Oceanswept (14 page)

I
t was midmorning when I awoke. I was glad to have had a solid night’s sleep. A dreamless sleep.

I stretched slowly, noting the same raw headache and raspy throat that plagued me yesterday, only today they were more intense. As I stretched, my wounded shoulder resisted stiffly, throbbing with pain.

I winced as I fingered the gash on my left shoulder. The cut was an angry red and oozed a diluted sort of blood. Yellow puss crusted around the edges. My entire shoulder was puffy and pink. The skin was hot to the touch.  

From the headache and sore throat that had persisted for two days, I knew I was falling ill. Now that my shoulder was obviously infected, my situation was grave. Stranded on a primitive island without medical aid, an infection like this could kill me.

I rinsed my shoulder again with as much water as I dared to use.

My only chance of survival was finding help. I hadn’t seen any signs of civilization on the island so far. But I couldn’t afford to make any assumptions. The Caribbean was full of fledgling colonies, savage nations, and buccaneer hideouts. Unless this was an oversized sandbar, something that could save my life could be on the other side of the jungle.

I forced myself to eat my daily ration of meat before setting off on a one-way exploration. Either I would find the help I desperately needed or die.

I left the sanctuary of the boat and headed northeast along the rocky coast throwing a parting glance at the jungle. I had finally found fresh food but at the expense of my health. And now I had to walk away from it or die from infection. The irony stung as much as my shoulder.

I pressed onward, following the shoreline so as not to get lost. If something was to be found, I would find it, even if I had to circle the entire island.  My faltering steps took me around the bend of land where the terrain grew tougher. The golden sand turned in to jagged pebbles that ripped the soft skin of my feet and the beach disappeared into a rocky hill.

The storm clouds overhead unleashed their fury and raindrops the size of cherries poured down. Every crash of thunder rattled my nerves. The rain in London had never been like this.

The wind raked across me and I shivered uncontrollably. Every time I shook, the pain in my shoulder shot straight to the tips of my fingers. Before long, the dull ache evolved into an insufferable fire.

I crawled up the hill—slick in the rain—grasping at plants as I made my way to the stony crest. Resting on my hands and knees, I looked around. The clouds tumbled ominously above, lit by flashes of lightning. The ocean churned dramatically below, white froth topping the black peaks. The jungle bent under the force of the blowing gale. Strands of my hair lashed against my face like a dozen wet whips.

Shivering so intensely that I could hardly coordinate my movements, I half skidded, half fell down the rocky hill and plopped into a patch of ferns. I did not get up. As the sound of the ocean grew distant, I humorously thought how this nest of ferns was the softest thing I had lain on in a while. My head spun. I closed my eyes.

The sky was still light when I regained my faculties. I did not know whether I had slept one hour or twelve. The rain had ceased but the wind continued its violent course.

I looked at my cut. The infection was worse. My entire shoulder was stiff and swollen, the open wound filled with milky fluid.

My dress and hair were still damp, but I was no longer shivering. In fact, I was hot. Too hot. I pressed my hands against my cheeks. They felt cold and clammy against the burning skin of my face. I had a fever.

Pinning my left arm to my side, I trudged to the water’s edge. I splashed my face with the frothy water, instantly cooling my burning cheeks. A few drops of seawater dripped on my infected shoulder and I screamed in pain.

Light-headed, I sat down for a minute to catch my breath. I fought the urge to sleep again and forced myself to continue my journey.

I staggered on, oblivious to the rampant storm, the harsh terrain, and the bloody footprints that trailed behind me. In a stupor, all I could do was take one more step. Just one more step.

The hours blurred together, and my thoughts were lost in the fog of fever. When I happened upon a fresh stream, I had enough instinct to drink as much as my raw throat would allow.

I trudged on through twilight, one foot in front of the other. When it was too dark to make any more progress, I collapsed where I was, not caring to find a cozy spot for sleep. I scanned the landscape, hoping to see the flickering light of a distant flame in the darkness. Hoping to see a sign of life. Hoping my journey wasn’t in vain. Hoping I wasn’t looking into my death.

My sleep was shallow and I shivered constantly. My head felt hot to the touch and my feet were like ice. When the purple haze of dawn spread across the sky, I trekked on. I stopped frequently, my energy draining too easily.

The coastline shifted into rocky cliffs and became more dramatic, more dangerous. I kept the ocean in my line of sight, but deviated from the shore. I decided it would be safer and easier to follow the road. My feet fumbled in the wheel ruts but the path was clear and easy.

Wagon ruts?

I squeezed my eyes tightly and shook my head, trying to jar some coherent thoughts.

I bent over and touched the ground. Yes, a road. Well worn. With wagon ruts.

I did not know how long I had been following it, how long it had shadowed my course. I felt stupid and elated at the same time.

