Stellar Wind

By C.R.Barber

Author’s Notes
This evil table can be found in Parinacota, Chile inside the tiny village's adobe church. Still today, the people who live in Parinacota keep the little wooden table chained up so that it cannot roam the streets and steal souls. The picture on the back cover is the real table and the church that houses it today. When I was looking for a story to write, I was inside the church of Paranicota with my family and brother-in-law. I heard him ask the church-keep why the ugly old table was chained. The old man replied, “The table, it is evil, it drags itself down the street and next morning someone inside the house is dead.” I became interested in why the table why evil and since when. No one from the little village knew the answer. Hence, I created that story.
I started in modern day, and somehow ended up back in time, in 1712. I love the bygone days of tall ships so I got the idea and my ship was created. Now I needed a name for her and had already decided that it would also be the name of my novel. She was a carrack, grand and majestic built in 1683. I searched the web to find what astronomic discovery was made that year: Stellar Wind is what I found.
To be as accurate as possible, I studied what sailors and people wore and ate back then, which ports were friendly, what was traded to and from the different ports, where pirates normally raided ships and their pirate lingo. It was important to know religious customs and where natives were uprising against the white man. The Mayans are weaved into the story along with Pacal Votan, the Long Count Calendar, the Dying World of the Fourth Sun, the different tribes in South America and more. This research was not only fun for me but also very enlightening. I hope that you enjoy Stellar Wind’s adventure as much as I enjoyed writing it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.R.Barber
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370344642

C.R.Barber

My name is Catherine. I was born and raised in Annapolis, Maryland. At the age of 20 I married a Chilean. During my life in Chile I raised 6 children. I have been a Reiki practitioner since the year 2001 and went on to becoming a Reiki Master in 2013. I am a qualified therapist in the areas of Biomagnetism and Bio-energy Therapy. I enjoy reading and writing fiction novels, epic adventures and thrillers. After the loss of my 10 year old twin son in 1995, I discovered the Law of Attraction and continued to study how it actually works. I discovered the secret of 'The Secret' and wrote Creating Your New Reality to share my discovery.

Book preview

Prologue

26 August 683

The subtle summer wind had blown most of the clouds away revealing a crystal blue sky. Outside of the stone palace chambers, the king lay weak on jaguar pelts surrounded by an array of colorful flowers and his Maya people. Brilliant white robes hung over his frail frame, and when he was assisted in sitting up, the royal crown of gold that was decorated with quetzal plumes was placed upon his head. In his left hand was the ruler’s ceremonial staff known to all as Bastón, and delicately covered by his right hand was an accordion type book referred to as Popol Vuh. As the sun climbed higher, it became clear to those present that this was the end of an era: The era of Pacal Votan.

An ominous hush dominated the congregation as they waited to hear the lord’s final words. After several long moments, the king’s eyes washed over the throng, and he began to speak: "O Children, toward the end of this time we call the Dying World of the Fourth Sun, mankind will enter into a new kind of spiritual crisis. A war of terror will be upon us. It will be a war unlike any other known to man. The sun will overheat the land and there will be overwhelming social discontent. When the earth begins to bleed and the Sacred Tree appears in the sky, you will see the signs of hell evident in every corner of this great world. Sadly, by that time it will be too late. If, by this day, the mass of people on this planet refuse to wake up and reconnect to their spirituality, and refuse to synchronize with nature, all will be lost. I say to you now, prepare the way for the Cosmic Civilization that is on its way and will arrive on the first day of the new world. Spread the word and await ‘he who was chosen’ long ago. Lord Pacal paused and closed his eyes. His head nodded, and a hint of a smile touched his lips: I tell you now that I know of the stars, because I am from the stars. After my physical life today, my wisdom and I will continue traveling through other dimensions, and for this reason I will communicate with you until the end of time."

After these words, 80-year-old Pacal Votan stared ahead. His eyes seemed to be smiling, and the expression on his face was that of a very peaceful man. It seemed to those watching that he was gazing into heaven itself. The entire tribe witnessed his spirit leaving his body and move into the other dimensions. For a long moment, there was an immense absence of noise of any kind. No one cried. No one spoke. No one moved; even the sounds of nature held their breath. Finally, out of the profound silence, one haunting voice sang out a farewell hymn, and the people raised their eyes to the heavens and lifted their arms as though watching and helping their king pass over.

