BLUE

Blue. Words. Water. Sea. Blue. Thick. Fog. Blue. Words. Break. Waves. Break. Climb. Fall. Sky. Clear. Blue. I don’t understand. Warm water. Break. Break. I break.

He is sitting on deck, just like any other night. Sitting on deck, on top of the bollards. In the sky is a strange light that is not black. It is a different colour. Sitting on the swaying waves. The warm wind in his face. His gaze lost on some immense sky. He lowers his eyes, and there they are. His hands. Those hands are his, even if sometimes they don’t look it, in that strange dissociation he sometimes feels towards his body. They’re big hands, strong and sturdy. With calluses. And black nails. Broad hands, stubby fingers. He gazes at them with pride. They’re not pretty. But he feels proud of them. He looks at his hands and ceases to see them. They do what they have to with ease. With the force of colliding jaws. Hands that are used to blood. To not hesitating. His thoughts lost on things he would like to tell if he had the words. This itching to relate, for some time now, like scabies. The itching doesn’t blind the sharpness of knowing what he’s missing. Until now, he’d always thought about what he had, not about what he didn’t have. A vital philosophy. But to relate he needs words. He doesn’t have them. To relate, he needs someone to listen. And that… That’s even more difficult to achieve. To relate, the swear-words and shanties on board are not enough. To listen… well, who cares about that?

It’s a strange feeling. Loneliness is a strange feeling. So strange. Loneliness up on deck. The never-ending shuffling. He hears the voices, the music, the uproar, the laughter, the shouts. The cradle-song of every day. But there’s something else he can’t quite make out. The wind. The wind can be heard, but not listened to. It’s like an in-breath, sometimes dry and sickly, other times soft and affectionate. He raises his head to sniff the air. His hair falls in front of his face, and he adjusts his hat. It’s night-time. He doesn’t need it, but he’s not in the habit of taking off his clothing. Like the others. The air is warm. His lapel beats against his chest. On his chest, the jerkin. Beats against it. The wind. On his shirt on his jerkin on his chest on his heart. The wind. He places a hand on his shirt to stop it flapping. His hand again, solid and convincing. Like the present moment you can’t get away from. The air carries the scent of a calm before the storm. Nothing good ever came out of too much calm. And he doesn’t just mean the sea. He means that unbridled feeling that fills him. That inability to settle. Perhaps it’s all because of not thinking, keeping busy stops you realizing how ephemeral everything is. That moment when people shout and stop breathing. That moment a leg or an arm is snapped off. Those moments when hunger and thirst come looking. That moment when life is not worth a penny. That’s how others treat you. The calm has the storm by the tail. Storms break masts, they’re much more dangerous than human beings. Perhaps not. Sea monsters lurk inside storms. He’s well aware every assault is preceded by a semblance of calm. A semblance of safety. He knows this because they watch the ships for a time, lulling them into a false sense of security, in order to turn up out of the blue, make a hit and run. When you’re up to no good, you always have to be more careful. It’s been ages since there was a scrap of innocence in those hands he places back on the bollards. A certain kind of innocence, at least. There’s another kind that lives on. It has to do with surprise. Like the first time he set eyes on those oceans. He never thought he would contemplate those waters. His skin would feel that heat. The stories on the wharf in London left a lot to be desired. That was all so long ago now. So long ago.

‘Boy, what the hell are you up to?’ He’s in the habit of running to the wharf. He’s in the habit of running away. He can’t bear this life as a foot-boy. He can’t bear being in the service of that lady, gentleman or whatever. That’s why, whenever he has the chance, he goes down to the wharf.

‘Just looking,’ he finally replies.

‘Carry on like that, and one day you’ll go missing. Either do something, or get the hell out of here.’ He thinks what it would be like to disappear. Just like his father. Who simply vanished one day at sea. It’s not that he wants to go after him, he couldn’t give a toss what happened to him, he’s the reason he has the life he does. He sees it more as an alternative that’s open to him. To leave. To a place that will swallow him up. That grey-backed sea where the unknown is hidden.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ the man doesn’t stop talking. His face is blackened. His sleeves are rolled up, despite the cold, and his arms are strong, they look enormous.

‘How come your arms are so big?’

‘From working, boy, from working. From being a man.’

Being a man. Working. That’s what he wants.

‘I also want to work and be a man.’

‘That’s good, boy. You’re just about old enough. But working at sea is pretty fucking awful,’ the man drops the rope and sits down next to him. ‘I was press-ganged.’

‘Press-ganged? What’s that?’

‘The press gang is sent out by our own dear Royal Navy. They take you without asking. Stuff you on board and put you to work. Neither your wife or mammy or daddy or children ever hears from you again. The navy needs manpower and doesn’t care where it finds it. That’s why you should scuttle off home now. Because if the press gang were to pass by and come across a boy like you lounging in the harbour, they’d soon have your bones in the hold.’

He didn’t mind.

‘Once there, you’d watch people die, catch dysentery, go hungry, get sun-burnt, gnash your teeth…’

‘What’s all this then?’ another voice joins the circle. ‘Aren’t you going to tell him the rest?’

‘What rest?’

‘About the waters and birds, fish and turtles. The gold and silver. The plantations. How to make a fortune and live far away from this fog and King.’

‘Don’t bring the King into it!’

‘I’m afraid I must!’

‘Stones have ears, you don’t want to end up in jail.’

He knows, despite his age, that insulting the King or taking his name in vain will land you in prison. At the very least. The argument continues. But he wants to know more about what it is that draws him.

‘What do you mean, gold and silver?’

One of the sailors lowers his voice:

‘Over them there seas, boy, there’s treasure and quantities of metal, the likes of which you’ve never seen. They travel by ship, they do, fatten up the members of that there royal family. But there comes a time, if you’re on board, you get to touch some of that material. Silks, tobacco, indigo. It all comes from the earth, but it’s at sea where the stuff accumulates, you can get your fingers on it. There are some who take great pleasure in making off with all that wealth.’

‘You mean stealing? How is that possible? At sea?’

The two sailors turn serious.

‘At sea, my boy, is where the greatest thefts you can imagine take place. A life or two is lost most of the time. At sea, there’s a silent warfare being waged under the sun and salt spray!’

‘That’s enough of your tales!’ he stands up. ‘We’ve work to do.’

He falls to thinking about those stories, those words, weighing up the dangers, dreaming of the immensity he imagines the sea to be. Smothered by his duties as a foot-boy, where he ceases to exist. There’s no greater danger than this.

