The Curious Case of Kevin Curly

Before we begin, a little back story is necessary: I work for a company that manufactures blinds and cubicle tracks (that go around hospital beds and in doctors’ surgeries). Sometimes we communicate with the location that we are installing at direct, other times the location employs a contractor, who we deal with. Right, with that out of the way, now I can begin this rather odd little tale.

There are a lot of housing developments being built in and around my local area. We are doing several projects with a housing developer called ‘Bloor Homes’ and our contact there is a gentleman named Kevin Curly. When my manager first mentioned this contact’s name to us (there are six of us in our office) I found it funny, because her first comment was, “I wonder if he has curly hair.” I then told the office that my ex’s name is Kevin, and he has curly hair. My manager joked that he could have changed his name. We laughed about it and our accountant asked if my ex worked in construction. When we were together, he didn’t, however, there is a possibility that he might now. He used to work with my brother, however, about six months ago, my brother said Kevin left the company.

“Where does he work now?” asked our accountant. I don’t know! We have nothing to do with each other. We haven’t spoken in three years. I told them I have no idea. “There we go,” our accountant said, with excitement. “That proves it. It’s him.” We all laughed.

It was just a bit of fun. As if my ex-boyfriend had changed his name to Kevin Curly, left his management job at the local supermarket and decided to go for a career change, to work for a housing developer. I know it isn’t that farfetched. People change jobs all the time and change their name. In the past, Kevin’s relationship with his parents was a little rough, despite everything being fine between them before I was no longer a part of Kevin’s life, maybe something happened and he decided to change his surname to distance himself from them. I changed my surname when my parents split up and one of our installers changed his surname, due to past issues with his father. But to change it to Curly? He hates his long curly hair and always cuts it before it gets long enough to pull at. It just seemed a little too weird. Then again, I have had nothing to do with this person in three years. He could be a completely different person now and love having long curly hair and wants to embrace the nickname, “Kevin Curly.”

The conversation soon faded and was forgotten about, by both myself and the office. However, over the weekend, I had a clear up of my emails and contacts. I deleted all of my old emails and junk message that had built up and removed several contacts from my old workplace (I left over a year ago and have never received an email from any of them) but in the process came across a contact with the initials “KC.” There was no name, email address or contact number associated with the initials. The was no icon or logo, just a generic, coloured letter, given to the contact by the email provider that I use. I clicked on it, only to be told the details of the contact have been hidden, due to me being blocked. Why would someone I don’t know, with the initials KC decide to block me? Then I saw it, the last contact that I had with this contact: December 2019. It was him. My ex. But his initials are not KC. For privacy and respect for this person, I will not reveal his initials or surname (despite discovering that it is more common than I thought, as I have four customers with his surname). How is this possible? For a start, his email address is his first name and surname, so if he did change his surname, would he not just change his whole email address? Why keep your old one and just change the initials? Maybe it’s the ease and not wanting the hassle of moving all of their accounts over – that would seem like the person that I knew. When I changed my name, I changed my email address for every account that I had and I deleted the email address that contained my old name, because I hated what that name represented – and it was never me.

So what now? Technically nothing. I have no way of knowing is the Kevin that I once knew is now the Kevin Curly that we are dealing with on a project. Unless the man phones up, I will probably never know. I am not going to research into ‘Bloor Homes’, to see if they keep a photograph record of their employees on their website, like some companies do. Nor am I going to look my ex up and find out what he’s up to. I’m not interested in solving the puzzle. Yes, I’m curious and yes, it makes a funny story, especially if the Kevin Curly from ‘Bloor Homes’ is the Kevin that I once knew. I just felt the need to type up this silly, little tale, because it made me smile.

- Josie -

My Boyfriend's a Muggle

(Josie Sayz: I wrote this on 26^th January 2017, but for some reason never posted it. I’m by no means a Harry Potter fan or fanatic and I hate being referred to as the Harry Potter girl – which is probably why I didn’t post this piece. I read the books once, when I was at university and I have watched the films once. I love the idea of the universe, but was never that keen on the style of writing or the character of Harry. This piece was written when I was in a happy, loving relationship and made me chuckle when I came across it when I was archiving over the weekend. With the new Hogwarts game out (I have no idea what it’s called, but saw some pictures on Twitter) I figured now was a good time to post it. Oh and I’m a Ravenclaw and love to collect Ravenclaw things – like I said, I love the universe, the stories, movies and author, not so much.)

My boyfriend’s a muggle. Not just any old muggle – he’s as muggle as they get. Not only had he never heard of magic, when I met him, but even just the thought of spells was enough to give him the heebie-jeebies – sometimes it still does.

So, “How did this happen?” I hear you wonder. How can a witch befriend and fall in love with a muggle? I’m a half-blood. Magic mother, muggle father. Yes, as you can imagine, not long after the discovery that his daughter was a freak too, he and my mother separated. My brother’s also a wizard, but we don’t talk about him (if he wasn’t so gosh, darn lazy, he would probably be the next You-Know-Who, so I count my lucky starts that he’s an idle slob). Having settled near Kuttle Town, when she married my father, after the divorce, my mother decided to stay in the area. She even took up a muggle job – a librarian, at Wiverton Green village library.

Growing up, my mum made sure that my brother and I had the best of both worlds. We both attended Hogwarts for schooling and helped out in the library during school holidays. Once old enough, I got a summer job at the local muggle supermarket, and that’s how we met. Conscious of standing out in the muggle world, I kept my head down. Sure, I interacted with my colleagues, like everyone else, but I never felt like I belonged there. One day, a tall, dark handsome stranger came my way – okay, so I romanticise it a little. I can’t help it. I grew up in a muggle library! Kevin was a colleague, and tall, handsome, with dark curly hair and a cute pair of spectacles that suit him to a tee. He made me laugh and was always so kind. When everyone else saw me as part of the furniture, Kevin saw me for me. Not the goody-goody Ravenclaw that people from school knew me as, not the weird anti-social one that the rest of the staff has labelled me as, but me, the girl who loved stories and always came up with a creative way to help me get through the day.

“Ignore the gremlins out there,” Kevin had told me, as we worked in the warehouse. He was referring to our colleagues, on the shop floor. “When it gets too much, I like to come back here and get things organised. It’s like a cave of wonders,” he said, gesturing at the cages of groceries that surrounded us, from the recent delivery. I laughed at him. Finally, someone outside of the wizarding world, who liked to see things the way I did – full of fantasy and creativity. And that’s how it started.

It took me a while to feel as comfortable around him as he did around me, before I revealed my secret, and he took it rather well. Very well, in fact. It brought us closer. I didn’t have to hide a part of me anymore. Kevin knows I’m a witch. He loves me for me, magic and all. He’s heard tales of Hogwarts, the lessons, the charms, the spells. He doesn’t pester me to do magic, show him spells or ask me to use my powers to make his life easier, like cleaning the house. He knows that magic is a huge part of me, and he accepts me for me and that is all that it is. Okay, so maybe we have a little sprinkle of magic here and there, just to make things fun – like Kevin’s little toast train that bring him toast and a little pot of honey, for breakfast in bed, on the weekends. I never tire of seeing his face light up and a smile stretch across his face, as a mini steam train pulls up along side him, as he shakes the sleep from his eyes.

I may be a witch and my boyfriend, a muggle, but our lives are not that different from any other relationship. I go to work, just like he does. We come home, talk about our day over dinner – cooked the muggle way, always the muggle way. He never pesters me or asks about magic. Okay, on the occasion of course he is curious, but to him, that’s just a part of me. It’s just who I am. I don’t bug him to death with details on the lawsuits and wills and cases that his workplace receive. I don’t beg to know about law, finance and the criminal justice system of the muggle world. It’s his job, just as mine is mine: Secretary of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I guess you could argue that we are in a similar field of work, although it is not similar at all. Oh how I love our life. So similar, yet so different and yet being with Kevin makes me feel the happiest and safest I have ever felt in my entire life.

