Drawn Up From Deep Places

“You keep that scaly carcass where I tell ya,” she ordered. “Nah feelin’ none too well, uh?” Continuing, as Mister Dolomance pressed both makeshift hands to where one might only assume his belly lurked, as though finally realizing where the pain that drove him was coming from: “Shouldn’t’ve eat up that fetish o’mine, then, ‘long of all the rest, when you trawled the muck fah the last of Cap’n Parry’s corpse—for since ‘twas I give him that to start wit’, it will always come back t’me, if called. But as Parry could tell ya him own-self, ‘tis most oft the very act o’ seekin’ on vengeance which drag ya furthest down, in return.”

As Collyer stared, transfixed, Dolomance gave a last variety of begging grumble, to which Tante Ankolee responded by throwing him something he snapped out of the air, choking it down only to almost immediately hack it up once more, along with what looked for all the world like a lump of bloody ambergris. It fell to the deck before her feet and he shuddered, lurching unsteady, entire stumpy bottom-portion gone suddenly gluey-soft from crotch to where most bipeds’ ankles usually lay, already beginning to knit itself back together, while those vestigial arms of his likewise shrank and flattened into flippers. As his ill-sealed gills popped open once more, Dolomance gasped and snuffled, barking a final plea his tormentor’s way—only to hear her tell him, all unsympathetic:

“B

e off wit’ ya now; over the side ‘fore ya drown on air, an’ good riddance. Be grateful I consider ya debt paid, fah all the trouble you give me.”

But for a creature so rapidly becoming devoid of anything like knees, the railing proved difficult to manage. Before he had quite formed the notion, Wilmot Collyer found himself lunging to assist, not even thinking to shield his palms from the shark-were’s sandpaper hide. Grimacing as its thrashing drew blood, stripping him of several skin-layers in a trice, he heaved high and let what remained thump over the side, falling waveward with a mighty splash—then paused, exhausted and in pain, to drape himself over the wood for momentary respite, watching the same damned thing he’d maimed himself to aid’s ungrateful top-fin streak back away into darkness.

From behind, Tante Ankolee’s arms came softly ‘round him, stroking sudden balm ‘cross his abraded hands. “Fine hero indeed, y’are, me brave defender,” she named him, “ta feel fah such a lost creature. So take this as payment, and give yaself but a moment, while I see what-all the sea brung us.”

“Those . . . objects you were after, one hopes, given what effort you’ve gone to.”

“Oh, aye. But one can always be wrong.”

As it soon proved, however, her working had paid out exactly as planned: Tante Ankolee dipped the shark-ball into a shallow pan of brine, cracking it end-to-end and furling out a mess of muck she swished briskly, then separated—plucking forth first the promised fetish (dark wood and nail-studded with not one of its many rusty points still wet, as she kissed it and tucked it away), followed by two more treasures: an ivory eye set with skull and crossed bones in jet for her right hand, said trinket having once beamed forth from Captain Rusk’s own skull, while her left was weighed down by a length of red hair braided nine times nine all wound about with chain-of-gold, like any holy relic.

“Good as new,” she grinned, showing Collyer her haul, rightly proud of her own invention. “Just the keys we need fah raisin’ spirits puissant enough t’ lay our two bad gentlemen back down, right ‘long wit’ the ship who love ‘em both best.”

Collyer shook his head, discomfort so far ebbed he almost crossed his arms, before thinking better of what his own skin’s salt might do to his lacerations. “If we can catch them, that is,” he pointed out, wishing—as ever—to be practical.

“Oh, no great task there, I think. Seein’ they on their way tah meet us, already.”

***

Somewhere beyond compass’s reckoning, meanwhile, Jerusalem Parry felt her magic prick at his without quite recognizing its source—cat-scratch rough, feverish, infectious—and lifted his bleak gaze to peer into the wind.

We are sought for, he told his co-captain, the which intelligence made Solomon Rusk’s remaining eye flash with a nasty sort of joy. Suggesting, hand on sword-hilt—

Then let us seek them, in return.

A sniff. My very thought, obviously. Make ready.

I’ve never been not so, ye pinch-faced clerk.

The Bitch turned at their mutual pleasure, as always, bearing to breast this limbo they swam in’s waves—made for where Parry pointed, towards that next most convenient point of opening, to breach the wall between worlds. And Rusk drew himself up full height, seeing two different skies and seas wrinkle like burning paper, one giving way to another.

All hands on deck! he roared to those below. For though ye need not fight on either mine nor Cap’n Parry here’s account if unwilling t’do so, be very sure, nonetheless—any traitors who look t’flee I’ll kill meself, before they have a chance t’ ruin our prize!

At this, Parry raised a skeptic brow, perhaps about to comment. But too late; their transit was made and done already, spitting them forth again into the waking world—

***

Predictably, it was Mister Mipps who first saw the phantom ship coming, and raised an alarum. Yet while Collyer and his bo’sun both turned to confirm this news, Tante Ankolee spared its arrival only a single glance; she was busy on the fore-deck, laying in the last few touches of her spell-trap, before she quite sprang it to.

The Bitch Resurrecta had both spread and sunk since Mipps last laid eyes on it, riding low in the water, just as its blue-green corona had spread, eddying aurora-style up and down each mast like St. Elmo’s Fire. On its prow, an abominate multiplicity of figureheads formed one several-faced entity; above, Parry and Rusk stood glowering, and though her portholes were not turned the Victory’s way, the ring and clash of iron on iron nevertheless told a tale of cannon-loading that Collyer was loath to test.

“Gentlemen,” he called, “I am Captain Wilmot Collyer, and I speak for His Majesty when I demand right of parley under promise of pardon for past bad acts, that we may discuss some peaceful resolution to your current prob . . . eh, difficulties.”

“How do you expect to deliver on such an offer, sir?” Parry threw back, both palms flicking alight at one double finger-snap. “Being yourself palpably unmagical, and having not even a witch-finder aboard—but wait. Is that the fair Miss Rusk I see, lurking behind you?”

At this, Rusk perked up, more excited by such an idea than by the prospect of slaughter itself. While Tante Ankolee straightened, simultaneous, and corrected: “Nah fair nor miss, Jerusalem Parry, as ya well-enough know. Yet them did think ta bring me ‘long nonetheless, by England-King’s command, for that them know me far more acquainted wit’ the two o’ you an’ your works than any other livin’ thing . . . saving Mister Dolomance, that is, perhaps, whom I palaver wit’ just last night gone.”

“Oh? To what object?”

“Well,” Collyer put in, far too pleased with his own wit, “there were one or two points of interest brought up, in the discussion . . . ”

Rusk and Parry exchanged glances, equally unamused. “Be this man a full idiot, big sis, or only partway?” Rusk inquired of Tante Ankolee, who shrugged.