Chapter 13 : Adios

I would have loved to sketch this moment. The bandits' stupefaction as they see my horrendous demeanour is hilarious. These pirates show off less when they are faced with horror. Real horror.

Covered in blood, I climbed back up the ladder. I then walked through steerage, under the harsh but admiring gazes of my companions in misfortune. The guard saw me, screamed and moved back to pray to the Virgin Mary.

And here I am on deck under the driving rain. In front of the crew of the Anarkhia. Jaime makes a sign of the cross. For the first time, Cook actually looks surprised. Rotten Rick breaks down on the spot (both literally and figuratively). Nick rushes under the poop deck to fetch the captain.

The Irishman arrives. I can almost sense his bad mood. The ship's boy must have woken him. When he sees me, it is with a blend of awe and extasy.

Like all the others, he awaits some form of explanation. I shall not give any. I walk towards him, drawing myself up to my full height. The wind of the storm whips at my torn shirt and my windswept hair. A true figurehead.

"All slaves on board have the right to two proper meals and a walk each day," I say as I pass near the captain.

"Wait…" he tries taking hold of my arm.

"Sea water will suffice for my ablutions."

That is all. I escape to the makeshift privy and wash myself of all the blood. My index finger is on fire. Painful spasms pulse across my face to the rhythm of my beating heart.

From where I am, I can hear everything. Uproar aboard the Anarkhia. They have found John's body. Cook bears witness to the fact that I was in my place less than an hour ago, well locked up. There is no doubt that the mate attacked me and that I defended myself. Steven orders a return to normal.

John, or at least what is left of him, is thrown overboard.

Back in his cabin, Steven does not utter a single word. Yet, I have helped myself to his personal attire to clothe myself and I know full well that he hates anyone touching his affairs without his permission.

Tonight, he is the one to look after me. And to stitch me up. My cheek has well and truly been smashed. An end to my porcelain face and its rosy complexion. From this evening, I am marked by a nasty scar which runs from my left cheekbone to the corner of my upper lip. Another smaller one on my right brow snakes towards my temple.

As he did before me, I drink and fall into slumber. How good it feels to be free.

When I was small, I almost died of an unexplained fever during an epidemic of measles at L'Aigle. Even nobles were not spared by this disease. Mother had just given birth to a fifth child. A boy, who was taken a few weeks after he was born.

I was deeply affected by the death of my little brother. I was around eight years of age. My temperature took me into madder and madder ravings.

I remember one of them. Mother was beside me. She untiringly applied cold, wet cloths to my body in the hope of lowering the fever. Father was there too. He held my hand. And there was a priest. Stifling incense. I thought that I was witnessing my own death. It was exquisite, I felt loved and cossetted. I am not inventing the feeling on my forehead. Mother's skin was soft.

I remember a doctor. He said I was condemned.

"If I base my findings on Hippocrates' temperament theory," he declared. "This young lady is totally unbalanced. Her four humours denote a personality which is not viable in adulthood."

"Her humours?" Mother asked.

"Yes, blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. There is no point in bleeding her, Monsieur le Marquis, your little girl will not be cured. I have never seen as much phlegm in any of my subjects. She is blonde, white, sickly and delirious."

When the fever finally receded, I woke up alone. The little brother who had chortled in my arms a mere two or three times had gone to be with our Lord. Or at least, that is what I hoped. Had Mother not said that He would recognize his own from the bastards?

At this precise moment in time, I know my destiny. I discover it and embrace it, with no fear. I reserve a special fate for my purchaser.

At last I am on the right track. And it appears that it has nothing to do with the ways of Our Lord.

My awakening is quite delightful. Worried faces all around me. The Irishman. Jaime. Léon. And a tall black woman with long curly shaggy hair.

"Slowly does it, Sirena," Steven warns me, preventing me from getting up. "You have just come out of five days of fever."

Really? I remember nothing of this. But I am so thirsty that I could even drink seawater.

Since I cannot speak, I mime bringing water to my mouth.

"Water," the black woman says.

I turn my head so fast that I feel light-headed. I thought I recognized Gwewa's voice.

"Friend," she says with a pretty smile, and acts the gesture I made when I killed John.

Yes, I am confused.

"Estoy aqui para servite, Sirena," Jaime suddenly declaims. "Y tambien para protergerte."

Steven reappears with a flagon. I drink directly from the spout.

"Our good Spanish companion has watched over you day and night, my beauty," he explains as he takes my hand in his and strokes my fingers with his thumb.

This is the only affectionate gesture of which he is capable. And, I am not fooled by this because he intends, in this manner, to show Jaime that he alone has the right to touch me.

"Gwewa?" I ask.

"Ah, her?" he groans with a movement of his chin. "She claimed that she could heal you with the magic of her ancestors. Luckily, we have been docked for two days, or the men would have shit themselves for the rest of the journey."

A lot of information for my brain, befuddled by illness, to take in. So Gwewa is a woman. Why did I imagine her to be a man? Her husky, guttural voice was the result of the terrible conditions of this crossing.

"What happened?"

"She just sang and danced around you. Mustelier wanted to leave as soon as we landed so I decided to purchase her. I also acquired another Black. The bastard seemed pleased to be rid of him. They are troublemakers as far as I have understood."