Chapter One: The Twenty-first Day in the Month of December, 1712

The soft light from the lantern could still be seen through a crack in the door of the captain’s cabin. Barely breathing, but aware of the pounding of their own hearts, First Mate John Henry and Cookey, the ship’s cook, cautiously pressed their ears against the cold, wooden door. After hearing a series of loud snores, they silently crept in. The two men, fired by fear and desperation, quietly closed the door behind them, their eyes seeking out shapes in the half-light of the lantern. Their mission was as simple as it was dangerous: Murder the captain.

The stench inside the cabin was so overwhelming that Henry and Cookey covered their noses, feeling instantly nauseous. It had been months since either of them had entered the master’s quarters, and both were appalled to see such chaos and the putrid smells of squalor enveloped them and stung their senses. The once beautiful floorboards were caked with grime, and the handsome Persian rugs now resembled scabrous beasts. A saggy, leather chair dozed beside the desk. Upon it was a shamble of leftover meals, grimy mugs, and pheasant quills stabbed in the scribbles of the Captain’s log. The ink had tipped over and run onto the floor in a dried puddle. Several small, venomous snakes lay coiled around different objects, flicking their forked tongues at dust particles that were launched by the constant motion of the ship. A wood fire constantly smoldered in the grate. Curiously, it expelled no warmth whatsoever; on the contrary, the cabin was icy cold, the air was damp and, though no windows were ever opened, an unsettling draft whistled about the wooden walls.

The determined duo inched their way toward the berth where the portly captain lay numb, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Completely awash from the effects of the rum, he snored loudly. Still in his hand was a half-emptied flask of spiced rum from the Caribbean. Raising their daggers, Henry and Cookey froze at a fearful sight: A large and thick, black serpent wrapped snugly around the neck of the diabolical captain.

Lord God Almighty! cried Henry in a tight undertone. From where hath such a creature come?

Craning his neck to see through the dim lantern light, Cookey whispered, An omen, matey, an omen provin’ we be standin’ at the gates of hell itself.

Henry took a step closer to better observe the unstirring captain. Looks like the snake has already done us the deed, he murmured.

Aye, whispered Cookey.

Suddenly, a strange grumbling erupted deep from within Captain Morag’s body. It heaved as he breathed, and as he exhaled a wave of decay invaded their nostrils. Daggers at the ready, the pair crept yet closer, both feeling a repugnant, tingling sensation. The snake eyed them closely, raising its head, hissing and showing its venomous fangs for the strike. In haste, the two men gasped and quickly jumped back to contemplate this unprecedented situation. Startling them half out of their wits, a ghastly moan emerged from the captain, though their eyes could not see from where it came, for it was not coming from his cigar-filled mouth. Though he did not bodily stir, a frightful growl belched from within his unnaturally bulging belly, rumbling louder and louder. Before it stopped, there was an ear-splitting noise that sounded like the roar of an angry beast. Shivering in their boots, First Mate Henry and Cookey heard the roar deepen, then transfigured into articulated words.

Dare you two presume vanquish one such as I? it bellowed loudly. This is no mortal business. It is a matter of great consequence. Continue now, and say you had your warning. Surprising them both, Captain Morag’s Scottish brogue was not in this voice.

The men exchanged a horrific look, raised their daggers higher and then returned their eyes to the sleeping captain. Cookey’s palms were wet with sweat, and his stomach started to spin over as he yanked on Henry’s arm. Panic and nausea spewed in his throat. It burned there.

We must escape! Cookey whispered with urgency.

Nay, it knows of our presence, Henry shot back. It shall be our demise if we retreat now. Fear not, for the Lord shall lift His sword in battle against this evil. We are merely acting in the name of the Almighty. Tis our duty to protect the men. Doubt not, Cookey. Though these words escaped Henry’s lips, doubt stabbed within his brain.

Regaining his courage, Cookey’s eyes fixed on the captain. Henry’s face contorted as his hazel eyes opened wide.

Now! Henry shouted.

As they lurched forward, the body of the overweight captain began to convulse violently. Though it appeared that he was still asleep obscenities spewed from his mouth. Suddenly, the grand ship pitched, throwing Henry and Cookey off their feet. Every drawer and cabinet flew open, disgorging their contents at the desperate pair. The terror-stricken men dodged the flying items that targeted them. An icy wind burst in from nowhere. The embers in the grate exploded into a large flame, first a blazing red, then black, as if the life had been stolen from it. A smoky haze filled the cabin. Dusky figures loomed out of the mist, whipping around the master, and then hovering overhead with dead eyes on Henry and Cookey.