“If it makes you happy, then embrace it,” is what he often tells me, when I worry about my double life. My heart warms with a thousand butterflies. How lucky am I? I remind myself this everyday and tell him how grateful I am to have met him, and for the life that we share. I never take my powers for granted, nor do I take the muggle side of me for granted. I am lucky. I love my job and I love my life and I love my boyfriend, the best muggle a gal could ask for.

 

- Josie -

MF - Ruler of Seas - #4 Secret Signals

(Josie Sayz: This is the other part of my duology story Moonstone Fortress: Saviour of Ships that I shared a while back. It is very special to me and is tied to a point in my life where I was the happiest I have ever been. It is based off a MERP_UK game that an old friend (Kevin) and I started working on together. The game got lost very early on and will never be revived. This is the alternative route to the story. It isn’t finished yet; I am only halfway in writing the story. I figured that if I shared this, it would force me to keep at it, as I hate sharing unfinished work.

This is my Mary Shelley piece - he will be the most hated man to ever exist, after I am through with him.

If you are interested in checking out Saviour of Ships, you can find the prologue here: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2021/11/mf-saviour-of-ships-1-blackout.html

 

Part 1: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2022/08/mf-ruler-of-seas-1-charleston-mistake.html

Part 2: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2022/09/mf-ruler-of-seas-2-discovery.html

Part 3: https://josiesayz.blogspot.com/2023/01/mf-ruler-of-seas-3-wreck-age.html).

 

 

Moonstone Fortress

Ruler of Seas

 

Secret Signals

The golden gleams of the setting sun glistened upon the ripples in the waves. Leaping down the ship’s docking ramp and onto the dock’s wooden beams, Pete’s knees buckled as he wobbled forwards. Steadying his balance, the to and fro swaying from the ship spun around inside his head. Beating a hand to his chest, Pete cleared his throat, as he strode towards the shore. With a deep breath, he filled his lungs with a warming ash, from a nearby campfire. A soft smirk prodded up his face, as he watched the local tradesmen, whose merchant stands were setup along the rear of the shoreline, gather around the open flames. The local butcher and woodcutter tossed a handful of logs onto the emerging flame. Seeing the fire, the blacksmith, on the far side of the shore, dropped his tools into a bucket of water and strode over, with the women selling the last of their bouquets for the day, a wrinkled woman with a mahogany rag tugged around her shoulders (who ran the rags store, for those with not enough coin to afford the fancy tailors up the street) and the man of colour with parachute mauve trousers and blackberry puffy sleeved shirt covered in an array of gems that sparkled as the light from the flickering flames caught their shiny surface. Stabbing the day’s unsold trout with various sticks and rods from the tackle supplier, the fishmonger held a selection out over the campfire.

Racing down the dock, Pete pounced onto the sand. As he inhaled the succulent fish scent, his stomach winced. Pete slapped a hand to his growling belly monster, muttering an array of curse words under his breath. Snarling his nose, flashbacks to the raw meat flakes and bland black beans that were served on the ship, sent a shudder down his spine. Arching his head up, Pete’s eyes widened as the glowing, candlelit windows, of the Wreck-Age Inn, made his mouth water. The creamy mash potatoes, succulent slab of beef and hearty portion of peas that he had consumed, courtesy of the Castellus’ privateers, stirred salivating, heart-warming feelings within. Sliding his hands into his pockets, Pete’s heart sank to his stomach. Despite his best efforts upon the Serpent’s Tongue, his pockets were still empty. “I need coin,” he muttered to himself. Twisting his head from left to right, he scanned the bodies that bumbled about beside him, looking out for anyone he recognised.

Thud! A hand whacked him on the back. Pete’s heart leapt to his throat. His eyes widened, as his head flung over his shoulder. “Petey!” exclaimed Brandon, pulling his saviour into a bear hug. Pete held his breath, as Brandon squeezed him deeper into his armpit. “Great t’ see ya, li’l buddy,” Brandon sang, as he twisted their embrace from right to left. Murmuring exclaims from under Brandon’s sweat gland, Pete tried squirming away, but the privateer’s grip was too strong for him.

“How’d ya do squirt?” asked Sanders, as Brandon let go. “What’d that Blagden fellow make you do out there?”

“We looked fer yer everywhere on board, we did,” Brandon cried, “But we couldn’t find yer nowhere.”

Shrugging, Pete rolled his eyes and slipped his hands back into his pockets. ‘Great,’ he sighed. ‘How do I shake these guys?’ Desperate, Pete’s eyes flickered out across the pirates as they clambered up the stone steps towards the upper, main tier of the village. Pete’s brow wrinkled, as he prayed for anyone else, he knew from the Serpent’s Tongue, to appear and drag him away. Scrunching his face, Pete’s stomach gave another gurgle. A groan escaped him. Flickering his sight back to Brandon and Sanders, a smirk popped into to the corner of his mouth. “How ‘bout I tell you over a good plate of grub?” Pete beamed. “Reckon Garrin’ll let us have another? I’m starved!”

“O’ course!” Brandon exclaimed.

“I hear you Petey,” Sanders agreed, slapping Pete on the back. Nudging his head towards the steps, the muscular sandy-haired man trudged forwards. Eager, Pete and Brandon followed. “The scrap those pirates serve,” Sanders grumbled. “I wouldn’t give that to my worst enemy! I’m surprised any of them have the strength to do anything!”

“I know,” Brandon agreed.

“I can’t wait for some real food,” exclaimed Pete, with a warm, hearty sigh, as the three of them trotted up the steps.

“Peterson!” boomed a deep, guttural voice from behind. Freezing, Pete held his breath. His heart crashed to the front of his chest. Forcing a swallow, Pete turned around. With his arms folded at his chest, Captain Blagden stood at the bottom of the stone steps. Bodies fumbled about around him. “I have a task for you,” Blagden announced. “Step quickly lad. We haven’t the time for dilly dallying.”

“B-b, but,” Pete muttered. “I’m starved. We were getting food.”

“You can chow down to your heart’s content later,” the captain grumbled. “Right now, you have a mission to attend to. Now come.” Groaning to himself, Pete’s stomach grumbled once more. Pete punched a fist to his gurgling and stomped down the steps.

Captain Blagden led Pete back along the beach. Passing the merchants, a roasting waft of trout simmered into his nostrils. A sigh of frustration escaped Pete, as they travelled away from any sign of food. Marching through the sand, the captain led Pete towards a side of the island that he had not noticed thus far. The glowing amber from the blacksmith’s charcoal pit emanated a flicker of heat, as Pete and the pirate captain strode past. Humming, Pete hovered for a moment by the fire, before catching up with the captain. The sliding and sinking of their footsteps in the sand slowed, as clusters of grass sprouted from the ground. Pete found himself stomping, as the ground steepened at a dramatic gradient.

“Watch yer step,” Blagden warned, as he came to a stop. Arching his head around the captain, Pete’s eyes popped and his heart flopped to his feet. A gasp screeched from his voice box. The land beneath them ended. A jagged drop to the sea below sent a shiver up Pete’s spine. Flickering his eyes from left to right, Pete spotted Blagden a few paces to his left, stood in front of a long, rickety rope bridge. Forcing a swallow, Pete followed after him. “Don’t step too fast,” the captain cautioned, as he grabbed both hands to the frayed rope banister. Placing one boot on the first of the cracked wooden beams, Captain Blagden stretched his other foot forwards. With the captain’s weight, the bridge rocked in a violent manner, tugging the pirate left, before jolting him to the right. “Easy does it,” Blagden croaked, shimmying forward.

Holding his breath, Pete clawed both hands into the railings. His nails daggered into his palms, as he slid them along the rope. Placing one foot on the bridge, the ropes tugged under a second’s load. His chest trembled. His heart hammered. Unleashing his grip, Pete flung an arm forward, as Blagden leapt to another wooden beam. A wave lashed up against the rocks, showering them in seaweed. Spluttering, Pete staggered forward two steps. The wood creaked beneath him. His shoe slid. A squeak escaped him. Slipping forward, Pete snapped his eyes shut. His heart lodged in his throat. Flinging his foot forward, Pete wriggled for grip. A clump of moss squelched against his foot. Snapping his eyes open, Pete gasped. His heart slid back into his chest, as he secured his footing.

