The PriZin of Zin (12 page)

Chapter 16: Red

red
[
red
]: any of various colors resembling the color
of blood;
Informal
. to become very angry; become enraged:

Ian looked up at the hull of a wooden sailing vessel.

Waving in the breeze, a black and white flag. The emblem unfurling on the flag both frightened and excited him at the same time. It was an arm from elbow to fingertips showing the back of a hand, and a sword crossed in an X pattern from corner to corner. On the back of the hand was branded the letter “P” — the mark of a pirate.

Ian’s heart pounded.

“Man overboard!” he heard someone yell again. A rope was thrown over the ship to him. For an instant, he thought about trying to escape, but the thrill and adventure of being on a real pirate ship took over. Eagerly, he swam to the rope dangling over the ship’s rail and grabbed hold.

The first hoist jerked him from the water. Ian’s heart jumped with each hoist. Halfway up the hull, the rope began to spin with his unbalanced weight. Circling around and around, he closed his eyes against the dizziness that was seeping into his consciousness. When the hoisting stopped, and the spinning slowed, Ian cracked open one eye to gauge his surroundings. Arms from several owners grabbed at him, his own arms jerked up over his head. Ian felt hands grabbing at his belt, and sliding his body over the side rail. He was thrown face-down onto the splintering deck of the vessel.

Ian tried to push himself up onto all fours, but felt a large boot in the middle of his back slamming him back down. Anger surged inside him as he tried to push back up again, only to be shoved back down again and again. Raucous laughter exploded around him as he fought against the boot holding him down. Ian flailed his arms and legs at the many other pairs of boots in his line of sight, but to no avail. They kicked back at him, or shook with laughter at his futile attempts to get free. Seething inside at his failure to stand, Ian gave up and laid flat on the deck, grinding his teeth.

I’m gonna hurt someone when I get up from here! You better watch out — all of you.

“Look!” Ian heard. “He’s hair like a flame.” He felt hands tugging and pulling on the strands at the back of his head.

“Haven’t you ever seen red hair before?” Ian tried to raise his head to the side, but the boot stayed firm in the middle of his back.

“What manner of pantaloons be they?” Again he felt hands tugging and pressing against the blue denim jeans he wore. “They be stiff.” The voice sounded confounded. “How de ye git ye inside?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you really that stupid?
Before Ian had a chance to say anything, he was flipped over onto his back, and the boot again lodged into his stomach.

“Ahhh!” one pirate screamed. “He be the devil ‘imself.” Several pirates backed up. Fingers pointing, fear causing their entire bodies to tremble. Braver pirates moved in for a closer look.

“Nay,” one toothless man said. “It be a paintin’.”

“Why would ye wear a paintin’?” The raucous laughter started again, and fingers once again jabbed at his midsection. “Paintin’,” he heard over and over again. “Jus’ a paintin’.”

Ian looked down at his soggy t-shirt, now smeared with dirt from the filthy deck. Under the smears and smudges was the once colorful picture of his favorite rock band. He thought about trying to explain it, but gave up. There was no point.

“Who sent ye?” When the voice bellowed, the deck fell silent. “Be this some manner of witchery?” The pirates surrounding Ian parted like the Red Sea. Off in the distance he could see a figure moving toward him, his face blocked by the glow of the sun behind him. The footsteps sounded odd, more like one step and one thump.

Step.

Thump.

Step.

Thump.

Silence permeated his senses as the figure came into focus. He was a giant of a man, standing with one wooden peg for a leg.

“Who sent ye to spy on us?” he growled.

“No one. I’m not a spy.”

“Them be peculiar words ye use, lad. Where de ye hail from?”

Ian pointed toward the sky.

“He be a liar, Cap’n. That be an ol' sailor’s tale. Folk don’t jus’ fall from the heav’ns.”

“I did,” he tried to protest.

“Shut yer mouth.” The boot pushed farther into his midsection. “Ye speak only when the Cap’n says ye can. Got it, lad?”

Ian nodded, wind pushed out of his lungs. At this point he was struggling just to breathe.

“So, ye be either a spy or a liar.” His jet black hair and long beard whipped around in the breeze. Ian thought he looked like a crazy man. The captain leaned down close to Ian’s face. “Which is it? We hang spies on this here ship.”

“What do you do to liars?”

“Feeds ‘em to the sharks.”

“Look,” Ian tried to reason with them. “I’m not a spy. Nobody sent me. I just - - -“

“Ahhh!” The captain waved his hands in frustration. He spun on his peg leg and thumped away. “Lock ‘im up.”

Again, the hands grabbed him and jerked him up straight to the grizzled and weathered face of a sailor.

“Where d’ye want ‘im Cap’n?” the deck mate holding him asked.

“To the brig, after ye search ‘im.”

