Serialization: In Memory of the Sibylline Part 1
Serialization: In Memory of the Sibylline (the beginning of Jonas Celwyn and the Celwyn series)
IN MEMORY OF THE SIBYLLINE
By Lou Kemp
The many men so beautiful
And they all dead did lie!
And a million million slimy things
Liv’d on–and so did I.
——The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Coleridge
Like a shower of fairy dust on fire, the embers from Townsend’s pipe blew across the railing and into the night; lost long before they fell into the waves.
He cupped his pipe to protect the remaining embers and to keep his hands warm. It seemed like only hours ago when the Christianna had sailed out of Cascais under a warm Portuguese sun.
A pregnant moon hung low over the sea. The waves reflected moonlight on iridescent crests that rolled by the Christianna as frothy and lacy as underskirts. Townsend gazed upward. The conflagration of stars seemed endless. Somewhere beyond them lay places the sailors of the future would travel. He’d be content to reach Alexandria and with a wee bit of luck it would be more temperate than his last visit in 1812. He nearly froze before he reached Cairo.
Although he did not hear footsteps, Townsend became aware of another presence at the rail. Townsend looked closer and saw that it was an older academic he’d met as he boarded the ship. A deep and pervading sadness seemed to weigh upon his shoulders.
“Good evening, Mr. Perideaux,” Townsend said.
“A beautiful night, no?” Perideaux’s cigarette flickered in the darkness, revealing a faint sheen of perspiration decorating his brow.
Although his words seemed calm enough, it appeared that Perideaux needed to be reassured in some manner, perhaps only to hear another voice in the vastness of the night. Townsend could sympathize with that thought. The undercurrent of fear existed most tangibly when a lone ship rode the waves in the dead of night. It was long after eleven bells and the crewmen in the rigging above were only a suggestion of movement. Or life.
“Yes, a beautiful night,” Townsend agreed.
Perideaux made no response. The man’s attention seemed transfixed some distance off the port bow as his gaze swept the sea from side to side, as if searching for something.
Under their feet, the Christianna creaked and groaned as she climbed a wave. Townsend relit his pipe. The damned thing could never stay lit for more than a few minutes. He wondered if Perideaux expected to see another ship cross their wake.
If Townsend hadn’t been watching his companion closely he wouldn’t have seen the delicate shudder that traveled down the man. Perideaux whispered, “Felicity, oh Felicity.” and he grabbed hold of the railing.
At first Townsend could perceive nothing except the inky night and the roiling waves. Then he saw the outline of a ship. Within seconds, the vessel seemed to glow and solidify. Three masts pointed to the sky and brass rails glimmered underneath canvasses that billowed, tickled by the wind. Shadows walked the deck. She floated nearly a league in the distance, without lights, without substance.
A gurgling sound came from Perideaux’s throat and he whispered, “The Dutchman.”
Townsend heard him, but couldn’t stop watching the phantom ship that appeared to fade away until the moonlight pierced through her and then she became distinct once again.
* * *
From a porthole I watched as Madagascar slipped away into the distance. Already, a hot sun reflected the sea, obscuring the city with so much brightness that the smoke-shrouded shacks and fishing boats blended to gray, leaving just a suggestion of civilization behind the foam-capped waves.
My cabin was on the leeward deck, only a few paces from the Captain’s quarters and those of the passengers. Through the portholes blew a fragrant breeze, bringing the suggestion of frying sausages and the calls of the sailors as they worked high above in the rigging and swung from spar to spar. The LeHanna was a barkentine and considered of good size.
I’d determined that my cabin door would not open. Presumably because it was locked. However, I had no trouble hearing footsteps on the wooden deck approach and stop just outside.
Through the porthole, I could see most of my guard in profile. The newcomer confronting him was a tall man, nearly my height, scholarly and pale.
“We’re pleased to have you aboard, Doctor Perideaux,” said the guard.