“Come on slow coach!” called Captain Blagden, over his shoulder, as he neared the other side. Straining his head up, Pete squinted ahead at the captain. The trembling in his legs forced his knee to buckle. Stumbling forward, Pete’s palms scraped along the ragged rope. A wince seeped through his teeth, as the friction burnt his skin. His heart jolted. “Come on,” Blagden sighed. Having reached the other side of the rope bridge, the captain stood, arms folded, tapping his foot. Snarling his nose at the captain’s mocking, Pete stomped a foot forward. He swayed left. Locking eyes with Blagden, Pete paced forwards. With the rickety bridge waving, throwing him from left to right, Pete’s stomach began spiralling. He shot his sight back to the rope bridge. A spark glimmered in his eyes. He was almost there. Seeing the ground’s gravel, Pete flung his arms behind himself and gave one final leap. His throat croaked a war cry. Skidding to his knees, Pete’s heart thudded, as he flopped to the floor. “You know we have to walk back across that thing, right?” Blagden chuckled. With a long groan, Pete pouted as he clambered to his feet.

The pounding in Pete’s chest slowed, as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Beyond Blagden, a wooden structure came into focus. A two tier house, with a large double door in its centre and grand windows either side, with shutters flapped over them, stood before Pete and the pirate captain. To the left of the house, Pete noticed what appeared to be a large, charcoal-coloured barn door. Creases lined Pete’s forehead, as he threw his head over his left shoulder, looking back over the rickety rope bridge. ‘How would you get horses over that thing?’ he wondered.

“Right,” boomed Blagden. Pete spun back around and straightened his posture, as he faced his captain. “You’ve proven yer loyalty, lad. Now can you prove your usefulness?”

“Yes Sir,” Pete replied, with a firm nod.

“Now before I go giving away too much, I need you to swear that you speak of this activity to no one,” warned Blagden. Pete’s eyes widened, as he gave the pirate captain another nod. “If any local or privateer hears of our doings, we’re as good as dead. Got it?” Again, Pete nodded. “After the sun’s set, a ship is going to arrive here,” spoke Blagden, in a low voice, as he prodded his head over his left shoulder. Pete’s eyes shifted to the towering structure behind Blagden. Set upon a steep hill, a lighthouse towered over them. Moss wound around the structure, creeping into the cracks and crevasses. No light shone from the top, warning sailors of the rocks, as Pete thought it would. “We signal it in, using this here, abandoned lighthouse. It’s our job to take the cargo from the ship and stash the stock in the house behind me. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“Right,” Pete agreed, returning his attention to the pirate.

“Go meet up in the house, with the rest of the men,” instructed Captain Blagden. “They’re making preparations for the next intake of goods. I want you to assist with the preparations and aid with smuggling the next bounty of goods. D’you think you can do it?”

“Yes Sir,” Pete replied, with a nod.

Leaving Captain Blagden’s side, Pete jogged towards the wooden house, enclosed by drooping trees. As Pete lifted the cast iron knocker, in the centre of the right door panel, the door creaked open. He peered inside. A warm, amber glow reflected off the ground’s dark, stone surface. Pete’s eyes shifted to the candle lit chandelier above his head, before flickering over to the vacant chair and desk on his immediate right. A leathered book lay open on the desk, facing Pete, with a quill and inkpot beside it. Two columns of what appeared to be scribbled names covered the left page, with three signatures having started a new column at the top of the right page.

“Petey,” growled a rough voice, from behind. “Fancy seein’ you ‘ere.” Pete’s eyes widened and his shoulder blades stiffened, upon hearing his name. The voice, he recognised. Turning his head a few millimetres towards his left shoulder, Pete shifted his eyes to the left. A waft of striped fabric flickered into his vision. Pete gritted his teeth.

“Jealous?” smirked Pete. “Blagden asked me, personally, to help out. And how long have I been a part of his crew again, Bigby? Oh yeah,” Pete boasted, as he turned around to face the scar-faced pirate. “Three days.”

“Sign in,” Bigby snarled, dropping his eyes to the book and quill. “King Valder keeps check a who’s in the buildin’.”

Pete rolled his eyes, as he swiped the quill from the pot of ink. With the feather gripped tight in his left hand, Pete’s insides churned, as his eyes darted over the page, already scribed by Valden’s men. ‘They keep evidence of anyone who works for them,’ he realised, with a swallow. ‘I may need to come back and swipe this thing, someday.’ Having scribbled his name down, Pete dropped the quill and turned to face his scar-faced companion.

“You’d better follow me,” growled Bigby. “An’ don’t you go touchin’ nothin’,” he spat. “Or King Valder’ll slice yer ‘ands off.” Pete’s eyes widened, as his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. With a nod, he followed Bigby through to a room, left of the entranceway.

Pete lowered his head through the wooden frame, as he followed Bigby and stepped down into the next room. Muffled conversation filtered into his ears, as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting. A chandelier hung from a rope that wrapped around a wooden beam, above head. Wooden crates lined the edges of the room, while a handful of pirates bumbled about, waddling from one side of the room to the other. A block of hay resided in the far-right corner of the room, where one man appeared to be taking a nap. To Pete’s left, were a set of large charcoal-coloured barn doors. ‘Right’, Pete realised, recognising the barn doors, from when he observed the building, from the outside. ‘We’re inside the barn, at the side of the house.’

Taking a few steps forward, Pete kicked at a trundle of hay, at his feet. “Alright,” said Pete, rolling his shoulders back. “What d’you need me t’ do?” he asked, arching his head over his shoulder, to face Bigby.

“Check any a ‘em crates closest t’ the door,” Bigby grumbled, jerking his head towards the far side of the room. Arching is head over his shoulder, Pete followed Bigby’s line of sight towards a line of crates that stood to the left of the large, charcoal-coloured barn doors. Pete gave a nod of acknowledgement. “If there’s anythin’ left in ‘em dump the loot in one back ‘ere,” Bigby went on, jabbing a thumb at the crates lining the back wall, behind him. “We need the front empty, fer easy access. In case stuff’s not in crates or barrels, we can dump it quick, like.” Again, Pete gave a nod, before striding over to the crates beside the door.

Most of the crew, gathered in the room, were searching crates from the farthest side of the room from the house. Pete flickered a glance in their direction, as a couple of men pulled out rolls of parchment, bundled them into their arms and strolled towards Bigby.

Wandering over to the row of crates, in line with the barn door, Pete made his starting point the crate on the farthest side of the wall. Despite being one of the tallest in the room, Pete still needed to stretch up, on his toes and strain his neck to peer inside. Stretching his neck, as he raised his chin, Pete glanced down inside the first couple of crates that he came to. Empty. He flickered a glance to the other pirates around the room. A tall, reedy man, with scraggly straw-like hair, limped towards Bigby, with a bundle of cloth cradled in his arms. Another couple of men appeared headless, as they had their heads lowered into the crates on Pete’s right. Peering into the next crate, Pete’s eyes widened, as a shiny surface came into view. With a grunt, he heaved himself over the side of the crate and stretched his arms out to gather the metallic contents. As Pete wobbled to the left, having retrieved the contents from the crate, he glanced down at the weighted metal cradled in his arms. Three, round, steel shields stacked in his arms. A dark circle, engraved with a swirled, silver letter ‘B’ sat in the centre of the shield. A frown furrowed Pete’s brow, as he carried the shields from one side of the room to the other. ‘B, I wonder what that stands for?’ he pondered, watching the candlelight shimmer over the metal’s surface, as he crossed the room. ‘Blagden? Banhaven Peak? Barkton Versulin? Do any of the neighbouring lands have a king whose name begins with B? I wonder if I can scratch into it and make it look like a P instead?’ Pete let out a hum, as he clattered the shields into a crate, full of tarnished armour.

“What are you smirking at?” barked Bigby.

“Just admiring the craftmanship,” Pete replied, with a shrug.

“Don’t go getting’ any ideas,” growled the pirate. “This stuff’s fer payin’ customers. Yer steal som’ink, yer lose a hand. Got it?”