Gwewa nods to confirm this with a defiant look. On the day we left Tortuga, she was the one wearing the spiked collar.

"Like me," I murmur.

"We are in New Orleans," he announces with no further ado. "Your master-to-be has been informed of our arrival. He wishes you to be delivered to Le Vieux Carré tomorrow evening. He too, undertook a long journey to be here."

I take my hand away. Does he really believe that I want to bill and coo when he is planning to sell me like a sack of beans?

"Eat and rest. Nick will bring you a hot meal in a few minutes."

Heaven. A bowl of piping hot soup with pieces of cassava, carrots and meat too. For dessert, there is even a slic of apple pie. Just like the slavers, Steven is doing his best to restore my strength before the fateful encounter with my purchaser. As if fruit and vegetables could erase the two scars which now disfigure me. If the person responsible for my kidnapping had me abducted for my pretty face, he is going to have to think again. And Steven is taking a big risk in the deal. His contract stipulated that he should deliver me in mint condition. What will my buyer think of this? Will he punish Steven for having failed in his mission?

The wait is unbearable. I am impatient to know my enemy. To kill him. I suppose that the captain knows that I will not stay long in Louisiana. Hence his nonchalance. Or else he does not care. Is he playing his cards close to his chest? Whatever the case, I am no longer the same person that he kidnapped near Charleston. It is impossible for me to envisage a life of submission. I am eager to accomplish my work once again. My plan becomes more detailed in my head with every second that passes. All my voices are in agreement.

Action is an opiate and I have become dependent.

The following day goes quite normally. Jaime scrubs the hull, as usual. Nick and L��on come and go between the deck and the docks to carry out the numerous errands ordered by the Irishman. Gwewa and Adjo talk with Bappé who explains how to repair the mainsail. Cook is busy in town, probably with an inn boy, and Leng cleans steerage, cursing those who traffic in human beings. The rest of the crew has left the ship. The murder of the mate and the voodoo practices carried out on board have taken their toll on even the most courageous.

Nick leaves a pretty lilac-coloured dress in my cabin, with all the accessories needed to make me look like a girl from a good family. More smoke and mirrors, designed to fool those gentlemen.

After brief ablutions, I dress docilely and arrange my hair. Fortunately, Gwewa knows how to tighten a corset and helps me perfect my outfit. What a disguise!

"Are you ready?" Steven asks as he comes into the room.

He is lost for words, seeing a stranger dressed as a noblewoman. Gwewa leaves, understanding full well that her presence is no longer useful to me. If stretching the muscles of my face were not so painful, I would have given him my widest smile.

"Not yet," I answer, feasting on him with my eyes. "Did you think you would be able to abandon me without a proper farewell?"

I can see the hesitation in his face.

"Take me one last time," I order.

Our embrace is gentle and delicate. We are in no shape for violent love-making. The time of farewells is already heart-breaking. No need to flay our skins any more than our hearts.

We kiss, we lick each other, we stroke. I have to admit that he has become an excellent lover. If only we could have had a little more time together, there would have been fireworks.

I do not hate him for having locked me in the hold. Nor for his decision to carry through with the delivery after all that had passed between us. There is no way he can act differently. His emotional faculties are limited and do not stretch beyond a stroke with the tip of his thumb.

Steven comes in me for the last time, his eyes locked in mine. It reassures me to know that he is leaving me against his will.

"Oh, pirate, your freedom means lose all or gain all," he had sung. He will live with the knowledge that he has mislaid his heart on Tortuga.

Night has fallen. At last we are ready. Both of us. The farewell to the crew moves me more than I had expected. Jaime weeps. Bappé, beside him, appears to be the most afflicted. He has laid his giant's hand on the shoulder of his Hispanic comrade and consoles him as best he can.

"Translate for me, please."

He nods his head and relays my words in Spanish.

"Thank you for your fraternity, thoughtfulness and kindness. I free you from your promise and order you to live your life as you wish. Take care of yourself, my friend, and I promise to be worthy of your devotion."

Oh dear, I have lost him. He collapses into himself as he continues his lament. Nick is in a huff in the bow of the ship. Leng is staring at me as if I had stolen something from him. Léon squeezes my arm, as an equal. Adjo lifts a hand in sign of peace and Gwewa gives me a pert wink. The woman is completely insane. Even in her home country, she must have been deemed mad or even a witch. My friend... we are more alike than could be imagined. The different colours of our skins are only illusion. Our souls sing the same song.

Rotten Rick is there, too. It is the first time I have been so close to him. I can at last see his face. The many small wrinkles around his eyes show his age. A glass eye hides a hollow socket. Filth covers every shred of his body. And, I have to say it, he smells of sun-dried fish. I have no care. He holds out his arm and embraces me as a comrade. When he lets go of me, I take a deep breath and put my foot on the bulwark.

Cook graces us with his presence at the foot of the gangplank. Placid, as always. I could have been a sheep for all the expression on his face. He will accompany Steven and me to the client. It is well. The story ends where it started. In a port, with two pirates.

This time, I walk forward arm in arm with one of them, my head held high. My soul at peace.