Drawn Up From Deep Places

“Well, be that as it may,” he replied, at last, once he’d managed to re-order his thoughts accordingly. “I have here in my hand a letter drawn straight from the Admiralty itself, the king’s own seal affixed, that bears your name and requests your aid in a matter of some small urgency and delicacy, both. ‘That the woman known as Angelique Rusk be petitioned to lend her aid in matters magical, for the betterment of all men under the Crown, and the restoration of trade-lines betwixt these waters, the ports of old England and their holdings,’ etcetera and etcetera, ‘as here writ . . . ’”

“Ankolee, that me name, my pretty young man, an’ don’t ya forget it. Though ya may call me ‘Tante,’ if ya so inclined.”

“‘Auntie,’ as the degenerate French would have it? Madam, I believe I will decline.”

“As ya please, then.” And with this, she lifted her skirts to show bare feet, their painted nails like claws, before settling down into a nearby chair and crossing her legs at the ankles, delicate as any lady. “But since y’come so far, ‘tis only proper I might as well hear y’out, after so many mile an’ difficulty. So tell me these so-bad troubles o’ yours, Cap’n Collyer, an’ I’ll tell ya how ‘tis I can help, if indeed there’s help t’be had for ‘em at all.”

Thus invited, the Navy man sighed, crossed his arms, and did.

His tale was an odd one indeed, to say the least, though—the sea being what it was, so infinitely brim-full of all sorts of awfulness and delight—Tante Ankolee might honestly say she’d heard odder. It began with a low-laden ship of the line, set sail with a cargo of various necessaries from out of the Seychelles and headed towards Port Royal. This vessel never reached its destination, though a pair of survivors were later plucked from the ocean, clinging to a spar . . . not one originating with that same ship, as it turned out, but salvage from another entirely, not to mention so well-encrusted with barnacle-overgrown corals ‘twas a wonder the thing could even float, looking as it did as though it had spent much time underwater.

These survivors told a story of their own, which their rescuers dismissed as mere raving: Said they’d been approached mid-voyage by a spectral three-master massive enough as any four ships slapped haphazardly together—the which, on closer inspection, it seemingly proved to be. Blown forth on burning sails from the darkness, this looming, lurching hulk’s ill-cobbled upper deck was back-lit by an unnatural corona blue-green as the horizon’s sunset flash, and on it stood two equal-phantom figures, a careful distance kept between ‘em: one a single-eyed rogue done up in piratical finery, so large he made the other (tall enough, by most standards) seem small by comparison, while his mate stood slim and upright with silver-pale eyes in an even paler face, clad head-to-toe in parsimonious black.

With a contemptuous little hand-flourish, knuckles a-dance with sorcerous sparks, this second apparition caused the ship’s frontispiece to split straight down the center, bowsprit dividing, the hull itself appearing to swing open like a stove-in casque. Through the spray of this division, the survivors could glimpse a dank interior cavern festooned with weeds and barnacles, garden-stocked with all manner of slimy life most usually found only within the sea’s much deeper reaches. Towards this their own vessel made a sudden little leap, as though hooked, and commenced to plunge straight for what proved to be a veritable graveyard of marine detritus, possibly compiled from the shattered remains of other travelers along the same route—masts and hulls, nets and rigging and wet sails hung slack like popped bellies amongst the corpses of barques, cogs, carracks, plus what looked to be half an entire East-Indiaman torn stem-to-stern as though by some kraken’s beak and tentacles.

Overhead, the first ghost-pirate strode out onto the bowsprit’s right-hand outcropping as though walking the proverbial plank, so uncaring of his own safety he couldn’t possibly be any living man. Roaring, as he did: Them as swears the Articles may stay on, whilst them as feels un-inclined may throw ‘emselves over-side and swim—for we’ll have no slackers on board this ill-starred beast, my fellow captain and meself! Ye must serve one of us in our endeavors, no great matter which, or take your chances wi’ She Below, resigning yourself to Her cold mercy!

“And did them choose t’stay?” Tante Ankolee asked, out loud. Answering herself, before Collyer could try to: “But no, couldn’t be, or they nah be here t’tell them tale to you, who tell it me. So them must’ve took t’other option, instead—plunge back out into the waves, clingin’ fast to whatever come t’hand: this spar ya talk of, whah bear ‘em back out into darkness.”

“Exactly, yes. Which, when examined, proved to bear a name of both notoriety and ill-repute, for all common rumor brands the ship it’s attached to as having sunk a good ten months ago.”

“An’ what be this name, exactly?”

“Uh . . . Salina Resurrecta, those were the words found when we scraped it clean. Though it has, on occasion, borne another title, too—one I hesitate to mention, before a female.”

