by Andrea Jones
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Just beyond the parrot’s purview, Lean Wolf hunkered in the wood, watching the girl run away. His clever smile crossed his face.
He knew what she sought. The signs were painted all over her, and her pregnancy was proof of her fervor. Given opportunity, he himself would gratify that appetite. But a finer prospect beckoned, and the time was ripe to catch her.
Keeping low, he turned and started his trek through the forest. He skirted the plot that the Women of the Clearing had cultivated. He smelled the Neverlilies that Red Fawn favored, and it brought the memory of her skin to his fingertips. All in good time, he assured himself. Red Fawn wasn’t going any farther than this garden.
As he crept past the far side of the house, hidden from view, Lean Wolf spied two silhouettes at the window. Familiar with those shapes, he squatted down again, curious to learn more about them. On the edge of the garden, he peered through the tangles of an arbor.
The young men spoke softly. Obviously the children in the room behind must be dozing. Lean Wolf couldn’t make out the couple’s words, but their actions could not speak more volubly.
The tall, spare figure of Lightly bent toward his companion. Lightly’s forehead bumped gently on Rowan’s. And, suddenly, their mouths pressed together as if lapping up honey, and their two bodies followed, entwining. With golden light behind them and green vines framing the casement, no lovers could appear more idyllic.
Satisfied as one whose suspicions are confirmed, Lean Wolf whistled to himself. No need to waste further time. His quiver of knowledge was full, with as pointed a weapon as he could wish.
He held nothing at all against Rowan or Lightly. Now he was assured they’d hold nothing, at all, against him.
Smirking in the twilight, Lean Wolf felt for the knife at his knee. Then he loped away, to hunt down his quarry.
CHAPTER 18
Something from Nothing
Enfolding his wife in his arms, Cecco felt as vulnerable as the driftwood fragments erected by his men for shooting practice. Each gun as it fired brought a burst of sound and a stab of flame that streaked through the night. The sea-weakened wood stood exposed, and the ball burrowed deep to the heart of the target. Just so, Cecco felt, his exposure to Jill could be fatal.
She sensed his disquiet as they danced together, and she pulled back to gaze in his eyes. “Giovanni, I am trying to help. Have I done harm instead?”
“Where there is no help, there is no harm, either. I am simply amazed to find myself holding you.”
The fiddler’s bow teased out a tune with a circular strain, plaintive, its pitch rising in progression and growing in intensity. Strolling the beach as they played, the musicians, like the rest of the sailors, kindly affected to pay no attention to the captain and the lady. Undeceived, the couple drew together again, keeping their expressions casual however much their bodies delighted in one another’s proximity. Their time together, like the tune, grew tenser.
Prickling with electricity, Cecco held Jill’s crimson hand in his as he led her through the steps. This point of contact meant all the more to him because, having sworn loyalty to Hook, he had vowed not to touch Jill before she herself reached that red hand toward him. Now, with her coveted hand nestled in his and his arm round her waist, he pressed as close as he dared, reliving their golden moments, and capturing the scent of her perfume. The fragrance charged his feeling of familiarity, reviving those many nights when her passion fused with his. Through her touch, he confirmed that, given a chance, that ardor would re-ignite. As always, his mind churned to find opportunity.
Another pistol cracked, and Cecco glimpsed the silhouette of the commodore, his hook and his hair black against the bonfire, his head bending low as he listened to Lily. The two seemed engrossed, at least until Smee appeared, his red hair like flame in the firelight. He nodded to the commodore, and with a grin shining broad on his face, he was quick to sweep Lily away. Hook stood taller then, and, still just a shadow cast by fire, he turned from Lily’s retreat to face Jill’s direction. Silently cursing Smee, Cecco led Jill farther from mindful eyes.
When the melody ascended to its end, he did not feel compelled to release her. He acted upon privilege. “Lovely one,” he said, his brown eyes growing soft. “I await your pleasure. For a dance, or for ever.”
He smiled, he bowed, and, turning her scarlet palm upward, he brushed it softly with his lips. He lingered over her hand, looking up at her. “Bellezza. Shall I read your fortune?” This seduction was the one he had employed when he revealed his desire for her, under the eyes of the men who watched now. He’d been a common sailor then. He was her husband now. Everything was changed, and yet the same.
