Really need to blame @ryannorth for all my parenting successes. My six-year-old grabbed To Be or Not to Be off my bookshelf at random. She likes to show me all the murders. She asks me if things in daily life are "super rad." She wants a sword for Christmas so she can drop her old one and say "it sucks now." She made me do math in the car to find an alternate timeline. I have explained words like "debris" and "badass" to her. Yesterday we spent an hour fighting pirates together in choose-your -own-adventure format.
It's been two months since this started. Don't send help. It's awesome. Like totally awesome. Though the book is getting worn out.
The first mate gulped down his seventh swig of ale when Largo smacked his spyglass shut and turned with a swivel to nod at the poor sod.
Night had settled entirely and the seas fared calm and placid, no winds against them, nor so much to their favour, but no dangers lingered either, and the ship was anchored anyway, awaiting the captain’s orders. Only the old blunderbuss of a man slouched in his chair inside his lodgings, deep into his wine, waiting for time to pass.
Any other would have taken the title of El Borracho as an insult, but Captain Torres truly had transformed his ability for being top-heavy from dusk till dawn into a talent rarely witnessed. The Empire quivered everywhere before the sound of pirates’ dreadful names, but Captain Miguel “The Beard-Splitter” Torres accepted neither intimidation nor grandeur. He simply ravelled in his most cherished pleasure of life: the bosoms of women and the bottom of an empty nipperkin.
Though merit had to be given where merit was due, Largo recognized. After all, the true vocation for ale-binging of Captain Torres wasn’t so much what marvelled his crew, but how much more terrifying he seemed to become under the influence of his heavenly juice. The man could drown in a keg, deep into the filthiest part of Nassau, for he would still stand with a loud belch, take his pistols out and shoot straight into the eyes of some jackanapes looking to brawl. Largo had even seen it happen—more than once. No matter how much he drank, Captain Torres neither lost his balance nor his sight; he indulged in drinking merely for pleasure, and the worst to come about was the foul smell of ale and vomit from his cabin.
His passions for the flesh, however, were something entirely different, and most of the time, Largo found himself thinking he’d rather see the man indulge in heavy drinking every night than having him find yet another bob tail with frilly skirts somewhere in New Providence. However his penchant for drinking was truly something of otherworldly nature, his passion for any waddling gilflurt was in itself enough a vice that he’d manage to have his spyglass, compass and some money stolen by a few conniving too many in the past.
Largo knocked on the captain’s cabin’s door, heard him move about inside, feet dragging and a loud spit, and the captain pushed the door open. He didn’t even bear the fearsome appearance of a pirate one would expect, reason why Largo had chosen to take up the position of quartermaster with none other than Miguel Torres. Even the redcoats who came upon the semblance of El Borracho often thought him to be a mere gentleman of the Spanish Empire, never anticipating the blade of a cutlass and dutifully missing on the barrels of his pistols. What he was, was a great deceiver.
“Night’s settled,” Largo announced.
The captain coughed, yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Ready the crew,” he announced. “We’re heading shore. Now, let’s see about this treasure.”
Largo wiggled his eyebrows once the captain’s back turned to him and walked back outside to the main deck. He found Mulligrubs there, staring wilfully into the distant shore, of black rock upon black rock only—not a soul or hint of life in sight, just a giant blob of blackness hovering above the calmly undulating seas. Somewhere deep into that dark mass, a cove awaited their entrance.
“Captain’s ready to go ashore,” Largo informed.
Mulligrubs, paying homage to his name, growled like a dog and banged his fists on the wood with a semblance cast into the same boredom and impatience that had earned him quite the unsympathetic nickname. His slouching lips flapped in a manner that, to Largo’s eyes, somehow had none of the ease of a human, and he knew he was about to howl into the night, loud enough he’d wake up the sirens in the southern seas.
“Ready the cockboats!” His scream resonated about, bouncing across the vastness of empty nothing that was the salty air around the silent ocean, and glimmering eyes flickered in anticipation back at the first mate. “We’re going ashore, ye lobcocks! At last, let us see what lies in Lover’s Cove!”
A unison of cheers rose in the usual barks and grumbles of drunkards everywhere, and fists were lifted into the air as they began to grab the ropes and release the barges. Largo watched with hesitation still as the Captain walked out of his quarters, hat in place, adjusting the belt of his trousers with every step, and breathing in the air surrounding him. He had washed his face, his skin now tawny again, softly kissed by the redness of the sun reflected upon the crystalline mantle of the high seas, his eyes flashing black beneath the thick layer of lashes that always gave him the appearance of someone much younger than he truly was—unless he opened his mouth, revealing the line of yellow, putrid teeth that evidenced his drinking and smoking habits.
