Birds of Paradise 1.01 "Far from Paradise Part 1"

[Casi]

Episode 1: Far from Paradise Part 1
Rating: FR-R for violence and adult situations
Feedback: A feedback thread is coming soon! Save any comments till then, please.

Author's notes: This fic takes place during the early years of the 18th century, which as been called The Golden Age of Piracy. You will meet no Johnny Depp characters here. In reality, pirates were dirty, drunken, horrible men who rarely though of little else beyond rum, rape, and gold. I have tried to capture that image.

In addition, many of the pirates you will encounter through the run of this story are based on real people. I have had to fudge some dates and rewrite events in places, but I am doing my utmost to stay as true to actual history as I possibly can. Many of the sites I discribe can still be found today. For a list of my research books, if you'd like to learn more, simply PM me.

Lastly, I do not condone many of the things that are about to happen to my main character, Sarah Jenkins. But the simple fact of the matter is that terrible things happened to young girls and boys more frequently than anyone likes to think about. They still do, in point of fact. I have, again, attempted to capture the truely cruel nature of this life among pirates.

So, without further ado, I give you:

Birds of Paradise

Into each generation, a Slayer is born, one girl in all the world, a Chosen One, one born with the strength and skill to hunt the vampires and to stop the spread of their evil. In the early years of the eighteenth century, that girl was Sarah Jenkins.

[Casi]

1713

The floor wanted scrubbing. But then, they always wanted scrubbing. With the amount of filth that rolled through the doors, Sarah was constantly amazed that she could still see the floor boards at all.

Madam Trasou’s was one of the more elite whore houses on the small island of Tortuga just North of Hispaniola. Elite was, of course, a relative term in that Madame Trasou insisted on placing mattresses in every room rather than the pallets of straw which served in most places. She even made sure her girls got one bath a month, making them, easily, the cleanest people on the whole island. This made little difference as far as the clientele was concerned, there being only so many varieties of unwashed pirates and corsairs. It did allow the Madame to charge a bit more, insuring that she and her girls remained comfortable, even with the storm seasons made business slow.

“Slow…” Sarah sighed with longing for a slow night. She’d been working harder this past week than she could remember ever doing. Even her first night here hadn’t been as trying as this. She hitched her pants a little higher and drew the rope that served as her belt a little tighter, hoping to keep them out of the water when she started to scrub. Sometimes she thought she was really doing more damage to the floors than good as the water she was given was usually anything but clean. Nine times out of ten, it was water left over from the pots used to boil the girl’s clothes clean. It did have a little soap in it though, so it had to be doing something.

Sarah’s back broke into an almost unbearable itch, but she didn’t even reach up. She knew it would only make it worse if she tried to scratch through the binding. Ah, the binding. On her last birthday, Sarah had turned twelve. And she had also noticed something rather disconcerting: she was starting to develop. Soon, she would have actual breasts, and her charade would be blown, unless she could find a way to hide them.

Sarah’s mother had been a whore in this very house, though Sarah did not know which of the women she really was, or if she was even still there. All she knew about her was that, from the moment she was born, her mother had dressed her as a boy. She had a few dim memories, from very early in life, of someone who smelled like too many flowers rolled all together, explaining that if she was a girl she would just end up right where her mother was. As a boy, she had freedom. Sarah hadn’t understood, but she never let the secret slip. Even as a young child of seven, she had felt the press to be male as she saw the female children of the women turned out into the streets when they got old enough to beg.

That is, the ugly ones were turned out. Those who looked as though they had any beauty coming were kept on, as “chamber maids,” which actually meant they stayed in the rooms at all times, “learning.” Sarah had learned very early on the difference between beautiful and ugly. Nowadays, she kept up the façade of being a boy firstly because it protected her from the assaults of the drunken men who flowed into the building…but also because she knew she was not pretty enough to stay on, and would be turned out if the Madame knew.

Sarah was not ugly, but she thought she was. Her vision of beauty included flowing gowns and red lips. She pictured long hair and full busts, and lots of perfume. In actuality, she was rather pretty, though it was hard to tell through her dedicated portrayal of a boy. She kept her hair cut the same length, all around her head, barely fringing the tops of her ears and framing her forehead with wisps of bangs. It wasn’t exactly the most popular look for boys, but long hair, she feared, would simply make her look too much like a girl. She dutifully bound her breasts every day before leaving the sanctity of the small pantry they had converted to be her bedroom behind the kitchen. The trouble was, she was growing up, and she knew it was going to get harder and harder to hide her sex as she grew older. Her voice would not deepen, as the stable lad’s had just last year. Her breasts were already becoming a problem. And, worst of all. She knew that, any time now, she would achieve “womanhood.” That was the age when the other girl’s where usually thrown out. She wasn’t exactly sure what “womanhood” entailed, but she was fairly certain it was not going to be enjoyable.

“Edmund!” a voice called harshly from the nearby kitchen and Sarah jumped. Her name, to everyone she knew, was Edmund. Her last memory of her mother, somewhere around the age of six, she supposed, was of a woman with blonde hair leaning over her and saying quietly, “You shall be Edmund for the rest of your days. It was my father’s name and it means protector. Let that name be your protection. But to me…you will always be my Princess, my Sarah.” And that was that. That was the last time she actually remembered anyone calling her by that name, and yet she had been so unwilling to let it go that it stayed with her still.

“Edmund, hain’t you cleaned that floor yet?” A burley woman had poked her head out of the kitchen doorway to scowl down at Sarah. “The Madame’s a’ready let’n folk in and you ain’t even done last nigh’s clean’n ‘av you?”

Sarah scowled, something she supposed was a very boyish thing to do. It was hard enough getting work done around this place without having to constantly translate the orders barked at her into something resembling proper English. Sarah had made it a point to hang around the main room, listening to Madame Trasou talking with the customers. She knew her speech wasn’t perfect, but at least it was understandable.

