zg_shadows | Mortals. But only sort of. Part II

Have rewritten part I because it wasn't half as good as it should have been. Then wrote part II because apparently my neurons had plenty more burbling to do on the subject.

Had all the saints of Christendom asked him how they got the longboat out past the breakers, Barclay wouldn’t have been able to answer. The wind was picking up, stirring the sea to vexation; the waves were growing inch by inch but seemed more inclined to drown the craft at sea than smash it back against the rocks of Sarah Island.

The stranger sat at the oars and rowed; Barclay slumped near the stern of the little boat, shivering and wretched, his back feeling ill-used enough to break. Eventually the weather rose to such a pitch that rowing became futile: the oars were more likely to be torn from one’s hand than make any mark upon the ocean. The stranger stowed the oars and unselfconsciously lay himself down beside Barclay, bracing himself as best he could against the more violent motions of the water.

For a long time amidst the mounting storm Barclay just stared at the man beside him, trying to glean some clue as to his nature or origin. His flesh was corpse pale and with his shirt-sleeves rolled up there could be seen twin bracelets of scars to rival the convict’s own. His face was fine-boned with a wide brow and sharp cheeks; his glass-black eyes glinted from hollows of shadow and his thin lips seemed to know no expression save cynicism.

“I don’t know your name,” Barclay uttered, the salt wind obliterating his words just as exhaustion threatened to obliterate his mind. The stranger’s expression was unreadable and Barclay was once more unaccountably put to mind of sharks and blood in the depths. He shuddered.

“Tobias Slaughter,” the stranger said, and despite the tempest his words were as clear as a bell.

=======

Barclay opened his eyes to salt water. He was submerged in it, sunk in it – drowning in it. He thrashed, unsure which way was up, inhaling saltwater and choking himself. Someone had a grip of his arm and about his neck, he was hauled towards the surface like a cat from a well. Bright sunlight sparked off the waves and blinded him, salt burned in his eyes and nose as he tried to cough his lungs clear.

“Breathe,” ordered the gravely voice of Tobias Slaughter conversationally.

Barclay barely had time to comply before he was pushed back under the waves. He struggled and clawed against the hands that held him succeeding only in scraping his arm against the outer planking of the boat. With his lungs close to collapse he was once more pulled up to the sky. Cold arms heaved him bodily into the boat and left him there to retch. He was pushed onto his front and his shirt was stripped from him. He gasped, feeling as if his skin had been pared from his flesh.

There was a sound of splashing and the slap of wet cloth against wood. “I’ve heard it said that forgiveness is easier to obtain than permission,” said Tobias, something akin to sarcasm souring his words. “But it’s been a long time since I bothered with either.” There was silence for a bit and Barclay could feel the steady gaze of his companion rest darkly upon his back like a weight.

“You stank,” the other explained shortly. “Covered in shit and you’re more likely to fester than scab. If anyone picks us up and catches sight of the stripes on your skin they’ll ship you right back where you came from.”

Still blinded by the sun, Barclay simply nodded and concentrated on not retching any more.

There was a final thump of sodden cotton against the side of the boat and then the sound of cloth being wrung. The boat tipped then, rocking against the swell as Tobias moved around – although what he could find to be doing Barclay couldn’t guess. His curiosity was allayed some minutes later when a hand grabbed his shoulder and helped him to sit up.

“Here,” Tobias said beside him, guiding an unstoppered flask into his hands. “Drink more than two mouthfuls and I’ll drown you myself.”

Obediently Barclay swallowed a little from the flask; it was brackish water spiked with a spirit of some kind and a spoonful of vinegar to stop it stagnating entirely.

“Not exactly well provisioned,” the other man admitted, taking a swig from the flask and then stowing it away once more. “Piss all food,” he grumbled. “But I guess you’re used to that.” His lips twitched into one of his odd, sharp little smiles. “This was a piece of luck though,” he declared, reaching down to pull out a length of old sailcloth from beneath the bench. He shook it out over Barclay. “Wrap yourself in that – keep the sun off your head.”

“What about you?”

A wider smile, nearer true but still a little sly. “Don’t need it, boy. Sun can’t touch me – maybe I’ll teach you the trick of it some day. You rest. We’re at the Gates I shouldn’t wonder, so make the most of it.” His dark eyes surveyed the ocean coldly. “Once we’re out of this straight we hit the depths and there’s nothing between us and the weather.”

Barclay could not be called a seafaring man by any stretch of the imagination, but a nine-month voyage to Australia hadn’t left him entirely ignorant. He knew that the squall that had aided their escape had been tamed by the shallowness of the sea around Hell’s Gates. Given the depth of the ocean to play with, weather like that would sink them within an hour.

=======

The fates smiled upon their voyage for three days, just as in all the very best tales.

On the morning of the forth the sun arose but remained veiled in the sky behind a barricade of thunder-cloud as if night had never left. The wind took to tormenting the waves and the waves rose in retaliation, trying their best to drown the sky. The temperature dropped, and the ocean grew white flecks on a glass-green and sickly countenance. The storm howled in fury and the depths answered its call...