“No, wait!” Ian’s protests weren’t even heard over the jostling and snickering of the men. Jerked up, spun around, his face slammed down onto the side rail, his hands wrenched behind his back, Ian’s heart sank deeper and deeper into despair.

The last thing he saw from the bow of the ship was Nessie and Nestor submerging far out to sea.

Then, once again, there was darkness.

The stench hung in the air so thick Ian couldn’t breathe. He tried covering his nose with his shirtsleeve and his hand, but to no avail. The dense odor of rotting fish, sea slime, and wet decaying wood was almost more than he could stomach.

He felt around the darkness, afraid of what his hands might touch. So far, he could determine that he was in a small room under the main deck. There was no porthole to the outside. Inside the room with him were a couple of wooden crates, both empty, and some oak barrels filled with something so heavy he could not move them. They also had a strong odor about them, but he could not distinguish it. Ian felt his way all around the room, past the closed door, and around all four walls. Nothing. Other than the barrels and empty crates, there was nothing else around. Nothing. Ian felt his way back across the rough-hewn walls to the door. He tried the handle. Locked. Angry and afraid, he balled his fist, slamming it on the door, shaking it on its hinges. Outside he could hear laughter from his pirate guards.

“Let me out!” he screamed.

“Oh, lets me out!” they mocked back. “I wanna go home to me mummy.”

Ian screamed and slammed the door again. This time it opened. In the doorway were two toothless, filthy, smiling pirates illuminated by the candle glow in the lantern behind them.

“Cap’n request’n yer presence,” one said.

“Yeah, request’n yer presence,” the other echoed.

“What for?” Ian asked.

“He desires a word.”

“Yeah, a word.”

Ian looked back and forth between the two. When he didn’t move, the closest one pulled a dagger and smiled. “Or, ye could die right here.”

Ian stepped out of the tiny room and into danger.

Chapter 17: Swabby

Swabby: (
swab·bie
.; swab +
-y
2):
A fool or simpleton; ninny

“Stop pushing me!” Ian planted his feet and pushed back, only to be shoved to the ground. His pirate guards laughed as they kicked him. Dragging him to his feet, they slid him once again across the deck toward the Captain’s quarters. Reaching the closed door, the guards knocked and entered without waiting for a command.

“We brung ye the prisoner like’n ye aksed, Cap’n.”

“Thank ye, mates. Man yer stations now. Leave the lad wit’ me.” The two nodded and left the room, closing the door behind them.

Ian stared across the small room. It didn’t look anything like what he’d thought the Captain’s quarters should look like. It was just a small room. No riches or gold spilling out of treasure chests. No skeletons of defeated foes hanging from the rafters; just a small room, about the size of his bedroom back home. Ian eyed his adversary just a few feet away. Up close he didn’t look nearly as frightening. Of course, the last time he’d seen him, Ian was flat on the ground looking up.

He stood slightly taller than Ian did. Legs, or leg rather, was very short, with the rest of his body making up the remainder of his height. Wild, uncombed black hair hung past his shoulders and shot outward from his head in every direction. Rich blue eyes, wide and deep-set watched him from the very small desk on one side of the room. The peg he was perched on was carved from a solid piece of wood, rounded at the top to hold his leg severed at the knee. It tapered down to a simple peg at the ground. Ian could see the fine lines of the wood grain running the length of the wooden limb from knee to ground. The grain lines of the wood wound around in almost a circle at the top end, tapering off to a point at the bottom. It was a snake-like pattern naturally embedded in the wood grain. Mesmerizing.

“Who sent ye’?”

“Nobody.”

“Aye, so ye’re tellin’ me that ye fell from the sky, then?”

Ian nodded.

“An’ next I ‘spect ye’ll be tellin’ me that thar’s giant green sea monsters out thar that eat folk?”

“I don’t think they eat people, but - - -“

The Captain burst into uproarious laughter. He fell backwards into his chair and chuckled until tears rolled down his face. When he finally settled down, he faced Ian once again. “It’ll go better fer ye if’n ye jus’ tells the truth now. Who sent ye to be spyin’ on us?”

Ian stood still, not sure how to answer. Clearly, the Captain would not believe anything he could say. He’d already made it clear that he didn’t believe in Nessie or Nestor. Ian could hardly believe himself. At this moment, he truly didn’t know what to believe, or do.

“It ‘twer that loser, Gamblin’ James, weren’t it?”

Ian tried to think quickly, but his words didn’t come quick enough.

“I knew it!” Peg Leg yelled. “That good fer notin’ loser had done lost his soul to the Badun’s in a game of chance.”

“The Badun’s?”

“Aye. Ain’t ye never heared of the Badun’s?”

Ian shook his head.

“Them so evil none can stand ‘em.” He eyed Ian again, his tone serious. “So how came ye to be in thar company, then?”

Ian said nothing. Again he pointed skyward.

