The Witchery, page 6
Tattooing was a sea practice so common that none save Cal and I were unmarked. And so it surprised no one when Diblis—still wallowing in the shoals of drunkenness, but soon to dive into its depths—began to set out his tools upon the table before our supper was even seen to. Still the men sat delecting the flour pudding with which our cook had favored us that night. But he’d have us be gone now, and said so.
With shaking hands, Calixto cleared the plates and serving ware, clankingly so, stacking them in a basin he’d take topside for a rude rinse. In their stead, upon the table, came Diblis’s cakes of Canton ink and those saucers in which he’d mix the ink with water. Too, there were the needles: bamboo sticks to the ends of which he’d tied tridents composed of simple sewing needles, closely set. With these he’d prick and lift the skin, and set the darts of dye below, rather as a cook—un cuisinier far more adept than Diblis—might prepare a fowl for roasting by setting spices betwixt its flesh and skin.
With supper done and the sun down, each of us retired to our separate pursuits, the common mood of the crew somewhat improved. The Athée had not been a happy ship, indeed not, but now its men were near enough Havana to look forward to its fancies. Two men took to the watch, and two took to their bunks with books or lesser amusements: sketch pads, diaries, letters they carried and read, again and again and again. The captain was secreted away, as ever. As for Diblis, now it seemed he’d drink the kegs down to their dregs, as if by emptying them they’d be able to hold even more of the pure rum of Cuba. And Cal, poor Cal still had his scullion’s tasks: Having rinsed and stacked our tin plates, he’d taken a seat at the taffrail, where, legs adangle, he sat peeling carrots drawn up from a bottomless kettle, more carrots than could have been consumed in the half day left to us if the Athée had been the floating hutch of a hundred rabbits, and not the eight lonely sorts we were. Down went the orange shavings onto a sea cut, scarred by the Athée’s passing. This was busywork, of course; and with it Diblis meant to occupy Cal until such time as he found in drink, in desire, courage enough to summon the boy down to their shared cabin. Which soon he did.
Chapter Five
Will any man despise me? Let him see to it. But I will see to it that I may not be found doing or saying anything that deserves to be despised.
—MARCUS AURELIUS, Meditations
THE CALL WHEN IT CAME WAS CHILLING. IF BEFORE DIBLIS’S voice had been coarse, grating, now it was a hiss—slurred by rum—and meant for no one but the boy to hear. “Dux,” it came, the x bearing the sibilance of a sac full of snakes. “Dux!” And this was followed, appallingly, with that chuck, chuck, chuck by which one might call a chick to its feed, or a cleaver.
I lay waiting for this. Whilst abed, I had not had to stave off that sleep to which the sailors surrendered; for I’d Cal and events to come to worry me. And if briefly that worry left me, others came: Havana was near, and held I knew not what.
“Dux,” came the call again; and when no answer was heard, my heart verily seized as I wondered: Had the boy indeed hurled himself overboard, choosing death over shame? I swung my stockinged feet over the side of my bunk, and was about to drop down and hurry topside in case I could save…But then, just then I saw Calixto descending the gangway—bare feet followed by calves and scarred knees, such that I’d time to leap back onto my bunk and retake a sleeper’s pose before those duck trousers showed. Best not to be seen, surely. So it was that, feigning sleep, I heard him pad toward steerage, heard that plank door open and close with a creak.
Would I follow Cal into that compartment where an aroused and drunken Diblis awaited, all his implements in array? Though I had not heard it, surely he’d set the latch behind the boy. Would I then ram the door, or summon such telekinesis as I’d only ever used to amuse myself: causing untouched pianos to tinkle tunelessly, and slamming doors and windows in distant rooms? Still I had no answers, no intentions. Instead I waited. And when finally I could stand it no longer, I snuck topside.
