Cerulean Isle
Advance Praise for
Cerulean Isle
Cerulean Isle
opens with a powerful and dramatic scene, and moves on from there to weave a wonderful story with colorful characters skillfully brought to life. Browning’s descriptions of life on board the Obsidian are excellent.
~Bob Steele,
Spin and Conflicts of Interest
From the intriguing opening onwards,
Cerulean Isle
is vivid and compelling, rich in atmosphere and enigma. The overlap of historical fiction and fantasy is extremely effective. It’s tempting to think of this as a highly cinematic narrative, but I don’t think cinema could really do it justice.
~Ivan Phillips,
Johnny Face-Ache
Powerful, punchy writing that puts me in mind of
Treasure Island
. The sights, smells and sounds of Santiago ring clear.
~Cas Peace,
King’s Envoy
A great start, good meaty writing, fabulous characters. I was instantly reminded of the books I loved when I was younger—Robert Louis Stevenson in particular. G.M. Browning has a terrific feel for the period and the skill to put it all on paper. All in all, it’s an exciting, gripping, hugely enjoyable yarn.
~S.A. Sterling,
Will’s Treason
G.M. Browning obviously has done his research, and it shows in the effortless authenticity of his scene painting. I feel like I’m there as I read. I even sway in my seat during the scenes on the sea. This is an engaging story.
~David McCaffrey,
Green Ore: the Guardian
I recommend this book to all adventure, fantasy fans who will be thrilled by how Browning brings his mythological characters to life.…It is a swashbuckling pirate adventure, laced with visually stunning details of the enchanting and effervescent ‘Merlords’ and ‘Mermaidens’ that inhabit the Cerulean Isle.
~Hannah Fraser,
Professional Mermaid Performance Artist
Rarely have I had the pleasure of reading such a riveting tale of adventure on the high seas.
Cerulean Isle
delivers page after page and seems to have it all, from bloodthirsty pirates to the mesmerizing ‘Mermaidens’ of the deep. I highly recommend this book to anyone who has even a passing interest in those bold adventurers of old who called the heaving deck of a ship their home and declared war on the world around them.
~Robb “Hurricane” Zerr,
Pirate Re-enactor
WiDo Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
Copyright © 2011 by G.M. Browning
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Rusty Webb
Book design: Don Gee
Print ISBN: 978-1-937178-09-3
This book is dedicated to my mother,
Nancy J. Browning.
The love in her heart is as endless as the sea.
Table of Contents
Part Two: Grenada, Ten Years Later
"Still waiting, Jacob?”
I sat on the western docks at the edge of the harbor. The sun had dipped below the horizon. The Caribbean Sea reflected the orange and purple sky as the veil of night crept over the island. I turned to my friend, Grant. “She’ll come. She said she would.”
Grant smiled and extended a hand to help me to my feet. “Give her some time. We all suffered a great deal of hardship. She has a duty, like we do. She’ll come when she can.”
We walked down the docks and along the waterfront. The harbor bells chimed in the distance and moored ships creaked as if anxious to be free of their restraints. The sounds of the harbor always made me remember the ordeals of my youth.
I was twelve years old in the year 1746, when my life changed forever.
The dark stare of the pirate captain made the townsfolk turn their backs. “Gangway,” he hollered.
As we passed the crowded market, more men joined our group. Some carried baskets of fruit, slabs of smoked meat, or bundles of bread. There must have been thirty dressed in a similar fashion: crudely sewn, dirty tunics and pants. All had some type of belt securing their knives and short swords, but only their captain had a pistol.
As he forced me onward, I recalled the horrifying events of that morning.
My father didn’t say why we had come to the port town. Before that day, I had never joined him on any of his errands. We sat at a table in the center of the saloon. When a disheveled man approached, my father stood to greet him. The man placed a brown pouch in my father’s hand. He did not open it, but weighed it in his palm.
Two bruising hands took hold of my underarms and hoisted me high off my seat. The room whirled around me. Two foul men in tattered tunics forced me across the smoky room. I kicked. I writhed. I screamed—to whom, my father?—I looked back for him, but he was gone.
