When the smoke cleared, few men were left alive. The cannon fire had done its work, and thanks to a lucky strike, the entire forward battery of the Singing Lark had been taken out by the Fancy under the captaincy of Ned Low. The waters were unknown to Ned, but the sight of a merchant vessel flying the hated colors of the French, led to a pursuit and naval fight that was very brief. Those who did survive the attack wouldn't last long, and would certainly not survive the coming flames. Ned walked the deck and helped clear debris. Cargo holds would be emptied and soon, the Singing Lark would be ashes. Earn and burn were the words Ned lived by.
In his sweep, as he moved large canvas pieces from the failing mast, a man appeared on deck. It was an astounding sight, and one Ned thought he must be imagining. He wasn't bloody or blackened with gun powder. His bright blond hair was still neat under a woven cap of red and his jacket was well pressed with shiny gold buttons. The man had skin that was smooth and whiter than most with eyes of dark azure. His pants were tailored perfectly and while he wore a belt for a pistol, there was none there.
Ned approached the man, anger flashing in his eyes. His very existence was an insult to Ned's victory over the Singing Lark. "Where did you hide? What's your name?" his asked, as his voice became more heated with each spoken word.
The man looked at Ned calmly. "My name is Emmanuel Langford. You must pay tribute."
"I took this ship by force and by rights, it, and everything aboard are mine. I owe no tribute," Ned pulled his knife.
"I warn you once, Sir. Pay tribute to these waters, or feel our wrath; Blood, freely given, flesh, freshly torn, both given to those whose domain you tread on," Emmanuel said as the timbre of his voice rose.
Anger gave way. Ned advanced further but his laughter echoed on deck. "The only blood to be spilled and flesh that will be torn this day, are yours." Ned's knife slashed, but where the man's arm would have been, suddenly, there was only a mist that quickly dissipated.
"Captain?" the voice behind him called. It was Red, a midshipman. "We could use a hand in the hold."
Ned seemed confused. His knife still drawn, and he slashed the air again as if to be sure, the specter was gone. He then looked at Red.
"Captain?" Red inquired. "Everything as it ought to be?"
Ned gave a small laugh but there was unsettled expression on his face that was as close to fear as he'd ever shown. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Red asked.
Ned frowned and walked away.
Below deck, the hold was being emptied in an efficient line, Ned passed a closed door and attempted to open it, but it wouldn't budge. Ned motioned for Robert, a huge man to open the door for him, but when Robert pulled the latch, the door opened for him with no effort. Ned looked annoyed.
"Maybe it latched wrong," Robert said by way of explanation and then walked back to the line with a shrug.
Ned grunted a response and shook his head as he entered the room. The door immediately closed and latched behind him. It was black as pitch and the soft sounds of crying fixed Ned's attention. He progressed into the small room, feeling with his hands as the sound grew louder. A small light, as if someone was trying to hide a lit lamp appeared in the corner of the room and then went out. Ned walked toward it, stumbling on a box. His knife was out now and he could feel the hairs on his neck stand to attention as he edged closer. The crying was softer and definitely female.
"I hear you," Ned called out. He was still groping in the dark. His hands rubbed against something that felt like an open barrel and he began to wonder if he should back out of the room and return with a lamp of his own. His thought was interrupted by a longer flash of the light, and then the light remained on.
Once illuminated Ned could see the shape of a woman clutching a blanket. She had brown hair, and very pale skin was exposed where a dark green dress refused to cover. Nothing she wore looked the proper size as if she'd been wearing clothes from her childhood. Her crying was steady. Whatever thoughts of violence he'd entertained, quickly fled.
"Stand," Ned directed, offering his hand to help, but the woman looked at Ned and cried without moving. Ned sheathed his knife, and crouched to her level, then grabbed her arm lightly to encourage her to stand, but the woman wouldn't budge.
"I am not allowed to leave," she wailed in sorrowful moan. "Help me."
Ned felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine, but he ignored it. "Tell me your name."
"Lucinda DeMonterat. Will you help me?" Lucinda looked at Ned with an expression of pain and panic. A banging on the walls and through the floor sent her eyes wide open. "We don't have much time!"