Captain Torres slapped a heavy hand on Largo’s shoulder and smiled, those yellow bones slipping through his slender lips in a victorious grin. “The first ones to reach Lover’s Cove, Largo,” he sang, as melodious as any a man about to lay in Eve’s privacy. “And a bunch of kencrackers will be the ones to make history, hah!”
Largo glanced away as the barges began to be lowered into the waters, ripples forming at their oscillation upon touching the soft mantle below, and though he snickered, he did not, in fact, find it amusing. From the beginning, Largo had been against entering Lover’s Cove, and though he was about to go ashore with the rest of the crew, he expected to take no part in what was about to happen.
There were many stories to Lover’s Cove, though pirates always preferred one version alone: centuries ago, God knew how long, a pair of lovers had escaped Europe upon their forbidden marriage, and took with them but two chests, their only riches. They found cover in a bare, empty island, made of black volcanic rock and albatrosses flying above, and there they starved—alone, but together. The two chests, however, remained behind, and what was in them was a tale of old: money, of course, many wanted to believe. But there was a different version of it: that the chests were a riddle. In one of them, the legend went, riches did indeed exist, but the other contained a plague. Upon opening the wrong one, disease would befall the intruder, sending him and all those who would touch it into a deep, agonizing death that would last for seven days and seven nights, riddled with scourges, vomiting blood, yellows eyes staring longingly at the skies and even their teeth falling off. So long and so harrowing it would be, the fool would find himself wishing, day and night, for the sweet embrace of death.
At times, Largo thought it unreasonable that he would believe that version of the tale, but it somehow made sense to him. Perhaps because of another tale regarding Lover’s Cove, though that one differed so greatly none came to an agreement about it. The bane of it, however, maintained that it was called Lover’s Cove not because two lovers had died in it, but because it was a place where many a temptation of the flesh was committed—a fate even the scheming Odysseus had met. Given the Captain’s inclinations, it didn’t surprise Largo he’d fear that version far more than any other.
Nobody had ever found Lover’s Cove that they knew, and the supposed location was but a mystery, though this time El Borracho was firm he had located the rock formation out the coast of Tortuga, according to an old map collected from a scheming and tricky swindling business in Nassau. Why it hadn’t been found mostly had to do with the inconsistencies of the legend, but there was another reason: that those who did, didn’t come back to tell the tale.
Though even that version seemed far too grim for Largo.
The cockboats drifted slowly across the seas. Above their heads, nothing but a mantle of stars laid out in full beauty, and ahead of them, under the nightly shadows, the black giant began to draw itself into a monstrous shape. After about fifteen minutes of rowing, an entrance sketched amidst the edges of the volcanic rock, and a passage appeared clearer the closer they got, the undulating fire of every torch casting dancing shadows, stone glimmering under the soft layer of seawater.
The barges were pulled carefully ashore, and Largo stayed behind for a while, minding the oars, as he watched every mate make their way through the opening. Murmurs of victory already spread about as they snickered at the thought, anticipating the large booty inside, though as he lay his feet on the black ground, Largo felt a shudder of unease. Something in the air, shifting about in a fast frequency, told him a warning none seemed to notice—least of all the Captain.
They made their way inside without much effort, no tight spaces nor tricky paths—as if it had been laid out for an easy walk—and found themselves inside a cove that glistened in silver all around. A hole poked through the ceiling, casting moonbeams inside, which fell directly upon two chests—old, rusty, and closed. It smelled of the sea, of mould, of old stone—but of something sweet too. It reminded Largo of the perfumes of wenches back in Nassau.
The Captain let out a laugh, turned back and cast a glimmering gaze of victory upon his men, and the happiness became something contagious. He took off his hat for a moment, performed a bow—his medallions, hung at the neck, clinking together like chimes—and placed it back on his tied-up black hairs. The men laughed in roars, but would not go forth unless the Captain ordered it.
Largo saw Captain Torres whispering something to Mulligrubs, and the cranky old first mate took his pistol out for a quick inspection. The sound of his cocking flintlock brought about the careful attention of the rest, their hands falling quickly to their cutlasses, watching as Captain and first mate alike inspected the mysterious silence of Lover’s Cove.