The fear that had been pushing me onward vanished. I sank in to the mud, completely spent. I curled up against the violent shivering, my arm screaming with agony. I had gone as far as I could. I sent up a prayer that someone would find me here in the middle of the road. Then I gave myself away to a feverish swoon.

M
y eyes were closed but I was awakening. Though my head still ached with fever, I was more comfortable and warm than I had been in quite a while. Strange, soft whispers surrounded me. Whispers of the ocean? Of birds?

I shifted slightly and opened my eyes, expecting to see the sky. To my astonishment, a roof was over my head. I quickly rolled onto my right elbow and saw two women staring at me.

I squinted my eyes closed and shook my head. When I looked again, the women were still there, whispering to one another.

Trying to calm my racing heart, I forced my mind to work slowly. I was in a building. I was lying in a bed—a real bed. Sunlight streamed through a nearby window. And I was alive.

My aching joints and clammy palms told me I was still ill, but I felt much better. My cut was covered in a sticky mud-colored poultice, but I could move my shoulder.

I turned my attention to the women watching me. Their eyelids were lined and brightly painted, their lips were an unnatural shade of red, and their hair was cropped short. Their ragged dresses revealed far too much of their bosoms. Prostitutes.

“Where am I?” I said, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat and tried again.

One woman—a Negro—turned to her blonde friend and said, “Let Mother Ivy know she’s awake.” The blonde woman left.

“Hello,” the Negro said, kneeling on the floor. She held a cup towards me. “It’s cider. Might help with your throat.”

I gingerly sat up and accepted the cider. It smelled delicious and I took a sip.

“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she said. There was a certain reassurance in her deep, throaty voice.  It was comforting and rich. Like velvet.

“Thank you for the cider.” I looked down at my healing shoulder. “And for this.”

Hannah shrugged. “I didn’t do that. It was Mother Ivy. She fixed you up proper.”

“So she’s the one who found me then? On the road?”

Hannah looked out the doorway of the room. I followed her gaze. “Liam!” she shouted, “I know you’re there. I can see you. Come on in. The girl’s awake.”

A boy hesitantly entered. When his eyes met mine, his face split into a gigantic grin.

“It was Liam here who found you. He’s Mother Ivy’s son. He has a habit of wandering where he’s not supposed to. Guess it was good he did.”

Liam stood sheepishly before me, smiling widely with his hands shoved in his pockets. He was about twelve and couldn’t take his enormous brown eyes off me.

“Thank you, Liam,” I croaked with my raspy voice. “You are my hero.”

He beamed.

“What’s your name?” Liam asked. “I wanted to name you Agatha but Mama said you already had a name. No one knew it, though.”

The precocious boy made me smile. “My name is Tessa. Though Agatha is a fine name too.”

“Are you a mermaid?”

I wiggled my feet for him to see. “No. Human. Just like you.”

The blonde woman entered the room followed by a sour-looking woman with a severe grey bun. Mother Ivy, I thought.

Mother Ivy scowled at her son. “Go to the kitchen, Liam, and stop flitting about.”

“Yes’m,” he said, his eyes dropping to the floor. He quickly disappeared.

“You decided to live after all,” Mother Ivy said brusquely. She was not a warm woman.

Unsure of what to say, I took another sip of cider.

Hannah stood next to Mother Ivy. “Her name is Tessa.”

I cleared my throat and tried to look at the stern woman. “Thank you for…everything. My arm feels much better.”

Mother Ivy nodded curtly. “Glad to hear it.”

The three women stood in a row, the two prostitutes sandwiching their Mother Ivy. They stared down at me and the tension grew thicker. I was waiting for an explanation from them and they were waiting for an explanation from me.

“Might I ask where I am?” I stammered nervously.

“Maybe she has no memory,” the blonde whispered loud enough for me to hear.

Hannah scoffed. “Of course she has a memory. She knew her name.”

“I’m sorry,” I said as I pressed the heel of my hand against my aching head. “Let me explain. My name is Tessa Monroe. I was adrift at sea on a jollyboat and landed on a beach. Then I cut myself and got sick. And now I’m here. Except I don’t know where exactly
here
is.”

“Port Winslow,” Mother Ivy answered.

“Port Winslow,” I repeated. “How did I get here?”

“My disobedient son happened to find you dying on a road.”

I nodded and paused a moment to digest this new information. “Port Winslow,” I said again, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Small port, really,” the blonde sassed. “Not somewhere the likes of you would ever visit on purpose.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant and it made my head hurt trying to figure it out. And then something clicked. I was in a port. “But even a small port harbors ships, right? I need passage to St. Kitts.”

Mother Ivy snorted softly. “If you were on your way to St. Kitts, then you’re definitely lost. Besides, this is a different kind of port. You’ll not be finding passenger ships in the harbor at all.”