Ned stood up instantly. The banging noises were an imminent threat that his captaincy demanded he answer, and yet as he tried to find his way back to the door, there was none. Light slowly permeated the room and illuminated the walls, revealing a total change. No longer were there boxes and crates, barrels and sacks of supplies stacked in the room. Instead, ornate paintings and stacks of books lined the walls. A sudden wave of nausea stuck Ned hard enough to make his body double over in protest.
"We have so little time," the woman said, still weeping. She rose from her corner and carried her lamp with her. "Tribute," she wept and pointed to the books. "I beg you, choose mine."
The banging had stopped, but the feeling of danger hadn't, and as Ned tried to understand what was happening, or what witchcraft was afoot, the woman approached him. "Blood, freely given, flesh, freshly torn, both given to those whose domain you tread on," she whispered to him.
Ned fell backwards when she came near. The very air around her crackled and Ned felt tiny shocks against his skin. Never a man to pray, the words of the Lord's Prayer suddenly escaped from his mouth in an attempt to ward himself from the magic he now felt sure he was a part of. His eyes stayed fixed on Lucinda and for the first time in his 5 years at sea, Ned Low was afraid. The banging resumed, louder this time, making Ned jump.
"Choose! Tribute must be paid!" Lucinda screamed through her tears. "I beg you, find mine and end this!"
"I don't understand," Ned responded. "This is darkness and witchcraft of which I cannot be part." The moment he stopped speaking, books and wrapped up pieces of paper began to fly around the room. The storm of papers hit Ned in a continual barrage, slicing his skin with small cuts. Each wound oozed a thin line of blood, and when he put up his hands to fight through it, the explosion of tomes and parchments increased in intensity. "Stop!" he shouted, grabbing a book by its spine as it whizzed through the air toward his head.
Instantly, the room quieted. All books, papers, and parchments fell to the ground. Ned's breath was coming in ragged jags, and his skin, where exposed, was bleeding. The book he held was blue with gold lettering, and while Ned couldn't read, somehow, he understood what it said. Looking at the letters, pictures formed in his head like a waking dream; a child, then a man, a family and then a storm at sea. Fishing nets tangling a body and a hand holding an oar, then black and cold, fire and flames, and finally. blue and gold.
Lucinda wailed loudly. "That was not mine!" She came closer to Ned and peered at the book. Ned could feel the static shocks again. "Blood freely given," she said as the book opened and flipped to a page depicting a knife slicing through flesh.
Holding the book, it animated, and as it showed the knife slicing through skin, Ned dropped it to the ground in surprise. The room immediately erupted in a fresh frenzy of swirling paper that thrashed Ned's skin. He reached down through the maelstrom of papers and picked up the book again and the thud of books and papers crashing to the floor made Ned cringe.
"Red!" Ned called into the room. "Spriggs! Martin!" There was no response from his crew.
Lucinda had stopped crying. There was sadness borne on her face but she no longer seemed agitated. "I am cursed here, still," she said forlornly. "Make your tribute and free another. If it be a sister or brother, I will seek to find comfort in that."
"Make my tribute? I don't understand. Where is my ship? What is this place?" Ned asked. The banging began again, low this time, but very present.
"Follow as instructed or die. Tribute is, blood, freely given, flesh, freshly torn, both given to those whose domain you tread on. Fail to offer, and your blood will be taken, your flesh will be rent, and your story will stay in this room of the spent.
Ned looked at the book again and the sequence of visions appeared once more; a knife into flesh and a fresh torrent of blood spilled forth. "Who am I supposed to cut?"
"Only you bleed here. Only you can offer tribute. Why couldn't you have chosen me? I have waited so very long," she said, silent tears running down her face.
Ned looked around the room again. "Show me how," he said.
"It's too late!" Lucinda half shouted. "You have chosen and now you must pay."
Ned searched for his knife, but it was nowhere to be found; his sheath was empty. He put the book down to search for the knife and the cacophony of papers began again. The banging was getting louder. He grabbed the book again to save himself from the cuts and strikes to his body by flying objects, and searched the room for Lucinda with his eyes. "How? I have no knife!"
Lucinda was gone. The banging grew louder still, and a feeling of dread that Ned had never experienced before, crept into his mind. The room was icy cold and filling with water from some place above. Making this stop seemed more important than the need to understand what was happening. He grabbed at his belt and keeping one hand on the book, pulled it from his clothing. Once the belt was in his hand, he jammed the buckle against his skin. The skin refused to tear. Again and again he jabbed at the arm that was holding the book, and while he could feel it bruising, blood refused to flow.