Largo stayed behind, careful; he stiffened when he thought he saw motion behind one of the rock formations some twenty feet to the left of one of the chests—a slight shape, pearly-white, dancing about. He even thought he heard a giggle, and for a moment doubted his sanity, though Largo couldn’t shake away the sense of unease the place cast upon him.
Suddenly, the Captain stopped, dropping his large hand on the first mate’s shoulder, and nodded at something; Mulligrubs followed, and the two encountered what Largo knew to be what he had seen. From behind the heavy stalagmite, a slender woman appeared. She wore nothing but a flowy white dress, an undergarment at that, that hovered seductively above the perfect shape of her body, and her breasts and waist seen through the flimsy fabric that danced in temptation around her, her long blonde hairs falling in heavy locks around her shoulders. But she wasn’t alone; another appeared: umber skin glowing beautifully under the moonlight, and red gown slipping from her shoulders, shaping her breasts in as much a temptation as the first one; and another, with fiery red hairs tied in complex tresses adorned with golden ringlets; and more, and more—about twenty women.
One for each man inside, Largo noted.
“What d’you reckon these fussocks be doin’ here, captain?” Mulligrubs grunted, pistol raised to the seductresses already.
The Captain removed his hat, and Largo saw his smile drawing itself with as much charm as he had seen it when he chased after other jades in New Providence. “Now, now, Mulligrubs,” he chanted. “I would assume this is their lair, and we must have entered their domain. Therefore, we must kindly ask permission.”
The blonde woman neared the captain, with a warming smile, reddened cheeks and glowing eyes of hunger, and touched his shoulder softly. “Right you are, Captain,” she sang, and her voice fluctuated like the melody of a charmed flute. “You want our treasure, we ask but one thing of you.”
Largo stiffened, watching either of them carefully, certain they had fallen into a trap, and given the tastes of the Captain and his men, about to never recover from it. He pushed the others aside, trying to reach the captain, but the woman was touching both his shoulders now, and the Captain danced in her arms like a regular tosspot, as if this time he could not control the wine in his bloodstream.
“Captain!” Largo yelled, but the man seemed entranced by the woman’s eyes, which glimmered like two torches in the night. All other women neared a man each, dancing around them as they became engulfed in charm by their slender bodies and seducing curves, female giggles emerging like the bewitching song of sirens. “Captain, we should reconsider—”
“Quit being such a pudding-head, Largo,” the Captain sang, with that drunkard’s tone he had known for years, submitted now to the dance of seduction that filled up the inside of the cove with that luscious scent. Sweet berries, a wench’s perfume, the song of any a wagtail Largo knew and stayed apart from. “Not such a hard price to pay for some treasure.”
Even Mulligrubs was smiling, his grunt and choleric self vanished entirely by the simple touch of a woman’s fingers. “Reckon’ we could use a little distraction,” he mused with a laugh. “Too many a day in the high seas surrounded by tallywags.”
One of the women neared Largo, but the beating of his heart told him quite the different song. He felt cold sweat pouring down and that smell made him nauseous; he gave a few steps back without even glancing at the two chests, figuring no booty was worth whatever tragedy was about to unfold at the expense of a man’s lust. But the woman drew closer, floating about like a spectral Jezebel, and her hands laid out in sandy-brown skin sought to touch Largo’s umber cheek with the charm of a witch. He made a gesture he hadn’t done in ages for nothing but the lack of need, and blessed himself.
The woman giggled. “I shan’t hurt you,” she said, and her voice lilted in an acute song that pierced Largo’s brain. Clothes then began to unfold from bodies; he saw men in ravenous fever pulling out their buckles and pants slapping the black ground beneath their feet as the women sat on a rock and spread their knees apart, unashamed, with a laugh; shirts ripped in a frenzy as their tender fingers touched the chests of the famished mates; dresses flowing about as breasts revealed themselves below the silvery pale light of the moon.
The woman made a swift gesture, nearly touching him, but Largo jumped back and evaded her hand—and ran outside. From behind, he heard the sound of rising giggles and laughs, and soon of grotesque moans and grunts, though he tried to block them out by covering his ears with his hands. He ran until the sounds were too distant to be heard, until the smell disappeared entirely, and as he gulped the fresh salty breeze, he realized he was about to throw up.
Time passed, far longer than what seemed normal. Largo sat on a rock and waited, waited until the men had consummated their long-awaited lustful passion at the hands of these land-sirens that brought about something terrible—of that, he was sure. He waited miserably, with a pounding heart, praying to God they had not befallen a treacherous trap, rethinking again the several different tales of Lover’s Cove he’d heard in his twelve years at the seas. Maybe I’ll seek a job with Rackham after all, Largo thought with a desperate pang of unease, reckon he won’t be so stupid.
