Greenbeard (9781935259220) (31 page)

“
C
ap'n, we be lost,” said Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, “and it be as black as pitch.” “I have faith in Izzy,” said Captain Greybagges, “ for he is an excellent scout. He used to track down witnesses and absconders for me when he was my clerk, when I was a lawyer and buccaneered with wig and pen.”

“The Ratcliffe highway on the kinchin lay an' the rookeries o' St Giles, that were his nursery, Cap'n,. He can find 'is way around most o' Lunnon by pure instinct, even in a pea-soup fog. These woods here-abouts be colonial woods, which, begging your pardon, do not even smell like proper woods, not being like Epping Forest at all.”

“No, Bill, it is not. Epping Forest stinks of corpses, it being very convenient for garrotters and suchlike, those who cannot dump their victims into the Fleet river because of other pressing business. These woods are quite fragrant, although dark to be sure.”

 

The path under the canopy of the trees was indeed dark, but not pitch-black. There was a bright moon, but the sky had clouded over and the moonlight came only in occasional beams through gaps in the overcast. One of these moonbeams revealed Israel Feet and his horse walking carefully back up the path. He and his mount were both ectomorphic, and haloed in the moonlight they made a sinister sight.

“I looked and I beheld a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hell was following close behind him!” Captain Greybagges cried, still fuddled from the afternoon's drinking, theatrically waving an arm.

“By my liver and lights, Cap'n! Be thee less lusty an' blaring!” hissed Israel Feet, gesturing for quiet.

“My apologies, Izzy, but you gave me a turn, popping up like that, and your damned horse is rather pale. The verse in Revelations says
chlôros
, which is Greek for ‘pale green', I think, and your nag does look a little sickly in this gloomy light …” The Captain spoke in an undertone and looked abashed.

“I cannot find Peter's trail anymore, curse it, so it may ‘appen as we took a wrong turn,” said Israel Feet, in an aggrieved tone, “but the horse be not to blame,
anyhow, so there be no need to call it green and sickly.”

“No, indeed, and you are not to blame, either,” said the Captain soothingly. “These clouds over the moon are the only culprits, blast ‘em.”

“We ‘ave lost Peter's trail, an' we be lost our own selves, an' it be dark,” said Bulbous Bill. “Mayhap we should seek shelter for the night, Cap'n, since we be adrift wi'out a chart.”

“I hate to admit such a thing, Bill, but you are right,” said the Captain.

“There be a light up ahead, Cap'n” said the First Mate. “A sort o' dim glow offen the path. That be why I come back direckly.”

There was a ‘squeak-pop' noise, followed by a ‘glug-glug' noise, then Bulbous Bill handed the rum bottle to Captain Greybagges, who glug-glugged then passed it to Israel Feet. Then the three, without a word, walked their horses slowly up the path by the intermittent light of the moon.

 

“There be a signpost here-abouts,” whispered the First Mate eventually. They stopped, a horse whickering discontentedly, and dismounted, clumsy and cursing softly in the black-velvet darkness. The moon came out for an instant.

“Arr! There it be!” The First Mate pointed. The signpost stood at a crossroads, wan in a shaft of the pale moonlight. “There be a field just here. We can moor these horses, an goes on a-foot.”

Their mounts tethered in a shipshape fashion, they proceeded up the path like blind men, stepping high and carefully, waving their arms in front of themselves, bumping into each other, stopping once or twice to sip on Bill's rum-bottle. The occasional stray beam of moonlight gave them a vague idea of the path between the trees. One of the stray beams illuminated the signpost as they passed.

“The signpost be sayin' there be a town two mile away, Cap'n” said the First Mate. “Mayhap we should ride there. Start lookin' for Peter again at daybreak. Rested, like.”

The Captain stopped. “That is a pleasant idea, but we do not know yet what devilment Peter has conjured up in these parts, and we are his friends and we are pirates. It may be for the best if we do not draw attention to ourselves. What town was it, anyway?”

“The signpost said ‘Salem', Cap'n. ‘Salem two mile' it said.”