Abruptly, the ship stopped thrashing, and the men slowly turned their sight to Morag. Their stomachs jerked when they saw his eyes glaring maliciously at them. A smile crept across his bearded face, resembling the grimace of a demented clown. They watched him rise silently from his soiled berth with one hand clasped around the black snake and the other still clutching the flask of spirits. Henry and Cookey watched Captain Morag drink from the bottle, dribbling half its contents down his chest.

Thou shalt not kill, Morag chuckled in a low bellow. "Is that not what your Lord commands? With sharp, dancing eyes he threw the flask at the fireplace. It exploded thunderously, and long tongues of fire swirled about him, and then licked his face, singeing his beard. Morag displayed no signs of dismay. Come on you cowardly knaves, he teased. Slay me and repent, for ye shall be more damned than I." An eccentric gleam of humor twinkled in his eyes. For only a fraction of a second, Cookey and Henry stood frozen in fear. Nonetheless, the decision had been made, and they knew that it was either him or them. Hearts pumping with adrenaline, they lurched forward, plunging and twisting their curved daggers deep into the captain’s chest in an attempt to pierce his heart. Morag did not resist. To their shock, he laughed wickedly. Ignoring the laughter, Cookey, who was an expert with a blade, went directly for the heart. Astonishing him, no blood gushed from the wound, instead maggots and a strong smell of decay poured out as though the man had been dead for some time already. Morag continued smirking and chuckling through his gritted teeth.

Wide-eyed with dread, Cookey and Henry glanced sideways at each other, and then stared incredulously at the captain.

John Henry screamed, How does one kill such evil?

Desperately, Cookey lurched at Morag and severed his head from his body. It dropped upon the table that sat under the starboard porthole. Henry recognized that it was the table Morag had brought from Haiti.

At that moment, the ship’s bell sounded.

Lord sink me, Henry sighed. Twas lurid beyond my imagination, he said, a muscle jumping in his square jaw. And oddly, the captain gave no fight. Said I well, Cookey?

Aye, agreed Cookey, wiping his hands clean on a green velvet curtain behind the little table. Twas as though the poor bastard wanted relief of ‘is livin’ hell.

First Mate Henry finally took a deep breath, showing some relief.

"We know now that the captain he was not. Until this moment, I was not completely convinced. Alas, a heartless chest we found, Henry said, in a deep, wavering voice. Twas in fact a demon we have vanquished, one that has brought such misery and death to our beloved Stellar Wind." Henry squinted, recalling the nightmare they had lived since Haiti.

Cast off ‘is followers, will ye? Cookey added, his eyes darting nervously toward the cabin door. We’ll deal out justice by sweepin’ them seduced by the devil to the sea!

I give you my Bible-oath: They will give us no grief, swore Henry, pulling his gaze away from the captain’s head. They were slaves, Cookey. Surely their hearts shall rejoice with freedom.

Let’s trust ye be with reason, Cap’n, replied Cookey, glaring at Henry. First Mate Henry’s eyes were wide in surprise at the title Cookey had just bestowed on him. He did not want to be captain of William Morag’s ship. It did not seem proper. He was next in command, yet the idea did not appeal to him in the least.

Nay, Henry said in a harsh, hushed voice. Captain, I am not.

I’ll thank ye be rememberin’ our ship be needin’ a captain. Not a one’s as qualified, not a one, mate. Ye know I speak in reason.

Nay, he repeated, shaking his head, turning his glare back to the bodiless head.

Feeling a flush of sickness, he was taken aback at the malicious grin fixed on the evil captain’s face. The eyes, though lifeless and vacant, seemed to hide a humorous secret. A horrible feeling invaded Henry, unsettling him once again.

A banging on the door, then a blast of shockingly icy air as it flew open, interrupted his thoughts. It was the cabin boy, Marcus, who, upon seeing the captain’s head on the table, gasped at the unnerving sight. He was a very pale boy, so white that the blue veins under his skin gave him a peculiar glow. His undefined lips were pallid, but he was commonly seen wearing an irresistible smile on his angelic face, a smile so contagious that even the solemn mariners grinned back in spite of themselves. Tight yellow curls flipped up and coiled down his forehead and his eyes. Oh, what eyes did this boy have! They were large and sky-blue and liquid, fringed with incredibly long, brown lashes. When he spoke, his voice sounded almost feminine, yet it was full of self-confidence.

