Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (5 page)

7

“I don’t trust her,” Reardon said, as the two climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck.

“Neither do I.” Finkle had been growing even more uneasy about the female witch doctor with every given second. She still hadn’t explained to him the strange exchange she’d had with William before his death. Even more unsettling, Finkle wasn’t entirely sure why she had insisted on accompanying the crew on their expedition. She had made pitiful claims about the necessity of her presence in reviving Lanme Wa, but Finkle couldn’t help but feel it had all been a ruse of some kind. If the pirate was, as she claimed, alive and in some strange form of hibernation, Finkle couldn’t understand why she was needed at all. Surely there were more mundane ways to wake the pirate other than her so-called magic. “But right now, I don’t believe we have much choice. For better or worse, we’re stuck with her. The pirates’ sudden arrival saw to that.”

“Speaking of…” Reardon glanced up toward the rigging, and caught sight of the man he was looking for, nestled in the ship’s crow’s nest. “Needles!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” The man called Needles, the ship’s lookout, shouted down.

“Any sign of our pursuers?”

“Aye! They’re two miles northeast, and holdin’ steady. For some reason, they’ve reefed their sails.”

Reardon’s eyes narrowed. “Why would they possibly do that?” He suddenly bolted to the stern, pulled his glass from the pouch attached to his belt and looked out to the northeast horizon. “It makes no sense.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Finkle asked, huffing from chasing after the captain.

“The
Mark
is one of the fastest ships around. Even armed as we are, we’re sitting at just under a hundred and fifty tons.” He nodded toward the
Hound
. “That frigate is easily four hundred. I’ve not been able to fathom how they’ve done it, but they’ve been keepin’ pace with us since we left that cursed island. Hardly put any effort into it, I’d wager. But Needles is right. They’ve reefed their sails. They could easily catch us up, but they’ve intentionally slowed themselves. They’re coming to a stop.”

“Why would they do that?”

The captain looked up at the sky and the purple-orange haze of the approaching dawn. Then he shrugged. “No idea. That’s what concerns me.” He eyed the ship through the glass again, and Finkle could sense the man’s muscles tensing underneath his frock coat. “No matter the reason, we need to take advantage of it and put as much distance between us and them as we can…before they change their mind.”

The mambo bokor had gone by many names throughout her short thirty-one years on Earth, but the name bestowed upon her by her grandmother was Asherah. It was a family name, passed down from mother to daughter for generations, and marking each name-bearer as a future mambo bokor. Only the daughters who had the gift of vodou could be called by this name, and she had worn it well since her grandmother’s death.

Now, however, she was on the verge of taking the name to levels not dreamed of since the Philistine goddess of her namesake, who the Arabs called Ishtar. The place these white men were taking her would ensure she would never want for anything again. Once more, the mention of her name would bring men to their knees, as it had in days long ago. Though the white men had been cautious with their tongues—had never verbally conveyed the object of their quest—she knew full well what they sought. Knew they had mistakenly believed Lanme Wa had already found it, and they hoped he would guide them to it.

But the pirate, though he had indeed searched for it in his travels, had never actually located it. Had, in fact, given up on it being real, and had turned his attentions to other pursuits. Asherah, however, knew better. She knew it existed, and she understood that the power to be gained from the expedition would bring nations crashing down in ruins. It would also set her up as the one true goddess of the New World.

This, of course, was why the poor slave, William, was so important. Why she’d influenced the
Brave Ghede
to take him, and not the bothersome Greer. Smiling, she reached into her medicine pouch and retrieved the vial of blood she’d scooped from Lanme Wa’s casket. She then placed the vial in the center of a circle of salt she’d poured onto the floor. Next she mumbled an indecipherable prayer.

When she finished, she turned to the box in which Lanme Wa lay, and sneered. “Don’t you be judgin’ me, pirate. For too long, my line has been servin’ you. Da service you gave my great-grandmother has long since been repaid, and now it be time we take our rightful place in dis world.”

