The Witchery, page 38
True: Though I’d long ago locked away my love (unrequited) for Calixto, it did not…please me to see him so. No. To say otherwise would be to lie. Yet my displeasure—the situation warrants a better word, but none comes—…my displeasure, I say, was short-lived, and ceded not to anger but understanding; for much came clear, then and there:
Léopoldine’s determined Sighting of wrecks for Cal to chase; her coyness whenever our captain came ashore; the excess of parfum and maquillage she applied on those same occasions; and, of course, the fact—how had I not seen it as such?—that when the two were not flirting they fought, those two actions comprising the two sides of that most common of coins: Love, incipient…. It was then I wondered if I’d seen this all aborning? Had I chosen to turn from their attraction, dismiss it as less than mutual, a girlish crush? I had, and understandably so.
But what of Calixto’s part in all this?
We’d all supposed Calixto preferred the company and comforts of men. This we’d never discussed amongst ourselves, of course; though Asmodei had on occasion called to our attention—and Calixto’s, too—the composition of the Soror Mystica’s crew. Whereupon Calixto would laugh, and wonder aloud what captain would not choose as handsome a crew as he could corral? And this Calixto did; the more so once Leo’s Sightings obviated, somewhat, his need for the ablest of sailors. He had the pick of the portside litter, too, as it were. Everyone wanted to crew for us: We were successful, yes, and fair, but we paid a wage as well, whereas other crews were paid only their share of a salvage, and no salvage, no share. Indeed, when recruiting, Calixto would send the prettiest of petitioners to the front of the line, and on a line of another sort Luc would bid them sign.
So: That Calixto would ally himself to Luc surprised me less than that he’d do so with Léopoldine.
As for Léopoldine and Luc, what’s to say? Taboos interest me even less than laws—all laws, that is, save ours, sister; which is this: If it harm none, do what you will.
…Enfin, theirs is a trinity that endures to this day; and so long as love lay as its base, my three will hear naught but blessings from me.
Granted: I was rather less resolute on the night in question. Indeed, I could not stop crying. My breathing was shallow, stertorous: I sputtered like a coal-choked engine; for the shock ceded in turn to surprise, followed by confusion, clarity (to a degree), and finally fear: fear of that loneliness I knew too well, and wanted no more of.
Of course, this I could not articulate, not then. Thusly was I subjected to apologies from my three, who came to me on their knees, and cried at my side for fear they’d hurt me. And though I was hurt, it’s true, previously I’d have been devastated by such a…development as this.
Understand: The scene onto which I’d stumbled stunned me to tears, yes, and even tried my temper somewhat; but—blessed be—I neither did nor said anything I had later to regret or rescind. Simply, I quit the Soror Mystica once I could and, wine bottle in hand, walked the streets through the dead vast and middle of the night; which last bit comes from Hamlet, such that I am reminded that I retired to the tower at dawn, carrying thence naught but the Bard and letting it be known (by note) that I was not to be disturbed. For two full days I read; or rather, reread my preferred plays and poems, setting Shakespeare aside only to wonder, thusly:
What else could have become of my three, the twins being Shadow-born and Calixto an initiate? Wasn’t it I who caused them to recourse to one another? It was, surely; though I in no way blamed myself for the nature of their bond, which seemed to me rather…bold, and somewhat worrisome. Less so, it’s true, when they came to me in the tower on the third day, and we all four spoke again. They told me of a plan of six months’ standing: Léopoldine and Calixto were to marry; out of love, yes, but also to quiet certain rumors that had arisen amongst the wreckers. This Luc approved—indeed, it had been his idea; for it would change the present arrangement but publicly. “So be it,” said I, with a shrug and a smile I had somewhat to force, it’s true.
Finally, the three, my three, exchanged a look; whereupon the men—being blond—flushed, and Leo’s Eye turned, such that I feared I’d yet to hear the worst or weirdest of what they had to say. So it was with relief I heard them ask—it was Leo who spoke—if they were all still welcome to live in the Witchery. To this I readily assented, of course.
A toast was made.
And then I sent them all away; for still I was sadder than they knew. Sadder than I knew, in fact.
