Beatrice Beecham's Ship of Shadows

PROLOGUE

The girl stood on the prow of the galleon, thick ropes binding her wrists, her hands limp and white against the black material of her heavy skirts. Her mouth moved but the sound that came forth was as restrained as her limbs; hushed whispers that cracked and wavered as they passed over parched lips. Wide eyes stared out across the bay, where the rolling blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean rose and fell like the folds of a great bed sheet aired in the sweet, spring breeze.

Her position was precarious but her resolve was steadfast. The sea breeze tousled her hair—turning it into ebony tendrils—and the face beneath was as pale as candle-wax, marred only by a splash of strawberry beneath her right eye where a birthmark lay like a livid isle in the blanched skin of her cheeks. There was a smile on her lips, as though she knew things that others did not, yet there was no fear.

Behind the girl, the ship’s crew were a jeering mob, faces twisted in hate, and their cries of malice rose into the air where seagulls screamed a token response. Despite the loud catcalls from his men, the ship’s captain stood silently to one side, his hands clutching a leather-bound King James Bible to his breast, his eyes—cupped by heavy lids—never leaving the girl on the prow. He held up a hand as he called out to his men.

“Be silent!”

At his command, the crew stopped their din. The seagulls took the opportunity to reassert themselves, their screeches carrying out across the bay. The chime of sword steel against the brass buttons of their long coats brought melody to the scene.

The captain raised the book into the air, his heavy raiment flapping about him as the wind swept across the deck. A series of creaks accompanying the breeze’s passing as rigging swayed against block and tackle. The captain closed his eyes for a few moments, drew in a breath, and let go a sigh as he caressed the Bible, taking comfort from it.

“I read from 2 Chronicles 33:6!” he called.

When he opened his eyes, they were blue steel, vivid against the unkempt brush of his black beard. He cleared his throat. As he began to speak, his voice became rhythmic, mesmerising those before him,

“And he caused his children to pass through the fire in the valley of the son of Hinnom: also he observed times, and used enchantments, and used witchcraft, and dealt with a familiar spirit, and with wizards: he wrought much evil in the sight of the LORD, to provoke him to anger.”

The captain paused in his recital, and addressed the girl, who remained facing the sea, as though oblivious to his rhetoric.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he growled. “Elizabeth Caldecott, ye shall be cast down to the water. And it shall reveal yer true nature.”

The captain looked at Elizabeth’s bound wrists, at the length of rope that snaked away from her bonds and joined a coil at the feet of several crewmen.

The captain continued his address. “The sea shall embrace ye into its depths as the purity of innocence. Or spew ye out, as an Apostate of evil. Only through The Lord will ye be made known to us all. Only through The Lord shall punishment be brought upon ye.”

The crew muttered “amen” and crossed themselves. They were no longer consumed with rage. Instead their demeanour was that of a humbled mass, revered by the words of their captain.

“Ye know the crime of which ye are accused,” the captain said to Elizabeth. “Better in the eyes of the Lord ye pronounce yer affinity with Satan, child. Denounce yer allegiance with his black heart, and lift the curse ye have bestowed upon the governor of these lands.”

“If I am to die knowing the man who killed my mother is to waste away, consumed by his own jealousy, then witch or not, I shall be at peace, sir.”

“If ye are an apostate, child, there will be no peace in this world or the next,” the captain sneered. “Pike-man!”

A tall and burly crewman, who leaned against a long spear, stood to attention and then stepped forward.

“My captain,” he said. His voice was heavy and rattled with phlegm. As he approached the girl, the shaft came down, the spearhead aiming at her back.

“Step from the forecastle, wench,” the captain said. “The trial begins. If ye survive, ye shall be drawn from the water by six strong hands at the end of this rope, proven a witch, and this same rope will be used to hang ye until yer sorry soul departs this world.”

The Pike-man edged forwards, the spearhead moving ominously close to the small of the girl’s back. The waves slapping against the hardwood hull counted away the seconds.

“Cast yerself to the waters and be with God,” the captain ordered. “Or stay yer fate with a confession, and release the curse.”

But the girl did not look back, nor did she need encouragement from the spear. She lifted her head and stared out towards the open ocean, stepping off of the forecastle, and hitting the water feet first. Her skirts blossomed for a few seconds before being dragged beneath the waves.

