intensely jealous man, who, trustin’ no one but himself, always took his beloved mistress to sea with him. And she . . . well, truth to tell, Necroscope, I never in my life saw a more beautiful creature! Zhadia had somethin’ of the Orient about her; also of the Americas—mainly South America, I suspect—and not forgettin’ a touch of Spain. Just glancin’ at her long, agile hands and slender fingers a man could almost hear the castanets. And her great, huge eyes: for all that they were oval, they were dark as some fiery Mexican woman’s! As for her skin: it was of a colour so very slightly off white that it looked like cream and was almost as smooth; why, you could feel the warmth of the sun issuin’ from her, and blazin’ in the pure white bar of her smile. Except, of course, no man looked at her too close aboard Jake’s Sea Witch, for to do so could so easily bring the Cap’n’s fury down on any admirer’s or suspect ravisher’s head. Keelhaulin’ a man was only the least of Black Jake’s punishments; while a more permanent option might be to rope him to the anchor, and sink him five fathoms deep! For which reason Zhadia was mainly confined to their cabin.
“But on days like this with a sky so blue, the breeze blowin’ gentle in the sails, and the ocean clean as a whistle, with never a sign of friend or foe on its broad smilin’ face, why, it would have been a crime to keep her locked away; at which times she doubtless prevailed upon Jake for a breath of fresh air and a taste of salt sea waft, if only for a little while. Which was also when Jake, ever busy with his charts and his gold-countin’ obsession and such, would task me, his faithful Mr. Browen—or just “Mister,” as he was wont to call me—to ensure no scurvy dog came sniffin’ or castin’ a licentious eye on Jake’s darlin’ Zhadia.
“Which in turn sets the scene for that day of the whistlin’ roar and the waterspout that drenched me and the girl both; for she was right there in the prow, her hair blowin’ in the breeze and her figure outlined like some young goddess where her dress pressed to her like a lover . . . except it was never my place to say things like that, nor even to think them! But it was my job to see to her security; which is why I grabbed her up where she swayed with the ship’s rockin’ motion, and held her fast so she wasn’t swept overboard. And in the next moment:
“ ‘Hands off her, you lecherous lout!’ Who but himself, Black Jake Johnson, come out on the deck, his legs braced, meaty fists clenched, and dark eyes aglint where they drilled into mine! And stridin’ on legs l
ike pillars so in tune with the motion of the sea that you couldn’t knock him down with a cannon shot—with his hand reachin’ for his cutlass, all menacin’ like—he came scowlin’ and snarlin’ in my direction!
“Well, struck dumb in the confusion of the moment, there was I thinkin’: Billy, my son, innocent as you most definitely are, still you’re surely doomed!
“Until in the very next moment, as the ship swayed yet again on the settlin’ swell, finally I found my voice:
“ ‘Now then, Cap’n darlin’,’ says I, releasin’ Zhadia, ‘just you hear me out! It appears we were fired upon—a shot across our bows that came so close it rocked the ship and drenched the foredeck, which disturbance you must surely have noted for yourself. And with regard to the woman: I was only doin’ my duty as I saw it, as ordered by my master, which is to say you, Cap’n.’
“Black Jake took in what I’d said—a shot across our bows, the Sea Witch under attack!—and his narrow eyes opened wide. ‘Every man to his station!’ he roared. ‘Ready the damn cannons! What? Damn ye—have ye all lost what little sense ye had?’ And stompin’ to the rail he called up to the lookout, ‘Ho there, in the crow’s-nest! Where’s the bloody enemy?’
“And up there in the nest, Will Moffat, all seventeen years of him—wide awake now and scannin’ port, then starboard, this way and that through a glass, until finally somethin’ tells him to look up—eventually callin’ down, ‘Nary a vessel in sight, Cap’n, sir! And anyway, that weren’t a cannonball but somethin’ that fell from the sky!”
“ ‘What!’ yells Black Jake. ‘Why ye—’
