Sea Witch Chronicles: Beelzebeth

By Tim Traynor

Arguably, she's the most infamous horror icon in history. Dating back over 4,000 years, her ominous title has marked the bows of countless ships, from Ancient Egypt to the present. Now she's back, and for those living around Seattle's Puget Sound, they find that her terrible legend is much too real. Unfortunately, the sea's most ferocious predator has never been more powerful, or pissed off!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Traynor
• Release date: Nov 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452390536

Tim Traynor

A self-described "Professional Beach Bum," for the most part, Tim Traynor has been a resident of Southern California's, South Bay Communities, including Torrance, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach and Playa Del Rey. His lifelong passions include surfing, beach volleyball, smashball, biking, music and mountain climbing. In between countless road trips, relentless studies of the ancients and philosophy, he claims to have produced 5 of the undisputed greatest novels of our time. Three of which, are specifically intended to try and help save the world.

Book preview

Sea Witch Chronicles

Beelzebeth

By Tim Traynor

Copyright 2013 Tim Traynor

Cover Art by Gary Freeman

FOR CHRISTY

PROLOGUE

Bristol, England 1627

The frail old man struggled as he reached across a small wooden table for his ever-present mug of cheap rum. He swallowed the hot liquid slowly and deliberately, savouring the last few drops until the tarnished goblet filled his blurring vision like an empty barrel. Dropping it to the floor he listened mindlessly as a dull thud momentarily broke the lonely silence of his bleak existence.

Yer done, bitch, Henry Swift murmured to himself as his attention shifted to the sheet of parchment that lay in front of him. A small bit of laughter followed. We’re both done then.

Though the lone window was closed, a cool draft moved freely throughout the old room, chilling him as he lifted his gaze past the murky glass. Outside the rain was falling, obscuring nearly everything except the dim lights of the anchored ships in the harbor. His old friend, Jack Trapp, captained the most recent arrival, The H.M.S. HERCULES.

Jack, he slurred, and wondered if the man would brave the rain and come see him, as he promised?

Lifting the single page in his hands he thought of another promise, one he made some twenty-years earlier. I swore and oath to you, James, he admitted over the document’s stirring content. I know, but you’re dead, man, and I’ve got to tell someone now…don’t I? The old man closed his eyes and pictured the recently deceased King, who had treated him so unfairly. Yet he had always been a man of his word. Thereupon lay his dilemma. I must, he sadly reaffirmed to the ghosts in his head.

His concern suddenly transposed into a more pressing reality. Within his chest he felt an all to familiar sensation as his lungs began filling with fluid. Not now, he begged, valiantly fighting off the attack’s inevitable effects. He fell from the chair, choking and gasping, until he finally passed out from a lack of air.

There he lay in a twilight world, near a beautiful gathering light. The pain in his torso began to subside. His seemingly endless layers of inner turmoil began miraculously peeling away, newly replaced by a peace as warm and forgotten as his own childhood. Glorious music filled his rejuvenated ears. He felt young again. His broken spirit soared as he suddenly felt himself in the presence of an ancient–

It lasted but a moment.

In place of the beckoning serenity the old man suddenly heard a tapping noise echoing throughout his newly throbbing head. It grew louder and louder still. When a huge boom filled the sky around him, he imagined himself in the middle of a tremendous battle.

Henry! a voice called from the penetrating distance. Henry Swift!

The fallen man tried to answer, even as a strong sense of peaceful tranquillity continued to beckon him home.

Henry, the voice continued to coax him with its hidden concern. Henry, it’s me, Jack Trapp. Can you hear me, man?

As consciousness slowly returned, the old man tried sitting up on his own. Jack, he said with an obvious effort. You’ve come then.

Of course I have, old friend, I was invited. But this is a poor reception for a man just back from sea.

He felt himself lifted from the floor and carried to his small bed, away from the draft filled window. Through half open eyes he surveyed the ancient door, newly broken from its hinges. The battle he heard raging in his head had only been his friend trying to get into the room. Did she put up much of a fight, Jack?