The trick to observing someone without staring and causing them to turn and stare back is to look a bit off to the side. In this instance, I watched the sky just beyond Doctor Perideaux’s large ears. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice.
“Are you? Is that why you feel it necessary to brandish a musket around my family?”
The guard replied, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sir. But I have my orders.”
“What orders? What do you have to guard? I just sent Felicity back to the cabin for her safety.”
“I’m sure your daughter will find something to do there,” the guard said.
Doctor Perideaux pointed at the cabin door. “I demand to know what is in there.”
“No one is to enter this cabin. And no one will.”
With a clatter of boots, Captain Hume arrived wearing a wide smile and insincere eyes. Perhaps Doctor Perideaux noted the Captain’s eyes, for his tone did not change.
“Captain, what is in there?”
Although a short man, the Captain did not shrink from the doctor’s aggressive stance, nor did he raise his voice.
“Please calm yourself. I’m sure you do not want to upset your wife.” The ship’s bell rang thirteen times for the hour, drowning out his next words, “…simple matter. We have charge of a prisoner. He is to be dropped off at Victoria Island tomorrow.”
“Why is he up here with the passengers?” Doctor Perideaux demanded. “Why is he not kept below with the crew?”
I enjoyed Captain Hume’s slight hesitation. How would he put it? Would he tell the truth, or prevaricate?
“Doctor, I have specific orders that the prisoner is not to have contact with a living soul. He has to be separated from the crew.”
The doctor stared at the Captain. “Why?”
“I can not tell you.” Captain Hume placed a hand on the Perideaux’s shoulder. “Please. Keep your family away from this area. Entertain them. I believe your wife is not well?”
Doctor Perideaux rubbed his chin and frowned. “No, she is not. The baby is due shortly.”
“All the more reason for you to join her. Perhaps with a cup of tea?”
* * *
A rain shower visited the ship with the lightest touch. The LeHanna climbed the waves rhythmically, descending and rising as lovers do, hesitating to savor the moment slowly.
The last few days had marked the end of summer in Madagascar, and I’d grown tired of the food and lack of good lager. On balance, the muggy nights were warm with scents made more pungent with the heat and promise of whatever I could find in the bohemian quarters. When we reached Seville, it would be autumn and the bougainvillea would still bloom in veils of brilliant color. I had no intention of being dumped on Victoria Island like a rancid bag of potatoes.
The penal colony on Victoria Island offered little besides hard labor and the most notorious criminals for company. The sharks that circled the island did so knowing that there would always be another convict swimming towards the sun, tiring…and then succumbing. I shuddered delicately and resumed my reading.
* * *
The dulcet sound of snoring filtered through my cabin door. I arose and moved to the porthole to watch my guard as he slept. The full sun, a satisfied belly, and the repetitive motion of the waves had lulled him to sleep against the wall of the cabin. Or it could have been something else. Perhaps dropped into his plate of stew.
A young girl approached from the stern. She wore her red curls tied in a ribbon that matched her dress of robin’s egg blue. She was probably eight years of age, but checked over her shoulder with the furtiveness of a well-seasoned Singapore pickpocket. If I interpreted her smile correctly, she seemed content with what she saw.
As she passed by, I said “Hello, Poppet.”
Innocent eyes widened, searching for my voice.
“Up here, my dear.” I unlocked the door. It would be a simple matter to lock it again if the guard awoke and became curious.
She stood under the porthole and squinted. “I can’t see you. Who are you?”
Such a sweet little lamb. Where was her nanny, or her father, or whoever keeps the unsuspecting from characters like me?
“My name is Celwyn. Would you like to come inside?”
The child hesitated but a moment before stepping over the legs of the sleeping guard.
By the time she’d opened the door, I’d moved to the far corner of the stateroom and sat behind the petite drop table common to all sea cabins. It had been a while since I’d been around a tiny person, but she would most likely be less intimidated if I was closer to her level. The child poked her head inside the door, noting my traveling trunk with its mysterious contents visible to a curious eye, and finally myself. I must have passed a child-like test, for she came inside, leaving the door ajar. Perhaps she felt more afraid of her parents finding her than she was of me.