Leaning forward, her eyes suddenly a-flash: “Bitch of Hell?”

“That would be it, yes. Do you know her?”

“‘Twas the name me half-brother give him ship, who sail a pirate ‘long the trade-routes from Seychelles to Jamaica an’ back again—Cap’n Solomon Rusk, Old Maître’s youngest, who I call ‘cousin’ when I nurse him up, even though we close enough linked by blood t’see just by lookin’ if ya stood us both together. Or so ‘twas called, ‘til the man who kill him take it, and sail her on himself: Jerusalem Parry, who me brother find collared in some Navy-ship hold, bound out for wizardry an’ marked t’swing.”

“Yes, I do seem to recall both those names now, from reports. Yet Captain Parry died too, did he not? Or must have, if he now pilots this monstrosity . . . ”

“Oh my, yes; dead almost this whole year gone for all him considerable power, by fightin’ the curse Solomon lay on him in dyin’ so hard, he finally bring ‘bout him own comeuppance. For Parry had me brother keel-hauled, y’see, an’ from that day on couldn’t set foot ashore wit’out he commence t’bleed; spent a good ten year roamin’ ocean to ocean, searchin’ for a place more sea than land yet firm enough t’lay his head on, before doom fall on him at last. As, doubtless, him always knew it would.”

“Ah yes, now it comes back to me. Made a man into a shark, too, didn’t he, with devil-magic?”

“Nah, was t’other way ‘round: made a shark take on man-shape just t’guard him from any who might think t’avenge Cap’n Rusk, or imitate him—bid him wear clothes, walk upright, call he-self ‘Mister Dolomance’; fah, pure foolishness, and cruel, too! But they was cruel men both in them own ways, thus makin’ ‘em perfect fah each other’s downfall. Since like do call ta like, or so all say . . . ”

“I’m . . . not sure I take your meaning, madam.”

Tante Ankolee arched a brow at Collyer, skeptical he could choose to miss the point so wide. “An’ you call yaself a sailor,” was all she said—then laughed, long and loud, to see how he flushed once more.

***

How well she still recalled her first meeting with Jerusalem Parry—my sweet Jerusha, Solomon had called him, probably ‘cause he damn well knew how the doing of it made that former blue-coat twitch. For that brother of hers was always a one apt to be over-happy with his own bad behavior, pitch-black in his heart if not elsewhere, yet gifted with such a store of dark good looks and animal high spirits as to make people call him charming, even after they’d already felt the brunt of his thoughtlessness. Parry, however, had just cold self-possession enough to remain unaffected from the neck up, no matter how his traitor nethers might’ve welcomed Solomon’s attentions; never having lived slave before, he was determined to win free, at any cost—to break rather than bend, scorning the softer path, and crush all before him like an earthquake wave, destroying everything for a mile on either side just to make sure Rusk went down along with it.

Lucky how Solomon’s curse made him have ta stay afloat ever after, then, when ya think on’t, she thought. For mo

st, if not all.

“Be easy enough t’make things go smoother ‘tween you two, Master Parry,” she’d suggested, gently, as they sat at her table together, Solomon a-lurk in the background with his long body leant up ‘gainst the wall and his blind eye turned their way, pretending not to wonder what secrets they might be whispering in each other’s ears. Him who she still somewhat saw, without wanting to, as the baby who’d delighted in tugging at her plaits or that man-size boy who’d thought to make her his first adventure—holding her fast to that same brickwork with both hands snuck up under her skirts, while she just nipped at his ear and laughed, reminding him she’d once changed his nappy. “For the cap’n a man of simple tastes, well-apt t’lose interest swifter than he seem like, you only give ‘im time . . . ”

“I have given him quite enough thus far, I think, by any civilized measure. So much so that he will simply have to count himself satisfied already, from this point on.”

Such clean lines to that devil-stubborn man’s sharp face, profile cut like a coin, even turned ‘way with his odd silver-penny eyes cast down and frowning; Tante Ankolee could well-enough see what it was drew her “cousin” to him, beyond the obvious. A rich vein of magic ran through this one, clear as any needle in quartz—felt it cry out to her equal-strong, almost as hard to pay no heed to, for all she at least both knew what she was hearin’, and was canny enough to keep from trying to answer.

“Where is’t ya get your witch-blood from?” she asked him, as a distraction. To which he shrugged, and answered: “They called my mother such, and hanged her for it; I suppose I saw evidence enough to support the charge, of a kind, before the Church took me in and paid for my education. Yet . . . I never thought it anything but slander myself, ill-will towards one far too young and sharp for safety, from those who were no longer either.”