“There must be something. I mean, I can’t stay here forever.” I said it more to myself than the stoic ladies before me. I thought about what Mother Ivy said. No passenger ships. “So this port…trade port, right? Not really a colony, is it?”

Hannah and the blonde nodded. Mother Ivy remained still.

“Do pirates ever come here?” I felt silly asking such a loaded question, but I could see the answer on the women’s faces even though no one spoke. “There’s someone who could help me. A Mr. Holladay. Nicholas Holladay. Does he frequent this port ever?”

“Never heard of him,” Mother Ivy said flatly. “Sounds a little rich for our lot.”

“No,” I shook my head grasping for the right thing to say. “No, he’s a pirate. Quartermaster. Marks. They call him Marks. He sails on the
Banshee
. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the
Banshee
recently?”

“Marks?” the blonde balked. “You know Marks?”

Realizing that the blonde prostitute knew my Nicholas twisted my stomach. Still, it offered some hope for escape. “He’s a friend. He might have asked about me?”

“Haven’t seen Marks in ages,” the blonde prattled on. “Not that he’s worth much when he visits.”

“Hush, Charlotte,” Mother Ivy commanded. “Now Miss Tessa, you’re obviously improving, but not entirely well yet. Rest up and we’ll figure out what to do with you when you’re worth something. Ladies, let’s leave our guest in peace. There’s work to be done.”

Hannah and Charlotte left the room with Mother Ivy slowly following. She paused in the doorway. “I’ll send Liam with some food. You must be hungry.”

“Thank you,” I responded politely, but it wasn’t genuine. Something about this place made me feel just as trapped as the brig on the
Banshee
.

A
s soon as I smelled the food, my stomach roared for it. Liam laughed as he handed it to me.

“Hash,” was all he said.

“Ah, it smells wonderful. Why don’t you keep me company while I eat?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Liam eagerly plopped down on the floor beside my bed.

I ate the hash voraciously. It was the best food I’d had in months. I wanted to swim in it. I was only vaguely aware of the boy staring at me but I couldn’t care until my plate of hash was almost gone and my stomach finally stopped rumbling.

“You really are hungry,” Liam laughed again. “Must be feeling better for sure.”

I nodded. “I thought I was going to die. And I probably would have if you hadn’t found me on that road.”

Liam beamed.

We sat quietly for a moment. Liam seemed completely content doing nothing but staring at me. But I was quite uncomfortable with it.

“So, Liam, where is your father?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling foolish for asking.

Liam did not seem offended though. “Where is your father?”

I shrugged. “I am not sure I have one either.”

Liam’s interest was piqued. “What do you mean?”

“I was sailing from England and our ship sank. I haven’t seen my father since then. I was rescued by pirates, but I don’t know what happened to him. I think he probably drowned.” I was amazed at how simply I stated these facts to Liam. There were no tears or dark, brooding emotions. It was easy to share it with such an honest little face.

“Do you have a mother? Who takes care of you?”

That question hurt my heart, just a little. I forced a smile. “Well, you do, now don’t you?”

Liam’s chest puffed.

“I need to make my way to St. Kitts, though. Or Barbados. When I am better. How do you think I can get there?”

He shrugged like the answer was so simple. “Just get on a boat that’s going there.”

I smiled. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. But I am worried that not all the boats are safe. Some of the boats might have scary pirates on them that will be mean to me.”

“It’s a legitimate fear, Miss Tessa,” Mother Ivy was behind me, standing in the doorway of the room. Liam hadn’t noticed her either. He jumped up at the sound of her voice, his eyes on his feet.

Mother Ivy floated into the room, her long skirts kicking up little storms of filth as they glided along the dusty floor.  Her presence was imposing. I wanted to mirror Liam and stand at attention with my eyes on the ground.

“Take the dishes, Liam.”

The boy did as he was told and hurried off.

“I hope you’ll make yourself at home here, Miss Tessa. You’ll need to stay for a while. First, you’re not well enough for anything yet. Second, it may take some time until we find you passage to St. Kitts. Port Winslow is something of a…” she trailed off, searching for the right words.

“A pirate haven?” I offered, showing her that I wasn’t as naïve as she may think.

“Well, if you want to put it that way. Port Winslow is a pirate haven. It has its own rules but it’s not the safest place, especially for a girl like you. We’ll need to be very selective of what crew we trust you with.”

Memories of Wrack’s attack flashed in my mind. I swallowed hard.

Mother Ivy continued. “We’ll have patience and wait for a good crew that’s headed to where you need to go. Don’t worry; there really are some honorable buccaneers left.” I saw her smile for the first time. It was chilling.

“Yes, I understand. But I don’t want to be a burden. If there is any way—”

“Fair is fair, Miss Tessa, and I’m glad you recognize that. Wait until you’re well, and then you can contribute a bit around here. That way you’ll earn your place to stay.”

“Contribute?