“Don’ you sass me w’that look!” the kitchen woman railed, raising a greasy looking wooden spoon over her head like a weapon. “You git ‘em clean ‘for I break dis ov’r yer ‘ead!”

Sarah didn’t reply. She merely dumped the still warm, distinctly foul water onto the floor and began scrubbing with her well worn brush. She heard a huffy grunt behind her and the sound of receding footsteps and breathed a sigh of relief. She hated dealing with the other servants. She much preferred wandering about the rooms of the girls in between their customers. They doted on her something terrible, apparently taking joy in the presence of a child in their midst. Sarah wondered how many of them actually knew. Sometimes, they would share the delicacies that some of their richer customers had brought. Chocolates and other candies were exceptionally rare, but a few did occasionally find their way into the house. But it was because of the time that she spent with the women that she was behind on her work today. She knew she’d have twice the workload by the end of the night than she normally did, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. She sped up her scrubbing noticeably.

The floor plan of Madame Trasou’s was simple enough. The front door opened into a lavishly decorated front room, including several couches, a rug, and even some velvet curtains that Madame Trasou had bought after she sold off two of her less appealing girls as wives for local merchants. A bar ran along the back wall, offering the usual drinks, all of which were guaranteed to leave its drinker facedown in a gutter before too long. Food was available if any of the patrons wanted it, but they seldom did. The kitchen was mostly stocked to provide for the residents. Therefore, it was located quite a ways away from the bar itself.

If a person were to leave the front room by the door behind the bar, they would find them in a long, dingy hallway, completely at odds with the seeming opulence of the front room. Its floors were bare and covered in grime. The right wall was lined with doors leading into the various servants’ rooms, usually overbooked, and leaving at least one person sleeping on the hard floor. At the far end of the hall, the door to the kitchen opened on the right, and the servant’s stairs led up on the left. Madame Trasou was very strict about the use of those stairs, insisting that if they were to present an image of wealth, the servants had to stay out of sight.

Upstairs was only for bedrooms, one per girl. Madame Trasou never employed more girls than she had rooms, but it was always more than enough. The girl’s were expensive enough that a few went a long way.

Sarah would be expected to tidy up the rooms after each client left, and light scented candles so that each man felt he was getting a fresh experience. But, before that, she had to clean the floors. She had argued time and time again that it was a pointless effort, but no one listened. So she continued to scrub.

Without warning, a large man burst through the door from the main room. Sarah had seen plenty of pirates in her life, and she knew they were no good. But they rarely came in without money or exotic treasures to use as payment. The life they led was disreputable at best, but one couldn’t argue with the benefits. But regardless of who he was, he wasn’t supposed to be in the back rooms. He must have stumbled through while the bartender wasn’t looking.

Sarah didn’t exactly know what to do. The man was so large he could have picked her up and slung her across the room like a sack of flour, and he was obviously drunk. Sarah’s duty’s were simple; clean, clean, and shut up. As a rule, she wasn’t even allowed to talk to guests, let alone go into the front room. It appeared, however, that protocol had to be broken.

“Sir,” she said as gruffly as she was able, trying to mimic the stable lad’s new, much manlier voice. “Sir you’re not supposed to be back here.” She sat up on her knees, not wanting to rise fully due to the somewhat embarrassing state of her now soaked and filthy clothing. Another of Madame Trasou’s rules was “always look your best if you want the best results.” It was silly, really, to be thinking of such a thing when you were on your knees in wet muck talking to drunks, but it seemed important nonetheless. “The main room is through there,” and she pointed towards the door he had just stumbled through, hoping he would simply turn around and leave.

But the man did not leave. Instead, he lumbered a step closer to Sarah. Light from the parted kitchen door fell on him and Sarah shrank instinctively. Pirate, corsair, privateer…call them what you will, they were all seedy men, and they most certainly looked it. The man looking down at Sarah was covered in scars and heavily bearded. The coarse, red growth of hair that covered most of his face and head looked as though it had not been brushed, let alone washed, in well over a decade. He stank of rum and urine, as well as a faint odor that Sarah wasn’t sure she wanted to know about.

“Aren’t you a bonny little lad…” he said with a quietness that was at complete odds with his obviously inebriated state. He took another stumbling step towards Sarah.

Sarah stood somewhat shakily, water running down her legs from the wet ends of her britches. She fought the urge to back away. Instead, she conjured in her mind the image of Madame Trasou and her imposing nature. People seldom said no to her, though she rarely raised her voice, and she never had to ask for anything more than once.

“As I said, Sir,” Sarah tried again, forcing her voice to sound as commanding as the Madame’s, “The main room is through the door behind you. If you like, I can escort you there myself where the Madame will be available shortly to help you with your selection.” Sarah felt her knees quaking.

“My selection?” The man laughed unexpectedly. His laugh was not a happy sound, but rather akin to the sound of a canon firing. It was a loud explosion of sound, followed by a trembling quiet that did nothing to ease Sarah’s nerves. “I’ve already made my selection, boy.” The words held a slur that bespoke of just how drunk the man actually was, but he still moved towards Sarah with a single minded intensity.

“You have?” Sarah said hopefully, forgetting, for the briefest moment, to disguise her voice. It squeaked embarrassingly, making the pirate laugh again.

“Young ‘en, aren’t ya?” he was happily, sounding like a kid on Christmas morning. He took another step towards Sarah, who was now backing away involuntarily.

The man was immense. As he drew closer, Sarah knew just how much trouble she was in and she pondered for a moment whether or not it would do any good to run to the kitchen for help. The man was well over six feet tall, and his boots, with their bulky heels, made him seem taller still. He towered over Sarah and she found herself having to look up to see him. Without realizing it, she shrank against the wall to her left, almost as though she hoped to sink into it.

