Death Whispers 39: What We Keep

Aug 14, 1722. Proud Dog Pub. Kingston, Jamaica. Needing to pay respect where it was sorely overdue…

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: Five days after Port Royal’s fall, Pedro returns to Kingston with more scars than answers. Archbinder Lyra Valtor explains the Bindweaver Curse is gone, but another is in its place. Something older, perhaps more sinister. Morowen Waxbend explains the truth that Pedro is bound to a mysterious being from deep inside the Etherwave. To survive, he must keep drinking his graveyard syrup, hunt down Dryden Storm, and shatter Storm’s amulet. Some debts can never be dodged, and fate may have chosen a role for Pedro he never wanted…

Aug 14, 1722. Proud Dog Pub. Kingston, Jamaica. Needing to pay respect where it was sorely overdue…

There’s a ritual for the living to remember the dead that’s as old as history. It didn’t require a priest or incense. Just nothing more than close companions, stories, and a bit of rum.

In our case, it meant two-thirds of the Silk Duchess’ crew filled the Proud Dog Pub, Kingston’s second-worst tavern. There we told stories of those we’d lost, making them grander with each retelling, until even heaven didn’t dare call us liars.

Hooded iron lanterns hung from stained wall hooks at tactical locations in the room. Their warm, orange flickering glow draped the air, showing every mar in the wooden walls, from stains to old blood.

A polished, dark wooden bar dominated one wall for the bartender to serve drinks on, and to shield the kitchen from unruly patrons. Round tables made from cast-off whiskey barrels dotted the wide open space like wooden islands in the dusky room. Chairs and patrons filled everywhere else.

Stories flowed like rum. Nothing was buried. But the names of the missing were a roll call. Elara led the charge as captain.

“To Levi Cresswell!” Elara called out.

Mugs were raised with a hearty cheer.

“To Felicity McCoy,” growled Skaldi, face decorated with a new splint over his nose and purpled bruise around one eye.

The crew roared again, louder now, sending the memories of our missing crew onward to glory.

So on it went. Each name was called in turn, escorted by cheers that shook the walls. Everyone took a turn calling the roll until there weren’t any names left. But I remembered one that wasn’t on the roster.

I glanced across the crowd at Lysander, always the reserved, quiet island in a storm. He nodded once, as if guessing the name I had in mind. Quietly, I shoved back my chair, lifting my mug high.

“To Señor Renwick Taggart! Who didn’t let death stop him from doing what’s right.”

Cheers shook the windows like thunder as glasses and mugs touched. After that, came more stories, but no more names. Nothing else. It was all that needed to be said, since anything else would’ve stained the memories.

The tavern emptied after that in small groups. Some went on to the next pub, others back to the Silk Duchess. I stepped out of the door onto the wooden footpath and a view of the bay to clear my head. Solemn thoughts chased after me along with the cheering echoes from the pub.

Outside, the sun hung low and orange, brushing warm lips against the horizon for the evening’s last kiss. Seagulls chattered to each other a block away at the pier, fighting over fish or whatever else had washed ashore.

A gentle salt breeze drifted in like wandering ghosts from the bay. It carried scents of old seaweed, but also notes of baked bread from the nearby baker, and cheap tobacco from dockworkers along the pier. A murmur of conversation drifted up from somewhere farther down Port Royal Street.

Life moved on in Kingston, carrying shadows in its wake.

I caught my reflection in the pub window, a smoke-gray silhouette surrounded by the brilliant yellow-red flames of sunset.

“Only some carry those shadows closer than others,” I mused.

Cheers from the crew still rang in my ears with too many memories when Elara found me outside. We stood quietly there together, her dragonfly-winged silhouette bathed in yellow-gold from the dying day.

I watched nearby vendors latch shutters and lock doors, calling their day done. Faint fiddle music from nearby danced through the air.

Elara took a long breath, folding her arms across herself. A silent second passed before she glanced at me, toying with the edge of her brown vest.

“After all we bled for, this is still happening.” It looked as if every word tasted bitter. Her wings fluttered in the half-light, a kaleidoscopic blur of color. “You’re still poisoned by a curse?”

Elara’s hands clenched into fists. I took a weary breath before I replied.

“Sadly.”

Her mouth drew into a tight, frustrated line at that. The late afternoon light cast hard shadows along her face. As if it sharpened the edge of who she was.

“I hate this,” she spat, glaring at the amber horizon like a challenge. “The Archbinder is sure, very sure, the graveyard syrup will keep you alive?”

“Yes, querida. Like I told you yesterday afternoon, Archbinder Valtor really does think it’ll work.” I sighed, pushing my hands into the pockets of my long coat. “Provided we find Dryden Storm and break that amulet he has.”

Elara clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth on frustration.

“Branch and leaf! I knew I should’ve killed that pirate when I had the chance.” She hissed out a low sigh. “There was just a lot happening at the time.”

“There’ll be other chances, querida. Storm threatened he’ll be coming for me.” I gestured at nothing with my tattooed right hand. “For this. Probably to cut my hand off.”

The look she shot me was pure edged steel, but it wasn’t aimed at me, and I knew it.

“How many more chances?” she snapped, almost a snarl. Then she looked away, rubbing her eyes with a free hand.