A little. Trapp smiled at his long-suffering friend’s attempt at humor. He failed to mention the choking gasps he heard, compelling him to force his way inside. As he covered his old mentor with a worn blanket and his own sea coat he couldn’t help recalling the time their roles had been reversed–when he was but a young boy with no prospect of ever rising above the lowly status of a street urchin. Swift found him sleeping inside a public urinal and took pity on him. He offered him a position, and a new life at sea.

Taking a worn linen to the water bowl, he dipped it in the cool liquid and began gently washing the phlegm from his friend’s face and hands. No words were exchanged during the process. The old man was to weak to protest and Jack Trapp was too distraught over his friend’s condition to say anything.

When Swift felt strong enough to speak he weakly squeezed the hand of his guest. Jack, he whispered, I need a favor.

I’m not surprised, the man said in false cheer. A pound or two, I imagine?

Swift managed a rare smile as he shook his head. Do you remember when I took out the LIGHTNING? And the other ships?

Trapp took a deep breath when he heard the words. How could he possibly forget? Before the H.M.S. LIGHTING incident, Henry Swift had been the most touted officer in the Royal Navy–even when he was a Catholic, and had to flee to France to avoid persecution during the later part of Elizabeth’s reign. That’s when the two of them became unduly separated. But something ominous had occurred during one of Trapp’s voyages to the New World. During his absence an event occurred–one so profound that it convinced the newly crowned King James that only a man as skilled and courageous as Henry Swift could be trusted to deal with the mysterious crisis. The exiled Captain was convinced to return home to England, to take command of 4 warships.

Whatever happened during the cryptic affair, it resulted in Swift’s ultimate ruin. He returned from that fateful journey, the lone survivor of a violent storm that sank all 4 of his ships, and took over 400 lives. Upon his arrival to London he was immediately imprisoned and accused of deliberately guiding his command into the dagger like cliffs off the Irish Coast, to weaken the Protestant King.

But instead of being executed for such a monstrous crime, he was secretly released and allowed to escape back to France. Making the matter even more profound, further inquiries into the tragedy were blocked by James, himself. Eventually, all evidence of there ever having been such an expedition was completely stricken from the official records. Despite past attempts by Trapp to pry the information from his old friend during previous clandestine reunions, the man continued to half-heartedly cling to his original story, that a great storm had taken his ships.

What of it, Henry? Trapp asked about the voyage–painfully aware that his friend might not have much time to explain himself.

It’s time you knew the truth, Jack, he answered weakly. It’s time that everyone knew the truth.

Trap felt a slight trepidation. Whatever terrible perils his friend had faced so long ago, they exacted a terrible toll on the once proud seaman. Exiled from his beloved England, disgraced and deserted, he simply retreated from life, drinking himself to ruin, living in hovels like the one in which Trapp now found him. No one cared that he smuggled himself back to Bristol–because so few people knew him anymore. And those that did were unlikely to recognize him.

The box, the old man managed to speak out, weakly pointing to a shelf hanging against the opposite wall. Look inside.

When Trapp found an ornately engraved container under a tattered coat, Henry motioned him to open the lid. Inside he found a stack of yellowing parchments. Each page was filled with an even flowing script, handsomely written and set between meticulous lines. Glancing at the first few pages he recognized the start of a poem. It brought a brief smile to his face as he envisioned a younger Henry–a singer of his own songs and a competent poet. Trapp recalled evenings at sea, when the captain would entertain the entire crew with his clever yarns.

I promised James that I’d say nothing,’ the old man justified his case, before his friend began to read. But he’s dead now. So it’s all right then?"

The voyage, Trapp realized. Is it here? In these pages?

It is, Swift admitted. The last page lies on the table, finished this very night. And it must be published, Jack. You know people who can do this?

Published?

