Birds of Paradise 1.02 "Far from Paradise Part 2"

[Casi]

Title: Birds of Paradies Episode 2: Far From Paradise Part 2
Rating: FR-R for violence and adult situations
Betas: Partially pre-read by Angie Thanks hun.
Feedback: Feedback thread coming soon!!

Previously

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.

Jonathan Edward Colvin is ready to take his place as Watcher for the newest slayer. However, upon discovering her being auctioned off as a virgin in a whorehouse on the island of Tortuga, he is unsure of how difficult the situation is going to be.[/center]

[Casi]

“I’m a what?”

“You are the Slayer,” the John said again, but he could tell it made even less sense to her this time than it had the last.

“I don’t understand,” Sarah said simply. It was, he supposed, the understatement of the year. He wondered if she thought he was completely mad. He really couldn’t blame her if she did, truth be told.

“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.” He sighed, knowing just how it must have sounded to her. But these were the words that each Watcher spoke to his slayer. His slayer. He couldn’t help but feel the trill of excitement as he sat beside her. His slayer.

Sarah was silent. She was staring at him wide eyed, as though he had suddenly sprouted another head. He hadn’t expected her to remain silent. Questions he was prepared for. Silence he was not.

“You…uh…you were called a little over two weeks ago. If it had not been for one of our more powerful Seers, we wouldn’t have even known where to start looking for you. As it was…I set sail the moment we knew. I’ve been searching this God forsaken island for you ever since.”

“Seers,” Sarah asked, her voice taking a definitely sarcastic tone. “Slayers…Watchers…oh, and let’s not forget vampires.” She stood rather abruptly and walked to the opposite side of the room. She looked so small to John.

“I wish I could have been here sooner,” was all he could say.

Sarah, for her part, was doing her best to remain calm, and failing miserably. Her mind was in a whirlwind. The room seemed to be crushing in on her. Who was this man? What did he think he was doing here anyway? He was ruining everything and now…now he was telling her she was something…important?

“So I’m what? Some kind of warrior?” Now she was angry. Bitter even. All the fears she’d been bottling up for the past three years came rushing to the front of her mind. Everything she dreaded about living here, about having this life…all she could think of was her escape, and how impossible it now seemed. Without warning, she turned towards him, her eyes nearly squeezed shut as she grimaced down at him.

“I’m a whore!” she shouted. “My mother was whore, and now I’m one. I was born right here in this flea infested hovel, and this is where I’ll die, probably choked to death by whatever man happens to have paid for me that night, just like the last three girls where! This is my life now!” She wanted to sound like an angry, grown up woman, but she couldn’t help but feel like a little girl. A little girl who never cried, and yet seemed to find it difficult to speak through the sudden lump rising in her throat. “I’m not…special.”

John Colvin had never been at a loss in his entire life. He’d grown up in Port Royal and seen some of the most brutal hangings imaginable. He’d witnessed grown men fall down weeping as they were led up to the gallows and he’d seen women defiled brutally, not by pirates, but by the men who were supposed to protect them. He’d fought vampires alone, and unarmed. He’d seen demons rip children to shreds while he stood helpless. Port Royal, the shining beacon of justice in the Caribbean, had a dark underbelly that even the hardest inhabitants feared.

And even with all that, he was not prepared for this. Perhaps he had forgotten what it was like to be young and afraid. He’d spent too much time hunting the creatures that hid in the darkness to truly be afraid of them. But she hadn’t. This young girl…this child who should, by all rights, have been in a comfortable home with a tutor and playmates…who should never have been forced to sell her body to survive…she knew about the darkness alright. It had swallowed her whole the day she was born.

John stared into his lap, not sure what to say. He couldn’t look at her, not knowing how inadequate any explanation he gave would be. Only time could make her accept what he told her. Until she calmed down a bit, there wasn’t much he could do. Because he could not bear to look at her, he did not see Sarah pick up the clock from the bedside vanity.

“I know this is all a bit much for you to take in all at once,” he said, trying to inject a soothing tone into his voice. “But believe me when I say…”

Sarah brought the heavy brass clock down on the man’s head as hard as she could. She aimed for slightly towards the back, having seen enough brawls to know if she hit hard enough, she could knock him unconscious in one blow. All in all, she was lucky she did not kill him. The force of her attack knocked John forward off the bed, his wig sliding across the room.

He had brown hair. Sarah, for some reason, felt a stab of guilt as she wiped at her eyes, which were only barely moist. She had been right…she didn’t have any tears left. A small spot of blood was appearing on the back of his head, but she knew that he was alive. He was still breathing, and that was good enough for her. She was running out of time, and though she did not envy him for the headache he would most likely have, she couldn’t let herself be trapped by guilt. The man was most likely insane, anyway, and God only knew what he would have done if she had played along with his game. In actuality, Sarah was more than a little surprised by how strong a reaction his words had caused in her. But it didn’t matter. Her time was running out. It was now or never.