The whistling wind brings him back to the calm of the night. His hands have grown since then. His arms too. That wharf in London is too long ago, in time and in his imagination. But it’s also part of his life-story. That story he doesn’t know how to tell. Perhaps there are things that are not meant to be told, or can only be told in a different, unshared language. A language that cannot be shared is no language at all. There he goes again. Language. The telling of it. A story. His own. Why does he have to convince himself it’s worth it? The warm wind says it is, he has to tell it. To talk of liberty. He wasn’t in the habit of thinking of others, but now he begins to comprehend the dimensions of immensity and lasting. In this deep-seated comprehension, so many things are anchored. In so many recent events. And others that are past. It’s difficult to know how far back to go in the telling of a story. How far back to turn the spyglass or sextant, how far back to measure. Perhaps he should drop a stone and take a sounding. He’ll have to tie it well, so it doesn’t come loose. Tie it well…

He lifts his face to the sky. A warm sky with infinite stars. Perhaps they’re the ones that colour the night in this way. That bluish colour. The colour of burning sulphur. Like the flame of an oil-lamp. That blue halo that embraces the red. He still can’t quite understand how different they look on this side of the world, when they’re supposed to be the same. Perhaps it’s because he senses a storm that he’s nervous. Feeling sensitive. Why pretend? It has nothing to with his mood. It’s something else. His mind and body. As if he’d suddenly realized he had them. As if he’d suddenly looked inwards, having always looked outwards, towards the horizon, the sea, glimpsing, moving, fighting, scuttling up and down ropes. Now, suddenly, he takes a look inwards. The funny thing is the origin of that look comes from outside. From out there. Like a mirror. That’s it. A mirror that scatters the sun’s reflections over the sea. The moon’s reflections. He closes his eyes. Closes his eyes and lets the soft warmth of night seep into his pores. The heat that makes his eyes itch during the day. The warmth of the water that first time. The first time. Will she be the same? Like the first time he dipped his feet in the warm, crystal-clear waters of the islands? The first time he felt the pleasant warmth of the dampness, after so many bites of the sea in the cold waters of the other side? Suddenly a leap to pull on the pinnace, the warm, unexpected sensation on his legs, his feet, enveloping his clothes and boots. He’d never felt anything like it. Tonight’s the first time he’s ever admitted so much. A new sensation. The warmth of water. The tickling sensation of fish pecking at his toes.

Someone comes up on deck. In the distance, the sinuous silhouette of New Providence. The sky. Shelter. Happiness to the brim. The known world. New Providence should not be approached from the south. Only for hiding. Like now. Where has all the known world got to? What will happen to it? Uncertain times that keep them at sea. In the dark, not a peep, nor a whisper. The waves barely notice the sloop’s motion. Nothing to do tonight except gaze at the stars and sea, have fun, make merry, for the simple reason you’re alive, just be glad you’re not on board a prison, the ship, this ship, is not a prison you can get washed up on, as they told him that first time on the wharf in London. Unlike all those men not wanting to get press-ganged, he had wanted to disappear. Wanted to spread his sails. Earth can be a prison as well. A prison, a shipwreck. For him, anywhere could be a prison. He’d been lucky enough to find one where he felt safe. A kind of home. Somewhere he could be. More or less. Just be.

‘Mark?’ the voice startles the heart in the chest in the jerkin in the shirt being tousled by the wind. He gazes down at his hands to conceal the feelings the night copies down in its single, illegible notebook. ‘What are you doing here, all on your own? There’s a party down below!’

‘A fucking great party!’ a deeper voice sounds further back. ‘Rackham doing his usual dancing. Go on, Anne, give us a dance!’ the shadow skips over to the other shadow, the first one, much smaller.

‘Hands off, you dog! Move over, or I’ll have you overboard!’ The shadow moves away. Every shadow knows not to mess with Anne. The silence lasts a few seconds, shadows suspended in the moonlight.

‘There’s a storm a-coming,’ the larger shadow confirms his intuition.

‘All the more reason to go down below, to join the party,’ Anne encourages him. ‘If there’s a storm, we’ll have plenty to do just holding on to them yards!’

‘I’m not one for parties, you know that, but I’ll come down – in a while,’ he doesn’t want to abandon this strange loneliness.

‘Are you sure? Some opportunities only come knocking once,’ Anne stares at him with an intensity he knows only too well, his hairs standing on end.

‘I don’t think they’ll come knocking at all on the door of a house of drunks,’ replies Mark, gazing out at the horizon because he doesn’t know where else to gaze without getting lost.

‘It’s up to you, my friend.’

‘Perhaps I’ll get lucky, and the opportunity will knock twice tonight,’ Mark feels breathless after coming out with this sentence, he daren’t look Anne in the face, but he’s sure she’s surprised, her eyebrows raised the way only she knows how.

‘As your lordship pleases,’ Anne is good at recovering from surprises. She’s always been good at close quarters. In fighting and all the rest. Mark is only good at fighting. So he prefers not to watch her leave in the other shadow’s company. He’d be too tempted to follow after them. He knows he needs to think before doing anything. Think the whole night through. For as long as his body can manage.

Mark has always preferred to keep quiet. He was taught to do so by his mother.

‘No telling grandma, got it, Mark? No telling grandma, OK, Mark?’

Understood. Got it. All the way. Keeping quiet was the best strategy. He’d once felt the need to tell his story, and it hadn’t gone well. It hadn’t been worth the trouble. Now would be the same. No. He’d make sure it wasn’t. All this was whirling around his head when it finally happened. Like a sign. Except that Mark doesn’t believe in signs or in heaven. He only believes in the sky of New Providence. A real place, harsh and sometimes wonderful. Intensely real. And yet coincidences do sometimes happen.

She had caught his attention. No doubt about it. There were other women, but none like her. He lowered the brim of his hat, the best way to keep a lookout. The most cunning way. Just his eyes a line. A line between the brim of his hat and the glass of rum. He didn’t much like drinking. But it was the best way to pass unnoticed. To keep an eye out. Lines and lines. That way, he could read.

She wasn’t like the others. She had a wild look. Her clothes sat on her well, even though they were a bit tattered. The way she walked. With confidence. As if she owned the world. But then again perhaps it wasn’t she who caught his attention in the beginning. It was the way the others looked at her. They all carried on talking, making an uproar, drinking, but he didn’t miss a trick. All his senses on high alert. That was something you needed in battle. Something in the air. He tilted his mug to one side of his mouth and murmured to the man next to him:

‘Who’s that?’ he knew he didn’t need to say any more. This much confirmed his theory.

‘That’s Bonny, Anne. Never heard of her?’

Mark shakes his head.

‘She’s a right wild one, she is. Careful what things you go whispering in her ear.’

‘No need to worry,’ and Mark moves his mug back to his mouth.

On the naked line of the horizon, he keeps watch. Sees.

‘A jug, if you please!’ she shouts in harsh, songful tones.

‘What’s the problem, Anne? Where did you leave Calico, did he fall down drunk somewhere along the way?’ the tavern-keeper lets out a guffaw.

‘Go ask his prick, that’s the only thing that stays stuck to him all day long. Or did you think it was his trousers?’

‘Certainly not, Anne,’ the tavern-keeper’s guffaw has been cut short, ‘we all know there’s no messing with you.’

Anne leaps on to the counter.

‘Some days there is, and some days there ain’t, like wind in the sails,’ and the way she slips her hand under her arm, feeling the weight of the blunderbuss on her sword belt, it’s clear today there isn’t.

The uproar continues, but he wants to draw out the words in her mouth. He watches her move, quick and nimble, clutching the jug, constantly feeling under her chest, he’s sure that skirt is hiding a dagger. A woman who’s openly armed is not a common sight.

Mark loses himself in the outline of that body with great interest. He’d like to imagine that’s all it is. There are lots of women in the tavern. More than you might think. Mark smiles with the mug on his mouth. He raises an eyebrow, and that must be what disrupts the line hiding him beneath his hat.

‘Now, who do we have here?’ Anne fixes her eyes on the core of his look.