The man loomed over her, taking a step to her side, effectively blocking any escape route she might have had. His boots squelched disgustingly in the wet muck on the floor.

“Wha’s yer name, lad?” he asked commandingly.

“E-Edmund,” Sarah said quietly, all thought of dignity completely lost.

“E-e-e-edmund,” the man mocked, and laughed his canon fire laugh once more. His hands fumbled idly with the front of his trousers and, for a moment, Sarah wondered what he was doing. She had lived in a whore house all her life, but she’d never actually been in any of the rooms when clients were being served. Though she knew what they were doing, she had very little concept as to how it was done.

The man’s fetid breath washed over Sarah’s face as he leaned in closer. “I’m going to make you squeal,” he said huskily.
Without warning, he grabbed Sarah by the collar of her shirt and dragged her away from the wall. Sarah’s hands went instinctively to her throat as she clawed ineffectually at the hand dragging her along. Her feet scrapped on the floor and she called out in alarm, not certain whether she spoke actual words, or simply yelled her head off. Her disguise forgotten, she nearly broke into tears as the man tugged her across the floor towards one of the empty servants’ rooms.

“What’s all this then?” came a resonant female voice from somewhere down the hall.

Madame Trasou stepped into view and Sarah’s heart filled with hope. Her salvation, it seemed, had arrived at last. The Madame was an intimidating sight, to say the least. A single glance from her had reduced even the most hardened seamen to blubbering children. Her wide frame gave her a look that was almost more at home in a friendly English bakery than in the front room of a whorehouse. But the soft facade was nothing more than part of her act. It was a costume she wore to draw in custom and faded the instant she became riled, which was often. At heart, she was a shrewd business woman with a survival instinct that was unmatched. She protected herself well, and she protected everything that belonged to her with a jealous pride. At the moment, she appeared to be in such fine form, she practically crackled with energy.

“Get back to work!” Madame Trasou barked and for a moment, Sarah was dreadfully confused. Then she saw that the Madame wasn’t looking at her but over her shoulder. The sound of scrambling feet and a slamming door gave her the answer. Her shouting must have roused the kitchen staff which had come to see the spectacle, whatever it might be.

“You’ve been making quite a ruckus, Ed,” she said simply, as though she did not even notice the tall pirate holding Sarah aloft by the collar of her shirt. “You worry my customers.”

Sarah stammered, wondering, absurdly, if she was expected to apologize. Thankfully, Madame Trasou’s eyes left her and met the foggy gaze of the man that held her.

“Jacque, I had wondered what had happened to you. Sadie is waiting.”
Jacque, for so the man appeared to be named, dropped Sarah abruptly. She felt her knees bruise as they landed on the floor, but not enough to truly trouble her. She was saved, and that was all that matter. She allowed herself a moment’s celebration before casting her eyes back up to Madame Trasou.

The Madame was having a quiet but obviously intense conversation with the pirate, who appeared to have been sobered slightly by the untimely intervention. Sarah couldn’t understand what they were saying as they moved down the hallway, but it didn’t really matter to her, either way. With another sigh of relief, she retrieved her brush and returned to her scrubbing, wondering if the Madame was going to punish her for speaking to a client or not. Ten lashes, she decided, was a small price to pay considering how close she had come to utter ruin.

Sarah glanced up again, to see if Madame Trasou was headed her way yet, just in time to witness the burly matron pocketing a large…very large purse that clinked audibly as it settled into her deep pockets.

Jacque left through the door he had come, bumping into it slightly as he passed through its threshold. Sarah was amazed at how much bigger the hallway seemed to be now that he no longer dominated it.

Madame Trasou stood at the end of the hall, gazing down at Sarah with an appraising sort of stare. “That’ll do,” she said at last, taking quick strides towards Sarah and idly kicking the scrub brush aside.

“I’m sorry, Madame,” Sarah began, remembering to hide her voice this time. “I didn’t mean to…he just wandered in…”

“Quite all right,” the Madame said, distracted, as she grabbed Sarah by the arm and yanked her up. Sarah thought, later, that perhaps she should have noticed something was wrong. At the moment, however, she was too pleased at not being punished to care much.

“Room 13 needs to be cleaned,” the Madame continue in a brisk, business-like way. “Mary finished earlier than expected. Change out of those clothes before you go up there. I won’t have you dripping on my rugs.” She gave Sarah a forceful shove in the direction of the kitchen. “You can finish this later,” she added, almost as an afterthought, as she turned to reenter the main room.

Sarah shook herself a little, attempting to rid the last vestiges of shock and fear that had snuck up on her during her encounter with the pirate. Men, she thought viciously, how can I learn to be one if I can’t understand them in the slightest? Being a boy had been easy. Little boys aren’t that different from little girls. But being a man? She wasn’t sure if it was possible. At least, not for her.

As Sarah moved through the kitchen towards the small area that served as her room, she noticed curious glances following her. The old cook snickered slightly as she passed him and she could hear the thunk of his wooden leg as he turned to watch her go into her room. The afternoon had become surreal and Sarah didn’t like it one bit.

Sliding into the only other pair of clothes, Sarah took a moment to think. She sat on the edge of her pallet and tried to clear her head. She’d had just about enough of this place, and that was all there was to it. But she couldn’t go. Not yet. No ship would take her until she was in her teens, that she knew for certain. Most ship’s captains had a strict code against women and boys on their ships. Only men. She supposed if she could stay until she was fifteen that would be enough. But three years…it just seemed like such a very long time. But, to a child, any kind of life better than death, and Sarah was still a child in many ways. If she left the safety of Madame Trasou’s home, she was certain that death would be the only reward, and the thought terrified her.