The temperature dropped further and small ice crystals began to form. Ned's body responded by shivering. Taking the book with him, he searched the room for anything sharp. The banging was louder still, and the noise made it hard to think straight. He pulled the book toward him and attempted to stuff it into his shirt so that he could use both hands to search for something with an edge, but the moment his hand left the book, the room, once again, threw things around. Ice crystals hit his face and stung his skin. "Fuck!" he screamed and grabbed the book with his hand again. A growing panic seized his mind.
Against the wall a painting sat un-hung in a pretty frame of gold trim. Ned frantically made his way toward it and kicked at the frame to break it. It took several tries to get a piece of the wood free and another kick to break it so that there was a sharp point. The banging was louder now and blocking out all other sounds. Ned's breathing was coming in rushed gulps of air and the water pouring into the room was icy enough to feel painful.
He plunged the piece of wood into his arm and screamed in pain as he ripped it out. His body shook with the effort and subsequent agony as blood flowed down his arm. The banging had reached a fever pitch and the room was now so cold, that he could barely breathe without out intense suffering. The torment of cold, and sounds, and pain combined to make Ned's head feel as if it would explode. He dropped the book the ground and fell on his hands and knees to the floor. The room began to dance with papers, but stopped abruptly when blood poured onto the pages of the book. The red liquid illuminated text on the page that Ned now saw as a vision of flesh falling from bone. Instantly the room reset.
Ned groaned. Waves of nausea washed through him and eventually forced him to empty the contents of his stomach onto the surface below. He struggled up to his feet, with the book this time, and looked around. The room was now as it had been. No ice, no water, and everything was reordered. Glancing at the book and his arm, told the story of what had transpired; the gash remained, and his blood stained the book. Confusion reigned supreme in his head. But for the pain in his body, and the shiver he still felt, he would have sworn it was a nightmare now gone. He looked at the book again and the words became the vision repeated of falling flesh. Instinctively he knew what he had to do and it made him groan in despair. The picture and frame were gone and slowly the banging began again. "Fuck!" he swore into the air. "What kind of hell is this?"
Flames ignited in the far corner of the doorless room. Red hot embers flew into the air igniting papers and catching books ablaze, and heat began to spread into the room. The sense of urgency to complete the task felt overwhelming, as was the need to find anything to cut with. The flames spread quickly, forcing him to retreat against the walls. Everything in the room seemed to be a smooth surface with no sharp edges to cut. The flames continued to ignite everything in their path until Ned was sure he'd be burned alive. The banging began to grow once again, louder and faster.
In desperation, Ned brought his arm to his mouth and bit. The pain he felt was incredible, but the flames approaching were now creating so much heat, that the choice between being burned alive or the pain of the bite seemed a rational choice. Again and again he bit into his flesh. Blood pooled at the edges of his teeth marks and his mouth was filled with metallic liquid that he ignored. The last hard bite shredded a chunk of flesh into his mouth that he then spit onto the book.
The flames in the room hadn't died away, and now licked his skin. A green mist settled in the room and formed into the shape of a sailor. He was dressed in a manner of clothing Ned didn't recognize but he held an oar. The man smiled, as the flames began to consume Ned's flesh, forming blisters. A door appeared and the brightest of all white lights shone through it, blinding Ned. The man walked through as three of Ned's crew burst in.
"Captain!" Red shouted and grabbed Ned like a wet doll.
The ship was on fire, and black with smoke. Once on deck Ned began to cough, hard. Red was apologizing for not realizing Ned had been stuck in the storeroom, although Ned couldn't hear much of what was said. Ferried to the deck of the Fancy and cast off quickly, Ned watched as the Singing Lark went up in flames. He looked at the gash in his arm and the bite marks to the side of it and shuddered hard at the memory, he knew was all too real. He couldn't stop watching the burning ship despite his intense desire to. For 15 minutes, Ned stared at the ship as it went down and the Fancy sailed away from it. In the last of the mist, he was sure that he saw Lucinda and Emmanuel in the smoke and heard them say: Blood, freely given, flesh, freshly torn, both given to those whose domain you tread on.
Ned Low never returned to the waters off that shore of Graciosa Island again.