Mark stares back at her. He doesn’t like being the centre of attention, but nor is he afraid.

‘This would be Mark,’ it seems the informant next to him works both ways.

‘Mark what?’ Anne is getting closer.

‘Mark Read,’ he replies.

‘And who might you be, Mark Read? You get here with our illustrious governor?’ Anne props her leg on the stool right in front of Mark, her knee grazing his nose.

‘We did almost meet, but I think he got held up on account of carding that there wig of his.’ Anne stares at him for a moment, and he can’t tell whether she’s going to turn around, whether there’s distrust, suspicion, sympathy or what in that gaze of hers. He doesn’t want to reveal any feelings. Anne carries on fixing him with her eyes. Unexpectedly, she then lets out a guffaw and lifts her leg down off the stool.

‘Clever!’ she laughs. ‘You don’t find that too often in these here parts.’

‘Said the lady from New Carolina, pardon me for speaking.’

Mark’s eyes flash to the right. It was a soft remark, but she’s heard it as well. The girl is wearing a flowery skirt and tight bodice. He knows her. She’s been around for several days.

‘What’s that?’ Anne goes up to her. ‘Lady from New Carolina?’ she’s getting closer all the time. ‘Lady?’ every step she takes, the girl gets smaller. ‘You’d know all about ladies,’ Anne moves her hand to her waist and pulls out a dagger. Silence has descended on the tavern. Everyone is watching. ‘Some drown, you might say. Married to some layabout to help papa with his finances. Others spread their legs and keep popping out kids,’ Anne brandishes the knife slowly. ‘What can I tell you about them, my turtledove? Others go in for a nice, respectable beating,’ the girl’s face is growing paler all the time. ‘They all, all them ladies, are very well brought up. They know exactly when to keep quiet and never, never to answer back,’ the knife is on the girl’s cheek. ‘Do you think I’m one of those?’ Anne’s voice reverberates through the tavern.

‘Enough, Anne Bonny!’ a full voice from above breaks the tension. Anne’s knife doesn’t move, nor does she turn her head, she keeps her eyes on the girl. ‘Don’t spoil the girl for me. Let her be, she’s just a loudmouth.’

Anne straightens up, ready to spring, gradually withdraws, replacing the dagger. Mark carefully scrutinizes her actions. Everything in that visual line moves quickly, except Anne. She goes slowly. With the ability to bring everything to a close. The girl hasn’t got over her fright. A couple of other young women come over to take her arm. They lead her out of there, past Mark, muttering under their breath:

‘It’s all right, darling, it’s over now… how can a beast like that call herself a woman? It’s just not natural.’

Anne turns towards the voice talking from up above.

‘Ladies, you see. It doesn’t take much even for whores to learn how to behave a little fearfully,’ she gestures with her hat. ‘Where’s it all going to end, Madame Ebony?’

Mark turns his head. There she is. Dressed in that turquoise suit he likes so much. Madame Ebony’s implacable look. His own Madame Ebony.

‘Let’s not get on to the subject of courage, Anne Bonny. You still have much to learn about that. Let it be. This silence is unhealthy, don’t you people have anything to shout about?’ the noise gradually returns, some start singing. Madame Ebony looks at the girl. ‘We’ll talk,’ she says without moving her lips. Then she notices him. ‘Look at her,’ she says, ‘look at her,’ and winks. Mark turns his head to catch sight of Anne leaving the tavern. He still doesn’t understand what this look of Madame Ebony’s is going to mean.

New Providence is the place. The place where everybody has to come. Where there are good taverns, good places to splash out money, places to have a good time. Everybody who’s anybody is there. It has that magnificent wharf between the small and the main islands, where boats can find shelter after all those tortuous, dangerous, fun-packed journeys. The wharf is also full of taverns and the stench of piled-up rubbish, songs from mid-afternoon onwards, bodies laden with alcohol and salt spray sleeping on the sand. But things are changing. Time passes slowly in this strange impasse nobody quite understands. It’s an ill-defined interlude that will soon be defined. As soon as the money runs out. And then what are they going to do – become farmers? Nice one. He doesn’t like all this inactivity. He never has. That’s why he visits the tavern, a place that’s still alive despite the strange times they live in. He knows plenty of people, but he prefers to stay alone. The door’s open, Anne is sitting outside, flushed cheeks, laughing with her mouth open wide. She appears to be in a better mood today. Or it might be the rum. Her green eyes glisten like two emeralds, her hair cascades over her shoulders whenever she flings her head back and laughs out loud. Mark goes in and sits down somewhere discreet. Music bounces off the walls. There’s a couple playing next to the counter where the liquor is served. Their songs are merry, they talk of the sea and women.

Mark orders up a tankard. The girl from the other day is trying to avoid Anne. But the tavern isn’t that large. And at some point she has no choice but to pass next to her.

‘Come on, darling, give us a dance!’ Anne grabs her by the waist. The girl struggles to get away. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still annoyed about the other day!’ Anne pulls her closer. ‘Come here!’ and she suddenly plants a kiss smack on her lips, to the general amusement. The girl keeps on squirming, but Anne won’t let go.

Mark can’t look. He doesn’t know what the matter is. He feels uneasy. He’s seen men’s guts, arms cut off, women screaming, children crying, a war, a vast, uncharted sea… but feels disturbed by that kiss and looks away. He tries to concentrate on the background noise, he has an amazing ability to push everything out and concentrate on one thing alone, as when he’s in battle and has to focus only on the enemy’s movements, hear the swish of swords that could get close to our body, but not lose sight of the body in front. One. Two. However many there may be.

And yet he can’t bring himself to dwell on that kiss. He feels a stab inside his heart. And notices how it sinks deeper when he hears Anne’s voice close to him, speaking:

‘Dance with me.’

‘I’m not in the habit of dancing,’ he pulls his hat down over his eyes.

‘Well, give it a try. Go on, dance with me.’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘Then sit with me.’

‘You sit down.’

‘I’d like you to know you won’t convince me so easily the next time. I’m not one of those women who do whatever men tell them.’

‘As you wish.’

‘As I wish then,’ and Anne sits down on top of his knees. Mark remains stock-still, he doesn’t know how to react. He can discern her scent among all the infected smells that surround him, his own first among them. Her gentle weight on top of his legs. The skirt and that ill-tied bodice. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on the distance.

‘Madame Ebony told me all about you,’ she seems very close when she talks to him. He doesn’t want to look in her eyes. So he doesn’t. It occurs to him he needs a wash.

‘I doubt it.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘I don’t think Madame Ebony would talk about me or anyone.’

‘Not to you men, but I’m a woman, and you know what they say, we like to gossip.’

‘But neither you nor Madame Ebony are that kind of woman.’

‘And may I know what kind of woman that is?’ Mark stops for a moment, disturbed by this question he’s never been able to answer. He remains silent.

‘So you’re well acquainted with Madame Ebony, are you?’ there’s a touch of bitterness in Anne’s words.

‘Better than I am with you.’

Anne is quiet for a moment and takes a swig.

‘That could change,’ she pauses, ‘… Mark.’

Mark peeps through the blue line of his eyes and takes a swig from his mug. Anne stands up, causing his eyes to dance all over the tavern. When she leaves, Mark understands what darkness is.

