Chapter Three - Paradise Lost

Forty yards away the Conception lay beached on the shore, listing on its side with its masts poking in amongst the palm trees that lined the shores. The air was thick with the stench of boiling tar, which hung suspended in a great black cauldron and fumed over a smoldering fire of driftwood. The pungent odor mixed with the sultry, tropical air to create a heavy, wet blanket of fumes that clung to one’s skin and soaked right into the pores. In the midday sun the heat and smell became overpowering, and it was for this reason that Ben was now stripping down for a short swim.

Careening was the most cumbersome, filthy and exhausting job Ben had yet faced. The sides of the ship had to be scraped clear of barnacles, organic growth and sea worms. The worms infested these tropical waters and bored so many holes into the hull that a new ship could not last a year here if it was not well-maintained. Once it was scraped clean major leaks would be patched, which was why the ship’s carpenter, Fraser, was paired up with Ben on this job. Once the seams were repaired, the whole hull was covered with boiling tar to kill any insect life and protect it from further leaks and infestation. It was a vital process, especially when a ship relied upon speed for its survival. Captain Caldwell fully expected to be twice as fast once they were done. But it was a long, tiresome labor, which Ben and Fraser were left to complete with only the Lascars to help.

First the ship had to be unloaded of goods that could not be secured. The heaviest items, such as cannon, had to be removed by block and tackle or they risked disastrous consequences as the ship was rolled onto her side. The operation was difficult, and it put the crew of the Conception in a vulnerable position until the ship could be righted and armed once again. To be safe, Captain Caldwell had six of the cannon unloaded and then trained them on the entrance to the bay. This way they could at least mount some semblance of defense if an enemy ship were to try to come within range.

Once all was secure the ship was carefully beached and rolled over as the tide went out. Hendricks, the first mate, took a hunting party inland to find game. Captain Caldwell sought out the locals to trade the cargo they had taken thus far. Meanwhile, Ben and his work party began the task of scraping down the hull.

Now, halfway through the first day of the process, Ben swam in the shallow surf to cool off and reflect for a few moments. It struck him that he was somewhat happy. He had respect among the crew, responsibility for a job, albeit a mundane one, and more money to his name than he would earn in a year of fishing at home. True, he was uneasy at times, but at this moment such cares were forgotten. The sun was warm; his muscles were sore and the surf felt good as it cleansed his body. He felt strong, standing as the surf raced in across his legs, feet sinking into the sand and shells washing past his ankles. He gazed at the Lascars who worked under his direction; the same men who still feared this boy that slew their captain. Some proud animal sense grew within him, and he let the feeling flow through his veins. Nevertheless, there was something disturbing about it which he did not understand, yet felt.

“Hey, boy, you work too hard!” called John Buck, who swaggered along the beach in a ridiculous plumed hat.

“Where are you off to, Buck?”

“Captain says I’m off to join the hunt,” said Buck, but he smiled broadly and lowered his voice suspiciously as he approached. “But, between you and me, I’m wearing my Sunday best so I can find a bride.” Buck winked as he spoke, looking slyly back over his shoulder towards the crude marketplace where the captain was bartering.

“A wife?” laughed Ben.

“No, no, no you foolish dog. A wife will drive you crazy. All I want is a bride for a few hours. My plumage should draw one out, if I’ve any knowledge of women.”

“Well, best of luck in your courting,” joked Ben “I would not have thought you to pass up a good dowry for a few hours pleasure”.

But here Buck lashed out and sneered. “I’ll take a dowry and anything else I need, boy. You just see to it that your captain thinks I’m off a-hunting for a boar.”

Ben liked a good joke, and John Buck was always good for one, but there was something dark about piracy which Ben was trying not to face. It was expressed in Buck’s quick, almost flighty turn from humor to threats, and in his vague, shifty designs on island women. Moments like this crept into Ben’s conscience, threatening it with dark, unmentioned things. Gilliam was gone, but he was not the only ugly soul on board. Like it or not, Ben had joined them.

As if to display that the world reflected his own inner conflict of emotions, Ben suddenly heard concerned voices from the Lascars in whatever language they spoke, uneasy fear moving quickly into panic in those tones common to all human fright. In a moment he saw the cause: the ship had settled into the wet sand and shifted. As it moved, a beam that had suspended the cauldron of tar was knocked loose above, and chains now swung the steaming vessel in an arc out away from the ship and then back around full-circle to slam into the hull. With the force of the sudden impact the hot tar erupted from the enormous iron pot and covered one of the Lascars.

The man emitted a hideous scream as Ben ran splashing through the surf to help him. Ben heard unrecognizable words filled with confusion and alarm from onlookers as he emerged from the shallows and covered the distance to the man’s side. The water was alive with boiling pitch and steam. The tar burned Ben’s bare skin as he took hold of the man and pulled him into the surf. Steam hissed all around and he emerged, carrying the man to relative safety and laying him on the sand. The pitiful soul was nearly dead.