Words failed me. I glanced at the ground, painted in gray shadows by the failing day, and simply nodded in reply. With a light sigh, I clenched my fists inside my pockets for a moment.

“The Duchess will be seaworthy again in four days,” Elara said quietly, staring off into the air. “I’ve a warrant to ferry some cargo out to the Pearl Islands after that.”

I nodded again, feeling like I stood next to a jade-eyed volcano.

“Primrose has been learning to handle the alchemy shop,” I said casually. “In four days…”

“Asa mvur, this is insane!” She interrupted me, voice brittle as frustration flashed over her eyes. “You promised to be careful. No more stupid risks. No more refusing help.”

“Yes, querida. Lysander yelled the same thing…”

“But, goddess’ teeth, you’re still…”

Elara shook her head, loose brown hair shaking a little while her words turned into a full rant.

“You can’t always leave your shop when I take on a warrant for a job. You have the shop. I have the Duchess. Land and sea. I know that.”

Her hands clenched into fists, ready to attack something if she could.

“The idea of sailing off, then wondering if you’ll be alive when we return, just eats at me. It’s like we’ve all staked you out as bait for Storm.”

I sighed, not sure what to say. Elara was right from a certain point of view.

Could the Kingston city watch try to stand off Dryden Storm if he showed his face? Most likely. But could the watch know every single pirate from the Rising Eel? No, they couldn’t. Then there was the curse. If I didn’t shatter Storm’s amulet, I’d die or live drinking a potion keeping me one step ahead of death.

I wasn’t sure that was much of a life. It felt like waiting to die, even if Lyra discovered a better way to help other than the graveyard syrup.

For a long, painful moment, the reality of our lives loomed large. We stood together, but apart, in silence as if on opposite sides of a river.

“Maldita sea,” I swore low under my breath, eyes squeezed shut. “Elara? I…”

“No, asa mvur,” she interrupted me. “No words. We know the reality here.”

The sigh that fell out of her almost burned my soul.

“Words are sometimes no better than yesterday’s wind,” she said softly.

The world suddenly seemed more broken than I’d ever felt before. More ruined than the days of bloody brush wars on Afalon Isle, where we’d first met years ago. Elara was right, there wasn’t anything to say. Sometimes words do just cheapen a moment, no matter what they are.

But that didn’t mean there wasn’t something I could do.

I let the silence sail between us while the salt wind off the bay ruffled my dark hair. Then, I silently withdrew a leather-bound bundle of tan papers from inside my long coat. I held them out to her without preamble. She frowned, eyes darting from the bundle, to me, then back again.

“What’s this?”

I shrugged lightly.

“Not yesterday’s wind.”

She untied the cord, giving me a wary glance, unwrapping the bundle. Dry paper crinkled as she opened it, eyebrows reaching for her hairline the more she read.

“Pedro? This is the deed to your shop.”

“It is.” I gestured to the papers. “My idea was to add Primrose to the deed. This way, she has legal power to handle the shop when I’m not here. A business partner with me, provided she agrees to sign.”

The silence that followed was as fragile as a butterfly. I pressed on.

“So, with a little more training, I can leave her in charge of the shop since she’ll be my business partner. Then I could move some of my equipment and things aboard the Silk Duchess. We wouldn’t be safe. Privateering is a dangerous life. But we’d be where we could look out for each other.”

It took a moment for Elara to find her words, still staring at the deed. A ghost of a smile haunted her lips.

“No, this isn’t yesterday’s wind,” she replied. “Not perfect, but real. If Primrose signs, I’ll see your lab aboard the Duchess within the week.”

She tapped the deed against her fingers thoughtfully.

“Pedro? After we find Dryden Storm and shatter that damn amulet of his?” Elara asked quietly. “What then?”

I shrugged as she handed the deed back to me. Quietly, I folded it up, then tied it closed.

“We’ll land on that shore when we reach it.”

I slipped the deed back inside my long coat.

The evening wind picked up off the bay in short gusts. It rustled my long coat around me, brushing Elara’s shirt, vest, and hair. Strains of music—a soft, meaningful rumba—skipped out of the Proud Dog Pub and then around us.

I turned to face Elara, a smile painted over my lips, one hand behind my back. The other hand, my tattooed one, I held out between us, palm up at chest height.

“My captain? Shall we?”

Elara tilted her head a little to the side, jade eyes glimmering in the evening light. A wry smile lit her face as she reached out to rest her hand on mine.

I gently grasped her hand with mine, lifting slightly. Then I closed the space between us, stepping in time with the music and with her. The first smooth steps of a dance.

The rest?

Well, that’s another story.

As I’ve said many times, all stories have a beginning, middle, and an end. This is the end of Death Whispers of the Etherwave. For everyone reading, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It really has been a great ride, and I so hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I have. Like always, I dedicate this story to you, my readers.

But, make no mistake, this isn’t the end. No, not at all. Saying “the end” just isn’t right.

Instead, let’s go with, “I’ll see you at the horizon, for oh, the stories we’ll have to tell…”

As for Pedro and his companions? Have no fear, me hearties!

Pedro and the rest of his Privateer companions WILL return in…

Legends of the Privateers: The Tidebloom Covenant

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

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.