Each servant was provided with two pairs of shoes: one for use in the servants’ areas, and one for use in the main rooms of the house. Those made for the front room and other “business” areas were softer, and always kept in excellent condition. Madame Trasou would not allow her servants to track dirt across her expensive rugs. Sarah slid on her utilitarian shoes, and carried the nicer ones in her hands, ready to slip on when she reached the top of the stairs. As an afterthought, she grabbed a spare apron and tied it on around her waist. Mary’s talents sometimes left the room a bit messier than those of the other girls. The fact that she had apparently finished quickly made Sarah hopeful but, all the same, she was not interested in adding any more strange stains to her already mottled clothing.

[Casi]

The stairs creaked slightly as Sarah ascended to the second floor. On the top landing, she stopped and began slipping on her good shoes. The thin carpet that ran the length of the hallway felt soft underneath her feet. One of Sarah’s long time dreams was to live in a house that was absolutely covered in carpets, and she would run across them barefoot all day. Childish, she scolded herself, but she couldn’t help it. She paused before putting on her second shoe and ran her toes across the smooth surface of the carpet. The sensation made her smile, but the sight of the dirt practically caked across her ankle brought her back to earth. This was her place in life, and she knew it. She slipped her shoe on.

The room wasn’t as bad off as Sarah had feared. The bed was rumpled and the expensive blanket had been shoved onto the floor, but other than that it seemed perfectly okay. Sarah shrugged and decided to count her blessings. She realized that, with this room being so easy to take care of, she might actually be able to get back downstairs and get the floors scrubbed before she was needed again. This was her chance to catch up. She snatched the errant blanket off the floor and tossed it over the bed. Making beds was, by far, her easiest task, but she always cringed from it nonetheless. The beds always stank of their previous occupants, as well as a kind of sweet smell that hung in the air itself that Sarah could never quite identify. She knelt down on the floor to retrieve a wayward pillow that had worked itself under the bed.

Sarah heard the click of the door shutting behind her and she jerked herself upward, banging her head smartly on the underside of the bed. She let out a yelp and sank down once more, turning herself out from under the bed. Her hands pressed against the back of her head and she shut her eyes tight, willing the little spots to go away. She hadn’t hit that hard, she chided herself. But it sure hurt as though she had.

A second click followed the first and Sarah tried to open her eyes. Maybe Mary had come back and realized she was still cleaning. She would, no doubt, go seek a little food from the kitchens so that Sarah could have time to finish.

But Mary was not standing at the door…

Sarah’s vision cleared enough for her to see the form of an immense man looming over her. Jacques…the pirate from downstairs. For a moment, Sarah scrabbled for what he thought he was doing in Mary’s room when she’d clearly heard Madame Trasou say that Sadie was waiting. But then she remembered. In her mind she saw this man handing the Madame an obscenely large bag of money…and she thought she understood.

In two quick, though slightly wobbly steps, Jacques crossed the room. Sarah had enough time to scramble to her feet before he was on her. She expected him to say something, to threaten her or make some sort of obscene suggestion, but he didn’t. He stared at her for a long moment through bloodshot eyes, breathing huskily. Then, with bruising force, he grabbed Sarah’s arm and shoved her roughly onto the bed. The side of her leg collided with it as the force of his push knocked her sideways across the still rumpled blankets.

“P-please, Sir…you can’t…” Sarah tried desperately to right herself, but it was no good. The pirate was leaning over her, his weight settling against her with uncomfortable pressure. He raised one knee onto the bed, pressed square between her thighs.

For one wild moment, Sarah thought, I’ll fake it. If I can get the lamp blown out, and I just turn over, he’s so drunk he’ll never even know the difference. But all her options were removed in one fatal moment. Jacques shoved his hand up between her legs, expecting to feel something that was most definitely not there.

There was a moment of breathless silence. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut tight, terrified of what she would see if she opened them. Jacques blinked once or twice. His hand moved about, grabbing and pinching, and Sarah tried to not give voice to her discomfort or her fear. It was all over for her unless she could think of a way to get out of this fast. But her mind just would not work. Large, blunt fingered hands were touching her and she could think of little else other than her disgust and sheer terror. She wondered if he would decide a girl was as good as a boy, but she doubted it. She honestly didn’t know which scenario held more horror: being brutally raped by this hulking man, or being ousted from the only home she’d ever known just for being a girl.

“What the hell?” the man above her muttered. He was leaning close to her neck now, his beard making her exposed flesh itch in a maddening sort of way. His had left her at last and Sarah almost sighed in relief, until she felt it groping about on her chest. She wasn’t as worried that he would feel her breasts. She had bound them tightly and, since they weren’t exactly large yet anyway, she didn’t suppose it was a problem. With luck, he would assume she was a eunuch and be done with it.
But luck was not with her, it seemed.

The pirate grabbed onto the front of her shirt and ripped in violently down to her belly. He might not have been able to feel her breast, but seeing them bound was more than enough evidence. But he was not satisfied. Grabbing onto the apron still tied about her waist, he ripped it off and flung it across the room. In another violent tug, he pulled her pants open and yanked them down to expose her clearly feminine body.

Sarah gasped for breath. Panic raced through her, threatening to throw her into complete and total shock. She could feel the will to just give up and accept whatever was done to her creeping up from the pit of her stomach. For a split second, Sarah fought it. But then she realized that it made little difference. Her fate was sealed.

Jacques breathed heavily in her face, his breath stinking of rum, and Sarah nearly gagged. She never got the chance, however, as a massive hand closed over her throat and yanked her up.

Sarah clawed at his hand wildly, desperately trying to breathe through the iron grip on her throat. Her feet dangled above the floor as Jacques lifted himself off the bed and headed for the door. Darkness gathered at the corners of Sarah’s eyes as she gasped as much oxygen as she could. She saw the lights of the hallway flying by overhead as the pirate’s immense strides carried them towards the main stairwell. She kicked out at her captor but he didn’t even seem to feel the impact. She felt her pants slid down about her ankles and a streak of humiliation flashed through her mind. She was shocked that her thoughts could even focus on something so meaningless now embarrassment.