“You’d be a wonderful asset to my bordello, what with that pretty face of yours—though you are skinny. You could pocket the profits, save money for yourself.”

It sounded more like an offer than a demand. “Is there something else?”

Mother Ivy seemed unsurprised at my response. “It was worth asking,” she said, her thin lips smiling knowingly. “You can clean rooms and serve in the tavern. It will only buy you a bed to sleep on and food to eat.”

“I’ll make that trade gladly.”

* * * * *

After several days of resting, I regained my strength and Liam showed me around Port Winslow. I hoped to find some alternative to working at the bordello. The port was small, however, a haven for illegal trade and salacious activity. I returned from my tour dejected, admitting that I would rather work in Mother Ivy’s tavern than the other local businesses, which all seemed to be run by perverted drunkards.

I returned to Mother Ivy ready to earn my keep.

My bed was moved into a dormitory where the six other girls slept. In addition to lodging and food, I was given two new dresses, stockings, and shoes. The gowns were low cut and showy, but at least they were clean.

As I went about my duties at the bordello, I learned to silence my imagination. I did not want to wonder about what transpired in the rooms I tidied. Working in the tavern was better…and worse. Better because Liam was in the kitchen, ready with a smile and easy conversation. Worse because the patrons at the tavern were disgusting heathens who treated me like one of the prostitutes. Still, I looked forward to my work in the tavern because it allowed me to search the faces of the men and eavesdrop on conversations. I was bound to hear some bit of information about Nicholas, about the
Banshee
, or even Captain Black.

My new sisters wanted very little to do with me. Except Hannah. She constantly sought me out and treated me like a friend. And soon enough, I considered her a friend as well.

I cried myself to sleep every night. I was humiliated. I was a lady from London! How had I ever become a kitchen wench in a bordello?

I found a place on the island I liked to go to be alone. It was a large, grassy promontory jutting out over the ocean. The view was breathtaking and I could imagine my life at the bordello was nothing more than a distant nightmare. As one of the highest points on the island, it offered me the best vantage point to scan the horizon for ships, hoping to see something I could sail away on.

Watching the sunrise alone on the promontory became a tradition. I think Liam, Hannah, and the others understood my loneliness, for no one ever intruded on my sad ritual. Every morning I watched the delicate colors of the sky eat away at night’s blackness. The ocean reflected the transformation, an inky abyss coming alive in the light. One by one, stars disappeared. I remembered times when I found their beauty captivating and warm, but now they seemed like harsh pinpricks of searing light in the velvet sky and I was glad when they were all gone.

Cruel and severe, the early-morning stars mocked me. A billion stars in the sky, staring down at me, telling me how alone I was. Speaking a celestial language of their own that I could not understand. I was always surrounded, but forever alone.

Looking across the sea of stars, I concluded that time did not exist. Oh, the sun rose and set, the tides came in and out, but time didn’t really move. The world continued her repetitive rituals, but they had lost all meaning.

I looked to the lush jungle for any clue that would tell me I was wrong. The jade foliage was deceiving. It could be December or June—there was no difference. I was in an eternal summer, a garish recycling of the same day. Identical days without season, a perfect paradise on the side of every sunrise. It wasn’t natural.

A breeze ruffled my hair and the clouds shifted above, revealing a luminous sliver of a moon in the fading night. Its brilliant light glittered on the ocean and illuminated the beach below like a strip of quicksilver. A delicate moon—so daintily formed. It was a wonder that the small crescent emitted so much light. I remembered the last time I had seen this moon—this perfectly-shaped crescent in a twilit sky.

It was on the deck of the
Banshee
the night after the trial. Nicholas was next to me, holding my hand in his, his arm around me to keep me warm. Nicholas kissed me that night. That night was the last time I saw him.

My throat grew thick and I breathed unevenly. Silent tears rained down my cheeks, tears that came all too easily these days. I hugged my knees to my chest and rocked silently, feeling like the light of the moon uncovered everything I was hiding from myself.

I had lived in this hellish whorehouse for a month. This was more than a holiday, more than a vacation. Soon, another month would pass and then another. I was not going anywhere. This was permanent. The opportune ship with kind pirates that would take me to St. Kitts was not going to come. It didn’t exist. Mother Ivy was deceiving me, feeding me hope while she got her free labor. This island was now my life; the bordello was now my home. There was nothing for me but this.

The constant waves of the sea and the evergreen glow of the jungle could fool me into thinking that time was frozen, but the phases of the moon told the truth. Time
was
passing. And I was passing with it.

I felt more helpless now than I had in the brig of the
Banshee
.

I tried to ignore the moon from then on. How futile! Rather, I grew obsessed with the moon—searching for it every night, even watching for its filmy presence during the day, calculating its shape as it waned into darkness then grew full again, marking the passage of time in a way that I could not deny.