“Well, in that case we are still lost, for that is not a place that I have ever heard
of. Let us investigate your ‘light in the trees'. It may be woodsmen or travellers, and we may share the warmth of their fire until dawn at the cost of sharing Bill's rum, for I am sure he has another bottle or two.”

“What if it be injuns?” said Bill, offering the bottle. The Captain took a reflective sip.

“I am sure indians are fine fellows, and are as partial as any other men to a nip o' rum on a cold dark night. They shall see that we are armed, too, which will surely make them at least pretend to be friendly. But first let us find out whose fire it is, shipmates, then we may decide what we shall do.” The Captain passed the rum bottle to Israel Feet, and strode off down the path, cursing in an undertone as he stumbled over a pothole.

 

“As you said, Izzy, the light of a fire deep in the bosky grove, ho-ho! That is cheering, for it is growing chill,” Captain Greybagges said softly. The three buccaneers walked into the woods in single file, treading carefully. No twigs snapped under their boots. Israel Feet took the lead, Captain Greybagges next. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus followed. His bulk made passage through the undergrowth a slow business, but he made no sound. The fire-glow through the trees became brighter as they crept towards it. At last the First Mate stopped, crouched down and peered through the leaves. He stayed still for a while, then gestured for the others to come. Captain Greybagges dropped to his knees and edged next to the First Mate, Bill lowered himself to his belly and wriggled forwards on the other side, the branches rustling slightly.

“I thought it be best you be a-seein' this for yerselves, belike,” whispered the First Mate, and the three looked through the leaves.

Three women dressed only in their undergarments stood around a small fire of logs. A cauldron was suspended from a tripod above the flames, steaming and bubbling. One of the women, a tall slim figure with a mop of black curls, was reading aloud from a book:

“…….
rua yed sith suh vig neveh ni si za thre ni nud eeb liw eyth muck modngik eyth main eyth eeb dwohlah nevah ni tra chioo retharf rua!
” She paused and looked around. “Hmm, nothing. Nothing at all. This is plainly tedious.”

“Are you sure you're chanting the right piece, dear?” said the very fat woman in a sour tone of voice.

“Of course I am! It's the Lord's Prayer backwards. I may not be pronouncing it correct, but how do you pronounce gibberish correct, tell me that?”

“I tole yah we should be nekkid,” said the third, a small skinny black woman, “an' we prolly shoulda kilt summat. Summat instead o' that chook, I means. Summat bigger, mebbe a dog. Chooks get kilt alla time. It don't mean much, killin' a chook, f 'it did debbil be appearin' in kitchens all over d'place.”

“Well, we've done most exactly what it says in your stupid cousin's book,” said the tall woman, “excepting the naked business.
Sky-clad
, or whatever it said.”

“I was sure that wouldn't be necessary,” said the fat woman. “It seems in poor taste, and we aren't wearing very much except our stays and smalls anyway. Try another incantation, please, dear.”

The tall woman gave her a withering glance and riffled through the pages of the book.

 

In the bushes the three pirates stared open-mouthed. The First Mate nudged the Captain and passed him the rum-bottle. The Captain took a swallow and passed it to Bill, without taking his eyes from the women.

 

“Alright, let's try this one then …
in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni!
” the tall woman paused, looked around. “No, nothing with that one either.”

“Perhaps you have to say it backwards?” said the fat woman. The tall woman gave her an amused look, shaking her head slightly.

“What it mean?” said the small black woman.

“It means ‘we spin in the darkness and are consumed by fire'. It's Latin. Oh, here's a good one …” the tall woman drew herself up and spoke in a commanding voice. “Emperor Lucifer, prince and master of the rebel spirits, I implore you to abandon your dwelling, in whatever part of the world it should be, and come and speak to me. I command and entreat you by the authority of the great living God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, to come noiselessly and without giving off any offensive scents, to answer me in a loud and intelligible voice, article by article, everything that I ask you, otherwise you will be obliged by the power of the great Adonay, Elohim, Ariel, Jehovah, Tagla and Mathon, and all of the other superior spirits who will compel you against your will. Come! Come! Submiritillor Lucifuge, or go and be eternally tormented by the power of the blasting rod!” She
waved a twig. The three women stood in silence, looking around hopefully.