I slipped past the snoring men of the watch to the post I’d taken the night before. I knelt down beside that grate which Diblis had left open, lest he and his Duxworth smother within that coffin-small cabin. Diblis had set the scene within. With relief I saw that Cal would not be caged this night. With upset I saw him offered a draft, which he downed (as was not his habit); and then there came the words with which the end began:
“The rump,” said a seated Diblis, fingering himself absently at first, then angrily; for though the sot’s desire was diamond hard, his cock was not. “Let’s start by marking the rump cut, eh? What say you, my Dux?” No answer came, of course. “Drop them raggedy pants, eh?” But before Calixto could, Diblis jerked the duck trousers down. “Now kick ’em free. That’s it now, boy, yes…. Turn. Good. Now bend and back up to me, eh? Mais non! Don’t turn to look at me!” And he slapped the boy’s buttocks, his hand cracking across them like a whip. “Or is it these you want to see?” Here Diblis brandished the bamboo needles with a sly smile. “Oh, but stare on, stare on, eh? You’d best not look, as I don’t want my Dux fainting now, do I, at a drop of blood or a little bitty prick?” A little bitty prick, indeed. And I, too, hoped Calixto would not faint; for I cared not to contemplate the liberties Diblis would take in that case.
Up from beside his heel, Diblis drew his bottle of rum and poured it onto the small of Calixto’s back; from whence it ran downward, between his slap-stung buttocks. With his hand Diblis smeared the rum; and—I’d not seen this coming at all, nor had Calixto, surely—he lifted his lamp’s glass sleeve to bare its flame. I thought it was an inking instrument he held to the flame, a needle he—improbably—sought to sterilize; but in fact it was…Enfin, it was a phosphorus match, and when Diblis touched it to Cal’s flesh, flames went whoosh in pursuit of the rum.
I fell backward, hand to my heart. What would I do? When I righted myself, I saw that so, too, had Calixto fallen forward. But—blessedly—the pain of the flame had been as naught; for Diblis had fast smothered it with a length of flannel. “Oh, my Dux,” said he, “who’d hurt ye? Not your Diblis. The flame is for purifyin’,” and he laughed as he slapped his knee, summoning Cal back into place.
…Diblis. If ever a devil deserved his due, it was he.
Seated still, and with a tiny worktable drawn up to his side, Diblis set his right, death-blue hand upon Calixto’s hip. He kneaded the firm flesh, and splayed his fingers to fan down over the boy’s buttock (no redder from the flames than the sting, I saw). Then, brusquely, he set that same hand to the small of Cal’s back and shoved, shoved the boy forward and down such that he had no choice but to bend, to raise his rump high, as will a she-cat in heat. Now here was a sight for Diblis’s delectation; and delight in it he did: Whilst Cal set between his teeth a length of rope—to bite down upon, more against the shame than the imminent pain of the pricking—Diblis put both his hands upon the boy’s rear, kneading and spreading the flesh, and then slipped his left hand down, down to daintily take—as a milkmaid might—the boy’s…oh, let no délicatesse slow this tale:…to take in hand the boy’s cock and balls. With his feet he knocked Calixto’s own wide, and wider still. Now he had him, fixedly. Cal would not, could not move as the inking began.
From off the tiny table Diblis took a quill of the olden sort, and not—fortunately—a more common stylus of steel; with this he’d mark his dashed lines in accord with the bloodstained butcher’s chart he’d hung to guide his hand. “Let it be the rump we set first, eh? The tenderest, the truest cut…” And with that, Diblis set his pen upon my friend.
Now, if I knew one thing it was this: Not reason—reason had fled—not reason, but rather instinct would guide my actions; and so it would have at that very moment had I not been struck still by Diblis; who, thinking himself unseen, of course, and in total command of Calixto, leaned in to…
Holding hard with his left hand to Calixto’s nether parts—and seeming to squeeze: so said Calixto’s grimace—Diblis drew the boy back, back toward himself, whilst at the same time leaning in to take, to taste, to flick his tongue at…Oh yes: Diblis’s tongue came flickering forth and ought, by rights, to have shown itself split, as every serpent’s is, as it offered that chthonian kiss.
Here then was the osculum obscenum, that kiss by which witches of old were said to render their tribute unto the Prince of This World. But here was a devil doing it himself; for a sniffing, slavering Diblis leaned in to tease, to take the boy with his tongue.
Instinct, indeed…It was then I rapped, rapped upon the deck above Diblis’s head; such that his face, withdrawing from its dockage, tongue yet extended, rolled up, up to see…Not me; for I’d taken care to fall back from view. In truth, I knew not what to do.
