Freedom at Sea

[Scriven]

She felt nothing, darkness enveloping her body and mind. Pain surged through her leg and with that sensation, a great feeling of cold washed over her. She opened her eyes and saw that she was drowning.


Her left leg would not move at all, but using her right one and her arms, she pulled herself up toward the moon above. It was a long way through the swirling currents that wrenched back at her. At last she broke the surface and sucked in the cold night air. She was still close to the rocky shoreline of the port town, but the water had carried her quite a ways from the point where she fell at the Moore plantation.


Not fell, she thought, correcting herself. She had been pushed.


Further down current, she allowed herself to drift. There the steep cliff walls sloped lower until they were close to the water’s edge. The silhouette of a large merchant ship loomed ahead, docked amongst the smaller fishing boats and rickety trade vessels, and as she neared it, she could see the flicker of firelight within through one of the leaded glass windows. The pain in her leg was great, but greater still was the chill of the water. The thought of a warm stove where she could warm her hands was all the motivation she needed to begin swimming again.


At the shore’s edge, she tried to stand but found she couldn’t. Her tears mixed with the sea water as she began to crawl across the sand and rock. The simple linen dress she wore was tattered and felt like a weight of lead across her back. Beyond the point of exhaustion, she fell forward and began to sob.


She needed a place to hide. Somewhere warm where she could curl up and lick her wounds. The merchant ship, which was so close and offered not only warmth and shelter, but also a chance to take her away to a safer place, seemed leagues away in her current state. She dragged herself forward along the rocky shore, fumbling for a branch that was beating against the shore with every wave. She used it to pull herself up, relying on it heavily to help her hobble closer to the ship.


She stayed in the shadows, watching for a moment. The noise of the nearby town was faint here on the docks. Was the ship empty, its occupants in town? No, surely some remained, otherwise there wouldn’t be light flickering through the windows. There was no way a merchant would allow a slave to board his ship, she thought. She had to be careful now and not be seen. She would find a place to hide, sneaking off at the next port. Such a plan could be repeated again and again till she got far enough away from this place.


With queasy nervousness rolling around in the pit of her stomach, she limped slowly up the ramp leading to the ship. She could hear voices, but they were muffled, as if the conversation was happening on the other side of a door. She hurried down into the body of the ship, holding back a groan of pain as she descended the stairs. The galley was empty, but coals remained in the stove, glowing orange in the semi-darkness. Moonlight filtered in through small windows at the top of the walls, but the space was blessedly dim. She used her branch to hobble closer, collapsing onto the ground near the heat of the stove.


As the numbness of the chill water began to leave her, it cruelly abandoned her to the intense agony of her leg. Until then, she had not dared to look at it. When she did, she felt vomit rise at the sight of the deep gash, fish-white dead flesh, plump and swollen. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she covered the gash with the wet linen of her dress and pressed with her palm as firmly as she could to stop the flow of blood. Tears welled behind closed eyes but didn’t fall, and she managed, somehow, not to make a sound.


She would have to find a better place to hide than this, but for now warming up was her priority and the temptation of the stove in the empty galley was too great to resist. Her teeth chattered from the icy water, her cold, wet clothes sucking to her skin. A tentative plan began to form in her mind, but it was contingent on not being discovered. She couldn’t go back there. If she did, they would make sure they finished the job.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Inky shadows slithered along the gleaming, varnished hull of the vessel; night had seeped in silently. The Oracle was a right impressive merchant ship from stem to stern, yet somehow the velveteen darkness softened its grandeur. Under the star-spattered sky it was a boat, and little more. Not a single lamp was lit on deck and it made the caravel-ship seem unimpressive. Sleepy. Were it not for the inviting, gilded candlelight pouring through the windows to the captain’s quarter, it may as well have been a ghost ship.


Crisp, but weather-battered sails billowed loose in the still air of the port – waiting for a breeze strong enough to ferry the ship back out into the open ocean. Stacks of barrels, coils of rigging rope, even what few cannons the ship boasted lay in wait. Every implement was ready for use, neatly in place, yet unused. Even though the hour was late, the Oracle lacked the constant bustle and motion of a merchant vessel. Not a candle was lit, or it seemed, a single watch posted. Dead-silent, save for black waves lapping at its hulls.


Pinned comfortably against the polished rails ringing the crow’s nest, Kuzah had let the evening lull him into a drowsy stupor. Buried into daydreams, behind closed eyelids, the rawboned man hardly took his lookout duty to heart. Despite flying the flag of a merchant’s ship and being docked in the light-less black harbor, Kuzah found little to worry over. Countless months of the same routine had settled him. Perhaps some fool soul might try and clamber aboard and make off with what hard won valuables the crew had managed to scrounge up. Perhaps. But in the long hours of the night, Kuzah found it easier to let his mind wander. Rocked by the lazy, wet hiss of saltwater and the cold glow of moonlight, Kuzah opted out of his duties and merely kept his keen ears tuned.