It was night still when the men stumbled outside, though Largo was sure it was supposed to be morning. In the distance, the ship loomed by like a spectral projection of something unknown, the barges undulating peacefully in the silence Largo began to understand was far too unnatural. He couldn’t hear a single albatross, though he was certain black shapes flied in circles above the volcanic island.
They hobbled their way into the barges, staggering on their legs like drunkards after a night of filthy vices, their eyes glazed with a charm that he was sure wasn’t there before. Buckles clanked as they finished pulling up their pants, shirts ripped and dancing groggy dances of merry joy upon the satisfaction of Eve’s temptation, another night in the bosom of a beautiful jade, though Largo was positive these were cursed ones.
They carried the chests and dropped them inside the barges with cheers of joy and conquest. The Captain appeared at last, slapping his hands and balancing on his feet with difficulty, a sight so unusual Largo was certain something was off about El Borracho. He glanced quickly at Largo, who was stiffened on the stone, watching with dread the inebriated crew who celebrated the successful capture of the treasure of Lover’s Cove, unsuspicious that something tragic loomed above each and every one of them.
They said not a word to Largo, though he heard the spiteful mumbles from men who mocked his celibacy like a priest, this poor little Molly who rejected beautiful jades for the sake of God or some pudding-headed idiocy of the sort. Largo minded not; the trepidation from before was now a dormancy, and as the cockboats glided swiftly across the waters, rocking tenderly to the sweet embrace of the seas, he looked back at Lover’s Cove and saw the blonde woman sitting on a rock and gently blowing a kiss, but was unsure anyone else could see her at all. The sight shot a cold shudder up his spine, and Largo gulped.
They clambered back onto the ship, put the chests down upon the floors of the main deck, and in a circle of excitement, they watched as they gave the Captain the honours of being the first one to open the source of all their riches. It was as the lid of the first chest swung open that the sun began to rise in the horizon; Largo was certain it was rising in the West, and quivered at the thought.
Silence fell. The first chest was bare empty, nothing but rotten wood and a few critters crawling mindlessly inside. Full of rage, the Captain marched to the second chest and opened it. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t what he had expected. About twenty bottles of rum, scattered like gifts left there after a fat meal.
The crew was bewildered, yet somehow the sight of the rum calmed their spirits. Captain Torres growled, took his cutlass out to recklessly release blow after blow upon the foremast, yet nobody dared to stop him. Mulligrubs marched in circles, muttering growls of fury and spitting insults at the swindling wagtails that had seduced him into deceit. The others scratched their heads, unsure what to make of it.
With lips pursed in rage, Captain Torres snatched a bottle from the inside of the chest and smacked the lid close; he cast one paralyzing glare at his crew, as if the endless night of lustful tragedy had been their fault, and marched away into his quarters. Even from afar, everyone heard the door smack shut.
Mulligrubs opened the chest, took another bottle. “Might as well,” he screamed, and the bottle whirled nimbly in his hand as he inspected it. “Bloody fussocks.”
And so they drank; until the sun was high in the skies and their skin blistered with its scorching hot kiss and dryness of the wafting air, they drank; until they passed out on the deck floors and sang drunken songs of merriment, they drank; until they gurgled out the rum and vomited out of the ship after clanking bottle against bottle, or tumbler against tumbler, they drank themselves blind. And Largo watched.
Then, it happened.
Gino Bones was the first one to feel it, to wither in pain as he clutched to his stomach for every convulsion, eventually bringing about the violent spitting of blood through his chapped lips. John Balsam was next, screaming in pain as he scratched his skin so furiously thin threads of red began to sketch themselves, wider and wider, blotched in yellow and grey as his eye bulged at every bellow of paralyzing ache. Jackplank dragged himself through the deck as the colour of his skin left his semblance and was replaced by a ghostly pallor that painted the sickly image of a dying man. And one by one, the men began to fall ill.
For seven days, they withered in horrifying pain, as the two chests sat motionless in the middle of the main deck, waiting to be closed, all rum bottles gone, rolling about empty with every rocking motion of the ship, now adrift the same anchored spot of cursed ocean. Largo tended to their sickness to his best abilities, but he knew them to be doomed. When the scourges appeared on their bodies, rotten flesh casting about a putrid smell, a million critters erupting from beneath their loins and worms wiggling in their bloodstream to taste the meat of their prison, he knew there lied no hope to any of them, tainted by the wretchedness of Lover’s Cove after falling prey to its temptations.