It may be in search of light that he goes up to see Madame Ebony. Either that, or just to confirm the fact he stinks. Madame Ebony has all kinds of herbs that make you smell nice, feel nice.

‘Well, well, Mark Read,’ she likes to use his full name, especially when she’s teasing him. ‘Long time, no see.’

‘Madame Ebony,’ Mark takes off his hat.

‘Sit down, I’m not going to ask what you came for.’

This woman never ceases to amaze him. How does she know, how does she sense, so many things? Perhaps it can all be put down to the fact that he doesn’t notice certain details. He never learned when he was young, and now it’s too late. Or maybe not, who can say?

‘You want to find out all about her, don’t you?’ Madame Ebony stares at him.

‘How did you know?’

‘I’ve seen the way you gaze at her. Just bear in mind I may not be the only one who’s noticed. Let’s leave it at that for now.’

Mark realizes, when Madame Ebony is not in the mood for talking, the only thing to do is to leave her alone with her thoughts. So he stands up, puts his hat on and gets ready to go out.

‘Just a moment,’ she says, stretching out her hand, ‘at least take one of the things you came for,’ in which there is a jar of aromatic oil.

Mark takes it and turns around without asking any more questions. He doesn’t want to look even more stupid. He hides the surprise in his pocket and walks out of the door.

‘I can’t take any more, shipmate.’

Lots of bundles stand out against the sand. The bonfire is lit. The bonfire gives a spectral glow to swarthy faces darkened by the sun and salt spray.

Mark has lost the line of his look. His shirt beats against his chest in the wind. He is aware of the conversation, but thinks about something else. About the words he can hear. About gestures. About Anne’s smell. He still can’t go back to that moment. He doesn’t even want to imagine it. He doesn’t want to imagine what those lips, that kiss, are like. Perhaps it’s better to listen to the voices around the fire, to change the subject, vision, horizon. There are more things to life than Anne. Things to worry about.

‘Were Blackbeard still alive, he would tell us a different story!’

Blackbeard. The magic word. The dark legend. The pride of those who sailed with him. He was dead, but still alive. Mark had never set eyes on him, but he knew all about the legend. The fire in his beard, the fierce look, his agonizing death over in the Carolinas. The Carolinas. Back to Anne. It’s not good. He should do away with that train of thought. John Davies and Brown carry on talking.

‘I’ve heard it said Calico’s preparing a new crew.’ Mark takes his eyes off the sparks.

‘Oh, really?’ he asks.

‘That’s what I heard. But I can’t say if it’s certain. You need to have eagle eyes in these parts. In times like these, there’s no way of knowing what the next trick’ll be.’

‘In them old days, the folks from the navy were a little bit more ingenious,’ Brown laughs, his white teeth impaled on the light of a flame.

‘They were indeed! Ever since that wretch Rogers turned up, there’s been no peace. I’d like to string him up, I would!’ There’s no stopping John when Rogers is brought into the conversation. He obviously is not enjoying the situation.

‘When that soft-hearted Maynard came here, Teach, Blackbeard, swore to show them no mercy, and we ought to do the same with this one here.’

‘Aye, that’s right, but we have to be more careful. Don’t forget that Teach died, old man. Maynard, lily-livered as he may seem, had a fine ship and a large bevy of men concealed below deck, all armed to the teeth, waiting for a boarding they knew we would fight tooth and nail to resist.’

Any old excuse will do to talk about Teach. Mark listens because he likes these stories, even the ones he’s heard a thousand times. The others swear out loud as they recall his feats and misadventures, they clap and laugh whenever the story requires.

‘I got real close to Blackbeard,’ there’s no mistaking the voice that’s sidled alongside him.

‘Did you now?’ Mark turns around to look Anne in the face, even though he finds it nigh impossible to sustain her fiery gaze.

‘During the blockade of Charleston. I lived in the city back then,’ Mark doesn’t know what to say. ‘Folks are right to say those were the hardest days in our history. Nothing came in or went out by sea, there were shots and fires breaking out, attacks all the time, assaults, death and rape.’

‘Were you afraid?’ Mark finally brings himself to say something.

‘No. That’s what made me understand. I was never afraid. I’d lived it all before. I’d gone through it all in the four walls of my home, that prison with its golden bars. I realized what it meant as a result of those savage acts. That’s what made me see it all more clearly.’

‘See what?’

‘That, whatever happened, however many lives I had to mow down along the way, I had to be free,’ Anne stares at him.

‘Free, in what sense?’

‘That’s enough for now. Perhaps another time. But let me tell you I don’t like sharing my secrets. Men turn our stories into mysteries of their own.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I imagined as much.’

‘It’s a good night for telling stories, why don’t you tell me yours now?’

‘Another day perhaps. Or else never,’ and she slips away as the other voices continue and Mark takes a while to hear them again, all his senses are in confusion. Anne has no idea how well he understands her. He was a prisoner as well. Not once, but often, in an invisible cage.

‘I blame the King, I shit on his existence!’ Brown laughs again. ‘All that stuff about an armistice. In the end, what they want is for us to lap up the biscuit and wash it down with salt water. You don’t know what I’d give to extract his intestines like the dirty dog he is!’

The others’ words, as they argue, penetrate his thoughts. The King. His own cage. One of them. A king. What for? To make war. To give orders and silence mouths. To send people off to die. He can understand Brown. If you’re going to die, do it your own way. Brown escaped, he got his freedom, but he still remembers the stories of all those who stayed behind. The words of his father discussing hell on earth. Only his father didn’t really know what hell was, that was something invented by monks and priests. At least, that’s what Brown said when he was under the influence, and Mark thought more and more about big changes in life. How much better one was away from the King, as far away as possible. Here, no one had been slung in jail for shitting on the King. He knows what it is to fight for a king and want to see him dead. Though, of course, he wasn’t really fighting for the King, like all the others. He realized that now. It was an excuse that was generally accepted. They were fighting for themselves. For life itself. Their own, and nobody else’s. That’s what Anne meant. And yet it was in that life-or-death struggle that he’d lost himself for what he hoped was the first and last time.

The first time he saw Fleming, he’d just joined the regiment. The cavalry regiment. The pay was better there. He was searching for a better place to be after too many fights in the mud and mist. He was good with a sword and sabre, and no one could beat him in hand-to-hand combat, but there was more money in the cavalry, and the workload was lighter. He’d even received a medal. There wasn’t much chance of a promotion, they went to people who came from the right family. Which wasn’t his case. So he decided to try his luck on horseback.

Fleming was already in the cavalry. He offered him his hand:

‘Welcome, my friend.’

‘Mark Read.’

‘John Fleming.’

The memory of that day is mixed with the scent of horses. There’s none of that at sea. The hands, however, are the same.

‘Let’s go and see your horse,’ he says with a smile, something strange in the midst of warfare. Perhaps that was what caught his attention.

There are lots of new faces in the barracks. Mark Read is shy and keeps to himself. To start with, there are jokes, pranks, attempts… but they quickly learn to respect him. When it comes to battle, Mark Read is the most disciplined man there is. The nimblest, he’s as strong as an ox. No one is capable of getting up as early as he does. He never closes his eyes when he’s on watch. He can endure the cold and the rain like nobody else.

‘You’re made of a different mettle,’ says a colleague. He has no idea how right he is.

