Terese Svoboda - Pirate Talk or Mermalade

All the night talks when you talk, even with such a gash.

Together we will tell Father you have been found.

I know nothing about this father.

Yes, you do.

Stop grabbing at me, stop it. The water is fearsome, the ocean is death. I am alike in this with my brother — we do not enter the water.

That is one truth you will have to pierce for yourself.

I am a pirate now, and know only my own intent.

Best for you to hold fast to the whale’s eye then, for luck.

What kind of luck is that — it’s drowning you’re offering.

I heard Cap’n Peters went under a fortnight after we sailed, swallowed up by a cup of tea, his heart crushed, losing you.

He was in want, after your Ma departed, telling stories about her so even the sea could hear.

Watch your bleeding mouth. Ma did not know his wants after you arrived.

That’s what your brother says. Who can know the heart of a woman, especially one like your Ma?

Perhaps it is my brother’s heart that is unknown.

Tell him you’ve seen me treading the waters, go ahead.

I would rush up the mast and shout your name but he’s not onboard, he didn’t take the oath, not seeing the pirate life for what it is, a port a’glitter at every call, swords a’plenty and no landholder taxing every tomorrow. My brother continues his oath against all water by staying off it.

A sea of tears, perhaps.

His letters are smeared, it’s true, but someone else writes them. Quiet, it’s Shanks abroad.

A night catch! What a fisherman you are. I see from all the blood you’ve stuck it well. I’ll finish the gutting and offer you the liver if it’s of a size. Keep your hand on it while I fetch my good knife.

Over now, quick.

Give that back — it is my only shawl, it is the shawl you married me in.

I haven’t had a watch to do for months — we can’t eat a shawl. We must trade it for bone so I can triple our profits.

Go to the ends of the earth, and sail to where the serpents lie. To sell my shawl for an inch of whalebone — bone that’s no good even in a pot!

People pay well for a picture on it — but there won’t be much left after I settle the chits you’ve written clear across the island.

Better than written across my tombstone. How I rue offering you my timepiece for your improvements. For just a look, I said. And you looked and looked.

It was you who took the glass off the works, who pulled the stem.

You said I needed a minute hand, I said there were too many hands already.

Gladness fills me to know those works have stopped. Now I will be cutting this bone, and people will like it. The port is a’swarm with new folk off the boats, and overseers who need to know when to quit the slaves. It’s busier here than London, it’s the center of the world in commerce — and in fashion too.

You thought people would like a feather stuck on the works to brush off the flies.

There are few who appreciate my timepiece thus far, with or without the flies, but with my improvements—

Only fifty-three here keeping the time or the like, less your own watch which I hide, and the ships’ clocks, when they are in port. Even if you wind each of them every week, there are still only fifty-three to divide with Cyrus.

He must be of noble birth to gather the business so quickly, regardless of what he says, a duke at least or a—

He is too handsome by half, yes.

I think you’d be just as pleased to be without a shawl, to show yourself.

Oh, let the ocean take you.

Cyrus, Cyrus — she’s yours.

Close that window, you fool. It’s market day.

I should be down there beside Cyrus, listening to him unhook the watches out of the waistcoats of the wealthy by his very words. Never has there been so many who needed oil in their works or their clockhands reset until he opened his shop.

And where were you?

You had dresses a’plenty until Cyrus washed up.

You did nothing about him, always mooning over getting the bone or moaning over your brother, the foul pirate. Give me that shawl back.

From where, pray tell, do you get the cotton for your petticoats? Stolen of the pirate. The cocoa for your cups in the morning? The pirate. The lovely Madeira? Even the ribbon in your hair be blue only on account of the pirate’s indigo. The foul pirate.

Don’t you think Cyrus is a handsome one? He’s four years your younger.

Quiet, woman. I’ll not have you scull the bottom for daggers. I will take the Hope to the last port if you drive me to it, and leave you behind. I will, even though I fear a voyage at sea more than I fear your noise and bother. Keep the shawl.

Cyrus! Cyrus!

I am so easily rid of?

We have no children. You were too timid.

That is your own doing. Or not doing. But this too can change, knowing the temper of your heart and of Cyrus’ desire. But not with myself as witness. I will sign ship’s papers today, I will.

I believe you will. And let it be a long voyage out — on the Hope.

My luck will leave with me.

Perhaps — but what if Cyrus will not have me?

You think so little of me that I must bear such a question? Fruit falls from the trees here, winter cannot harm you. You have your shawl. But I would hoard your petticoats too if I were you. The daughters of others are younger.

And eager, even for a tradesman such as he. You should send for me then, as soon as you come into money.

And blacken my future further?

How will you rise in the morning with a starched collar and leggings without holes? And eat as quickly as you can seat yourself? Answer me.

I now know the compromises a man makes. You are an expensive charwoman who spares me nothing. The years I have spent with you.

Two — no more.

Put that pot down.

I shall not until you receive damage.

Amazon!

The sails like a curtain, stars and then no stars.

My mother loved the line, especially the rope as thick as the mate’s wrist. Even my brother worked the line, in secret, though on land, not the sea. You’d like my brother, though you’d put fear into him with all your fierce tattoos.

A man must be his own placard if he has lived out a legend. Rain behind that swell of stars. There — through the straights.

A squall?

A squall.

That last lightning nearly stopped my heart.

Those were good flashes.

Luggams says in the worse of storms, the lightning goes green and runs up the rigging.

Hear the singing?

No singing in these straights. Luggams hates the singing.

It can’t be the fish, singing.

Luggams forbids all singing whatsoever now that Shanks is gone. He doesn’t like the caterwaul of cats neither but cats we have to have, for the vermin.

Aye. The pigs we shipped before would at least dance, they would eat out of your hand for a sniff of bread.

Pigs will eat your hand.

A pirate bunch, pigs. I wish we had some still.

If you eat at all, best eat in private, with yourself alone on the poop deck, or else someone will fight you for it.

Not for me the poop deck. The stink!

Clean as the Pope’s hand. All that is left to eat is shoes, and those who have them have chewed them soft as chamois.

I think Luggams chews on gold coin.

His teeth show it. A doubloon on a starving ship is as good as a shell cast upon a beach.

The second mate’s tied a Spanish coin to his line to lure the fish.

Good luck to him! I do miss the turtle’s banging.

A great turtle it was, two hundred weight if it were one.

Now there’s a beast — it didn’t eat for four months and still tasted sweet.