Work Text:
April 10th
We're sailing, now, upon the Sunder Sea.
Easy passage through the Straits of Anvalla, under tall black cliffs all cluttered over with shrieking seabirds. Gannets folding up like parasols to dive. Cormorants holding their wings open to dry on the sharp rocks beneath the cliff, said rocks too close for comfort altogether.
Brisk easterly. Some drizzle, mid-afternoon.
Oatmeal, five barrels.
Salted pork, nine barrels.
Pickled cabbage, nine barrels (noisome).
Water, ten barrels.
Rum, five barrels.
Chances of finding our prey by this bleak coast – slim, I think now, tho I flatter myself I have not let my misgivings slip before the crew. I fear our informant back in sweet Goldtown Port may not have been sincere.
Still, there are fat merchant vessels enough to make it worth our while. Laden with iron and oil, and bales of wool. Our hold smacks strongly of old sheep.
Singing at night, again.
April 13th
A skirmish with a merchant sloop, the Jolly Lass. Not so jolly these days, I dare to say. Took midshipwoman Carvery to task for conduct unbecoming of a pirate blade. Much as I have attempted to instil my crew with the awareness that they need not let slip those finer points of etiquette they learned when we were still the Miss Blackwater Finishing School for Girls, it is most vexing in a fight to hear her beg pardon from the man she has just gutted like a fish. A solecism, I informed her, afterwards. She took it well.
Fair winds.
A sabre-slash to my red jacket sleeve. Careless of me, tho the Miscreant responsible has paid in full.
Plunder: fifty gold dellmarks from the captain’s chest. Two barrels full of pickled herring (worse than the cabbage, alas). Some quantities of salted ham. Sailcloth.
Item: the candles in my cabin are poor wretched things, all tallow, spluttering and smoking. They smell foul, and give a small uneasy light.
Singing again at seven bells. I woke, and lit a candle, tho it was but little use. The night was dull, and dark. There were no stars.
That song. It was so sweet, I hear it still, I think.
April 14th
Sail-mending. Cards. Won five times at piquet with dear Susan – that is to say, First Mate Saunders, as she is now. Her scar from our encounter with the Dellmarch ship this autumn past has healed up well. Gives something of a rakish air to her profile, seen from the left-hand side.
Landed at some small rocky bay for water. Observed the Natural Scene. Indulged in Botanising by the little rill which fell from the high cliffs. The plants which grow in these far latitudes are strange. So green, and fleshy to the touch.
Practised at swordplay with midshipwomen Carvery, O’Shea, and Turvington. They improve by the day, I must confess. I was hard-pressed to hold my own, when we tried three-on-one.
None of the crew have heard the singing. I asked every woman on the ship.
April 16th.
And yet, I hear it still.
April 19th.
I saw her, yesternight.
My candle guttered out, and I found my way out on deck by feel.
There was the small light by the binnacle, and Iverson kept watch, but I walked by her as if dreaming, and she did not stir.
There were no stars. No moon.
She sang for me.
I saw her, even in the dark. She moves through the black water like cold flame, like dancers at a ball, like snow swirling up high above a mountain pass. Her hair is red.
Her name is Sunder-Sea.
She called me to come down to her, and I smiled back, and said I that I would greatly appreciate an introduction first.
She sang.
I smiled, and did not move.
That's when she said her name.
That's when I smiled, likewise, back down at her. My hand was on my pistol, at my hip.
I dreamed of teeth.
April 20th
Her smile, that is. Her teeth are very sharp.
April 21st
But mine are too. Or sharp enough, at least, to leave red moon-marks on her white-grey skin. I would suppose, at least. I have not tried.
More candles needed. Oatmeal.
I told her my name. Annabel, she said. A nice ring.
April 22nd
At anchor at a poky fishing port, whose brusque inhabitants feared quite the worst, I do believe, when we appeared. But - on this occasion - we sought only news.
The girls drank sallow beer and swaggered in their little inn. Asking questions, they swore. Bragging, I do not doubt. Getting no useful answers, as I later heard.
I took the launch, and rowed out of the harbour mouth.
I thought she might not come, by day.
Gulls bobbed on the blue waves. Sea pinks showed in tight clumps atop the high black cliffs. Lichen grew, bright as egg yolks, above the water line. I found an empty cove, made fast the launch, and walked on the black sand. The tide was high. The seaweed popped and slipped beneath my feet. The waves slapped up against the rocks.
I thought of sailing on, of my dear girls. Of cutlasses and compasses. Of ships.
I thought of classrooms, blackboards, and deportment lessons, Thursday afternoons. Of navigation charts, locked in my desk.
I thought of the book of fantastic tales I kept under the mattress - I confess it - of my bed.
I thought of her.
She sang.
I found her sitting in the shallows, with her green glittering tail coiled under her.
Miss Sunder-Sea, I said. My name, as you well know, is Captain Blackwater. I bowed.
She bowed to me. Captain, she said. Come closer. Come to me.
Her hair was red, her eyes were black, her skin was greyish-white. Her teeth were sharp, her smile was wide. She was so lovely, in my sight.
I told her, then, I knew why she had first sung me out of sleep.