All thoughts came to an abrupt stop as she felt the arm holding her bunch up with sudden effort. The next moment, she was airborne. She had enough time to take in one grateful gulp of air before she impacted on the stairs. The fall didn’t hurt as much as she supposed it would have had she been on the servant stairs. The thick carpeting of the main stairwell cushioned the blow ever so slightly. But the next instant, she was tumbling, head over heels, down the stairs into the main room.

Several of the girls, milling around waiting for customers, wailed in shock and dismay. An astonished gasp rose up from the male patrons. When Sarah hit the bottom of the stairs, no one moved to help her. She did not rise. She lay, half on the bottom step, nearly naked, with her secret exposed for all to see.

Jacques stood in the center of upstairs hallway, looking down on the crumpled figure he had so blithely tossed. His voice rang clear through the deathly silent room, all trace of drink gone.

“I pay you good money,” he bellowed, “and you give me this.” He motioned needlessly at Sarah’s limp form. She dared not open her eyes and bit her tongue in an effort to stop herself from crying. She wanted to. She wanted to so bad. But she thought if she did, it might just kill her. She’d never had much dignity, but what little she did have wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she curled her knees towards her chest and did her best to inch her pants high enough to cover her shame.

“Monsieur…” Madame Trasou’s voice carried a note of surprise that was undetectable to anyone who did not know here extremely well. Sarah heard it. Sarah knew just how bad this really was. “Please, I will speak with you in private. I will make sure your needs are met.” Always business with the Madame. “If you please sir…” She was walking up the stairs. Sarah could feel the pressure of her passing on the boards beneath her cheek, but she refused to open her eyes.

Strong hands latched onto Sarah’s arms and dragged her across the floor. Her pants were hitched over one hip, still hanging embarrassingly low on one side, but she didn’t care anymore. The hands that carried her were firm and callused. They most likely belonged to the kitchen staff that would have no doubt emerged at the sound of all the commotion.

Sarah’s assumptions were confirmed a moment later as she was tossed unceremoniously into her small pantry room. The door shut behind her with a resounding thud, and the click of the lock echoed through the darkness. Sarah dragged herself listlessly to her small pallet. She lay with her knees drawn up, as though by curling into a ball she might be able to shut out everything that had just happened to her. Her eyes stayed closed. Darkness reigned.

* * *

[Casi]

Hours passed in lonely darkness. Hours when Sarah wondered what was to become of her now. They had locked her in. She couldn’t possibly run away. And what would be the point anyway? If she did run, there was nothing out there on the island for her but a slow death by starvation. Even being a boy couldn’t save a child from that. But now that she had been discovered, there were really very few options for her. The Madame would surely throw her out, and then it wouldn’t matter if she was a boy or girl. A beggar was a beggar, and sex or age really had little to do with it.
The light in the room shifted slightly. Sarah felt a breeze on her cheek as the door opened. She opened one eye the barest slit to see who had come to see her.

Madame Trasou stood in Sarah’s doorway. The Madame rarely looked rumpled or in any way overwhelmed, but today…today her mouth had formed a sever line across her face, and a small vein throbbed on the side of her forehead. Sarah knew that whatever was to happen next, it certainly wasn’t good.

“Filthy little lying brat,” the Madame spat suddenly. Sarah expected to be struck, but the blow did not come. “I keep you in my home, feed you, dress you, and this is how you repay me.” It wasn’t a question. She was not going to give Sarah even the slightest chance of talking herself out of danger. “I’d have thrown you out a year ago if I’d known. A year, little one. A year of feeding an extra mouth who hardly gets enough work done to justify it. I only kept you here in the first place because I felt sorry for you, you do know that right? After your mother left…and now I find out what a little viper you are.”

Sarah didn’t move. She didn’t know what Madame Trasou expected her to do, but the safest plan at the moment seemed to be simply playing dead.

“But I’ll get my money’s worth from you, little miss,” the Madame practically hissed. “You’re too young now, but you won’t be for long. Two years, then you’ll be mine.” The Madame turned to leave. Sarah spoke before she thought.

“I’m too young as a girl…” she said, her voice rough as it grated through her bruised throat, “But as a boy I was just right?”

The Madame swung, practically swelling up with rage. “That man paid me five times what any girl in this place has ever charged. Damn right I’d give you to him for that. But I had to give that all back, didn’t I? You’ll work till I’ve got every last penny of that money back, and then some.” And with that, Madame Trasou left, slamming the door behind her. The lock clicked, and Sarah knew she was trapped. She would only get out now when the Madame had truly finished with her, and Sarah shuddered to think just what would be left of her when it was all over.

[Casi]

1716

Sarah sat on a raised platform in the middle of a sea of catcalls and sweaty men. With her head two feet above the crowd, the stench was practically unbearable. It rolled over Sarah in waves and it was all she could do not to gag. So many unwashed bodies pressed so closely together created an odor that no one person should ever have had to endure.

The crowd swayed and dipped like the tide, first shifting one way and then the other. Everything seemed to be painted in dingy reds and browns. Rather like a drying blood spot, Sarah thought dismally. There even seemed to be a dog winding its way about the legs of the dirty, leering men. The noise was an incomprehensible babble of jeers and taunts. A ringing laugh periodically interrupted the flow of sound, as though it’s owner where a large rock on which all the other sounds crashed like breaking waves.

