Sails and Bones
A Sookie Hawthorne Short Story
“Starboard tack. Adjust the headsail and come-about. We must advance due East if we hope to reach Norway in one week’s time,” Captain Waylon Ashwood commanded Thatcher to adjust the jib. He was not a man of patience and the cargo their ship carried determined the future of the safety of Hatsford, a relatively small village on the coast of Mercia.
Burlap bags of silver and gold coins, chalices, helms, belts, and goblets lined the cabins of The Marauder, as the ship was named. Jewel encrusted treasures laid in heaps about the floorboards, chests overflowed with fine silks from Asia and sculptures of marble, jade, and obsidian sat delicately amidst the shiny hauls. Waylon Ashwood commanded a pirate ship, and the loot of their last raid came from a trade ship headed for a neighboring kingdom in the British Isles, Northumbria. A majority of their crew had wives and fathered children in Hatsford, and they wanted to keep the Vikings out of their hometown. They struck a deal with Earl örjan, and so thirty percent of their findings from their own raids went to the Norwegian Viking village called Selkeld.
The wind picked up against the bow as she turned and Thatcher watched the choppy waters crash against the ship, almost as if the sea was warning them to turn around. Dusk brought a shimmering half-sun to the edge of the horizon behind them, the burning hot glow of molten crimson glimmered off the blue North Sea. Thatcher drank in the salt air and the magnificent living painting before his eyes, a sunset that was so similar to the rest and yet held a moment of silence for him; a daunting few minutes of captive exposure. The water glinted for miles and sank away with the dimming light as twilight cast its throws and the first stars in the sky showed themselves.
Following the stars was Thatcher’s favorite part of sailing. The calmness of the sea, the cool breeze, the darkness of the night lit up by moonlight and stardust; millions of tiny lights strewn across the black, ancient secrets hidden in the patterns that only emerged when the clouds went to sleep. It was easy to look upon the unknown and become infatuated with it. In another life, he would have pursued celestial studies. He did not choose to become a thief and a murderer.
Thatcher had a family of his own back in Hatsford. His wife was named Edith and he fell in love with her the very first time he laid his eyes on her. She was difficult to hunt, but eventually gave in and married him. Three years later they had their first and only child, Agnes. She reached her fourth name-day six moons past. Someday, he would have enough gold to take his family and escape into the exquisite night. He would use the stars to navigate to North Wales. There they could purchase acres farm land, have one or two more children, and live in peace.
Captain Ashwood returned to his cabin for the night as the waves churned beneath the ship. Thatcher would never admit it aloud, but he feared the captain. Waylon Ashwood was a hard man, a ruthless killer and raper that carried no remorse, soulless black eyes and a composed manner that shaded his aggressive antics to unsuspecting victims. Thatcher had once seen him throw a maiden overboard for failing to please his dark desires. It was rumored that he murdered his own son for not following him into piracy. It was not a selfless act to appease Earl örjan, he did so because if Hartsford were to be pillaged he would lose half of his crew. Thatcher had overheard bits of a conversation in passing of conspiracy to murder the Earl. This would not be possible with their manpower; the Vikings were a different breed of man. Thatcher hoped to be out of Mercia and away from the crossfire by then.
As dusk fell behind them, the black of night cascaded across the endless sky. It was a clear night, and the stars shined brightly. The moon was painted in fullness, and the waves surrendered on that night. Slowly as the time passed they licked the ship less and less, and eventually The Marauder was the only cause for a break in the still black waters below.
Thatcher watched the sky for some time, lost in thoughts of love and freedom. He was pulled out of his daydream when he noticed a change in the atmosphere. All sound died away. The salt in the air grew stronger and mingled with a warm, dewy scent of exotic plumeria and dense musk. Jagged rocks he’d never seen on this route before sat menacingly above the sea, leaving narrow paths for the ship to approach small black rock islands that could only have formed overnight. A deep fog rose from the water in the distance, crawling closer and eventually colliding into the ship, making it impossible to see further than ten feet ahead.