Faith lad. Fear not. Your eyes bore witness to the months of evil. A dark soul had taken harbor within our beloved captain. He is at peace now. Go, I say! Fetch Yael and Juan. Off with you! The youngster stood frozen in place, staring into the captain’s unblinking eyes. Cookey hurriedly pushed him out.

According to maritime tradition, Stellar Wind was prepped and maintained motionless for the funeral of the deceased captain; her sails were cocked up to the weather, some full of drive and some laid all a'back. Signifying a burial, the topgallant yards were a-cock-bill and lisft lines were out of trim to speak of grief. The goat-skin drum rumbled a steady beat from the forecastle.

Because no one dared touch the head, it was decided to leave it upon the little table. Two men, Yael, a hefty black man from Algeria, and Juan, a Spanish sailor with a lousy head, lifted either end of the Haitian table, and eyed by all, they walked stiffly across the deck fearing that the head might roll off. As the head passed, some did the sign of the cross while others spat at its smirking face. Two other crewmembers placed Captain Morag’s foul-smelling cadaver upon an eight-man mess table. The corpse had been shrouded in canvas, and on top of that was the sealskin coverlet from the captain’s berth.

Henry, who was proclaimed the ship’s new captain, removed his hat as he knelt in prayer before the dead captain’s corpse. Lifting his eyes, he cried, "O, merciful Lord in Heaven, forgive us and receive in Your blessed bosom this lost sheep. In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Captain William Morag, and we commit his body to the depths. The Lord lift up His countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen."

Some gathered crewmembers murmured, "Amen." Others spat into the air.

At the entry port on the starboard gangway, the burial party upended the mess table, allowing the body to slip into the sea. With two cannon balls tied to his feet, he vanished under the waves. At the rail, Yael and Juan held the small table that carried Morag’s head over the swirling sea. In one swift move, they released both the table and the head into the ocean. At that very moment, an ear piercing, high-pitched crack filled the empty air, and the sea opened like a large funnel beneath the falling table. Everyone on board watched the little, wooden table and Morag’s head swirl and be swallowed up by the watery grave. When the table and head could no longer be seen, everyone heard eerie laughter disgorged from below the waves. As mysteriously as the funnel appeared, it closed up with a large wave swashing over it.

Frightened, the men with the mess table that had held Morag’s body quickly lifted it over the rail and let it drop into the ocean. They watched it sink. They glanced at each other and then at Captain Henry who nodded, agreeing that it was the right thing to do. Henry knew for certain that not a man on board would have even eaten a meal upon that table ever again.

The ship’s carpenter, Red Dog, a short, thin man with red hair, immediately sealed off the captain’s quarters with boards. After nailing the door shut, he hung the largest of the crosses on the barricaded door.

Reluctantly accepting his new position, Captain Henry’s primary mission was to get provisions. The Stellar Wind would chart the eastern coast of North America in the spring months to unload the cargo they had been carrying for months now. Crewmembers were relieved to learn that he planned to return to England by late summer.

Surely, the proprietors would name a proper captain for the Stellar Wind upon our return, he told Cookey, and I shall most likely resume my role as the ship’s First Mate. Cookey nodded, Content you, Cap’n.

That I try, my friend. But we are dangerously undermanned, quite diminished. And even though Captain Morag has departed, all hands are still very nervous. And just look at them Cookey, they are also anemic, thin to the bones. We cannot expect much from them until they are properly fed. Pray we can pick up experienced seafaring hands in this southern region. Cookey startled Henry when he slammed his butcher’s knife onto the wooden table. Indeed Cap’n! You get me those provisions, and for certain, I’ll plump those men up like hogs! his light blue eyes a twinkle. An see if ye caint get me some of that Caribbean rum! Henry nodded with a smile as he strode out of the galley.

It was time to study the charts. It was now his duty was to find a friendly port to replenish stores and water, and if all went well, he would hire a few healthy hands.

That afternoon the deck-head was dancing with ripples of sun-setting light, and soft winds carried an enticing aroma of land. Minutes later, the twilight formed a mystical backdrop of velvety blue spotted with a zillion twinkling stars. The vast ocean was barely awake, swelling sluggishly from its depths, rocking the carrack to sleep.