As my new master hurried me through the bustling roads, he continued calling for his crew. This was the port town Santiago on the island of Cuba, not a common stop for the good of heart. The very sight of the pirate captain was intimidating. His face was dirty and browned from the sun. He wore a faded red scarf over his head to hold back his long black hair. His lips were cracked and his teeth rotten. A large gold ring dangled from his left ear and glinted in the sunlight.
A white, long-sleeved tunic flapped loosely on his torso and tapered down to a tight leather belt. This belt was home to a long and blemished dagger and twelve-inch Flintlock pistol. His crudely sewn brown pants were tucked into muddy, black boots.
My underarm throbbed from his iron grip and my tired feet could hardly keep up with his stride. I stumbled once, but he did not slow. He dragged me until I scrambled back to my feet, the skin on my palms and elbows scraped. I looked for help. I glanced toward a stableman and sent him a pleading look; he shook his head in refusal and went back to shoeing his horse.
We passed a brothel, and outside the swinging wooden doors, two busty women taunted a light-haired man. When the man noticed me being dragged down the road, I reached for him, wordlessly begging for his help. I imagined how I looked: a young man of twelve, thin build with olive-toned skin, and short brown hair being pulled down a dusty road. The light-haired man came forward and, sensing the approach, the pirate stopped and turned to face him.
“You there,” called the man, “what do you mean by handling the lad in such a manner?”
The man was taller than the pirate captain, who looked up at him and grinned. He kept his grip tight around my arm. “I’ll do with him as I please.”
“Are you his father? I fail to see any resemblance in his troubled face.”
“Do you always meddle in the affairs of men more powerful than you? You, with your fancy clothes and golden locks.”
The good man looked down at me. “Release him at once.”
The pirate said nothing. He looked to his left and to his right, his right hand painfully clamped above my left elbow.
“Did you hear what I said, you foul vagrant? Release the boy.”
“No one challenges me and moreover, no one insults me. It has been your fortune that I have stayed my blade for so long. Now, I’m afraid, your luck has run out.”
With those words, he pulled his dreadful dagger. With a groan, the man doubled over and fell, his face slamming against the ground.
The pirate let out a hard laugh. He reached down, still clutching my arm, and rolled the body over. With ease, he withdrew the blade from his stomach. Blood rushed from the open wound.
He spoke coldly to me. “Check him.”
I did not understand.
His jaw tensed. “A man lies before us dead.
You
have killed him. Now check him. Take whatever money he may have. Do as I say or this patch of road will be a grave for two.”
The man had a small pouch on his belt. I took it off and handed it over. The pirate opened it and poured several silver coins into his hand.
“Not a bad prize. Come, we must make haste to the harbor.”
I kept up and sent glances to no one.
We passed several saloons much like the one my father had taken me to. As we passed, drunken men often peered out the windows and came out to follow us. On we walked.
Soon we came to the harbor of Santiago. On the looming hillside, I saw the smooth walls of Castillo del Morro, the newly built fort meant to protect the bay’s entrance from people like my captor. Its stone walls, though armed with massive black culverins, looked like gold in the morning sunlight. The ocean spread out from it, blue and green with lapping white waves that sparkled like so many tiny diamonds. The pristine beauty of the sea enchanted me and brought back memories of my mother.
“There she waits,” said the pirate, disturbing my trailing thoughts.
He pointed to the left, and resting off the coastline, anchored beyond the reefs of coral, was a three-masted ship larger than any I had ever seen.
“Behold my worthy ship
Obsidian.
She’ll be your new home and the pride of all that you do. Serve her and you serve me.”
The pirate captain led me down a sloping rocky hillside and over a narrow road leading to the water. His followers clambered down the stony trail. The harbor was enormous; a resting place for several boats and ships. As we passed smaller fishing ships, I watched men roll barrels of fish down the planking and onto the docks. One of the vessels was in the process of loading cargo. Muscular slaves struggled with large boxes and crates marked with the names of far away places like Grenada, Bonaire, and Puerto Bello. The merchant ship creaked as the heavy freight was hoisted aboard.
We stopped at a stretch of docking, moored to which were several long rowboats. His men filled three of the boats. We took our place in the center of the third; the pirate captain sat at my right and a dirty bald man worked the oar to my left. The rowboats swayed as the men heaved and pushed.