The world must know what really happened, pleaded Swift, while trying to raise his head. It isn’t over. It’s never over. She keeps coming back.

Who keeps coming back, Henry?

Beelzebeth! He spit out the word as if it had a vile taste to it.

Though he had never heard the term, it managed to raise the hairs on the back of Jack Trapp’s neck, nonetheless. Is it a ship?

It’s no ship, he was told. But a ship killer. And the world must know what she did, to my ships.

She? But even as Trapp longed to learn the tale, if the British Admiralty had been so resolute against anyone ever revealing the event–

Yet there remained the untold family members, waiting for over twenty-years to learn what really happened to their loved ones.

You know the right people, Swift repeated hopefully. It must be published.

Aye, he agreed, not at all certain that he actually did. But you’ll be around to see your fruits, Henry. A bargain?

No, friend, he answered weakly. "I know I’m done. Though I dread the part I must still play in another man’s life… One who’s not yet born."

Trapp fought a tear and took his old shipmate’s outstretched hand. The man’s last ranting was obviously delirious. But, Henry, I’ve come to sing the old songs, and retell a memory or two. Not to watch you die.

I didn’t ask you here to watch me die, struggled Swift, but to bid you farewell…and to ask you this favor. Will you help me, Jack?

Trapp saw himself once again as a 10-year-old boy. I shall be in your service for the whole of my life, he recalled promising the esteemed sea captain upon receiving his first set of new clothes, and a warm place to sleep. And he too, was a man of his word. Aye, old friend. If that is your wish, then you have my word on it. He gently squeezed the man’s hand.

As the two men shared a thoughtful gaze, Henry’s eyes grew suddenly focused, as if he was intent on staying alive at least a few moments longer.

I never denied my awful legacy, he suddenly insisted. Nor did any of those who came before me. Nor must any man that follows. That is why you must help me, Jack. There’s too much at stake!

I promised I would, Trapp reassured him.

Never denied it, Swift went off again, as if he were trying to convince himself in a noticeably weaker voice. His body lurched forward. Then his eyes lost their brief flash of vigour–filling instead with a peaceful emptiness.

Trapp held onto his hand. As a young man he fought with Henry Swift and Francis Drake against Philip’s Armada. Skirmishes with the French and Dutch had provided him with an entire career of seeing men die. But despite the frequency with which he was subjected to the phenomena, the fact that this dead man was his sadly neglected friend, made it hard to accept. For most certainly, a man such as Henry Swift deserved a more honorable end, than this.

He clasped the lifeless hand a last time and placed it over the dead man’s chest. After a moment’s reflection, Trapp walked toward the broken door to instruct the innkeeper to summon the authorities. Having second thoughts, he retreated back into the room–to the engraved box with the stack of parchment inside. A last conversation together, Henry, he offered as he looked upon the body of his friend. For you wrote this, and I’m to read it then.

He sat down by the small table and placed the lone candle closer to the manuscript. From a small case in his coat pocket he removed a pair of round spectacles. On closer examination, Trapp was even more impressed by the meticulous penmanship applied to the poem. Surveying the rest of the dingy room, it told him the document was the most important thing in his friend’s otherwise meager life.

He found his own interest piqued by the observation. So he began to read.

OF THE SEA WITCH

By Henry Swift

Listen in fear to the tale you hear

of the terror that lurks below

And know the truth of the Sea Hags lust

that began so long ago

Come know the hearts of the six brave souls

who did face this devilish fiend

And risen upon the resurrections of

this unholy Egyptian Queen

As Trapp read on he found himself completely disappointed. The poem seemed more a fantastic yarn of unbelievable lore, than any realistic account of Henry’s Swift’s last voyage. It reminded him of the tales the man use to tell on their long arduous journeys at sea, to keep his sailors entertained and occupied. Beginning in ancient Egypt, with an apparent bloodthirsty queen, who murdered mermaids and plundered their secrets of the deep, it appeared to be separated from the doomed fleet’s deadly tragedy by at least 4,000 years. But the name the poem most often referred was Beelzebeth–the one his distressed companion had uttered with such vile before he died. And that at least, intrigued him enough to keep reading.