Madame Trasou was in fine form. In the past two years, she had gained a little weight, but no one dared comment for fear of swift retribution. She stood beside Sarah now, her rolls bound tightly by a corset she had worn in much younger days. Her breasts spilled over the edges as though they might burst free at any moment. From a few of the shouted comments, Sarah suspected the men in the audience were placing bets on just how long the laces would last. She also wore the largest hat Sarah had ever seen in her entire life. It was topped with a spray of ostrich feathers that were so long, they seemed to strike Sarah in the face every time the Madame turned her head. They made her nose tickle and, after the seventh swipe, she began to wonder if the Madame was doing it on purpose.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!” Madame Trasou’s voice range across the crowd. There was a moment’s raucous laughter at the term gentleman before the talk quieted to a low rumbled. “Today is a very special day, here at my house,” she said with the air of one about to reveal that Christmas had just come early. “Today, our young Sarah turns fifteen.” Sarah cringed inwardly at the use of her name. She always did.

“Fifteen,” the Madame continued, “is a very special age.” She leaned forward, for emphasis, her garment straining. “Fifteen is when a young girl becomes a woman.” This last sentence was spoken as quietly as the bustling crowd would allow, sounding almost like they were all sharing some fantastic secret. Sarah found the idea somewhat laughable as she had been a woman, technically speaking, for two years. She had gotten her first courses just after her thirteenth birthday. And, if the other women were to be believed, she was actually a bit of a late bloomer. But the Madame had been staunch in her standards as far as accepting new girls went. She insisted that no girl under the age of fifteen could be expected to know enough to please her high paying customers. And so, for the past three years, Sarah had “learned” the find art of whoring.

Sarah had learned how best to please a man in every sense of the word. She had learned positions, techniques, phrases, and, most uncomfortable of all, how to pretend she was enjoying herself. Most of the women insisted that this skill was only needed every now and again as, in general, they seemed to like what they did. Sarah was certain that she would need it every night. How anyone could enjoy being touched by these scoundrels was utterly beyond her imagination.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” the Madame asked the crowd. There was a murmuring of assent and Sarah distinctly saw several men lick their lips. But beautiful was not how she would have described herself. Her face and neck, right down to the line of her cleavage, was covered in makeup. She was so pale she thought she looked like death. Her lips were far too red, and so were her cheeks. And she personally thought that the beauty mark that had been painted on her left breast looked more like a tick than anything else.

“Doesn’t she look…” Madame Trasou paused for effect, “…virginal?” The crowd erupted like someone had suddenly set fire to the place. The Madame herself was laughing loudly, her large bosom bobbing dangerously. When the sound, at last, began to die down once more, Madame Trasou moved towards Sarah, acting as though she were nothing more than a proud mother. She scooped a bit of hair off Sarah’s neck, further exposing her indecently low cut gown.

“Only once, will this young woman know the splendors of first love. Only once, with that magic happen.” She turned dramatically towards the crowd which seemed to wait with bated breath. “And that moment could belong to one of you,” she cried, her dress swirling about her hips, adding a theatrical flare.

The response from the crowd was like a clap of thunder and Sarah tried not to wince. She’d known this day was coming, and she thought it seemed a bit after the fact to start pulling back now. Not that she’d wanted this path…but that was all in the past.

“We’ll start the bidding,” Madame Trasou announced proudly, “at two pesos!”

A small groan rose up from the least wealthy of the crowd, clearly hoping that the auction would be more within their grasp. Most of them only had ten pieces of eight at any given time, what with the way money seemed to leak away into drink before they even realized it. Add to that the fact that, with more pirates than ever cruising the seas and attacking the treasure ports, it was getting harder and harder to make any money in the Caribbean. Most of the more prosperous pirates were still off the coast of Africa at that time of year.

“Two!” someone yelled from the back.

“Three!” quickly followed it.

“I got five pieces ‘a eight!” another shouted, clearly hoping to scare
others off by his jump in price.

“Six!” shouted the first fellow who bid.

“Dix!” came a calm, French voice from the back. The crowd turned to stare at the man. He was obviously a captain, if his clothes where any judge at all. Most of the pirates sneered and headed for the door right then and there. They simply couldn’t hope to compete with the wealth of a captain.

“Ten!” Madame Trasou said, clearly impressed. “I have ten pesos from Monsieur Le Corsair. Welcome, sir,” she added, with a small curtsy, tipping her breasts forward obscenely.

Few others seemed willing to bid after that. Most of them knew if they continued to bid, they’d wind up with nothing to eat or drink the entire time they were ashore. The French captain began moving to the front of the crowd with a small swagger, clearly certain of his victory. The Madame, for all her constant composure, seemed at a loss. She’d expected no more than eight from this crowd and had actually been rather frustrated that such a poor showing had turned up.

“Twelve doubloons,” said a calm, English voice from one of the tables. The entire room gasped. Even the French captain, his hand already outstretched to present his ten pesos, faltered. Twelve doubloons… That was more money than Sarah had ever seen in her entire life. She knew that any one of the men in front of her would gladly retire forever with that small fortune sitting in their palm. And this man was offering it for her. She squinted into the darkness to see who he was.

The man stood. He wore the long, buttoned coat of a gentleman in soft gray with elaborate embroidering up and down the extended lapels. His short pants ended smartly at the tops of pristine white stockings, the likes of which Sarah had never laid eyes on before. They practically glowed. Even the buckles on his shoes were polished. On his head, he wore an immaculate white wig in the fashion of the day with a three-cornered hat set jauntily upon it. His face was not young, yet not yet quite old. Lines marked his eyes, and the corners of his mouth. But he seemed to be a hale young man what with the obvious bounce in his step. For a moment, Sarah was actually afraid. Clearly this man, with his fine clothes and clipped accent, was from the His Majesty’s Royal Navy. And, if that was the case, whatever was he doing on Tortuga? Was the Navy finally following through on their threat to attack the island?