Peg Leg laughed. “Aye, right then. Ye fell from the sky.” He snorted. “Weel, ye be my prisoner now, lad. Heed yer warnin’ weel sonny. Foller yer ordern’ and it’ll be weel wit’ ye. Don’t, and yer punish’n weel be harsh. Weel not be havin’ any mutiny on this ship.”

Ian nodded.

“Prove yerself and ye can join us.”

Ian’s heart jumped. “I can join you? Really? I’ve always dreamed of being a pirate.”

“Yer awful eager, son. Mos’ folk ain’t so pleased ‘bout bein’ a slave. I still ain’t sure you ain’t a spy. I need to do some check’n firs’.”

He stood from the chair and banged his peg on the floor three times. The door immediately opened and the same two guards entered. “Take ‘im back to up top. He’s kin swabs the deck till dark.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” the two muttered. Ian was again grabbed from behind and shoved back out into the darkened galley-way leading up to his punishment.

The sun was blinding after the absolute blackness of his room. Ian tried to focus his eyes, but still had to shield them with his hands until they adjusted.

“Put yer’ hands down, swabby.” Ian lowered his hand, but the man standing next to him did not.

“I cain’t see,” he tried to protest. Ian focused enough to see his hand slapped away from his face. Both prisoners closed their eyes waiting for more punishment to come. Ian inhaled the fresh salty sea air and tried to clear his head. A loud crash, and something hard slamming into his shin jerked his senses back. Opening his eyes, he saw a wooden bucket, a rope, and a straggly mop with barely any mop strands remaining, laying on his feet.

“One of ye pull the water from the sea, and the other swab. Cap’n likes the deck to shine like the sun. Understand?”

Both nodded.

“Weel git, then.”

The other man dove for the bucket. “I fetch the water. Ye swab,” he ordered. Turning his back on Ian, he tied the rope onto the bucket handle and lowered it over the rail. Ian picked up the mop and eyed the head. There weren’t more than a dozen stringy pieces, some barely attached. He shook his head. Looking around at the deck of the ship he knew there was no way this would do the job. Maybe that’s why his so-called partner took the easy job.

The first bucket of icy water sloshed at his feet. Ian turned to look at the aged man who was his partner. Raggedy and harsh, he truly looked like a pirate. Toothless and dirty, his eyes darted from one end of the ship to the other constantly. He looked scared, but of what Ian didn’t know. Perhaps he truly was a spy. Maybe that’s why old Peg Leg thought Ian was one, too. Well, he’d just have to prove otherwise. Ian saw no other options right now. His shipmates had to trust him. It was his only choice at this point.

Another splash of icy water washed over his feet. “Swab, boy,” he heard his partner order. Ian ignored him. He laid the mop down and pulled off his t-shirt. Ripping the shirt in two, he tied the two pieces around the bottom of the mop handle. Then carefully, he sliced the bottom ends against a ragged piece of the deck rail, shredding it into long strips. After creating a make-shift mop he thought would work, he gave it a try. Dunking the end into a large puddle of seawater, Ian scrubbed a small area of the deck. The new mop head worked great. Looking around to find his partner, Ian found not only him, but several other crew members staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

The guard who’d brought them out this morning pointed at the mop. “Goods works, lad.”

Ian smiled.

“Fetch!” he heard the guard yell at his partner. Ian put his head down and concentrated on his work.

Ian tried to lie down in his room, but couldn’t. He hurt too much. Shoulders sunburned and hands blistered, he couldn’t find a comfortable spot to rest. There was no bed. There was no window. There was no light. Ian tried to feel his way around the room again, but his hands were raw and bleeding. He wanted to cry, but dared not. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The door jerked open and two guards entered with a lantern. Again, Ian’s eyes took a minute to focus. They were carrying an armload of stuff, but he couldn’t yet tell what it was.

“Cap’n said to give ye these.” They dropped the pile at his feet. A third man came in from behind. He set his lantern on a crate and handed Ian a plate of food and a glass of something. With the room well-lit and his eyes adjusted, Ian could see a blanket on the floor. On top of it was a folded shirt and a pair of gloves. The first man spoke. “Cap’n said to tell ye good works up on the deck.” He shifted his weight and pointed to the pile on the floor. “That be one of Cap’n’s shirts fer ye, and ‘is own blanket, too.”

“Why is Cap’n givin’ ‘im ‘is own stuff?” the second of the three men blurted out. He was quickly clouted on the back of the head by the third man. “Never question Cap’n’s orders. That be treason.” The same man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jar of something. He threw it to Ian. “Put some salve on yer hands. Good fer healin’.” The three turned and left.

Ian looked at the lantern they had given him, and the bedding on the floor. Satisfied he had done a good job for the day, he sat down to eat. Fish, salty beans, and stale bread had never tasted so good. Ian gulped them down, barely chewing. Falling onto the blanket, he closed his eyes and drifted off.