In his anxiety to discover that which he most needed to know, Trapp began vaguely skimming through page after page, chapter after chapter, century after century, each describing stirring accounts of individual heroism–all directed against a vile Sea Witch, whose only intent seemed to be in wreaking absolute death and destruction against any and all she encountered. A Sea Witch called, Beelzebeth, and Jack Trapp eventually began to get a notion as to where the tale was leading–to when Henry took out The Lightning–and the other ships.

So he read on, until finally, he found what he suspected–and when he began reading Swift’s own supposed account of the oceans ultimate terror, it sent a chill down his spine.

My Own Encounter

In 1604 in the year of our Lord

a raider did appear

From the Irish Sea it struck and slipped

but never could be seen

As ships began to disappear

the stories did begin

Of strange summer storms

that ruled the nights

Bringing death and endless tears

Suddenly towns were hit

with such a force that none survived

CORKERS PARK on the Irish shore

then BREE on the Wales side

The H.M.S. DANDY strayed from her course

and was found washed up on a beach

With her starboard ripped like burnt bits of parchment

the crew had disappeared

KING JAMES The First was fast to act

for he ruled but a year

He blamed the Spanish then the French

or some Irish Buccaneer

Four ships he gathered to crush the threat

to Empire and to pride

Though little was thought of the Irish Shore

or BREE on the Wales side

So Henry Swift, brave Henry Swift

proud and oh so bold

was given leave by James, himself

to crush the unknown foe

From Bristol town he took his ships

and prowled the Irish Sea

He found no foe to vent his wrath

just broken paths of rubble

Then a dream did take his nights

which filled his sleep with dread

For the voice of Ebson Koo did call

and told him such a tale

That Henry Swift was ‘Of the Witch’

he was awakened by her wail

A slight wind kicked at the bow of the ship

that Henry Swift commanded

It carried a stench the Captain knew

though he could not place the moment

"What on earth,?" asked the man on watch

when he saw his Captain’s terror

"Tis just a Sea Witch, my good lad,

and I think tonight we’ll take her."

So calm returned to the face of Henry

though his knees were badly shaking

He rang six bells and roused the crew

the other ships repeated

When the Captains rowed to Henry’s ship

to hear the tale he told

The cries went on so all believed

when the watchman had them summoned

"A light dances off the starboard bow,"

he cried to the Captains Four

When the yellow pale glow was seen

the wail became a roar

Fierce winds whipped up and the night grew cold

and all man wished for day

Then Henry had his cannon aimed

on the light not far away

"FIRE LADS," he shouted loud

and the guns all thundered out

But the glow retreated east toward Wales

and the ships were turned about

They chased and fired all through the night

the Hag was on the run

Henry Swift pressed hard and fast

then lost her in a fog

The eerie mist closed all about

and a breeze began to blow

When Henry heard the first wave crash

he knew the shore to close

The breeze became a gale force

in the matter of a moment

The parting mists left rocky cliffs

every second brought them closer

With helplessness ol’ Henry watched

the DOVER GULL approach

It was smashed to bits on the razor cliffs

her men were thrown about

Then The HORNET rammed the jagged rocks

and split like a keg of ale

There Henry saw the Witch stand tall

he heard her banshee wail

She beckoned THE HEATHER to a fate like the others

just a few yards from her form

Then Henry’s ship THE LIGHTNING’ lurched

and was drawn to certain doom

The Witch laughed loud she wailed and screeched

as she stood by the raging sea

The LIGHTING closed on the windswept rocks

and the crew began to freeze

Henry Swift poor Henry Swift

did watch his men give in

They dropped their riggings

fell to begging forgiveness for their sins

"Help us Lord," was cried and prayed

as the ship approached its doom

But Henry Swift he cursed the bitch

and swore he’d take her too

He waited till the ship came close

then bade his helmsman hold

He yelled out, Turn the ship hard port,

where the witch was on the rocks

As the ship veered hard she surely saw

what Henry Swift had done

She cursed her luck and the man on deck

and knew he was The One

The ship struck hard it cracked and split

as it broke upon the shore

Waves grew calm as Henry fell

the wind lost all its roar

A last screech pierced the new eerie quiet

as her life force ebbed away

Beneath THE LIGHTNING’S mangled hull

Beelzebeth’s ruins did lay.