Jill remembered every moment. “No need. You assured me last time that I am adored. What fortune could be better?” Discreetly, she withdrew her hand, reading the disappointment on his face.
Yet she was not immune to the joy he promised. Her pulse beat a cadence not entirely caused by dancing, and even the ring of his bracelets set her tingling. But one of the first tactics she’d acquired aboard ship was the appearance of composure. She raised her left hand, the one where Cecco’s wedding band glimmered, and in the gesture he’d often made for her, bunched her fingertips at her lips to send a kiss winging. “Thank you, Giovanni. I will not forget.” On the pretext of smoothing her hair in its twist, she stepped back, tucking in tendrils that strayed from the pins. “And now I must play the hostess. Come, join us. I’ve contrived a way to dance with all of our men.”
Had she offered her right hand, he’d have seized it. But now he simply glanced at her left, extended toward him, and asked, “What, all our men at once?”
“As the only girl among a troupe of boys, once upon a time, I learned to maneuver in similar circumstances. I assure you that Wendy’s grown-up counterpart is equal to the task. Watch and see.”
Cecco watched her, as bidden. He noted that, as always, Mr. Smee hovered near to fulfill her needs. With a brooding look, Cecco backed from the crowd.
When Hook, too, held aloof, Cecco’s sensibilities eased a trifle. And when the commodore motioned for the captain to join him before the pavilion, Cecco let go his grudge, and accepted a glass. Few words passed between them, but those words were amicable, and Cecco remembered that the purpose of this feast was to honor his crew and himself. For the company’s sake, as he talked with Hook, Cecco tried to ignore the insidious Irishman.
Their conversation concerned Cecco’s chore while in port, the refitting of the Red Lady. Although her new name had been painted over ‘L’Ormonde’ while at sea, the calm of Neverbay allowed for more artistic treatment. Cecco and his men were completing her transformation from privateer to pirate, raking her masts to a more efficient angle, and redistributing her ballast to ensure her best point of sail. Cecco was keen to keep his ship as fleet as the Roger.
Presently Hook inquired, “How are you faring with your Frenchmen, Captain? You appear to understand one another.”
“Aye, Commodore, well enough. Monsieur Guillaume translates for the men, and he is teaching them English. We, in turn, pick up French from them.”
“Years ago you yourself felt it necessary to learn English. You’ve a talent for languages, I find.”
Surprised at this compliment, Cecco answered without thinking, “Sì.” He and Hook looked at one another, then chuckled. Ever so slightly, the atmosphere lightened.
“If I may make so bold,” Hook queried, “your principal language was Italian when first we took ship together. What lingo did you speak as a child? The Romani, I presume?”
“Romani, certainly, but as my tribe roam through Italy and seek their fortune among those people, we all speak fluently in their tongue. It is the language of my homeland, and the one I spoke when forced abroad.”
“I see,” Hook replied, and he sat back in thoughtful silence, tapping his hook on the base of his goblet.
When at Jill’s command the revelers had been pushed and pulled into place by M
r. Smee, they formed two lines on the sand. The concertina gushed forth, and together the lady and the bo’sun led a reel that gave every man a chance to join hands with the few females present. Cecco noted, as a gnawing gall worked at his belly, the heedlessness with which Jill offered Mr. Smee her right hand. The blood-red hand, that he himself had held just the once in these many weeks.
Even the musicians took turns forming the archway of arms. The couples paired off to plunge between the lines, skipping and stumbling, to resume their places in the arch at the end. This bridge of humanity migrated, by jolly stages, toward the bay, so that, at last, the dance ended with damp feet and laughter in the moonlit brine, and with all the four ladies left breathless.
A few merrymakers remained in the waves to assail one another with drenching. Most of the party reformed by the fire. Smee kept his eye on the hourglass, and soon the bo’sun’s pipe howled. Those watchers called to duty readied their weapons and headed toward their posts, looking with reluctance over their shoulders. They faded into the darkness, to the strategic sites where the beach met the woods. For the safety of all, the next hour promised no merriment for the sentinels.
