Death Whispers 12: Bruises, Tea, and A Bag of Hammers

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Following the suggestion of his old friend and mentor, Pedro and his allies sail for the town of Port Royal. Once there, they head to the humble home of the infamous sea hag of Port Royal, Morowen Waxbend. The reception was warmer, if not outright more dangerous, than they imagined. Now, with the threat gone, it’s time for tough questions, and perhaps tougher answers…

It took an hour before we scrounged up all the loose, singed shreds of Death Whispers. I thought the bits were trying to run from us. Elara said it was my imagination. I wasn’t convinced. Especially given how many times a piece would fly out of my fingers, then land as far under furniture as it could get.

The black blood ink splatters didn’t seem to matter. Morowen thought they added character to the room for reasons I didn’t want to know.

Once we were done, Morowen collected the stack, then stuffed it into a stained wooden bowl. Salt, soap, and a bottle of steaming purple liquid that smelled like anguish put an end to the sea hag’s concerns.

In the meantime, Elara and I worked to bring some order to the chaos we created. We returned the small breakfast table and surviving chairs back to where they came from. The one I used as a club and shield? It was beyond hope and probably needed last rites.

I recovered my tricorn hat from where it had landed in a corner, then dropped into a chair at the table. The growing bruise around my left eye throbbed like a drum. But just peacefully sitting still for a moment felt good.

Elara checked the room once more, then sat down across from me. The worst she had was bruises, but there was a cut or two along her right arm.

I dabbed at the bloody bruise beside my left eye with a damp handkerchief, then flinched from a stab of pain.

“Those fiends hit like a bag of hammers,” I complained softly, then touched the sore spot again. It didn’t feel any better than last time, so I felt around at my belt loops for a healing potion.

Morowen swatted my hands with a towel. Water boiled on the stove behind her.

“They aren’t fiends. You should’ve ducked, and you’ve a hard head. Now quit poking at it, and leave those potions alone,” she snapped at me with a scowl. “I’ve got better.”

Morowen turned her back to us, then rummaged through a set of overstocked cabinets near her stove. There were far too many stacks of bottles, dried herbs, and jars of orange mush I didn’t want to know about. She sorted through it all somehow with a practiced hand until she found what she wanted with a smirk.

“What do you mean they aren’t fiends?” Elara asked with a puzzled glance at me. “That’s what Archbinder Lyra Valtor said they were.”

Morowen rolled her eyes, as if she’d had this conversation a hundred times.

“That’s because, like all of you, she’s never really seen a fiend. Not a real one anyway,” Morowen explained while she closed the pair of cabinet doors. “No one has for about a century. When you do, you’ll know it.”

A jar filled with a white-gold cream was dropped in front of me. The hand written label read, ‘Slippery Witch Oil’. Morowen pointed at the bloody bruise and cut by my eye.

“Dab that on where it hit you,” Morowen said while she turned to the stove to check the boiling water. “Use it once a day. It’ll stop the swelling, and you’ll heal fast enough in a few days. Provided you quit letting things hit you there.” She waved a hand at us. “Keep the jar. I’ve got plenty.”

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously.

“Helpful,” Morowen replied dryly. “Coconut oil and witch hazel. My own recipe. Works better than a witch hazel or calendula tea compress.” Then she pointed at Elara’s cuts on her sword arm. “Works on cuts like that, too.”

Elara gave Morowen a flat, calculating look while she dabbed at her cuts with a handkerchief.

“I’ve enough debts. A potion will do fine.” The captain dug a potion out of a belt pouch, then took a long drink. The small cuts on her arm slowly knit.

Mororwen shook her head with a snort. “Sea god’s beard, you’re stubborn. Suit yourself. There're no favors owed for the cream, anyway.”

I opened the jar, then gently applied the cream as instructed. It stung, but to Morowen’s credit, the ache eased off right away, or at least was more bearable.

The sea hag shot the bubbling water on the stove a sideways glance while she wiped her hands on a nearby towel.

“Like I was saying,” she began, “Death Whispers are a type of golem. Rare and pretty nasty.” She folded the towel, then dropped it on the counter. “Also, golems aren’t what you’d call ‘gentle’. That’s why I won’t bother with ‘em, and especially not Death Whispers. Too many fragile things around here.”

I glanced over at her collection of preserved squirrels on a shelf. One winked at me. I found something else to look at.

“Makes perfect sense to me,” I replied dryly.

Elara narrowed her eyes at the sea hag. “But you said they were a type of golem. Aren’t all golems the same thing?”

Morowen unceremoniously plopped a wad of colorful tea leaves in a pot, then put them out of their misery with the hot water from the stove. Once their drowned ghosts rose with the steam and aroma, she brought the teapot, cups, and more to the table on a battered tin tray. The sea hag kicked broken bits of chair out of her path, then pulled over an intact chair for herself. A rusty iron bolt hit the floor in front of Sebastian. He gleefully pounced on the snack.

“Most are. These aren’t.” She poured some of the tea into a ceramic cup. A dubious, mist-like fog boiled over the side while she continued.

“You see, I call ‘em a ‘type’, because when you make a Whisper, you do more than plump ‘em up with arcane runes and Etherwave energy.”

Morowen set the pot down, then slid over a dish of brown, finger-length cookies. They were as hard as wood, but softened fast enough in the tea.

