Of Magic and Rum (Beyond a Contemporary Mythos)

Chapter 3

Thirst is another level entirely for a sea nymph. If we’re not in the water, we need to drink it as often as possible; otherwise, it feels like a fish out of water—constantly gasping for air which never comes. Only we never die. I clutch my chest, masking my pain and unease as I walk through the first tavern I see called the Mystic Mermaid. The irony is not lost on me—I’m also no mermaid. Mermaids are sequestered to the seas alone with no power to will their fins into legs and walk on land.

Dryness coats my lips and throat, and the fiddler playing a cheery tune in the corner of the establishment does little for the twisted knots my stomach has become. I press my palms on the bar, waiting for the tender to notice me. “Water,” I barely get out in a whisper.

“No water here, sweetheart unless you like pissing out your asshole. All I got is ale.”

Furiously nodding, I grip the bar’s edge and smile when the tender eyes me warily. He sets a wooden mug in front of me, foam spilling over the edges, and it’s in both of my hands within seconds.

After guzzling part of it, I slowly set it down and wipe my sleeve across my mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t have coin.”

I can conjure anything aquatic-related, but I have no power to make money appear out of thin air.

The tender, a man in his later forties, tosses a rag over his shoulder, shifts his eyes to the patrons in the tavern, and props on one elbow. “This one is on the house. Looks like you were about ready to die of heatstroke.”

That is as good of an excuse as any.

I give a solemn nod and hug the cup to my chest. “Thank you.”

“There’s a vacant table in the corner if you wish to sit, lass.” The tender points and urges me toward it.

It’s the perfect excuse to nurse my drink and tune into conversations around me. With any luck, I’ll overhear ships sailing from port soon and get off this sandy rock, back to heavenly waters, and on my way home.

No sooner does my ass hit the seat than a man approaches my table. He’s stumbling ever so slightly, pulling the red lapels of his frock coat before taking the seat across from me. His midnight black hair catches the light from the dancing flame of the lantern resting on the table between us.

“Don’t recall inviting you to sit there,” I clip, sipping from my mug as if his presence does little to amuse me. And it doesn’t.

The man barks with laughter, his dark handlebar mustache twitching. “See, gents? Told you redheads always spit fire.”

Stick around and see what else I spit, you walrus’s ass.

Remaining silent, I pluck at the wood of my mug.

The man leans one elbow on the table, props the other on his knee, and flashes me an expression I assume he thinks is a smolder but comes across more like a nauseated goat. “Name’s Charles.”

“Oh? Not Chuck or Charlie?” Lifting my cup for another swig, I quickly scan the room to see if anyone is paying attention to us. Fortunately, the bartender watches us like a mother hen.

Charles sucks on his top row teeth, surprisingly not as yellowed and rotten as I’ve seen most pirates sporting. “Nah. Charles, my birth-given name, sounds far more prestigious. Wouldn’t you say?”

“A pirate concerned about prestigiousness. How innovative of you.” My grip tightens on my mug with each passing moment.

Charles chuckles, but not as heartily as when he first sat down. He pulls his chair closer, the legs scraping against the wooden floor, jarring my ears. “I like you. I like you a lot.”

“Little old me?” I lean back in my seat. “I’m nothing but a tradesman’s daughter temporarily in port for supplies. He should be back any minute now.”

Charles’s body grows closer, scents of tar and sweat wafting from his clothes. “I’m not proposing marriage, love. I’m proposing for now .” His hand darts like a cobra, latching to my forearm.

I fake a gasp and yank with dwindled strength. “Let. Go.”

An itch courses through me—a desire to defend, snatch my dirk knife, use my powers, or do anything . But unlike before, we’re in a tavern with a dozen pairs of eyes who’ve now all turned their attention to the drama unfolding in the corner.

“That’s enough, Vane. Lady says she ain’t interested. Leave, or I’ll have you kicked out.” The bartender claps a hand on Charles’s shoulder, jutting a thumb behind him at the exit.

Charles sneers before loosening his grip on my arm and rising. “Hope to see you in port again.”

Not if my ethereal life depends on it.

Grinding my teeth together to keep from saying something stupid, I grin at him, glaring daggers into his soul. Charles turns to leave, shoving the bartender as he passes him.

“Thank—” I start to say, but my attention is drawn to the man who just walked in. Several other men surround him on each side like a pirate entourage.

He’s handsome. Beyond handsome. Beyond anything I’ve seen on the island. Tall and tanned with long chestnut hair, a slight wave from the salt water and sun. It hangs just below his collarbone, and a light, well-kept beard courses his chin and surrounds his lips. His smile is a brightened beacon calling for every woman in the bar, not one failing to snap their attention to him—much like me. And how are his teeth so white? Several patrons raise their mugs to him, calling out the name “Jack.” After he waves, he slips the black frock coat off his form, folding it over the back of a chair. Not only does it reveal a burgundy tunic shirt only half-buttoned, but a toned muscular chest scattered with dark hair and a horizontal slanted scar that disappears into his shirt.

And suddenly, I’m thirsty all over again.