The day following Morag’s funeral, the distant land that had been the ship’s companion was lost in the gathering darkness of a late afternoon storm. It was summer in the Southern Hemisphere, so no one ever imagined what was to come. First the sleet began, making the deck slippery and treacherous. The sea, grey and as sullen as wet slate, heaved with angry swells that flooded nefariously over the ship. Rain stabbed at the crew like knives. As night rushed over the Stellar Wind, the sky emptied tons of snow upon her, the sudden darkness making it impossible to tell sky from sea. Out of nowhere, hurricane force winds raised the waters, and a series of furious waves battered relentlessly against the carrack. The air was bitter cold.

What had happened to the summer? Had they perhaps gotten lost and were heading south instead of north? Heavy in winter wool and animal fur, the men rushed urgently about the deck, shoveling snow into the sea. No sooner had they cleared an area of the white enemy, the decks were again overflowing with icy drifts taller than they. Snow raged across the open bow as the scrappy old helmsman cursed, his frozen fingers clutching the enormous wheel. Holding fast, the cantankerous mariner spit back at the snow as it spat in his face. In retaliation, the furious sea unleashed its indignation in an icy wave and the helmsman was gone, swallowed into the dark.

A nearby Scotsman lurched for the wheel, slipping and falling on the ice as the ship pitched about in the violent waves.

Starboard the helm! shouted Henry to him.

Aye, Captain!

Reef the topsail! Henry shouted above, squinting against the snow.

Aye, aye! hollered the men, hugging the yard desperately lest they be tossed overboard.

Steady now! Henry shouted again to the Scott at the wheel. Lay her a’hold! But before the man could carry out the order, he was lifted off his feet, vanishing in the raging tempest. Captain Henry swiftly made his way to the ship’s unmanned helm, and remained at the icy post throughout the rest of the night. Praying for calm, Henry hunched over the wheel with his eyes peeking through his wet scarf. As he watched the gusty night turn into day, a monstrous wind moaned and seemed to laugh as it attempted to knock him off his feet and yank his frozen hands from the wheel. Henry held fast.

Though the perpetually soaked crew thought it impossible, the weather worsened. The majestic Stellar Wind was pitched about like a toy boat, held mercilessly at the hands of a giant child who was throwing her about in a tantrum. Suddenly, the carrack began to spin in tight circles as though being sucked under by some unnatural force. Marcus, the cabin boy, climbed the slippery foremast to the very top. The wicked wind laughed at the scrawny boy, trying very hard to send him plummeting to his death. Amazingly, young Marcus held steady.

With authority the lad shouted into the winds… to the dead Captain Morag: Be off with you, mystran, for the good Lord stands with Captain Henry at the wheel. In the name of the Lord, my God, I command you, avast now and likewise belay!

Obediently, the loud howling wind ceased, leaving only a pleasant breeze whispering lightly across the snow-filled decks. At first, a reluctant orb sent its rays beaming upon the carrack, smiling with tiny, tingling warmth. In only minutes, the rays became brighter, bringing with the light a gratifying summer heat. The men, sweating now, peeled themselves of their wintery garments, watching the enormous snowdrifts vanish and the glassy ice disappear. All was in peaceful calm. Old and young mariners lifted their heads at the sound of the young lad singing, his beautiful voice rejoicing the Lord. Every eye filled with tears. Some men fell to their knees joining young Marcus in heavenly song, while many others were struck mute by what they had just witnessed. The boy’s voice was as soft as a true angel glorifying God, yet its sound resonated around the ship and across the sea.

The wind shifted, and Stellar Wind got underway with a fair breeze. Greatly relieved, her crew roared with merriment, dancing to the rhythm of the coxswain’s fiddle and the flute hand-carved by Red Dog. For hours on end, they tap danced around singing ancient mariners’ songs. Spirits were light and all was good. At last, they were free from the hex that had plagued them during these last excruciating months.

It was Christmas day. To celebrate, Cookey prepared the finest of meals with stores from Chiloe; it was a feast fit for a king.

We’ll push the boat out! Cookey cheered, sharing out his stock of spicy rum for all to indulge. Red Dog handed out small, wooden crosses that he had secreted away in his workshop. Even the non-Christians wanted to hold a cross close to their hearts singing and dancing under the pristine sky.

