Tales of Terror from the Black Ship Page 5

  Stephen was left with the man, who smiled his curious and disturbing smile and stared at him fixedly. In an effort to ignore him, Stephen’s attention wandered to the paintings on the wall and to one in particular: an image of some sort of demon with bulging eyes and flaming hair and tusk-like fangs for teeth. He held a chain on which there seemed to be a row of collars, like dog collars, or the restraints that might be used on slaves or prisoners.

  ‘You like?’ said the man, who had appeared at Stephen’s side with unnerving stealth. It seemed such a curious question to ask about such an image that Stephen was caught off guard.

  ‘Yes . . . it’s very good,’ he mumbled. ‘Very realistic.’

  The room had become very hot all of a sudden, and airless with it. Stephen sat down on a stool and leaned back against the wall. The room seemed to be throbbing, and the throbbing was echoed in an intense headache that had come upon him suddenly. He decided to close his eyes a moment, but no sooner had he done so than Mattie was already standing in front of him, shirt on and ready to go. He got up, eager to leave.

  Stephen was amazed at how quickly the tattoo had been done. The beautiful tattooist stepped back and bowed like a theatre performer, and walking backwards, head lowered, disappeared once more behind the curtain as silently as she had entered.

  Mattie thanked the man whose role was still unclear to Stephen, and he bowed in return to both of them. They emerged from the tattoo den in a daze. It was only once they were walking away into the raucous clamour of the city that Stephen realised no money had actually changed hands.

  They returned to their ship, the Charlotte, with barely a word said on the way, and went straight to their hammocks. Mattie seemed sullen and tense and Stephen knew from experience that when Mattie was in such a mood it was best to leave him be.

  Thoughts of the strange tattooing den, the sinister owner, the beautiful tattooist, the demon on the wall, all crowded together in Stephen’s mind and meant that it was a little while before he fell into a fitful sleep, but by the time he awoke the following morning, the whole event seemed more dream than anything else.

  The Charlotte was already heading away from Nagasaki and Japan for the islands of Hawaii when Stephen stepped out on deck. He was happy to be sailing once more. Mysterious as the ocean was, he felt at home there and content. Though the Charlotte had a moody and petty captain with a bully for a first mate, still Stephen would rather have been at sea than ashore.

  Stephen knew the same was true of Mattie, and sought him out, assuming he would have returned to his usual self. But Mattie’s mood had not improved. Whenever Stephen tried to speak to him, he received only a grunt in response and Mattie seemed to find any excuse to move away from him as soon as possible. It was as if Stephen had done something to offend him, though he could not think what that might possibly be.

  These concerns were set aside, however, when a sudden storm blew up and threatened to take them all to the bottom of the sea. Despite the ineffectual ranting of their captain, the crew saved the ship with the loss of only one of their number.

  But the storm’s passing did not bring a return to normality between Stephen and Mattie. Pride conquered Stephen’s sense of hurt and eventually he stopped even trying to make conversation with his friend. Whatever the reason was in Mattie’s mind for his coldness towards him, Stephen was sure he had done no wrong and he was damned if he would beg for his attention.

  They went about their work like strangers. When Stephen noticed Mattie at all it was with a cool detachment. He was surprised to notice that though the weather was fine and the work as hard as always, Mattie did not strip to his trousers as was his normal habit, but kept both his shirt and jacket on at all times. He had thought that Mattie would have taken every opportunity to brag about his new tattoo and exhibit it to the crew.

  Thought of the tattoo took Stephen unwillingly back to Japan. Whatever it was that had changed things between him and Mattie had begun there somehow, that night in Nagasaki. Stephen wished they had never stepped ashore, or at least never stepped into that foul place, but it was done now.

  Mattie was like a different person and not just in the way he behaved towards Stephen. Where once he had been all life and confidence, he was now edgy and apprehensive. It troubled Stephen whenever he thought of it, but there was a lot to do on the ship, with much to distract him, and it worried him less and less with each passing day.