Sarah listened for a moment at the door to ensure that the hallway was empty before she left the room. As always, the key remained in the lock, lest it be lost. Sarah turned it all the way around until it at last clicked. Then she pocketed it. She had no intention of letting anyone stumble in and find what she had done before she was away. That was step one…now she had to move on to step two.

The servants’ stairs were deserted, what with most of the workers busy in the kitchens with such a large crowd congregated. She was able to proceed to her room unimpeded. Sarah knew a moments panic when the door to her room squeaked loudly and unexpectedly, but no one seemed to notice.

At last shut up in the darkness of the one place that had been her sanctuary for the past three years, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. She dabbed her fingers to her eyes, as though making absolutely certain that her resolve was still strong, and that she had not broken down once more. Certain that she was okay, she moved hastily to her bed to retrieve the things she had carefully hidden away.

From the inside under the floorboards beneath her bed she pulled a pair of the stable lad’s trousers and a long sleeved shirt that had, at one point, been white. With them she had also hidden a large pair of scissors that she had lifted from the kitchen just that morning. They were the heavy kind used for cutting the ropes holding the packages of meat together and Sarah was amazed that no one had missed them yet. They were sticky with blood from the morning’s deliveries. Chunks of the gummy substance came off on Sarah’s hands.

From behind her small dresser she pulled a small pot of water with a semi clean rag submerged inside. Sarah hastily scrubbed at the thick powder that covered her face in neck, plunging the rag repeatedly into the water. The tepid liquid dribbled down her chest, soaking the front of her dress in a most unpleasant way. But she knew the feeling was only momentary, and so ignored it. When at last she felt she had removed the majority of the make-up, she plunged her rag into the now milky white water one last time.

The water was practically useless to clean the scissors with. The blood was dried on in most places, and had formed thick patches of sticky redness. Still, Sarah did her best. When all efforts seemed futile, she took a deep breath. She cringed from the thought of those bloody scissors touching her hair, but she didn’t have a choice.
The blades were a lot duller than Sarah had thought they would be. She found herself practically sawing at her hair rather than cutting it. But that didn’t matter…only the results mattered, and, before long, Sarah was standing in a small pool of her own hair. She was frankly amazed that it had grown so much in three years, but she wasn’t sorry to see it go. She moved to her vanity to finish up.

Most of her hair was gone now. What she did have ended roughly around her ears in uneven slashes. Globs of dried blood stuck her new bangs together and she tried to run her fingers through them to loosen the hair up. It didn’t really work, but it was passing, she supposed. She was going to hide it under a hat anyway. Doing her best to trim up the edges, Sarah supposed this was really as good as it was going to get. With a sigh of resignation, she hid the scissors away under the loose floorboard.

Then, as quickly as possible, she stuffed her discarded hair through a hole in her mattress. She didn’t want the Madame to know how she had disguised herself, otherwise she might be found out before she even had a chance to get off the island.
Sarah slid out of her dress almost reverently, knowing it was most likely the last time she would ever wear one. For the briefest moment she mourned the loss of the life she’d never really been given the chance to live. She allowed herself a full minute to wonder what might have been, but that was all. She didn’t have time for more. She began the arduous task of binding her breasts.

She had practiced this part of her transformation a few times in the past few days, just to make sure she could do it right when the time came. As she had blossomed into a woman, her body had gone through some distinct changes, one of which being the size of her bust. The binding was a lot more uncomfortable now than it had been just a few years ago, but it was a necessary evil. Sarah took a deep breath and pulled tighter.

The floorboards outside Sarah’s room squeaked suddenly and she spun, half dressed, to face the door, terrified that the Madame’s goons had come to fetch her. She had hoped she’d have more time. Maybe she hadn’t knocked the gentleman out after all. Maybe he had only been stunned. The floor creaked once or twice more, giving the impression that there was someone shifting their weight back and forth, attempting to decide what to do. At last appearing to make up their mind, the creaking was replaced by heavy footsteps dwindling away towards the kitchen. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. That was too close…she had to move faster.

Sarah dressed quickly. She had been unable to steal any shoes but there was nothing she could do about that now. She would just have to be barefoot. Sarah stuffed her dress into a potato sack she had nicked from the kitchen, intending to use it for bartering later, and grabbed her tri-cornered hat from a hook she’d made for it behind her small dresser. The poor thing had seen better days…its leather was ripped in several places and it just looked altogether disreputable, which made it perfect for Sarah’s needs. She jammed it on her head, feeling the frayed edges of her hair tickle the side of her face, and moved to the window. Sarah peered out into the dark alleyway beyond. It was usually home to at least five drunken sailors who had not been able to afford a bed inside. Tonight, it only held two. Most men in the area were still milling around in the main room of the brothel, which was just as well as far as Sarah was concerned.

The window opened with only a slight bit of cajoling. The damp weather had made the wood swell, and Sarah was afraid, for a moment, that she might break the glass in her efforts to push it open. But after a few tense minutes of pushing, the window had opened with a groan. Sarah tossed her sack out into the alleyway, and then scrambled through, herself.