She didn’t expect him to answer her challenge. She doubted he was even aware of what was going on. Asherah hadn’t lied to the funny old scientist and the ship’s captain, though.

Lanme Wa was most definitely alive.

Throughout the years, she’d seen the signs. From the age of six, her grandmother had charged her with the task of feeding the man once a year. The chore usually consisted of some arcane ritual she’d never fully understood. Then they would push back the sarcophagus’s lid, and she would toss in a single fruit—a mango, orange or even an apple, when they were available. A month later, Asherah was supposed to return to the crypt, open it and remove whatever was left. On every single occasion, the fruit showed signs of having been eaten—if only a bite or two. And since the casket was sealed airtight, she knew the food had not been co-opted by any scavenging rats. For even if they could have gotten inside, they would have quickly died from suffocation.

No, Asherah had no doubt that the pirate known as Lanme Wa was still alive, and capable, at least, of eating. She wasn’t entirely sure what else the desiccated living corpse was capable of… If he was aware of his surroundings… If he could hear the words being spoken around him. But there was one thing she knew all too well. She knew that once the immortal pirate awakened, he would pose the greatest threat to her plans, and she would need all the help she could get to overcome him.

That, of course, brought her thoughts around full circle to William. The young slave was the key. The l’wa, who she served, were territorial. Their influence and power could be felt only in the place where they were created. Once she had stepped onto the ship, and left the safety of the Caribbean islands she called home, the l’wa she knew so well were useless to her. A l’wa created in the turmoil of the raging sea, however, would have powers far beyond those of any she’d known her entire life. All she needed was a willing soul, and William had agreed enthusiastically.

She rifled through her medicine bag again, withdrew seven candles made of dolphin lard, and an assortment of herbs, shredded tobacco leaf, sugar cane stalks and a bottle of snake venom. She placed each on the floor. Satisfied all the ingredients were present, Asherah carefully set each candle around the circle of salt, then lit each of them in counterclockwise order.

Now, for the elements of life
.

She sprinkled three small piles of the tobacco, representing the haze of the future, around the blood vial. Then, uncorking the snake venom, she poured the contents along the outline of the circle while reciting the necessary incantation to withdraw the veil of death. The stalks of sugar cane were arranged on the floor in the form of a cross, which was designed to give a newborn l’wa the sweet taste of wisdom and power. Finally, taking a pinch of the herbs, she dropped it into the wide-mouthed neck of the blood vial, before immediately going to each candle and blowing out the flames.

The sickly sweet aroma of the candle’s smoke wafted up toward her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply before swaying back and forth to an inaudible tune playing in the back of her mind. Unconsciously, she sung the words of the ancient song, focusing her will on the vial and imagining the thick, strong frame of William in her mind’s eye. Five minutes later, as the last vestiges of smoke had completely disappeared, she reached down, corked the vial of blood and smiled.

Now, all that was left was to reach their destination. She would have one of the most powerful l’was ever conjured, and it would be fully tied to American soil. It was only a matter of time, and there was nothing Lanme Wa could do to prevent it.

A sudden tap at the door startled her from her reverie.

“
Oui
?
”

“Sorry, ma’am,” came a quivering voice from the other side of the hold’s door. “The cap’n was wonderin’ how much longer it’ll be. Them pirates is keepin’ a tight path on our stern, and he’s thinkin’ their cap’n might be needed come night fall.”

Asherah glanced back over at the crate, and rolled her eyes. As far as she was concerned, Lanme Wa could sleep til his heart’s content, but she knew Captain Reardon wasn’t going to allow her that luxury. On the other hand, she honestly did not know how to revive the pirate. It was a lesson never taught her by her grandmother.

When it be time for Lanme Wa to awaken,
her grandmother had always told her,
Lanme Wa will awaken. Not a minute sooner
.

Asherah pulled the sheet around her once more, strode over to the door and opened it. The young cabin boy jumped back with a yelp, causing the mambo bokor to laugh. She cherished the power she had over these white men—both from fear, as well as from lust—and she savored every reminder of the awe they had for her.