Charles passes him and spits on the floor at Jack’s feet. “Best part about Nassau? Peace of mind. The worst? Having to see your sorry ass every few months and not being able to do a damn thing about it.”

Jack, unperturbed, runs a hand over the orange sash tied around his waist. “I’ve missed you too, Vane. How is the—what ship is it now? The—Katherine or The Ranger?”

Charles grumbles something under his breath before turning for the exit. “Go to hell, Rackham.”

“I’ll meet you there. Perhaps we can plan for tea, hm?” The charm oozing from this particular pirate is enough to send a jubilant zing throughout the room.

No one pays any mind to Charles as he storms out of the tavern, and the music picks up livelier once he’s gone.

Jack’s gaze turns in my direction for a fraction of a second, causing me to slouch in my seat and pull the hat as far over my face as it’ll go. How long his eyes linger on me is anyone’s guess because, more importantly, how, in the Seven Seas, can I be drawn to a man like this—a mortal man?

Risking a peek, I watch Jack and his crew sit at a circular table. Jack motions for the bartender, and several moments later, the tender returns with two handfuls of mugs, plopping them onto the table.

“Drink up, gents,” Jack says, raising his cup. “We’ve got a voyage to plan.”

His words pique my curiosity, and I hide my face with the mug, turning my chair to a better angle to hear their ongoing conversation. They exchange stories about their past hauls—the time Jack got caught behind an island by a Spanish coast guard and they stole a twin prized sloop during the night, how Jack was a privateer for a spell to throw the British off their scent, and countless tales of gold and negotiations at every turn. For every three mugs his crew drinks, Jack only consumes one. And by the fifth, Jack slams his mug down, demanding attention.

“Alright, jolterheads, listen up. I’ve been researching a jewel in the Mediterranean. A jewel that, if we find it, will make us not only rich but bloody famous to boot.” Jack reveals a folded map after reaching into a pocket of his jacket.

My focus is intense now. I’m slanting so far in Jack’s direction that the table eats into my ribs.

A man with a dirtied white wig squints a single eye at him. He burps before saying, “This isn’t another of your harebrained mythical claptraps, is it, Captain?”

I lean further until creak —the table shifts across the floor, making all eyes at Jack’s table, including Jack, pop in my direction. The mug shields me again, and I turn to face the wall.

“It is not. This one exists, gents. It’s recorded as a massive sapphire with bits of aquamarine surrounded on either side with gold overlay. Supposed to be the size of your fist.” Jack makes a fist and shakes it between them.

Is he talking about—no.

Murmuring ensues between them, sloshing sounds of more drinking and guzzling, and then one man asks, “Does it have a name?”

No other jewel appears as he described.

Jack pauses for effect, and I peek around my mug, seeing his palms fly up. “Befittingly—the Sailor’s Jewel.”

Either he lied to them or has yet to learn the jewel’s purpose. The gold pieces are bullhorns, and the jewel—the Tavros Jewel—serves as the guiding light for all supernatural beings who wish to find Atlantis.

Reality hits me like a tidal wave, and I find myself downing the rest of my drink to quench the sand scraping my throat. This crew is going to Atlantis. They’re going where I need to go.

“This is a chance of a lifetime, boys,” a burly older man with a long, peppered beard adds.

The crew goes quiet, Jack’s impatience plain from how his knee bounces under the table.

“Shall we vote on it?” The man with the wig asks.

“Aye,” the older man instantly answers.

The rest of the men go around the table, voting yes to Jack’s idea. Jack slaps his thigh, points at them, and rises. “We shouldn’t dally. Let’s get to the ship. Get her ready to sail.”

“What about Read?” The older man asks, casually running a hand over his beard.

Jack tilts his head. “While I’m sure she’ll vote yes, Ragnar, would you fetch her and fill her in before we weigh anchor?”

She?

The man he referred to as Ragnar, with the mysterious squint in his eyes, nods his head. Jack’s grin spreads wide. He claps his hands together and swivels on a heel to exit. I stay in the shadows of my corner table, waiting for the last crew member to leave before catapulting from my chair.

“Thank you again,” I say to the bartender as I pass.

The bartender offers me a warm smile. “Be safe, lass.”

A conch-shell-sized lump forms in my throat at his words. As I exit, I’m a whirlwind—tucking my hair into my hat, pulling my stolen shirt from my trousers and away from my apparent breasts. A tsking followed by a light whistle sounds behind me.

“Miss?” A man with a French accent calls out.

I’m halfway to tucking stray strands of hair into my hat and slowly turn to face him. He’s sporting an eggplant-colored ornate frock coat with gold trim and a powdered wig. One arm hangs over his ribs while the other hand is raised, nails clicking against each other. Pretending he couldn’t be referring to me, I look around, seeing as I’m not a miss but a sir.

The man bites back a smile. “ Mon Dieu . The way you were eyeing The Revenge out there, I’m guessing you plan to shove your hair in your hat, ruffle your shirt, and call yourself a cabin boy while stowing away on Calico Jack’s ship?”

My heart melts into my boots. “Am I that obvious?”

“Oh, chérie , what boy only has the underside of their hair? And those bountiful mounds on your chest can still be seen from a mile away.” The man extends his hand but holds it like royalty awaiting a kiss on the ring. “I’m Omar.”