  The Charlotte’s captain continued his sullen and petty ways, and so it was no surprise when two of the crew deserted on Hawaii, though Stephen was saddened that one of them, a boy about his own age with whom he had become quite friendly in recent days, had said nothing to him by way of farewell.

  The Charlotte sailed on over the wide Pacific with a fair wind at her stern. In no time at all the bay of San Francisco opened up before them, and Stephen had already decided that when they moored he would look to join a new ship.

  Mattie had done everything in his power to avoid him on the crossing, but Stephen felt in spite of that, for old time’s sake, he would seek him out and say goodbye before he left. He had to search the entire ship before he found Mattie skulking about in the darkness of the hold.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Mattie in a brittle, anxious voice, his body visibly flinching at Stephen’s approach.

  ‘I’m leaving the ship,’ said Stephen, trying hard not to let Mattie’s hardness affect him. ‘I just thought I would say farewell.’

  Stephen stepped forward to shake him by the hand, but Mattie backed away, wild-eyed.

  ‘Stay away,’ he hissed, looking round madly, his eyes bulging and glistening like fish eyes.

  Stephen did not know what to say. He had accepted that he and Mattie had drifted apart, but to hear such a bald statement finally brought the tears to his eyes.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ shouted Stephen. ‘Ever since that night in Nagasaki you have changed. I wish to God we had never gone to that vile place.’

  ‘Aye!’ said Mattie passionately, tears in his eyes too. ‘It’s my own self that’s to blame. But how could I have known?’

  ‘Known what?’ said Stephen. ‘What ails you?’

  Mattie winced and groaned and turned to look at Stephen with a face so changed it shocked him: a face now pale and drawn, with eyes so sunken as to be almost beyond recognition.

  ‘What is it, for God’s sake?’ said Stephen. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Do you not know?’ he said. ‘Do you honestly not know?’

  Stephen’s mouth became dry. The image of the demon in the tattoo den in Nagasaki stole into his mind and glowed with such luminescence that it was as if it were there in front of him.

  ‘The tattoo,’ said Stephen. ‘My God, Mattie; is it the tattoo? Show me your back, Mattie. Show me!’

  ‘My back?’ said Mattie. ‘You want to see my back?’

  ‘Aye!’ said Stephen.

  ‘But there’s nothing on my back to see,’ said Mattie. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Stephen stared at him, utterly confused.

  ‘I was about to have my tattoo done,’ continued Mattie, ‘when all of a sudden you burst in like you were possessed and demanded you had yours done first.’

  ‘Mine?’ said Stephen. ‘But I have no tattoo.’

  ‘Oh, but you do,’ said Mattie. ‘And a fearful thing it is. A great demon with blazing eyes. And her that did it just seemed to touch your back with the colours, and they seeped in just where they needed to be. It was magic, Stevie – sorcery. When I saw her do that, I changed my mind about getting that dragon done and we left after you came out of the strange mood you were in.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’ shouted Stephen. ‘I’d know if I had a tattoo, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well, it’s there on your back, Stevie.’ Mattie looked at the floor and shook his head. ‘And I seen i
t move.’

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  ‘What?’

  ‘I seen it move, damn you!’ said Mattie, looking up at him with glistening eyes. ‘Now stay away!’

  ‘You’re insane!’ said Stephen, ripping off his shirt and turning his back to Mattie. ‘I have no tattoo! Look!’

  Stephen expected some response, but there was only silence. When he turned round again, Mattie had pinned himself against the far wall, more crazed than ever.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Oh God. Oh sweet Jesus.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Stephen. ‘Have you gone completely –’

  Then Stephen saw something move out of the corner of his eye; he felt it too, like the draft from a breeze or the feeling of sunlight striking bare flesh when the clouds part. Even so, it was a few seconds before he realised what was moving.

  Looking down at his own bared torso, he saw something flicker across it, like a shoal of colourful fish. It disappeared round his left side and reappeared under his right arm.