“Tell
mon Capitaine
I need eight strong hands to carry Lanme Wa to da upper deck.”

With a curt salute, the boy scampered up the ladder and disappeared. Ten minutes later, four large sailors and Quartermaster Greer returned to the hold. The Englishman, whom Asherah could sense was not well-liked among his mostly Irish crew, directed the men to the wooden crate without so much as glancing at her. She then watched as the hatch above the hold was opened, and a crane hook was lowered down. The men carefully secured the crate, and with a series of shouted commands from Greer, it was lifted up to the deck.

“Now, woman,” Greer said with a sneer. He refused to look her in the eye. “Please dress yourself in more
civilized
attire, and meet the Captain and Mr. Finkle topside, as soon as possible.”

With that, he motioned to his men to follow him, and they left her alone in the hold to reflect on her own amusement.

8

After changing back into her linen shift, Asherah made her way up on deck to see Captain Reardon, Jim Brannan Finkle and a handful of crew standing over the opened crate. Greer was nowhere to be seen. Three sailors were vigilantly watching the sea from the bow of the ship, while their compatriots tended to various other duties.

The ship rocked hard from side-to-side, as it was bombarded by choppy waves originating from dark skies to the west. She didn’t need to see the clouds beyond to know that a storm was approaching. She could taste it on the rush of wind brushing past her face, and she inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet tang of the rapidly cooling air.

Turning her attention back to the captain, she strode over to them, and greeted Reardon with a slight nod of her head. “
Capitaine
Reardon.”

“The time for pleasantries is long past, lassie,” he said, pointing to the crate. “Though I’m mightily vexed as to how a pirate’s crew can still be sailing more than a hundred years after their captain’s death…or whatever you call it. The sad fact o’ the matter is, they are. Though they’ve intentionally slowed their pursuit since daybreak, they’re still trackin’ us from the southeast. On top of that, we’re fast approachin’ a hell of a storm to the west, and so far, you’ve not earned your keep aboard me ship.”

“And how you think I should help,
cher
? More important, how you think Lanme Wa can help? He be immortal. Not a god. He can’t turn da weather ’round to go de other way.”

“But he may be able to call off his crew,” Finkle said. Of all the men she’d encountered so far on this expedition, he was the one that unnerved her the most. Though he was far advanced in years, he had a spirit about him stronger than any of the younger men on the crew. And a wisdom that might just see through her ruse, if she wasn’t more vigilant around him. On the other hand, he continued to show her nothing but the utmost kindness—not out of fear or desire, as with the other sailors, but from something more akin to respect. And it was this that worried her more than anything else. “This would allow us to sail around the storm, and avoid a possible catastrophe. As it stands, if our course changes even slightly, Lanme Wa’s crew could overtake us in minutes, and all would be lost anyway.”

She glanced back to the stern, catching a brief glimpse of square sails, just as the bow swept up over a swell, and then the pirate ship was gone from view once more. She already knew what she was going to do, but she needed to continue the charade for as long as she could. Truth was, there was no magical incantation to revive the immortal pirate. No spell, potion or ritual. Her grandmother was right. He would wake up when it was time for him to wake up, and not a minute later or sooner. The question was whether or not she could hasten his timetable, and to do what she had in mind would require a great deal of risk. If she failed, Captain Reardon and Finkle would have no further need of her. She would surely be cast overboard for failure to live up to her end of the bargain. That would definitely put the nails to her carefully laid plans, and she would have none of it. This would simply have to work.

“Very well,” she said, nodding to the crate. “Remove him, and place him on da deck.”

Reardon instructed his men to do as she said, and within minutes, the mummified pirate was sprawled across the tar-covered planks. She knelt down beside him, reached into her medicine bag and withdrew a bottle of red dye she’d concocted from a variety of tropical flowers on the islands she most frequented. Opening the bottle, she dipped her index finger into the warm, sticky liquid.

“Remove his shirt.”

The sailors stared at her in horror. Two of them took a step back.