Sarah’s first breath of free air was filled with the scents of urine, vomit, and unwashed male bodies, but it seemed sweeter to her than any other moment in her life. The dirt and stone of the alleyway was warm beneath her bare feet. She paused, her thoughts straying to the Englishman she had left sprawled on the floor and what he had said. Madness, she was sure… But he hadn’t seemed mad. Sarah shook her head violently. This was no time to be thinking about some lunatics’ ravings about vampires and whatever else he had been talking about. And besides that, of all the people in the world, she was the last one that anyone would pick to do anything important. Of that she was certain. Whoever that man had been looking for, he had made a mistake. It simply wasn’t her. She silently wished him luck in his search, but that was all she would give him.


* * *

[Casi]

The night passed slowly. Sarah lay hunched against the brick wall of the building beside Madame Trasou’s brothel. She had chosen her position carefully, knowing full well that the closer she stayed to the house, the less likely it was that she would be discovered. The alleyway she had selected was adjacent to the one that ran below her window and gave Sarah and excellent view of the street beyond the place she had called home her entire life. She lay absolutely still, breathing deeply through her mouth, feigning drunken slumber, but with one eye open and watching.

Around midnight a great commotion arose within Madame Trasou’s and Sarah knew that her disappearance had been discovered. Within moments, a large square of light opened onto the street and a vast crowd of people emptied out of the building, all fanning out. Clearly, upon discovering that the prize virgin was still up for grabs, half the patrons had volunteered to help track her down. However, as predicted, not one of them thought to check the dark alley in which Sarah hid. No one even cast a single glance in her direction. Now, she only had to wait. Sarah knew that if the Madame had her way every last ship at dock would be searched before dawn rose, which meant that, until then, Sarah couldn’t risk showing her face there. She only hoped that the search would end before the morning tide, otherwise she would be trapped for at least another day.

Soon after the mob had dispersed, a single figure exited the brothel. Jonathan Colvin, the Englishman she had left unconscious, was walking resolutely down the street. Sarah only had a few moments to watch him as he moved across the opening of the alley. His head was bandaged with what looked like a dirty rag from the kitchen. He was steadfastly attempting to remove it, apparently deciding that bleeding was far preferable to having the damp thing wrapped about his head. At the corner, just before he disappeared from her sight, Sarah saw an old woman approach him. They spoke in what seemed to be a rather familiar fashion, and the Englishman gestured frantically several times back towards Madame Trasou’s. The old woman shook her head and grabbed the gentleman by the elbow, leading him away and out of sight.

Sarah tried not to think a great deal, knowing that if she allowed herself to dwell too long on her current situation, fear and doubt would overtake her. Instead, she talked to herself, in a hushed whisper, going over the next steps in her escape.

“As soon as dawn breaks,” she said quietly, “I go down to the docks. Ships are always looking for crews and I can probably find one that will take me on as cabin lad. Once I’m there, I’ll be safe. I just have to be patient.” She repeated those words to herself over and over again until they became almost like a mantra, keeping her calm. Without meaning to, Sarah Jenkins…filled with panic and emotionally exhausted, fell into a light doze as she sat leaned against the grimy, brick wall of the alley.


***

[Casi]

Jonathan Colvin sat on the edge of his bed and breathed deeply. He counted each breath, calming his nerves and clearing his mind. The back of his head throbbed greatly. He supposed he was lucky that he hadn’t been killed. The Slayer clearly did not know her own strength and, without that knowledge, she could have easy knocked his head from his shoulders if she’d tried hard enough. John probed at the tender spot gingerly, but winced away. He instantly chided himself for fearing such a small hurt and placed his hand deliberately on the back of his head. The damage didn’t seem to be as great as he had feared. A small cut, maybe two inches long, and not even very deep. He could tell that there would be a large lump by morning and probably a lot of bruising. He’d have to try and sleep sitting up a little tonight, so he could, hopefully, prevent too much swelling. Not that he planned to sleep too much tonight…

The Inn the council had secured for him to stay in was reportedly the best on the whole island of Tortuga. If that was the case, then John shuddered to think what the others must be like. True, the beds were blissfully free of bugs…but that was really the only thing they could list in the positive column. The whole place was dirty and damp, and John was beginning to fear that he might starve before he could force himself to eat what they passingly referred to as food. Still, he supposed that this place was far better than wherever his Slayer was spending the night.

“Cecelia…” he called quietly. His voice barely rose above a murmur, and yet the summons was instantly obeyed. The door creaked only slightly as an old woman, bent nearly double, walked slowly into the room.

Cecelia was old in the way petrified trees are old. Her skin hung in deep furrows about her face and her hair leapt from her head in thin gray wisps. She had no teeth, and kept a thin, white blindfold held fast over her eyes. Her clothing was clean, and very expensive, but it did little to cover the overall impression of age that hung about her.

“Yes Jonathan?” she wheezed. Her voice always made John think of a tree cracking in the winter. Oh how he had loved spending Christmas in England…all the snow and ice everywhere you looked. It was an image that always stuck with him, and came upon him unexpectedly when the heat and humidity of life in the Caribbean became just a little too much.