“Yup,” Pete replied, saluting two fingers from his brow. “Like I said, just admiring the craftsmanship,” he repeated, with a smug grin, as he wandered back to the other side of the storeroom, to inspect more crates.

Following a few back-and-forth trips of collecting scraps of fabric, two more shields and a handful of steel arm bracers, under the scowling watch of Bigby, a flutter of relief washed over Pete, as three knocks sounded from the other side of the barn door. Two of the room’s pirates raced towards the barn door. Pete followed. With a grunt, the three men hauled back the door to reveal a silhouetted man. Pete’s eyes squinted towards the shadowed figure. His broad frame, wavy hair and tricorn hat confirmed that it was Captain Blagden. Flickering a glance beyond the pirate captain, the darkened landscape and the deep pewter sky, with a deep glowing auburn beam upon the horizon alerted Pete that it was now late in the evening. “Ready yerselves men,” the captain announced. “Ship’s comin’ in.” Cheers echoed throughout the barn.

As Captain Blagden plodded back towards the lighthouse, the two men that Pete had assisted with opening the barn door wandered out from the barn, onto the small patch of land outside. One man, Pete recognised from his venture exploring one of the islands of Motorus Relicta. The tall, scrawny man, with a dark pigmented skin tone, was Arad. The other was a short, podgy man, with a mop of dark, dirty hair. Pete prodded his grin from the right corner of his mouth to his left and lines creased his forehead as he stared at the back of the short man’s head, certain that he had not seen him upon the Serpent’s Tongue.

Holding a hand across his face, Pete squinted against the flickering beam of the lighthouse, as he strode after Arad and his companion. “Is it supposed to be flickering, like that?” Pete asked, as he jogged up alongside them.

“It’s morse code,” Arad told him. “Captain Blagden’s signallin’ in a ship.” Squinting, Pete looked back up at the flickering beam. It had been off for a few seconds. It flickered back on, fluttering three slow flashes. There was a pause. Three fast flashes and a slow one. One fast flicker. Another fast flash, a slow one, followed by another flash flicker. All went dark. Four fast flashes. A single flicker. Another fast flicker, followed by a slow blink that merged into another fast flash. One final blink and the beam went out again. Pete scratched a hand to his head, as he wrinkled is nose.

‘Over here?’ he wondered, wafting a hand across his face, as the lighthouse began blinkering its signal once again.

“King Valder’s crew raided a merchant ship earlier,” said the other pirate at Pete’s side. “It’s routine. They slay all men on board an’ store the ship in Moonstone Fortress, ‘til dark. We signal to ‘em when the coast’s clear. That’ll be ‘em now, bringin’ ‘er in,” he explained, nodding his head to the left. Pete turned in the direction of the pirate’s nod and let out a whistle, upon seeing a bobbing ship appear over the cliff edge. Two small sails could be seen flapping against the gusting wind, as a ship a quarter of the size of the Serpent’s Tongue swept into view.

“Nice,” grinned Pete, admiring the craftsmanship of the vessel. A smirk snorted from his nostrils, as his sight focused on the carved wooden fish figurehead, with an open mouth and bulging eyes that crept towards the cliff edge.

“We swipe the loot and Captain Blagden re-sells it in one a them shops, in the village,” Arad told him.

“Yeah,” added the stout man. “Me ‘n’ me buddy, Bill, run the shop. Name’s Lurz by the way,” he told Pete, holding out a chubby hand for him to shake.

“Pete,” replied Pete, placing his hand in Lurz’s. The stout man took Pete’s hand in a tight grip and shook it up and down in a vigorous manner. Letting out a nervous laugh, Pete tugged his hand back.

“We only sell t’ other pirates though, or the unaware,” warned Lurz, with a chuckle. “Don’t want no privateers or King’s men findin’ out,” Lurz went on. “An’ any royal branded stuff, we try t’ disguise, a’fore sellin’ it on,” he added with an overexaggerated wink.

“Interesting,” muttered Pete, as a grin crept into the corner of his mouth.

“Come on,” muttered Arad, as he nudged his head in the direction of the incoming ship. The three men made their way along the muddy pathway, between the barn and the lighthouse, leading to the cliff edge.

Trudging up the grassy mound between the house and the hill, upon which the lighthouse sat, two sheets of calico flapped against the gusting wind. A couple of men on the deck, of the nearing vessel, made their way towards the bow. “Ahoy!” called a man with matted, dark, shoulder-length hair. “Tie ‘er up lad,” he shouted over, as he swung a rope at his side, before tossing it in Pete’s direction. Pete’s eyes widened and he lunged his left foot forward, as he grabbed the rope, with ease. He gave the pirate, aboard the ship, a firm nod, before dropping to his feet and tying the rope up to the mooring ring, which was no more than a loop of steel bolted to a metal latch in the ground. Judging by the lack of dirt and rust, Pete determined that this convenient ring in the ground, must have been a recent addition, placed by the pirates.

“Nice,” boomed Blagden’s voice, from his watch post, upon the hill, at the base of the lighthouse, “Tow ‘er in an’ start unloading. Peterson, work with Arad. Follow their orders. I’ll get the rest a the men.”

“Aye,” nodded Arad and Pete.

“Lurz, what are you doing here?” asked Captain Blagden, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I, I’m checkin’ stock with Luggs,” Lurz stuttered under the captain’s glare. Rolling his eyes, Captain Blagden puffed out an exhale.

“Make it quick,” the captain grumbled. “Then get back t’ base,” he added with a growl, before turning his back to them and striding towards the house.

Turning back to face the ship, Pete’s eyes widened, as he watched the pirate onboard slide a wooden plank across from the ship, towards the cliff edge, creating a ledge. Arad and Lurz marched forward. Pete forced a swallow at the lump that formed in his throat, as he watched Arad leap across the beam, before it dipped under Lurz’s weight. The large man flapped his arms at his sides, as he manoeuvred across the flimsy board. Sweat clammed Pete’s hands. His chest tightened. Watching the plank wobble, as Lurz stumbled off the end and onto the ship, Pete shuffled a hesitant step back. “What cha waiting for?” called the man from the ship. All eyes turned towards Pete. Inhaling a shaky breath, Pete puffed out his chest and strode forward. The wooden plank creaked beneath the pressure of Pete’s foot. His stomach twinged. Movement danced beneath him. His eyes flickered towards the crashing waves below. His heart pounded from his chest. Scrunching his face, Pete wavered his arms out, at his sides, as he shuffled forwards.

‘Don’t look down,’ he told himself, as the racing in his chest fastened in pace. His breaths grew shallow. ‘Don’t look down,’ he repeated, feeling the pulse pounding in his ears. He shuffled on. The ground disappeared beneath his toes. Pete’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, as his eyes shot open, wide.

“You’ve made it,” chuckled the matted haired pirate. Pete’s cheeks turned a bright crimson, as he flickered a glance down at his right foot that was poking over the end of the wooden plank. He was a mere small hop away from the floor of the ship.

“I knew that,” Pete replied with a chuckle, running a hand across the back of his neck, as he leapt down from the plank.

On board the boat, Pete’s attention was drawn to the collection of barrels that littered the deck. “Luggs!” beamed Lurz, as the large man waddled towards the pirate, with matted hair, who had waved them over. “Great t’ see ya bud,” Lurz exclaimed, as the two pirates shook hands.

“You lads start shiftin’ ‘em barrels,” Luggs instructed Arad and Pete. “There’s more loot in the stores,” he told them. Arad and Pete nodded.

As the pair made their way towards a line of barrels gathered against the gunwale, at least thirty barrels surrounded them. Pete followed Arad over towards one of the barrels. Being over six foot tall, the height of the pool of the barrels skimmed the upper part of Pete’s thigh. “What’s in these?” asked Pete, as he approached the opposite side of the barrel that Arad loomed over.

