The Devil's Heart

by Candace Osmond

  Her words stewed in my brain as I chewed my lip. It was hard to formulate an argument because everything Mary said made total sense. I’d be crazy not to do it. I’d been given a tremendous opportunity. A house, a business, family to reconnect with, a community to call my own. I missed Newfoundland. We all did. Those of us who leave… we all yearn to come back. Its raw beauty, the culture. Like some sort of ancient magic calls to us. Begging our return to the sea.

  I stood then. “I can’t.”

  Mary turned to follow me with her stare. “But-”

  Suddenly, I ran to the half bath off the kitchen and threw myself down, barely making it to the toilet. Rum and lasagna filled the bowl and left my body convulsing until there was nothing left. My throat burned, raw from vomit and the not-hardly-chewed food that scrapped across it, but Mary stood behind me and pulled back my hair, patting and rubbing my back.

  “My poor girl,” she spoke, “this brings back memories of your teens.” Mary laughed, the sound deep and raspy. “You’d go out drinking to those shed parties and come crawling in through my door at all hours of the night. Too scared to go home and face your father.”

  I turned my head and rested my cheek against the cold toilet seat. “Not scared of him. I was scared of myself. Of what I’d say to him.” I began to cry again, hot tears filled my eyes, overflowed and coursed down across my face. “I didn’t want to add to his misery. He was so sad… so lost.”

  “I know, m’love, I know.” Mary held my hair in her hands and brushed it with her fingers, gently forming it into a ponytail. “You always had this gorgeous nest of black curls. Just like your mom. Everyone always admired her beauty. Soft, tanned skin. Even in the winter. You’re the spit right outta her mouth, Dianna.”

  I cried some more, unable to control the heaving sobs that erupted from my gut. “I miss her so much.” My eyes demanded to close, and my head spun. But I could feel the soft brush of tissue against my skin as Mary wiped the tears, snot, and remnants of vomit from my face. “Why did it have to take her from me?”

  “What, sweetie?”

  “Mmm sea.” I could feel myself drifting, threatening to pass out right there on the bathroom floor. The long plane ride, the emotional exhaustion, and the gut full of rum had brought me to my limit. My words slurred as I tried hard to stay awake and speak them out loud. “The sea took her away from me.”

  That was all I remembered. Although, I vaguely recalled Aunt Mary laying me down on the cool, white tile floor. As she propped my head up with a pillow, she muttered the words had to and home, but I couldn’t piece together the sentence. I was too far gone, and I never wanted to come back.

  Chapter Four

  The steady flow of gravel beneath the tires created a constant hum that swirled in my vulnerable stomach and the cold glass of the window felt good on my sweaty face as I leaned against it. In the driver’s seat, Aunt Mary was silent, a protest to my behavior at the funeral, I imagine.

  “I’m sorry,” I choked, my throat still raw from the coarse vomiting I had done the previous night. My gross, dry lips stuck together as the words crawled out.

  Without even glancing at me, Mary threw up her hand. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

  The car rolled to a stop just outside my parent’s house–my house–and relief flooded my body at the thought of being alone again. The funeral was pure torture for me. Surrounded by family members I’d barely recognized, all eyes on me, and the closed oak colored casket that sat like an elephant in the room.

  So, naturally, I retreated into a shell the whole time and, when it was my turn to get up and speak the words purged from my body just like the rum and lasagna the night before. I couldn’t help it or stop it, the words demanded to come out. All the feelings I’d bottled up over the last decade, my conflictions over my father’s death, how he’d ruined my mother’s legacy by letting his life and the things they’d built together just fade away and be replaced with misery.

  I crossed my arms like a child and continued to stare out the window, refusing to get out until she accepted my apology. “Well, I am, though.”

  Mary heaved a sigh as she leaned back and let the silence hang between us. After a minute or two she finally spoke. “I know you are, Dianna.” She took off her seatbelt. “I’m just disappointed, is all.” Mary opened her door to get out and I reluctantly followed suit. Every movement hurt my body and threatened my stomach, but the fresh air felt good in my lungs. Mary circled the car then, coming toward me.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I told her. “I know you have the luncheon thing at the house.”