  Stephen grabbed at it with his hands, trying to wipe it off. But it was not crawling over his flesh; it was swimming across the surface. It was part of his flesh. It was a tattoo: a moving tattoo. It was the demon Stephen had seen on the wall of the dreaded den in Nagasaki.

  ‘Help me, Mattie!’ cried Stephen.

  But Mattie was shaking with fear, pointing to the tattoo as it swam round once more. The collars on the chain the demon carried were no longer empty. Three men now swung by their necks, screaming silently in torment: the man they thought had been washed overboard in the storm and the two who had supposedly deserted.

  The demon ceased its giddying movements and settled on Stephen’s chest, where it rose, expanding all the time, its arms becoming Stephen’s arms, its terrible flame-eyes and fang-toothed face becoming Stephen’s. Mattie screamed but it was a silent scream, as he joined his shipmates on the chain of the demon tattoo.

  *

  Thackeray stared right at me when he had finished, as if challenging me to show any fear. But I refused to give him that satisfaction, regardless of the disquietude he had invoked and the drum of my cantering heart. It was Cathy who spoke first, her voice a little breathless.

  ‘You know so many stories,’ she said. ‘Are you a writer, Mr Thackeray?’

  ‘A writer?’ said Thackeray with a grin. ‘Me? No, no, Miss Cathy. I am a sailor, nothing more.’

  ‘Then how do you come by such tales?’ I said. ‘Who makes them up if it is not you?’

  ‘It is a tradition aboard our ship that the men tell each other stories to while away the long sea hours. Sailors live a life at the edge of humanity, not quite a part of it, not quite removed. It is a world of shadows and shifting light, like the ocean itself. It is this world that spawns such stories.’

  The wind moaned plaintively in the chimney nearby.

  ‘You talk as if these tales might be true,’ I said.

  Thackeray made no reply. He picked up his glass, but paused before it met his lips.

  ‘Come now,’ I said. ‘We may be young but we are not fools.’

  ‘The sea is a world that no man truly knows, however much he might make that claim,’ Thackeray said after a pause. ‘It is constantly changing, constantly moving. It is a living thing, never ageing, but never the same.

  ‘There are things abroad on the ocean, swimming in its murky depths, afloat on its shimmering surface, that are not recorded in the pages of any books. They are spoken of in hushed voices, passed from ship to ship, from mariner to mariner.’

  ‘But surely –’ I began.

  Thackeray raised his hand to interrupt. ‘You are a sceptic, Ethan. I respect that.’

  ‘I think I know the difference between a story and the real world,’ I said.

  ‘Do you now?’ he said. ‘Then you are a wise man.’

  I did not much care for his tone and hoped my expression told him so, but as usual he merely smiled.

  ‘And you, Miss Cathy?’ he asked, turning to my sister. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Cathy, biting her lip and glancing at me. ‘Ethan is perhaps more certain of things than I am. I know I am probably foolish, but I rather hope that there are such wonders in the world. I think the world needs wonders.’ She blushed and giggled. ‘Even awful ones.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Cath,’ I said, ‘but –’

  ‘Shall I tell you of another such wonder?’ said Thackeray, ignoring me and looking at my sister with a most unpleasant grin. ‘Of another such awful wonder?’

  ‘Yes . . . please,’ said Cathy nervously, her blushes fading instantly.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said.

  Thackeray glanced at me, as if inviting an objection, but I shrugged and bade him continue.

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  The Boy in the Boat

  The Roebuck was three days out of Fortaventura, sailing west. It had taken a beating in the Bay of Biscay and had done some running repairs in the Canaries before heading to the Bahamas with a hold full of supplies for the colonists in the West Indies.

  Davy Longman was in his favourite place, perched up high in the crow’s nest, searching the wide horizon. The captain had told him to keep a special lookout for ships, because it was well known that pirates infested these waters.

