desertion of an ancient ruin. In the captain's cabin, a pipe was set out on the table, atop an open pouch of tobacco, and by a candle sat a flint. In the galley I foundplates arranged on the table with knives and forks beside them, a huge pot of stew grown cold and jellied on the stove. I could see where a man had sat whittling; there was a footprint in his shavings.
“I'm Davy Jones!” the voice screeched, shocking me with its suddenness. The scratching and rustling came from up forward, and then a banging of wood.
I went toward the voice with my heart in my mouth. I ducked under a hanging lamp and came into a cabin so dark that I could see nothing at first, and then only shapes. By the depth of their shadows, I knew that berths were stacked on either side, eighteen in all, in narrow tiers of three. I could tell that in four of them lay sailors, all still and silent. But the cabin pulsed with a steady little ticking noise, as though all of them had watches.
I was afraid of what I'd find, of what I'd feel if I went groping through the dark. So I fetched the candle from the captain's table, and brought its flame to light the cabin.
The sailors were covered by gray blankets that had been drawn up around their heads and shoulders. The wool was thick with blood, and across the dark stains—their legs ticking furiously—crawled thousands of gleaming cockroaches.
Then, to my utter horror, one of the blankets fell to the floor, shedding a mass of beetles. The sailor below it heaved a leg over the side of his berth. He rose to his feet and came staggering toward me.
His forehead was split right across, laid open to the bone by a cutlass. His skin hung over his eyes like a blindfold, dried to a hardness by clots of black blood. He reached outhis arms, and I moved back as he lumbered down between the berths.
“Mate!” he cried. “Are you my mate?”
“No,” I said, and he cowered back, his mouth in an awful grimace of fear.
“Then you're one of
them,”
he said.
“One of who?”
“Of them!” He tumbled forward, facedown on the deck. The cockroaches swarmed over him in a sleek, black carpet.
My candle went out. I turned and ran from the cabin, slamming my head on the lamp, crashing into the table with a rattle of dishes. I spun away from there, up to the deck and the sunlight, to the crucified man, who grinned at me with a leer that was all teeth with no lips.
I lay at his feet, on bleached planks warmed by the sun. And soon I heard the most welcome, the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard: a flapping of canvas; a ripple of water; the splash of an anchor going down. I got to my knees and saw first the square topsail of a schooner, then a black hull below it, then the name
Apostle
and the numbers
1219
scrawled across the side.
Her decks were packed with men, and she anchored so closely that I could see the faces of those who tended the cable. Black and blond, bearded and not, they seemed the cruelest lot who had ever sailed a ship. In rags and bright bandanas, bedecked in glittering gold, they snubbed the cable and brought the ship to a stop beside me, under the dead gaze of the man they had crucified.
I retreated to the companion-way. In the shelter of its hood, I listened as boats were lowered and oars fitted intopins. Then, fearing that the buccaneers would return to the brig, I crept below to find myself a weapon.
That awful laughter greeted me, and that voice came from everywhere. “I'm Davy Jones. Throw me a line, matey.”
I sorted through the galley lockers, through drawers and shelves and bins. But the best I could find was a short, thick knife with a dull and rusted blade. Then I stood at the stove, digging clotted stew from the pot with my fingers, waiting for footsteps on the deck.
I resolved to fight until the end as bravely as I could, and hoped I might fall in a swift melee. I might take one or two of them with me, I thought, but I would not give myself up, no matter how they begged; I
“I'm Davy Jones!” the voice screeched, shocking me with its suddenness. The scratching and rustling came from up forward, and then a banging of wood.
I went toward the voice with my heart in my mouth. I ducked under a hanging lamp and came into a cabin so dark that I could see nothing at first, and then only shapes. By the depth of their shadows, I knew that berths were stacked on either side, eighteen in all, in narrow tiers of three. I could tell that in four of them lay sailors, all still and silent. But the cabin pulsed with a steady little ticking noise, as though all of them had watches.
I was afraid of what I'd find, of what I'd feel if I went groping through the dark. So I fetched the candle from the captain's table, and brought its flame to light the cabin.
The sailors were covered by gray blankets that had been drawn up around their heads and shoulders. The wool was thick with blood, and across the dark stains—their legs ticking furiously—crawled thousands of gleaming cockroaches.
Then, to my utter horror, one of the blankets fell to the floor, shedding a mass of beetles. The sailor below it heaved a leg over the side of his berth. He rose to his feet and came staggering toward me.
His forehead was split right across, laid open to the bone by a cutlass. His skin hung over his eyes like a blindfold, dried to a hardness by clots of black blood. He reached outhis arms, and I moved back as he lumbered down between the berths.
“Mate!” he cried. “Are you my mate?”
“No,” I said, and he cowered back, his mouth in an awful grimace of fear.
“Then you're one of
them,”
he said.
“One of who?”
“Of them!” He tumbled forward, facedown on the deck. The cockroaches swarmed over him in a sleek, black carpet.
My candle went out. I turned and ran from the cabin, slamming my head on the lamp, crashing into the table with a rattle of dishes. I spun away from there, up to the deck and the sunlight, to the crucified man, who grinned at me with a leer that was all teeth with no lips.
I lay at his feet, on bleached planks warmed by the sun. And soon I heard the most welcome, the most wonderful sounds I had ever heard: a flapping of canvas; a ripple of water; the splash of an anchor going down. I got to my knees and saw first the square topsail of a schooner, then a black hull below it, then the name
Apostle
and the numbers
1219
scrawled across the side.
Her decks were packed with men, and she anchored so closely that I could see the faces of those who tended the cable. Black and blond, bearded and not, they seemed the cruelest lot who had ever sailed a ship. In rags and bright bandanas, bedecked in glittering gold, they snubbed the cable and brought the ship to a stop beside me, under the dead gaze of the man they had crucified.
I retreated to the companion-way. In the shelter of its hood, I listened as boats were lowered and oars fitted intopins. Then, fearing that the buccaneers would return to the brig, I crept below to find myself a weapon.
That awful laughter greeted me, and that voice came from everywhere. “I'm Davy Jones. Throw me a line, matey.”
I sorted through the galley lockers, through drawers and shelves and bins. But the best I could find was a short, thick knife with a dull and rusted blade. Then I stood at the stove, digging clotted stew from the pot with my fingers, waiting for footsteps on the deck.
I resolved to fight until the end as bravely as I could, and hoped I might fall in a swift melee. I might take one or two of them with me, I thought, but I would not give myself up, no matter how they begged; I
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