Barclay awoke as the boat tipped and he was thrown bodily against the side, rough planking slamming into his shoulder. With a cry he fought against the sodden canvas that gripped him. A world the colour of a bruise greeted his eyes as the boat rose high on the crest of a wave.

It was then he realised that he was alone.

Panic spiked through his gut as he looked wildly – foolishly – from prow to stern and back again. “Tobias?” his voice was a horrified whisper but swiftly became a shout. “Tobias!” He strained to see against the salt-spray, scanning the waves for a monochrome figure, eagerly seeking a scrap of white linen or a glimmer of light upon a hand or face lifting itself free of the ocean’s embrace. “Tobias!”

The sea roared in answer, sending a wave to engulf the little craft. Barclay was knocked down by the force of the water, his head cracking against the bench. Pain split his skull, bright red and white hot by turns as the air he breathed became water instead. A dark numbness blossomed in his mind and with it the clear knowledge that he was too tired to fight any more.

Breathe, damn your eyes, hissed Tobias’ voice, seething with unspeakable anger. Breathe!

And for a while longer, Barclay found he had the strength to fight after all. Even the storm seemed to fade in the face of Tobias’ unending string of profanities; he felt as if he had clung to life in a watery hell for eternity... But eventually, even Tobias’ wrath wasn’t enough to persuade his numb fingers to hold on forever. As a wave nudged him Barclay let go, gracefully slipping under the surface, beginning his inexorable decent to oblivion.

There was a shout and a strong, calloused hand, weathered by the sun, plunged through the water and grabbed his wrist before it sunk out of reach.

=======

Somewhere beyond the pain and the darkness there were voices.

“I don’t know why you bothered. Look at him! He’s a fucking ghost...”

There was a heavy, pointed silence.

“I’m just saying, is all,” the voice continued nervously. “It ain’t right. Ghosts in the water. He’s like a Jonah...”

“Evans,” said a second voice, its tones both cultured and battling impatience. “If he is a ghost returned to the living, that would make him a Lazarus. If you’re going to place superstition above Christian duty to a fellow human being then at least keep your ridiculous opinions accurate.”

“Sir,” came the mollified reply.

“Oh, and Evans? If I hear you mention the word ‘Jonah’ in connection with our guest I shall personally see to it that Captain Flemming orders you before the mast and has you flogged for a turning of a glass – is that clear?”

“Sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Another silence which the pain strove to fill.

“Mr Prest?” The voice now held a curious mix of vagary and acute concentration.

“Sir?” Offered a new and slightly younger voice.

“If your adventure’s have left you none the worse for ware, you could do me the kindness of holding this lantern for me. Quickly now...”

“Sir.”

There was light but it was thinner than starlight and did nothing to banish the darkness that held him.

Fingers pressed against his skull, probing against the bloody nest of pain that lived there, coaxing it to agony and his thoughts to senselessness.

======

Once the gash in the man’s head had been stitched, Inghram sent Thomas Prest away. The young sailor had hoped for assurances that the man he’d rescued would live, but had to make do with Ingram’s mildly irritated comment that such things were – he being a mere mortal – beyond his meagre provenance. Regretting his waspish comment he assured Prest that the man would likely live if he survived the night and that word would be sent should anything occur.

Alone with the unconscious man, the ship’s doctor looked at him for a long moment, a frown settling on his forehead. At last he sighed and began the task of removing the man’s clothes so some semblance of life could be chaffed into his limbs before he was wrapped in blankets. The clothes were of strong cloth that had been worn almost to rags; the shirt came apart in sodden pieces.

Inghram should have checked the man for broken bones; but instead of pressing against flesh in search of injury, the doctor’s hands were still as he stared at the man on his table.

Evans had been right; he was a bloody ghost – a bloodless ghost in fact. His skin was parchment-pale and clung gauntly to his skeleton. He had stubble upon his cheek and a shock of black hair tangled above his brow. There was something disturbingly beautiful – ethereal – about him. Except for the bands like brands about his wrists and the barely-healed stripes upon his back; those were all too earthly. The mark of the lash spoke of a troublemaker or perhaps of one who’d weathered harsh superiors. The scars around his wrists however spoke of only one thing: convict.

“Can’t say there’s much of an outlook for you, my friend,” Inghram sympathised. “Death or the brigg, I’d warrant. Pity – I had hoped for fresh conversation.”

As if he had heard the doctor’s words, the man on the table opened his eyes; they were as hard and bright as black diamond. And in their depths they held the greatest quantity of fear and resolve Inghram had ever seen. Immediately the man tried to sit up.

With a bitten oath Inghram grasped the man’s shoulders, pinning him back in place. “Lie easy! No harm will come to you – lie easy.”

The struggles ceased.

“Where...?” The man croaked.

“You’re on the HMS Bountiful under Captain Flemming - bound for England. I’m Mark Inghram, ship’s surgeon.”

The dark eyes in the sharp and wasted face lost some of their fire.

“And you sir? Have you a name?”

The eyes were closing; with a great effort the man rasped, “T-tobias... Slaughter...” and allowed the darkness to claim him once more.