“You already know what I need you to do,” he said, with just a hint of exasperation. Working with psychics was so trying at times. He knew full well that she had been reading his thoughts since the moment he came home. He could almost feel her doing it. John knew that she would never admit it, since it went against her morals to read the thoughts of others without their consent, but she wasn’t a fool. They both knew that if she wanted details from him, she would have t take them. John’s first moments with his Slayer were events he never wanted to speak of again. By now, she would have gleaned every last detail of what had happened in the brothel, and had probably been waiting for him to summon her with this exact request.

“Just because one sees, it does not mean that one knows all,” she replied. It was a proverb she threw at him time and time again. It grew more frustrating every time he heard it. John sighed heavily.

“I need you to find her,” he said simply.

“You know I cannot.” Cecelia’s old voice carried a melody, as though she
were merely reiterating to a stubborn child that they must go to bed at night. It was almost too much for John to bear.

“Damn it!” he exploded, slapping the mattress with his palm and raising an unpleasant puff of dust. “If we don’t find her now, we may lose her for good; you do realize this don’t you?”

“I do,” she said simply.

“Then find her!” he pleaded in desperation.

“I will look. I may not find.” Cecelia’s serene demeanor was really too much. John ground his teeth in frustration.

“Well, look then!” He knew it was not his place to order her in this way, but he could not lose this chance. This was his Slayer and he was not about to let her get away without a fight. Too many had slipped through the cracks in the past, and he was not likely to get this chance again.

Cecelia raised her hands to the blindfold wrapped around her head. Her skin looked paper thin across the knuckles with blue veins running this way and that. She looked far too fragile to be as powerful as John knew she was, but he supposed that was the way of things.

The white blindfold came away and, as he always did, John Colvin cringed at the sight. He knew he shouldn’t, and he always tried not to, but nothing could ever prepare him for what lay beneath that bit of cloth. He’d seen blind men and women before, and seen how they stared into nothingness, seeming to see and not see at the same time. He’d seen both those whose eyes remained the same, and those who had been overcome by milky whiteness. But Cecelia’s eyes were like nothing he had ever seen before.

Once, or so he had been told, Cecelia had been a dazzling beauty. Her eyes had been the color of the sea with its piercing blue and hidden green. Now, they were something else altogether. They had no pupil, no iris…no anything. Beneath her thin lids, only whiteness could be seen. And yet, though they lacked all definition, John always felt that those eyes pierced him to his very soul. And, in a way, he knew they did.

“Will you never get used to me?” she asked kindly. “They sent me to guide you so many years go, and yet you still cannot bear the sight.”

John faltered, not knowing what to say. He dropped his eyes to the ground.

“No, old friend,” she said calmly, her hand snapping out quite suddenly and gripping his chin, forcing his head upwards to look at her. “I gave my eyes to the sight because it was my destiny to do so. I do not regret my choices, and I would not have you pity me for them.”

John nodded, feeling chastised. He could never understand how she managed to make him feel like such a lost little boy so quickly. He was nearing forty, and yet she held such sway over him, he felt as though he were a mere lad hanging from her apron strings.

“I’m sorry…” he mumbled. “Please…just try to find her.”

Cecelia nodded sagely, a tiny smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. “I will try. Take my hands.”

John obediently took Cecelia’s hands. The old woman looked at him without looking. She looked through him. John could feel her quietly walking through his mind looking for something…something he couldn’t quite explain. Cecelia had struggled to pinpoint the Slayer’s location since the day of her calling but, as she had said, not everything could be seen by a Seer. But now, she could at least trace her. The Slayer had made contact with her Watcher and John knew that, if they were going to find her, it was that brief moment of contact that would lead them to her. He shuddered, repressing the feel of her pressing herself against him. That poor child…how could the world be so cruel?

Cecelia latched onto the surge of compassion she felt course through John’s mind. Just because they finally knew what the girl looked like, she knew it was not going to be enough to find her. She could only hope that her Watchers connection to her would make the search easier. Cecelia wondered if John realized just how deep the connection between Slayer and Watcher truly went. Just as Sarah Jenkins had been destined to be the Slayer, Jonathan Edward Colvin had been destined to be her Watcher. Few of the Council actually knew that fact. They supposed that they chose the Watchers themselves, based on talent, age, a myriad of different factors. Not one of them seemed ready to accept that their decisions were made by a higher power.

Cecelia reached…

There… she thought suddenly. She could See.

Images flashed sporadically trough Cecelia’s mind. The girl was dreaming… Naked bodies twisted together on top of a bed…seen from below, as one sitting on the floor in the corner. Sights and sounds flooded Cecelia’s ears…shouts…orders…the sudden sting of a cane across her back made Cecelia gasp and jerk rigid.

John jumped as the Seer in front of him suddenly pulled away from him. Her mouth was agape, but no sound came out. He knew better than to attempt to break her trance…such a thing could be deadly. But he’d never seen her react to the Vision in this way.

