Living on Writer's Block

Over the next several weeks, Ramona steadily grew more confident in her sailing. She learned about storms and their signs; about shoals and shallows; about mending sails, ropes, and nets. It seemed there was always something else to learn, and she was an eager pupil. Gorrill taught her all there was to know about cleaning and caring for cannons, as well as the procedure for firing one. Wilhelm even grudgingly allowed her to learn about navigating, but only when Samuel gave him a cold look when he overheard Wilhelm flatly refusing. Merlin introduced her to the rowers, and told her what they were able to do; that was fascinating. Ramona had not known before that rowers were able to turn a boat by themselves, she’d assumed the rudder was the only steering device. She spent many hours with Jiminy, cleaning various articles aboard the Osprey.

But most often, she was with old Clarke Pierre, cooking delicious meals for the crew. It delighted her immensely to see her work enjoyed by the pirates, almost for the first time being freely allowed to do good for people; she took full advantage of the opportunity. With her help, Pierre was more able to produce larger meals, and she experimented as much as possible with making desserts and sweet things for the crew. They all began to appreciate her more than they’d anticipated, and not only did her presence keep them in line, but they began to notice with more clarity the good things they’d always had. Her full enjoyment of even the smallest things, like the smell of the air, the fresh sea wind in her face, the good food; all these things were new and beautiful pleasures that she  took every opportunity to enjoy. The crew noticed, and they began to see the world in a new light. 

Samuel joined her at the rail one evening, the men boisterously feasting in the crew’s cabin behind them, golden light spilling from the doorway into the dark blue of the night. Ramona stood near the base of the stairs that led up to the poop, taking a quick breather from her long day of preparing a special meal she’d long pondered for the crew. 

“You’ve been quite busy, I see,” he said, stepping to her left side.

She flashed a smile over at him. “True. As have you; I’ve hardly gotten a chance to talk to you this past week.”

“Well, you know how it is… captain of a ship, governing nearly thirty men, managing various navigation and other such matters. I don’t get a lot of time for simply sitting and talking.” He glanced down at her, his arms behind his back aloofly. “And yourself? Do you get much chance for talking?”

“Not really — not just talking, at least.”

“But some time spent talking while doing other things?”

She nodded. “Kitchen work, you get a lot of time sitting in there to make sure the bake does what it needs to. You can’t take your attention away for a moment, so you don’t really get a chance to go anywhere else on the ship, or else something will certainly go wrong. Every time.” Her mouth twisted in remembrance of one particular instance. “But I get a lot of visitors.”

“I’ve heard — and noticed for myself, coincidentally. They’ve really taken a liking to you, Red.”

She glanced up at the new name. “‘Red’?”

“Why not? ‘Redhawk’ sounds rather formal sometimes. And I’m not about to call you ‘Ramona’,” he added.

“Why not? I call you Samuel from time to time.”

“Because you don’t know my surname. Besides, it’s a bit different for you. You’re a lady addressing a man; not rude for you to call me ‘Samuel’. I, however, am a gentleman, and for me to address a lady by her first name would at the very least seem presumptuous, if not borderline insulting.”

She scoffed and raised an eyebrow, looking over at him. “Alright, Captain — first off, me, a lady? I can assure you, sir, I am no lady. I’ve told you my past. I’m not a lady.”

“New beginnings, Redhawk. You’ve certainly made yourself out to be a lady here. First objection dismissed. The next?” His cool blue eyes surveyed the sea passing by them.

“Second, I think if I did know your surname I would still call you Samuel because that’s what I called you my whole life.”

“That’s not an objection. But I will concede, it’s probably true. Anything else?”

“Finally, that whole ‘gentleman’ idea of yours? It’s true you are quite polite and gentlemanly, but need I remind you, we’re on the sea. No one’s going to care, sir. You may call me Ramona without fear of presumption or of insult,” she said, her emerald eyes twinkling with flecks of gold.

He shrugged. “I like the name ‘Red’ anyway. It —” He stopped and looked suddenly thoughtful. A strange light danced in his eyes as he turned his head to look down at her. “Did you ever hear,” he asked quietly, “of Jacquotte Delahaye?”

“No.” 

“She’s a rather famous female corsair, if the stories are true. You know, she had red hair; not quite just like yours, I should imagine. You’re — rather a special case,” he said, suddenly raising a hand and taking her scarlet streak between his fingers gently for a moment. He lowered his arm swiftly, replacing it behind his back, and continued. “She commanded a whole fleet of ships herself, and at one point she faked her own death only to reappear a year or so later, to continue her pirating career. She became known as ‘Back-from-the-Dead Red’.”