The crowd parted before the well dressed stranger as though he carried with him some mystic force from which even the most hardened criminals in the throng retreated. And yet, for all his seeming peculiarity, Sarah couldn’t help but count herself lucky. If she could be sold to anyone, surely this was the best possible option. He was clean, calm, and seemed to be of a much more gentle nature than Sarah had any right to hope for. The hush of the crowd only helped to reinforce the surreal nature of the scene as the Englishman reached the dais upon which Sarah sat. With one startlingly clean hand, he offered a small velvet purse to Madame Trasou.

The Madame took the purse with greedy fingers. The light in her eyes spoke volumes as to her desire, but Sarah knew better than to think she trusted the man one bit. She opened the pouch right then and there, dumping the fat, gold coins into her palm. They made a heavy clinking sound that no pesos could replicate. The Madame’s eyes swelled up until Sarah wondered if they might pop.

“Sold!” she said, in almost a whisper. Not that it mattered…the room remained deathly quiet. Never taking her eyes off the gold coins in her hand, the Madame broke into a wicked grin. “Sold to this fine English gentleman for twelve gold doubloons.”

The Madame’s “helpers” materialized out of nowhere and each grabbed one of Sarah’s arms. She rose without complaint as the oversized goons maneuvered their way towards the stairs, leading Sarah towards the bedrooms. The whole affair had been painstakingly organized.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a virgin to sell,” Madame Trasou had said. “This will take careful planning.”

When it got right down to it, Sarah’s role was a relatively easy one. She would sit on the dais and look pure. An easy enough feat, she had thought. That was until they had smeared her head to toe in make-up. She didn’t suppose anyone could possibly look fresh and pure with that amount of paint on their body. Then, after the “purchase” was made, the Madame’s hired men would take Sarah upstairs. The men were a precaution against those who had been outbid, and, in theory, would not take the loss peacefully. She then had fifteen minutes to herself, locked in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

The Madame had been extremely insistent on this particular arrangement. She informed Sarah, in no uncertain terms, that she was to do her duty when the gentleman entered the room without allowing her emotions to get the better of her. For that reason, she was given fifteen minutes to cry, collect herself, and prepare…whatever it was she needed to do. Madame Trasou had seen far too many virgins fall apart at their first encounter, and she was not about to lose out on this one. Sarah knew this was particularly important now, what with the amazing amount of money she had just received.

Sarah was actually mildly flattered that anyone would pay so much for her. Her self esteem, never very high, had sunk several degrees since her “education” had begun. The situation was far worsened by the make-up and the reveling clothing she had been forced to wear. She felt like a complete and utter fool.

The two men escorting her stopped at the threshold of her room. Not mine, she thought, with an unexplainable trace of bitterness. No, she had no permanent room. The Madame had decided that she simply was not pretty enough to warrant her own private quarters. Instead, she had been moved from the pantry to one of the slightly larger servants’ quarters. If a customer wanted her, she would be put into whatever room was available, and that was that. But, for today, the room was hers and hers alone.

None of the other girls had been permitted to use this particular room. Victoria, to whom the room actually belonged, had been very put out by the arrangement. But she was getting on in years, and her clientele had taken a noticeable drop off. The Madame had made her choice and no one was going to go against her.

Sarah walked into the room, feeling rather as though she were walking towards her own deathbed. The door shut behind her and clicked as the lock was turned. That seemed to be her lot in life: locked doors. With a sigh, she sank onto the bed. The scent of rose water wafted up from the sheets and she almost sneezed. Turning her head, she looked into mirror on the bed side vanity. Her face was ringed in faint smoke from the lavender scented candles all around the room.

“I’m fifteen years old,” she said to her smudged reflection. “My life ends tonight.” And, in a way, she was right. Her plan was simple: incapacitate whoever it was who bought her and sneak out through the servant quarters. She knew that she’d never be able to take on one a man before the act, but she knew now that they were extremely weak during and after. She hoped she could accomplish her task during. That would give her more time to run away. Even the locked door wouldn’t pose a threat once the man was inside. The Madame never locked the doors when a client was inside in case something was needed that was not readily at hand. Sarah knew luck was with her tonight. Luck had sent the Englishman to buy her, and he would be a lot easier to injure than the burly pirates who normally frequented the brothel.

After that, it was a simple matter of cutting her hair, donning the clothes she had been concealing beneath the floorboards under her bed, and heading to sea. All in all, it wasn’t so very different from the plans she had made for herself three years ago. She rather regretted that her future would have to start on such a sordid note. Either way, after tonight, Sarah Jenkins would be no more. Never again would she answer to that name. Edmund…she would carry it like the shield it had been meant to be.

The clock on the vanity ticked loudly, reminding Sarah that she did not have time to sit idle. She did not need to cry. She had cried so much in the past few weeks as her birthday grew closer and closer that she felt as though there were no tears left in her. Now, she faced her situation with grim acceptance, ready to do whatever she had to in order to gain her freedom. But, until that crucial moment, she had to keep up pretenses.

Sarah grabbed a handful of rose petals from a vase on the floor and scattered them across the bed before moving to the mirror for a close up inspection. The Madame could smear her with as much junk as she wanted when she was on display, but she’d be damned if she would remain that way. She rubbed her hand viciously across her lips until the red faded completely away, whipping the excess on the back of her skirt. There was little she could do about the pale powered that covered her but she made sure to at least scratch away the hideous beauty mark with her fingernail. Looking at her reflection, she supposed she was as ready as she was likely to be.

Arranging herself as artfully as possible on the bedspread, Sarah waited. She had seen the women do this ritual time and time again. They told her it was to make the man think he had suddenly stepped into an exotic world, and that she had been waiting there simply to please him. In essence this was true, but it was all about the theatricality of it. Sarah lay in the only position she had ever considered pretty. Some girls laid spread eagle on the bed, with their knees bent, playing the image of the wanton harlot ready to be used and tossed aside at the man’s whim. Others played the demure beauty, seated on her knees at the head of the bed, waiting to be seduced. But Sarah preferred the pose of the seductress. She lay half on her side with her skirt sprawled across the bed, one thigh exposed nearly to the top, showing off the expensive garter she had borrowed. Her back rested against the headboard, and she spread both arms to drape over the pillows at her side, fixing the closed door with a devilish look and what she hoped was a bewitching little smirk. She felt utterly foolish, but she knew the effect was all that mattered. Her feelings had little place in what was about to happen.