The following morning, Captain Morag’s cabin door was pried open. The odors from within were so offensive that mouths and noses had to be hidden behind handkerchiefs in order to enter. Captain Henry ordered that everything inside the unholy cabin be hauled out and pitched into the ocean. Even the berth was sawed away from its place and burned in the cabin’s hearth. Nothing remained. No books, no adornments, no draperies, no roll-top desk, no saggy leather chair, and no instruments, not even the captain’s logbook was saved. Then holystone was used to scrub the floorboards free of scum, as well as the ceiling and the walls. Though every man working in the cabin was fearful, he remembered the miracle he had witnessed through Marcus. And no matter what their religion, each made the Sign of the Cross upon entering, just in case that would help keep evil away.

Later that afternoon, Henry, still fired from the ordeal, invited his new helmsman, Marcus, to the wheel. Company and crew murmured their surprise: Never in the history of Stellar Wind had a cabin boy been permitted to steer the great ship! But now the crewmen saw the lad in a new light. They believed that the Lord stood at his shoulder.

After the captain’s cabin had been scrubbed cleaned and refurnished with a hammock and an old desk, the Boatswain, Adam Bridwell, asked Captain Henry when the men should move his belongings. Henry raised an eyebrow.

If I may be so bold, Captain. The crew expects ye to take your proper place in the Master’s quarters. They are still spooked. Surely, they’ll be more at ease seeing you unafraid to sleep there. A superstitious lot they are…all looking your way to find some peace of mind.

Captain Henry asked Bridwell to summon all hands on deck. At all events, Henry knew that he must not be without his wits or woe betide him.

Boatswain Bridwell tugged a chain that hung proudly around his neck. At the end of it was his prized possession: A battered, brass whistle known to all as ‘The Boat’s Pipe’. He cupped a hand over the pipe, and with a good hard blow, he summoned the crew with a standard "all hands on deck’ call. The crew stopped what they were doing, and turned to where the shrill piper’s call had come from.

All hands on deck! Bridwell then blustered from the aft castle. A scraggly lot soon assembled before Bridwell and Henry.

Heed men! Captain Henry shouted out to quiet the crowd. To my sorrow, some of you were only acquainted with the demon that Captain Morag had become. Hear me when I say that I knew him well. He was a grand man, a notable sailor and a cherished friend. I shall miss him greatly. After North America, England is our destiny. You may be sure the captain’s quarters shall remain empty until the ship’s proprietors appoint a proper Master. Put your fears aside, men. Be comforted.

We gladly could’ve done without the devil’s acquaintance, spat the gunner.

Arrr, replied a few.

After giving the call with his whistle, Boatswain Bridwell shouted: Ready about!

Mumbling amongst them, all men returned to their stations still not feeling comforted.

Chapter Two – An Accursed Ship

On New Year’s Day a cloudless dawn found Stellar Wind. The sun exploded over the Pacific, showering the sea with millions of brilliant sparkles of light. A lone albatross circled the ship, screaming as though expecting someone to throw it an easy meal. Along with the cry of the seabird, another voice chimed in.

Cap’n! Bowse up! It was Yael, poking Captain Henry’s shoulder with his dark, weathered fingers. Come!

Startled out of the arms of Morpheus, Henry bolted up in his berth. Yael passed him his trousers, then coat. Not a word between them, Henry followed down the hatch to the poop where sailor’s hammocks swung. Juan’s lifeless remains were stiff in his hammock, his staring eyes so wide that it was unnerving. A gaping mouth drooled, and the dead man’s color was a mix of blue and purple, similar to death by asphyxiation. Strangely, a low table was perched just under him. Thinking nothing of it, Yael kicked it aside.

According to tradition, Juan’s body was shrouded in his hammock, the ends secured with thin straps of leather. Covering the brilliant sun, an unnatural cloud rolled in just as the funeral service began.

Beneath the sudden pewter-grey sky, Henry said a prayer over the corpse concluding with: Fair winds attend you, sailor-man, Juan Alberto Rivera. Godspeed! Then, with the traditional memorial whistle from the Boatswain, Sailor Juan Rivera was cast into the sea, a proper seafarer’s funeral. Before the body reached the calm waters, a huge wave reached up like a hand from hell, snatching the bundle and yanking it quickly into its icy abyss. The crew gasped, and though no one dared utter the words, each was thinking that they were all plagued for the mutinous slaying of Captain Morag.