Captain Waylon Ashwood came out of his cabin half-drunk at the commotion his crew had begun to stir. “What’s all this, then?” His eyes widened at the sight, and shouted orders to halt the boat before proceeding forward. It was too late. A distant sound of ghostly chiming jingled in the deafeningly silent air, and when Ashwood shouted, “PLUG YOUR EARS!!!!” the suspicions of every soul aboard were confirmed in terror.
Sirens.
The ship lay steady on the water, fog consumed every direction. Thatcher plugged his ears as tightly as he could, but as the chiming grew louder, the muffled sound could still be heard. The smells in the air grew more fragrant and his olfactory senses were the most pleased he could ever recall. Then came the humming. It sounded like a choir of women all humming in tune with each other just fifty yards away. When the singing began, every man aboard The Marauder unplugged his ears and searched the fog for it. The softest, most beautiful voice they’d ever have the honor of having touched their ears changed the setting. It echoed in a drone of dreamy invitation. The fog cleared up enough to row, and the ship moved forward as the crew manned it in a hive mind state.
“Oooouuuuaaaaaaaaaoooooo
When will I be
held once more
so lost at sea
I’ve seen you before
oooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuooooooooo
Oh, come to me
I’ll love you evermore
my eyes spy thee
and I do adore”
The vocalization carried across the water, through the rocks, and into the heart of Thatcher’s poor, unfortunate soul. He needed to see her face; to feel her body.
As the ship neared a blanket of black rock above the dark water, the fog turned into a haze that hovered over the piles and piles of delicate structures lying all around the jagged stone.
Bones.
The skulls of hundreds of men laid in ornate fashions amongst the heaps of human bones, painting the scene of a cave of horrors over the years. No one blinked at the sight of it. And then she came to view atop a peak of dark basalt. She had silver hair that flowed four feet and draped over the rock, pale skin that bounced moonlight off and gave a daze of a glow to the eyes, and her eyes… cerulean oceans that carried centuries of amorous play. She awaited naked but for a thin veil of emerald sheath that covered her flower and one breast.
Thatcher had never laid eyes on such a precious creature. Edith no longer existed. He had to have her, or he would die. The crew hurriedly steered the ship to the miniscule island, and as they approached, the ship crashed into the rugged rocks and abruptly stopped. Men dove into the water, climbed over the basalt, and blindly followed her voice to reach her to the top. More women swam up from the water as they escaped the constraint of the ship, each more beautiful and exotic than the last. Voices echoed and bounced off the sea, each man rushing for the nearest heavenly beauty. Thatcher never took his eyes off her. He reached the top of the rock first and grasped her wrist to look into her bottomless eyes. His heart was racing, and his desire became unbearable. Just as he leaned in to kiss her lips, her face shifted and the fog grew stronger once again. She opened her mouth and the enticing sound of her singing turned into a piercing, agonizing shrieking, followed by dozens of others as her companions imitated the torturous sound.
The beautiful face of a perfect woman melted away before him as her features contorted into a sinister demonic creature from the depths below. Scales ripped through human flesh and her eyes turned black as coal. Her teeth grew longer out of her mouth as it widened and showed hundreds of sharp fangs protruding in multiple directions and her body morphed into a grotesque gargoyle physique with a long, scaly mermaid tail. It all happened so fast and before he knew it, the siren grabbed him by his torso, three-inch claws ripping into his body, and they dove off the rock into the deep waters below. As his trance broke he heard the screams of his crew as their bodies were torn to shreds. He caught an incoherent glimpse of Ashwood being ripped apart by his limbs.
The searing pain of his dying body was overcome by dwindling oxygen in his lungs as he was hurdled into the black depths of the sea. No light, no air, just drowning.
Thatcher thought of Edith’s soul-grasping crystal grey eyes, he thought of Agnes’ innocent child laughs, he thought of the endless night sky. And as he was dragged to his watery grave, he let the darkness consume him.