“Ain't nuffin comin',” said the small black woman sadly, “an' I'da liked to see that ole debbil, wit his hooves an' horns an' such. We could eat the chook. It must be boiled to soup b'now.”

In the bushes Israel Feet cast a glance sideways at Captain Greybagges; he had a look of boyish mischievousness on his face, his lips drawn back in a grin. The Captain suddenly stood up and pushed through the leaves into the clearing. The women stared at him open-mouthed, the fat woman gave a small shriek.

“Ladies! You have summoned Lucifer, and here he is!” he said cheerfully.

“You doan look like no debbil to me,” said the small black woman after a pause. “You looks like you some kinda ole sailorman or summat.”

Captain Greybagges swept off his black tricorne hat and bowed deeply. He gave the hat to Israel Feet, who was emerging from the bushes behind him, then took off his black
justaucorps
coat and threw it to one side, then, fixing the ladies with the gaze of his gray eyes and grinning, he pulled his black shirt over his head and threw it aside too.

“Behold, ladies!” he cried. He turned his back to them and spread his arms wide. The three women gasped as by the light of the fire they saw the great tattoo on his broad back, the tattoo of Satan sitting upon his dark throne, shaded by his black bat's wings, staring down upon the Earth. “Behold, dear ladies, here is Lucifer!”

Behind him Bulbous Bill Bucephalus struggled cursing from the undergrowth, clutching the rum-bottle to his chest.

 

 

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges awakened slowly as the first rays of the rising sun fell upon his face. He felt thirsty and hungover, but a comfortable feeling of satiated lust pervaded his being. He could smell the fragrance of the woods; the earthy smell of the grass; the clean scent of the pines. He could feel the silk lining of his coat against his chest, the heavy coat that was a blanket over his naked torso, and he could feel the roughness of the springy turf against his back, the dry forest-meadow that had been his bed for that night. He luxuriated in the warmth for a while, even though his lower legs and feet were chilled. Finally he yawned deeply and stretched his arms above his head. He noticed the absence of a slim
female body beside him and opened his eyes. Stern faces looked down at him. He was surrounded by men, colonials in their grubby patched tan coats and breeches, several of them pointing muskets.

 

 

“I pronounce this Court of Oyer and Terminer to be in session!” the fat man at the lectern banged his gavel on the wood, his wig wobbling on his head. “Magistrate Algernon Chumbley presiding,” he added, then pounded his gavel again, although nobody was speaking except him. “We are here to try a witch! An evil witch! An abomination in the sight of God and a disgrace to the eyes of God-fearing men! Let the proceedings begin! Bring forth the accused!”

Strong arms thrust Captain Greybagges forward before the bench, and the spectators in the small courtroom muttered and hissed.

“Silence!” roared Magistrate Chumbley, pounding his gavel again. He addressed Captain Greybagges; “You, who have given your name as John Smith, are hereby accused of having made unlawful covenant with the Devil, of having been complicit with the Devil, of having afflicted persons or persons with witchcraft, and, in short, of being a witch. How do you plead, you scoundrel?”

“If it pleases your eminence,” lisped the Captain through split lips, “a witch is surely a woman by definition, and I am not a woman, so I cannot be a witch. I plead my innocence of these ridiculous and unsubstantiated charges!”

“Don't bandy words with me, you dog!” roared the Magistrate. “Whether you are a woman, a man or a eunuch you have surely engaged in witchcraft and consorted with Satan, and that makes you a witch, damn you!”

Captain Greybagges went to reply, but a stout man, one of his captors, stepped up to the bench and whispered in the Magistrate's ear.

“What?” grumbled the Magistrate. “Is that so? Show me!” the stout man handed him a book, pointing to a page. “Ah! Well, it says here in the Reverend Cotton Mather's exegesis of witchery that a male witch is called a
warlock
. Ha! Only a vile person engaged in the black arts would be cognisant of such a fine distinction! Are you then a
warlock
, you knave!”

“The Reverend Cotton Mather himself is aware of the difference, surely. Is he therefore a practicioner of witchcraft?” said the Captain. The crowd tittered its appreciation. “I repeat, I am innocent of these trumped-up and nonsensical
accusations!”