  “What kind of person would I be if I just dropped you off at the curb like a bag of garbage?”

  “A better person than me, probably.” Hangover shivers shook through my body as I wrapped my arms tightly across my torso. “I’m just gonna go back to sleep for a few hours. I’ll be fine.”

  Aunt Mary grabbed me by the upper arms, forcing me to look down into her face. A mess of grey curls whipped around her, as if part of the wind, and she smiled. “I know you’ll be fine, Dianna. But I want you to be more than just fine. I’d hoped this trip home would be some sort of closure for you, that you’d be… I don’t know. Happier?”

  I felt compelled to tell her what she wanted to hear but couldn’t bear lying to my aunt. “I know.” My cold hand clasped around her warm one that still firmly held one of my shoulders. “But, for now, fine is all I can do.”

  She hugged me then, a quick warm embrace, and then headed back to the car. “I’ll be back after everyone is gone. And I’ll bring you some food.”

  “Sure, sounds good. Bring some for both of us. We’ll eat supper together.”

  Mary smiled and waved before getting in her car and then I watched as she drove off down the gravel road, finally leaving me alone. Ever since the moment she peeled me off the bathroom floor that morning, all I’d wanted was to retreat to my house and sleep for a million years. I rarely drank alcohol past the point of a social drink or a glass of wine with supper. So, a hangover as heavy as the one I was experiencing felt like the closest thing to death I could imagine.

  Although the ocean breeze wasn’t really cold, I still shivered as I slowly made my way up the old rotting front steps. Inside, the warmth of the woodstove hugged me, and my body begged to be put to bed. I stoked the fire and tossed in another log before making my way over to the couch. The thought of climbing the stairs to a bed made me want to cry so I collapsed on the old, caramel-colored leather sofa. A heavy knitted blanket fell from the back and I stretched it out over my tired body, happy to stay there forever.

  ***

  I awoke sometime later and I moaned in agony as my consciousness clawed its way to the surface. The heat from the woodstove, just a few feet away, in combination with my hangover from Hell, had left me extremely dehydrated. I attempted to swallow, but my mouth was completely void of any moisture. I needed water. I just didn’t want to move.

  I forced my arm to move and peel the woolen blanket from my aching body. The air outside of my cocoon was cool in comparison to what was held beneath it and I shivered again as I zombie-walked to the kitchen across the room. I grabbed one of the bottles of water from the fridge and downed it in seconds, my stomach threatening to protest at the sudden influx of wet and cold.

  But I was fine. It settled, and I drank half of another bottle. My eyes then darted to the big clock on the wall, a mock ship’s wheel with the workings of a timepiece in the center, one of Mom’s favorite pieces in the house, and noted that I’d only slept for two hours. Strangely, it felt like enough. My body wanted to stay awake then, so I strolled over to my pirate’s chest on the dining room table.

  Immediately, I grabbed the cool red jacket, noting its convenient size, and slipped it on. It fit like a glove and smelled musty from its few lifetimes of storage. It deserved to breathe again, I thought as I ran my hand down one of the sleeves and smiled. “Don’t you worry, one trip to the dry cleaners and you’ll be m
y new favorite jacket.” I slipped my hands into the big side pockets, surprised to find a strange object and pulled it out.

  “Oh, no way.”

  It was a small ship-in-a-bottle. I always marveled at the intricacy, the tiny details and impossibility of them. As I brought the bottle closer to my face for a better look, I could see that this one was far more detailed than any I’d ever seen before. Through the dirty glass, I could tell that the ship wasn’t the usual ones you find, with the many white sails and long, narrow boat.

  No, this was most definitely a pirate’s ship. The blackened wood of which it was constructed, the large stern with red windows hung on the back like a giant belly, and the three masts each displaying a weathered sheet were solid proof. The center sail sported burn holes and the faint markings of a skull.

  Then something caught my eye. The fake water which held the ship in place seemed to… move. Maybe I was still waking up, and perhaps it was a trick of the light shining in through the large dining-room window.