Familiar but muffled tones rose and fell in conversation down on deck, but the lookout was too high up to make much out. Only three other souls shared the ship – a bare bones crew – and Kuzah’s well-tuned ears pinpointed each position. Well. A keen ear and an educated guess. Each of them was a creature of habit, really. It was an out-of-the-ordinary noise, however, that piqued Kuzah’s attention. An unfamiliar patter of footsteps. Still turned inward and immersed in his thoughts, the lookout had to force his eyelids open. Stickily, Kuzah wet his lips and gathered coltish legs beneath himself to make his way down the rigging.


Barefoot and inky-black as the night air, Kuzah wandered the deck. With his unassuming, meandering pace, Kuzah’s motions did nothing to belie his natural graces. What should have been an impressively tall frame looked pitiful – rawboned and rather weedy-looking, what muscle the male boasted stuck stubbornly to his frame. His proudly chiseled features were masked by a vacant expression, as though his body were present, but his mind were elsewhere. A riot of plaited dreadlocks half-obscured his features, peppered here and there with various trinkets. Delicately carved bone beads, droplets of colored glass, and iridescent bird feathers had all somehow woven their way into the mix. The heavy cords might have hit the small of his back had they not been tied back and knotted messily together in a vain attempt to keep it tame.


Setting a crescent thumbnail between his teeth, Kuzah gnawed idly as he made his second round of the decks. Perhaps what he had heard was nothing at all. It would not have been the first instance he’d slipped to deep into a daydream – when reality’s lines had blurred. Casting a sour glance upward and into the brittle shine of starlight, Kuzah was ready to give up the hunt. Wrenching that shred of nail away with his teeth, he spat. In casting his chin downward toward the deck, Kuzah noticed a curious spatter staining the varnished surface. Congealing crimson droplets trailed drunkenly from the dock, slithering towards the arched entryway to the ship’s belly. That thousand-yard stare of his softened some as his eyes followed the trail.


Intruders never came already bloodied and broken onto a merchant vessel – thieves were swift and silent and left no trace. No. This had the mark of desperation about it. It made Kuzah’s steps careful as he paced alongside the grim trail, following the stains down the steps toward the galley.


Before the rawboned man rounded the corner into the cluttered mess-hall, Kuzah knew the space was occupied. The hushed, porcelain-chattering of teeth. A syrupy retch of damp cloth moving. Tilting his head doggedly, the man slowly padded into the galley. There, crumpled into a shivering heap, was…a woman. The sight stopped Kuzah stunned in his tracks, shocked to silence. Rather than rousing the crew with a call for aid, or rushing to the battered woman’s side, the man merely watched her curiously. A series of moments passed before the man could gather enough wit to speak. Shoving a mess of dreadlocks out of his eyes, the barest hint of smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. The gesture softened his demeanor some, but it was another breath before he managed to untie his knotted tongue.


“I s’pose you’ll want the stove, yah?” Though tonally pleasant, the mahogany-skinned man’s words had a clipped, guttural quality. Half the words seemed swallowed, or else cut too short.


In that same calm manner, Kuzah skirted about the galley wall until he came to the cold iron stove. The embers within had died hours before, leaving behind little more than powdered ash. Lifting open the heavy handle and propping the door ajar, he began to load in kindling as if nothing at all were strange about the situation. Congeniality beat the alternative, which was dragging the injured woman, likely kicking and screaming, up onto deck and tossing her overboard. Vagrants and vagabonds struck a chord within Kuzah…much as they did any particular crewmember aboard the Oracle. This woman, he thought, had picked the right ship.

 

[Scriven]

The cold was taking over, settling deep in her bones and becoming part of her. Her fingers were ice, far too numb to work the laces that held her boots tightly to her feet. Water was trapped in the leather, soaking her stockings. Experimentally she wiggled her toes, but she felt only the barest of sensations; they were numb too.


The stove was all but cold, the coals providing little by way of heat or light, ready to turn completely to ash. Bijou wanted desperately to feel sorry for herself. She was freezing, her leg was in agony where it had scraped the rocks during her descent into the cold ocean. She felt horribly alone, knowing that she couldn’t go back home, and she was afraid. She knew though that giving in to those tempting, miserable emotions would mean this had all been for nothing. Now was the time to hide and be quiet, to plan for tomorrow. Now was not the time to allow herself to give in to her pain and sadness. If she let a tear escape, she wouldn’t be able to keep in all the rest, and Lord knew she had a lot of them stored up. When she was good and safe, then she’d give in and let herself wail and cry and be miserable. Those things were luxuries for another day though.


Still, Bijou felt much like the little boy with his finger in the dyke. She had heard Missus Moore tell Sarah that story one night, and she hadn’t really understood it then. Well, she certainly understood it now. It was only a matter of time before the trickle became a torrent, but for now she sat, her finger in the dyke, just like the little Dutch boy.