“Dunno,” Arad shrugged. “It’s different every time. If this is a Castellus ship, could be ale. If it’s from Barkton Versulin, could be gunpowder. Could be flour,” he added, with another shrug. Cupping a hand to his chin, Pete nodded at Arad, before turning his attention to the barrel between them. At almost waist height, to the average man, and wider than a large chair, Pete tilted his head to one side as he examined the barrel. Lines creased his forehead, as Pete attempted to guess its weight. “Could be stuffed with cloth,” Arad added, seeing Pete’s puzzled brow. “Langti doesn’t tend to ship their clothes to other countries though,” he added. “If you can stuff it into a barrel, it could be here.” Letting out a puff of air, Pete nodded.

Taking a wide stance, Pete squatted and gripped his fingers around the bottom of the barrel. “Ready?” muttered Arad.

“Yeah,” Pete grunted, as he tightened his grip.

“Lift on three,” Arad instructed. “One, two three,” he grunted, as the two of them heaved the barrel up from the ground. Sloshing sounded from within the wooden structure. “Must be ale,” muttered Arad. “It’s heavy enough.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, feeling the load tug at his biceps, as they waddled towards the bulkhead of the ship. To take his mind off the straining in his muscles, Pete allowed his mind to wander. “Ever had stolen cattle?” Pete asked, remembering the trundles of hay he had seen, back in the barn.

“More than you think,” Arad chuckled, as they reached the gunwale. “Steady now,” he warned, shuffling a step backwards. Arad groaned against the weight of the barrel, as he hoisted himself up onto the makeshift docking ramp. Shimmying backwards, Arad stretched his head over the barrel, as Pete’s mop of curls and wide eyes bobbed into view. A shaky breath escaped Pete, as he locked eyes with Arad. “Ships often set off with cattle on board,” Arad went on, in attempt to distract Pete from the lashing waves below. “Cows, sheep, pigs… for food, like. So yeah, we’ve stolen a few ships with cattle. Can sell the meat on to the inn and the butcher. Can sell the cowhide to the blacksmith, often fishmonger’ll take parts too, so useful all ‘round,” Arad went on.

Pete let out a hum and he nodded, entranced by Arad’s information. A gasp escaped Pete, as the weight in his hands shifted. Pete’s heart lodged in his throat. Arad’s head had disappeared, as the barrel dipped in his direction. With his next step, Pete found his heel sink a little. “Look, yer made it across,” chortled Arad. Lines puckered Pete’s forehead, as he arched his head over his shoulder. He had made it across the wooden plank and was stood on the sloped mound between the lighthouse and the barn.

“Thanks,” Pete muttered, with a nervous exhale, as they continued their waddle. “Not used t’ heights,” he added, as he forced a swallow. “Hadn’t crossed anything like that before I crossed the bridge t’ get here. I’ll get used to it,” Pete added, as he scrunched his nose.

“Can be a shock t’ the system,” Arad chuckled. “No worries. I won’t go spreadin’ no rumour. Happens t’ the best of us.”

“Cheers,” Pete smirked. “Appreciate it.”

“You’ll get used t’ it,” Arad told him. “Couple more runs back ‘n’ forth, an’ the only thing you’ll be scared of is the barrel of King Valder’s gun.”

Pete’s eyes widened. This was one of only a few times he had heard anyone speak in an open way about the pirate king. “Have you ever met Valder?” Pete asked. Arad’s eyes darted over his shoulder and his eyes scanned their surroundings.

“Keep yer head down,” Arad warned, as Captain Blagden, and a gathering of ten or so men, trudged towards them. “And it’s King Valder,” Arad hissed. “Don’t be forgettin’ the King part.” Forcing a swallow, Pete nodded.

“Great lads,” boomed Blagden, as he neared Arad and Pete. The captain’s grin grew, as he tapped a hand to Arad’s back. “That’ll keep the lot of yer outta mischief for a while,” he chuckled to the pirates at his side. “Store ‘er at the back, by the hay,” Captain Blagden told Arad and Pete. “Don’t believe we’ve got use for it, this trip.”

“Aye,” Arad replied, with a nod. Pete gave Captain Blagden a nod as well, as they continued waddling towards the barn.

Squatting, Pete’s arms trembled, as he released the weight of the barrel at the back of the barn, beside the stacks of hay, where he has seen a pirate sleeping, earlier that evening. Pete watched as Arad arched his head over his shoulder and his eyes darted around the storage room. “Think the coast’s clear,” he muttered. “I have met the pirate king,” Arad told Pete, in a low voice, dipping his head towards Pete’s ear. “Your new, I’ll give yer the benefit of the doubt.” A frown furrowed Pete’s brow. “We don’t talk about him. Anyone caught conspiring loses his head.” As Arad took a step back, Pete’s eyes bulged from their sockets and he found himself forcing a swallow. “If you follow his and Captain Blagden’s rules, yer got nothink to worry about,” Arad assured him, tapping a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “The jobs are pretty regular and the pay ain’t half bad,” Arad explained, with a shrug. “King Valder doesn’t want word t’ get ‘round about him and Moonstone Fortress, so he tends t’ keep to the same crew. The only way out is,” Arad’s sentence ended, as he swiped his finger across his neck and arched his tongue towards the roof of his mouth, making a slicing sound, as spittle shot out from between his teeth. The lines on Pete’s forehead deepened, as he held his breath. “That or maroonin’,” Arad added, with a shrug. “Can be a good thing,” he went on, “’cause a lot a pirates now a days pick up a crew for one job and once yer done, that’s it. Job’s a job,” he said, with another shrug. “Man’s gotta earn coin if he’s gonna make it in this world.”

“I hear yer,” muttered Pete, with a nod.

“Better get back to it,” said Arad. Pete hummed, in agreement and the two began to head back to the ship.

As Pete and Arad trudged back towards the cliff docked ship, a couple of men staggered across the wooden plank with a barrel between them, stumbling after another set of men, who wobbled towards them. A stubby man, the height of Pete’s chest, scrunched his face and grunted, as the barrel he was helping to carry dipped towards him.

“You useless man,” growled the large man, with a thick Barkton Versulian accent, from the other side of the barrel, who towered over his partner. “Ain’t you pale guys got no upper body strength?” he taunted. “Lift man. Lift!”

“I, I’m doing my best,” stuttered the short, beer bellied pirate, as his feet scurried beneath him.

“What a pairing,” Pete chortled at the pirates’ height and strength differences, as the men swayed.

“Glad I’m with you an’ not Bill again,” Arad told Pete. “He’s got noodle arms. It’s usually me doin’ all the liftin’. All he does is wail like a child.”

As the two men crossing over the loading plank lowered their barrel, to rest their arms, Arad stopped walking. Pete’s brow puckered and he too stopped, before turning around. “Everything okay?” asked Pete.

“We never had that conversation, back there,” Arad warned Pete, in a hushed tone. “If I find you rat me out, I’ll be the first t’ push yer overboard, to the kraken below, got it?”

“I hear yer,” Pete nodded, looking Arad dead in the eyes. “Not a word.” A snort of air puffed from Arad’s nostrils as he relaxed his shoulders and the right corner of his mouth prodded up. “Cheers fer the heads up, ‘bout everything. Appreciate it.”

As Pete and Arad made their way back across the plank of wood, onto the fish headed ship, Pete pressed his shoulders back and held his head high. Leaping onto the ship, Arad clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder. As Pete turned towards him, Arad prodded the right corner of his mouth into his cheek. “Thanks,” Pete muttered, with a weak smile, as the two of them walked over to another barrel and repeated their journey.

Pete and Arad faced another two journeys of moving barrels, before the men headed down into the ship’s stores for the remainder of the loot. Waist high buckets, filled with an array of curved and twisted hilts protruding from their storage, clanked about, as the ship bobbed with the tide. Calico sacks, knotted with fraying rope, slumped on the far side of the room. With his fists on his hips, Captain Blagden watched over the mound of stolen goods, as his men collected it in clusters and carried it back to the pirates’ hideaway. Barrels of ale, buckets of blades and a collection of fine cloths and tapestries appeared to be the find this time.