“Cecelia…” he said quietly. He did not want to jar her…if only she could hear his voice, it might bring her around. “Cecelia…”

“The poor child…” Cecelia murmured, giving no sign that she took notice of John’s concerns. Her head swayed from side to side as her mind filled with the Slayer’s past. She could see the girl’s mother, floating like a ghost, behind everything, whispering a warning that Cecelia couldn’t quite hear. She watched as the Slayer shied from dark corners, never fearing monsters lurked beyond her sight…but fearing men who watched and waited. The sorrow was almost too much for Cecelia. It was her own sorrow, for a child that had never been a child, and the shared sorrow of a little girl who didn’t know what it meant to play. But such was the way of children so often. Cecelia had never touched their minds before, afraid of what she might find when she Saw into those young women. There was so much to see…for a moment she could hardly make sense of it all.

One image rose to the forefront of Cecelia’s mind…a large woman. A terrifying woman. And a whisper in her ear spoke the word, “Madame…”



* * *

[Casi]

Madame Trasou was in a fine temper. Not only had she lost a young girl that she had taken the time to train for the business, but she’d been forced to return the twelve doubloons the Englishman had given her. That money could have fed the whole house for nearly a year. Not that she’d had any intention of spending it on food, but that was truly beside the point.

“Has anyone found her yet?” she barked at no one in particular. Her personal servants flocked to her side, all offering meaningless assurances.

“Not yet, Madame, but they will…”

“She can’t have gotten far…”

“She can’t hide away from the house, they will find her….”

“Enough!” the Madame shouted. “Useless, you’re all useless!” Servants shrank from her like the rats they were and she resisted the urge to strike one of them. “I want her found now!”

The room was far too hot as far as Madame was concerned. There were too many people, and the windows were shut. She’d taken the precaution of locking them up for the evening, supposed she would have spent most of the night in the common room, and not wanting to leave her quarters exposed to prowlers. Everything had gone wrong…

“Open the damn window, if you can’t do anything else,” she spat at one of her serving women as she skulked nearby. The girl obediently bobbed her head and moved hurriedly to the heavy velvet drapes. Impractical though they were, Madame knew how expensive they looked, and refused to part with them. The servant drew them aside reverently; clearly aware of the swift retribution that would rain down on her if she tugged them.

“You!” she shouted at another girl. “Bring me wine.” The Madame had a weakness for wine that was spoken of in hushed tones throughout the house. On nights when business was slow, it was well known that Madame Trasou retired early to her room with at least three bottles of wine, all of which were generally empty by morning. She was rarely seen drinking it, however, and never exhibited signs of drunkenness. Some murmured witchcraft. Others merely assumed she hid the effects well. A woman of her size and constitution could probably drink most men under the table anyway.

“On second thought…” she paused to think. “Bring me three. One of each from the wine cellar.” The servant bowed politely and disappeared through a side door. She wouldn’t be long, Madame new. That was all to the good. She knew she was going to have to call on help to catch the girl.

“Why do you care so much?” she asked herself reasonably, as she picked at an annoyingly frayed spot on the arm of her chair. “Because no one disobeys me,” she answered promptly. And that was really it, she supposed. She had kept that girl on when, by all rights, she should have thrown her out on the streets for no other reason than to prove that no one could make a fool out of her. No one could beat her. The fact that this same girl had just injured a client and run away was beyond forgiveness. Any other woman would have cut her loses and let the girl go, but the Madame was not any other woman.

“I will not rest,” she muttered under her breath, “until I have her back. I’ll make her pay for the humiliation she has brought down on me.”

The Madame rose very suddenly. In three great strides she crossed the room to the newly opened window. Servants fled on all sides as though terrified that she might step on them if they did not move fast enough. “Vermin,” she thought sneering down at them. Then, breathing what passed for fresh air inside the city, Madame Trasou leaned out her window and stared up at the moon.

The moon was a sickly yellow, hanging limp in the sky, somewhere between crescent and full. The Madame took a moment to consider. If she were able to time her actions properly, not only would she be able to get the girl back, but she may be able to gain a small amount of repayment along the way. The timing would have to be perfect…

“Madame,” said a meek voice from her elbow and she whirled, nearly knocking the young girl down. It was the servant she had sent for her wine. In her shock, the girl dropped her tray, letting the bottles rolling across the floor. Luckily, they did not break. Madame Trasou did not think she could stand to have one more mistake happen today. She grabbed the young girl by the ear.

“Those bottles,” she said roughly, “cost five pesos a piece. What would you have done if one had broken?” She gave the girl a good shake. “Would you have been able to pay for it, Miss?” She shook her again, making the girl’s teeth chatter.

“N-no mum…” the girl said, her eyes rolling like a spooked horse.

“How old are you?” the Madame asked viciously. The girl seemed to shrink. That question was never welcome to any of the servants. Ever.

“Eleven, Madame Trasou, Ma’am...” The girl’s lips quivered, holding back a sudden desire to cry that was obvious to everyone in the room.

“You’ll be a woman soon,” the Madame told her, as though becoming a woman were something akin to become a large brown slug. “You are too old to be here.” She shoved the girl hard, sending her sprawling across the floor. Her knees skidded hard against the carpet as her small pinafore flew up., leaving long read streaks on the girl’s pale flesh. “You’re no longer welcome. Get out!”