Trying to maintain a sense of calm before the spooked crew, Cookey whispered in the captain’s ear: Come away.

Man the yards! Captain Henry shouted out his orders. Nervous eyes followed as the two disappeared like shadows through the doorway.

Come hither, Cookey. We shall speak in my cabin.

Nay sir, follow me instead.

Shuddering, Henry followed the cook, a horrendous fear creeping upon him. They stopped outside Captain Morag’s cabin door. A familiar odor assaulted them. Henry covered his nose, retching from the stench. His heart pounding in his chest, Cookey reached for the latch, but Captain Henry grabbed his arm, stopping him. The two men shared a fearful glance. At Henry’s nod, Cookey lifted the latch and nudged open the door. What they saw chilled their bones.

In the semi-darkness of the cabin, they saw everything that had been tossed overboard and burnt to cinders was back in its place; every book, every instrument and dust particle was there. The Captain’s log with the pheasant quill stabbed into the pages was lying innocently on the open roll top desk. Several venomous snakes coiled around different objects, and the grime on the floor and walls was as thick as before. A lit cigar, Captain Morag’s favorite brand, was burning innocently in a tortoise shell. The berth was back in place, and on it was the large, black serpent ready to strike. Even the small, Haitian table had returned, radiating a haunting sense of doom.

Henry fell to his knees crying: Lord God! His hands on his head, he moaned, rocking like an affrighted child. Cookey stood behind him, a steady hand on his trembling shoulder. Henry was a man rarely distressed by conditions he could not control, but he knew that his subordinates would not remain calm if they found out.

Not a soul must know of this, Cookey, he managed to say. The men are already terrified. What will this do to them? Cookey nodded, though Henry did not see. Board the cabin back up. Tell those who ask twas done out of respect for Captain Morag. Cookey nodded again. Before Henry could pull himself to his feet, a slave who had come aboard with Morag in Haiti had appeared behind him. Eyes wide in panic, he moaned, frantically scratching flesh from his face. Hearing such disturbance, others came running. At the cabin threshold some vomited, others fell to the floor in tears.

Yael, too, ran to see why the ruckus. At the sight, his stomach pitched, especially when his eyes fell upon the table. Remembering having seen the table under Juan’s corpse, he ran inside the cabin seizing it. The men parted way like the opening of the Dead Sea, allowing him to pass with the old piece of furniture. Taking a butcher’s knife from the kitchen, Yael hacked at it like a crazy man. Every eye was upon him, yet no one stopped him. No one asked why. Frenzied, Yael gathered every piece of wood and splinter, burning them in the galley’s hearth.

The sun was climbing higher. Feeling down in the doldrums, the crew murmured that they could feel Morag lurking about. Happiness seemed to be a thing of the far, far past. The superstitious men, full of panic now, turned on Marcus who was standing at the helm.

He be an evil one, the lad is…an evil one, Ah tell ya, blubbered a man with a fat, hanging bottom lip. He tames tempest winds. Tis unnatural! Unnatural, Ah say! There be somethin’ unworldly about him. Full of a fear that was plunging into their hearts like the killing blade of a sword, the men agreed.

Plague an perish ‘im! bawled a sailor from the mainmast. Le’me mischief ‘im, fer ya!

Tis a mere lad! yelled another in Marcus’s defense.

Carve ‘im up an toss ‘im to the salty brine! shouted someone else.

I’ll let out ‘is evil by incision with me steel, carvin’ ‘is ‘eart out! cried one that had been chained in the hoosegow by Morag. If it remains a’beatin’ out his body, we’ll be certain the lad was possessed!

The aggressors ripped Marcus’s wool coat from his body. Enraged, they continued to strip the boy of his clothes. Though the cabin boy’s eyes were wide, he did not scream, only struggling slightly. Henry rushed to the deck to see why so much rumpus.

Avast! he shouted, running to Marcus’s aid, but the crazed men held him back. Standoff, I say!