There wasn’t a sound that alerted her, but some small difference in the room. Perhaps the hair on the back of her neck stood up, or she felt a difference in pressure, but something alerted her. Bijou turned her head to stare at the shadowy figure in the dim galley. He, too, stared at her. He was a large man, except for that he wasn’t. Quite tall, but he reminded her of a tomcat, all skin and bones and little more. His skin was dark, his eyes shadows. He smirked and she saw a flash of white teeth in the darkness.


Bijou held very still, not sure what to do or say. How was she going to get herself out of this? If he had been a white man, she would have lost all hope entirely, but still she grasped at a thin shred of it. This was a colored man. Was he a slave, like she? Or was he a free man? Either way, he was far more likely to take pity on her.


“I s’pose you’ll want the stove, yah?” he asked, surprising her. For a moment she didn’t comprehend. His voice was pleasant, but his way of speaking was one she wasn’t used to hearing. She’d heard that accent before, when men from other islands came to trade. The way he spoke, the words seemed to rise and fall like the tide.


“Aye,” she murmured. “I mean, yessir. I’d be grateful.” Her voice was low, slow, soft, tinged with a mixture of the sound of the islands and her masters’ colonial motherland.


Bijou watched the stranger calmly load kindling into the stove, acting as if nothing was amiss. Did he realize he held her fate in his hands? Gnawing at her bottom lip, she tried to find the words to broach the subject.


“I’d be grateful as well if ya didna mention to anyone that ya saw me. I’ll leave the ship ‘n won’t cause no trouble.”

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

A series of moments passed in silence, save for the tentative crackling of the developing flames. Nothing in the man’s languid posture belied the riot of questions that burned within him. Curiosities. Possibilities. If Kuzah’s fractured existence had taught him anything at all, it was that nothing came by chance. Luck was not so blind. Near a dozen ships anchored in this harbor – serendipity alone couldn’t have led this woman to salvation. Doubtless, had she picked another boat, the outcome would have been less than favorable.


“…there is no such t’ing as an accident, you know.” Kuzah’s reply poured sticky-slow from his tongue. Kneeling, indolently stoking the fire, he felt rather self-satisfied in his comment. A flash of even, white teeth shone as the rawboned man cast a glance over his shoulder. Rimed in firelight, Kuzah’s careful humor was evident. Ominous.


“Stay. You don’t need my silence t’save your skin, here.”


Heat roiled forth from the iron stove, sending waves of blistering air to fill the galley. A silver-scarred hand wiped a bead of sweat from Kuzah’s brow, streaking mahogany skin with kohl ash. The man rocked back on knobby heels, settling his far-off gaze on the stow-away. Kuzah crossed the distance between them with nothing more than his eyes…carefully surveying what damage the waif had sustained. Cogs clicked and whirred away in his brain as he began to put some semblance of a plan together. Kuzah sighed heavily through his nostrils. Lazily, but with a measure of interest, he gestured towards her wet clothing.


“Peel that mess off’n I’ll find somet’ing dry for you, yah? Then, I’ll call The Stitcher. Get you patched up.”

 

[Scriven]

The fire crackled within the stove, slowly suffusing the young woman with warmth. She extended her hands toward the metal grate, her icicle fingers beginning to thaw. A shiver ran through her, jolting her from head to toes, like a cat feeling a fat drop of water on its head. His words filled her with apprehension and the tiniest ray of hope. She knew the saying about things that seemed too good to be true though.


“Who are you?” Bijou asked after a pause. “I donah mean t’ look a gift horse in the mouth, but... You donah know me. Why- why take the risk?” She gulped, her dark eyes drifting away from him. “And I know not what a stitcher is, but I donah think I want it.”


He’d told her to take off her clothes, but Bijou made no move to do so. Being on a stranger’s ship in her situation was precarious enough. She wasn’t about to attempt such a feat naked.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Indulgently, Kuzah accepted the curious woman’s queries. Letting his cheshire’s grin dim to a gently understanding simper, the dark-skinned man pondered over just where to begin. There was no doubt within him that, truthful as he might be, this woman would be reluctant to believe what he had to say. Truth be told, Kuzah had been in a similar position, once – and had thought he was being taken for a fool. Leaning forward languidly, he let loose an unintentionally held breath. Perhaps it was best to answer her questions in order.


“Call me Kuzah.” The man’s tone was queerly guttural. “An’ no. I know no’ting about ya’. ‘Cept maybe one t’ing. Fate must’a smiled on ya’…droppin’ ya’ here. What I mean’ta say is, there ain’t no risk in me offerin’ a helpin’ hand. There ain’t a soul on board The Oracle who wouldn’t do th’same. All I can readily say is ‘dat if ya’ need passage…an’ ya’ work for it…then passage’s what you’ll get. We’re all quite good at keepin’ secrets.”


Impishly rocking back on his heels, Kuzah offered a wink. “N’you’ll want the stitcher, for ‘dat.” Rather poignantly, the man jabbed his index finger in the direction of her injury. “If you wan’it to close up and heal, yah? A medic…or close as we got to one. Now…”


Grunting as though standing in itself were some labor, Kuzah offered down a hand the woman. “What do I call ya’?