Chapter 9

Sail it, and sink it

I wake with a start, from a night full of nightmares. I don't remember them, but I am glad I don't. I remember they were not good, that's all.

Silence. No, wait, birds are singing outside. I find myself sitting in a huge clean white bed. Breathing heavily. My back aching once again, or still. Where am I? What is this place? I feel all hot and my vision is blurred. I need to blink several times to be able to see at least a little bit. Strands of my hair stick to my face and neck. My chest is covered in sweat. A huge room I am in. I can see the door on the other side, just opposite the bed. I try to look around, but my neck is stiff. I see light falling in through what must be a window with white curtains, to my left. I lick my teeth. My mouth feels terribly dry. Slowly, I move my tongue. Gulp, when there is really nothing to gulp. My throat is as dry as my mouth. My breath has eased down at least.

Some memories creep back into my mind. I remember the Navy vessel, the brig, the Maori, the eastern harbor, the slave market and the travel to the tea plantation. And then … I remember standing in the middle of a crowd, and I remember the Maori boy on the ground. I remember standing over him, yelling. And I remember I was terrified. I don't remember much after that. No … make that I remember nothing after that.

Burial. I do remember something.

Burial. The funeral of the Maori boy. Has it happened or did I dream that?

I shudder, even though it's damp and hot in the room. Clutch the blanket, to pull it up a little, although it seems a strange thing to do in the heat. My hands are cold. I start to examine myself. I am naked, save for breeches that can't be my own because they feel all clean and soft. The cuts on my chest are well sewn and healing. They are itching. So is the empty eye socket. There is a new cut on the inner side of my right arm. Has someone bled me? I reach up to my face and find bandages covering what has been my eye. My hair is bound backwards, but the plaits are undone. When my hands wander down to my throat I find my necklaces gone. So are my earrings, and the rings that were on my fingers. Where am I, where's my stuff, where's Jack and what the hell is going on here?

"Your jewelry is over here." I turn around in a start, which reminds my whole back of aching. One of my hands touches the bed, looks to stabilize me sitting up, the other reaches for the blanket once again. I was completely unaware that there was another person in the room. I stare at the speaker … a little girl, red hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Those eyes … . Her gaze hits me like a blow. I know at that very moment that I will never forget those eyes. Clear blue, like not all too shallow water, curling around a rock. I wonder, if I look really careful, will I see the waves in them? She has eyes like the ocean, both fresh and ancient. I feel like I could sail a ship in them. Sail it, and … sink it.

She is not older than seven, or that's what I think. And I keep staring at her, staring even tough I am not sure why. Staring into her blue eyes, eyes that send a shiver down my back. I feel like I should know her. Do I know her? Do I know any children? I don't know any children. But I know her. Why do I know her? I cannot know her. I sink back into the pillows with a sigh. No danger from this point at least. Pull up the blanket to cover my chest. It feels weird lying around naked next to a girl as young as her.

She's the girl from the slave market. It's coming back to me. The one I took hostage so unsuccessfully. I never looked in her face before. Memory comes in back in murky pieces.

"What?" I ask. My voice sounds rasp and weak. I wonder if she has understood me, at all. The girl puts down her book and walks over to a drawer. "Your jewelry. We had to take it off. It is in this box." She holds out a little wooden box, for me to look inside. My jewelry is in there, indeed. "Thank you." I say. "How long have I been sleeping?" "Ten days, if I remember correctly. But you were not sleeping. You were feverish. In and out of consciousness all the time. The doctor said you found some real sleep for the first time yesterday night.", she informs me. I just keep staring at her. "What's your name?" I ask, without having noticed that I was wondering about that. "Margaret, Sir." I grin on that. "Don't call me 'Sir'. My name is Hal." She nods and gives me a formal curtsey, "It's a pleasure to meet you." I smirk, "If I could but move, I would take a bow before you, Mistress Margaret." "Oh, never mind. I understand that." She again settles on the chair beside me.