“You have to stuff in a bit more to make a Whisper,” she continued, snatching up a cookie for herself. “Emotion and pain from the writer is one, cause we all know they’ve got plenty to spare. It gives the Whispers their strength. Also, it lets ‘em travel between books, too, carrying whatever they grab.”

I nodded a little, remembering that Lyra Valtor suspected Death Whispers could trap a person in a book.

“You certainly know a lot about them,” Elara said dryly while she inspected her tea.

Morowen shot her a suspicious look at the comment.

I cleared my throat to break the tension, then sipped at the fog-laden tea. It was peppermint, with something else sweet in it. The taste and warmth drove away more of my aches.

“You make it sound like a summoned spirit,” I said, taking another sip.

“Oh, that’s because you have to kidnap a specter and stuff that in last.” Morowen sipped her tea casually. “Fiends can work, but a specter’s better. Like a specter of a murderer, assassin, or a pirate. Something desperate and angry. It just works better.”

I nearly spit my tea. Instead, I coughed. Elara sat still as stone from morbid shock. Thoughts of Captain Storm and his crew flew through my mind.

“What?” I sputtered.

Morowen slapped me on the back until my teeth wanted to rattle for mercy.

Zombies aside, who were fairly rare and mostly considered ‘living challenged’, undead like specters were unpredictable and dangerous at best. Certainly not safe by any means. I knew of several stories where a single specter had slipped aboard a ship or into a town, then relentlessly wiped out anything alive.

What Lyra Valtor said about my curse, and that I ‘consumed’ Death Whispers, came to mind. I had an ugly idea of what my curse was really swallowing. I sipped my tea, trying not to think too hard about what that meant. At least this explained why Elara’s ghost blade worked so well.

Morowen reached down to scratch Sebastian behind his horns and ears. He drooled happily at the attention. Across from me, Elara shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“You said it’s been decades since you’ve dealt with Death Whispers,” Elara said to Morowen, voice slightly tense. “You also mentioned the Codex Luminari. We found it in a ruin a day or so back. Death Whispers appeared right after.”

The sea hag looked back at her, lips in a tight line. All at once, the air felt thick, as it does before an approaching storm.

I’ve never figured out what put Elara and Morowen at odds. In Morowen’s case, she’s often at odds with everyone, like any other sea hag. But this always felt more personal. I was relieved it hadn’t come to blows yet.

Then Morowen slapped the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. Sebastian leaped to his feet, gargoyle wings spread, while he looked for a threat. Even the mist over the tea retreated for a moment. The sea hag glared off at nothing in the middle of the room.

“How many of those assassins do I have to drown, to get it through their heads, when I say ‘stop’, I mean it?” Morowen snarled. “Not go get some privateers to go do it for them!”

For a moment, I thought I heard thunder roll in the distance. It was probably my imagination. At least, I hoped it was my imagination.

I shook my head, then held up both hands.

“Wait,” I said firmly. “Yes, we’ve talked to the Brotherhood, but they didn’t send us after it. A bookseller in Kingston did.”

“Who?” Morowen demanded in a low tone and a predatory look.

Elara’s tense expression melted into a scowl.

“We’re not telling you that,” she replied in a clipped tone. “You’ll go terrify them like you did the Brotherhood. They don’t deserve that.”

“Now you listen to me,” Morowen snapped back, shaking a finger at Elara.

“Stop!” I interrupted, a little more harshly than I meant to. Both women turned a sharp glare at me. I hated to do that. At least they weren’t arguing with each other. I took a slow breath.

“This,” I waved a hand in the air between them, “whatever this is, isn’t helping. There are enough problems. We’re trying to help someone, and people have been hurt.” I picked up my tea, then took a sip, letting that sink in. Mostly, I wanted to steady my nerves. Yelling at a sea hag is an ugly way to die.

“Morowen,” I continued with a sigh, “let me start at the beginning before you tear off to murder anyone.”

I retold the events on San Andrés Island with the book, crabs, and Captain Storm. After that, I explained what we knew about my curse, the attack by the Death Whisper, Lyra Valtor, and more. I finished the tale with the ambush at Morowen’s home. Joshua Argall’s name was the only detail I left out. Elara added her own perspective through parts of the story, especially during the fight in the store.

The sea hag squinted suspiciously at the green tattoo-scars on my right hand.

“The Marquee Brotherhood wants nothing to do with that book,” I said, nervously running my fingers across my teacup. “But they were very clear that they believed you have a keen interest in the Codex.”

“What do you know, Morowen?” Elara asked quietly. “How bad is this?”

Morowen started to say something, but thought better of it. She drummed her fingers against the table.

“If were anyone but you two,” the sea hag began, “I’d leave their bodies at the bottom of the bay.” She shook her head slowly, then let out a deep sigh. “I want to talk about that,” she pointed at my cursed hand with a stern look, “but not yet.”

Morowen steepled her fingers and gave us a woeful smile.

“You could say I’ve a tie to that book.” The sea hag’s expression melted into a mix of memories, anger, and regret. “I helped write it. Well, most of it, including a lot of the notes on necromancy, with the former love of my life, Tristam Greenholm. At least,” she shrugged, “until he tried to kill me. Then I stuffed him blood, bone, and all inside the Codex with a curse.”

She took a casual sip of her tea with a sad smile.

“I suppose I’ve got my own story to tell. Have a cookie.”

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.