The lock clicked. Time slowed. Sarah saw the door swing open and she tried to remain calm. She was suddenly filled with a debilitating terror that she could not fight. She felt as if the room had suddenly filled with water and she could neither move nor breathe. She felt so small, and the shortness of her fifteen years unexpectedly rose up before her as if in reminder of the fact that she was only a child. She was not ready.

The Englishman stood in the doorway, looking down at her. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. He stood there, holding his tri-cornered hat in his hands, his fingers drumming nervously on the edges. His eyes met hers and she saw his forehead crease in a worry line. She wondered just how much of her fear showed in her eyes.

Madame Trasou stood behind the man, but she was only an afterthought to Sarah. She was there to escort in doom, and leave it to do its damage. Sarah was greeted with a sudden image of the Madame as one of Satan’s henchmen, robbing the virtue of young girls. She almost laughed.

The door closed, and Sarah was alone in the room with the Englishman. She knew she was supposed to speak at this moment. She was supposed to invite him over. With her particular pose, the appropriate move was to slide one leg far over towards the edge of the bed as she sat up; hint of what was to come. But Sarah could not move. She could not speak.

The Gentleman moved toward her with his eyes lowered to the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed. His close proximity seemed to spur Sarah into action. Now or never… she thought, and rose with a suddenness that seemed to surprise them both.

Sarah flung herself at the man like a drowning woman. Before he even had time to react, Sarah had hooked one leg around his waist, so she was sprawled across his back. As he turned to face her in surprise, she used one hand to grip his neck while the other fumbled ridiculously across his chest. She pressed her lips to his.

A sort of sputtering came from the man she held. Sarah merely closed her eyes and held herself as she was, her lips in a tight pucker against the Englishman’s lips, waiting for him to spring on her as she was sure he was supposed to.

Instead, she felt gentle hands gripping her wrists and pushing her backwards. Thinking he meant to lay her down, she instantly collapsed, waiting for him to pounce. When she looked at his face, she expected to see the sudden lust transform him as she’d seen it to so many others. But the Englishman did not pounce on her. He reached up and carefully adjusted his wig, which she had knocked askew. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered his right hand to her cheek. When he spoke, he sounded so sad.

“My dear…” he said, his crisp accent such a contrast to the bawdy dialect so common on the island. “My dear…you are only a child…” He didn’t seem to be saying it to her, Sarah realized. He looked as grieved as if his own daughter lay before him. Sarah’s heart twinged at the thought, but she beat it back.
This was all going wrong. She had to hurry…her plan had to work. Now that her fear was starting to subside, she knew she had little time to work with.

“I’m woman enough,” she said, attempting to make her voice husky as she’d heard the other girls do. She raised her body on one elbow and plunged her hand unceremoniously into the gentleman’s lap. She was surprised by the action. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to feel, but she knew it wasn’t this. She’d seen men in all states of undress, and she was fairly certain that she should have felt something as her hand came into direct contact with the place she knew had to be the man’s sex.

Sarah was further surprised when the Englishman stood suddenly, his face turning a rather peculiar shade of red.

“I…uh…Th-that won’t be necessary,” he muttered, looking distinctly flustered.
Now Sarah thought she understood. She seen this kind of man before…the ones that had to be talked into debauchery. But she really did not have time for that kind of seduction. He had paid such an outrageous amount of money to be here Sarah couldn’t understand why he was being so backward about the whole affair. He turned to face her as she perched on the edge of the bed, seriously considering another attack.

“My name is Jonathan Edward Colvin,” he said, rather formally. He smirked rather unexpectedly, and Sarah could tell that, in his day, that had been quite a rakish smile indeed. “But in my younger days, my friends called me John.”

“Well, John,” she tried, putting one foot on the floor, clearly intent on closing the space between them, “You paid good money for my services.” She placed her other foot on the floor and stood. “I intend to insure you get your money’s worthy.” She took too hurried steps towards him and grabbed the lapels of his coat, pressing her modest bosom firmly against his torso. She wondered if he could see her blushing through the thick make-up.

The Englishman sighed. “I think perhaps you should sit down.”

Sarah was, to say the least, confused. Her escape time was ticking away and this man had apparently just paid a small fortune to talk to her. Things were not going according to plan. Not at all. Still, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her knees pressed firmly together. When she noticed this little fact, she consciously shifted them apart in what she hoped was a come hither way.

Jonathan Edward Colvin, exuding every ounce of dignity he could, sat down on the bed beside her. “I did not pay for your…uh…services…” he said in a gentle sort of way. Sarah’s knees snapped together with a slight slap of flesh on flesh. This was all wrong! “I have been sent by a very powerful group of people to find you.”

A roaring sound echoed through Sarah’s ears. She drew her knees up to her chest, placing her feet on the bed, suddenly very aware of how exposed she seemed to be. A group was looking for her? A powerful group? None of this made any sense.

“Why would anyone be looking for me?” she asked, sounding shrill even in her own ears. “Who are you?”

“I am a watcher. And I am here to take you out of this place.” His voice was kind, but Sarah was teetering on utter panic.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?!” she asked, throwing out the first curse she could think of. The kitchen women shouted it at each other all the time, so surely it would have some kind of effect on this honest looking gentleman. But the only change it wrought on his features was to add just a hint of sadness.

“Please, let me explain. It’s going to be very difficult for you to accept at first, but I want you to know, what I speak is the truth.” He took a deep breath. “Sarah Jenkins…you are the Slayer.”