During the struggle to get away, one sailor-man ran his dagger into Henry’s side. Still fearing for Marcus, Henry struggled to free himself. With strong fists, he punched at his aggressors, finally pulling his dagger and stabbing the eye of one of the crazed crew. Cookey appeared from the galley, brandishing a long knife in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. Shouting from the belly of his lungs, he slashed and hacked at the men who held Henry. Red Dog jumped to the boy’s rescue but was struck with a hatchet, splitting his head open at the back and killing him instantly. Fearing Marcus be rescued, a sailor drove his dagger into the boy’s chest, swiftly sawing through the bone and ultimately cutting out his heart. At first, a look of surprise covered Marcus’s face, but within seconds it went peaceful and his blue eyes were calm and forgiving. Just as the sailor was lifting the boy’s body, ready to cast it into the sea, Cookey, with a quick flick of his wrist, slashed the man’s neck, causing him to drop the dead boy onto the blood-filled deck. With the strength of a bull, Cookey raised anyone fighting him, easily hurling him into the unforgiving sea. Four died in rebellious battle that morning, five including Marcus. Feeling dejected, when Henry stood his shoulders did nothing but slouch.

That night, John Henry lay sleepless. This New Year has come with a curse, he sighed with the events of the recent deaths paining his heart. They were macabre scenes that hung there in full view of his eyes, whether they were open or shut. The faces of the dead relentlessly swam before him: Morag, Red Dog…Marcus. So many had died, and for what reason? Visions of the previous months paraded across his mind again and again and again: What the hell had happened? The unsettling theories were many.

Five months before Henry had taken his captain’s life, Stellar Wind had set her course from Bristol, England to Virginia in North America. On this particular transatlantic voyage, she carried no passengers due to the fact that she was heavily loaded with gold as well as clothing, iron tools, and guns/ammunition. She was to return with 20 passengers, as well as raw materials such as sassafras, deer hides, lumber, and tobacco.

Before she could reach her port of call, Jamestown, Virginia, a devastating hurricane had battered her timbers and destroyed her sails. Soon the illustrious merchant ship was quite crippled and was taking on water. When the storm passed she found herself at a close distance to the tiny port of Port Au Prince on the island of Haiti. Stellar Wind moored there for over a fortnight undergoing major repairs. The weary crew had spilled eagerly into the town which was famous for its mestizo whores, sugar, slaves, rich French colonies and voodoo.

Captain William Morag, at the ripe age of forty-two, had earned a legendary reputation as a gentleman. Furthermore, he was considered a brilliant captain and was a well-respected man of Scottish blood. He was a handsome man with a weathered, rectangular face, and sported a grey moustache and beard that concealed a cleft chin. His wavy, brown hair was graying, and though rough and wrinkled, his hands were powerful and ready to take on any adventure. Black, stormy eyes intimidated those he encountered, and his wit was quick and barbed. A wise man, and as prudent as any captain could be, that is how men and women knew him around the world.

While his ship was undergoing repairs, a well-kept Captain Morag had left his proud vessel in search of a bit of comfort from a lady friend who lived just passed the port area. Days passed, and his crew began to wonder why their captain had not made an appearance to check on her progress. A fortnight later at sunset, a churlish man returned. He was barely recognizable, now ill-mannered and sullied, Morag came staggering like a drunk, blaspheming to all and swinging his sword in the air like a madman. His clothes were soiled and the buttons from his coat and shirt had been ripped away. A pungent, rotten smell swirled harshly about him, and he was wearing such a ghastly expression that people gasped and backed away. The master’s grey-brown hair had turned a dull white, and his black eyes had lost not only their light, but their life as well. Like a dead man, he now had pouches under his sunken eyes, circled by huge, black and blue contusions that gave the impression that he had been in a brawl and lost.

Trailing behind Captain Morag were four slaves, protectively carrying a small, wooden table. They were fleshless and sickly looking; so bony that it seemed the light breeze would take them away. The meager threads they wore were filthy and ripped, and were dangling so loose on their bodies that they seemed to have been thrown at them. It was soon discovered that three of the four men were tongueless. Their movements were erratic and their eyes fearful as they moved like herded animals awaiting slaughter.

An hour after the captain returned to the ship, he hailed out orders to weigh anchor. Stellar Wind made sail, and struck out from Haiti with swarms of sea birds swooping and whirling and crying about her. To the crew’s surprise, their charted course had changed, and instead of proceeding to North America as planned, they were now skirting the east coast of South America, off the coast of the Viceroyalty of New Granada. Not a single crewmember understood this change, finding it odd and ominous. Seafaring men, no matter to which country they were allied, were by nature highly superstitious. It was soon after they hit the open sea