The girl staggered to her feet. “C-could I…could I say goodbye to me Mum?” she asked in a terrified quaver. The other servants looked from her to the Madame, clearly basing what they would do in the future on this moment.

“Your mother is working. You have no belongings, they are all mine, so there is no need to pack. Get out!” She did not look at the girl, but pointed threateningly towards the door. “And I never want to see you in this building again.” The Madame turned back to her inspection of the moon.

The girl stood, irresolute, in the middle of the room. A long minute passed as no one moved. Finally, one of the other servants, a girl just barely old enough to work at all, stepped forward.

“You heard the Madame,” she said in a voice that still held the music of infancy. “Get out!”

The other girls looked at one another, then from the Madame to the girl in question.

“Yeah, get out!” one of them said.

“Get out!” said a third.

The Madame generally kept anywhere between five and ten girls in her personal quarters, constantly cleaning and catering to her every whim. Some were daughters of the whores upstairs. Others were brought in from the streets. In this way, the Madame kept her eyes on all the promising young women she could, ready to refill her ranks should the occasion arise. Now, the girls rose as one against their new outcast.

“Get out!” they chanted, driving the girl back towards the door.

The girl’s back was pressed against the door as she fumbled with the latch, now truly afraid. One of the youngest picked up a discarded shoe and flung it across the little space that separated them. She was small, and the throw lacked real force, but when it hit, the other girl’s broke into a frenzy. They rushed…

Squeals and shrieks echoed through the room as the girl’s forced the exile through the door. At the window, Madam Trasou smiled.

“No one defies me…” she said quietly.

Somewhere across town…an old, blind woman crumpled to the ground.


* * *

[Casi]

John barely had time to react. Cecelia fell backwards, her knees giving way, her mouth opening and closing as though she would speak but could not. John leapt from his bed as she seemed to disintegrate right in front of him, barely reaching her before her head collided with the hard floorboards. She twitched violently in his arms once or twice, and then lay still.

For a long moment, John merely held her. He could feel the thin bones that ran through her arms and legs as he supported her. She seemed so small, he felt as though, with the slightest effort, he could probably break her in two. All the more reason to hold her close and keep her safe. Absurdly, John had come to rely on the woman. He, a grown man, had come to think of her as not only his friend, but almost a mother figure, ever indelible in his life. He had never seen her go to wrack and ruins like this before. Gently, he rocked her.

A sudden gasp snapped her head back against his chest in a violent spasm. Her trance, at last, was breaking. John waited for her to speak but, for long moments, there was nothing. Then…finally…in a voice that was heavy with a fear John could not understand, she whispered,

“We must find her…”


* * *

[Casi]

The smell of salt was heavy in the humid morning air. The sun had barely risen and already the situation was beyond insufferable. Captain Alexander Morgan knew that the heat wouldn’t be nearly as bad once they hit open waters…or hell even if they left this damn dock. Captain Morgan had become convinced that the island of Tortuga was trying so desperately to live up to it’s reputation as the gates of hell in the Caribbean that the temperature was at least twice as high as anywhere else on the globe.

Alexander Morgan was a striking figure. He’d been both pirate and privateer for so long that there were few authorities on either side of the Spanish and English conflict who had not sought him at one point or another. He’d lost his left eye in one such encounter, this time with a Spanish warship that had caught up with him only out of a sheer ill luck when Morgan’s rudder had snapped off by a sudden attack by a pod of dolphins. Normally an image that most sailors welcomed, signifying good weather and calm seas…the dolphins had struck at the ship as Morgan had seen them attacking sharks. He wasn’t sure if they’d gone mad or if perhaps the ship had accidentally wounded one of them. He suspected the latter and was pained for it, as he was not a cruel man and had no desire to hurt such lovely creatures. The dolphins had rammed the sides of his sloop in several places until one struck the rudder, snapping it clean in two and leaving him at the mercy of the Spanish ships he knew to be in the area. Seemingly satisfied, the pod had departed, leaving the cursing and foul tempered pirate crew stranded in enemy waters.

The crew had struggled on for two days, using the ship’s few sweeps as best as they could. But there was only so far a man could row in a single day, and progress was slow. The warship caught them around noon of the third day.

The memories of that day still woke Morgan late at night. He would rise from his bed, dripping with cold sweat, feeling as though his head might explode from remembered pain.

The Spanish warship was little more than a glorified brig with some extra firepower. It had come into view on the horizon with the rising of the sun, as though it were some terrible beast emerging from the sea to claim them. Throughout the day, it had gained steadily on the wounded sloop. Each of its twelve guns were clearly visible even at a distance, and Morgan’s crew went through startling bouts of complete terror, drunken stupor, and mutinous anger. But Morgan was a good captain and, luckily, he was well liked, and the crew had held together. What Morgan hoped to accomplish was unclear, but he would not stand for a cowardly surrender. Though his men thought the action might be a bit foolhardy, they respected him enough not to question his motives and did as they were told.