As the store of the ship emptied, Captain Blagden clambered his way back on deck. With a wanning gibbous moon high overhead and stars twinkling as far as the eye could see, it was clear that over an hour had passed since the ship had docked at the cliff edge. Returning to the ship, both Pete and Arad rubbed a hand to their biceps. “Is there much more t’ go Captain?” asked Arad, unable to conceal a groan, as he rolled his left arm around in its socket. Pete’s stomach let out a howling growl, as it winced, causing Pete to groan as well.

“We’re all done lads,” beamed Blagden. “Bigby an’ Cormic are taking the last of the stash over now.”

“Phew,” panted Pete, as he arched his back and pressed his palms into his knees. Squinting his eyes, he seeped a breath, feeling his biceps tremble, from all of the heavy lifting. “I’m starved,” he confessed, as the grumbling in his stomach continued to growl. A tingling formed at the front of his head and distant ringing sounded in his ears. ‘When was the last time I ate?’ Pete wondered, as he scraped a hand through his mop of dark curls. “Is there anything else we need to do, Captain?” Pete asked, inhaling a deep breath, as he straightened his back.

“No, you lads have earnt your way. Done more than most too,” he added, rolling his eyes as he spotted the two crewmates that Pete and Arad had seen arguing with each other, whilst struggling to carry a barrel of ale, making their way towards the ship. “Here,” said Blagden, pulling out two small, palm-sized jangling sacks, from his inner jacket pocket and handed one to Pete and the other to Arad. “Don’t go spending it all at once,” he chuckled, seeing Pete’s wide eyes.

“Gee, thanks, Captain,” beamed Pete. His eyes grew wide, as he stared at the frayed, navy-coloured cloth bundle in his palms. His heart leapt. ‘This has to be the most amount of coins I have ever seen,’ Pete realised, as he continued to gawk at the weighted scrap of cloth in his hands. Holding the bundle in his right hand, Pete bounced his wrist up and down a couple of times, before plonking the pile of coins in his left hand. ‘I bet I could buy some decent grub with this,’ he told his grumbling belly, as he tugged at the knot and peered inside. Stuffing his coin sack into a concealed inner pocket of his jacket, Pete gave the nearby pirates a nod, before heading back across the rope bridge.

 

*

 

With a sack of coins in his pocket and a spring in his step, Pete made his way to the Wreck-Age Inn. Swinging open the batwing doors, he inhaled the succulent scent of cooked beef and onions. Saliva dribbled into the corner of his mouth. His stomach growled. A jolly piano ditty echoed throughout the inn, as Pete made his way towards the bar. His eyes danced around the room. Tables were full of men glugging down pints, swinging tankards and scoffing down plates of food. Most of the men dotted about, Pete recognised, as pirates, from the Serpent’s Tongue. The table in the far corner, that was the usual congregating point of the privateers, was empty. Pete released a breath that he had not realised he was holding and relaxed his shoulders, before hopping onto a stool, at the bar. “Peterson,” beamed the bald barman, Garrin, as he appeared from the doorway, leading toward the kitchen, at the back of the bar. “What can I get for yer?”

“I’m starving,” Pete exclaimed. “I earnt a bit of coin today, helping some of the locals,” he lied, lifting his small navy-blue cloth sack onto the bar, and giving it a little tap. A metallic jangle sounded, as the coins danced around inside. “Can I get some beef an’ mash?” he asked, “And a pint, as well?” The bartender let out a chuckle, as he gave Pete a nod.

“O’ course,” grinned Garrin. “Wondered where you’d gone. Yer weren’t with Halaken an’ the crew, when the lads came back.”

“I, er, lost the crew when Captain Blagden pulled me aside to ask if I wanted t’ join his crew on a permanent basis,” Pete told the bartender, as lines creased his brow. “Then I stayed back to help some a them market stalls, along the shore. That’s how I got the coin.”

“Nice to see you earn an honest way,” beamed the barman, as he tilted a tankard at an angle and cupped it beneath the tap protruding out of the barrel. “Here you are lad,” Garrin grinned, as he handed over the frothing tankard to Pete.

“Thanks,” Pete replied, as he rummaged around in his money sack, before sliding a collection of coins across the counter. Placing the palm of his left hand out, at the edge of the countertop, Garrin pointed a finger into the centre of each coin in turn and dragged them into his palm. Satisfied with Pete’s payment, Garrin fumbled about with a small, wooden chest, beneath the counter. After locking the chest, with a key attached to a stirrup on his trousers, Garrin scribbled something down in a small book beside the chest, before disappearing back through the door to the kitchen.

Whilst Pete waited for his meal, he took a glance around the room, as he slurped his pint. A band of buccaneers he recognised from Blagden’s crew, gathered near the pianist, stomping and clapping out of time to the music. Pete let out a snort through his nostrils, as he watched the pianists nose wrinkle and lines deepen on his forehead the more out of time with his tune the pirates became. As the dark-haired barmaid, with olive skin tottered towards their table, she was swept into a spinning spiral by the pirate closest to her. Steadying herself, the barmaid shook her head and flashed the group a smile, before turning on her heels with a scowl and marching over to an empty table, to gather glasses, scattered tankards and plates.

On the opposite side of the room, rambunctious chatter filtered into Pete’s ears. A large man, that Pete had not seen before, had a crowd forming around him. Scraping a hand through his thick, blond hair, a grin stretched upon the man’s face, as two of the Wreck-Age Inn barmaids tottered towards him. Frayed at the shoulders, the man’s white collared shirt lacked sleeves, showing off his large, tattooed biceps. “Who’s next?” he asked, flexing his right arm.

“Ooow,” swooned the blonde barmaid, fanning her bar tray towards her face, in attempts to hide her flushing face. A stocky darked haired man, Pete had seen in the bar before, plonked himself down in the chair opposite the man flexing his muscles. The blond man chortled, as he lowered his elbow to the table and gripped hands with his opponent. Both men stooped their heads, removing the crowd from their line of vision, as they stared into each other’s eyes. The gathering crowd grew silent. Pete took a slurp, from his pint, as he watched, with eager eyes. The stockier man’s arm began to tremble. A smirk prodded into the blond’s cheek.

A glass shattered. Gasps sounded. Pete spun around on his stool, to face the table behind him. A tall muscular man, with his arms streaked in dirt, kicked back his chair, with a snarled expression. “What’d you call me?” he growled, curling his left hand into a fist.

“You ‘eard me,” snarled a bald man, with a long beard, as he pressed his palms onto the table and pushed himself up to his opponent’s eye level. Silence. The piano stopped. All eyes turned towards the two in the centre of the room.

“Say it again,” roared the taller, grubby man. “I dare yer.”

“Fight!” came a yelp from Pete’s right.

“Fight!” shouted another.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” chanted throughout the bar. Hands clapped. Feet stomped. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

With a growl, the taller, mud-stained man swung his fist back and lunged a punch. The bald man ducked. The tall man staggered forward. Pete held his breath, as he watched the bald man roll under the table and stick his leg out, in front of his opponent. Thud. The tall man dove face-first onto the table. Cheers rang out around the room. A whooshing sounded from behind Pete. Pete spun his head over his shoulder to see an angered Garrin behind him.

“Not in my bar,” Garrin bellowed. “Both of you, out.”

Clambering out from under the table, the bald man took a swing at his taller foe, as he pushed himself up from the table. Eyes wide, the taller man swept to his left, dodging the bald man’s swing and hooked his right arm around his opponent’s neck. Behind Pete, Garrin growled, through gritted teeth. Squirming in his headlock, the bearded man kicked his legs out, throwing his weight back on to his strangler. Clunk. The table flew across the room. Glass shattered. Cards flew in the air. Rummaging sounded behind Pete. Clapping and stomping filled the room with energy. Pete found himself tapping his foot along with the crowd, as the bald man clamped his jaw down on the arm cutting off his oxygen flow. Howling out in pain, the taller man staggered back. Free from his headlock, the bald man took several steps back, before taking a charging leap at his opponent, from behind. With the bald man clamped on his back and throwing his weight to the left and right, the tall man staggered forward three steps, before crashing into a neighbouring, empty, table and chairs. Wood splintered. Glass and crockery shattered. Both men collapsed to the ground.