Trapp found himself completely mesmerized by the tale, which left visions of the ruined fleet stirring in his brain. Was it real? How else would 4 ships, with 4 competent captains, have ever made such monumental errors as to follow one after the other to their collective doom? One ship of the line might have been lost in such a careless display of incompetence, but not all–never. That had always remained the great mystery. And what about the H.M.S. Dandy? It was found exactly as described in the poem.

As he sat pondering the tragedy in the flickering candlelight he recalled Henry mentioning a last part of the tale, finished that very night. Trapp spotted it on the small table in a corner of the dingy room. He picked it up and began to read.

Now twenty years and more have passed

that dark and bloody time

Henry Swift lived through the worst

Beelzebeth did not

But Henry’s eyes were not the only eyes

that watched the fight

England’s King had his dream of dreams

and saw the chase and kill that night

When Henry came alone to court

to tell his woeful tale

James called the man to private talks

and told him of his plans

"A braver man I’ll never know, good Henry," he advised

"But the world must never know the truth,

we must hide it from their eyes"

So James released his Captain

with his life and not much more

Henry never returned to sea

though he often walks her shores

But what is done by men

who confront such living evil?

Henry Swift did write this poem

King James commissioned his bible

Jack Trapp stared at the pages of Henry Swift’s poem, and its author, long after he finished reading.

What if it was all true? he delved, both for and against the incredible recounting of events with which he was now so enamoured. Everything seemed to fit so profoundly–the tragic voyage, the ships, and the men who never returned home to their families. And no one ever knew exactly what happened to any of them–except Henry. He commanded the expedition. It was his to give glory–or to destroy. And he lost everything.

But according to his dead friend’s last desperate tale, he wasn’t the man who had led his fleet into such a meaningless disastrous ruin, as he was forced to live his life. On the contrary, if he was to be believed, then Henry Swift was instead an unappreciated hero. One who defeated an unbeatable foe–for the good of all humanity.

And England’s King had simply left him to his fate.

That’s what Jack Trapp wanted to believe, for the sake of all the doomed sailors, as well as their Captain. The unprecedented violence they were sent to stop upon the Irish Sea and its bordering coastlines, never occurred again. Which meant that THE LIGHTNING and the other ships were indeed ultimately victorious in their dangerous mission.

That was an honorable end to such brave men.

Yet, Trap knew the possibility that Swift, a man of considerable pride, could well have made up the fabulous tale in the hazes of his prolonged drunkenness–to sweep the guilt from his overly troubled conscience?

As he studied the corpse lying on the bed, he decided that he did believe everything–because he knew the man so well who occupied its flesh and bone. And back in 1604, when Henry Swift was the most brilliant, brazen captain he had ever known, it would have taken just such a hideous catastrophe to break him. For no battle, nor storm could ever have ruined him so completely.

It made Trapp think how cruel the old gods must have been. If this was how they rewarded those who served their cause so well, by making a mockery of their brave deeds, and ruining their lives, then he was glad that their ancient worship had died out.

Trap found himself drawn back to the pages he previously skipped over so quickly. As he reread the tale of the five slayers that preceded Henry, he labored over their own terrible battles with Beelzebeth. And he came to understand and appreciate the common bond the six men all shared– That being, that each must inform the next in line of their dreadful obligation. Before their own grizzly task was finally complete.

As he slowly rose to his feet, Trapp realized that if the tales were true, then his deceased