There was yet much work to be done if the Witchery were to be perfectly habitable upon the trio’s return from Port-au-Prince, to which they’d sailed on a honeymoon of sorts. I found distraction in this work, which lasted many weeks longer than my discomfit did.
The wedding itself had been as small as we could keep it. No easy feat, this; for our wealth was ever more evident, and certain expectations had had to be met, lest our partners sour and business be compromised. Worst of all was learning, in the course of said ceremony and the requisite reception—held aboard the Soror Mystica, where all dined on the food of Euphemia and her Simon—that our townsmen had long since taken Asmodei for my (widowed) father (who had lost his wife/my mother in the Indian Key massacre), the twins for my children, and Calixto for a cousin of theirs. And it seemed stories abounded as to how my husband had met his end. The twins, of course, upped the ante on the day in question, and circulated slyly contradictory tales of how my late husband, their unfortunate and heroic father—whom they dubbed “the Colonel,” that being the American appellation for all men of merit—had lost his life: fighting either the Greeks, the Turks, or the red tribes of Canada, depending. Thusly did I assume the status of widow—which suited me well, I suppose.
…Enfin, off my three sailed, finally; and I took charge of finishing the Witchery. Suddenly I was more of the world than ever I’d been before.
Upon their return, Léopoldine worked in the witchery, whilst her husbands, or brothers, or what you will, lay at anchor in the Straits, awaiting word of an imminent wreck. Meanwhile, with the larger Witchery nearly done, I attended to all manner of details, summoning architects and artisans of sundry skills. My plan was to achieve what it is we have, presently: an architectural hodgepodge that stirs no one’s interest. That draws no one to our door. That elicits only derision from those pretending to taste.
…Enfin, the whole of the Witchery—from its whitewashed first floor up to its gray-painted second story and the black tower beyond—resembles nothing so much as a chthonic wedding cake, the icing of which has begun to melt from too close proximity to the fires of Hell…. Just as I’d wished.
You see, I’d thought to build an off-putting house, as we of the Shadows want no strangers at our door, merci bien—and though Key West had grown, grotesquely so, since our arrival, and there were by then some several thousand strangers in residence upon the isle, this had its benefits, too, the primary one being that, amongst so many strangers, fewer could rightfully impose upon us as neighbors—…but, of course, the interior of the house was exquisite. That is, all of it save those few areas said strangers were most likely to see: the foyer, and the room to which it led, as directly as a chute to a shambles: the office.
The foyer I floored in marble the color of a streambed run dry. Its walls were unadorned, and left unlit. It was, in a word, unwelcoming. From a circular rod of brass affixed to the plaster ceiling there depended heavy-grade drapes of black damask, hung so as to stifle both the eye and step of anyone expressing an interest in the home’s interior. Once inside the foyer, one’s options were few: suffocate, or step to the right, into the office.
In the office, we had sometimes to suffer strangers, yes. We were too rich to keep all the world at bay, and owing to the exigencies of our business, well…Still, and by design (mine), the office was a place to which only the most macabre of men ever sought to return.
I saw to strangers’ discomfort by ordering half-backed, armless, and cushionless chairs from the above-mentioned Mr. Corey, of Portland. Two of these—the legs of which I sawed down myself, so as to further unsteady our visitors—I placed before a desk of black walnut so vast one might have shouted across the Straits to equal effect. And if a stranger sought to tarry, well, down would come the skull.
Typically, Yorick—as the skull was called—was twinned to a brass cleat, and he and another object of suitable weight kept upright a row of books pertaining to maritime law; but when we’d reason to expect that someone would linger overlong, we’d take the skull down from its shelf and set it at the fore of the desk. Once, when a rival salvor began to bother Calixto, daring to turn his talk toward blackmail, he, Cal, sought advice of the skull, addressing it as Grandfather; whereupon the wrecker fled. Other curiosities—such as our dear Marian—furthered our cause of unfriendliness as well.
A most impressive specimen Marian was, too, or rather is; for she has endured since the day she came to us in a glass-fronted coffin of camphor wood, not so much salvaged as bought by Calixto off a salvor who’d “found” her in Macao.