The battle was short. The Spanish brig had pulled alongside Morgan’s sloop and fired a broadside without so much as an offer of negotiations. The sloop had been devastated, loosing a good seven men in the first onslaught. The canons had been loaded alternately with standard ammunition and with grape shop, which shattered and sprayed in all directions as it left the barrel. The main mast was hit and caved forward. Even if the rudder had been in prefect condition, the ship would have had no hope after the first shots were fired. Still, Morgan refused to give up. He’d fired his own canons, doing damage to the Spanish ship…but not nearly enough.

The second volley ended the battle. The badly wounded sloop could not stand the force of so many guns. The sides exploded under the force and the vessel began to sink. Eight more men lost their lives. As the survivors ran in panic for the sides of the ship, preferring death by drowning, so it seemed, than death at the hands of their enemies, one man tripped over the captain’s prone form. He lay face down in his own blood. The sailor, far more loyal to his own survival than that of his captain, left Morgan for dead.

From there, the captain’s story was one of legend. He and eleven of his crew were taken prisoner aboard the Spanish vessel. Its destination was not made clear, but it mattered little the men in their cages. No matter where they went, the outcome was certain. There was only one fate that awaited a captured pirate, and that was the gallows. But fate had other things in store for Captain Morgan. The remnants of his crew believed the survival of their Captain was nothing short of a miracle. His face bled sluggishly and, though no man wanted to admit it, he was most likely bound for death long before they ever reached a port.

On the first evening of their capture, Morgan had spoken to his men.
“I am wounded,” he had said simply. When no reply came, he knew that they understood the thought which lurked behind those words. I am wounded…and likely to die.

“My wound festers,” he continued after a few moments of silence. “I will not die from this wound. I will not allow it.”

The men had remained silent, though the order was clear. Two men held the Captain down by his arms. Another, with hands coated in the grime of the prison cell, tore a piece of fabric from his shirt and set about the task of cleaning the wound. He scooped free the gummy dregs of blood and what was left of the milky white eye. The Captain’s screams were said to shake the very wood of the ship.

The prisoners had, obviously, not been left any weapons, but several of them still carried the accouterments in pockets and pouches. Drawing forth a small packet of gun powder, one of the braver men poured the black grains into the open wound. The Captain was near fainting, but held his mouth firm in a grim line. “Do it,” was all he said. The man produced a flint strike from his pocket and sparked the black powder, saying a silent prayer to whatever god would listen.

The bang was startling inside the confines of their cell and the smell of gun powder and burned flesh was horrific. The Captain howled and pitched forward. For a moment, nothing happened, and then everything seemed to happen at once. The captain became violent sick, the shock and pain causing his body to go into spasms. The men who held them threw their weight against him, holding him still, but only barely. He vomited, nearly choking in the effort, and fell into a dead faint. When he awoke, many hours later, he grimly stuffed a wad of fabric into the dead socket and set about planning their escape.

On the fifth day of the voyage, the men broke free. Little is known of just what happened after their escape. All that is clear is that the men took the ship and, unsure of their heading, sailed onward in the vague hope of finding refuge. When they at last cast anchor off the coast of a small island, only four were still alive. They knew that four men could not hope to continue sailing such a large ship, and so put to shore in the hopes of being found.
When salvation came at last, Morgan was the only survivor. Unfortunately, the ship that found him sailed under the flags of the British Navy. Morgan was taken to England.

That had all been many years ago, and, when Morgan had emerged from his English prison and taken to the helm of a ship once more, with a black patch held fast over his empty left eye socket, more than a few had whispered “witchcraft.” No one, whether they were pirate or Navy, understood why he had not been hung. Morgan, for his part, was not telling. And, though many of the attacks in the intervening years had been blamed on him, few could actually admit to having seen the fearsome captain and his story became myth. It had dissipated so much that, by the time Morgan arrived in Tortuga in 1716, men who had heard his story a thousand times could look him over and not realize who it was they beheld. And, for reasons of his own, that was how Morgan preferred it to be.

The Captain stood at the edge of the dock, reveling in his anonymity for the briefest moment. The island of Tortuga was the last place he had ever expected to see again and, now that he was here, he marveled that he had missed it. The stink of the place alone was enough to put him off his breakfast. Still…business had to be attended to.

Business was all Morgan had time for nowadays. He thought longingly of his home in Port Royal…a home he could not go back to for fear of the reprisal it would drop on his head. If he ever hoped to go there again, he had to fulfill his latest contract. And to do that, he had needed more men. Morgan strode back down the dock, rethinking his decision not to eat. Perhaps a little nourishment would do him good. He had time, yet, before he missed the tide.

Morgan was brought to a halt by the crowd of boys that very suddenly overwhelmed him. They were not an uncommon sight, all in all, but he was continually surprised by how they seemed to spring up out of nowhere. Every last one of them, from the smallest at perhaps age six, to the oldest who appeared to be well into his teens, held out their hands to him. Some begged for money, professing that their sick mothers needed food. The youngest relied on pity to open the pockets of strangers. Most asked him to take them along. This was an indulgence he could not allow. The code was very strict on the matter of young boys aboard a ship and though some appeared as though they might be old enough, none leapt out at him as being anything more than common street rabble.