Inside the Captain’s cabin, El Borracho withered as well, but refused to be tended to, frozen in sickness as much as in pride. Largo knocked on his door and heard the gurgling sound of something he could not describe nor anticipate, followed by his dragging footsteps across the boards and a deep growl of a devilish spit as he threw up. But he would not leave, would not dare to be seen so miserably, and expelled his quartermaster with many a howl before any attempt of going inside.
On the seventh night, they began to die. Gino Bones first, then John Balsam, and Jackplank—and all others followed. One by one, their rotting corpses, covered in scourges and open wounds, their broken fingernails with bits of flesh underneath after many a scratch, chapped lips and yellowish-grey skin, dull eyes with horror somehow engraved onto them, were thrown overboard. Largo wrapped them all in every cloth he could find, and when nought was left, he tore the sails apart and made shrouds of them to keep the disease contained, terrified he’d contract it.
When none was left, the Captain’s cabin went silent. Largo knocked on its door for a long time before daring to go inside, and found a grim picture he knew he’d never forget. On his bed, El Borracho lay with wide opened eyes, staring in bulging horror at the ceiling above, and on the floor, having slipped from his bony fingers, fell the dagger he’d used to try and mutilate himself free of the disease. His shirt was ripped open, and the sweat still dampened the sheets beneath him; on the grey skin of his chest, the scourges bubbled as if it contained a mass of vermin, in pulsating red, yellow and even faint hues of green, but they were slashed across so gruesomely blood painted near the entirety of his torso, dripping into puddles on the boards below. Largo picked the bloodied dagger from the floor with teary eyes and inspected the open wounds, where little critters danced, as if releasing themselves from an alien flesh prison, and tapped their tiny feet across the dead man.
Alone on a ghost ship, filled with wretched death and a curse, Largo shut the two chests, placed them inside a cockboat and lowered it into the waters. He paddled the barge hurriedly onto the rocky shores of Lover’s Cove, and looked back at the ship only once.
He carried the two chests back inside the cove, and suddenly he realized it was night again, though he was unsure a whole day had passed. Once put onto the ground side by side, Largo gave a step back and waited.
It didn’t take long for them to appear, all sirens who had condemned the men to wretched disease and foul death upon the seas and the treasures they had loved alike. Like temptresses still, a band of Jezebels sauntered in giggles as they waddled their hips—but would not dare touch Largo.
The blonde woman stood before them and jutted her chin in command—not a slight of seduction to her being. “You resisted us, Largo de la Cruz.” He did not think it strange that she would know his name; she glanced back over her shoulder, at the two chests. “And you gave back what is ours. Truly, you stand above the wickedness of the vile men you take for company.”
He thought about defending his mates, dead in scourges and vermin at the bottom of the sea, for it seemed sensible at least; but he asked a question instead: “What is to be of me? What curse will befall me? Will the plague eat my flesh?”
She smiled tenderly, but did not touch him; in fact, she seemed to avoid getting too close. “There is no curse for you, and certainly no plague, but a gift. Of a woman, with whom you will find company, fierceness and many an adventure. Perhaps even a new beginning.”
He frowned dubiously. “Company?”
She snickered. “Not a lover. A companion. You are no man of lovers, Largo de la Cruz.” She floated away with a laughter that rose and deafened him; flinching in pain, that foul sweet smell returning, Largo closed his eyes and covered his ears, and when he snapped them open again, the cove was empty and dark, and from the opening above, a single moonbeam cast light upon the two chests.
When he walked back outside, the ship was on fire.
Largo sailed his tiny barge across the ocean, praying to God the cursing woman was right, and left alone adrift the high seas he feared the wrath of an incoming storm or a tumbling wave. For six days, he lingered, under the scorching sun, blistering skin and chapped lips, starved and parched.
On the seventh day, he was fished out, half-awake. Largo, stuck in a haze, saw the black flag of skull and bone, and knew to be aboard Jack Rackham’s ship. Yet who looked down at him with worry was not the fearsome male pirate, but a woman equally fearsome with red locks, as fiery as the flames that had devoured the ship of Captain Torres.
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PS: Largo is actually a character from a work of mine, though this is totally unrelated to it, I just thought it would be cool to explain how tf he got to Anne Bonny.