  I blinked and gave my eyes a rub with my fingers, but it didn’t help. The strange resin shined like aqua jewels in the setting sun and the waves appeared to crash against the sides of the ship. Then, a red glow came from the windows of the stern. I slowly put it down on the table and noticed my bottle of rum just inches away from my hand. A sane person would look away. A sane person’s stomach would roll at the very sight of it. But, clearly, from what I just witnessed… I was far from sane.

  I grabbed it by the neck and downed a huge gulp, surprised that there was still some even left after last night. The liquor burned my stomach but never threatened to come back up. Choosing to ignore the ship-in-a-bottle, I glanced in my tiny trunk, pulled out the old diary I’d found yesterday and made my way over to the bay window bench seat in my mother’s office.

  I took another quick swig before I sat down and then tucked the bottle under my arm. My thumb ran over the burned initials once more.

  “H.W. Let’s find out who you were and why you have a haunted ship-in-a-bottle, shall we?”

  I unraveled the old twine that held it closed and opened the black leather cover, surprised by its softness and willingness to bend. The first page read, Henry William White, in a beautiful inked script. A water stain had soaked into the paper and smudged the name down across the page, but it was still there, visible. “Well, I guess we know what the initials stand for.” I continued on, turning the next delicate page.

  June 2nd, 1698

  Today is my sixteenth birthday. I have awaited this day for many years. I awoke this morning to find Mother in the kitchen, she gave me this beautiful handmade journal and began making my favorite breakfast. Fried bread and eggs covered in molasses. But I could hardly sit long enough to enjoy it. Today, Father promised I would get my own boat and I yearned to touch the sea on my own.

  I ran down to the shore where I knew he would surely be, and found him standing and awaiting my arrival. He smiled and hugged me, then whispered I love you. Now that I am a man, there is no need for affirmations out loud and I was glad he thought so, as well.

  He then pointed to a small boat on the water, just a few yards out. It was tiny, just large enough for myself and my gear, a single sail cast to the sky. It was magnificent. And it was mine. I spent all day out on the water. I had not dropped a single net, nor a line. I simply laid back and watched the sky as it floated above like a mirror image of my beloved sea below me.

  I stopped. This was the journal of a young boy. How did it end up in a pirate’s chest? Now I wondered if I had it wrong. Perhaps the trunk wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it was just a random box that my mother collected things in. I found myself disappointed, but continue to read on.

  June 10th, 1698

  If my mother would allow, surely, I would live on the sea. I awake each day with vigor, eager to meet my small ship and sail the sea. If I did not bring back a basket of fish each day, I am certain Mother would have something to say. She misses me around the house and the farm, that much I know. So, I promised her I would stay home today and help her. Perhaps I shall sneak out after supper and go for a quiet moonlight sail.

  The next few pages were blank, aside from the random rust-colored stains that stuck some of them together. Whatever was spilled so many centuries ago, it soaked through the paper and was left that way. I tried to pry some of the pages apart, to see if there were words trapped within, but there was nothing. Then I realized… the stains. It was blood.

  I fast-forwarded through the journal, past the blots of blood to find the next journal entry. If there were any at all. Finally, I found the messy ink scratches of an entry. The same writing as Henry’s but sloppier, quicker. As if they were written in haste or without care. I then noted the date. Just the very next day after the last entry.

  June 11th, 1698

  I should not have left. I should have listened to Mother. She caught me leaving the house after supper when the sun had set, and the moon shone over the waves just down from our farm. She told me it was dangerous, and I did not heed her warning. I told her I would only sail out a few yards. I promised.

  But fate had different plans for me. For I had not even reached my boat before I met two strangers on the beach. I thought they may have been from our neighboring farm, but I was sadly mistaken.

  They were pirates.

  The man was silent as the female approached me, her sword drawn and hanging by her side. When I realized what they were, I begged for my life. Told them I had nothing for them to take. But the woman, Maria is what her male companion called her, forced me to lead them back to my home.

