Paradise Cursed – Snippet 15
Before I could tie off properly, Ayanna was out of the dory and up the accommodation ladder. Though I didn’t know the measure of her curse before Shaman Damarae lifted it, I appreciated her excitement. I’d seen it many times before and could only liken it to learning that your terminal disease had responded favorably to treatment and you were cured.
Nevertheless, my first mate needed to tame her animated gladness and tidy up a bit.
“You might take a turn in the shower,” I said, “before our guests see you. Wouldn’t want to frighten anyone into jumping overboard.” The vast majority had no idea of the unusual goings on beneath the merriment of a Sarah Jane cruise, and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Aye, Cap’n.” she smiled down at me in the moonlight. “Might want to consider the same yourself.”
Yes, a good scrubbing of my body as well as my thoughts, then a pipe and a stroll. Staying well clear of gatherings, we made our way down to the crew deck and to our separate quarters.
Half an hour later, I returned to the main deck. Mingling was expected, and I actually enjoyed the noisy good humor I encountered. Eventually, I made my way to the dining room.
My first mate, now in proper sailor attire, was already making her rounds, chatting up passengers at various tables. The air was sweet with the scent of rum swizzlers and wine.
Jase had gotten a guitar aboard somehow and was playing base notes to a fiddler, everybody slapping their knees and clapping. All at once, I was reminded of a very different sort of gathering.
It was after signing on with the Louisiana governor to lure pirate ships out of their hidey-holes. Our pay was good, and we frequently made anchor at New Orleans, Galveston and other ports along the Gulf Coast.
Roatan Island, off the coast of Honduras, was a favorite haven for pirates during those days, made so by the Welsh Privateer Henry Morgan, though he was long dead before my time. Loosely thought of as a northern version of Port Royal, Jamaica, Roatan offered the ribald sort of entertainment men crave after being at sea, especially so when they’ve taken a good prize. The pubs served goblets of rum for not much money, and the sweet-faced Honduran girls were quick on the spot with refills. If you wobbled too much to make it back safely to your ship, you could stretch out on the beach, gaze at the stars and dream of what you’d do if you struck it rich.
This night, I separated myself from the crew. A man craves isolation at times, but after an hour or so I’d had enough and ventured into the nearest pub. Some fool was torturing a homemade flute and another was strumming a three-stringed instrument made from a dried gourd. My ears rebelled so adamantly that I turned to leave.
“Cap’n McKinsey!” A fellow hailed me from a nearby table. “Yer lookin hale for an old buccaneer. Come have a spot o’ me special brew and spin me some sea yarns.”
You don’t sail the same waters for decades without bumping into people you’ve met in the past, and this was a sailor I’d known rather well some twenty years previous. He was showing those years in the deep creases of his haggard face and in the way he appeared to have shrunk inside his clothes. Like me, he was a Brit by birth, which was perhaps why we hit it off.
“Clarence Akers, you old shellback.” I hoped my reference to his experience at the helm might distract him from the perceived difference in our ages. “Let me buy you a leg.”
Pulling out a chair, I signaled for the nearest barmaid. “Two bootlegs of ale, dear lass.”
When she’d gone, I pointed to the silver flask in Akers’ hand. “What have you brewed up this time, Clarence?”
“Ye’ll have to taste it.”
I grinned my widest. “Fool me twice, shame on me.”
He had been carrying that same flask the day we met at a public house much like the one we were in now. Needing a liquor to take on a long sail without adding much weight to his bag, Akers had brewed what he termed a “compression.” One taste near took the top of my head off and made me cross-eyed. Only after having a good laugh did the crazy bloke reveal the drink’s ingredients: Scotch whiskey, gin, some grain alcohol in which a spider had soaked, and half a stick of dynamite.
We swapped stories this night as we drank our ale. After a while, Akers asked, “D’ya remember a fellow crewed with us on our first sail together, name of Bosco?”
“A thin brown boy, if I recall correctly. First rate sailor. What about him?”