Ramona looked up at him, one eyebrow raised rather disapprovingly. “And you think I need a legacy like that?’

He laughed. “No, I’m simply saying you’re not the first lady of the seas there’s ever been in history. Besides, you may as well take that name; what with that witch and everything.”

“Oh — that witch,”she said hollowly, all color suddenly draining from her face. Even her eyes turned so pale grey as to be almost white, and the red hair turned the color of an old scab.

Samuel noticed, even in the dim light. “You alright, Red?” he asked, turning to her.

She drew a quick breath and tried to shake it off. “Yes, of course, Captain, I —”

“Red,” he said warningly. One eyebrow came up slowly. “Be honest with me, lass,” he said gently. “Is something else up?”

She bit her lip, wrapping her arms around herself as she leaned one hip against the rail beside her, and she avoided the captain’s penetrating gaze.

“Redhawk,” he said a little more firmly, his expression hardening, “I’m your captain. You can tell me anything you need to.”

She looked up at him, and suddenly remembered the first day she’d left the cabin, the day she’d learned to trust him. “Well — you see, sir, I — I’ve been having these dreams,” she began hesitantly.

“Dreams?”

“Yes, about t-the matron and about that horrible man. And there’s usually others too, people from my past — her prisoners and slaves, usually.”

“Alright, but I don’t see why that would make you suddenly turn paper white.”

“Well — t-these dreams, the matron and the old man are even more horrible than before. I generally end up swallowed by the witch and fall down a long tunnel, then I end up in a dungeon and the old man is there — only he’s taller, and all bent over, and he’s — he’s demonic,” she said, her voice trembling. “Then he pulls out a needle and stabs me and I wake up in a cold sweat. And for the first few minutes after I wake up — well, captain, that poison still hurts me most mornings.”

His eyebrow quirked up sharply and his lips thinned into a tight line. “Still?”

She nodded. 

“Hm… well, what about the others? When do they appear?”

“They slide by as I’m falling down the witch’s throat. I get flashes and glimpses of memory, of actual memory, when they’re looking at me as they’re tortured or as they die. Some are… pleading with me, begging me to help, but… of course, I… never did. I can’t in my dreams either. And some of them are looking at me with such hate and anger, I —” she groaned in pain and shut her eyes, bowing her head and pressing a fist against her face. “I hate it,” she said softly. “They torment me every night — and even during the day sometimes.”

“During the day?”

She nodded bleakly. “Captain — do you believe in ghosts?”

“I’m a pirate, Redhawk, of course I believe in ghosts. I’ve met some.”

“Well — I never did. But if ever I had, I’d think these were.”

Samuel stared down at her, his face tight with sorrow. She shouldn’t have to struggle with this, he thought. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly with two fingers, and his other hand rested on his hip. “This is wrong,” he muttered to himself. He pulled his hand down slightly and looked at her over it, his blue eyes blazing. “How can I help?” he asked. “How can we help?” he went on, dropping his hand from his face to the rail beside him. “You shouldn’t have to fight this alone anymore. Why didn’t you tell — someone? Anyone would be better than going it alone. Come on, Red, you can trust us! For the first time in your life, you can actually put faith in people. So do it — please! You can’t carry these burdens alone.”

“Why does it seem such a big deal to you? They’re just dreams,” she attempted to placate him.

“No, they’re not, Redhawk. When the memory of those dreams turns a girl like you into a paper-white, shaking little mouse, I know they’re not just dreams. Something has to change.”

She looked up at him, eyes warm. She hurriedly blinked back tears. “Well — thank you, Captain, for trying. And I promise I won’t keep it to myself anymore — at least, I’ll let you know how I’m doing. I don’t want to burden the rest of them. They come to me so I can help them, not the other way around. But, as far as actual help — I don’t think there’s much you can do.” She shook her head slightly, her gaze lowered. “The best you can do is to let me know every day that I have friends — and God bless you because you already do, so much that I can’t even begin to thank you. You’re already doing all you’re able, Captain.” She raised her eyes slowly and looked up at him, and her gaze locked on his. “Thank you,” she said, “For everything.”