"What's wrong with my hair?" All the trinkets are gone, as I realize. I was merely talking to myself, but she answers: "Well, it was washed." "Oh." I feel stupid for having asked. I guess my last bath has long ago faded from my memory. I look over to her. She has turned to her book again. "Will you stay with me, Mistress Margaret?" She looks up and studies me. After a while, when I'm not sure anymore if she is thinking about answering my question, she says: "The surgeon said we best keep watching your state. I was to read this book and the Lady said I could read it up here if I wanted, and so I did."

---

Slow. Slowly, I rise from the soft bed. I can feel every muscle contract when I move. I am so tired.

I look over my shoulder, back to where I've been lying, and see these red lines crisscrossing on the white sheets. There are a lot of the lines.

Alright, I want this. I want to see this. I need to.

And so I stand, on wary legs, holding myself up by the bed pole. I'm breathing hard. God I'm so weak. I only got up! I feel the air rushing in and out of my lungs.

I can make it over to the mirror.
Slowly.

I can make it.

I'll get there. I'm not looking up. I need time to prepare. I can't just … face it like that. Or can I?

I get there. Lean on the desk.

I raise my head slowly. I'll see it. See it in a second.

"Do you really want to see it?"

Maggie's voice, calm and unswerving as ever, through the silence in the room.

Why is she always around when I want her to be? And why do I want her to be?

"I want to see it."

Do I really want to see it?

"You know what you look like."

"I knew what I looked like."

"You have not changed."

"I … ."

And I can't speak any further. I wish I could listen to her. But I can't. Can't.

And I steady my focus. Raise my eyes.

And I look at myself.

Look at my reflection.

Me.

There.

Is … that me.

I look at my face, look at what was my face, can that be my face, that can't be me, can't be true, can't be what I look like.

Sweet Jesus.

I realize I touched the mirror with my fingertips. Smooth and cold. The mirror.

I move, and remove the cold fingertips from the mirror, lay them onto my skin. My skin is hot, hot and torn.

Crisscrossing lines. Allover me. Down from my scalp across my forehead down my cheeks along my jawline along my cheekbones across my mouth.

Everywhere. Thick, and red.

There is the P. The branding, huge and dark, looming over my left brow. My eye follows the line of the P, follows to where … to where there's the empty space, behind my eyelids.

It is gone. Gone and naught will bring it back. It will never be there again. Destroyed. What if I loose the other-. Stop it. Won't happen. But it is worse enough like this, look at you! … me. Me, this is me. But it can't be. Can't be. I don't want to be that man.

Good God. Was that a sob? And why is the floor so close so suddenly?

On my knees, I feel. Feel the skin of my back, stretching over torn flesh. Feel tears on my cheeks. Cowering. Feel my hands over my face, my thighs under my chest. Feel the air leaving my body. I am so small.

How could he, how could he do this? How could he do this to any person, and why, why did he do it to me? What did I do to deserve a punishment like that?

Think about it … God knows a lot of things you deserve it for. But doesn't God know me better. Don't I know me better?

Hide me, hide me, hide me. I want to be gone, not there.

I hear her move beside me.

"Go away. Please go away."

She ceases to move.

"Don't look at me. Please, please don't look at me."

She remains silent for a while. Then … .

"Why?"

I cough. "Because I don't want to be looked at. I want to hide."

"Why?"

I press my eyelids shut. "Just because! Leave me!"

And then I think about it. I'm a grown man, and here I am, lying on the floor crying, with a little girl looking at me. I'm a fool.

I breathe. And sit up, back on my heels. Wipe tears from my face, move backwards, to lean against the wall. And I look at her. She looks back, and she looks no different than before. Not evaluating me, not judging me. Just looking at me. No, not looking at me the way I was just looking at myself. She looks at me and she sees past the mask of scars on my face. And she scares me. How can she? Where did she learn? Why does she know?

I shake my head. Stare at her.

"Who are you?"

She looks at me for a while, then she smiles. She just smiles.

I brush my hair back over my head with one hand. I get up, and take a few wary steps towards the bed. Maggie frowns, and I don't understand. I follow her glance, and then I see the pattern of crisscrossing red lines I have left on the wall.

I chuckle, feel the sting in my lips. "It's … a lasting impression, undoubtedly."