Mark quickly learns how to control his horse. He has the most amazing ability to learn.

But the most surprising thing about Mark Read is seeing him in battle. Skilful with his sword, the horse in front, never a moment’s hesitation. On the ground, lying on his back, in the mud. He forces a way through with the intensity of a thunderstorm, he knows when to attack and when to hold back. Sometimes he looks like wickerwork, others like the hardwood of an oak tree.

‘Come on, up you get,’ he offers Fleming a hand, while brandishing his sword with the others. From all around come the sounds of clashing metal.

‘You saved my life again, Read,’ he says.

They drop back until reaching the campaign tents, the place where the soldiers gather when the battle’s over in that grey war in which no one knows who’s winning, all you can do is keep an eye out during the fighting and move forwards between bodies to meet the one bearing down on top of you.

‘Wait! You’re wounded!’ there’s blood on Read’s trouser leg.

‘No. Not to worry, it’s someone else’s,’ that happens quite a lot. Blood without an owner gets smothered all over your clothes. Wounds leave a mark whenever they’re inflicted. But that’s not the case today. Even if Read can recall the brushes of swords against his skin. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry,’ he tries to calm Fleming down.

Fleming carries on staring at him in distrust.

‘Do you think, if I had a wound oozing blood, I wouldn’t notice? The cold can dampen your senses, but not that much,’ laughs Read.

Fleming joins him.

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I’m going to wash if I can find some water. You check how many losses we’ve sustained.’

He can still see Fleming turning around and waving goodbye. His thoughts confused in all that multitude. So many people about, or what’s left of them. He places his hand on his trousers and can feel the blood. He turns to find a secluded spot where he can check what’s happened. In war, not everything is blood.

At night, in the barracks, the conversations follow their course. He prefers to chat with Fleming. He has a certain happiness, a certain innocence, that Mark has lost. His innocence is something else.

‘I’m fighting for my country,’ remarks Fleming one day.

‘Your country? What do you owe your country?’

‘I owe it… who I am,’ Fleming replies.

‘If who you are means going hungry and getting covered in mud… then I suppose I owe it the same.’

‘What do you mean? It’s not right for someone in the cavalry to come out with such ideas.’

‘I’m just saying the only thing that keeps me here is the wretched salary we get paid, and the chance to do something for myself.’

‘I’m surprised you can be such a good soldier, with ideas like that.’

‘There’s no greater incentive to fight than holding on to your own life and freedom.’

‘That’s the whole point. Our country is our way of life, our freedom as a people.’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong. Our way of life does not exist. All we do is defend the welfare of the rich. Of the King and his bedfellows. I know that very well. But I don’t mind because, fighting like this, I’m also defending my right to decide, to move about, to form part of something.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to reach an agreement,’ if there was something you could say about Fleming, it was that he didn’t brook an argument. ‘But I won’t let it affect our friendship.’

‘Too right.’

Mark falls silent, wondering whether ‘friendship’ is a suitable word, given the circumstances.

He can’t say how he fell to thinking about the war, about Fleming and blood. The cold of Flanders rushes into his chest again, just for a second, and he has to close his eyes so he can return to the deck of the sloop, remember that’s all in the past. Not the blood, but the rest of it. His body that bears the marks of what he’s lived through. The night remains in that sluggish calm. He rubs his eyes, which have started to itch from so much staring into blackness. He feels his skin covered in salt, grime, layers of salty water. His skin open in red colours, in the blue of night. Marked by the sun. But now it’s night-time. His face has endured the intense cold of winter as well. When he learned to duck down and show himself when the time was right. Perhaps he senses a challenge today, something from his past that has returned and is afraid to end up like the others. Mark Read is afraid. How is this possible? Well, he is. Because under his shirt, under his jerkin, a living organ continues to beat. This is what stops him being overwhelmed by others’ expectations. This is what made him, during those strange days in New Providence, take a decision. Neither he, nor any of the others, were going to be able to go to bed at nightfall and rise again at the crack of dawn. Become good farmers. Plough the earth. Remain on land. There was no way they could do this. Remain on land, feel it turning on its axis, and not be able to ride its back. Its back, that is the sea.

That night, like this one, the moon was full. Walking over the sand of the beach, Mark harbours a hope in his chest. He believes, when you have finally discovered what fills your life, there’s no turning back, no anchor or rudder that will stop you reaching your destination. He can’t just sit on the shore, await the jetsam of a shipwreck, as so many do. He needs to go after it, to fight for it, to feel the salt spray in his face. He cannot bear the stench of seaweed on the sand, he dreams of careening the boat. It’s hard work. But this is what his body requires. He wonders why he can’t take such decisions when it comes to other things his body requires. He feels a strange sense of anxiety he cannot live with. He has to think about something else, he has to divert those thoughts any which way he can. Recently money has been on the short side. He wanted to see Madame Ebony, but didn’t have the courage, he doesn’t want to confront what’s happened. But he wants to see her above all else. There is, in his interior, a cross between creating a distance and staying close. He is aware of the danger. That’s the effect danger has. He’d like to run, but he doesn’t. And yet he can’t bring himself to fight either. He’s lost in this situation.

Through the tavern window, he catches sight of Anne’s indomitable hair, and his heart starts beating fast. He knew she’d be there, of course. He’d been expecting this. He’d been on the lookout. He arrives and sits down next to the door. He likes to see and not be seen.

‘Well, blow me down with a feather! What lair have you been lurking in that we only catch sight of you in this here dive, and in this particular corner?’ Anne comes over.

He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t want to interpret her gestures and words. Everything must follow its linear course, just like the horizon. Only Mark is unaware the horizon is actually a curve. He pulls down the brim of his hat.

‘I’m here now.’

‘You don’t say much. That’s a good virtue in a man,’ Anne sits down on a stool next to him. ‘You men are all a bunch of bastards, agreed?’

‘Possibly,’ she’s obviously trying to provoke him.

‘Not possibly, you are.’

Mark lifts an eye over the line of the horizon.

‘Jack too?’ he wants to see her face. To read her expression. If only he could read.

Anne is quiet for a moment.

‘Jack’s a good guy,’ she suddenly lets out a guffaw, ‘for someone who’s a pirate!’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Oh, really? And what have you heard? The islands are crisscrossed by many winds and many currents.’

‘That.’

‘What?’

‘That he’s a good guy. What happened to Vane.’

Mark knew about Vane, not just from hearsay. He’d been there. But he and Jack had never had much of a relationship. Not until the mutiny, at least.

‘I see. What happened to Vane. Vane isn’t just a bastard. He’s off his head. I know plenty of both sorts. I hope they screw him alive. He deserves a nice disease down in his privates. To die stiff as a dog!’

‘I see you’re fond of him.’

‘Less of your lip, boy. Vane is a vandal. The crew picked Jack.’

‘And him? I hear he’s picking a crew right now?’ Anne looks at him with distrust.

‘Go and talk to him. He’s over there,’ and she gestures towards a man with a pointy nose, standing with his back to them. Jack is wearing a brightly coloured shirt, calico trousers above his ankles and buckled shoes. He likes to wear a hat as well, though now it’s resting on the table. Mark looks back at Anne, who takes a swig from her mug. She smells of alcohol, but hasn’t lost that sweet scent. He still hasn’t washed.