  I did as I was told, frozen by fear. I assumed they would raid my home and rob my family, then retreat to their ship and sail away. I had not imagined how everything would end that night, how my life would be taken away from me.

  She made me watch as she sliced my parent’s throats, her male partner holding me in place. I had wet myself numerous times and vomited at his feet, but he did not sway. It felt like an eternity as I stood there, unable to move or leave or even touch my parents who lay at my feet in a pool of their own blood as Maria raided my home. She filled a gunny sack and tossed it over her shoulder before ordering her partner, Eric, to bring me along. He protested, but she insisted. His grip loosened on my arms enough for me to break away and fall at my parent’s bodies, to touch them once more before the pirates carried me away. I wrapped myself around my mother’s torso and cried like a small child as Eric pulled at my feet.

  I don’t know whether to be grateful at the sparing of my life or wish for death as I sit here on their ship, locked in a room. This journal, soaked in the blood of my mother, is the only thing I possess from my old life, only by the simple coincidence that I had it tucked into my jacket pocket.

  I was surprised by the warm stream of tears that ran down my cheeks. I hadn’t expected that at all. I closed the journal but then reopened it to assess the hardened brown pages with a new pair of eyes. This was Henry’s journal, and the pages held the blood of his mom. What a bittersweet token to have kept. I was certain, then, that the chest was definitely that of a pirate.

  I skipped ahead to try and find out whatever happened of young Henry.

  July 17th, 1698

  My days here on the Burning Ghost have been a series of unfortunate events. Each day brings with it a new form of torture. Eric wants nothing to do with me, for that I am thankful. But his wife, Maria, the heathen, thinks of me as a plaything. She drags me along on raids, forces me to watch while she relentlessly takes lives, leaving a trail of blood and ash in the waters.

  I have become numb to the sights I behold. No longer affected by the unspeakable acts that play out before me. But that displeases Maria. She wishes me to be disgusted, to be damaged. She delights in the tears that I shed.

  This evening marks the seventh time she has released me from her quarters, after forcing me into her bed. She has taken everything from me. My mother and father, my home, my life.

 
; And now my innocence.

  But that all shall end tonight. The words I now write shall be my last, and Maria will lose her toy. Ending this never-ending train of torture.

  Finally, I shall be reunited with my family.

  The sound of the front door creaking open pierced through the quiet house and I quickly tied the twine around Henry’s journal before making my way back out to the living area. Aunt Mary was there, trays of food in hand and a smile on her face. It quickly faded, though, when she saw that I’d been crying.

  She slid the heavy trays on the kitchen island top and came over to me. “What’s the matter, m’love?” Mary then saw the jacket I sported. “And, w-what on Earth are you wearing?”

  “Oh… a pirate’s jacket?” I replied and pulled Henry’s journal out from under my arm. “And I was just reading this book. It’s some kind of journal from a boy who was kidnapped by pirates. They killed his parents. One was even a female. Maria or something.”

  Aunt Mary grabbed the trays of food from the kitchen island, brought them over to the table and sat down. She then nodded. “Ah, yes, Maria Cobham,” she told me.

  I was taken aback at the name. “Wait, you mean -”

  “Oh, yes, Dianna dear.” She began scooping random bits of food onto a plate and handed it to me. “Didn’t you know? Where your mother’s obsession came from?”

  “Maria Cobham?” I said, so I could hear her name in full again. “I come from pirates?” My stomach turned and rolled at the thought of my own blood committing such an unbelievable act of violence like what was done to Henry’s parents.

  Mary chewed a mouthful of mustard salad and then wiped her mouth with one of the flowery napkins she brought over. “Oh, yes. When your own parents met, so many years ago, your mom was fascinated with anything historic or old, she worked with the museum during the summer. It wasn’t long after she met your dad that she discovered her lineage back to piracy. Then her obsession began. Of course, your father wanted nothing to do with it, he knew the awful history that came with having pirate ancestors and never wanted to be associated with it. But he adored your mom, so he let her do as she pleased,” Mary waved her hand around, “like filling this house with all of her treasures.”