Silence. I crept nearer to see below, and just as I supposed, there sat Diblis, returned to his delights, doubtless having told himself the sound had been but a sea-knock, some flotsam hitting hard against the hull. So it was I had to rap a second time, harder, and as a human would: knock, knock, knock: thrice, in fast succession. No flotsam this. And this time I did not slip back from sight. And Diblis, looking up with those eyes of his—the right one shining like moonstone—saw me overhead and let go a gasp. I gasped in turn, seeing he’d slipped two spit-slickened fingers into his crying, cringing captive.
Instinctively, yes, I held his horrid gaze and stared down my dare: Come up, devil. And then I let slip my glasses and showed my Eye.
At first Diblis squinted up at me, wondering what or who he saw. Was I a sailor of the watch, someone he could cause to cower or make disappear. (Still those two dozed on and off—so said the saw of their snoring—and it was owing to the grace of the Gulf Stream that the Athée did not breach upon reef or rock that night.) So drunken, so deluded by desire was Diblis, doubtless he deemed the violation of his privacy the greater offense—greater than what he’d done, or was doing still to Calixto; for all the while he stared up at me he worked his fingers in his flinching charge. Oh, but then he saw it was me hovering overhead, and he said:
“Ah oui, the Fancy-man.” I saw his anger change, verily saw his thoughts hie to the when and how of the revenge he’d take upon me. Seeing the sickly twist of that smile, I nearly withdrew. But no. Still I showed the Eye and stared down my dare: Come up, devil, and receive your due.
Diblis stood, shoving Cal from him such that the boy fell onto his own cot across the cabin. And whilst stepping into his trousers, and buttoning his flaccidity behind his fly, still he stared up through the grate at me. “Fancy-man,” said he, following this with threats hissed in French (which words I’d recount, had fear not precluded my hearing them).
“Diblis,” said I; and the name was salt upon my tongue. “Come up.”
To this point, no one had heard us; or so it seemed. Or perhaps they knew better than to question such sounds heard in the night. But now I saw, and heard Diblis slam the steerage door behind him, and his tread was so heavy on the stairs of the gangway it seemed the schooner shuddered. Surely the men of the watch would wake, if not the others, if not the captain.
Diblis had left his Duxworth behind with a warning, which I’d heard: “Stay,” he’d said, commanding Cal as one would a dog, “or I’ll sing your secrets into every ear, like a sweet canary, I will.” And last I saw Cal he lay upon the cot, his arms wrapped about his head: the pose of one about to be beaten.
As a ranting Diblis was not so strange a sight as to derange the ship, even at night, no one woke. Rather, no one came topside alongside the cook. So there we two were, face to face, with no option left but fisticuffs; so said the ridiculous stance Diblis assumed. At the thought of this I blanched a bit, it’s true; for I’d never fought with my fists. Neither was I about to that night.
“C’est toi, Fancy-man, who calls me from my sleep?” Diblis stood not ten feet from me, fisted hands upon his hips.
“Sleep, you call that?” And I gestured down to the grate through which I’d watched him two nights running.
He was coming at me now, slowly, unsteadily; and thankfully I still had wits enough to lead him back astern, away from the men of the watch, whom I suppose had had their share of rum as well and suffered now its soporific effect. Carefully, I kept the distance between Diblis and me from diminishing. “Is it often you bugger boys in your ‘sleep,’ Diblis? I’d not be surprised. Indeed, the devil himself must deal out your dreams.”
He’d closed, till now he stood not five feet from me. We were astern, with nowhere else to go but overboard. And as Diblis lunged to take me in his ham-like hands, I…
I saw Calixto, standing at the top of the gangway. He held his trousers in place, but by the moon’s light I saw a half-drawn line of ink snaking over his hip, up from his rump. I wanted Cal to stay where he stood; away, safe. And I’d have willed him to do so—literally willed it—had I not had Diblis to deal with. Diblis, who was determined to strangle me. Breaking his grip—and in so doing surprising myself, quite—I thought to distract the devil; and did so by resorting to French. A full and rather florid French. Why? Perhaps the elemental things I was soon to express had lain too long suppressed, were buried too deeply down to be found with a foreign tongue. Perhaps I still thought I could conceal things from Calixto, who had only that portion of French that any Spaniard or Italian can comprehend. Or perhaps I’d read too often of inquisitors, and would be one myself. Regardless:
Diblis, said I as I swayed to further unsteady him, I watched you working upon that boy, saw your…your ardor increase in proportion to his shame, saw you harden in time with same. You, Diblis, and here I stood still and paused, not for effect; but rather to dwell for a moment on what I now knew to be true. You, Diblis, I pronounced, are about to pay a price for such pleasure as that.