‘I’m not a man of many words,’ they seem to have gone back to the beginning of the conversation. ‘I prefer to listen.’

‘Here we go again. Well, if you like stories so much, I’ll tell you mine one day.’

‘The way you tell Jack?’ Mark can’t help feeling an itch in his chest that makes him want to know what’s going on between them.

‘Either you leave Jack out of this, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’

Mark falls silent.

‘I don’t belong to Jack. Or anybody. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Mark feels a little ashamed, he would like to say sorry, but can’t.

‘Jack can do what the fuck he likes, and I do the same. Jack’s one of the few men to understand this.’

‘It’s not so difficult,’ Mark gives her an intense look. ‘Anyone who wants their own freedom should respect that same wish in others.’

Anne doesn’t say anything, stares into his eyes, as if she’d like to reveal a secret. But then there’s a sudden change of expression.

‘And what the hell do you know?’ she jumps to her feet. She’s in the middle of swishing the lace of her skirt when she turns around.

‘You have pretty eyes,’ she says and continues on her way, as if she’d never spoken. But she has. He follows her with his gaze as far as the doorway, where she makes a sign. Mark gets up and goes out after her in silence.

The sea crashes on the beach. The sand is soft and crystalline in the moonlight. As every night, there are shapes clinging to their bottles, sleeping out in the open, enjoying the warm night air. Mark and Anne search for a quiet place. They sit down on the sand, but Anne doesn’t speak. She plays at sifting the sand with her feet.

‘Why don’t you say anything?’

‘Because I’m not sure you’re ready to understand me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You men have no idea what it’s like to be captured. Prison bars are solid, and everyone knows whether they deserve them or not. I’m not afraid of prison. Or of death, either. The only language you men understand is that of the pistol, the fist and sabre. I speak that language pretty well,’ Anne touches the butt of her blunderbuss, as if seeking reassurance. ‘But there are other, more terrible forms of imprisonment. The way I was in Charleston.’

‘You mean, imprisoned in your own body?’ Mark can’t help asking the question.

Anne stares at him in silence, seemingly surprised. Mark realizes he shouldn’t say too much. It’s not safe.

‘Anne!’ her answer is interrupted. From the end of the beach comes a voice. Mark and Anne turn their heads. The figure gestures to them, from the colour of the clothes it’s obviously Rackham.

‘Anne! We’re heading to the cave, what the hell are you doing?’ Jack comes over. Anne gets to her feet.

‘This is Mark Read. Jack Rackham.’

‘I’ve seen you around, boy,’ Jack looks at Anne.

‘He can come,’ she nods.

‘All right then. To the caves.’

And Mark is left hanging on the words that were never said while tramping silently after the two silhouettes. He may understand everything far better than Anne surmises, but now is not the time to talk about it. It never is.

Mark tries to focus his attention on the caves. He’s heard of them, but never seen them. They’re quite a way from town. He’s not sure how long it takes, but he’s aware of the night advancing, he can feel it in his bones. In New Providence, everything can be heard or known. Stories about the past and present, enough to fill a night in the tavern. Free time he finds more and more unbearable.

Word has it the caves were fashioned by people who no longer exist. There’s wind and, in the daytime, shade. The stench of seaweed and sand blends with the aroma of rum. There are bottles. Fastened to a hand or mouth. Mark can’t quite make out the faces, he imagines that’s the whole point. He’s used to certain secrets, a clandestine life, by now. The deception of a pirate’s life. Keeping his cards close to his chest. That’s the important thing. Only you, and those close to you, should know what you’re really planning. For this reason, loyalty is prized so highly. And treachery is punished by being dumped on a desert island. Your crew, your bedfellows, are your life. Especially at times like this, when Rogers is out and about, filling the island with spies. One of them, apparently, Anne’s husband. That’s another rumour in the tavern.

Jack stands up in the middle of the assembly.

‘We have news. My informer tells me Rogers is preparing privateer expeditions against the Spanish.’

‘Blasted Spanish!’

‘God damn ’em,’ the voices echo through the caves.

‘The plan’s simple. We have to get us a privateer and then…’

‘Sink it!’

‘Eat the captains of ships!’

‘Rob the highways of the sea!’

‘That’s it. We’ll grab the ship and make it our own. Back to the good life!’

The shouts of enthusiasm fill the air. Mark watches. He’s aware Anne hasn’t taken her eyes off him.

‘We don’t need anybody’s permission to do what we know best. We don’t want anybody telling us who to rob, it’s all fair game!’ laughs Rackham.

‘And we’re certainly not going to rob others to fill the King’s pockets! A curse on him above ’em all. May his eyes fall out, and his insides burst from frustration!’ Anne leaps to Rackham’s side.

The voices reach fever pitch.

‘A curse on the King and all his bedfellows!’

‘I hope they get the clap!’

‘Tomorrow, they’ll issue the edict. See you at Madame Ebony’s place. Don’t forget to get up early, we’ve an anchor to raise,’ and they all laugh and shout again because they know midday is the earliest time a pirate will stand upright.

The shapes start filing out of the cave. Anne passes Mark, who’s still hopeful about their interrupted conversation.

‘You’re still silent,’ she gazes at him with twinkling eyes that penetrate the night.

‘I spoke before.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re one of Rogers’ men.’

‘There are other reasons to keep quiet than being a traitor,’ replies Mark.

‘I understand,’ Anne keeps on walking and leaves him behind.

‘Don’t you worry,’ another voice passing by gives him a pat on the shoulder. ‘If she suspected you, she wouldn’t have brought you here. Or else you’d be dead.’

‘There’s still time for that,’ Anne is close enough to turn around and answer before carrying on her way.

‘Don’t pay her any attention, she’s always like that, or worse. But you want to watch out. She’s a wild one. More than you and me put together. A wee little thing, but don’t even think about laying a finger on her. She’s left so many corpses behind we all know not to go near Anne Bonny unless she asks.’

Mark stares at the teeth gleaming in the darkness.

‘Fair enough,’ he says and carries on walking.

‘With all that business about spies, she’s got a real problem,’ the voice continues.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Word has it her husband, James, is one of them. He still can’t get over the fact Anne left him for a pirate like Calico Jack. Even though he’s hardly honest himself. I’ve heard he married Anne to lay hold of her money, but her father went and disinherited the girl. A pretty mess they made of it.’

He lets out a guffaw.

‘So Anne’s married?’

‘Oh, something like that,’ he laughs again. ‘Apparently, she hooked up with that there James just so she could get out of Charleston. Then she dumped him. He didn’t take it very well. He had her put in prison for adultery, if you can imagine. We’re still not sure whether Jack bought her out or she threatened to slice off that lowlife James’ balls. I’d say it was the latter,’ he carries on chuckling.

‘I’d say the same,’ replies Mark, letting his gaze wander off into the night. He can still make out Anne’s white skirt ahead of them, whipping up the foam, as she walks along with the others, not touching them, firm and alone.

‘Fancy a tipple?’ suggests the one who’s kept the conversation going.

‘Sure.’

‘Fenis.’

‘Mark.’

And they both walk off into the dark.