All except one…

One boy caught Morgan’s eye. He did not ask for money or for passage. He did not ask for anything. The only reason he had grabbed the Captain’s attention at all was that he did not hold his hands out or cling to trailing bits of Morgan’s clothing. He only stared at the Captain with his chin lowered and his hands in his pockets. He was causing a break in the flow of the crowd…a small pocket of emptiness that the others were forced to move around. The child’s eyes held the spark of intelligence that so many of the others lacked. Slowly, as if time made no difference to him, one heavily lashed lid dropped in an amused wink. Without a word, the boy turned his back to leave.

“You boy!” Morgan called imperiously. He spoke overly loud, though the boy stood mere paces from him. The throng of boys fell silent and turned to look at the young man’s back, parting unconsciously until none stood between the Captain and this strange lad. Slowly, the boy turned.

Morgan was at first surprised by the boy’s height. He had not noticed before, but the child seemed to be almost as tall as he was, though not quite. He had an unusual face that was almost heart shaped, with its sharp chin and pronounced widow’s peak, just barely visible beneath the worn leather hat atop his head. His eyes seemed too large to be allowed.

“What’s your name?” The question held more command than inquiry.

“Edmund, sir,” the boy replied. His voice was strange as well, almost musical. “Edmund Jenkins.”

“And how old are you Edmund?”

“Fifteen. It was m’birthday just yesterday, Sir.”

“Fifteen…a fine age,” Morgan said solemnly, taking a careful step towards the boy. “A fine age to become a man,” he added with a significant look. “And begging is no job for a man,” he scolded, wondering just what the boy was really doing at the docks, if not begging.

“I’m not a beggar, Sir. Nor would I be if I were starving,” Edmund replied in disgust.

“Then what brings you here?” Morgan asked conversationally, putting his thumbs behind his belt and leaning back, hoping to add a little to his height and impressiveness.

“As you say, Sir, fifteen is a fine age to become a man. And a man,” Edmund turned sideways to gesture to the three sloops at anchor in the harbor, “sails.”

The corners of Morgan’s mouth twitched. He looked at the boy for a moment, seeing the boy watching him from the corners of his eyes. And then, unable to help himself, he threw back his head and laughed. Several of the smaller boys jumped at the sudden outburst while the older ones looked on enviously.

“You see this, boys?” Morgan asked the group in general. “This is a clever lad!” He strode another step closer to young Edmund Jenkins. “And can you…Lad…sail?” he asked, laying extra emphasis on the word “lad.”

“No,” Edmund answered honestly, and without a trace of embarrassment. “The code says that no boys or women should be allowed on ships. But, as I am neither, I believe it is time for me to learn.”

Morgan clapped a comradely hand on Edmund’s shoulder, causing the boy to wobble under the sudden impact. “You know the code I see,” he said, unable to hide the note of astonishment that infected his voice.

“When you live on an island almost entirely populated by whores and pirates, you learn the rules fairly quickly,” Edmund said, with just a touch of bitterness. “And I do learn faster than most.” It was not a boast. The boy said it as a statement of fact.

“We shall see…” Morgan said. For a moment he stood in silence, looking from the boy to the sea. Edmund, he noticed, did not take his eyes from the shifting waves, although he was rather obviously taking note of every move the Captain made.

Finally, Morgan leaned forward and gripped the boy’s shoulder firmly.

“Do you see that ship?” he asked, pointing to a red sloop anchored by the dock not far from them. The boy nodded minutely and Morgan smiled. “That is my ship, The Hellion. We sail within the hour. I expect you on board. We shall see just how quickly you learn.”

Edmund, it seemed, could not stop the smile that spread across his face. He looked much younger when he smiled. “Thank you, Sir!” he said with enthusiasm.

Morgan released his grip on the boy’s shoulder and watched him scamper across the dock towards the ship. However, when he did not immediately board, Morgan took a few steps onto the creaking wood, curiosity overwhelming him.

Edmund had stopped at a bend in the dock, and gazed intently out at the horizon. Then, from inside his pocket, Morgan saw the boy draw a lovely, though slightly crumpled, pink flower. For a long moment, Edmund merely held the precious blossom in his hand as he gazed out at the water. Then, somberly, he tossed the bloom into the waves. Quietly, Morgan heard him say:

“Goodbye Sarah Jenkins. I’m sorry that no one is here to mourn you.”

The child’s tone was heartbreaking and for Morgan, who had gutted boys of Edmund’s age with his own sword, it was no small feat. With a sad sigh, the boy turned and ran off towards the ship. Morgan stood in silence, reflected that, perhaps, he had his answer. Perhaps this Sarah…be she mother or sister he wasn’t sure…had been the only thing holding the boy here. If she were dead, as she so clearly seemed to be…then he supposed he could not blame the boy for making his escape.