Name. Name. I need a name.

“Anne.” I slip my hand into his surprisingly silky soft one and shake. “Anne Bonny.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Anne. Come inside. I’ll help you disguise yourself a smidge better, oui ?” Omar’s hands fly up, making the lace surrounding each wrist bounce.

I step forward but pause. “What about the ship? They were talking about setting sail as soon as possible.”

“We’ve got time. They still need to raise the anchor. Come, come.” Omar motions me to enter the building, holding back a leather flap.

Gulping, I duck my head, scents of perfume and musk dizzying me. A man plays the flute in a corner, only slightly drowning out the wails, cackles, and screams of pleasure around us.

A brothel. Lovely.

“Right this way, Miss Bonny,” Omar places a gentle hand on my forearm and turns me in another direction to a room through a wooden door. He closes it behind us, and my hand darts to the knife at my hip. Omar defensively raises his hands. “I promise you no foul play in my establishment. Not to mention you’re not exactly my—” His eyes roam my body. “—type?”

Relaxing slightly, I let my hands rest at my sides. “Why are you helping me?”

“Nassau is an island of opportunity. People come here for various reasons, but everyone has one thing in common: they seek a different life.” Omar presses his fingertips together and moves to a trunk at the foot of a four-post bed. “I don’t know your reason, Miss Bonny, and I don’t need to know, but if you were willing to risk your life sneaking on Rackham’s ship, you clearly have an insatiable desire to get away.”

He's spot on, and I go quiet.

Omar nods as if I don’t need to say another word. “Now, I will need some form of payment for my services.”

Still silent, I nod.

“Do you have coin?” Omar’s eyes search my hips for a pouch.

Solemnly, I shake my head.

“How about this?” Omar points at my cowrie shell bracelet.

I snap my hand away, protectively holding my wrist to my chest. “Not that.”

Omar’s eyes bulge, and he blinks rapidly.

Holding my open palm behind my back, I call a pearl from the depths, and soon it rests against my skin. I offer it to him, and his face visibly brightens. “It’s a genuine black pearl.”

“ Merde ,” Omar whispers, taking the petite beauty between two fingers.

“Will that be sufficient?”

Omar nods while staring at the pearl. “And then some. Are you sure you wish to part with it?”

I wrap his hand around it as reassurance. “It’s all yours, Omar.”

“Let’s turn you into a lad then, shall we?”

Taking a deep breath, I follow him to the trunk. Several moments later, I’m wearing baggy-fitting trousers in a more durable cloth, a loose, flowy cream tunic shirt that goes well past my hands, a jacket, and leather boots. He adds a red scarf around my neck for extra protection from the sun after I ask for as much skin coverage as possible, using the excuse of the sun and my pale skin, but in reality—I’m bound for a ship surrounded by water, sea mist, and rain for months.

“And finally, your hair. I don’t think there’s a need to chop off those beautiful tresses, but—” Omar pulls out sections of my hair to give the illusion of a bob cut. “That should work. But keep an eye out for long strands that might fall out. And on extra windy days, use the scarf to secure it on your head, oui ?”

“Thanks, Omar. Truly.” I shake his hand again before turning for the door but stop with my hand on the iron handle. “You called him Calico Jack. Why?”

“Captain Rackham’s nickname. Some say it’s because of the Indian cotton he prefers to wear, unlike most captains. Others say it’s his Calico cat.” Omar snorts and peeks at the black pearl on his nightstand.

“He has—a cat?”

Omar giggles. “Mmhm. And it’s a cranky little thing, too. Lives on the ship.”

Perhaps I’ve lucked out after all. What kind of ruthless pirate captain owns a feline?

“Take care, Omar,” I finish before making way for the docks.

The crew is busily loading supplies onto the sloop of war Omar called The Revenge. I stare at the mast extending to the skies, the sails still rolled, waiting to be set free for the next voyage. A man carrying several burlap sacks on each shoulder bumps my elbow.

“Stop your gawking and get a move on, boy,” the man barks.

Boy . It’s working. Hiding a satisfied smile, I pick up the first supply item I see, a short and thin crate, and get in line behind several other men carrying things on deck. A dirtied man wearing only a gray vest and trousers sprints down the ramp, a crate filled with sloshing bottles of rum held above his head. He’s cackling into the wind until Jack appears on deck, flintlock raised, and he pulls the hammer back. One shot takes the man down, the bullet lodged into the back of the thief’s skull. The man lands in a slump near my feet, the crate crashing to the ground and breaking most of the bottles.

The smoke clears from Jack’s pistol, and he stands unfazed and ruthless, a scowl distorting his features. “Salvage the unbroken bottles and throw this piece of shit to the hammerheads,” Jack barks before disappearing into the shadows of The Revenge.

I’ve seen plenty of death throughout my hundreds of years, and I, too, remain undaunted by it. I’ve grown to accept it as both a cycle of life and necessary for survival. But what has a chill creeping up my spine after witnessing the glint in Captain Rackham’s gaze as I willingly make my way up the ramp, a shark into the wolves’ den, are the bartender’s parting words.

Be. Safe.