As Smee turned the glass to measure out the new watch, two of the lookouts hurried to the rocky end of the shore, opposite the fire. They selected a boat from the waiting craft, and hove it to the water. Once clear of the sand, they jumped aboard. The swimmers heard their oarlocks as they passed, chunking in rhythm along with the low, slow gurgle of the seawater they stirred. Before long, the boat could be glimpsed again in the moon’s luminance, returning to the beach. It disgorged two new men, fresh from Red Lady and ready to rejoin the fun, which now centered on the victuals.
Yulunga hailed them. “Any problems?” he asked.
They shook their heads, and Flambard reported in uncertain English, “Pierre-Jean, he is dolorous, but not to be trouble.”
Yulunga smiled his vast, knowing smile. The mate of Mrs. Hanover’s earring flashed against his brown skin. “That’s right. Pierre-Jean’s trouble is banished to the Clearing.”
“Pardon, Sir, but how do you know she will remain there?”
“I warned her that there are bats aplenty, and flesh-eating beasts in the woods. But now that I think on it, maybe I should have warned the beasts instead.”
They laughed, and Flambard hurried toward Red Fawn, who broke from the crowd and flew to his burly embrace. She teased him, “Your absence works to your advantage, Monsieur. I paid my respects to the others while you were on duty.” He understood the message, if not the words. From the play of her dimples, it was plain that she now felt free to lavish her favor upon this dark, muscular Frenchman.
Lily and Lelaneh caught each other’s gazes, and smiled. They weren’t surprised by Red Fawn’s fascination for Flambard, whose size and coloring reminded the women of her former favorite, Captain Cecco. Married now, the captain steadily refused the ladies’ offerings, and the Red Lady’s men were more than happy to compensate for their commander’s restraint.
Red Fawn served Flambard a drink from the cask and a plate from the table, and before he was sated, she threw her shawl over his shoulders to draw him to her bosom. Twining their fingers together, the couple strolled to the woods where they spread the shawl on the forest floor and enjoyed the intimacy they sought— if not the privacy, for, though their giggles and gasping were drowned by the music and Lily and Lelaneh had long since turned back to the revels, the revelers’ weren’t the only inquisitive eyes.
As Jill rejoined the officers at the pavilion, she was followed by Chef and Jacquot, who set before them a tray laden with delicacies. Exhilarated from the activity, Jill consumed just enough to gratify Chef’s appetite for praise. Once the fingerbowls had been offered and Chef, duly lauded, returned with a pompous promenade to his secret cache of wine, Hook dabbed his damp fingertips on a napkin and surveyed the surroundings. He observed, “You seem contented with the evening’s events, Madam. Our men, too, appear satisfied.”
“I’m enjoying the party quite as much as they. And I believe, Sir, that you are, too.” While she had divided her attention among Hook, her husband, and their sailors, Jill felt the strain between the commodore and the captain waning. So concerned had she been about these two that Cecco’s attitude toward Smee escaped her. She was elated by the success of the celebration. “Everyone is relishing Chef’s efforts. And the games and the exercise, thus far, have kept drink from befuddling the majority.”
“The night is young,” Hook quipped.
“And so are my Frenchmen,” Cecco riposted, grinning.
“Well, Captain, we shall indulge them. We have all earned a respite.” Hook laid his hand upon Jill’s, on the armrest of her new rocking chair. “Are you comfortable, my love, on your throne?”
Jill glanced at Cecco, but he bore Hook’s endearment with grace. Relieved, she answered, “I am quite at home in my lovely new chair, thank you. As I told the twins, I feel a story taking shape.” She knew it would come to her, given time. “The men tell me they’re anticipating a tale, tonight.”
“Shall you please Captain Cecco by relating his history?”
Jill smiled at her husband as he assumed a guarded expression. “I shall please the captain by keeping it quiet.” She turned toward Hook again, “And I extend the same courtesy to you, Sir.”
“While I fear nothing from truth,” Hook replied, “I agree that the men might prefer a subject with whom they hold more in common.”
Just then Lily and Lelaneh exclaimed, and Smee’s rollicking laugh carried over the crowd. The tide had come in, lifting the surf, and Jill heard the waves rush the shore and then hiss in retreat. A gust tickled the hair at her forehead. It carried a whiff of smoke from the fire, sweetened with seaweed.