I told her that I cared not one tiny whit.
Her breasts were small. Her nipples were bright green.
I've never known a land-thing quite like you, she said. Come with me, darling. Annabel. My sweet.
I made her some reply. I half suspect I said, not yet.
I know I said her name. Sunder, I said. Sunder. My Sunder-Sea.
She gave me a green pearl to take away, warm as her mouth. Her breath.
My boots are ruined. Wet, and caked with salt.
April 25th
We fought a short engagement with a vessel in a similar line of work. They thought, I do believe, that we would be an easy mark.
They were quite wrong.
I permitted dear Susan to take command – her boarding party was a fearsome sight. How bold my brave girls looked, their red sashes streaming out behind them in the breeze!
They did so well. I watched, and was not, truth to tell, required to do much else – tho I put some sundry bullets through the heads of ruffians who sought to board our ship.
I watched, and took my careful aim, and drank my rum. Once, I found myself required to expectorate a mouthful of the same right in the eyes of one bold rascal who came at me from behind. Twas Carvery who cut him down for me. She grows reckless, the longer and more fruitless grows our search. She yearns, I know. I know. I understand.
Still, our attackers did have a most impressive store of rum. And ale. And good Varonian wine.
Extra rum ration for all, and more molasses for the mixture cook insists on calling 'duff'.
The girls danced till they dropped, after Susan had had them scrub the decks and clean their pistols and their swords.
Come all you young sailors and listen to me, they sang. I'll sing you a song of a girl of the sea.
Last night was calm. I let a ladder over the side; climbed down until the water lapped my boots.
Her skin is warm.
I sang my girls' song in her ear, in my rough voice. She caught the tune.
April 27th
I told her of our search. She looked at me with her black eyes, and left.
Have I offended her?
Did she object to my sad tale?
Or to the bodies we threw overboard, after yesterday's set-to with those lacklustre lads from the Reckless Revenge? (Not so reckless next time, I warrant.)
Why, surely not. She planned to eat me, after all, when she first sang me out.
She told me so herself, tho - I confess - I knew it from the start.
We all have our indelicate desires.
Myself, I wish to lick the wet slit just where the green scales of her tail meet her soft belly. Lick it until she sings.
Sunder. I lick my lips, and taste the salt. Oh, Sunder-Sea.
May 1st
At last, we've found the vessel that we sought.
She brought it to us, trailing against the wind as if pulled by some strange Magnetic force. A spruce new clipper, carrying one particular young lady off towards a wedding.
I saw Sunder's sharp teeth and her red hair quick-swirling by the prow of the sea-captured ship. I let my crew believe that our Goldtown Port informant did indeed earn his reward, and more; that some quirk of the currents had used our quarry thus. Did they believe me? Well. Enough.
Our bosun Previsor is returned to us, not much the worse for wear for having spent six months recaptured by Polite Society.
Indeed, no sooner were we within hailing distance of her ship than she leapt overboard and swam to us, holding her favourite dagger in her teeth. She’d kept it all the time she’d been in durance vile, forced to return to needlework and smiling over tea. We never should have let her answer that summons back to Troville Bay – but all is well that ends well, as they say. Midshipwoman Carvery is particularly pleased to see her back, I note. I dare say that her feelings are returned.
Certain, bosun Previsor shows no signs of regret at being called away from her own wedding. The young man intended for her match, she says, could scarcely row a dinghy, much less slash a throat.
Carvery clasped her tight at that, I note.
I have done all I can, I think, for now.
I wear her pearl under my silk cravat. It glows, and seems to burn. She says that, should I swallow it, I will – how did she put it? Turn.
May 5th
She sings to me, and strokes my hair. I write this in the little launch, by moonlight and the last foul candle, smoking at my feet.
They’ll find it in the morning, empty, all shipshape.
Susan will make a fine Captain for my dear girls – I’ve told her so, in a note slipped beneath her cabin door. She’d to stop me, otherwise, I know. She would look at my love, and see her long sharp teeth, their sheen of grey, her strong claws and her fine eyes, as black as pitch.
I see them too. I know just what she is. For, after all, how many men have I sent tumbling down into the deep? How many times have I waded through blood, and smiled, and told my girls to aim a little higher, for the throat?
We lust for blood. She knows just what I am. And I am tired of my old human skin. I wish to see the palaces she tells me lie deeper than fathoms deep, lit by green fire.
Susan, I leave:
Oatmeal, four barrels.
Salted pork, eight barrels.
Pickled cabbage, nine barrels (noisome).
Pickled herring, two barrels (regrettable).
Water, twelve barrels.
Rum, four barrels.
A chest of gold and sundry precious things, hidden beneath the loose board in my cabin.
My sabre, my pistols, and my fine Varonian sword.
I will have better weapons, soon enough.
She sings. We kiss. I raise the pearl up to my lips.
Susan, the change was quick. I know the sea, now, and the sea knows me. I sing. My strong green tail curves underneath the boat, and I am gone, Susan, gone with my love.
Farewell.
Listen now, Susan, wake and hear. Call all the girls. It's ringing seven bells.
Mermaids are singing, now, beneath your ship.