The captain went to the side of the ship and peered into the sea, his rope men waiting for his command. After a slow count, he held up his hand. The crewmen grabbed once more at the ropes and began to haul Elizabeth back in.

By the third pull something quite strange happened. The rope in their hand slackened as though Elizabeth was somehow moving faster than they could pull. Their captain confirmed that things were amiss when he cried out, and the crew went to the side to look down into the water.

The undulating shape of Elizabeth Caldecott was now visible just below the surface. But she was not sprawled or swimming, she was upright, the top of her head breaking the surface, her raven hair lank and slapped to her pallid face like streaks of tar. To the horror of all who looked upon her, the girl continued to rise. Her shoulders cleared the ocean, then her waist, the water pouring from her in fat rivulets, until she cleared the waves and stood on the surface as though she had merely stepped into a puddle. The surf slopped about her shoes.

She lifted her head and stared at the men standing watch over her. Her eyes were no longer ice; they were the colour of brilliant jade under the bright sunlight. A terrible smile played on her lips.

“Witch!” the captain called down to her. The crew began to shout and cuss, but they did not look at her. Instead, they cast their eyes away for fear of being stuck down.

Below, Elizabeth peered at her bonds. She muttered a few phrases and the ropes became opaque before disappearing altogether. The men holding onto the cables on the deck double checked their own hands just to be sure they were not imagining it. They absently rubbed their empty palms against their britches as though they were soiled.

“Aye,” Elizabeth spat at the captain above her. “I be a witch. Drawn to its dark power out of the despair only an orphaned, powerless child can know. My mother is dead! The man who robbed her of life grows fat on the profits from his labours. But no more, sir! He shall rot in his own envy. Mark these words, Captain: The Green Man will wake no more. My mother’s death is avenged in this act.”

“Yer mother harboured evil, the Devil’s Child,” the captain said firmly. “Thus she is equal with thee in her guilt. Sinners both, I decree.”

“Sin?” Elizabeth laughed and it was heartfelt. “Your shipplays host to sin, Captain. Ye and thy kind have desire that turn hearts black as night. Ye hide behind The Book, yet there is no light there for thy soul. The holds of your ship are filled with ill-gotten gains. Gold from Spanish galleons blasted until no man lives, silk from the Ottoman, the blood of slaves on every fibre. Ye covet such things; harbour their value above life itself. Hypocrite, I say to thee. Murderer!”

“Ye shall once more face the rope,” the captain said. “About your neck as we watch ye dance on the air.”

“Ye will have no such pleasure, sir,” the woman said. Her voice was low but they could all hear her as though she were with them on the deck. “Ye are all cursed, and all ye are connected to are cursed, both now and in times to come. Let the day become as night, and ye without guide, the darkness in each heart will succumb to the desires they harbour!”

With trepidation, the captain watched Elizabeth stretch out her arms until she became a tiny “T” shape on the vast, rippling seascape. The girl lifted her head to the heavens, eyes closed.

“Where despair and desire in the same place be, let this wretched child return to thee. A Ship of Shadows, a distant shore, a maiden’s voyage forevermore.”

There was a terrible sound on the air, a cannon-blast that sent everyone on deck sprawling for cover. Overhead the sky began to lose light, the nebulous clouds turning the colour of wood smoke. At the sound of the explosion, the captain had ducked but now he was on his feet and staring down at the incredible sight of the girl standing on the surface of the ocean. To his horror the writhing waters about her feet were slowly turning black, a pool of India ink that was spreading at a rate of knots.

The men on the ship were now moaning in terror. The sky was becoming so dark there was no definition, just an ebony infinity, space with no stars. And in the fading light, the men could see things moving in the shadows, things that were difficult to define, their form as undulating as the ocean about them.

The captain watched the ocean turn to black sackcloth and then the world was as shadow. He stepped back from the side of the ship and lost his footing. He landed on his backside and his Bible went spinning into the darkness.

At his cry of despair, Elizabeth mocked him, her laughter now high pitched and bitter. She stemmed its flow and stood on the black ocean, her breathing faint.

“Let there be light,” she whispered.

All about the ship fierce green embers flickered with sinister beauty as the things in the shadows opened their eyes.

The witch began laughing once more but this time it was lost amongst the awful, terrified screams of the damned.