“You two.” Captain Reardon pointed to the two who had backed away. “Thanks for volunteerin’, lads. Get to it.”

Scrunching up their noses in disgust, the two sailors shuffled forward, bent down, and began the repulsive task of cutting away the pirate’s linen shirt. Surprisingly, the shirt was relatively dry, and clean—save for a healthy coating of dust. It was not at all covered in the viscous bodily fluids of a corpse desiccated over time. Still, one sailor’s mouth clamped shut and swelled with nausea, before he dashed over to the rail, vomiting over the side. His partner finished the task, and Asherah shooed him away before inscribing a series of symbols over Lanme Wa’s upper torso with her dye-covered finger. The symbols were meaningless, of course. Simply for show. But no one on board the
Mark
would know that. When she was satisfied with her work, she looked up at the captain. “Now is da time you’ll be needin’ to trust me. Trust me more than you have so far.”

“What? What do you need me to do?”

She looked down into Lanme Wa’s pruned, cloudy eyes, closed his flaking eyelids and frowned. “You be needin’ to keelhaul him.”

“Keelhaul!” Finkle blurted. “Are you mad, woman? The reason you’re here is to revive him—if possible. Not kill him.”

“It da only way,
cher
.”

“But even if keelhauling him doesn’t tear him apart, those waters are crawling with sharks.”

“Aye,” Reardon agreed. “Needles just saw a school of hammerheads about two miles to the south. In his condition, they’ll be drawn to him like flies to molasses.”

Asherah shook her head. “I’m sorry. It truly be da only way. He be needin’ da salt and water of life to revive him bones. Without dat, he just a shriveled up corpse on da deck of dis ship.”

“Captain, I really must protest,” Greer said. The man had seemed to materialize from nowhere.

“Why am I not surprised?” Reardon said, shaking his head.

The quartermaster ignored the comment. “Keelhauling was abolished more than twenty years ago. What kind of example would we be setting…”

“The pirate’s as good as dead anyway, Mr. Greer. As far as I’m concerned, that is. Keelhaulin’ ain’t that much of a punishment to him, now is it?”

“But…”

“Spratt! Smally! Front and center!” The captain shouted. Two sailors rushed up, and stood at attention. “Let’s get this man ready for a keelhaul, gentlemen. If nothin’ else, we’ll at least be feedin’ the local fish.”

The two sailors procured a long coil of rope, and began barking orders at their fellow crewmen. Asherah watched as they tied Lanme Wa to the center of the line, while another group of sailors dragged the other end of the rope over the bow, then brought it to the center of the ship.

“Be sure to give it some slack, gents.” Captain Reardon bent down to help his men pick up the corpse, and carry it to the port side rail. “Don’t want his leathery hide gettin’ scored by the razor-sharp edges of barnacles down below, now do we?”

Reardon, gripping the pirate’s right arm, looked over at Asherah.

“Give him a dagger,” she said. “Tuck it in his belt.”

He cocked his head at her.

“Dis won’t be no typical keelhaul,
mon cher
. Once you get him directly under da ship, you’ll be needin’ to leave him dere for a bit.”

“For how long?” Finkle asked, dabbing a handkerchief against his perspiring forehead.

“Til he uses dat knife to cut away da rope, and climb back on board.”

Each man on deck stopped what they were doing, and stared at her. She couldn’t resist the urge to smile at their obvious discomfort. For the first time since finding Lanme Wa, the sheer gravity of what they were attempting to do had finally hit home. They were, in fact, attempting to resurrect the decomposed corpse of a long dead pirate. And if this worked, that same pirate would be scrambling back on board their very ship. If Asherah was honest with herself, she would have to admit that the thought sent a twinge of fear down her spine, as well.

“And if he doesn’t?” Reardon broke the silence in a low, conspiratorial voice.

“Den dis has all been in vain, no?”

The captain glared at her for a split second, then nodded at his men. The corpse was thrown over the side. There was a muffled splash, and suddenly, the rope pulled taut as Lanme Wa was dragged helplessly under the ship.