Mark still doesn’t understand what’s happened. Everything was in place, and now this. He’s been left on land. What does it matter? he thinks. But it does matter. He’s had enough of dry land. And not enough of the one who’s gone missing. That woman who’s gone marching over the sea. He feels disappointed when he reaches the wharf. Which is empty. Calico had given him directions. Calico himself… Mark ponders, and his feet lead him to a place he knows only too well, almost without thinking.

‘It’s been a while, Mark Read.’

‘What do you mean? You see me every day.’

‘I may see you, but not as I used to.’

Mark is silent. He places his hat on a chair.

‘What’s the matter? Why that face? Come on, sit down.’

‘It’s nothing…’

‘Mark Read, always so explicit. One day, you’ll have to learn how to speak,’ and Madame Ebony gives him an intense look.

‘I wanted to put to sea.’

‘With Calico.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And he left you here,’ he can’t help wondering how Madame Ebony knows everything before it’s happened. It seems a leaf can’t fall in New Providence without her getting to hear about it. ‘There are other ships, Mark Read, don’t worry.’

‘That’s true,’ Mark doesn’t feel much like talking, but nor does he want to be somewhere else. All he wants is to lie down in the fragrance of Madame Ebony’s room.

‘And you’re still surprised he should leave you on land?’ Mark raises his head and looks at her. ‘You amaze me. Always, Mark Read. How naive you can be, in spite of everything.’ He lets this pass because it’s her. Anybody else, and he’d cut their throat. But, with Madame Ebony, he knows he has nothing to prove, no need to put on a front. It feels something like peace. He knows he’s safe with her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mark Read, you don’t have to be as sensitive as me to see the way you look at Anne. That wouldn’t worry Calico so much, were it not for the fact he’s seen the way she looks at you.’

Mark keeps his head down, but a flash of light streaks through his blue eyes. Could it be possible? Hope fills his body, something he’s never felt before. But only for a moment. Even if it were the case, what could he do about it?

‘You still have so much to learn, Mark Read,’ says Madame Ebony, taking a sip of a beverage no one has been able to identify. ‘Now don’t worry, there’ll be other ships, and they’ll take you to where she is, and there’ll be a story to tell that has yet to be written,’ there’s a hint of sadness in the way Madame Ebony speaks.

‘You’ll be in it too,’ says Mark.

‘Me?’ her voice has turned into a deep seashell. ‘I’ll have been forgotten by then. Forgotten. The way the open sea forgets the taste of land.’

From her look, Mark realizes he shouldn’t say any more. They both remain silent. Mark watches Madame Ebony’s face. Her eyes have a chestnut colour that reminds him of his native England. Almost the same colour as her skin. The lines give her a long, beautiful face. He’s often felt a sudden yearning to close in on those lips that look so soft (he’s sure they are, his instinct tells him). And yet Madame Ebony fills him with confusion. Despite that slender body that always smells so nice. Despite the slim waist and broad hips that dance as they move. Mark is unable to swim in certain confusions, especially when they’re his own. This is why he feels unable to go to where Madame Ebony is. He feels desire. But the other impediments are too much for him.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Madame Ebony’s deep voice rescues him from his daydream. How can she know what he’s thinking?

‘You do?’

‘You’re gazing at my body. I know all about your hesitation, your questioning, your silence.’

Mark doesn’t know how to respond to this remark.

‘And I tell you now, because of your questioning, your hesitation and your silence, you should follow Anne Bonny wherever she goes,’ Madame Ebony gets up from her chair, comes up behind him, moves her body closer, her voice in his ear, and says:

‘Stop being a silence, Mark.’

At the time, he didn’t know what she meant, but now it all makes sense.

The music continues in the warm night. The storm is still hovering over the wharfs on the islands. And Mark remains seated on deck, feeling how the night’s sounds penetrate his whole body. His legs are tired of their posture. These legs that tense under his trousers in battle. His calico trousers sometimes stroke the insides of his thighs. Mark has always liked jumping. When he steps on a prey for the first time, that first jump, his senses on the alert. When it could be the day of his death. Or the day he survives. Every day is a test. It’s his powerful legs that must overcome it. He strokes his solid muscles. The scar from a sword thrust. A small piece of shrapnel, probably his own – we all know what happens with those blunderbusses, they’re not very accurate, but scatter all over the place, you need to keep them away from your own body and that of your mates.

A new shadow appears on deck. Doesn’t even pay him any attention, it’s already leaning over far enough. Someone who’s come to relieve himself over the side. Decorum has it that at this moment you should look the other way. It doesn’t seem the night has that much more to give. Ships seek refuge in the hours of darkness. The navy follows its rules of conduct and doesn’t attack during this time of blackness. As if that could put a stop to the wars being waged. Fighting in the dark is difficult, but burning boats – a pinnace full of gunpowder barrels followed by a good cannon shot once it’s come alongside its target – always make for a suitable lighthouse. Mark smiles at the thought. He’s in the mood for action.

‘Anything to report?’ Calico has the songful tones of music and rum from down below. His earring sways in the glow of the oil-lamp.

‘No.’

‘Better that way, today’s a day for partying! Aren’t you coming down?’

‘I’m all right here.’

‘Read always at his post. That’s what makes you a good pirate!’

Jack slaps him on the back, then adds:

‘That’s what keeps us alive. Life is short. Always short.’

He turns around and stomps down the stairs. A pig squeals. Life is short, Mark thinks. Too short, perhaps, to carry on living in silence.

‘I’m leaving on another privateer.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Madame Ebony rummages through her bottles of potion.

‘I can’t stand being on land any longer.’

‘Your words say more than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said, “I’m leaving on another privateer.”’

‘So?’

‘The other one is Anne’s.’

He’s never quite sure whether Madame Ebony is bothered or pleased by his interest (what a euphemism!) in Anne.

‘You know I’m happy about it,’ she says, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Though, of course, you shouldn’t really care what I or anyone else thinks.’

‘I care what you think.’

‘That’s a strange quality in a pirate!’ laughs Madame Ebony. ‘But you shouldn’t.’

Mark remains silent, not knowing what to say. He never knows. Whenever Madame Ebony says something, it’s always for a reason.

‘Did I ever talk to you about tribades?’

Madame Ebony sits down, ready to tell him a story. Mark gazes at her in curiosity.

‘No. What’s that?’

‘Who are they, you mean. Don’t worry, they’re not alien or malignant creatures. They’re sometimes called hermaphrodites, but I don’t much like that term.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it has to do with what we’re talking about. Not being afraid of what others might think. A requisite for any self-respecting pirate. But some things require greater bravery.’

‘Greater bravery?’

‘Yes. Different, anyway. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about tribades.’

Mark is listening.

‘Tribades are women who are not afraid of what others might think. They’re women who choose the path of freedom. They’re… women who love other women.’

Mark is silent. His eyes seem to have stretched far beyond the line of the horizon.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks after a while.

‘Well, I’m not talking about brotherly love, my little innocent,’ Madame Ebony chuckles to herself.

‘What then?’

‘Nothing. They’re women who love other women. Love, that’s all,’ Madame Ebony pauses for a moment, during which Mark can scarcely breathe. ‘Love, Mark Read. The way you love Anne Bonny.’

Mark’s heart is on the verge of jumping out of his chest. This woman must be in cahoots with the devil. Mark stands up and turns his back on her. He doesn’t want her reading all those emotions stirring inside him.