“Aye…a common man.” Jill’s expression grew vague. The music dulled in her ears. Hook watched her, perceiving that she’d left him for a reverie. Cecco, too, understood, and he leaned toward his wife, protective. Unaware of the source of her inspiration, he relaxed the vigilance he’d employed through the evening. ‘A common man’ might define any one of this band of buccaneers, and he looked forward to her narrative.
The four of Jill’s sons who were present saw her musing, and drifted near to assume posts at her side. Gradually, at some unheard signal, the instruments tweedled to silence. One by one, the pirates felt the mantle of magic. It descended, like a fog, to mute the beach. The little stars ceased winking as if to listen. Turning toward the pavilion, the sailors left the fire to dwindle, and gathered in the sand at Jill’s feet. Just like Wendy’s boys, they had awaited this moment.
Red Lady’s crewmen had not yet experienced a yarn spun by Red-Handed Jill, yet this sense of synchronicity seized them, too, and they gazed eagerly her way. Time had reached a tipping point. Even the little chef, surfeited by his feast, tasted the flavor of expectation.
The men observed her, and their hearts bounded. When inspiration came to Red-Handed Jill, her splendor assumed new dimension. The sailors viewed not only her face, but the intuition that illumined it. Her flesh appeared translucent; the scar that marked her white throat evoked a sense of sacrifice. Even the gems of her necklace donned an aura of offering. She glowed like an image on a high temple altar, though it was moonlight rather than candlelight, and Nature rather than a sculptor’s hand, that cast each feature in perfection.
Her jewel-blue eyes looked to the sky. When she spoke, her every word dropped like a diamond.
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“A young man holds fast on a vast, wild isle. His is a chill island, dank but noble, where the sea sends winds to stunt the trees, and breakers carve cliffs into hollows. Scattered on its surface, with stones and with hedgerows, communities cling like lichen. Inhospitable though it feels at times, its beauty is nowhere surpassed. Families both wealthy and wanting nestle down here. The rich hail from elsewhere; the lowly ones might come and go. For this fellow, though, born to dwell here, sure— no other island exists.
“Clos
e to the ocean, a hill of emerald rises to mountain. On its heights silence falls, as mist and distance absorb the sea’s roar. The young man is hardy, and he has climbed with his brothers by sheep track up the slick slopes, past a prehistoric tomb, dodging streams screened in heather. He’s been rewarded, on clearer days, with a prospect of the ocean as it stretches past the possible, away, and away. Many’s the man who seeks to ship out for fortune. But home is home to this son of the Smaoigh clan, and new continents do not entice him.
“Yet, whether here or whether there, all people must eat. The soil of this country is old, and ancient moss yields peat. He works for his living on the bog, his shoes turning black with it. His hands are calloused, his neck and his back and his shoulders ache as he bends to cut and to toil with his spade. He and his workmates strip the turf and lay it down in rows for drying, leaving deep, dark ditches, like scars, in the green. These men slice the turf into bricks. Days later, they turn it to air again, then they foot it like tepees to dry, finally stacking the bricks in a three-sided shelter. The stuff is heavy and dense, like gold turned to dross.
“On shipping days the labor begins all over again, to load the peat onto carts. When that’s done, he leads a donkey down the stone-strewn path. The animal chuffs, and the wooden wheels churn, groaning. A dock juts out over the sea, a high timber road— a bridge to nowhere until the vessel hauls up for lading. As the gulls scream and swirl, the sailboat’s hull is as much at risk as the island’s population, against wind, tide, and rock. The work is arduous, but the young man is proud to claim he earns his own bread, and some for his brothers to boot.
“On the day his fortunes change, he heads over the spongy bog toward his home. The gray sky, puddled with peat smoke, turns suddenly sunny. It shimmers into rainbow— not one, but three at a time. A good omen, he’s thinking. But the shadows lengthen before he reaches the cottage. A skylark trills an evening song over the whitewashed walls. The bird perches, briefly, on the thatched roof between double chimneys. One fireplace warms each end of the house. It’s made of two rooms, and the south half was once a cowshed. The shed is partitioned off now to make a shebeen, where local men come to drink, the only living left by his father to support the widowed mother. The young man’s strides grow quick as he approaches, eager to sup with his family, and keen to put his scheme into play. The creel over his shoulder clinks with bottles, and he slows his pace to preserve them intact. At the door, he hides his pack in a bush.