Samuel stood still for a moment, looking down at her in silence. Then he uttered a sigh. “Of course, Ramona. We’re glad to do anything you need us to.” He gave her a slight, wearied smile. “Don’t push it away, alright? Remember that.”

She nodded. “I will, sir.”

“Then, I wish you a good night,” he said quietly, “and may yours dreams be peaceful this time.” He bowed to her, and as he straightened up, he smiled gently. She looked up at him for a moment, considering, then she suddenly went into a sweeping curtsey, taking the side of her long red skirt in one hand as she sank down. 

As she rose again, she looked up at him, her emerald eyes dancing. “Goodnight, Captain.”

… .. . .. …

Ramona tossed fitfully in the hammock that had been strung up for her in a spare cabin, sweating and shivering intermittently. Occasionally she let out a slight cry in her sleep.

“Please, my darling Bloodhawk, don’t hurt me!” simpered the Matron, in a horrible, rasping gurgle. The seawater-bloated, fire-scorched, rotting old woman wobbled forward, her gelatinous body quivering with each shuffling, sliding step. She raised a hand that looked like it had been chewed, and with a jolt Ramona realized she’d been fish food for days. The rings on the hand were tarnished, with chipped stones, and her nails were greenish black and ragged. On one finger was a deep gouge, no doubt put there by the fish. The woman’s face, what wasn’t blackened or consumed by fire, was a horrible, runny mess of make-up over purple and white blotched skin. One watery blue eye rolled sightlessly in its socket, surrounded by burned flesh. The other was an empty hole. “What did your dear Matron ever do to you? Can’t you help me?” she choked. “After all — You. TOOK. My POWER!” Suddenly the horrid gurgle changed to an inhuman roar, as if there were a whole mob speaking in inhuman unison, as the horrible apparition instantly grew in size, her rotten lips stretching wide open, her jaw unhinging, her cheeks splitting under the tension. Ramona shrieked and fell back, but stepped into a sudden void and began to fall down a long, filthy, slimy darkness. As she fell, images raced around her in the dark, haunting visions of skeletal bodies, open and sightless eyes; gaping wounds, crawling with flies and maggots; a whip that rose and flew down again, slicing and cracking with sickening regularity across the bare backs of six prisoners, all chained in a row, their blood mingling together in pools beneath them as, one by one, they stopped struggling and slumped down, dead; emaciated women and starved children who looked up as Ramona fell past them and held out their hands beseechingly for even the slightest aid; half-dead men, glaring at her from behind bars they could barely grasp in their wretched state, spitting curses in her face. She tried to twist away but wherever she turned there were others, more horrible than before. Suddenly the visions began to evaporate before her and fade away, and she knew with a sickening sense of clarity what came next.

Her legs suddenly struck stone and she heard a crack as she buckled to the floor. She sat there, head hung low, her caramel hair reeking of the blackness she’d just fallen from. Her arms were stiff, hands braced against the floor in front of her, her shoulders hunched against the nightmare. She was shaking as she raised her head, knowing what she would see. There before her in a small puddle of dreary light were a pair of bare feet, the legs slightly bowed, and a pair of long, grey, skeletal hands swung side to side between the creature’s knees as it swayed slowly back and forth. Slowly one foot slid and came forward, and then the thing took another step, and another, and soon stood in the light. Ramona didn’t want to look up. Above her there stood the old man, his ghoulishly elongated frame curved over her like a crescent moon, his bald head hanging directly above her. She slowly looked up. His face hung directly above hers, his abnormally wide, completely black eyes glowing with a reddish light in their centers, his mouth stretched in a wide, yellowed grin that actually split his face from ear to ear, his teeth horribly long and jagged. She tried to scramble back but found that she was pinioned to a wooden post, her hands shackled tightly together around the back, her ankles chained against the foot of the wooden pylon. An iron band wrapped around her forehead, keeping her head immobile and her shoulders and neck exposed for the inhuman thing’s needles. As the being slowly selected a syringe from a long leather roll, Ramona watched hopelessly and prayed she’d wake up before the worst part came. But she didn’t. As the ghoul raised his face with its enormous, plastered-on grin, and began to shamble toward her with a needle in its overlong, bony fingers, she shut her eyes tightly. As the horrible old man raised the needle, she gritted her teeth in preparation but even then, as the needle plunged deep into her shoulder, she couldn’t hold back a scream.

[Note to readers: Again, I failed to drop this chapter in a timely fashion! Apologies, and I already have the next chapter scheduled to drop precisely on time, I promise you!]