Bang! A gun shot fired. Gasps sounded. The shot caused ringing to sound in Pete’s left ear, as his heart leapt from his chest. “Out!” roared Garrin. Pete spun his head towards the barman. His heart gave a thud, as Garrin’s wild eyes stared over his shoulder and a gun wavered in his hand. The creases around the bartender’s nose deepened, as he cocked the hammer back of his pistol. Glass crunched behind Pete. He spun his head back around in time to see the taller man grab the back of the bald man’s shirt, as he clambered to his feet. Bang! Garrin fired another shot. “Out!” he yelled again, as he ran around from the side of the bar. “No brawlin’ in my bar,” Garrin warned, pointing the barrel of the gun in the direction of the fighting men. “Out!” he raged.

“I’ll give yer a hand,” came a voice from the crowd. A large, muscled man, with a Barkton Versulian accent, who Pete recognised from assisting with stashing the stolen loot, earlier that night, stomped towards the brawlers. “You heard barman. Out,” his voice boomed, as he dragged both of the men out of the Wreck-Age Inn by the scruffs of their collars.

“An’ good riddance,” Garrin growled, as the batwing door flapped closed.

Muttered chatter resumed. The pianist began playing a new, upbeat ditty. “Wow,” muttered Pete, scraping a hand through his curls “You know, you could warn a person before blasting that thing right by my ear.”

“Sorry kid,” Garrin muttered, as he slid his pistol back onto a ledge above the bar, concealed from patrons. “I can’t stand a lack a respect. I’ll accept any payin’ customer, I will, but you’ve gotta show respect, to me, my staff, my inn and me payin’ customers. You don’t abide by the rules and my blood boils,” Garrin ranted, as his face reddened, and a vein bulged at his temple.

“Do you have to shoot at men often?” Pete asked, with a raised brow.

“I’ve broken up many brawls in my time,” Garrin warned Pete. Grabbing a rag from the counter, the innkeeper picked up a nearby glass and began running the cloth around its rim. As he did so, his shoulders relaxed and the redness faded from his face. “Nothink gets beyond a broken table an’ a bunch a smashed glasses and plates mind, well, if you don’t count the murder that one time, but we don’t talk about that.”

“Right,” Pete replied, with a shudder.

“Always got me-self a pistol and a funnel a powder on hand, just in case,” he told Pete, as he tapped a hand to the ledge above his head. Pete watched as Garrin’s shoulders sank and his mouth turned down in the corners. Letting out a deep exhale, the barkeeper’s body deflated, as he muttered, “I’d better get the broom. I can’t afford t’ keep replacing this stuff,” and waddled back into the kitchen.

With a creak, the kitchen door opened wider, as a head of copper hair bounced towards him. “Peterson!” gasped Lela, spotting Pete in front of her, as she carried a plate of food. Pete’s eyes widened and his heart gave a flutter, as he flickered his site from Lela’s blushing face, to the steaming food in her hands and back again. “Owen told me you were here. I was worried about you, when you did not appear at Captain Halaken’s table with the others.” Her bottom lip trembled a little, as she gazed at him.

“Captain Blagden wanted t’ see me,” Pete told her, as Lela slid the plate of food in front of him. “Wow,” he breathed. His lips parted and his heart skipped a beat, as he stared at the plate. “Thanks.” His eyes shot wide, as saliva slivered onto his tongue. A slab of beef sank into the centre of a pile of mashed potato, smothered in beef juice and sprinkled with pieces of onion. Leaning towards his plate, Pete’s eyes fluttered, as he breathed in the plates succulent scent. Steam wafted across his skin. A hum escaped him, as he relaxed his shoulders.

“I hope you have not been dealing with the pirates,” Lela warned Pete, as she slid a knife and fork across the bar, towards him.

“Cheers,” Pete muttered, as he swiped the cutlery. “Relax,” he mumbled, through a mouthful, as he dug into his grub. “I didn’t do nothing bad,” he told her, with a shrug. “Just helpin’ out the locals. A man’s gotta make some coin. I need t’ eat.”

“So long as you are careful,” Lela told him, through blushing cheeks. Pinching her lips in, she averted her eyes to the countertop. Lacing her hands together, she twisted her posture from left to right, as she remained opposite him.

“I am,” he replied, through another mouthful.

A frown furrowed Pete’s brow, as he noticed Lela hesitated towards the edge of the bar, before flickering a worrying glance in his direction. ‘The brawl,’ he realised, remembering the smashed plates, glasses and tossed furniture behind him. His heart gave a twang. ‘I bet she has t’ clean up after that,’ he thought, with a sigh. “Lela, what time do you get off shift?” he asked her, as the image of fist fights and drunken wrestling flickered to the front of his mind. ‘There’s a rowdy bunch in here tonight,’ he observed, taking a sip of ale.

“Owen said I could finish as soon as I brought you over your meal,” Lela told him, as she stared at a knot in the wood of the bar table.

“Wow, er, would you like to sit with me?” Pete stuttered. “I, I’d like to get to know you better. Is there anything I could order for you? Food? A drink?” Holding her hand to her mouth, Lela’s cheeks turned a vibrant pink, as she let out a giggle.

“I would love to join you,” she told him, in a small, soft voice. “I am fine, though. There is no need to buy me anything.” Her smile stretched up into the apples of her cheeks, as Lela skipped around the bar. Pete stared at her and his heart leapt into his throat, as Lela perched on the stool beside him.

“So,” he smirked, running a hand through his curls, as he grinned at the beautiful red-head sat beside him. “What’s a nice girl like you, doing in a place like this?” asked Pete. Lowering her head, Lela prodded the right corner of her mouth into her cheek and shrugged as she looked up at him.

“I am just trying to make an honest living, like most people here,” she told him in a small voice. Pete scratched a hand to the back of his head, in between shovelling food into his mouth.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here or I’d never have met you,” he told her, with a cheeky grin. “I mean, it’s just a bar, on the smallest island there is, full of the constant bustle of pirates and merchants. What made you want to make home here?” he asked, with a chuckle to his voice. The colour drained from Lela’s face, as she dropped her sight to a smudge on the bar countertop. She shuffled, placing her right knee over her left and exhaled a shaky breath.

“I did not have much choice,” she told him, her voice no more than a whisper, as she attempted to flicker Pete a glance, but lowered her stare to the mound of mashed potato on his plate. “It was work here or be forced into a life that I did not want. I escaped much worse,” she told him, with a shudder. As his heart rapped in his ribcage, Pete placed a hand on Lela’s.

“Me too,” he told her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. As Lela’s eyes flickered up and met his, Pete swiped his hand back. “My parents hated me. Said I was the reason we were dirt poor. Do you wanna know what my full name is? Peter Peterson – my parents said they couldn’t afford to give me a name, so they just repeated the family name.” Lela’s eyebrows slanted together, as she gave him a weak smile. “My father ran the village wheel rig; my mother ran her mouth. Both drunk all a the time,” he growled. “Father was known as the worse blacksmith for miles. He made wheels that always broke down, and mother constantly comparing me to golden boy Matthew, next door, who’s two years younger. They wanted me to marry some farmer’s daughter. Said it would be good for business,” he grumbled, snarling his nose, as he rolled his eyes. “They decided my future for me. I didn’t want to be stuck fixing wheels in a grubby small town, where nothing ever happens and it’s the same, day in, day out, never being good enough for my parents. Not to mention being married to some farmer’s daughter,” he shuddered, glaring at the remaining food on his plate. A cold hand rested over his. Pete’s stomach spiralled, as he flickered his vision to Lela’s hand on his.

“You were brave enough to start a new life for yourself though,” she told him, with a soft smile. Pete forced a swallow, as he stared into her sparkling, cerulean eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks tingle and his ears burn. “See,” he said, with a sheepish grin, as Lela removed her hand from his. “We both wanted to make new starts.”

“Yes,” she beamed at him. “I am glad that I work here too, otherwise I would not have met you,” she giggled, through blushing cheeks. “Maybe it was fate that brought us together,” she said, with a dreamy sigh. Seeing his chuckling grin, Lela added, “If you believe in that sort of thing,” in a small voice, hunching her shoulders.