Upon her red velvet, she lies to a length of nearly four feet. Hair that once was red, surely, spills from her shrunken head down over her shoulders, shoulders from which there depend two arms that cross over her chest, hands clasped, heart-high, as if in prayer; or perhaps to hide her withered paps. Prayerful, too, is her face—hence her name, and hence the Marian-blue veil beneath which we shield our Sea Virgin from the sunlight—though its features are less distinct than those of her body, the skin of which seems smoked, or salted, or otherwise preserved, whilst her scales yet shimmer.
They start small, the scales do, at about the height of her hips; from there they progress downward, diamantine, growing in size as they near the tip of her upturned tail…. No, no, no: our Marian is not a real mermaid. Leastways I don’t think she is; but I cannot say for certain, as her sale was contingent upon Calixto’s not lifting her from her casket, and neither have we done so since. To do so, perhaps, would be to discover the handiwork of some Eastern surgeon, who, with stitches and other taxidermic trickery, aligned two disparate species. But why ever would we disturb her? To learn her secrets, and thereby satisfy ourselves?…Jamais! To do so would be…dumb. And disrespectful.
And we greatly respect our Marian. So much so that we sometimes trundle her out from the office corner she inhabits, turn her toward the aforesaid chairs, and raise her veil so as to introduce her to our strangers…. And there, by the grace of our goddess, they go—those men who linger, those strangers we cannot otherwise shake.
So it was I put Marian to purpose on the unfortunate day I looked down from the tower, through the sun-shimmering portraits of our plaguers, to see the Soror Mystica arrive in port. Typically, this was occasion for celebration; but as I watched this day, I saw Calixto bound off her bow, with Luc following fast. Strange. Most strange: Calixto, as captain, was never first to quit the Soror Mystica.
I took up our spyglass, fixed it to my eye, and saw three black-clothed types standing in attendance upon the dock. These crows Cal and Luc approached; and none too pleased was I to see all five set off up Caroline Street, toward home, toward the Witchery, with something of a crowd coming behind.
I called down to Léopoldine, at work in the witchery. “No, none,” said she when I asked if she had Seen any reason for such a parade as this. “I sent them to Sombrero Shoal,” and here she took the spyglass from her Eye, turned to me, and added, “…business as usual, by my Sight.”
“We’d best go down,” said I, and we did.
When the party—composed of Calixto, Luc, and the black-clad men; and not that mob, most of whose members settled, rather impertinently, thought I, upon the wide steps of our stoop—…when the party came into the foyer, and into the office, it was to find we three, Léopoldine, myself, and Marian, turned toward the door.
“Gentlemen,” said I, whereupon half bows were made and hats doffed, “please, won’t you take a seat?” Two of them did; and whilst they sought an equilibrium they’d never achieve, the third man took two steps back from Marian, and looked to me. He’d have spoken, surely, but his mouth was fixed: a rictus. I smiled in response, nothing more; but then, shoving the skull aside, I settled my skirted hip onto the corner of the desk, arched an eyebrow high above the brim of my blue spectacles, and tacitly commanded Calixto to:
Speak.
Chapter Thirty-four
I fear I am becoming a god.
—VESPASIAN
NOT ONLY HAD WE REFINED THE MEANS BY WHICH WE Sighted wrecks, but we’d also been able to assess—by means of prevision practiced by Léopoldine, and concerning, largely, her star charts—the status of a wreck; by which I mean its…worrisomeness. Was it to be safely salvaged? Would it be worth the pains taken? And thusly we’d steered clear (literally) of dangerous or controversial cargo. Until the day in question.
“Slaves, did you say?” I asked this as I sat upon the corner of the desk, fingering the eye sockets of Yorick’s skull so as to further discomfit all three strangers and distract the one who stood, and seemed to sway; for, though at first I’d thought Marian had had her effect on the man, I saw now that he was attempting to see behind my blue lenses, to my turned eyes. Had I let slip my spectacles earlier, so low onto my nose as to show my Eye? So sloppy of me…Regardless. Let the man see what he might with those tiny black eyes of his, eyes set in the flesh of his face as cloves are set in ham. We’d more pressing concerns at the moment; for one of the seated strangers, he with a parson’s pursed lips, parted said lips to say:
“Yes, madame: slaves.”