If you wonder why I did not venture forth from my unlocked cabin; it wasn’t time yet to do so. Crafting a perfect situation from raw elements is so much more entertaining than being tossed about by random acts of fate. Or shot at by pistols.
“Please sit down,” I said to my new friend.
She took several steps and then flounced into the chair across from me. Up close, I could see some of her father in the intelligent eyes, but her beauty would come from her mother.
“Who are you? Why are you alone in here?” she asked.
“May I call you Felicity?”
A miniature jaw dropped open. “How did you know my name?”
I gestured toward the deck outside. “Your father mentioned you.” How many other children named Felicity would there be on a cargo ship on its way to the Cape?
“Oh.” She studied me for a moment like her mother would peruse a menu. “I suppose that would be all right.”
Rather verbose for a little one. She eyed me with the inquisitiveness of a young cat. To her, I would appear similar to any other gentleman she would encounter; strong of face, whiskered, and dressed in a linen suit and brocade waistcoat. Not as many men would wear a ruby on his finger such as I wore, nor savor the aroma of a particularly obscure and fine tobacco that I’d stashed in my trunk. Very few men were as feared as I, which was a pity; I am misunderstood most of the time.
“Would you like something to drink? Milk?”
Felicity nodded assent, and then frowned. “I don’t see any milk.”
“Look around. I’m sure you will,” I said.
Her eyes traveled the rather small room and when they returned to the table, a glass of milk sat before her. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Help yourself,” I said.
Felicity touched the glass with a fingertip and then drew it closer until she could sniff the contents. With a lingering look of doubt upon me, she drank. Half of the milk remained when she licked her lips and asked, “Where did you get this?” She looked under the table. When she sat up, the glass was full again.
The girl blinked rapidly, and then her eyes darted from object to object in confusion. She asked, “How did you do that?”
I smiled. “Do you always believe only what you can see? Or do you believe in things you can not see?”
Her eyebrows nearly touched as she thought. “Only what I can see is real,” she answered.
I pointed to the glass. “Is the milk real?”
“Of course it is, silly.” To prove it, she drank more milk, all the while keeping her eyes on me. My, my, such suspicion. When she replaced the glass on the table, it was once more full to the brim.
For several moments she stared at the glass before daring to look at me. “How did you do that?”
I shrugged and asked, “What is in that pouch?”
She had placed a velvet pouch on the table when she joined me. At the mention of it she didn’t hesitate to open the strings that closed it and dump the contents on the table between us.
“These are my jacks. This is the ball you play jacks with,” Felicity said.
She tossed the ball, which was about the size and color of an apricot, into the air, and caught it again. On the second toss, she deftly picked up several of the tiny metal stars scattered on the table. “Do you know how to play?” she asked and without waiting for a reply added, “Of course, you have to pick up all the stars and not lose the ball.”
With that admonition, Felicity threw the ball into the air again. It hung, suspended between us, above her head. Her eyes grew as wide as her little face. Before she could cry, the ball descended again. Slowly.
Her hand automatically reached for the metal stars. Felicity squeaked and stood up. The stars had become tiny frogs made of the finest crystal. Even in the muted daylight, they reflected light delightfully.
“Oh, my!” the child exclaimed and gathered them into her hands. The ball bounced off the table and into my trunk.
I ushered Felicity to the door. The pouch of crystal frogs was clutched in both of her hands. As I reached for the door handle she asked, “May I come visit you again?”
“Certainly. But only if the guard is asleep. This is our secret.” I placed a finger to my lips. By the time we reached Seville, I might even have a young apprentice to teach some less sinister magic tricks to.
Felicity put a finger to her lips and then slipped out the door with a giggle.
Part 2 of 3 will appear in February’s newsletter
Crimes by Moonlight is still available and there are some great stories in it.