“You’re adorable,” Pete chuckled. Lela’s face burnt a deep scarlet, as she pinched her lips in. “I mean it,” he told her. “I’ve never met a girl like you. You’re different. I love it.”

“I have never met anyone quite like you either,” Lela confessed. “It is almost as though I know you, like we met in a past life.”

Little conversation passed between them, as Pete finished his meal. “Sorry,” he muttered, clattering the cutlery to the plate. “I hardly ate since I was last here. That was so good,” he added, as he patted a hand to his belly. Lela gave a silent giggle, as she curled her hand to her mouth.

“Have you ever tried heated, flavoured water?” asked Lela, with bright, wide eyes. A puzzled frown formed on Pete’s face, causing Lela’s beaming smile to stretch from cheek to cheek. “Follow me,” she said with a giggle, as she grabbed Pete by the hand and led him around the bar and into the kitchen. “Mind the oil barrel,” she warned Pete, as she released her grip, from his hand and skipped across to the opposite side of the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway, Pete hovered beside a splatter of oil on the ground, at the foot of a waist-high barrel. “It is what we use for cooking,” Lela told him, over her shoulder, as she clanked about, gathering glasses. “That is all we have left until the delivery in five days. We have been extra busy, since Captain Blagden has been recruiting.” Stirring a pot, in the corner of the room, Garrin cleared his throat in a cantankerous manner and glared at Pete’s presence in the kitchen. “It is okay, Owen, Petey is with me,” Lela told the barman, as she clattered about with some glasses and a saucepan, in the opposite corner of the room.

Pete dropped his eyes to his shoes and stared at the oil spill, as he slipped his hands into his pockets, while he waited for Lela. Spinning on her heels to face him, Lela skipped towards Pete, with two mugs in her hands. “Come on,” she sang, as she passed Pete a mug and tugged on his sleeve, luring back into the bar. Following after her, Pete’s nose wrinkled and he scratched his head, as he stared inside the mug at a clear liquid concoction.

“What is this?” Pete asked, as he plonked back into his seat at the bar. “And how is it so clear?”

“It is a drink that Owen and I created. A travelling inventor shared one of his creations with us, several months ago,” Lela explained, with a small smile, as she gaze down into her drink. “He had made a filter inside a glass bottle. You pour normal water through the top and different layers of sand and gravel, inside, collect the dirt and grains and the water comes out of the bottom clear. Then I heat it up, with some herbs. I think it taste really nice,” Lela told him, curling a piece of hair behind her ear. “This one is my favourite. It is warm peppermint.”

Lines deepened Pete’s forehead and his scrunched up nose remained, as he took a sip. A warm, pungent kick engulphed him, followed by a cooling aftertaste. The creases across Pete’s face faded, as he lowered his mug to the bar. “I wasn’t expecting that,” muttered Pete, as he blinked his eyes several times.

“It can take a while to get used to,” Lela replied, in a quiet voice, hunching her shoulders.

Having slurped a second sip, Pete blurted out, “This is bloomin’ brilliant.” The red-head giggled alongside him. Surprised by Lela’s creation, a smirk poked into the left corner of Pete’s cheek, as he continued to converse with the barmaid until the inn emptied.

 

*

 

A warmth wrapped itself around Pete, following his evening with Lela, as he trudge down the corridor, on the first floor of the inn. His eyes squinted in the dark, as he tried to make out the room numbers. Stretching his arms above his head, Pete gave a yawn, before creaking open his door.

“Petey,” Brandon gasped, from the bed on the far side of the room, as Pete plodded through the doorway and plonked on the end of his bed. “Where were yer? You ‘ad us all worried, like. What did that pirate ‘ave you do? Yer weren’t attackin’ the locals, were yer, or stealin’ ships or robbin’ gold from people?”

“Jeez,” exclaimed Pete, exhaling a heavy breath, through gritted teeth. Glancing towards Brandon, the flickering candle on the bedside between them caused a dark shadowing, which caused the privateer look even larger than usual. “Give a guy a chance,” Pete muttered, as he scraped a hand through his curls.

“Sorry, Petey. I just got worried,” Brandon mumbled, with a shrug. “Yer know, you can’t go trusting those pirates. Lyin’, cheatin’ scoundrels, the lot of ‘em.”

“Yeah and Halaken is such a saint, in comparison,” Pete said, with sarcasm, giving Brandon a squinted glare.

“Hey, now don’t you go sayin’ a bad word ‘bout the cap’in, boy,” warned Brandon.

“Need I remind you that he nearly got us killed? That him, you, me, Sanders and Lawson are the only survivors of a hundred-man crew. I wasn’t even part of the crew. I’m your prisoner. Halaken took a bunch of innocent men, lied to them, led them to danger and didn’t care for the consequences,” Pete raged, as he kicked his shoes off. “At least the pirates stick to their code,” he added, with a sharp tongue. “They don’t endanger their men.”

“Halaken made a mistake,” cried Brandon.

“Yeah, and look what happened,” Pete snapped back, shrugging his jacket from his shoulders. “A hundred men dead. A hundred of the Castellus king’s men dead. Halaken’s no saint,” he spat. Hearing his jacket jangle, as he slipped his arms out, Pete swiped his sack of coins and slipped them beneath his pillow. “He doesn’t even care,” Pete raged on. “Have you seen remorse on that old man’s face? I sure ain’t. I’m the only reason any of us are alive and, again, I’m your prisoner. I cared more about your lives, when you coulda sent me to hang at Castellus, than your own captain. He’s no hero.” Snorting a harsh breath through his nose, Pete rolled on to his side, with his back to Brandon. “An’ before you say anything, I’m not either,” he grumbled over his shoulder.

Silence. As Brandon rustled with his bedsheets on the far side of the room, Pete lay still, deep in thought. ‘I don’t need those privateers now I’ve got my own coin,’ he realised. Sliding Halaken’s journal out from beneath his pillow, Pete squinted in his shadowy corner and flicked through the pages. Unable to focus on the privateer’s swirling writing, without a sufficient light source, Pete turned through several pages, before his attention fell upon a collection of maps, of the local and surrounding area. His eyes widened. His stomach clenched. ‘If these are any decent, they could save me a lot of coin,’ Pete told himself, as he stared at four hand drawn maps, all depicting the same area, but each with one or two small differences. The first map Pete came across, showed the four main lands of Langti, Barkton Versulin, Castellus and Motorus Relicta, with Bahaven Peak to the west of Shipwreck Cove, the small island that Pete and the others found themselves stranded upon. A little west of Pete’s current position sat a tiny dot, labelled as Fructi Forté, the fruit forest Pete had heard and sailed past, with Captain Blagden’s crew. Pete gave a silent nod, as everything on this map lined up with his knowledge of the sea. The second map was much the same as the first, however, southeast of Langti lay a whirlpool, with a kraken tenacle, and the entire sea from the whirlpool to Shipwreck Cove appeared to be littered with rocks. ‘I bet this is where Halaken crashed the boat,’ Pete realised, seeping a slow, deep inhale. Turning to the third map, it too was identical to the first, however it contained a tiny ‘S’ shape island northeast of the Banhaven Peak, labelled Sirená Pectram. ‘Hmm, I’ve never heard of this place,’ Pete noted, as his interest in Halaken’s journal grew greater. The fourth map, again, was identical to the first, however this time, two tiny specks were labelled: Moonrock Island and Moonstone Fortress. Moonstone Fortress, Pete had seen himself and could be seen from the shoreline of the docks, on a clear day, a little north of Shipwreck Cove. Moonrock Island appeared to be in close proximation to the whirlpool, on the second map, a little north of Banhaven Peak. ‘Could this really be the island from the kids’ story?’ Pete wondered. ‘Halaken did seem keen on the Moonstone story, the other night. Maybe there is more to this undead army voodoo than I first thought. Interesting,’ Pete beamed to himself, as his eyelids flickered closed.

 

 

- Josie -