“I see,” said I, though I did not: It’d be some while before the whole of the tale were told, and I’d know what had transpired at sea…. Share in my then predicament, my puzzlement, a moment more, sister; for requisite to the telling of that tale is this bit of background:
The year before—and so I return, once more, to ’44—there’d been a scandal at sea, the percussive effects of which were resounding still, through the Gulf ports as well as all the seaboard states. I refer to the fate of one Jonathan Walker, Slave Stealer; whose plight has been penned by the poet Mr. Greenleaf Whittier. Indeed, “The Man with the Branded Hand” had appeared, that very week, in the pages of our own Gazette. Begging pardon of the poet, I forthwith, and humbly, present the same story as prose:
On a July morn of that fateful year—and therefore coincident with Asmodei’s long demise, though still some months prior to his death—a rival of ours, R.R., a wrecking captain whom I will not deign to name—though, should a reader familiar with either this tale or those times hazard that said initials stand for Richard Roberts, she would be right—…enfin, a certain wrecking captain sailed from Key West aboard his Eliza Catherine, a sloop of some eighty-odd tons. It was to be business as usual; and so it was, until, up-reef, his lookout espied a much smaller sloop. Thinking there was something strange in the sloop’s tack, R.R. ordered her overtaken. It seemed the sloop’s captain might be in need of assistance…. Or so said R.R. at trial, though in truth that old sea hound gave chase only after sniffing the scent of a Reward on the wind.
Roberts was right: In the sloop were seven black men and one white: Jonathan Walker.
Walker had taken seven slaves aboard his sloop in Pensacola—to smuggle seems the Southern verb of equivalence—and set out for the Bahamas, for freedom. This he did for no remuneration, for no reason other than right.
Oh, but R.R., whom already we hated nearly to the point of having hexed him—indeed, had I left it to Léopoldine, he’d be sowing his seed without effect; for, one night, when she’d heard Calixto complain of the rival captain, she’d set out for his house on Eaton Street, and there I’d found her, just in time, standing beneath a half moon and tying knots in a five-inch length of string—…alors, he, R.R., hauled the slaves and Walker to Key West, where they sat in the jail near Whitehead’s Point before being transported back to Pensacola. There the slaves were treated in a manner meriting no words, whilst Walker was tried, convicted—in a trice, and upon Robert’s testimony—and sentenced to be fined, pilloried, and branded upon the hand: SS.
Shamefully, Jonathan Walker sat in jail a full year more after the enacting of said sentence. And the shame is mine as well as all the world’s; for though I was distracted, it is true—what with Asmodei fading, our home flooding, my three…frolicking—still I ought to have paid greater heed to Walker’s plight; and paid, too, sooner than I did, those fines and court costs for nonpayment of which he was being held.
…Those men, Walker and Roberts both, may have decided my fate that day they met at sea; for whilst Walker further opened my eyes and purse to the abolitionists then at work in the North, Roberts, in his turn, tasked me toward his own ruin; and so it is that we, la famille, thereafter took particular pleasure in Sighting and salvaging wrecks which otherwise would have been his, the awards from which we have applied to the aid of bondsmen such as the seven he plucked from the sea when they were halfway to the Bahamas, and halfway free.
…So it was that when I said, “Slaves…?” it was as though I’d lit a fuse, one that snaked around us upon the office floor. Such was the tenor of the times—worse now, and worsening still—in which Calixto, Luc, and the crew of the Soror Mystica salvaged the Cimbrus—out of New Orleans, and bound for Baltimore—near Sombrero Shoal, finding in its hold the following:
One thousand bales of cotton, most of which were waterlogged beyond worth, but some three hundred of which, after being weighed and marked at the Key West customs house, would go to a Boston trader for two dollars per bale;
Barreled corn that fast began to ferment, such that soon the fumes seeping from between the staves blinded the salvors, and Calixto ordered the Cimbrus fired down to her waterline so as to add both light and breathable air to the salvors’ efforts;