Ben tried to calm the man, whose stiff limbs were shaking uncontrollably. His wild, pained eyes were glazing over. Another of the Lascars came to his side and spoke with him in tearful, hurried language. Ben heard Captain Caldwell running up the beach towards the commotion, as well as a crowd of local villagers. It became a gawking mass of foreign faces. Ben became aware of the stench of burning flesh mixed with the noxious fumes from the tar. Looking down, he noticed his own forearms covered in tar and raw, red flesh. Strips of burned flesh hung like white silk from his arms. In a sickening moment he realized that through his heroics he, too, had become seriously hurt. The voices jabbered around him and the crowd pushed in. The smells mixed in the heavy air and began to cloud his thought.

Fraser came to his side and laid him down. Ben heard Morogh Caldwell yelling and saw his barrel chested shape literally hurl people out of the way to get through to the boy’s side. Somehow, he knew the Lascar was dead. Ben scanned the faces which stared down at him and saw the Lascars, the natives staring with unfamiliar faces, everyone gawking and jabbering away. None of it made sense. His vision was getting hazy. He focused on one poor, hair-lipped boy who was staring at him and felt compassion, despite his wounds. His thoughts became clouded, and all sense seemed to leave him in this world. Ben began to be filled with both fear and consciousness of numbing pain.

A nightmarish vision crept upon him, blending the sounds, smells and images of chaos into a sickness that transported him downward, spinning as he went. Tar and sand, salt and laughter – was it laughter? He saw the painted face of the great headless Lascar grinning at him with blood red gums and heard the pained shriek of Gilliam, dying on the deck before him. As his loss of senses turned to a loss of consciousness, he heard Fraser comforting him in slow, muffled tones. He heard the Captain, his voice thin and distant as if in another room, calling to him. Then, in a brief moment of clarity, he saw a beam of sunlight landing on the hair lipped boys face. He heard nearly perfect Latin phrases issuing from his grotesquely misshapen mouth, “via tecum, via tecum!” measured and serious, and then louder and more passionate. It was madness. And then all was dark.


* * * * * *


It had been a busy day. There was a guest in the alcove, sleeping in his Master’s bed, but it could not hinder the operation. Kintana swept the dirt floor of the grotto and arranged the lab neatly. Once the area was orderly, Kintana mixed some grain into a paste and cooked flat, tasteless bread over the furnace. He ate alone; his Master would not require food. Indeed, Petre had not eaten in weeks. The old man was just outside in the clearing, studying the sky with his telescope and recording slow, deliberate calculations in a long, thin book of parchment.

Kintana took his compass and began to mark off the points of the compass rose in the dirt floor. At several locations he placed short, fat candles. The he organized several curious items onto the table. There were more candles, small containers of various ingredients: salt, sulfur, incense, water and a finely ground chalk powder, among other things. A large, leather bound bible was there, as well as another small book that was filled with symbols and writing in a variety of languages.

Outside, Petre beckoned and Kintana came to his side. The two followed the jungle path to the beach and washed themselves clean in the shallows of the tide. They put on fresh white clothing and walked slowly back to the grotto by the light of the full moon above. In the cave, Petre dipped a sprig of hyssop into the water and sprinkled them both three times. Next, he filled a censer with incense and began to hum quietly as he walked clockwise around the room, perfuming every corner. When it was done, the censer was left burning.

Petre now took the books and moved to the center of the room, where he read from the Psalms, “Judica me Deus…” As the words filled the room, Kintana began to feel the effects of the incense. The perfumed air was elevating his senses. When the hymn was done he brought the old man a sword, which Petre then used to begin to trace shapes in the sand all around him. Slowly and deliberately the floor took on a geometric life of its own. Kintana sat quietly now and observed as the old sage began his work. The candles and incense gave the room an eerie, reddish hue which bounced off of the rocky subterranean walls and settled down in the corners. A low, guttural sound began to be emitted by Petre to which Kintana, no stranger to the ritual, joined in. In time, Kintana would be filled with dread, he well knew, but fear of the Lord was the beginning of all wisdom. The operation must continue. Kintana’s misshapen mouth formed the words as clearly and confidently as any Oxford trained scholar. In perfect synchronization with his Master, he began to utter the sacred Names of God.


* * * * * *

Sound and darkness met Ben and swirled about his head. It was a human sound, but no recognizable words, just the soft, low humming of vowels flowing gradually into one another. Like the movement of surf the sounds came and receded, as the darkness found a red glow in its recesses and gently swathed the cavernous walls around him with it. Ben’s lungs were filled with the stench of sulfur and acrid fumes which seemed to fill the place, burning his lips, his throat and his lungs.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, “what have I done?”

Pain overwhelmed him. In the demonic atmosphere around him the thick fumes began to be overpowering. Sweat drenched him to the bone. Vertigo overtook Ben’s senses and guilt sickened him until his soul curled up into a ball and prayed for nothing save survival. Darkness again overtook him, and with it came the silent sleep of oblivion.