  Davy was often given this job, his young eyes being sharper than most. He would look back and forth across the ocean, and only when he caught sight of something he thought of interest did he raise the telescope.

  And so it was this time, when Davy’s keen eyes spied a shape on the waves some two miles ahead. He did not call out, because even at that distance he could tell it was not a pirate ship.

  With the telescope to his eyes he could see that the object was a small boat, floating alone in the wide ocean, and Davy quickly scanned the horizon for sign of ship or land or possibly wreckage that might explain where it had come from, but there was only a great expanse of water and naught else.

  The ocean was in a mellow mood, but even so the boat rose and fell dramatically, disappearing from view every few seconds behind the waves. It was not for a little while that Davy realised there was anyone aboard, and when he did, he could scarcely believe what the telescope revealed. He clambered down the rigging as fast as he was able.

  ‘It’s a boy, Captain,’ said Davy when he reached the quarterdeck all breathless. ‘There’s a small boy in a boat up ahead.’

  Sure enough, as the Roebuck approached and manoeuvred itself alongside the little boat, there was the lad, looking up at Davy and the rest of the crew, barely eight years old.

  On the captain’s orders, men climbed down the hull and brought the boy aboard, then fixed a line to his boat and hauled that aboard likewise. The boy said nothing when questioned and the captain hoped that they might garner some clue from the boat as to where he had come from.

  But the boat was such an odd-looking craft – too small to be a lifeboat or launch. It looked more suited to a boating lake than the ocean, and on its prow on either side, instead of a name, there was a curious painting of an eye.

  As for the boy himself, never had Davy seen a more serious-looking lad; though perhaps that was hardly surprising given his situation and having been lost at sea alone at such a tender age. He had a mop of blond hair like ripe wheat and a face so grave it would melt the heart of even the coldest customs man. Davy wondered that the boy had not burst into tears in fear or relief, or in memory of whatever terrible predicament had resulted in him being cast adrift upon the ocean.

  The captain, who was a kind and gentle fellow, attempted again to ask the boy what had happened, but he made no reply, looking in turn from one crew member to the other with his big glistening eyes.

  The first mate wondered aloud if the boy was perhaps not English and did n
ot understand the captain’s question, and so the captain began again in French, but with a similar lack of response.

  As everyone knows, a ship’s crew is like an island of all nations and the Roebuck was no exception. They had a Spaniard, who spoke his own language and a little Portuguese, an Irishman and a Pole. When their efforts failed the captain even let the cabin boy try in what little he could remember of his own mother-tongue from before he was sold on the slaving coast of Africa. But still there was no response.

  Davy, along with everyone aboard, felt sure that this poor lad must be the sole survivor of some devastating wreck or storm-forced sinking and that the circumstances of this event must have been so traumatic that the boy remained in shock. Whatever the cause, the effect of this fragile little survivor on the crew was remarkable.

  There were men aboard the Roebuck who would think nothing of stabbing a fellow crewman in the liver with a marlinspike if they were crossed, but Davy marvelled at how these same seasoned mariners now doted on this little boy as though he were their own child, so eager were they to make him smile; but to no avail.

  Eventually the captain bade the men go back to their work and let the boy have some space to settle himself, and said that the poor lad might speak when he recovered from his shock. The boy looked from face to face with the same mournful expression as the crew reluctantly backed away and then he wandered over towards the ship’s carpenter.

  Ludlow was a great bear of a man, his face half hidden by a wild black beard, who seemed to prefer the company of his tools to other men and saved all his affections for wood.

  But just as with the rest of the crew, the carpenter’s weathered and seasoned heart was mellowed by the sight of the young passenger and he gladly suffered him to come and watch him work – something that would have earned Davy or any of the other men a grunted curse.

  Ludlow was repairing a section of the gunwales. Davy noticed that the boy seemed to study the actions of the carpenter with intense concentration. His eyes seemed to glow with a curious fascination at every movement of the man’s hands, until something extraordinary happened: the boy smiled.