‘Tribades,’ Madame Ebony continues quite calmly, ‘are attracted towards other women.’

‘I see,’ Mark struggles to control his voice, ‘but… how do you show this?’

‘Mark Read, Mark Read. Do you think you can only get any enjoyment out of sex if you have a yardstick? You still have so much to learn! Go on, go and join your privateer. Carry on letting life pass in front of your eyes because of ignorance. Carry on being a silence, if you must.’

Mark turns around.

‘I’m not leaving until you tell me more.’

‘About tribades?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then sit back down. Go on, sit down. And calm yourself. The story I’m going to tell you can only be written on a woman’s body.’

Madame Ebony is standing in front of her dressing table. She starts slowly to move, and Mark is cornered against the door. He watches her undo the strap of her skirt, which falls softly to the floor. Underneath, her petticoat. Madame Ebony unbuttons her blouse, and Mark sees how she pulls it back off her shoulders, revealing a skin that is paler than the rest of her arms. In the mirror, he sees how the blouse peels off her body and also falls to the ground. The white of Madame Ebony’s bodice stands out, revealing an intricate meshwork of threads that hold her breasts in. Little by little, she weakens the threads’ resistance, and Mark can picture her breasts under the white fabric, the swarthy nipples. Mark feels out of breath. He almost can’t breathe when he glimpses the naked lines of what was hidden under the clothing. Madame Ebony’s breasts remind him of two ripe fruits. As her petticoat falls, the line of her waist depicts the rolling hills of her dark legs. Mark almost can’t bring himself to gaze at the thick, black hair between them. He feels hot. As when he entered the sea for the first time. He starts to feel a sense of unease he hasn’t known before, only intuited.

Madame Ebony comes over and takes his hand. Mark closes his eyes on feeling the softness of that skin.

‘Tribades,’ murmurs Madame Ebony, ‘seek pleasure in the body of another who is no other, but the same. They search with their hands for places where sighs are kept hidden. They experience not the mechanical sound of pulleys, but the softness of tongues and the warm embrace of passion.’

Mark finds it difficult to listen. All his senses are focused on that of touch. He is aware how rough his hands must be, how solid next to all that softness. Madame Ebony guides his hand, turning it around without taking it off her body and bringing it to rest between her legs. Mark feels a confused, uncontrollable world inside him.

‘Come,’ Madame Ebony whispers in his ear, and he follows.

Madame Ebony sits on the bed. He is motionless, hypnotized. She opens her legs, revealing the conch that is hidden in her hair. Mark is captured by that image, watches Madame Ebony slide her fingers over her belly until reaching this place that strikes Mark as perfect. Madame Ebony’s fingers work the changes in her expression, in the way she breathes and her breasts heave. They encircle the salient point rising warm and heated between those fleshy lips like a fish trap.

Mark tries to look away, but can’t. His whole body is like a magnet that has him petrified by desire. He can’t bear the distance. He wants to kiss her. He can’t think about anything else. About anything at all. So he falls on his knees and, like someone wanting to preserve a dandelion, moves his mouth closer. Without knowing how, he is suddenly immersed in that salty taste. In a bitter sweetness he wants to suck on. He starts to kiss her slowly, moving his tongue between her lips, sliding it into that heated orifice. He can’t believe what he’s feeling. He can’t believe her body. It’s as if it’s grown. He drinks from it. Drinks, and then carries on kissing her body. Madame Ebony’s breathing, her soft, ancient voice, invades his senses. Mark leaves a hand on top of the shell, inserts his fingers into the warmth. For a moment, he feels unworthy. But Madame Ebony pulls him closer and kisses him on the mouth with a rare passion. She moves him to her rhythm, back and forth. Mark lets his fingers enjoy the dance inside her, his tongue in her mouth. He dances with her, not wondering how the earth turns on its axis. Madame Ebony starts to groan, embraces him, hugs him close, and Mark can’t help feeling he’s losing his mind. He feels unexpectedly faint. A desire to shout out loud. He clings to Madame Ebony, as she does to him. With all his body. He experiences a rare strength in his fingers. And, inside him, all the warmth of the creation of the world bursting forth, he cannot say how. He moans in Madame Ebony’s arms and feels the dampness. The world ceases to exist. And he finally understands everything he was lacking before.

The sun blinds him. He pulls his hat down as he leaves by the back door of the tavern. There’s nobody about. It’s far too early for New Providence. Not for him. Today, he’ll board a privateer. The other one. He finally know what it is he wants. Who he is.

He has no idea how long he’s been sitting, trawling up memories in the familiar sounds of the sea, the voices and wind. Night is as deep as Madame Ebony’s cleavage. In the memory, all the affection of the world emerges out of his pores towards the stars, the land, her. But he didn’t love her. Not the way he loves Anne. Even so…

‘Mark,’ he quickly turns around. He can’t understand how he could be so distracted and not hear her.

‘What have you been doing here all night?’ Anne comes over and touches the back of his neck. Mark takes a breath in order not to lose control of his limbs.

‘Thinking.’

‘Mark, always thinking.’

‘Not always.’

‘Apart from cutting off heads and skewering soldiers, what else do you do when you’re not thinking?’ Anne’s eyes are half-closed. She’s probably been drinking, but not enough for her not to know what she’s doing. Mark is still absorbed by the memory of that early morning in New Providence when he took a decision. Life is short. And he doesn’t want to be a silence. Ideas start popping into his head. He knows it has to be today. Jump. Conquer the fear. All that’s left. Her rejection. There’s a good chance of that. But it’s the only way to live.

‘I could tell you, but actions speak louder than words.’

‘You think?’ Anne moves a little closer. ‘Jack’s at the party, we can go down to the cabin.’

Mark feels a certain reticence.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, it’s just…’

‘Forget about Jack, I’ve told you more than once, nobody tells me what to do.’

‘That wasn’t my intention.’

‘I should hope not.’

Anne is so close he can’t help it. He grabs her by the waist and kisses her on the mouth.

‘Not here. I don’t want any of those lazy, good-for-nothings getting up to their old tricks, and then I’d have to kill them. We’re short of crew as it is.’

Anne takes his hand. For a few seconds, Mark realizes this time he won’t be leaving the next day. He won’t be able. Nor does he want to. But that implies so many things. Fear… perhaps he’d better say something.

‘Anne… I…’ Anne turns around and stares into his blue eyes with an artful smile. She approaches his ear and says:

‘I know.’

Mark smiles a smile Anne has never seen on him before. She leads him quicker than she would have liked towards the cabin. She realizes things between them are no longer going to be the same. And Mark knows he’s on the verge of opening a door that will allow him to be who he is, with all the consequences. Now, however, Anne is not thinking about the way things were before, nor Mark about the consequences. They slip inside the captain’s cabin, where there is a bed and a table covered in papers, stolen maps and measuring instruments. None of this matters or has any use at the moment. Anne starts to seek out the depths of the sea in front of her, Mark the heights of the Pole Star, his lips on her neck.

For the first time in years, Mark lets someone place their hands on the buttons of his shirt. His jerkin. His chest.

His breasts. Underneath them, his heart.

‘Mary,’ he whispers. ‘My name is Mary Read.’

Text © María Reimóndez Meilán

Translation © Jonathan Dunne