What price? Certainly I could conjure innumerable punishments—of both the mortal and sisterly sort—to stifle, to stymie and forever stop Diblis from partaking of such pleasures again. Indeed, already my mind was racing: Hadn’t I read the Book of Shadows of some far-flung sister who’d perfected certain…phallic punishments? No matter; for already I knew it: Diblis would die. He’d leave me no other option.
There he stood now, cursing me and Calixto in turn. Said he, “Your boy has an ass full of secrets, Fancy-man; but so, too, do you, I suppose. That’s it, eh? You two are…ensemble? I thought it was Savannah lay behind us, but I see now it was in Sodom where we found you two.”
Oh, clever cook, I countered, I see ’tis true that the devil will cite Scripture for his purposes…. You’ll resort to your rusted Bible, will you? Well, I assure you, I’ve read books far more cunning than that, and I can do things neither your gods nor devils can compass.
I’d confused him. Perhaps I’d scared him; for I was calm, coldly so, and he was drunk. But soon he returned to that simplest of insults: He questioned my manhood.
If only you knew, said I.
Still I’d not struck upon a plan; but soon I’d no need of one; for as soon as Diblis laid his hands on me—which he succeeded in doing as I slipped on a coil of rope—I reacted. It was instinct, yes; but in making that claim, I offer no excuse.
Wanting no more of my wordplay, Diblis struck as best he could: as a brute, and by a brute’s show of strength.
He had me in a stranglehold, and we two tottered toward the taffrail till naught but that separated us from the silver-black sea; into which I’d not descend, no indeed.
Now, this was…uncomfortable, shall I say? My throat hurt. My every breath I had to steal, and they were too shallow to long sustain life. I could smell the stink under Diblis’s choking arm. And then, looking up through tearing eyes at the stars, the moon, I knew it: I was being strangled. I worried less about the strangling act itself, truly, and more about…enfin: Would it cause the Coming of the Blood?…Of course, I was not quite so calm then; rather, I have difficulty summoning the fear of death now, given what’s come.
So: As often happens, the situation had devolved to this: Kill or be killed.
I’d have to act, rather react or die. And so I surrendered to instinct, spurred not by the desire to kill Diblis—though there was that, yes—but rather by my wish to spare Calixto the sight of what would eventuate—Diblis’s death, my survival—and, moreover, whatever means I’d use to bring on both. This last—the means—was yet a mystery to me; until:
Cal came closer and I saw he had in hand the same marlinespike we’d used in tackling the Turk’s-head. Creeping ever nearer, I saw he meant to drive it into Diblis’s back; but I’d not have that crime fall upon Cal. Revenge may be best when served cold, as is said, but one as innocent as Calixto could never have savored it. I, on the other hand, knew the dead, had heard the suits of both the justly and unjustly murdered, and had already deemed Diblis deserving of death, if not a fate far worse. No one could say I was innocent. And so I was spurred to action, and killed Diblis so as to spare Calixto having to do it…. It played out so:
Calixto came on, ever on, whilst Diblis and I danced our strangledance. If we were to turn, just so, Diblis would see the boy, perhaps unhand me and tackle him instead. And that wouldn’t do.
“Cal,” said I, if the strangled, or strangling, can be said to speak; in fact, I may have willed the action, and wordlessly conveyed: Throw it. Throw it! Whereupon with all my might I turned, turned so that Diblis and I both faced the boy as he obeyed me. But instead of throwing the spike as I’d decreed, Calixto lobbed it toward me; for me to catch and put to purpose. But I’d not intended to catch the marlinespike. I’d no intention of driving it into Diblis myself, by main strength, no indeed.