“Loved the sun, ‘e did, and worked without a blouse most days. Remember what colorful batch of art e’d drawn all over ‘es self?”
Every favorite port, including this one, had an artist with a tattoo needle and a keen desire to relieve sailors of their coin for a picture of “Mom” on his biceps. Bosco, however, had boarded the ship with his own set of needles and inks. The art on his stomach, chest and arms was done completely by his own hand.
“I recall a heart pierced by a sword,” I said. “And an anchor. But the best was a brilliant parrot that covered part of his belly. When Bosco went a few weeks on tight rations, that bird got skinnier and skinnier.”
“So ye’ll know what yer lookin at, McKinsey, when I show what’s in me pocket. See, our ship anchored at Santiago de Cuba one day last year. I’d lost my tobacco pouch and was in need of a new one when I spied a little shop, out of the way in an alley, with a sign that said ‘Leather Goods.’ I stopped in to have a look at their goods. Most were as ye’d expect, but one was quite colorful, with painted flowers and such. Turning it to the back side gave me quite a shock, I tell ye.”
Akers laid the pouch on the table, and I noted the flowers set along one edge. Then he flipped it over and I saw a brilliantly colored parrot.
“I’d often wondered what ever happ’ned to Bosco,” Akers said.
“Hand me your flask,” I told him, and I gulped enough of his special brew to turn me bloody cross-eyed, so I could no longer see that wretched bird.
*
Now that Erin had agreed to give Ola a reading, Dayna hoped her natural abilities would settle in and stop scaring her. It was cool having a sister who could look into the future.
On that thought, though, Dayna hoped she wasn’t being selfish in wanting the old Erin back, the one who was always upbeat and fun to be with. “Hope in one hand and pour sand in the other,” their mother would say. “See which hand fills up first.” Dayna took that to mean, “Don’t just hope, do something.” Bringing the tarot cards on the cruise had felt right, but then she’d left them in the dining room.
Was it good that Ola had found them, not someone who would toss them in the trash? And what did it all mean?
Dayna often wondered if her own life was already written in the cards. Or the stars. If so, she wished someone would give her the Cliff Notes.
The good thing: Erin was smiling at Ola now.
“I use the planetary spread,” she explained as she dealt, “which combines the spiritual cognition of the cards with the solidity of guidance from the planets. From a deck of seventy-eight, these eight cards are most significant to you at this particular time, Ola Mae Eggars, and to your specific question, “what will this year bring for me.”
From the corner of her eye, Dayna saw the first mate walking their way. Decked out in her sailor-white shorts and t-shirt, Ayanna looked sharp and also more aglow than she’d seemed last night while serving them dinner. Maybe she’d spent her evening at a Cayman massage spa.
“Your first card,” Erin was saying, “represents the prime energy in your life this year. Here we have the Chariot. Advancement through bold action. Order established through vigilance. A trying situation you’ve been dealing with will be mastered through discipline, individual effort and endurance.”
“I’m worthless at discipline,” Ola admitted. “But danged good at endurance.”
“The second card…” Erin paused as Ayanna approached.
“Bonswé, I am sorry hackle you ladies but have mash-it-up good news and must pass along dis bitty gift.”
Dayna didn’t understand what she’d said, but Ayanna was all big-eyed happy as she handed Erin a heavy gold chain with a pendant on it. It didn’t look like dollar-store bling, either, but like an antique. Pressing it into Erin’s hand, closing her fingers over it, Ayanna flashed a smile that couldn’t have been bigger or more brilliant if she’d just won the lottery
“Bonswé,” she said again and headed toward another table.
“Thank you,” Erin called, opening her hand and gaping, obviously bewildered. “Ola, did you understand what she said?”
“I caught the gist, ’bout gettin good news and needin to pass it along. Beyond that, my dear, ah’m as mystified as you are.”
“Hey, sis,” Dayna said, “if you don’t want it, that gold chain will look great tomorrow with my turquoise town-seeing threads.”
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